Skepticism of summer storming.

Thunderstorms of summer brain waves--
Bitter winds of moist cloudsweat
Evasions of the nose, The Fleeting.
Is it the scent of mountains in the murk
Scattered by ambitious courage
(one and another and so on so forth)
Or the reminiscent faces of those
Bugs of lightening struck dead between
Children fingers.

The mind is a terrible monster of
Pale blue eyes and curling nails of blurring yellow
Beckoning a sweet mystery with microscopes
And beakers of Bunsen-burning liquids and powder.
The sight of some awful bubbling and sulfur-saturations
Drawing one close and promising poisons
We will one day have no choice but to drink--
One swallowing stomach of the stuff.

The vow to ‘go out fighting’ like a devil mad and burning fire
Blind with rage and hope and perspective.
Unanswers of the mind and its storming clouds.
The pulses like electric wires tripping over beads
Salty wet and filming fine and smooth all about your self.
Theory and equation are naked in their shadow
Cold and shivering damp.

What bones what flesh what organs do withstand
Ridicule of perception and promise;
The far more crippling weapons
Raping the mind in a slow vanishing act.
Piece by piece, tiny gummed up curves
Like a woman’s figure and equally capable of depriving your lungs of oxygen
As valuable as paper in Germany.
The inflation insurmountable and impossible
In all the world’s ‘possibilities.’
An hour glass dripping, all but melting, its secrets--
Grain by mirrored grain.

Cloudsweat pooling on the brow of a man less able than most.
He is young and vibrant in all the ways
Of a baby in Skinner’s Box.
As satisfied as one may be held like a rat an animal
Labled ‘experiment.’
But what of his able body and fingernails?
To scratch at what.  At what, could he really know?
There must be more, he says
Lips parched from sunning himself in thoughtful introspect.
Questions, unanswers, being damned if that is where
These brain waves cease to flood.




Thunderstorms of summer brain waves.
And being damned if they are to cease.