full and empty.

one hundred.
and four.
...luscious degrees?
not quite, my ninjas.
how about a week of rain?

two weeks of rain?

...go away.

come again some other day.

or better yet,

next month.
were i an itsy-bitsy spider,
my water spout topping trials would be
brutally depressing right about now.
plus,
no matter how itsy, or bitsy,
F* those spiders anyway.
wooooord up, kids.
-

y'know what i've got,

but that ma nature is presently not?

check the ghost whispers on the teleport:

shhhh.
you see it right?
the art shot camerawork doesn't ruin it, does it?
subtle, nearly invisible,
but a glance askance tells you all you need:

yuuuuup.

expert.

that's me.
oh, c'mon.
you like it.
it's actually a baby diarrhea green card,
but my light sources had their own hue to imbue.
anyway, i have to give credit to shawn hebrank.
he makes treats happen.
like, design magic, from the future-
for my face.
and yours.
this rainy gayness, though?
i can't hang out.
and i can't sleep a wink.
i'm a sloppy, sopping, shivering mess.

for real.

it's cold and dark and stormy.

still.

it's like we replaced the normally capricious

new england weather forecast with one
far more predictably unpleasant-

like, from the pacific northwest, perhaps,

or the hard-style hebrides of scotland,

or some other other wet busted spot on the map.

it sucks balls, y'all,

and it's having an effect on the overall feelings of

well-being and fulfillment that normally blossom

in the bountiful beauty of june's sunny side.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, man.

when it rains,

it pours.

i could be talking about cryin' eyes 

to match these cryin' skies.

i could even be talking about hearts,

pouring out those sad songs and true stories. 

or could it be i'm referring to minds?

the convoluted concentration turned outside in

by staying inside....

and maybe i am.

then again, maybe i'm not.

***********

real life unfolds in an ever-expanding series 

of pleats and creases. 

it's not smooth, neighbors.

it's a wrinkled mass of angles and bends.

the shortest distance may be a straight line,

but that's only on a map.

y'know?

i'm just sayin' duders-

if there's a blueprint,

it's a top-secret need-to-know encoded and encrypted

indecipherable series of less-than easy events,

and it is not accompanied by a map key.

one inch equals a million square miles?

who knows?

one hurt feeling equals one red circle with a line around it?

sure, why not?

i don't pretend to know, yo.

i'm just documenting it as it unfurls into this bleary, 

blotted, and besotted stretch of watery weeks and weeks.

i'm spanning time, not with a wrench or a bridge,

but with a sh!t-creek-seasoned paddle.

believe it.

*

flood light?

is that what we're calling the moon these days?

it's not quite that bright,

but it sure is trying.

once in a while,

it breaks through the floating sea of stormclouds

and shines down like a follow-spot during a prison break.

that's usually when the witching hour werewolf wake-up call

comes in live and direct from the spirits and memories

of what's happening.

it's an illuminated manuscript written on the trees and the grass,

a true story of hard styles and all that kind of thing.
interwoven, overlapping shadows making circles to match
and attach themselves to the big blue-light yellow eye in the air.
that's real.
i'm staying up so late, it's actually still yesterday,
at least as far as my rhythm and rhyme are concerned.
there's some kind of skald's stanzas in what's happening.
a paean of power and progress,
a werewolfen weregild treasure trove of words and deeds.
indeed.
somehow, in this perpetual darkness,
this expansive evening-type failing and fading illumination,
that only ever gives way to darker places and longer absences,
a better fate than death still awaits us everywhere.
truth and consequences, friends.
that's optimism, based entirely on pragmatism.
the worst day above ground is better than the best one below.
it's all really happening.
i am grateful for the hardest styles, and the trying times;
never quiet, never soft.....