Clouds ingest too much coal nowadays

Unsolicited toxins dribble droplets down
an embankment's throat like the acid that chokes up
from the vocal chords of faux Nords who talk sin
on local radio as we drive in the fog,
the brights barely light enough for an oncoming Accord. 

I can't afford sunglasses for my bad eyesight prescription,
the conundrum holds firm
like the sun on an august day, or the son in an August Wilson play,
either way, it's compounding like student loan debt,
unnatural like saturating pavement in a fresh coat of downpour
for a century as the rain, a refugee, runs in search
of a silky, silt home, instead to find a cluttered, gushing gutter. 

The gallows of aqua agua, the tinge of rain
on rusted tin roof, synonymous with somber. Tap, tap, tap,
the drown of drowsiness approaching in the illuminated figure of dreams,
nightmares cutting the outline in a trim of thoughts
unthought for years, saved only by seams uncaught
on the tears of the shred of dignity unbought
in the currency of fear for bloodsport, for justice I fiend. 

Clouds ingest too much coal nowadays,
changing every shade of asphalt until trees prop up their umbrellas,
unveiling their infinite radiance of black,
a dahlia of impenetrable darkness,
a beauty our eyes weren't whittled to witness.

Waiting for the heavens to open,
I suppose it's best to die on a rainy day.
Place that wisdom in a fortune cookie
so I remember after my lo mein artery bursts.
Like the rain seeking refuge, I pray I find my haven in the clouds
instead of the gutter, pure of toxins
imposed by the noxious offspring of those who paved Eden,
damning us all in the solidarity of muttering under our poisoned breath.

Let's unlock god's soul from shackles with pick or pick axe,
treasure the trickle of asylum and fistfuls of smiling soil.
The holiest toil since the royal Reverend King
cultivated gardens of healing rocks n' wildflowers
of symbiotic love and compassion.
In spaces of ecological displacement and cultural erasure,
it's best to right wrongs writing laws in song with the percussion of puddles,
pitter pattering with pride in search of a crack in our polished prison to pry open,
ever envisioning a world of souls, soil, and the dark richness of living. 

Michael Carney