The air resounds with the pitterpatter of fingerdrops
as they smack against the keys like shingles, like asphalt, like hard-packed dirt.
The percussion beat of words as they soak into the screen,
and nourish the, blank, fertile landscape of word processor soil
so stories and poems and blog posts and political figures wearing dresses
on red carpet academy award election night
The air is tense with the negative ions of dreams
gathering in the neural thundercloud inside my skull
waiting to make a positive connection through my bones, through my skeletal muscles,
through the fleshy pads at the end of my fingers.
They link, and flash, sear my tiny local sky and blind the eyes
of any muses looking on, whispering inspiration.
Their voices are drowned out by the deafening CRACK.
1.21 Jiggawats, coursing through my weak and tender flesh,
launching me through time to here, or there, or wherever it takes me
for as long as it lasts.
As long as I can stand it.
The rain falls quickly, now, flooding out gutters and filling sinkholes.
The cars caught in the storm crank their wipers up to 11.
Their drivers groan in desperation, feel their wheels slip out
and skid beneath them.
I don’t care.
People run through the deluge, holding out their arms or their handbags
in a feeble attempt to stay dry. It won’t work.
Somewhere, a woman and a man strip off their clothes and dash off into the fields
the mud squishing between their toes, their mad, joyous laughter heard only
in their footfalls.
All of this is my doing. Because an idea has been reaching
saturation in my brain all day,
and the storm will not stop
until the world is clean.