WEBVTT

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It's called Spring Rain.

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Spring Rain, it's a short poem.

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Drill holes in small
rocks then press your lips

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to each hole and blow.

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One by one the rocks get
bigger, edges sharper.

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This is what I've
got in my stomach

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that the dopes call anger.

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Just writing it makes me want to
smack my face, break this pen.

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The same dopes will all
tell you a thing of beauty

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is a joy forever.

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Well I guess that lets me out.

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Let me explain what I mean.

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Not long ago in Spain,
I stood on a cliff

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above the city of Jaen, above
the gray of its cathedral,

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the pink stone high rises
thrown up for workers.

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It had been raining all
morning and gray sky

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reached out hundreds of miles
over the abused red clay land.

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For every 15 feet, grew
another olive tree.

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Millions of trees with
twisted dark trunks and wet

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leaves pointing in millions
of directions like nervousness

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or love in a flutter.

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My anger was with me then in
the rain that I wanted to chip

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and chisel it free
from my body, leave it

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like a heavy stone at
the bottom of deep water.

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I wanted to drift out above
that olive covered land

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until my body broke apart
like cloud or spring rain.

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Two feet stuck in angry
dirt is no way to do a life.

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Far below me,
houses hunkered down

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like warts on a hand as narrow
streets twisted and intersected

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turning, turning
back on themselves,

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always back on themselves.

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This is called Like
a Steep Metal Roof.

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Like a Steep Metal Roof.