A lofty ship is spotted far out at sea.
It looms in the pellucid distance,
a maroon and grey colored
vision of possibility.

I imagine scores and scores of packets of rice
held tightly together like sandcastles,
eager to be used and washed and boiled
And buttered and lightly salted.

Or heavy machinery assembled by
Weary and jealous hands
that wish they weren't so obedient
That too wish they were strong enough
To attempt the buoyant dance of exile.

As the Atlantic Ocean belches muscular waves
that melt like smoke ash at my toes,
another vision gathers at the horizon.

A seacraft is maundering,
It croaks its dissatisfaction as
Limbs knitted together like
Unruly ***** poke into every crevice.
Bight of Biafra’s children have been cloven.

The salty spring of the water mixed with
The rust of ***, dried sweat and lifeless bodies
Makes for a particular entrance to the Caribbean Sea
This is life now.

Nothing sweet or nice about this.
Port Royal is not far off and she’s
Eyeing the new load of hesitant visitors
Tasked with tilling her soil and harvesting her sugar
She sighs with them.

My home is now silent, and I have taken to those haunting waves
To set forth upon new land, and to find you, the woman of maebh.*

We come from different worlds, locked together in constant motion,
But I'm determined to embrace you, even from across the western ocean.

I'll sail across the world for you, even if the journey sends me to Hell.
It merely took one glance and I was immediately under your spell.

Like a siren's call, you pulled me in from a world away.
To arrive at you safely, I can only hope and pray.

And someday soon, when this coffin ship meets the shore
Hand in hand, together, in this new life, we will explore.

Day after day of this journey, we long for our first embrace,
But until then, I will be guided by your enchanting grace.

peace with
web masticate
her in
these parts
of fire
that sit
on this
scarf and
interpret wisdom
with the
beast hitherto
while hers
from the
fleece go
to the
heart of
law bestowed

Echo, cricket,
Thump, stump.
The very loud things
Galloping through the silence.
The creaking of stairs like the breaking of bones
That snapped tin cap,
Clinging onto the prophesied labor of your last breath,
Oscillating through your liquefied ontology.
Ethanol overflown and embodied.

Cricket cricket,
The underlying intrinsic.
The empty tone of a distant voice.
The spaces of letters and words so magnified
So wide,
Expanding like an unstoppable void.
Oh my,
Here it comes,
Shadowed by your hissing tongue.
You are glittered,
Pinnacle bitter.
Cloaked in pure white.
Not a thread of disguise.
Twinkle, twinkle,
Buggy, rugged eye.
Those razor touched lines,
Translucent and caressed,
Reminiscent and enmeshed,
Like faded pale stripes,
Hugging the armor of canvas flesh.
Walking among these thin lines,
Head down, musky powdered stench,
Awaiting the inevitable rise and fall.
Of the intangible crux of a hollow memory,
Woven inside the synthetic fabric of the undelivered.
Oceanic cold shiver,
Piercing through our empty, untethered souls.