sweeping

for those of you learning romance languages: in the case of a compound word composed of two nouns, the gender follows that of the first noun, becasue the second is considered to be a modifier of the first simultaneous with its role of noun.
so like, el sofa-cama, or la mesa-arbol, or el arbol-mesa...

the next question for this is when you have a compound which is spondeic both in form, and metaphorically- like for example, blue-green,or arbol-mesa, what do you call it?

what does it matter?
why does this seem to me me to be of trancendental importance and amusement at three in the morning?

why can´t i sleep when i want to. i come home at five or six this weekend, clean as a whistle, un drunk, and i run around the house for two hours clearing the table, hanging the wash, emptying ashtrays and sweeping
because i am too nervous to sleep
because my brow is permanently

I do know that the first peaches of the season here are beautiful to look at, pale, tiny as golfballs or Lolita tits, but they are mealy and over-sweet; nothing luscious or slippery or acidic, unlike mangoes.

If I knew French.

I also know that translating the gender of death from a romance language is a terrible affectation, and that gender is not so conceptual as we would like, making peach, for example, masculine, which makes for a society which allows for homosexuality.

The man in short shorts at the bar has his paisley shirt casually unbuttoned, the fat around his knees is like a woman's, but not any woman's, most likely, it is very similar to the fat around his mother's knees. In same way I have my father's legs and wouldn't fall off a horse and could carry big baskets of potatoes. In this way our bodies are both witness to and bearer of histories which pertain to us but are not ours.

I spend the last week without company, without work. The lack of continuity amazes me, sometimes washing dishes takes on a metaphysical ahistoricity, sometimes it doesn't. I drink coffee and it puts me to sleep, I nap with all the windows open in the apartment between the two courtyard which allows the sound to bounce in and out until I wake, convinced that someone has opened our door and is about to catch me sleeping. I steep cherries in lavender and cardomom, gratuitously perfect and yet I still want to smoke.

I wait. I sweep.

I still want to smoke even though my throat hurts and my breath tells me I smoke too much and I cough and I want the time to pass faster or slower but please, less like water and more like scaffolding or wood or fabric, or something with its own form which is immutable and impenetrable, something masculine, paternal and foreboding. But it soesn't pass like that it remains, open soft flexible and warm, slowly suffocating, incomprehensible.