“Partly cloudy”
doesn’t cut it.
The sky is in
one hundred
thousand moods.
Saying it needs Zyprexa
would be
meiosis.
Everything’s
understated.
It’s pouring
pups &
kittens when
it’s not.
More like danes
& seals.
Have you ever
heard its bark?
Not the dog
I mean the seal—
underneath the
Big
Top when the
circus still
had creatures
great &
small. Big is
never
massive in
Manhattan.
We’d look like
Lilliputians
down in London. Of
course I mean
Kentucky. Its
festival honours
the life of
Colonel
Sanders. How he
made it
past a corporal
I’ll never know.
Raining
down the secrets
which are eleven
spices strong.
I’ve forgotten
about the
bark. Sounds
like
whooping cough.
Watch me pour
some
Buckley’s
against a
tree. Of course
it’s under
the weather—who
isn’t?
Waving its
fecund fingers
in the gale.
Thunder’s a
shocking way to
say hello. Talk
about over-
kill.
As for me, I’ll
be drenched
the very moment
that I furl in
my umbrella
like a sail.
Mischievous
miasmic cloud,
a boy who dams
the
hose out in
the garden,
releases his
pinching
vise-grip
while you gaze
into
its chasm
like there’s
nothing that
is coming down
the pipe,
a rumble to
mimic
hunger, or a
thirst that’s
always teased
and
seldom quenched.
Andreas Gripp
June 18, 2026
still from Weatherman starring Keegan-Michael Key (directed by Joss Whedon).
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