Mind Drainage

November rain clots in the fertilized gutter of my dust packed soul, existence storms within me ticker tape thoughts struck by lightning mad stockholders of cells sunspot through my flesh reaching to sear the plastic backdrop through which I walk.

Telling myself of Great Auk stars does not create enough petroleum jelly in my mind to ease the burns from my inward x-raying eyes-- frog legs of pain can-can in burlesque of my seriousness. my stomach unreels in newsreel battle gore, the nauseating pain creeping onto my face hidden by the flesh familiar to the eyes as one Douglas Blazek.

November rain sometimes is freckled by sun and for that moment onion-faced old women scurry with shopping carts to get cabbages but it isn't long before it's pouring again like crumbling chimneys and the street is hollow except for the cars that sizzle down the black mica and erase themselves with the night.

Earth must be a strange place for a mapmaker a place where the battlefields turn into fertilizer and children into burnt pudding rivers turn into drainage ditches and starvation is a necessary evil when countries are doing the necessary good by building tanks and bombs, grenades and bullets-- it is no coincidence the word "kiss" is spelled so alike "kill".

Ah, but in November it is rain and my ribs are not barbecuing in radioactive delight and the kids are wading in boxes of blacks and fossilized pain is melting in my stomach and the street is turning into a soft lizard with red, yellow and green eyes pinballing along its spine -- my soul floats in rippling fingers towards the drainage ditch making the only map I understand.