Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass Barely perceptible colours Hung with liquid haze Dog **** and thunder Heavy close and thick Miasma Clings to sweat Running with drizzle Clings to damp Drowning the pores of the skin Making collars clinging sticky Rubbing and abrasive
In view of the towering flats The greyly awaiting wait Standing at the bus stop Speaking quiet weather talk In the distantly English way So safely meaningless This polite evasion Ignores their damp dilemma Soon, as they sit inside the bus These bodies shall steam Like cattle in a byre
Kids hang around the shops Emptying and kicking cans The younger ones Run and shout manically Their elders spit And swear casually All hoods and shadows Asking adults to buy them lager Because they can't get served at the "offie" Rain changes nothing here
A bedroom guitar plays Weakly electric And the Turneresque sky Swallows the sound whole and flat Sophisticated trash Crying into a cloudy breast Shaded darkly round Full and swollen Grey and sodden The distant rumbling Tumbling closer to home
The glory of nature in all of its transformations the dawning of consciousness the surrender of love the struggle for survival the dance between the light and darkness
The meteor shower the child's first step the child's first smile the cocoon unspun the spider's daily web the many mornings come and gone
This observer of what is and what is not consumed with awe
Melting solids to dust liquid to vapors riding life's lightening thunder's laughter
From oppression to freedom From slumber to wisdom
The glory of all nature instantaneous and gone the ink on the page the sun gone nova the event horizon random particles converge into being dissipate and defuse from movement to entropy ashes to ashes stardust to stardust
The poet ever singing the glory of transformations.
Slumped on an old pink couch, television test pattern flickering off their biscotti painted walls, Pall Mall smoldering on the rug beneath Jack’s fingers, Lorene mostly dead, Jack might as well be; early a.m., dark.