pyro.cumulo.nimbus

o heavy cloud made of timber 

nuclear bloom over our 

reckless

global

nebulous 

careless affairs

breaking the 

sky 

the fire 

in my belly 

will not be subsumed

 

i offer these 

ashes

#katyamills

chicago. summer

this energy has welled
pulled us into the hollow
inside

this energy has shifted
can we trust it?

let's get up and go to the store
together. look at the clouds!

giving us all and the
trees a glow

i have fifty cents
i will buy you a
coke

how we get by

the clouds are still and the earth is moving. i see the others and i want to love them, i do, and i reach out and we talk for a while and the room softens. it's raining outside but only in a small targeted area which moves as the earth spins. the clouds are not moving, they are still. i know when i look up and see the clouds moving, they are not. what i see with my eyes and sense with my senses, never tells the whole story. i am so glad we have a story without an ending. this is how we get by.

pressured by fronts and driven to tears

we are not so unlike clouds in the sky, are we, puffy and bleached turning gray, you can see through us and other times opaque we hide our secrets inside us, coming for us and striking through they do, yet still we remain intrinsically unscarred or untouched, reflecting it all sea to sea and the earth, where we travel we leave the residue our prints passing silently along, forensics loves a cloud, made of water and vapor we are and capable of many forms, evocative of endless feelingstates, containing our own electromagnetic storms we are carried by winds and made by trial and fire, under certain conditions we scatter and the streets become empty and clear like the sky, monotonous, monochromatic we are pressured by fronts and driven to tears

passages of clouds

I am giving up and giving in to sleep, and then awaken off melatonin with some fight in me for the full moon, stepping outdoors and looking up to her where she is reading clouds, passages of clouds, while I am slipping on my bare feet the black sneaks with the black soles and black laces, after lining them with powder. The clouds are assuaging the moon with great tales of restlessness and woe, and she: delighted, attentive, detached. I am pouring the water over the coffee grounds in slow circles, coming round to myself like i must every night, for when I walk into the world as I must, and raise my eyes to read the same unending jetstream from below, the passing encryption is solved, and the atmospherics release hail and torrents of rain to wash from me my apprehension, my anxiety, my indifference... and all mirage of dissembling.