rain_sweepings lycanthrope the rain in its sweepings shows the pathology of the wind that otherwise would've remained hidden. equations flash dully through distant drops that inexactly replace one another. it is sweltering inside, and so we imagine it is cold out there. it's memory, not formal deduction. the wind in different intensities is nurturing, is destroying. the rain skips like stones, cuts back like horses whose reins have fallen into incomprehensible hands. the sky is blurry. the wind hurtles pollen and seeds across skies, and those that survive such a spinning that negates almost the distance between surface and center will fall into fields of colors deeply etched, though ill equipped in the uniform erasure of night rain. the hardest facts break down to rising like vapor. as seeds roll like tipped jeeps and ravaged recycling crates across the increasing reception of their rooted complements, a deep enlightenment will come across, through non-sentience, when what was once living, now can be viewed as only a deep etched waiting. the same wind pushes old trees at angles they cannot remember. creaks like sighs are drowned out in roars. the streets are empty, the hills are bare. this world is mine to walk into and own because no one else dares. there are a million points, more or less in the counting's depth, dropping into me, sliding down, hicupping in. it washes over me, the slope of my nose is imaged out in sensations. the world in various attempts catches against me. impregnations, mercies, the wishful mistakes of weeds and garbage, intentions, pleading: all are brushed on and off of me giving me only time for the most broad acceptance, none to understand or follow. cruelty and tenderness are equal in the sudden chilling designations between the slow dropping and hammering affronts to my face's sense of sky. all that remains is the slight wincing, like sharp music notes, against an overwhelming if predictable underscore. 021216 ... . . 050204 what's it to you? who go blather from