Choice

Either you choose, or you choose for someone

to choose for you.

The outcome we envision carries us a few steps more.

The ground we tread is skin thin before it becomes bone deep.

To choose for you,

or to choose for someone else. Which is easier?

The ground we tread is skin thin before it becomes bone deep.

You know that you can sail on a lake that acts like an ocean.

Or to choose for someone else. Which is easier?

Like the friend who broke your heart between two shoulders.

You know that you can sail on a lake that acts like an ocean.

Every fair wind has its gusts.

Like the friend who broke your heart between two shoulders.

The outcome we envision carries us a few steps more.

Every fair wind has its gusts.

Either you choose, or you chose for someone.

Advertisements

Lunatic Belly

My stomach churned at the sight

of the curled wave –

bending to the end of its cold tail.

What does the ocean feel like when it is naked?

 

Of the curled wave,

pale birds flutter in its wake.

What does the ocean feel like when it is naked?

It is always adorned with buoys, feathers of the worried birds and oil.

 

Pale birds flutter in its wake.

Salty smudges streak the outside membrane of my belly.

It is always adorned with buoys, feathers of the worried birds and oil.

Even an inky dusk cannot hide the sun’s rim, wired in white.

 

Salty smudges streak the outside membrane of my belly,

bending to the end of its cold tail.

Even an inky dusk cannot hide the sun’s rim, wired in white.

My stomach churned at the sight of the moon.

 

moon

Pale Wind 

Once, the fish swam in the night sky –
a galaxy inside her belly.

She bore stars and pushed out tears, recalling

The angry cycle of mourning the living.

I had the chance to talk with her,

a chance to travel around her galaxy.

I saw the cycle churning,

filling and unfilling her fists,

palms milk white.

I felt the pain safely escape away

from her memory, from the dark house.

Although she lost the tears,

the memory of it twinkles.

Dead and alive in her sky.

Astronomers attach no name to that time,

That spiral pattern.

That place ejected from her insides.

I looked at the fish finding his way in the night.

He broke out and fell

into a motion you’ll remember as no accident.

You felt it coming. The pale wind

reaching for him.

 
 

It Stings and it Heals

12132393_10207686286696037_4969518229593750736_o

Abalone, starfish, Rain –

I suppose I will permit them into the waves.

 

Before concrete arteries, oceans substituted in one large jar, the preserved animals

now kept under microscopes    decayed

smelling like pickles and chlorophyll.

From the backyard of Western Biological,

bookcases store vegetables in filing cabinets

under the Pacific saliva.

As many as 100 encyclopedias attempt to

combine and separate

worms, urchins, nudibranchs,

snails

to make a Picasso into a sensical Dali,

but we all know boxes don’t make sense

in a fluid body.

Cell walls are permeable,

rooms you can enter, float to and fro

exchange energy that is needed. Whenever you please.

Sit on a bench and ponder how the ocean spray

covers barnacles, seals, and humans

when dissection rips and fragments lives

“telling them very profound words to understand.”

Salty saliva drips from our eyes and their slippery pores.

It stings and it heals.

Accuracy

The fish slumber under God’s phalanges. 

They settle beneath kelp and mellow swells that

cannot stop. 

Wooden ships identify the blubbery fish, unknowing 

that big fish do not slumber – 

they rise and saturate

the fish bowl with bubbles – North Star

harnessing helpless plankton.

Men on wooden ships laugh 

at the swarms of big fish. 

The men are wrong. Big fish with blubber do not slumber.

One day the men may slumber

at the intertidal

their phalanges scattered, 

saturated by God’s chirography.