The Sea

Silent sea dark and deep,
on your surface, I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights,
mountainous waves when
my only defence was luck;
romantically thought that you had secrets to divulge
when hearing whispers in the tropical night.
Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be,
endlessly wet you are Saragossa ****, fog and
terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced
pollution    
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing,
late in the night, I wish I were skimming your surface
again.

who am i to deny signs?
footprints in the snow,
a sign that someone has
walked this path in
the cold, alone, before i did.
everywhere scattered, these worldly signs.
who am i to deny signs?
this midnight blue on
Barnett Newman's canvas
is not blue, but a blueness embodied—
not some scattered object or
amorphous person, but the open, what it is
to see, the difference
between this instance and the beyond,
this sensuous encounter.
who am i to deny signs?
these eyes, that look at me and see
me seeing what it is to be
seen, not as footprints
in the snow, nor even a work
of art, as no thing among
other things, but outside, outside this
universe of interpretation,
signs that speak of
an entirely other world of
experience, perception, possibility, of
love
that i can never
really know, for all that,
but still it calls and
demands that i decide
if i'll risk what is precious to me for
what could be precious to me or
nothing in the least.
but who am i to deny signs?

Never had a lot.
Just a lot of love and hate
No where to go but to Mary Jane
Never scared to get caught
Never worried because I got her on my side
I'm pretty worthless, not worth very much
I'm not perfect at the least
Gotta lot of love to give but hate is all I receive.