The God of the Wind has spent a sleepless, storm-tossed night,
Hard at work, sinking a ship or two, here and there.
Today he is as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
Not knowing where to unleash his unfocused rage,
He writhes and thrashes in spastic gyrations,
Grabbing at frantic starlings that pepper the steel-grey sky.
A tormented soul, he rattles our windows,
And shakes our walls to their very foundations.
He makes airborne those things not meant to fly.
A spoiled, angry child, hell-bent on a binge of destruction,
He rakes his giant fingers through the tree tops,
Delighting in every limb he snaps
And every tree he rips out by the roots.
He must have coughed up a lung or two
Knocking down every garbage can in town.
He blows up shirts,
Exposing hairy belly buttons and poochy love handles.
He blows up skirts,
Revealing things we’d rather keep under wraps.
He blows hats off heads,
And grit and sand into babies’ eyes.
He plasters big sheets of newspaper against chain link fences and
He snags plastic bags on trees.
All of out spite, you know?
Even the nagging crows get their comeuppance
As he dives between their little strutting black birdy legs
And puffs up their feathers in precisely the wrong way
Just to wound their false bully pride.
“There, take that,” he blusters.
A frenetic peripatetic
Bringing brass knuckles to a slugfest.
Illustration Credit: terraoko.com, “Stribog, God of the Wind”