Don’t get me wrong, I looooove the sunshine.

I love the smell

the  t a s t e

the way it thaws my cheek bones and warms my shoulders

But, these rainy days instill something deeper, calmer, even 

everyone is home; wherever that may be 

going about their lives

listening to the same drizzly soundtrack

breezy bliss
I sit and sip,
intensitea to the subtle
coo of bird calls
and soft kitten feet
across wood floors--

the rain plays gently
with the flower buds,
caressing their petals
and kissing their stems
in earnest,
the breeze whisks the
rain away and the clouds
cover the sky in grey magic--

the true nature of calm
settles upon the earth
and Mother Earth smiles

this is a casual magick Saturday--

-LNM

All we have are rainy days,

all of our love is filled with pain,

all of our joy has been washed away,

and right before us is a stream of tears

a river cried out by you,

because of our tensions similar to the cold war

our cold fighting turn to hot

but then cools down and then were back,

to just spitting words that burn like a blazing fire

melts our ears like acid, and pierces our hearts like a spiraling arrow man,

these rainy days that we are in, this down pour and these hard winds,

our love is  a battlefield we're at war and it hurts

and we spread our wings but we don't seem to soar,

this hurricane has been here for days, over our heads,

spinning us into a depression, its like a straight line that we just can't bend

but still we apply pressure, though you try your best to change

you're in love with your sin,

as that good feeling from something so wrong haunts you,

paws at you pleading like a puppy waiting,

purring like a cat in anticipation, knowing that you are just saying,

you won't do it.

but yet you still get caught up in its draft and go back

and just like that our temporary peace breaks

and our demilitarized feelings get militarized once more,

and as we draw our swords and pull out our guns,

we hit each other like atomic bombs and ruin our land of love,

or at least our little figment of how it seems to be,

and we war and war for what seems like no end,

with words and your fists, but I don't bite back,

not even when I should, cause you've done it so many times,

you still blow away my urging mind,

and this fantasy I have in my mind of how our love should be

I knew we were meant to be,

but this fantasy is dwindling

and I pray it don't, now a wish

as I out this fire that we have spread,

this wildfire which goes on and seems as if there is no end,

our rainy days sees some sun,

but can we stand the rainy days......

until the sun comes.

My mental health
Is far from sane
Books on the shelf
For days of rain
But I lose track of days
Caught up in the haze
Of the days that I miss
Far from my old bliss
Filling my days with pain
And so I sit in the rain
Waiting for puddles to grow
Into mirrors with my reflection
But even as I stare I'll never know
The reason for my mind's infection
Wishing puddles were lakes
So I could jump in and drown
Escape all the heartaches
See no sights and hear no sound
But the music in my head
Softly, sweetly pronouncing me dead

Dreary
Drizzly
Days
Drowning
Dilapidated
Daisies

angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.