The buzzing binaural silence of headphones.
The rattling of the keys in my pocket.
Ghosts in elevators singing softly.
My patience is a diving bell.
My routine is so routine.
My world, an empty parachute.

Its raining outside in Boston.
My dreary fence keeps me locked inside.
My blood is flowing like a subway T stop.
The coffee I am drinking is cold,
dank like a cellar.

Its raining in Boston.
The world will not cease to exist without me.
I once went on a whale watch in Cape Cod.
I asked to see God.
I felt so small, way out away from the shore.

A whale jumped out of the water
Rocked my boat.
It was also raining that day.

It was something like a natural mystic.
Something like a phenomenon.
Something in the way she moves.
Something. Something. Something. Something.

Its still raining in Boston.

And on it will rain, till the weatherman says so.
The weatherman so powerful
has mastered the changing winds,
still can not
predict my future.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine his column appears weekly.