Hypnotic barrel of laughter
from outside on the corner
where the crowd is talking
and interchanging information
before the rain begins.

Before the storm starts
a flurry of worry from a few
who worry congenitally:
will it be too wet to
maintain a civil face?

Maintaining a civil face
seems unimportant in a new way,
like it won’t matter when the news drops.
Like it won’t matter out on the corner.
Like the laughter running out seems desperate.

A monsoon is coming,
and no one seems to care.
Outside is too damp, inside
is too dry, in-between
and above the clouds it does not matter.

The laughter is desperate.
It’s a given. It holds the rain,
is a diamond above the clouds.
As hard as one. As unfeeling as one.
Laughter eating the words as one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Seems a little obvious
to start a poem with “I”
as if it were a reference
to the being writing it.
Truth is, the writing
is removed from the being
and the poem exists on its own
as if it were cosmic dust —
blown in and then it exists
independently. The being goes back
to an entity full of cereal and doubt
and other matters of trying to exist
while the poem floats out over all that
and develops its own timeline
for existing. I don’t know
if that makes any sense; it is all
I have of it; the poems
live their own lives and serenely
care not at all about making sense.
Whatever. There is too much
I depend on in each poem
to worry about their making standard sense.
Whatever —
I let them stand before you
and let you judge and marvel and
dismiss them. They move according
to their own destiny. I have little
to do with it, when all is said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T