defiance and a whole lot of nothing said

The rain is the eternal muse, oh sky.

And still I want to cry when the yawning

music rises up and rose petals out

from the noise of the beaded wet falling

on the tin-covered roof of my bedroom.

This world inside is all an abstract mood of isolation: 

news anchors — insufficient funds — overdraft fees —

worry over writing and health — silence over authenticity —

stagnation over practice — weed over work — the idea 

of struggle over the creation of art — youtube over mental 

health — alone time over friends — distance over flesh —

beauty over truth — cliche and vaguery over invention —

stupidity of the self over the fucked up structures of 

society — all alive and lost in the unnameable

complexities of being over the problem of 

existence and the other — the trench coat of death over 

the long shawl of god — invisible networks over the words 

that fall out when the heart meets the bottom of the stomach 

like a brick sitting in the bottom of a wet paper bag which 

hangs above the body of a dear friend’s baby — the prodding 

of the soft spot on the head over a world built on a foundation 

of stone and concrete which itself sits on an unending rock —

all gloomy principle, defined, ill-advised, and risen temper 

over the thrashing of a thrush among the trees I will never know

how to name — protector of the dying and helplessly mummified 

heart, touch me here where the chest melts into the liquid which 

sits behind the ribcage, and feel out the ruin that grows into

flowers, blossoms about, and vanishes again like my father

who seems to refuse to call me, the coward!

But the world outside my protective walls

accepts that the sky is wandering to

the earth. The spider hides in the bark of

a lichen-encrusted oak tree and allows

its master-net to be meticulously 

deconstructed by a billion tiny

and wet hands; and still, she will quietly

rebuild in the morning without complaint,

that horrifying carpenter I love to watch!

A seagull still floats in the air like a

silly photograph, a bluejay takes

cover, unseen and sopping, among the

bramble and the brush. And the deer head off

to wherever the deer go to keep dry,

unless they, too, welcome the cold wet the

same way the meandering tomato plant

in the backyard does: joyously and yet

unfeeling in an isness so infinite, it lingers

Long after the plant has been uprooted and

composted or burned. It lingers long after

the house that stood on that plot of land

has become overgrown with the thoughtless

reproduction of ivy and other plant cells, and

long after all human life has been vanquished in

accidental whispers that even the decomposing

body of the once-sun will never hear. It lingers

long after an eternity of eternities

have brought about all the heart beats of big bangs

and lights. Long after that ultimate, inevitable

darkness of all creation finally falls, still that 

isness shall prevail and linger and sit, 

exactly as I sit within these privileged walls

the rain has not yet penetrated, in the deep,

confounding dungeon of my own mystifying,

absurd, and overall idiot sadness, which is but

the smallest hint of all things that ever dared

to touch or express something of the

forever going and infinitely beautiful

eye-shadow of god!