fuck fuck fuck! this poem is dedicated to all poems lost to power outages: may your ghost words find rest.

always come at long last
the sky tastes like clean skin
and i open my mouth to take it all

something like the perfect peach sublimated
leaving nothing but this rolling on the tongue

rolling in.
And the pressure is so great
i am expanding -
full of spores -

the onslaught begins.

Hailstones like golfballs
ham sandwiches

The mythic storm that this brings to mind
left dents all over the city
i never saw.
I like this

the density brings out minute clarities
tiny beautiful grey impacts by the hundreds
at the stop light
in an inconsequential puddle
at a trivial curb
for free.

i testify.
i will bear witness.
i will bear witness for you,
Enfield, CT,
skater kid soaking wet
sprawl town with rotting roots
in an ungraceful adolescence
tumbled and run over and paved, shopping malled and fucked over.
The tornado warnings suit you
and your nascent industrial parks.

This storm is opaque,
you are lustrous, clad in
"beautified" median strips, traffic islands.
This heaviness is liberating. Suddenly the quotidian is strangely light

The sky doesn't know what to do
it is clotted and split
I think there is a fight going on
or i am being sedated.
hard and slow.

I can only watch. There's nothing i can add. This needs no cues. What strange clouds over there.

You wanna lesson? Nothing lasts.
Bet you don't want a lesson any more.

The clouds are clearing out now,
two hopping grey fleas that way,
an upended vase of nimbulous cumulatory fleurs du mal
spewing over - what? - Holyoke?
Ghoultails slithering away over mountain spines
things emptying themselves out
small drifts of spent ice bullets
under windows and

by the mounded flowers' beds.

this night a storm pierces blackness
power dazzles brilliantly above
cloud fire cuts dances in the air
a chain of naked light screams
down through the void of the sky
a vast voice bellows
an enormous laugh
a ferocious moment surrounds
morning brings peace to the forest
a fresh breeze lingers about wet grass

An original poem written with magnetic poetry

A summer storm.

Strong winds are the first warning
as dead leaves and superfluous branches
clatter to the ground.

A thunderclap.

Dust is being raised over there,
but rain that starts to appear everywhere
starts to settle it.

A flash of light.

Every bit of grass still baked,
mostly from the burning summer sunlight,
now starts to turn green.

A person stands.

He does not care about storms.
He pauses, ties his long hair back behind,
and then carries on.

A heavy rain.

Slow relief for drought-struck towns.
Doesn't cure. Only alleviates. Yet,
moisture is welcome.

A thick silence.

As quickly as it began,
it is over. No noise, no rain, no wind,
but the smell lingers...

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