All systems are down.
In washed away dawn,
the light comes slowly.

The blustering wind rings
the chimes in muted minor keys,
the angular rain attempts entry
through gaps in shingles.

Drowsy, perpetually drowsy,
I brew a pot, Choc full o’ Nuts,
wallow in beautiful Monday morning.
Like nostalgic ache
or the odor of wet autumn,
pleasure laced with pain.
My player is loaded with
Messrs Davis, Coltraine, Brubeck.

Beside the bird bath,
the orange pumpkin looks fantastic,
that way its blob of color changes things.
A chickadee comes ruffled and wet to the feeder,
works the shell from a black oil seed,
throws back his head,
then laughs and laughs.

Sometimes,
when sunlight streams past the shade,
such starkness.
All those tiny airbornes
waiting to be inhaled,
the thumb print in dust,
webs in corners,
that spreading brown spot
on my hand.
It’s no good.

I’m a rain man,
cool and blue,
living in shadow.

But then,
there’s that scene at the very end.
You know the one;
The Little Tramp and Paulette Goddard
down that lonesome highway
into golden dawn.
Somehow, everything beautiful.

11/21/2013

Author's Note: sub-atomic particle man blues (and greens)

Posted on 11/21/2013
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