(when John Prine met Tom Wait) The Drawdown Day
sun starts this day like a good one, hallelujah,
a June bug, sweet summer honey, praise-pinging
the lord for speckling the grass with sunlight breaches,
thru the standing tall oak trees branches banner waving.
go outside to grab me some rays, burn off some privilege,
two towels, one white solid as an orchid, fresh cleaned,
one joseph coat of many colors, striped, saying ‘looke here.’
Sun saw me coming, immediately call it quits. high tailing, gone.
the partly cloudy curse of weird light, making you squint,
that ***** the desire out of ya to do anything, only thing left
is to waste the day thinking all day about doing nothing, which
is the most tiring thing I’d ever done, cause there ain’t solution.
the devices crackle, hoot and holler, saying severity is a-coming,
thunderstorms from the city sent, 100-miles traveling, straight to you,
should be there around about three o ‘clock, give/take, mostly taking
whatever solace hanging about, hope, loving and good expectations.
sure’nuf rain drops, big as overfed suckling pigs, ****** on windows,
silent tho, making sure you’d be looking why, thru glassine windows,
signal intentions to make something all-hell-to-pay, raising cain,
goodly cain which bytheby ain’t accidental, doubt? sub in pain.
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
I hope so, I hope not, that’s the trouble with watching
the wether or not, it just freaking hopeless, like asking,
where did the time go?
forget to mention the wind, which makes the wind even more pissy,
rattling my eyeglasses, not just the whole house, makes my beard a-twitching, the trees **** unhappy losing children from this war, all their drowned bodies, now field litter, casualties of a drawdown day.
the light weirder still, more aglow midst of darkening, you say gawd!
he ain’t nowhere to be found ‘cept I guess everywhere’s, which is the sameness as saying nowhere’s which is god’s **** good hidey-hole,
just like every animal that skedaddled hours before, also gone, gone.
how does a stormy day bring such misery and pain, and in my head,
saxophones wailing ‘hell no,’ but the heavens, shut up tight, no noise
getting in, only getting out, at my soul, saying you, you justshutup
and write about ***** for *****, women & men love-hurting and the
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
I hope so, I hope not, that’s the trouble with watching
the wether or not, it just freaking hopeless, like asking,
where did the time, the drawdown day go?