Rocks

Beethoven, deaf and
demolished, falls off the cross
and does handstands in the garden.
The wind sounds like Bruce Lee's fist
forecasting flurries on my
unlit balcony under the undernourished
trees. Hopeful imaginations collect
mud and snow from the gelatinous sky.
I'd rather have rocks! -- a holocaust
of quartz and feldspar, obliterating
blizzard of granite! The seventh,the fifth, the parking lot awash
with tears, the eighth, the buses
overturned, the ninth! A barefoot
rooftop pumice waltz. stone-deaf
and resurrected, i howl to the
intimidated weather, the overjoyed
tenants, the volcanic night.