Prelude to Marco Rubio

By Jonathan Davies

It is 2016,
Marco Rubio is not the President-Elect,
and today I am a cloud.

You might think this makes me
and insubstantial,
but you would be wrong.

I know more about
clouds than you.

A lot happens in clouds,
more than you think,
clouds are where children keep
their heads during class
in November,
peering out with a thousand eyes
through a thousand droplets of
trickle bits and wet boys wandering
winding and watery
to the bottom of the frame.

I find it quite distracting
to be full of heads
on the days when I am cloud.

November is full of too many lessons,
the classes a-clamour with memories of November rain,
the bit where he says “in the cold November Rain”
is good,
I like that bit.

On the days when I’m a cloud,
like all of the days
when I am not,
I listen to the song “Simple Man”
by Lynyrd Skynyrd on repeat,

but not the version by Lynyrd Skynyrd
(who the song is by)
but the Deftones version
with its soothing angst
and gritty chords,
major and minor
ions of sodium grunge
and Sacramento chloride,
bicarbonate waves of
art house metal,
ocean spray nucleating around
tiny grains of Californian sand,
nitrogenous and gooey
in its driving, potassium pop.

Chino Moreno’s voice is the
chemical composition of rain
carried by dizzying eddies of rosemary strings
the 1988 underground.

At lunch
I climb a car park
and the wind ruffles my
fluffy parts
while a man eating fries
on a bench
gets hit in the head by
a rogue avocado and dies,

I, a cloud, pour “Switch” by
Will Smith onto the ground
with blind
because it is the most
mournful song I know.

I like the part where
he says “switch”,
it is this man’s eulogy.



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