Television

The rain comes down
Terribly hard.

I sit alone
On my side porch
‘Lifted’
And I hear the nocturnal angels
Singing.

The sky falls down
Lashing
Like whips
At the hands of said attendant spirits
A-buzz
In Gregorian chants
And Mozart chorales
Impassioned
And full of lovely fury.

I radiate
Blossom
Bloom
And become posessed
To take off my clothes
Stripping down to nothing
And stand in my backyard
En plein aire
Challenging
Arms outstretched
The cool, dark downpour
Of this night.

In mere moments
I am soaked
My hair a wet mop.

I am
Slick and glossy
Luxurious in the beating water.

I can not
Imagine
Anyone in a stable
Frame of mind


Avoiding
At any cost
This free and spiritual gift
While they sit
In air conditioning
Clothed like Puritan Pilgrims.

Ashamed of their
Flabby
Pale, unhealthy
Forgotten
Let go bodies
As they watch something
Of absolutely
No importance
Whatsoever
Unfold
In unforgiving
Loud
High def
42” television.

And they gawk
Eyes glassy
Jaw slack
Spittle hanging
Watching the weatherman
Speak of the storm
Just outside of their window.

The lightening flashes.

It’s supposed to
Thunderstorm all night.
They are glad that they are there
Protected inside
Avoiding
Anything of relevance.

They will never
Figure out
That their neighbor
Is free
Outside
Splashing naked in the puddles
With the angels of
Beethoven
Grieg
Chopin
Mozart
Schubert
And Liszt.