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Do you have a rainbow? A colorful one­—like cereal. No, I meant an umbrella. For the coming monsoon. I’ve been watching the radar for the last 72 hours with no sleep and it looks like there is a possibility for some storms. I had to get on the radio and warn people. I’m the neighborhood sky watcher. I have my own little broadcast station up in a treehouse out in the back yard. I’ve got all sorts of wires and extension cords running from the house. Sure, it’s dangerous, but not stranger danger dangerous.

The mantel of a giant oak. Excursions to Coffeeland and glossy cups. Cacophony kamikazes divebombing. I see the big clouds of explosions. I’m not making any sense to these poor people. Yes, you. Reading this right now. You. How’s your life? Pull up a chair. What’s going on in that head of yours? Are you thinking about living or dying? Did you go to church today or are you a non-believer? Are you wearing pajamas or social clothes? Coffee, like me? Or tea?

I’m an under-believer. I don’t believe in enough. I’m a rogue, a cynic. A hyperactive anaconda twisting my aches around the lighthouses. My thoughts are sparking off in all sorts of directions today. I’m a lamppost that has fallen and I am glowing weirdly on the ground. An electric sizzler. I don’t know how to rein in the all these small parts and assemble them into something coherent.  

I had a dream about a basement. The steps down were cement, the walls in the stairwell were cement. There was a dim orange light. There was a landing and then a turn into deeper darkness. I poked my head out and called down. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Then there were noises—not a voice or kind words, but rather an undecipherable whisper followed by a hissing growl. But I had tempted it, drawn it out. There was a dream in my head. It was just a dream. It was frightening enough that it woke me up. Those sounds were just so otherworldly. My eyes flickered. I could see the light of a new day coming in around the edges of the curtains. There was a woman beside me. She was sleeping. She had left me a card on my desk. The front of the card was plastered with little wooden cats of all varieties. She wrote to me about love. Words of encouragement and assurance in that love. A love battle against a hateful world that we share. No one else would have ever done that. That’s why she’s my wife.

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Special thanks to Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing three of my poems recently: Coffee Shop Rain, The Translucent Wander Pain, and Space Curtain. Please go check them out! Also, a reminder that my new e-book is now available for purchase: The Apocalypse Pipe. The print edition will be available soon. Thanks for reading and supporting independent creators.