Paul Gurrieri
Paul Gurrieri
May 21, 2012

My face is a face of islands.
A slow dying record
of a life of cold violence.
A snapshot of discord
and reluctant compliance.

The seven scars, the crooked nose
tell tales of repentant teeth,
deliberate blows,
fallen trees I shouldn't have stood beneath,
and how coffee tables can crack
tiny skulls, that have not fully grown.
Clear evidence of every mistake,
attack, and random act
of chaos, is shown.

When I smile I don't show my teeth.
I keep my knives sheathed.
My mouth can tell lies,
but I can't disguise, the limpid images
trapped in the topaz pools of my eyes.
Twin brown witnesses
of the things I've seen,
the things I've done,
the things I've seen done.
These eyes that have won
staring contests with the sun.
These ears that can hear the sea,
no matter how far away it may be.
A nose that knows the beauty of burning
driftwood. And the sea-bloated, rotting
stench of jettisoned flesh.
This mouth that has tasted the savory delicacy
of a bloodied lip, mingled with the salty
pleasure of the living ocean entity.

Atlantic, Baltic, Caribbean,
Indian, Arabian, Mediterranean.
Marked upon my face, is every sea I've seen.

Sicily, Bahrain, Britain.
Malta, The Seychelles, and Staaten.
Soaked into my skin, is every place I've been.

In each cell and each hair
is a shell, or a handful of sand.
A tattered doll, a broken chair,
a black bag full of cans.
This detritus defines me, it is who I am.
I live by the Sea's grace.
No man is an Island?
Just look at my face!

A Revision.
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