Poetry from Brian Michael Barbeito

the rain tarot blues, the world weary watery hues

along the worlds, the sleepy town, passengers by the mile, the down trodden in spirit for they have money but lack a smile. oh the skies; seven days and nights of it…wind and water and dark, even the artists who muse upon such things say, ‘This here is no lark.’ and somewhere past air brakes and tires on puddles melancholic and lit by electric light and chemical rainbows both, beyond old time Christian church some kind of Protestantism, further than the purlieu of the pastoral world (pastoral in summer sun past anyhow), is the unknown den of coyote far past the feral fields beyond coyote road. the tarot reader places the cards and speaks. there are truths spoken about the orphan soul, and how journey’s take their toll, but to yet take heart; for much w/light is writ for a double crowned poet inside an astral scroll. deep inside the witching hour dream between strange hours I walked in a small space w/kindred souls looking on. the space is too small, thought I; and it must mean I have outgrown it. and I awoke to the old rain laden branches outside the window, and they said nothing.

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