The Only Hurricane That Can’t Be Categorized

Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, September 5, 2013 Under: Poetry

In a valley without telephone poles, a reindeer that cannot be hunted is a valuable commodity, the one with antlers poised to the cloud sensors like electrical signals, communicating in lipid Morse code to pony-tailed Inca deities somewhere in Sabotage-land. They don’t pay taxes there either, which takes away from storm recovery funds. Wildlife eradicated by flash floods may appear as an apparition – within several days or less. Take the groundhog ghosts for example, or the corduroy alloy skinned skinks leapfrogging past canals stricken with Mardi Gras sewage.

Stand in a cube surrounded by the gusts of an otherworldly wind, count your days in the presence of a well-trained, motivated Nature. Consider your significant battle timeline blemished for tenfold columns. Airports are no refuge, and neither is the air. A man with water phobia dies a little inside before he is literally later purged of his life by the Grim Rainmaker’s expansive eddy. “I see life as a hurricane with death in the center, a holographic image that resembles the weather” is dark-spotted on billboards from Bangladesh to Djibouti. New York City Globe reports the reindeer that couldn’t be hunted committed suicide out of meteorological uncertainty. Weathermen have consciences too, and so their woodland dwelling counterparts do as well.

Whether a man swims in an ocean of his life’s neglect or drowns in self doubt, the forecast can be predetermined as soon as he overcomes the great black void of the flood waters, raises his head above the muddy Gregorian industrial liquor… thanks the heavens for the growth of his crops; and consequently the annihilation of his farm. What if hail beats down doors and ceilings and makes keys out of ice molecules to unlock revolving doors of civilized Destructicon? Optimus Prime attempts rescue operations, leaves with rusty set of kneecaps and an intro into longevity trauma. He who hasn’t went without a flashlight in the lobby where devastation sleeps hasn’t experienced true darkness. In life we pick our war campaigns carefully. The law of nature declares martial law over our cities and our dams and our shantytowns at a micro moment’s notice. Even if you make bail, still plan on being left out in the rain.

In : Poetry 

Make a free website with Yola