Rain in Southern
California is not pleasing.
It’s a circumstance,
an occasional happening,
a freak of nature.
The desert sky steams
grey mist as if some
enemy nation released
cylinders of poisoned gas.
Empty of people and cars--
London during the Blitz--.
the streets shimmy with shine.
Wet ravens hover in trees,
caw:
...the end is near,
...... the end is near
Outside my window
water chokes a cheap tin spout,
gurgles a dreary gush,
instead of the patter
I expect. Shouldn’t rain
be beautiful? Shouldn’t
my complexion plump
like hydro-cultured grapes?
Shouldn’t my eyes dampen
with moisture of gratitude
for celestial gifts
of precipitation?
Perhaps iguana, saguaro and I
choose the sand, sun and wind,
choose the cracked and sturdy path
that destiny blazes for us,
because we have the skin for it.
Previously published in Pindeldyboz
Spring 2002
On Being Published
I want to croon tonight, crow &
prance
drifting on a raft with violinists.
Arms hoist me, ravens sing
harmony while my hand floats in
cold water rapids of rapture.
Publish me! More sensuous than sucking
if you hold the wet words in your mouth
and spill them out without swallowing.
Edit red dust, hike across the canyon,
a horse corral by any other name would
smell. Do you love me? Do you LOVE me?
Lie to me, typeset my whore’s heart
in AGaramond italics.
About the Author
