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Watching the Rain Dance Storm and coffee brew while I watch clouds. Where when younger there might've been dragons or castles or even the face of one I could love, Merrill Lynch's bull grazes among dandelion puffs of ebusiness websites and piles of multinational corporate logos, all the faded colors of nations present, causes past spotted with that ubiquitous shade of brown often found on public school play grounds, city streets, and other killing fields. Distant thunder indistinctly rumbles with Muzak. Clouds merge and break apart until unrecognizable, yet neon still flashes where they bump together. Rhinestone drops begin to fall reflecting green the shade of old park statues and lost pennies. Some don trousseaus and lingerie woven of words --fastened by underlying thoughts and feelings nearly impossible to open--rush into the downpour for a pay-per-view dannce among discarded Cadillacs and wrecked Accords, Barbies and Gameboys, cellular phones and laptops and dildos, fast food wrappers and doggy bags from Trader Vic's, coffee stained stock certificates and corroded capped off oil rigs. Couples seem to join and break apart and regroup among the puddles of tarnished silver, tainted gold yet everyone really dances alone; it's the same music but each only knows their individual orchestrations. Can't deny I also hear the tune, but have no sense of rhythm and, quite possibly, even less of soul.
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