Insult & Injury
Science is less forgiving of my ideas because storms can be dissected, and I cannot. I can trap a tornado under a cylinder and watch it braid a heart from wind, make intestines from rains, tear the roof off a home and settle into a chair—and maybe even find ‘belonging’ there.
Belonging, or rip others apart, those are the choices. I know this for fact. My father was a tornado, and my mother was a glacier, making a mandala of aura-sleet and shared gusts. All I felt were steel mechanics, lost in natural disaster.
I was a machine, and I knew there was no place for me in their factory.
Meteorology was philosophy and physics becoming systemic. I had to be a storm; I had to before I was stranded in their collisions; so, a storm I became.
I ate very small bits of ice, built bones of dust and debris, but there were still short circuits inside me. I became the evening electric, and that still wasn’t enough.
Now, I’m built of scorn. There is no scale to measure my violation.
