It ain’t the air,
mercury lays low,
it’s just the stares
that I know
rain
on
me.

Stormy faces
pakt together
cloudy eyes
shooting
darts
piercing
my chest
burning
to burst loose through my ribs

but it’s like I’m in a cage pent up with rage
I suppress
it all
in
side,

I should ride it out
and shout psychedelic hummingbirds into the atmosphere
and let transcendental butterflies flutter out my mouth
I should unswallow a swallow
and rebuke my state by puking out the weight
that ties me up.

But instead of
shining despite and amongst the critical rainstorm
I wear black and keep the rainbow trapped inside:

red sickle-cell hammered-vein blood
orange pumpkins the eccentric schizophrenic jack-o-lantern ornamentation
yellow ducks that wanna fuck and quack as they attack the pack
green emerald organs; leprechans that envy all who can stand taller
blue idealism that will rise to the skies and clear the honky clouds
and deep violet velvet sexiness an orgasmic orchestra
and when the organs have played their scaly solo through all reaches of the bloodstream
the cellos kick in and dig deep in to the strings and bowels until
it gets so deep that all I have to pour out is
black
coffee
with impressive potency intensity
but such a strain
so difficult to swallow down.