Tomorrow it will rain


Tomorrow it will rain and clean us.

Tomorrow the winds will blow, the

Seagulls cry and the oceans below

Swallow us deliciously deep inside.

Tomorrow it will rain sorrow’s smile

Amniotic wide soothing wild comfort,

As prickly mist-spray freckles faces

That gather and drip in blind rivulets.

The forest hounds heard it first again.

Tomorrow’s earth welled in tears will

Return us breathing wet gilled gasps

Coughing air empty as the promise 

Of flight in flapping wingless arms to

A raging sun’s scourge to proud men.  

But tomorrow’s rain will drown sins of

Stories told and re-told, lies in truth,

Til we too believe the cause-effect, a

Cumuli soothsayer’s scientific stream,

Meteorologist, fortune-teller and god,

Tomorrow it will rain and clean us all.

Cloud from Both Sides

The cloud loved me to pieces, wanted to be my high-hung hero, but only rescuing the parts in a singular vision of unilateral need, not all. One-way vision of a cloud is downward. Clouds hover, and this drizzle detective spied the splashy bits of me from afar and decided long before we met, which soft morsels would be engulfed first, probably mamms and glutes, the prominent parts, before soaking the skin to its marrowed bone, for those bits were obtuse objects of ejaculative enjoyment that only a cloud could outwardly conceive.


Clouds are opaque, particulate substances of deceptively barely perceptible content, but they are felt and can cause harrowing angst, ultimately fear. Storm clouds, for instance. Cumulonimbus beckons the discontented rain, sky signs of rocky weather while cirrus paints the sky calm for smooth sailing.

We were once warm but then the cooling produced more clouds in the stratosphere. When we first met, cloud on high, mare’s tails and cirrocumulous and cirrostratus of wispy wanton strokes across my face and hands, light touches, silent sighs, slowed my pace, pausing in misted percipience. I was closer to the ground then, inhaling dust of the agitated lowland dirt and needed the precipitation, a washing off of the old ways.


And as you made your way down, altocumulus, heavier on my tail, vaporous droplets down my neck, cloying clutch, more threatening with your sudden struts of blasted fretting and thunderous moaning, your thick strands of desperate tendril attachment, you clung to me like sticky humidity, suffocating flypaper, inescapably omnipresent, both inevitable and ever-forming: cumulus, stratus, cumulonimbus, cumuli stratus, all of you sucking my skin moist ciliating my breath that inhaled you in hopeful oxygenated renewal and expelled you in disappointed delusional destruction, moment by moment–dizzying with your denseness obscuring sight, obtuse prescience, dull ratiocination, and dubious succor, which were just schemes as transparent as you up close, mere apings of the bonehead borrowings from others, banefully boring and clumsy. It took lightning to flash on sight. Then the downpour.

After-burst renewing, insightfully born in a cloudless sky clears the way for time and breath kept close on the wing. Peace brother cloud. The winds blow you across other visages, fare for another day’s delights and despair. Me, I’m walking to the sun. Fire over inundation.