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the lament of the rain
the cats look on from their cozy perch/pleased to be laying
in the light of the sun pouring through the windows after days
of relentless rain/drowning the fields/submerging bridges/
playing a heartless song with the late autumn crops/toying
with love like an unbreakable knot/raising the ire on father
time and his merciless pledge to the clockmakers and time
keepers/while love swirls around them like a vortex/breaking
branches/casting off twigs/lambasting the liars and the
temperamental fiddlers strumming in a disingenuous measure
sure to gain the wrath of true romantics/and the young perfectly
suited couples wheeling baby carriages /the wind raising
the hackles on the backs of drifters sidestepping mudslides
left in the residue of the inconsolable rain/the cats rambling
to the floor/hissing and scratching/there’s a hurricane flooding
the house but they’re running around like children in the school
yard/fussing and carrying on/as shackles slip from hands/
as keys twist in old broken locks
i bring you joy.
pure unadulterated joy.
in a genie-shaped bottle.
in a vat as vast as the mohave desert.
in a football-sized field of fabulous phenomena.
this is my gift to the poor. to the rich. to the neglected middle.
accept it without qualms/trick handshakes/or double the money back offers.
gracefully. elegantly. luxuriously.
like a harvest of corn outstretching the far western horizon.
filling every pore of your soul like a waterfall.
like the infinite source of mountain spring water.
like the miraculous floating islands of lake titticatti.
permitting joy to bathe your senses.
without requiring a telephone call to your parents.
without ever needing to look it up on google.
allowing joyfulness into your life
like a child’s endless stream of sticky bubbles.
like a potpourri of keys opening impossible puzzles.
POEM FOR CÉZANNE
The wine bottle is tilted against the sky
and the off-beat rules of Cézanne.
The impossible is capricious
and the capricious is impossible.
The single bicycle wheel turns
and the world is going Dada.
That was before beauty moved
into my house and stayed there.
The force of the sun’s rays made me blush.
The stars in the sky exchanged looks.
Was I supposed to make love with her
under a blanket of suspicion?
The birds sometimes mate with bats.
They like their dark and heavy looks.
The birds chirp like nighthawks and
the bats whistle in three-part-harmony.
It’s a respectable pursuit among the easily pleased
and the strong armed twisting life into impossible fruit.
Daring love to upset the apple cart of youth.
Bartering with truth’s ability to ripen everything.