Of Those Who Dance in the Rain

She told me baby

          take it slow

          so I took off my socks

put down my beer

and went    

                    naked outside

because I had been saying 

that Nature is alive and real

and calling us to save her, man!

             but I got too excited about it.

 I danced in that warm tropical rain.

My mother had secretly warned her

about what she called my manias

but which both my wife and I

considered to be more like

spiritual experiences and

sometimes divinations.  That

is a chasm that reaches deep into history

and continues to fracture

modern western society.

These very digressions in logic

were signs of clinical crazy.

Nonetheless,

I danced in the rain and

It was as if her veins were made of

rusted roads,

          there was dust

that blew through

         there was mud

without shoes

and when you're literally

                dancing         in the rain you're shivering

    at the beginning of it

and then you adjust

and take a deep breath

and, Christ, that feeling is

                           more than just the body

it's like           you are the chill that goes

                  all   the   way            into that dark

and the air is like something thick

and invisible

palpably pregnant with, quite literally,

all possibilities.

And we can by seeing them

and moving them

make them real.

And so I danced in the rain.

Sometimes it all shifts and feels as if

                  it is organic in ways

that are metric, tantric, serpentine scales

unfolding always, everywhere like fast flowers,

mathematically abstractable molecules

of logical modules of the mind, man.

 

                  And that is the rain at night, in the summer,

when it is warm it is better,

in my opinion, for dancing in the rain,

but the weather always seems

to have              a feeling of it's own

if you go

into the yard and forget where you are

and remember you're never not here

            you might hear that rain

sing,

you might

                  hear a bird within

and the two might dance

like a breeze pushing forth

           the more vague components

                               of the moment

and then violá:

you have          gone and       come back again

you have        been all and         there you are,

dancing, like a fool or a shaman,

who is to say, 

dancing like either one

in the rain.

And if if you didn't see it, one can imagine,

and just by still-imagining,

imagining without action,

one feels as if one travels,

so just imagine when

dancing in the rain

and the whole beautiful myth

being real for a spell.

If that is not freedom,

innocent, harmless freedom,

then I don't know what is.

 

when the rain melts and bleeds

and sings and signals

the lines of shifts in the winds

of time for minute

the cat is in the box

and in the next

we are the ones

scratching at the walls

we ourselves built.