a strong wind curls up
  under my umbrella
  like a drunken bastard
  reaching under a
  woman’s skirt, and
  without permission,
  tears it inside
  out.

this leaves me wet and
  extremely upset, though
  instead of cursing
  nature, i holler at
  the broken piece of shit
  in my hand.

“what the fuck is wrong
  with you?”

upon further examination,
  i see that the plastic
  is flimsy and tenuously
  held together. it was
  only a matter of time
  till it snapped under
  the pressure.
i think of making a new
  umbrella using my father’s
  bones. it would not
  be so difficult to exhume
  the old boy and i
  could use his skin
  as the fabric.

it would be fantastic, this
  creation… and it would
  fend off the wind
  with a violent attitude.
i would remain dry, for
  the wind would fear
  me.

but should the gods choose
  to rain whiskey from
  the sky, my umbrella
  would become subdued
  to the point of
  lifelessness, and i
  would need to
  carry it home…

and i would be wet
  once more. 

That is some powerful writing.

Thank you, Noel. 

I’m quite pleased with this piece.  It’s fairly harsh, but I believe the analogies are interesting and fit the piece perfectly.

I’ve disassociated myself from the piece (in terms of having written it), and just like the way it sounds and flows.

It is one of my favorites from the pieces I’ve written over the last couple years.

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