Tin Roof (written in Argentina Oct. 2009)

Like neurotransmitters arriving at their threshold

and firing furious bursts of angry electricity

the rains fall

heavy on the thin translucent ceiling

called a roof if it sees the sun and weathering.

The drops fall hard and patternless

mechanical sounding but

nature at its best west wetness

dripping and splatting like pancakes

on a rigid skillet. Embryos of 

tear drops falling from nowhere and ending up someplace different also

known as nothing. Rain falls up

depending on where you live yet still hits

whatever subtle solid surface

created by emptiness with such force our eardrums sing and vibrate,

like it actually obviously exists. Gravity

fucks with my brain sucks to my feet soles souls

keeping me grounded

and able to listen to the pitter patter of Argentine rain

on this open ended edifice and

quadrant-plane.

Sky Traveler

Vaporous, volatile, vast. Farther

than the eye can see.

White and wispy and reflecting the rays of sun

with harsh un-intention. At the horizon where

the blue collides with white -- that is where

I am going.

 

Listless, nimble, floating across the Earth's face.

Sometimes disappearing completely only to

reform at a different longitude.

Latitudinal travel.

 

Clumpy, clustered custard clouds bright and

clean from this perspective. 

Hiding the sun from the world below. Dark grey and

glum this ever-spinning planet. Always in a 

surprising state of flux on fast-forward.

Blink and everything will be different already.