I realize that sunny days are all the same. I was so bored in LA. There weren't even any seasons. Sun edges everything, the leaves and grass and rocks. Overcast, that's my kind of weather, blurry outlines, indistinct borders and boundaries. Comes from upstate New York, land of lake effect cold, ice, mountains of snow. They say the Iroquois cursed the settlers for stealing salt so rain fell all the time. Like Seattle. Plus we gear up here, sunglasses, sunscreen, whathaveyou. And the serious sun lives elsewhere.
Los Angeles has a texture. New York City has a texture. You can shower at night and wash off grit and dirt and your top layer of skin. New York is full of skin cells. All those people.
I'm procrastinating. I don't want to write poetry. Well, I do but it will all be bad because I'm in love and the poetry is dreck. Love and/or sex poetry is usually bad. Not that all the good ideas are taken, exactly, but there is Anne Sexton and Richard Siken and Shakespeare.
I'm also angry so I could write some anger poems. Maybe I'll combine anger and love and/or sex. Then a dash of ennui. Perfect.