Desolation,
there’s desolation everywhere in this predator rain.
The place where Kerouac found his calling to be a genius outsider
or the ghetto where Micheline got his rodeo euphoria,
this cheated wind makes look escape too easy…
I like to believe that balloons have no continent, no steps of time,
they even fly in a sky full of jet black abomination.
The curtains are wet,
the photographs are tilted,
a screen of unkempt fall is outside
and a faraway foghorn is making that desolation out of crooning droplets.
I have an umbrella of black colour,
it’s handle is broken
and I want to let it go to an old tempest.

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Photograph: Michael Ackerman.