What Rusts In the Rain

What Rusts In The Rain (For The Memory Of William S. Burroughs & Typewriters) It is Lawrence, Kansas and the sky opens up as if a doppelganger of all mothers and wombs Leaving out rain as milk from its breasts onto all things fertile Rangas of storm A writer adores their typewriter. They name it and ache in its lack of health and death. Brother, the decades faded and the Beats and the Hippies their dawns edges burning off in the sunlight of time took flight on dusky dirges and are gone. Generations come and go and that none of us can turn in protest against, too busy in our living and then our leaving. Opiate, apt fruition. There is no lover like a typewriter. Stroke its keys. Know its response. Kansas, Dorothy's head all turned around and paisley. You died and they left your typewriter in the backyard of your last home, grass growing up into its spine. No more pawning for what the soul was too terrified to go without. Maybe it is better here. Waiting for the return of some living, freed dignity. An ability to grow creative legs, talk again. The scent of English Ovals on its skin