Houston, I believe:

A Poem by h d e rushin

Houston, I believe that we have not given ourselves enough by means of sacrifice having lived in our small warped vision of paradise. (And remember, I was the one in grade school who painted everything including the earth, the expression of God, loneliness and noisy girls, brontosaurus blue.) And one season the missing will show up again in a stream of sand under the shade with low cut blouses still in place like the vision of an old painting painted by an oxen trying to avoid the spiny involutions, the burs, the spikeletz hidden in the lush womb of time. Someone young, someone not long enough in folklore will rub the essential oils of the forest on their legs.(sic) Then offer to the percent of us that earthly lifetime keeps as clay figurines for our signifying selves. Holiness, the pastor says, will hold the moralist in place while the river rushes over the stone paved pavements as well as the dirt roads of the pious. Houston, I believe that this strength that came to you as the rest of us cowered in our dry basements pretending to measure our blacks with painted devils and flames; our murals of leopards, our impractical tigers now. Even our dancing dice on velvet backgrounds seems to play havoc with our truths about art, like Sampson among the Philistines. No one alive has prayed more than my old mother that the wounds of the innocent be healed. And someone please tell her that this is not the work of witches , nor the wrath for not passing a bathroom bill or for having two women kiss each other in the mouth in the corner of a gay bar. This is weather, the same as colored sands, or flat surfaces. The same as songbirds or saviors that live safely in the mythological sky and who rub their ornamental carvings out of spite for mankind. This is sand and population, the simplicity of death and of keeping a breathing thing alive. This is walking waist deep in water and s**t strewn blood mapping and is strange only in the way it happened so fast before anyone could call you on your cell phone or friend you on FACEBOOK; before a picture of your dying family was the all purpose Instagram search of healing powers. Because rain can be a bloodthirsty beast that lives well in the sewer system and inches measured of anything is the silliest science, a folk medicine that observes the uterine flow of craziness. Houston, the word affix, it's earthy ipecac uttered by the stone stares of children being hoisted in carriages in the bowels of Black Hawk helicopters', is in commemoration to all those lost to the jurisdiction of the tumult. Houston, I laid awake all night crying into the hands of a soul sandwiched between the nightly news and the summer we in the Midwest didn't have. I prayed that everything must be under some human control in order for it to be polished. Sureness, seasoned; saved.. That everything else in that heat bath of human extinction is too untamed for my little, f****t self. Now, wait just one minute impudent person! People are dying. People who dream in a dried out world like me are being lost, forever.

© 2017 h d e rushin

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Jodash

I feel your genuine concern in this post. I won't lie I even under-estimated the impact the hurricane/storm would have. Thank God, the part of town I live at doesn't really get affected by such conditions. So i was alright..But as you probably saw in the news several parts of town were got hit hard. Try not too take it so bad. I know how you feel. I saw those helicopters too.