By J.J. Tindall
Rain of Light Clear as Christ
I remain stuck in my labyrinth,
odd corners of Hell.
My feelings defy my aspirations.
I can breathe and I can sweat but I cannot
smile.
I’ve got three hundred dollars and I’m instinctively looking
toward the Caribbean.
Surely!
It can be very exciting when
I get the formula right.
I’m serious.
Formulae? Latin, anyone?
We had it in high school
as an “Elective.” Good one!
Dear God: can you imagine
the sturm und drang?!
Three hundred dollars
when I’m not depressed!
SHIT! Liberation!
Like flunking out
of Latin,
odd corner
of Hell.
I speak out of turn.
I am showing my wounds.
The wind rooms.
I persist with my Caribbean formulae,
the twists and wounds, wait, winds of each and every day.
I get it. The wind rears, there is lust
in the room, in the wind.
That’s me, again, of course.
Wind is void.
The wind roooms, it’s onomatopoeia.
Surely: the wind vrooms and we project,
I get it.
There is rust in the loom, it’s a scratching
sound. A warm sea is encumbered
by hiss.
I invest my money and make a killing.
Nobody knows nothing.
I am talking about a killing.
Those People?! Who cares what I wrought?!
Who cares who writhes?
This is strictly business.
Like a bullet of rain,
like a clear, crystal stain
(Christ-clear).
Everything I held dear.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
–
More Tindall:
* Music: MySpace page
* Fiction: A Hole To China
* Critical biography at e-poets.net
Posted on April 19, 2010