Revisiting Hurricane Junkies
by Odin Roark

Swirlin' up a storm of black and white shards,
whippin' up words,
slammin' down stanzas,
takin' life to that place it fights all day,
bangin' noise ‘gainst the wall.

Perhaps…

Gettin' life's attention,
that's the game,
levitatin' empty baggage,
takin' calm's allusion
way past delusion,
over and round illusion,
makin' thunder wait for lightnin',
‘cause that's how it is,
if you're a hurricane junky.

Mothers know well
their supple thighs,
POWs of lies and agenda,
ultimately through whip and lash,
still deliver DNA with no turning back,
if you're a hurricane junky.

No trickle-down birther nonsense here,
jus' shakin' ‘fore the eye-a-the-storm,
‘cause we’re all from the womb of all wombs,
where contractions duplicate yesterday’s screaming
‘midst fluffy white “the right thing” guise,
mother of mothers pushin' pain back
to where it came from for the next hope,
if you're a hurricane junky.

Once started,
oh, lordy,
mist of “Dick and Jane”
gives way to drizzle rain of “Catcher in the Rye,”
to showers swirlin’ round “War and Peace,”
followed by “Infinite Jest” hovering with torrential threat,
if you're a hurricane junky.

So if you're caught in the wake of the furry,
all shite and scared,
heart bangin' heavy,
hidden ventricles panting,
eyes needing boarding up,
hold tight,
think loose,
dream open,
‘cause maybe,
just maybe,
calm will appear before the storm.

But beware when hallucinations vanish,
for inside purity of white,
lurks black's dark counter spinnin',
‘cause life isn’t about getting’ only the easy,
especially if you’re a hurricane junky.