and didnt it rain

the rain blasted the yard all night into mud and the little craters as if the lufftwaffe flew over and over and over and knocked on the window even and dropped the entire arsenal at random remained when the sun came out.  even there in my bed under three wool blankets with my eyes closed the flashes showed me the meaning of ultra violence written large written into the very everything that the earth is and always was and always will be.  and it comes as no surprise that in the light of day even the squirrel will get up the gall and go after the rabbit. so i step out in sandles made from dead steers and from the bark stripped from a tree now left in the spanish coastlines influence naked to the gibralterer's gaze and out into the yard.  the yellow flowers and the blue flowers are closed up because everything is closed these days by order of the illustrious leaders.  the steps are wet and gritty with debris.  from the sidewalk i can see the smoke billowing from the chimney and smell it too.