The exterior is thick with humidity,
damp with rain,
and I’ll never experience fever like this again.

My body is being taken
(through the wind of a thousand hurricanes)
to a building with no climate;
I will be my own meteorologist,
forecasting eroded rocks and failures,
and seldom I might discover a window to peer out of.

Squinting,
I could catch the stories –
those of capability, disability, and susceptibility –
my willowed reflection screams.

And, though I will always have my wrinkled palms,
they will never hold the weather.

drrry spells

~for the r in all of us~

a normanative condition, a kitchen condiment, an un-relished
I’m-in-a-pickle relish, when there in no hot **** dogged doggedly poem perspiration in the fridge or anywhere to be found; nothing but a top sliced bun, ah, plain buns, old stale dog ones is all ya got left for dinner, during one of them there drrry spells that
no blonde tanned unweathered weatherperson ever
forecast correctly

Normanative? Oh yeah.

the tyranny of the white, white bread, the white, whittle ya down screen, couture-cold water from tap direct, neck bent, jugged to try and fail to wash down that lumpen ball of dog fur brain drain clog that’s backing up the paper words, in a stomach churning brine holding you back from reaching the top of the Mt. Everest,

rite Normanative?

Normanative.Oh yeah. Son of Norma and Normally.
It’s in the bibell, look it up!

she-he is my pooka, (nope, uh-uh, look it up) a six foot tall rabbit,
climbing up my brain stem, strategically strangling my words like
a flea killer collar round my neck, one that actually visually works,
my flea bit words fall to the floor, to live with the dust mites descendants of the ole south, drafts and rejection letters, all whose blessed memory may never die etc. etc.

that was the condition of my normanative condition when I dropped in (yup, look it up),

Norman sarcastically asking, how’s the weather up there,
any rain in that-northern-brain, down here it’s as dry as an southern old dog porch panting in Jewlie, breathiny out summer hottie poems, write out like it’s crazy going out of style, oh yeah, forgot
you don’t speak dawg that well.

so I don’t know nothing about your drry spells, just climb into
the hottest hot tub, staying all the summer months if necessary,
reading old poems about busted hearts, old dogs, unrealized loves that can’t be forgot, promises kept that one never made, other curses,
battlefields of yore, sweatin’ out the toxins till r
sends along a new one, rocking my toenails to my disbelieving eyes,
for I’m a mentally patient person,
whose never seen a drrry spell so long, that was not worth
wading thru, waiting for, till something busted out and
another thunderstorm of a literary good one, errr come along

like I said, I’m a mental patient man, still crazy after all these years...
(yup, that too, you could look it up if ya made this far)

I wish I could fall in love with the boy I see in the mornings
The one who sits in the back of the class
With his fingers resting on his desk
I know his face so much better than the faces I’ve lost over
It is soft and unweathered
Yet to be traded in sinister motives and the mortal conscious
The way he breathes is not overly considered
And it’s easier to convince someone who has the time to listen
…
He is taller than me
With a strong jaw to wave when we talk
A mighty gesture to the glory of the weather
Or politics, some godly small-talk
My face fits between it and his collarbone
The heartbeat is easier to reach
A simplicity that becomes luxury in silence
…
His toes ***** in a way I could want for a son
They tap when he sings his ballads
In a voice good enough
He can sit through a symphony without falling asleep
And he nods to acknowledge the history I tell him
With a smile
He smiles at me
In a way that could mean something if I camp under it long enough
…
Perchance we stamp our wedding vows
On a monument to convenience
To legalize curling up in each other’s breathing place
And tolerate the stench of desperation

Let me borrow your ear
I need to clear
This up for a minute
By far
Everybody is scarred
But no one wants to hear it
They wanna believe
A spirit can be wise
And pure
Unweathered
When in actuality
You and me
Barely keep it together

I’m a fretter
I’m anxious
Brimmed cup of anxiety
And it took a lot of patience
And mistake
To create me
And I come in different shapes
And colors
A variety
To the point I have to wonder
If I compose society?

Do you feel it
The heartbreak
Due to the overwhelming pressure
A feather
Dancing on an flame
Trying to pull it together
I better be better
Cause a better better is coming
Across my way
And I am less than adequate
A bruised peach
They will not taste

A waste
A want
As we all lay ever starvin’
I’m pulling punches
‘Cause of time crunches
I’m reminiscent of Marvin
In the way
That each day
I wonder exactly what is going on
And something something else
I’m too stressed to remember the song

Dear lover
Dear dreamer
Dear whoever you are
Love beyond the frayed bonds
And see all of us
Scarred
I hope you love with love to spare
And that you spare some for me
Stop looking to be perfect
Because you’ll be very
Very
Very
Lonely

It is there,
Under the splendid sun unweathered,
The moon lights Kindle and rekindle,
Under the stars stuck in repentance,
Unlike their perpetuality,
It is there,
The urge to redraw myself,
Into the reflection of others perfection,
To be spun in accordance to what lies,
behind those shallow eyes,
My complexity beyond compare,
Not sincere,
Am I the art or the painter?
Because I destroy myself so beautifully,
A symphony sung and unsung all at once,
Broken cords that heal themselves whole.

Somewhere deep
inside the
unfading black
of the universe

I know that
hope exists
inside a flower
that is
not afraid
to bloom

and where
conviction
hides,
where she sleeps,
unweathered by
her
loss
and by
her pain

you survive
in a rose
as warm
as every
high winter
sun
and every
flooding
shadow.

this was meant to be a minute,
but then i began to spin it
and the words just took a hold,
so bold so bright
thrown like torches
into the indigo night
casting shadows on the back of
the retreating blocked,
blockhead blight,
setting grass and tree alight,  
loosing  now the tight hold
of  poetblock fear
loosening the reins of rage
making the transition
into the feathered thing
that takes flight
and flys upward
on mirrored wing
to the sky,  
not tethered
but also raw
and unweathered
unlimited by time,
but destined to fall
as energy becomes
one with all,
did not touch moon ,
did not see the sun
but this minutě wordmoth
soared and swooped
before it's minute was done
And now it flutters
down to earth,
saited and pleased
to have been..
birthed, never to die
but become byte eternal,
read once twice or more..
does not matter
wordmoths
have learnt
never
try to keep score

I miss familiarity;
soft skin pulled over
cheekbones,
red lips poised to speak.

What came out of the mouth
changed as do the seasons.
Summer got the worst
of me, it seems;
angry words at best.

I extend my wrist now
in this blustery fall
to a fresh face,
hoping it will lead me
to unweathered bliss.

Winter will come
as the beginning
of something new.

Sundown after the charcoal town
We've been burning since December
I remember when you and I danced on Ice
Such a sacrifice we held together
Unweathered and untethered
Pleasured and unmeasured
You held me over your shoulders
The weight was so heavy,
And we still never sank under
What a dance
I still remember
Two bright stars over frozen layers of water
....