lord, let it rain
i can’t stand the lie of a blue sky
one more day
can’t you make the pitter, patter
sweet teardrop splatter
against my windowpane
c’mon, bring down the sky
let those clouds and me have a good cry
let it rain

lord let it rain
take away the glare of the empty
shape of the day
can’t you make that liquid fly, bubbles rise,
heatwave die,
the water slip and slide me away
your sun makes me feel like a fool
god your weather just don’t match my
let it rain

let the thunder crack, let the lightning snap the tension of a
long, dry afternoon
wash away the time,
cover me in shadow, then forgive me for
lying in bed
listening to the rain fall on my roof

lord let it rain
i can’t stand the sound of the silent sun on
my face
can’t you make those downtown hopping,
grocery shopping
perky, plodding, cheerful folks
go away
c’mon bring on the flood
let my soul have its day in the mud
let it rain
c’mon bring down the sky
and let those clouds and me have
a good cry,
let it rain

the perfect shade of lipstick
a red that belies
carefully weaved into a style
eyeliner drawn with an artisan’s hand
replication makes perfection
she’s just a button short of trash

matching toes and fingers
the peek-a-boo shoe
as subtle as the perfume
a South Beach tan under a sun-streaked do
orchestration and precision
the girl works harder than you

primitive inspiration
packaged in modern disguise
permitting a glimpse of the thigh
masculine resolve with a feminine plan
domination and submission
she smells the gas then lights the match

stylish deliberation
the chattel of Calvin Klein
calculation of color and design
glamour defined by supply and demand
education and graduation
she’s just a culture short of class

a moment of indecision
cool wind from the edge of the cliff
feels like love when it looks like this
if Truth is the price for a superficial charm
the night is laughing
watching us turn absolutely nothing into form

an altered scale to slap and tickle
a dilettante’s Muse
a passing chord to woo the flatted five
“Blue ‘n Green” to inspire a tired
guitarist who dares
to reharmonize

a contract stacked to deliver payment
when there’s ice in June
white guys with accountants and
company stock
a road where the kindness of strangers
will have to do
in cities that
Glamour forgot

a Flat Foot Floosey with a gentleman’s
tongue in her ear
a software Don reminiscing to the
office pack
back-lit bottles, hard surface reflection
of the aging frat boy’s concern
with girls and cash

a phone, a drunk, and a beeper
as chorus
in this Rhapsody
an epic poem of romance and decay
a sunglass projection of a bittersweet
choice made long ago
to turn night into day

is the real thing
or is it fake?
is this smoke in my lungs?
or is this a lifestyle mistake?
will the New York Times say
I’m too white or I’m too black?
shall I complicate the rhythm?
shall I give the money back?
are you confused?
are you amused?
with my blood,
and your booze?
if this isn’t Jazz,
it will have to do,
until the real thing
comes along

if this isn’t love,
it will have to do,
until the real thing
comes along