I talk at clouds

I only talk to clouds, 

that never answer back.

they all have such a here-to-there attitude.

I am not made of that bustle.

their heated conversations don't sent me off.

and when I say clouds,

who are they of the ever-change?

there are familiar to me, 

as a crowd,

as a bus-stop loading into the sky,

as a checkout line waiting purchase and gone,

as a full chessboard of life-size figures in the reality park,

but still fundamentally clouds from a neighborhood over.

it's like out-loud remarks I make in an empty room,

only the wallpaper is pictorial animation in stills.

no, I didn't say I was angry or bothered.

it's more that self, as a philosophy, 

is an inner rash.

dialogue scratches it into itchy. 

and self-talk-back feels like scratching.

therefore clouds, as if outdoors, 

represent safety 

from the shutdown intimacy of oneself,

as an heir of closeness unearned,

but a soothing frame-break 

from the self-lather of scratching.

so I talk at clouds.

it's as if the sense of self is too confining. 

how people live in those prisons

and walk in those shackles,

I have yet to master.

clouds have a life that I stupidly envy.

look, I am a bad metaphor to understand.

let's just go on with agreement in confusion.

think of what I do,

as singing to myself,

as the joys of living, 

out of tune, loony lost.

and chasing after

what is constantly leaving,

while I privately pray for rain . . .