Drop's Season: The life of a water droplet

Drops of water's wet, squeaky rubber mat
Drying with sun's blankets, fluffy cumulus clouds
Rising in air's brisk, minty breath, crystalline silk
And conglomerated reproduction in glossy beakers, 250 mL
Angry with fear, falling face first fastened frightfully
Freeze and explode in a parachute of geometric fabric
Then,
Glide...Glide..Glide
Down
         Down
                  Down
Resting stiffly and slanted
And buried in phases till dark, cold cave stillness, serene
And warm liquidy cream of orange bands, streaking yellow and blue
Gently slice, freeing patterns of pure violet puddle pockets
Slowly gravitating, burning striped trails down to cement and spongy soup grass
Pulling Down
                   Down
                            Down
Then sucked up Up UP into yellow green tubing plastic
Feeding in skylighted laboratory mixing pot of orange and blue with yellow turning maroon in fluttering jubilation exultation.
Smiling cheddar yellow smiles of one thousand teeth and purple eyelashes under crispy warm blue spiked hair.
Children noose fingers stranglehold life supply removing tubing from generator and coughing bowing sadness of sun setting despair.

Glowing in blue...

+

Color-lametheme-Color

A-reading

I went to a reading at Columbia College on Monday night and it REignited flames of how it felt to be in a classroom, listening to others deliver their work in a shared group of enthusiasts that enjoy the art of literature.  Well, there's my blurb... as honest as it REALLY is, I had the dishonest illusion/disillusion of being the judge; the critic who's opinion is sought and who's clap is heard.   It was nice and it sparked a nostalgic flame that hasn't been present in, I don't know, going on two years. TWO GODDAMNED YEARS... already!?

The judge, I am, and still, I am, overly critical, perusing the thoughts of the creator, wondering why he/she chose what they chose and how they arranged the piece, commenting mentally on why they did what they did and why it worked and why it didn't work.  It's, in my opinion, that fresh open platform of uninterrupted and vulnerable self indulgence/craving-for-criticism/or, just that notion and yearning for someone-to-finally-fucking-comment-honestly-and-openly about the piece and give ME SOMETHING, that really lit the fires in my eyes on what it was like to be in a classroom.  Nostalgia, that sometimes obscure term that equals pathetic-ness, but really doesn't, is what was really generated.  

NOISE

Inconsistent thuds crescendo-ing (?) into crashes that rattle the skinny hands on my clocks until finally, out of an uncontrollable impulse, I provide the final blow to the wall with a closed fist sending a small black faced clock off the wall and into shattered glass on the floor, which needs swept any way.  It's at this moment that I go into the bathroom and stare at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror and wonder why the noises produce such a fiery response; a response that is only barely released by punching the wall; a response that really requires me to thrash my entire body into and through the wall, but knowing the ramifications I use only my small claw-like fists to carry out the action leaving enormous amounts of energy flowing and brewing in my bones, then settling into my heart, where they sleep until the next response is triggered.  It's something I've tried to cope with and work out of my system via exercise and meditation, but for some reason it is so built up that I'm merely releasing the steam on a boiling fire of rage that hopefully will never be released, at least, hopefully, not all at once.  When I think of the triggers, they seem to be related quite directly with sound and noise.  NOISE.  It is the most therapeutic remedy as well as the greasy trigger finger resting on the cold steel hammer, slipping slipping slipping.  A humming furnace or a consistent whooshing fan keep me sane and  help me sleep, but the Mexican girl's suicide sprints and thuds send me into a loony state of insanity.  Music, if good music, can rest my gentle senses.  Music, if bad music, can make me act like a totally different person.  NOISE.  Oh noise, please be kind to me.

Fate {[(Dream) sign?] guess it depends on you}

I went to sleep on a bed of putting-green perfect bermuda grass in some shitty southeastern coastline city with tall palm trees and golf carts.  It was comfortable and warm, not that oppressing heat so common down there.  I only remember fleeting images as I rose and walked around the long weeping willows reaching so desperately for a sip of water and I'm sure their roots were reaching even further, strained into splinters, breaking into water veins and disturbing the peaceful golf and old person community where I was.  It became clear to me that these images were mixed with my grandfather's cross-legged pose of unabashed honesty of why he chopped "every goddamned tree down" over their estate.
Anyway, I kept walking and found myself inside a bed and breakfast laden in mostly white vinyl siding and blue shutters.  The top floor was mine for the night and David sat up there concentrating at the sewing machine with crumbles of shiny crystal weed bits scattered and then piled into the center right in front of the shiny stainless steel needle contraption.  He packed the maroon piece pretty tight and we smoked, not saying a word, but letting our minds float into another world of sheer cynicism, however silent and controlled within the cages of our brains.  And he smiled at me a couple times.  The sun was setting over the perfect lawn and the old men were getting into their dinner clothing and out of their plaid golfing clothing.
It was sudden and abrupt, how she entered, but she did so with such ownership and entitlement that it didn't even startle me.  It reminded me of my own mother coming into my room, gazing over the piles of clothes with that skeptical look, which said, "you better clean this up or there will be hell to pay."  This old lady, with flowery printed sweatshirt and robin egg blue jeans, pulled halfway up her back, came in and ruffled the sheets on the beds, looked at the piece, and didn't blink an eye.  She shuffled the books, mumbled something to David, and looked at me with a really serious stare and told me, "I've got a bad feeling about you."  I scrunched my eyes and didn't speak and she raised her hands.  "I just don't know about you.  I feel something bad."  I kind of hung my head in shame for releasing negative energy because I really was in a complete state of bliss at the time, but her comments made me think.  I felt my body quiver on the bed and I wanted to wake, but my brain kept saying, "shhhhh, let's just see what happens.  We NEED to know what this is." And I did.  I waited it out and she left, but nothing happened.
David and I took the piece and walked in the moonlit putting-green grass and sat beneath a palm tree and kind of bullshitted about this and that and smoked some more, but nothing ever happened.  I kept thinking of the old lady and then my alarm rang.  The images lifted and there I was back in bed.  Wondering about it, but not in a fearful way, more in an excited way, I told Dave on the train and he raised his eyebrows.  That was it I guess...

Ocean of Rice