Thunderstorm #2
October 3, 2000

I raced home, and beat the thunderstorm by a modest 5 minutes, ran outside with my pipe and smokes and sat on my balcony in the cool rain air. The sky looks like snow and is flickering like a loose light bulb. The light rain filtering through the leaves of the trees sounds like the crackling of my parent's fake log fireplace, who's secret was tinfoil and a large orange bulb on a spit that spun as slow as a carousel.

The Lightening has become more violent now, and the thunder so loud that the world stops in complete silence for a few seconds, but to most it seems like an eternity.

The rain is coming down hard now, almost solid in places, where I keep mistaking the sound for a man's dress shoe tapping the pavement.

But the parking lot is empty, no one is running from the rain this time...this time the rain will come and go as if it has never happened, and the people snuggled tight in there small eggshell white bedrooms won't emerge again until the sun begins to creep up behind the trees.

Apt 307, a woman clicks up the volume in the remote, the sound of the TV drowning out her fears.

Apt 224: As teenager on the phone in the kitchen, a mother is preparing the next day's lunches nags her daughter to get of the phone because she will get electrocuted.

Apt 122: My next door neighbor-making love to his girlfriend on a small bed, next to a window.

And myself, wrapped in Hynreck Gorecki, and cooled by an October rain, writing faster then excitement permits, just trying not to miss a moment. Because each passing moment is one that can never be duplicated.