fresh stoic I see a field it has not been ploughed I walk into the grass and sit down. . 040113 ... kerry after finding snails in the basement and holes in my sheets and the morning glory vine torched from the heat and eating leftover pasta and munching on potato chips i decide enough is enough, and i walk to lang's for fresh produce. the sidewalk is practically sizzling and i cross the street to walk in the shade, and it makes a surprising difference, walking in the shade. lang's is yellow and on the corner of 16th and snyder, run by a chinese family, and always on the tv is a man speaking chinese sitting at a table in a living room, reading off a page. i wonder what he is announcing. the peppers are beautiful, glowing. the carrots are heavy as baseball bats and the mushrooms are dainty little round buttons. there is a bowl of hard-boiled eggs next to the blackberries, and i linger, debating between blackberries (his favorite, more expensive) and strawberries (my favorite, more affordable). little radishes violently purple-red, a kiwi that fits perfectly in my palm and disappears when i close my fingers into a fist. hard peaches i can already smell ripening in my kitchen. a pile of yams that look dusty and homely but are sweet and wild orange inside. a zucchini with a slightly curling end like the scroll of a violin. apples, so many varieties of apples. i will wash these strawberries, slice the radishes, peel the carrot and cut it into little sticks, and you will buy hummus and bagel chips on your way home from work, and we will sit on your bed and have a feast, the fan whirring overhead, the junkies mumbling on the street below, the sky fading to denim blue after one last pink-orange blaze. 230905 what's it to you? who go blather from