Where the **** were you
when the page was blank?

I used to be a mystic
Or at least what I thought was one
Effortless it was as a child to be completely
Transformed
Transported
Transfixed
It was more than pretend
I was these people
I went to these places
As the dust settled and the years have gone bye,
It has gotten harder to find these places again.
To be these people
It's only a feeling now
Here and there
When I stare at the lines
in my hands
I only get glimpses
Like the aftertaste of a single malt
lingering like a memory
Only a non mystic would use that metaphor
But I feel like I was a mystic longer than most

My phone has been drinking,
not me.

Few things feel better than
being able to get people who
are regarded by others as shy or introverted
to open up to you

Those others are missing out
on beautiful conversation

This was a fishing village
when people were speaking
the king's English, dead
like the fishing industry
Now the tourists have accents

Truth be told
this was a fishing village
long before that
But we don't speak about
what those folks spoke
Something Algonquian
or another dead language

When the tide is out
I walk the shore and look for remnants
Pottery and stone tools, and such
I find a lot of plastic
and bottles, plenty of those
We've been a drinking people
for a long **** time

Once, I found a child's shoe,
sodden and filled with sand
It had a blue lace,
still tied, and a smiley face
as the tide was going out
Kind of sad, really.

r  ~ 8/28/14

Sometimes people need to be rescued
Well,
here I come.