Saturday, June 21, 2014

Dust in rain drops

July 3, 1980

The rain returns this morning in a gush through the gutters that shakes me awake from some dream I can’t remember, only feel, and I wander out into it, looking up at the gray sky that hovers overhead, so low I could almost touch their gray surface with the tip of my fingers, and ache to curl my palms over them, or suckle from the clear liquid that drips from their lips to mine.
But I also feel pinned in by this oppressive gray, like a captured butterfly, my limps spread, and pressed down, as this body of gray presses down on me.
Nothing stops the rain or the wind that whispers promises it never intends to keep, and I settled behind the steering wheel to stare out a windshield smeared with the muted colors I feel inside and out.
This unseasonable chill bites deep into my bones, and stirs up the ache I thought I had left in bed with the dreams, as if I have not yet woken from the dream, and wander through it, tasting the teasing breath of something I yearn for, but cannot grasp, this thing that I need to press myself into and let it consume me, but eludes me, the kiss of rain on my cheek, the touch of wet on my fingers, the taste of pleasure on my tongue.
Outside, the wind struggles to stir up a moist landscape, shaking the wet limbs of trees until they drip, lifting the clinging fingers of newsprint that won’t let go of the earth, needing to extract yet some last gasp before being shredded, their desire so deep they seek self annihilation rather than surrender.
Homeless men huddle under dripping garage roofs like zombies, their gazes lost in some thought I dare not think, though my imagination stirs up some fantasy of love lost, and their choice to wander the earth in search of the souls they can never regain.
Shop keepers growl at them as they sweep the stoop of debris, the wet grip making this a chore as they stroke and stroke again and still can’t achieve what they want, news print filled with stories of woe I feel even without reading them, of world changing events that changes nothing in my world any more significantly than the rain does, as I cling to the pavement of my life, having nothing better left to cling to.
I am filled with washed out headlines and memories of tales that no longer matter, but not the throbbing over what once was, and might be again, if only the rain would let me limbs loose and free me to let the wind stir my edges up and send me somewhere else in a tumbling, bumbling dance I do not wish to predict or know where I might land.
And yet, I feel new, perhaps renewed, or want to feel that way, savoring each wet kiss of wind as if lured on into some potential satisfaction. The red ink I write with smears with the moist touch of drops I hesitate to taste for fear they might taste of salt and tears rather than rain.
I am like the homeless men, huddling here, longing for something I cannot have, but also cannot define, a mingling of limbs or minds, and not knowing or caring about which one I get first, as long as both come to ease this ache that is always with me
And this rain that falls down upon me and my world is like the uneven beat of my heart, which skips beats and hurries ahead only to slow down and drain, and leave me feeling empty and abandoned as one of the rattling bottles on the sidewalk, wet and expended, but still filled with need.
They say there is a grain of dust at the center of every rain drop, leaving its stain on the world even after the rain has ceased, leaving its stain on me as I stare out and long for more.


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