Pitter Patter

I don't know how the rain got in.
It slipped past my angled blinds,
Within the tiniest cracks
Betwixt glass and painted sill.
I can hear it on the rooftop,
I think it must be leaking somewhere...
It bounces off pavement and floods the walk.
It keeps the newspaper pages stuck together.

The puddle forming on my floor
Is lemon-flavoured--
Of this I'm sure.
I haven't dared to taste it...
My olfactory works to distinguish
The subtleties of poison.

Ovid, Explain this...

Oh my god I turned into a cat.

To Be Re-Titled

[Phase prose: I will be updating and changing this piece as the Muse strikes. Any criticisms and commentary are appreciated].

The rocks are everywhere. They fell from the sky.

That is what our Fathers told us. Our mothers weren't around, though some of us vaguely remember them from early childhood. The rest of what we hear about them comes mostly from myth, fancied tales told from child to child -- outside of any Fathers' earshot.

The rocks are pock-marked and incomplete. They don't crumble in our hands, but they fill the potholes and wells of the streets in avalanches under your foot as it lifts and marches forward. The rocks never stay in one place for too long. The feet keep marching. We forget that they leave as many holes as they fill.

Some think they remember that the mothers never wanted to leave. Most aren't sure.

Rain falls from the sky but it is mute. Our childhood lacked lullabies; we tilt our mouths ajar to the sky. The droplets thicken our blood. Our mouths are always open.

The mothers took the pearls when they left. They took the olives. They stole the sun and the warmth we've been missing during this, our extended infancy.

What will be left to stand on when the spaces are all filled,
When there are no more rocks... When the sky is squeezed dry and goes black?
The rain falls between the rocks as we walk along the rocky path.
The weather will erode these rocks.
In time.
So they say.

Experience

It's one of those moments that you waited for
A long time.
Then it comes, and tranquility
-- The calm before the storm --
Consumes the moment like embers.
Breathe on the coals.
Ignition.
The band begins to play.
Melodic, transcendental.
My out-of-body existence,
The divinity of the self
And it's celestial connection
To each and every
One.

I point to the sky because the lasers shine above our heads, the projection of clouds on a translucent green blanket above the stadium. The band is geometry, the sound trips in elysium echoes. Wishing I was on LSD, but not needing it. Dancing. Doing liquid for the first time to live Tool. Spirtual and alone in a sea of quickened heartbeats.

Running into friends I haven't seen in so long.

The drive home; rock radio is playing the entire Aenima album front-to-back over the airwaves. It's perfect outside with the fat, wet snow coming down and melting in our path, making the lighs of the street shimmer. It's the first snow of the year, it is December first and I've successfully made it a month on my own.

I finish my cigarette with my back against the door, reflecting on the evening. Feeling the love.

And for the record, I hate Tower for being in the Honduras. I could've met Tool, but he had to go to your tropical island for two weeks.... -sigh-