Coming Storm

Clouds gather
and I wonder
at the
tempest to come,
marked in
possibility by
red blotches on
weather maps
and the slow
sway of elms
and oaks
in the building

will fade to
evening as
the sun draws
its last breath
of convection
like a dying man
expelling his
last sigh in a
white room
who knows
if there is
more magic in
death than
in the
pull of
moisture toward
the sun
the birth
of clouds
from the
blue belly
of heaven

I sit-
torn by a
million emotions
and no fear
of clouds
be they
white puff balls
sliding in a
zure sheen or
spinning tubes
of dirty gray
spitting death
and the loss
of gravity
dale and glade
if only in
temporary fashion-
my face in
a shining tube

I wonder if
things could ever
be as
I hope
they will be
of if Fate
will deal
from the bottom
of the deck
while I
from behind
four aces
and a royal flush
seems as
far away as
the dying sun

The high flights
are always
followed by
hard landings
and sometimes
things seem
to ebb
and flow
in a way designed
to confuse
to bring fear
tromping out
of the basement
armed with a
bloody briar
and wearing
a grin that
would scare
Freddie off
Elm Street
and into exile

I rocked
like an Atlas
this morning
kicked butt
all the way
to the
swung in an
orbit high
above this
blue and
white ball
but my
fuel went shy
at some point

Nose heavy
lift decayed 
sour air
skirted my
and my
elevator gone
I plunged
and spun
graceful as a
brick off
the 10
meter board 

I hit bottom
with a splash
and here
I sit
lost in
a haze
blinded by
the shine of
glowing tubes
in my face

And I have
no answers
because I'm
not even
sure what
the question
is or if
I want to

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