Rain

Days usually end with this sound. If I cover my ears with my hands I almost hear rain, and smile. But—
“Erika!” both relieved and horrified, “I’ve found —”
A shower means so differently with time. They hide me under marine drops. Clean me. Wet in this shower is far from a retreat. This cold shower where naked women, or are we children, huddle close together; each think I will not be chosen. Is everyone here? I have no interest in naked women, except one, though we never speak.
“is this spot taken”
“no”
She is next to me on the bunk and sleeping, or is she dreaming. I watch her eyes through their lids. There will be a time for those eyes to rest. And I am comforted by the warm electric air. It was a clap of thunder, the bunk house is lit for a moment and she is watching me. Her eyes smile.
“come on”
Closely I follow her, my coat drenched already, across the yard to the place where only a chain fence bars our exit.
“under,” she whispers softly and I paw at the muddy ground.
The soil melts away through my fingers. Little mountains begin to grow at my sides. My skirt is hung with mud, even though the rain washes it off. Then footsteps in the yard, or are they in the hall, I turn to look. Has she planned this? She stands naked before me; the rain runs from the ends of her hair, drips from her breasts, down her arms and off her fingertips. She is covered in goose bumps. Lightning flashes in her eyes and she turns, and walks round the corner of the building. I don’t watch a second longer, but dive into the mud and swim, slide, pull my way under the fence. I hear her moan as I run into the night, as I run free.
But the war ends, and I live in France, and drink wine cheaper than water, and paint portraits of women, and write to myself. In my studio a cat sleeps on the faded red cushion that sits in the sun. I laugh with friends, speak of ideas. I have a hot shower. I watch the rain from my window. And I drink, and I paint, and I laugh, and I paint, and I run, and I laugh, and I write.
And the stroke comes in the night and they take me away from my studio and my light and my water-wine. And they give me a chair, and they give me their clarity and they leave me alone in my cell, or is it a room. I hide in the shower, with my hands over my ears. I wait for her to speak. And all I hear is my guards, or are the nurses.
“She is confused”
I still stand naked in the shower.

Lapsy-turvy Tale

I

Don’t lose!
the race is off
and down the back

s t r e t c h
in your mind the net
loss is effect
of this
And that is
cause of dress clothes,
and tomato soup

Oat. eaten now.
is thought. produced later.
blue night, lunar glow
open shadow’s shows
of strength and brawn, but nothing lost
is nothing gone to dust
and dusk is still

maverick roam en abîme
you stare at bare water, where water
was
not roaming

the rat race is leaving
you behind

overweight undersexed
and goaded on to gambol
and lapse into thought
two by two rocks
twelve to seven,
start the course
and bound to be trapped
in the room
graded back
and graded back and
graded back
from knowledge
gained but never passed
as you run down mud tracks

not you.
sit and watch, and dab a brow
and take a number and wait in line
for a bus
and trust, there comes a second time,
the story again, a second time

the race is lost
accident adapted
and gripped, but snares set hares coursing veins
for a man
for a woman
for another
and another and an other.
cuz

the worst feeling in life
is the feeling
that your race is going nowhere

II

Isn’t she
marvel and virgil
lost in blue clouds
‘thaz ahight’
she dabs dabs right, though the calls the
thak the thak
the thak, not pulsed
irregular
no worry, no doctor
no practitioner here
only methodic,
chaotic thak
the thak

proactive life,
of crossed nation
but still pure. as pure as one drop there. as pure as all the heart here

and she
marvel and virgil love
lost in her rainbow
lost in a classic, a mythic venture

and charity breeds charity,
and ignorance breeds bliss,
and dab and thak breed
to no end an end, night cap.

III

If ever you are passed
around
you learn stops are strange places
you never make it
back the crowd
go on, try
And if dry
then perhaps your ears
are broken,
you need to be taken
around,
to strange places.

Continue on your way,
past strapledge people
in turicut metsos
not moam or roam the streagaled maze
the wabe you’ve goan
ventura steeple

you’ll pause [they forget]
and you meet and greet
with minds and dollars
with bills and buds.

And pause, a call and call
dialogue withdrawn

Do you get it?
pass around / and pause / a thought / of time,
and pause
‘be in it, not of it’

and continue on your way to the back
though. you won’t make it.

jaa

Hello java, does anyone know jave script. i wish i did, i have a plot but it needs knowledge i don't have and im told java is the answer? any takers?