A Storm in the Field

A fitting poem for a morning like this; my open door sweeps tendrils of summer rain onto the kitchen floor but I don’t care – It’s been raining for two days and there is music in the air, there is still soft skin under my sheets and somewhere, somewhere, Fall is opening her dark, sultry eyes. Perhaps life goes on after all…

The rain collects along my fogged windshield

Gun metal clouds and a drummer in the distance

Stench of workman’s boots

Of the armpits of my shirt

Of that ticklish place behind my balls

My aromatic presence no longer a bother in the long halls of my nostrils

Bread crumbs in the khaki clefts of my crotch as if I am awaiting some horny grey pigeon

Bird boned

Or beak blow job

Take your pick

Outside in the building barometric pressure the air is crisp and certain

Folding over me like a cursed throw rug

In and out through the cracks of my windows

Cracks in my sanity

Cracked heart dulled the chisel of rational behavior

Finally the storm breaks

Some freak wave of atmospheric mayhem with blood sucking fangs and long clawed tendrils searching for destruction

Swallowing the breeze and periodic camera flashes

Ongoing growling in the mist

Her legs spread open and she is wet, wet, wet

Wherever I look

Paddle me, she says

The clouds blend together in a colorless, shapeless mass of floating tissue

Removing from view the world outside of my truck distilled and forgotten and disconnected from the shadows that swim past the ether

A baptism in the tears of lonely mother giants

Heavy heart

Lungs of diseased breath

I watch the world wash away

There is anger in the mob

Crowds with distaste on perch along their dry lips

A fever of sex

A fever of restlessness

A fever void of ambition and swelling to the brink with dreams

Great gray clusters spewing rain and torrent

Willing me to feel alive but my feet are in concrete

And the dreams are just dreams

Dead beneath me

Seedless and short

While my father’s ghost laughs in the distance.

11.2010