Ten Days of Perfect Tears

My body aches with half finished poetry and all these storm clouds Calgary has been seeing lately are starting to hang low in my head where my brain should be like a grade school weather pattern diorama: nothing but grey painted cardboard cutouts hitched to the inside of my skull with fishing wire or dental floss and all this air... I'm so tired. I need so much but there is no one to ask these silly favors of, so I lose myself in the negative space of my fantasies that run to the soundtrack of the Such Reveries mix in order to stop thinking about the petulant stasis in which I currently find myself. The daylight these days is funny. It's not helping. It makes everything look like a scape from an old technicolor movie. It makes everything look plastic. There is nothing much I can do during these hours except peel the sunburned skin like sheets of rice paper off my chest until it stings badly enough to remind me I'm alive. Something is blocked, brewing, and soon it's all going explode like thunder and rain down...