the weatherman closes his umbrella & stands under the rain for a long time, after the taxi drives off.

earlier, he was on tv giving an update about the hurricane: the particulars on the direction, the wind's maximum speed, the storm signals - the weatherman could be reciting these from a telephone directory for all he cared. but he kept on saying the storm's name as if it was a lover scorned, yet still very much adored - like the telephone directory wasn't a book full of strangers at all; the weatherman cleared his throat several times as if it was the first name he ever recognized as being bad news. his hand shook through the tv screen when he hovered it over the satellite image of the violent winds.

what is the weatherman thinking about as he stares at his house, now? his rain boots are filling up with water & he just keeps on standing there, gathering what he can of her -

the weatherman lazily fumbles for his keys & unhurriedly enters his front door, like he is sorry to abandon the noise for an echoing quiet, like the four walls are infinitely more oppressive. & yet as droplets form into a series of familiar satellite images following him from room to room,

the weatherman will refuse to mop his unpolished floor. he will leave the water to dry & in the morning, revisit the path of her leaving by the water stains -

the most of what this weathered man can keep from the hurricane's namesake.

-j.g.

He walks this way, the Weatherman
Bringing me lovely sunshine 
The earth his road, the sky his home, 
He brings these emotions mine. 

He saunters past, the Weatherman
Leaving me dusty and dry
I languish in the choking heat
As he brings this desire by. 

Though I call the Weatherman
He will not hear my cries
Wind from the north and westward
My damp eyes slowly dries. 

But suddenly, the Weatherman,
With hands ice cold and sharp
Reaches through the falling snow
And freezing, touches my heart.

As only the Weatherman can do,
He brings the solemn rain
But I find they are connected somehow
The sky and the inner pain.

Poor weatherman
Always wrong
No matter what

It's almost as if the atmosphere is his opposition
He will never be right

God laughs from above
As He watches the clouds swirl
In exactly the wrong spot

"It's going to rain"
Says the weatherman
"Nope"
Says God

The storm on the eastern  coast will descend
into a grey day bringing showers
and thunderstorms
filling your picnic basket as you go about
finding shelter under trees and shrubs
gone on holiday to the south of france.

bring your brollies
raincoats and gumboots just in case
you day darkens into a cyclone
and your lover leaves you
abandoned with the sunrise
emerging in your life

take care as you meander through
the floods as the gates open
and your emotions spill out
in poetic metaphors
all over the page
******* readers into the whirlpool
of hidden symbols and mechanisms
that can choke you out

as you watch the weather swish by
without you noticing.

never be deceived by the weathermans wares
at times he may play god
with your days diary entries
but all he can do really
is work like a fortune-teller
using guesswork as a device.

Author Notes
One giant metaphor for what happens in your life if you believe in the weatherman!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Daffodil sprouts say spring, yet the weatherman says not

There’s a menacing chill
on the air
this evening.
“Had I the wherewithal
I’d leave this place,”
I think to myself
as the first warning is issued
by that unfriendly cloud
hanging low and dark
over the mountain.
While once I thought that
the rain would fall with purpose,
I’ve come to understand
that floodwater has no manifesto
except to place the scumline as high as it can.
We can stack these sandbags tall
around our hearts
without regard for what’s on either side of the dam.
They’re only transient monuments to ineffectiveness anyway.


An assassin stands at the corner
wondering if I’ll ever leave my house
and its warmth.
I have news for him, though…
There’s nowhere to go, and
the weatherman thinks we’ll have a storm.

i go through this daily plot
waking, working, trudging
first world ease, office walls
wheeled chairs

afternoon run
tupperware lunch
dinner the night before

home again, dinner
dishes again,
play again,
daughter picks up
new phrases, new looks
vegetable strainer toy
"umbrella," she says

i see those eyes, my wife's
and i wonder

what is this place?
these walls, these roads,
those sitka pines and shrinking
glaciers?

how 'm i supposed to be a father
with all these things stretching out
vaster than reason, than comprehension

those talking heads, ranting this or that
liberty's *****, freedom's snatched,
the world warms, the world cools

Filipinos scream in the face  of angry
winds, the prim cut weatherman wildly
gestures at a colorful map, powerful
he says, historic
he says

more dripping mouthes,
government want guns now,
more money to ****** our phones
to send unmanned drones

our president's muhammad,
or jesus, or kenyan, or raciest
a genius or incompetent
everyone knows

just back home
a tiny algae grows and foams
thrashing in the autumn water
brown oxygen choking life
never found on our shores before
kills fish,

i imagine so much more

i hold my daughter in my lap
reading mother goose,
run my hand through her
thin smooth hair,
sometimes afraid
of what she'll see and hear
with her mother's eyes
and her father's ears

It's beautiful, he said.
Rain played its music on his thick, dark coat.
Look at this, it's beautiful.
The winds sprayed mist into his white hair.
He had seen her and it was beautiful.
He had seen her and danced with her.
He had to dance with her.
His thick lensed glasses fogged slightly.
They hadn't let it end, had they? he thought.
It was a beautiful darkness that she had fallen into.
One that froze their memories fresh in her mind.
He looked at the looming mountains in the distance, gray and gloomy with rain.
She had curled her short black hair on their wedding day.
They were in their church, in their city, and everything was how it was supposed to be.
Everything was still how it was supposed to be.
He had seen her blue eyes fade.
He felt her cold, pale hand.
He loved her.
It's just a beautiful day, he said.
Just a gorgeous day.

His voice is like an ocean,
Crashing over me in waves,
Consuming me instantly.
WHOOSH! Now gone.

His smile is like a fire,
Intense, flickering flames,
Uncontrollably burning.
SIZZLE! Now only ash.

His eyes are like a lake,
Reflectant pools capturing beauty,
Rippling in the storm.
DRIP! Now overflowing.

He is a mountain,
Tall, strong and proud.
Beautiful, but jagged.
Worn away with time.

there's nothing personable about wintry skies above the boston harbor
it gets ugly along the ridgepole of rhode island and providence plantations
this time of year

i ink off the dome
along the varicose veins of these violent streets

we smash more
because life indoors
is the gateway to new manners
or points of psychosis
if your boo doesn't get you
enough to get along

it storms snow where we bump

some think it's fine
or that it's by design lakes freeze over here
and mold mirrors made with angels in mind
but it's a terrific tragedy
the death of colors, inhibitions and innocence
choked away from the branches certain seasons undress

the way no one knows enough to mourn

but mother nature's a chameleon
and new england is the skin that won't keep

it's the backend of the wannabe springtime middays in may
when shorties lose their minds again
a few hours every other day
rock cutoffs and capris
because the sun showed her shine again

but she's so premature
and we've dreamed dreams before this way
against the grain
so we get high to get by like smokeheads do

but i need something sexier to wake up to
like garden birds and backyard bird feeders
american robins and the orioles
that i imagine must use their sugar water to maintain better bongs

because it's a slow burn...
the backside of northeastern calendar months

and my consequent mood swings
are 1 of 2 things that need adjusting
but it is what it is, and too cold anyway
so smiles crack beneath the pressure
like glass poets in poetry slams

Look outside and check the sky,
It's full of clouds - I wonder why.
The news said it was sunny all week,
Not a word of these clouds in which I speak.

Just when I thought all hope was lost,
A gale force wind came at no extra cost!
Pockets of clouds begun to go away,
Oh thank you wind you've saved the day!

The weatherman was right or so it seems,
As I gaze out towards the sunbeams.
Such beauty brought to these eyes of mine,
For where I live - it rains sunshine all the time.

Few freaks
have such impeccable taste,
Singing Pagliacci, smoking a Cuban cigar,
And sipping L'Essence de Courvoisier,
As he lowers you into the shark tank,
To feed his hungry pet.
Forget appearances
He cloaks himself in affectations,
And feigned cordiality
But he will take you down at the knees,
And kick your face until he can hide his shoe in your skull
Or put a bullet through your brain,
Before you can ask why he has an umbrella
When the weatherman said
No rain
Cobblepot
A name as Gotham
As Chapman and Wayne
Always dressed to the nines
He drinks the finest wines
But he can humiliate four thugs
Who try to mug him
In an alley
Cut the fools down in a fury
Steel shod umbrella,
Razorblade shoes,
And a gun up his sleeve
Appearances deceive
The definition of The Penguin

Here comes the rain
the weatherman said would come,
and arrived just like a train.
No wait at a platform
or delay for a death,
just precipitation
and a whole lot of wet.
Wet windows and wet grasses,
moist tables left from the summers,
plant pots turned bowls,
to catch the water that floods and falls.
Here comes the rain again,
that the weatherman said would come.

Raining
Clouds cry away the sins
Of the desolate city.

1.

If black humour is a sign of intelligence then who is the most intelligent of all?

The hurricane that swept the weatherman away while reporting on a supposedly tranquil day?

The ravages of nature which left Ozymandias all alone in the midst of the desert?

Cruel cruel uncertainty,

2.

Cupid sneezed, and let his finger go,

A fiat lust led my way,

A golden love gone,

So,

Why, o, why

Do you plague me so?

Wellies crunch through the snow
Leaving footprints as I go.
Children’s laughter fills the air
Enlivening souls everywhere.
You can taste their ecstasy
As they slide down the hills next to me.

It’s a sugar-coated wonderland
I nearly slip, quick! Grab Mummy’s hand!
Pick up some snow and make it round
Flies as high as a bird before it hits the ground!
We build a snowman, up it goes
Make sure there’s a carrot for the nose!

Toes in wellies have turned to ice
Tea and biscuits would be nice.
But look at the beam on her face
Dancing around with so much grace.
Weatherman was right, more is falling
Heavier and heavier, warmth is calling.

Look! Look! It’s a blizzard
Maybe it’s the magic of a wizard!
Shiver, shiver, my lips start to quiver
The water has frozen, lets skate on the river!
Time to go, tummy’s rumbling
Mummy slipped! There she goes tumbling!

You're in love with a brewing storm,
ready to burst into hot droplets
and scatter lightning in every direction,
unable to control the strikes.

.                                                            <<>>                                                          .
  ­          
        once upon a time,
                                                           ­                             there was a girl
                                                            ­                             as fair as snow
                                                            ­                                         .
                                                               ­                                      .
                                                               ­                                      .

                                                              ­                          and just as cold.

        she never spared even a frosty glance
                                       for anyone,
                                                         ­   
                                                           save one.


                          b u t
        rather than shining daylight on her life,
        rather than thawing her frigid heart,

        he was indifferent.

                                                   ­  not the sun, but
                                                     a mere passing

                                                        ­                                            ray.

.                                                          ­   <<>>                                                          .

It snowed last night which pleased me - but hardly enough - it just teased me.

The thin, white sheet of snow looked bright and fresh
the dull, browned hedges of fall became holiday dressed,
the air had a sharp, chill perfume and the ground a new, sparkling flesh.

Lisa, a New Yorker who knows snow, gawked at me as if I were insane,
“You’re excited by NOTHING,” she sarcastically complained.

I replied, “When it snows there’s a quiet solace, and the world looks clean and flawless.”

The weatherman is promising us a blanket of snow this weekend
and that would be nice, a storm of ice, to lock us in as the week ends

Paint a stop sign green and GO away,
one way, says some arrow painted on
the floor. You know its only another
rule to break. Then paint this sign
magenta, another cerulean.
Just transform another street into
a Crayola crayon box. Go three times
the speed limit, stupid driver. Get a
ticket. Get a life. Give me your ticket,
but tell me its for the Train. Stomp on
the "T" in train, and stop to kiss me in
the rain. You're a weatherman now--
Flash Flood Alert!! Drown yourself. If
you survive the trainwreck, at least.
I'm still hungry, so I'll eat the "T" in hearT.
Hear me out- and read my lips. Read the
turquoise sign on my lips..oh wait, I ripped
out your eyes. Oops. Too bad you don't
know braille. I'll read it for you- it says
"Dead End, Straight Ahead." You're
STILL alive?? I've got an idea! GO paint
the red light green, run into traffic, and count
1, 2, Splat.

I didn't know that the weatherman would be so literal
The rain has fallen for the third time that week, typical
Left me quizzical
My mood was just like the weather, miserable.
Leaving this town would be a miracle.

(s.a)

Rain forest warm,
predicting a storm,
hippos, giraffes and more
Parumping the water hole.
didn’t take us long, to slap a crown
on a fools heart.
Everything the light touches
made the lions cold.

had to many sad boys in your bed.
(To tune of: Nants ingonyama bagithi baba from: Lion king intro)

Moat of toys,
prey on canniballs,
venison visceral
Drop your bridge Shallow moat.

Midus touch,
rabbit didn't quite touch
lucky enough, your trust, bust
The weatherman cuts.
Can't fight a storm with a pack
Of lions, and djarum butts
Cool Cats don't like the water
won't splash,
might soil their tight pants
Sea captain called
old Horizen won't dance
"listen to your old man".
not worth a penny of your sand.
but if we weren't so green-headed,
A compas might save our hand
for marriage
we don't want plans
They don't understand
want to roll around with simba
Giggling in the butterflies
when they're gone, find another man.

Because the weatherman had forecast rain,
we all thought it'd be a pain
Thoughts of efforts going in vain
ran in our collective, clouded brain

Cough, gurgle, moan, splutter
my bike made such sounds in deep water
'neath my breath, I did mutter
God, please change me into an otter

Left and right, I twisted and turned
Acidic waters in my stomach churned
I wished that my office were adjourned
To take my raincoat was my lesson learned

Just when I thought that things won't get right
I got a chance to give a ride to Snow White
Day follows night; life has its seasons
Sometimes it rains for the right reasons

It is May Day
Not a sign of the tulips blooming
The sun won’t stay behind the clouds forever,
Said the weatherman  
What the hell do they know”.

I woke up with the intention of burning
The African scented candle stick: forgetting
That I didn’t purchased them yesterday:

Darkness fell upon this May morn
The air is cold and gloomy: somehow my
Favorite visitors took time from the morning routine,

Landed on my window and sang to me

I texted my brother and reminded him
To water the roses,
Trimmed the dry leaves,
On my outdoor patio upstairs

I remember  May Day long ago
When I finally broke the *****
I have pondered about that old lover
From time to time: with a genuine smile
So far my memories is kind to me,

There is a picture of a rooster on the kitchen wall
it reminds me of my grandmother kitchen
Where food wasn’t an abundant
Despite adversity:  
but lots of love was there in that old house:

Dark sky can dampen one spirit.
However, a hot cup of coffee, a keyboard
Can boost ones energy,
Composing a poem, a happy poetess
Or a game of slots can brings out the art of creativity
As she takes on the morning with a few
Words, a few lines, hoping to put a smile
On the faces of sadness

(Written to be spoken to babe-y)

When it comes to putting what you are
into words
do you trust yourself?

I understand there are many ways for another to mistake their symbols
for your sound

I've been wrong about more things than I care to count

and I still try to count on all the things up in the air that I haven't nailed down

but my love is so unreal it's getting kind of hard to figure all this unreality out.

Harder than stilling shaky hands from all my mental pacin around

and impossible as that one poem I read to you aloud.
You know the one
 about how heaven and hell
are also just trying to figure each other out.

I can imagine the view
 from up there and believe me
I know my sleeves shouldn't be so ******* filthy

because from this distance and from what I wear, some may confuse 
my heart for the muck

all the love I've tasted with a pinched nose trying to stem disgust

I could never wash any of it away 
but



I should remember

I do remember and recall much

that has made me into someone I love.

Born of dirt and trying to be enough.

Just two in the running tally, 
of my error.

There is no volume control for my daydreams

and there are no knobs for this kind of radio

so when living poetry around the clock

you either you dont like the song 

or your driving foot gets a little heavy and the windows come down.

Faster, faster coming to me faster 
across lines that blur into the trees

that blur into the blues. 

My favorite song,
a kindred color that without

I wouldn't be able to see you

Dancing on the edge of my vision 
blowing bubbles in a see through room

I've made out of the words beauty and grace

glued together with tiny memories of your face.



I remember.



One eye staring from over a pillow full of a moment we'd rather stay awake for.

A tangle of your hair bolting across your cheek I liken to drinking black coffee  

and those electric lips owning the words that almost drown

in the wake of your thunder

but I'm listening

and oh god I hear you. 

Sounding down my spine with lighting striking from your mouth into mine.

Under a storm of blankets and mixed limbs that become the eye

A perfect stillness

a weightlessness

where there's not enough gravity to go around 
for all my weatherfall still there

rain snow and shine stuck hanging mid-air 

you are a timeless weather woman

with no need for percentages

because you give me

what I've always known to be real

that the other forecasts 
predicted only to exist in a halo

eternities chance approaching zero

the circle that's but a fraction of an instance colored in you totally

smothering me slowly in a symphony sparing no noise

impossible to be wrong about

the correct answer

nobody ever told me to jot down

and baby I've been tested

I graduated from broken records

and the bad side of town

from black sheep flocking to 
darkness
with clothes shaven from the light

Top of my class with a degree in acceptance

at a university where we take left and use it to make right.

My friend, these are some heavy credentials 

so I hope you understand the weight 

behind my certainty in your footfall.

I'm some authority on mistakes and heartbreak

so treat me like a scholar 

or a weatherman with forecasts known to account for everything and the decimal.

A dotted i

Hear me place the you in me down to a point

the one I'm making

with all I've ever been wrong about

beckoning us

but never doubt.

I can’t get the sand out of my shoes
It’s been weeks
And I’ve been hitting them
And shaking them
And knocking them around
But still
I can feel the grit with every step
So I still can’t get the beach
Or you
Off my skin

With you, there was no warning
I went from drifting languidly along in the sunshine
To being tossed against the rocks in a sudden hailstorm
Shocked and battered and lost
Disoriented in the downpour
When I’d had the promise of clear skies

I’m not sure I’ll trust the weatherman again
He’s got your eyes and voice and disarming smile

I’ve been trying to get the salt out of my ponytail
I’ve been trying to get the feel of rock out of my hands
I’ve been trying to get this ****** sand
Out of my shoes
But it’s so sticky
Everything
Is so sticky
And here I am in the biggest mess
With hair and skin and mouth
So full of you
That I don’t know how to escape
My tongue is still recoiling
From the half-truths you spilled
Tinged with sweat and cinnamon
And slime
And here I am still choking on them
Retching
Just to get rid of the taste
Gnawing at my lips
Just to break the skin that knows you
Scrubbing myself raw
Just to keep you from clinging

My ears are buzzing with your nonsense
And I am running from the noise
Bolting with everything that I have
As sand grinds against my feet
And I will be ****** and breathless before I stop
Because I need the distraction
As much as the distance
I can’t keep reliving your kisses
With every stubborn grain
I can’t keep wondering if you’re lying
Every time I turn my back
I can’t keep playing this game
Because we’ve all already lost
So I will not apologize for taking the high road out of here
And leaving you to sulk with your I-didn’t-mean-to’s
And your too-little-too-late revelations
There were a lot of ways this could have ended
But I never once imagined you would have brought storms to my doorstep
I never expected to be trying determinedly to peel my skin off
And I never thought I’d be sitting here wishing to forget your name

we own teacups
of porcelain   that
make up a couple
her always filled with coffee
mine with tea
this was what became
our morning routine
to spend time until the cups are emptied

we talk about irrelevant things
matters and thoughts that do not
have acquaintance with consequence
how it'd be possible to raise goldfishes in ***** bottle
we kept for remembrance or how many cookies could
the porcelain beauty we held so dearly possibly contain
sometimes we waste a good morning
watching wisps of steam          rise                    and vanish
like the way people seem to get out of sight after bidding goodbyes
after a certain distance they'd be nothing more than a sihlouette
and after time     slowly they get out of mind

one day you'd realize
that no longer can you conjure their sihlouettes   in memory     nor
can you remember the way they walked away
were they off in a hurry or their footsteps
heavy as the heart the carried that very winter morning
when snow didnt fall like predicted by the weatherman the night before
(and that was when you realised the weight of goodbyes)

these are the thoughts that occupy
my mind when I wash our cups
and notice (everytime) stain rings around the innerside of the cups
three quarters full of coffee          and half a cup of tea
we'd store the cups after
hers always facing left
they would sit silently       never a word of complain
as such nice mannered tableware,     cups are.
they'd wait silently for every next morning
to be filled,        coffee          and         tea.

I always thought of her          as a hot chocolate person
until one morning I saw sunlight caught in the dark lazy curls of her hair
until how the dark coloured liquid resembled the colour in her eyes
and came to a silent agreement with myself
how she suited coffee on lazy mornings the way
coffee suited her when she tipped her cup ever so slightly
and     sipped       like she'd found peace in mind
now I smile when she asks why I stopped telling her teacups are meant for tea
(that there are no absolutes in the things we do)

there are mornings she would wake to find me
already awake and silently staring at the rain pelted windows
legs crossed at the foot of the bed and singing
singing softly in russian

I'd end
always at Дорогая
and asks    if she
wants coffee.

by the time malachi wrote of elijah's half, god split too, and then the embodiment happened on two roundabouts worth of twirl: god was a third's worth of christ's trinity talked about, recognising india in a symmetrical summery of applause for anglia's capital norwich - exchanged in overcoming autumn into similar wobbly within grasp - stornoway - to pinpoint an x for some lapsed tongue twirling less hollywood and more of the towing dimensional twins: diaper dipped innocent and sunk into welly fudge wet sludge slurps of onomatopoeias, exchanged to boot pivots for the weatherman handling insignia of coordination with a queen's lazed approach to care for the public's handy utility: shaken the plumber shaken the electrician, but gloved the hand ordinating trickles of tubular artery and sparks of the veiny rarity skidding into pressurised suicides named.*

as i said it once: by the time of malachi elijah was half of what jesus became,
a trinity of thirds; but by a polytheistic nitro of interests reincarnation
was not much for the oneness: with malachi in oath
to claim elijah in half, while jesus stole a prophet's book,
which endowed a testimony, such that much of the greek "god said"
was roman "let me ease into it and regurgitate."
so while malachi wrote of elijah's re-incarnation and spoke heresy on
the pulpit of polytheism for a crowd of monotheists
not allowing a seventh of the same pool draw
of sunken chlorine breathed as a matchstick sparked,
it was malachi so many years prior
anticipating the many gods ridiculed by a singled out earth,
while jesus stole isaiah's book and hiding it near the dead sea,
and having his own testimony
of being integrated into egyptian alimony
sold and paired revealing the sorrowful desert winds that the desert
in toadish engulfed the nearby architecture. so i tell you: jesus stole isaiah's testimony,
was crucified for it, because within the penta- framework moses wrote
like a true outsider - and we prefer narcissists holding a mirror rather
than gripping a nail to a placard of steadied wood of ennobling statues
of geometrics. why then the many narcissist messiahs empowered by posing
into a polaroid fake and the lost oedipus plural theorised?
once malachi came with the heresy elijah was halved with god,
and once jesus came and the people began deciphering babylonian madness
so that the hanging gardens were architecturally sound
and the pyramids were proven higher than the eiffel:
without a sweaty wrinkles' river taken aqua vivo, we thus conversed.
elijah was a third in the form of jesus who begat one as a trinity
to further the heresy of malachi.

Fan letters filled with hawk feathers.
Sticking them in paper like
Razor blades into wrists.
Drawing life from the abyss;
Weatherman predicts clouds
And rain.

Gray and
Grains in the camera; Dharma, I
And Karma took the photo
Of the millennia. Deep in the Congo
Jungle, we stumbled  across a tribal
Ensemble praising Pluto.

Smoke rising from the tribunal pyre.
Through the moonlight you could see the
Galaxy swirling with each gust.

Their lack of attire made their skin shine
Brilliantly in the dark reflections of the fire.
The sweat. The song. The symmetry. The immensity
Of it all was entrancing. We dived into the celebration of
Existence  with little regard of our path.
It was a step forward we'll never take back.

I'm hoping you have no doubts I'm writing this to and about you. : )
Thank you for finally letting me know you know I'm alive.
Just thinking about talking to you makes the butterflies go crazy.
My heart beats then skips a beat when I see you around town and I
swear it's strictly by accident. I'm not actively following you around.
I haven't been to sleep because I'm up thinking about you
but not in the sick and twisted Bardo way of stalking then killing.
I haven't been searching for your address or where you hang
out like that anonymous lunatic posting that on Craigslist forum.
I still want your phone number but only if you want to give it.
You asked the impossible melting snow against weatherman's
predictions and you got this hold over me like I never felt before.
Are you a keeper of  unworldly secrets of magic or someone who is
quite lovely and is just plain an extraordinarily special and gifted lady?
I'd like to discover that for myself if you would agree to meet me at
Little Bohemia it's aka Lil Bo's by us locals to hear a Jazz band.
It's a public place and I heard it through the grapevine you popped
in a few times but I can't say that's true, I wasn't there and it's hear say.
Person said you entered alone but didn't sing and it looked like
you were having a good time being a chatty patty and hearing the band.
The more I get to know about you lady the more I want to discover.
You got a wish and mine is not as impossible as yours I'm hoping.
I want in my life a lady like you who oozes confidence when she enters
a room and when she's being chatted up by complete strangers.
I will be in the parking lot watching the door and enter if you enter.
Hoping to see you Friday night and hoping to see that gorgeous smile.
Hoping you agree to meet me but if not I will keep on hoping for that.

Deep inside my Tum
Whether I am lifting a Van
Storm clouds above
A damp weatherman

Tension hooked in by the side
trampoline
suspending the moon
in our wildest dreams

a wishlist ten feet long that says 'make me feel love
make me kiss someone and like it'
but its a bit of a catastrophe and its not gonna just right itself
stars dont care if i shine the same way-
do they?
but no ones got the answer
or they do, a thousand
just have to find myself in the sea of intricate possibilities
(or the river of one- they never say)
yet im not there anymore-
am i?
reborn as a storm id say
there is nothing wrong with the way i dont feel
(they wont believe me; the weatherman says the storm was yesterday)
cut open my heart and youll find
a thousand swirling stars evading constellations
a galaxy of planets revolving around themselves
im a larger than life,
im an immortal-
are you?