The inside and outside of the Earth is burning.

It's hot outside

and the sun is making people do crazy things.

I'm sitting inside with an old Carrier fan's

blades spinning fast enough to turn into one large blade.

But the air isn't cold, it isn't even warm. It's hot. 

The vinyl is sticking to my thighs and it takes

twice as long to lick the salt from each finger

on my left hand. My undershirt is turning a pastel yellow

from sweat.  A glass of flat cola

sits stagnant like dirty bath water 

I'm waiting for a brownout.

There's an apartment complex across the street

and all the windows have drawn grey shades

and mini-blinds. Some kind of terrier 

with a cream colored face runs hobbled circles 

around a fire hydrant,

a roman candle burning in between his jaws.

Kids are playing hopscotch and skipping rope

with ropes that're as red as their cheeks. 

Mrs. Hampton, the woman who owns 

the fruit stand two blocks down, 

waters a potted fern's wilting stems 

and her arm flab shakes when she moves the hose.

People are on the roof flying kites

yelling at the ice cream man who's probably parked

on the opposite street, reading a Sports Illustrated

and chewing on the end of a straw. The kites move

just like the dog: with heavy feet. A gust 

bends trees while their leaves turn over

onto their lighter green side. I remember learning

in grammar school that this means it'll rain soon.

The clouds roll over each other 

with gray overlapping white and black,

what I'd imagine the layers of Earth look like

from the inside,

churning and hardening like an experiment.

I lean my head an inch from the fan blades

and think if life was a movie

this'd be the part where people scream.