I thirst for autumnal rain that tastes o’ English Breakfast Tea.

There was none, so I returned to my sand castle under the sea.

I returned tomorrow,

but they only had summer sunshine that tasted o’ Sunny D,

which was all right in itself, I s’pose.

But I still wanted that rain.

& then they said they had summer rain,

& I told them to stop being zany.

—Summer rain.

What kind o’ bullshit is that?—

I told the guy,

I told him, —Hey, I know what discus you’re throwing.

You’re trying to hoard all o’ the autumnal rain ‘way from me.

You think I don’t deserve autumnal rain,

think I’m not good ‘nough.

You all despise me,

Think I’m dirt.

OK.

I understand.

You’re probably right.

Goodbye—.

So I went home to brood in my shady gray chamber o’er how best to drown my head in the sink

when I heard a tink.

I went outside & there I found

rain blurring into white smoke gainst the gray clouds.

I opened my mouth to drown myself in its icy ichor

when it occurred to me that it didn’t taste as sweet as I’d originally inferred.

I sneezed, freezing.

I went back inside to ‘scape the jacket-breaking breeze

(seriously, the wind just grabbed my jacket & ripped it ‘part like a gorilla.

What the fuck?)

& as I brooded in my briny mood, it occurred to me,

that I could use winter snow that tastes like chocolate-chip mint ice cream.

In bubbling magma
my flaky flesh melts like snow:
summer inferno.

Accompanying music.

Is it gray or is it blue?

Leaves between both black & green.

Sunny’s shift is ending soon.

Zephyrs scurry up my sleeve.

Feel a tingling in my chest.

Minutes pass without a thing.

Papers lying with the rest.

I just want to catch the seas.

Now I see some purple there.

Still I feel the still chill air.

Stare @ shades o’ midnight wares.

Now it’s time we tuned back to those classic tunes

‘bout the moon-a in the June-a in the afternoon;

& we don’t need no modern-fangled feats

o’ olden tricks, like meter, rhymes, & feet;

we don’t need to throw chi or respond these pictures

o’ stars that aren’t stars

but whatever-the-something put into jars.

There are only a few grains o’ tricks hid in my pouch;

soon or late,

whether swoon or hate,

we’ll have to life your face out o’ that crevice in the couch.

—But gramps, I’m sick o’ that rusty ol’ sky;

¿don’t you know the moon is so last night?

Everyone knows that rainy gray afternoons

are the tunes that make the spoons on dudes swoon—.

But dummy youth blind

that hungry youth lap

up that ol’ night whine

e’en if in a new glass.

The Gorilla Glaciers to this night

swoon «¿Are You Gonna Be Mine, June Fly?»

on the ol’ compact disc device,

e’en if in a new context,

e’en if its text is in that new-fashioned texting text.

So go ‘head, put that needle back on the disc;

listen to the Crane build his Brooklyn Bridge;

let up or down the curtain;

curl under a blanket that makes it all certain;

& put on those ol’ MIDIs

o’ tinny sequin-amp-skinned ditties

o’ Koopa’s Road.

We all want to be home. We all want to be emo.

So fuck the stale laugh;

in fact the moonsong does e’erlast.

«Good dawn & good chance.»

«♫ Scuttling crabs & gulping clams,

blood runs in all grains o’ sa—♪

Whoa, whoa, whoa…

Not so quick, slick…

Ha, ha, you didn’t think you were expected here, ¿did you?

Not when you’re like that—

no, don’t think we didn’t notice that. We did.

Look, I’m sure there are plenty o’ places for that…

Well, then that just proves our point, doesn’t it.

Look, I’m not hissing orders here,

but I think it’d be better for all o’ us

if you went somewhere else».

‘Hind the soft slam o’ the door

one hears the singing resume…

«♫ Chocolate butter, apple jam,

sugar seeps in every can… ♪»

…but shrunken & funneled.

I can’t hate your flapping mouth,

iron pelican; I care

nothing ‘bout their slander, ‘bout

stereotypes: I’ll scrub you fair.

¡But I did clean your bathroom! ¡How rude!

(Laugh track’s stabbed your back, my man.)

«You can’t scrub the rust from rust;

dust shall always stick to dust.»

Gray-brown seaweed clings my hands &

drags them drain-down, drowning ‘neath

water will not drain @ random.

Now this nightmare ne’er comes clean.

Till toilet flushes wake us, & we drown

in boiling tubs o’ fresh blood with a frown.

Don’t those vacuums suck, ¿‘mirite?

But a’least I’m clean this time.

Accompanying music.

Recuerdo una vez que yo era de niño

y hurgaba en una lata de café

que era llenado de dados colorados,

gomas élasticas,

dispersas piezas de rompecabezas,

peniques,

pedazos de LEGO,

fichas de Monopoly Jr.,

y naipes de juegos de mesa obscuros.

Esta fue el día que aprendí lo que es arte.

When I was young

I remember looking into a coffee can

filled with colored dice,

rubber bands,

stray puzzle pieces,

pennies,

LEGO pieces,

Monopoly Jr. tokens,

& cards from obscure board games.

This was when I learned what art is.

Accompanying music.

Forest Frenzy
scent
in my backyard.

Accompanying music

Feeding thirsty leaves, the grapes

paint the concrete oily yellow;

& they keep unique pastel glow

e’en when wrinkled by dry age.

Get’n to business pecks the crow,

front & back, that beaky drummer;

no concern that e’en in summer

faded mountains still smell like snow.

But that sun was far too distance;

now there’s shade. The fact, though, is that

still these crows get down to business.

Starry dreams
pink & baby blue:
morning moon.