WEBVTT

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"Self-portrait as
Midnight Storm."

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Tossing the steel mesh
trash cans is so much fun.

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Not as much as juggling
broken umbrellas

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or rocking the yellow taxis or
the last of the Lincoln Town

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cars ferrying passengers,
drenched and stimulated.

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The start of a new
day and the pitch

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is black with stimulation.

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SHIRR, SHIRR, SHIRR, SHIRR.

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My sheets of rain,
SHIRR, SHIRR, SHIRR.

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Oh, look at the angry
boys drunk and holy

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as they try mimic storm.

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The really large guy's huge
fist hits a bus stop carousel.

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It pebbles to the
sidewalk, hundreds

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of green nuggets, his holy
hand unblemished by blood.

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Foolish boys.

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Foolish boys, your
anger is no storm,

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and your howling
bears little glamor.

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The wolves in your throats
have long since left you.

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And here in the rain, your
pain is small, durable,

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and yet, the pebbles
scatter about reminder

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of uglier private deeds.

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As for my winds, my rain, my
tossing back the moon soft

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gleam means little to
windows stood still storm

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after storm,
centurions of design.

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They raised my ire
and lash, lash, lash,

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I throw against glass, the
sash a square reflection

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of domestic armature.

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As for the painted wood doors,
they are so easily broken.

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