My favorite

Have been with such cool people from L.A. all weekend. friends of my girl Ambrosa. Juliette and I got in zoom fixation with each other, and became real pals real quick. and Tony grew on me. starting off grumpy, and then coming out of that haze. So hey, i want to put my old poem down, i was just reading it to juliette. and it made me want to cry. This is a 3 part poem. its premise is clouds. section 1 is cumulus clouds. section 2 is Nimbus Clouds. Section 3 is Stratus Clouds. It follows three lives, and the incapacity they face. And what happens when they refuse their incapacity, when they refuse to falter. When they have had enough. One story in it is true, and the others are of another realm. The epiteth on the beginning has a footnote, so scroll down to footnote 1. and you'll see the backdrop to the character quoted. This is about dropping your anchor.

The Incapacity of Clouds
"May you be an incantation of that flicker within." - Boromis (1)

Cumulus Clouds

Most people were worried,
the clouds seeming so cross,
but I was eager and driving while
they were congregating overhead,
not whispy or moving but mounted
to the lower edge of the sky,
as if resolving to carry nothing anymore,
not even the wind.

No kites, no diving birds, no helicopters,
No more amassing our sighs, no flimsy prayers,
or any under-the-breath attacks--
enough blank stares from dazed people,
or flat attempts to sing a high C sharp.
The clouds simply could not boost
this earthly agitation anymore--
our accumulating woes and wishes--
finally admitting that no-where
else could solve our discomfort.

The clouds were done hoisting-up
everything redundant or easy.




1. Boromis: God-like hero of aviators everywhere: he refused to land. The first-and perhaps only aviator to make it out of cloud. His departure is still a mystery; In short, he vanished in Late-February from the Cumulus clouds gathered over Colorado Plains. Some are still looking for Boromis with Magnets.



Nimbus Clouds
I was driving to see her recovering.
I wanted to get there so badly,
to touch her bandages,
sneak in these sodas.

I wanted her legs to be settled this time,
more chunks taken from her feet
and now the skin already closing
the stitches as they eased from her soles,
her arches recalling their trusty lunge
where they denied and pressed into the ground.

This was her latest complication.
She never shunned her ailments or complained,
but she was stubborn and deserved to be.
She was tired of thanking that vague strength
that would someday come from this mess.
Why should she have to exist so faintly?
(these redundant pillows).
Some say her life would always rain
like this. like nimbus clouds.
But she had husk to her, a Chicago-grown
girl, and though the sky was faltering above,
she would craft her own vessel.
She was making those testimonies to herself.

I wanted to be that worn-in friend--
I wanted her to call on me,
to be more than lining
or distraction.
I wanted to meet her in the unsettled parts,
to sit with her,
and let her recede.








Stratus Clouds

Somewhere behind these rowdy clouds
must be aviators bolting:
tunneling aviators,
the shameless aviators and inconsiderate!
keen aviators followed by those ducking aviators wishing lasers were included,
crumpled aviators shouting something about desertitude,

One desperate aviator looking for Boromis, convinced that Boromis would give him departure from this muffled place of cloud (everywhere fading back into white).

He was tired of this clunky shuttling, if he could take flight in some way more deliberate. He prayed for Boromis to ignite his plane--its rickety propeller--into a supernova:
to make him into a vessel so lustrous
and huge that people on earth would
look up and fix their eyes to him by
impulse, having no idea what scorching
his remote glint made. He knew he was
made to throb, all kinds of particles
gravitating towards him--that he could
close the fissures in the sky--

and somebody dwindling below
would spot him--a stud admist
the little mines in the night--
he would change the very
sequence of the sky.
This was his heart demanding cadence,
this was his heart in fugue.
He would roll for them--
his form repeating, his fugue asking,
his form repeating a fifth above and a fourth below--
he would finally reach his minor relative points.
His arpeggio flying,
the audience enveloped,
remembering octaves
they never knew they had,
hearing his A minor
one-day while strolling.