she's an island;

pale as the ocean mist
veiling the rugged shoreline.
with chubby freckled cheeks
framed by coppery red curls,
lashed up in fishtail braids,
or left loose in the salty breeze,
falling down to her shoulders,
broad and wind-weathered.

her laughter is the crash
of waves on the dock.
or the roar of the eastern winds,
that scour the northern seas.

I was thrown from a boat like a prophet,
washed ashore on an Island of Baalbek-sized structures.
In the Atlantic, under the ‘i’ and ‘c’,
thirty-three north, thirty-three west, degrees.

Ancient mariners must have missed it,
concentric waterways and land bridges, cut by a channel to the sea.
Occasional women gathering and cutting cane,
dirges being sung by a certain, Sarah.

Farther up around the outer ring,
a Bay horse, trapped in a tidal pit.
Just enough seaweed at high tide,
eyes white from living in the dark.

A strange place,
I find myself the only man,
another Adams or Crusoe.
I will free the Bay tomorrow, and head inland.

in a frantic mode
did come the Atlantic swirl
reeking havoc's toll

With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials
Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline.
Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An
Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine,
Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes
Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to
View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs.
Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south.

Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know
Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper
Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly
Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood
Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze,
Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life.

Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly **** and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or
Need to use them. I reached for her ****** rose and sniffed its tempting
Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death.

Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof.
Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the ****** shore, lies knowledge of
Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls.
North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks
Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper,

"these bones do not crack with ease".

My home away from home
My seaside place,
Twice the size of my everyday space.

No Clutter, white walls;
Perfumed soap gift wrapped
Waiting for my return.

Sliding glass doors
Overlooking  Atlantic ocean.
Sounds of the sea rock me asleep.

Ten blocks away, neon Casino lights.
My secret place; self- contained:
Restaurant, pool, movie theatre, gym.

I brought a lover once
His presence is long gone
Room 803, by the sea, is meant for me.

From my balcony I see a grand old  brick mansion.
Three stories high, freshly painted wooden shutters,
Stain glass,wrap around balconies. Water-less fountain.

I spy the windows for signs of life.
A man enters a side door, only to leave soon after;
One out-side light burns all night.

I imagine a gray- haired lady lives there alone.
Her grandson checks on her everyday.
She knows Atlantic City in its hayday.

I want to drink a cup of tea with her and listen to her memories.
Did her family build the boardwalk; the steel pier?
Who was the love of her life? Is she happy still being here?

The gift of living long.
A treasure trove: landmark moments.
It only takes a listening ear to bring them back to life.

My grandmother Eva, born in Atlantic City, 1920.
Great grand parents, Banford, left England, settled by the sea.
Atlantic Avenue where they lived, I walked by in wonderment.

I imagine a gray- haired lady who lives alone in the mansion
Holds the keys to my family’s past.
If only we could have a cup of tea.

I have two bruises on my shoulders
blue as the oceans and marbled white,
storm-foam spilling from my head
and eyes.
That’s not your responsibility--
but what else could it have been
when I knelt silent, scrubbing, palms
red as my sister’s sticky wrists, clorox
wipes balled and piled in the corner?
I am not
steel-skinned, some mechanical being
mistaken for a human with her eyelids
torn from her face, blindless to trauma
and the callouses it leaves behind.
And yet
the oceans on my shoulders blow salt
healing the wounds to smooth, pink scars,
reminders in every mirrored surface:
I am still standing.

Out on the runway, screaming at grey engines
how did he not open his stomach up in front of the T.V.?
how did Tommy go on living,
the boy never showed, they were to fight at 3, after school
who will I fight now? Who will I hurt?
Who has survived the drowning
Black Atlantic,
bone nails clawing to shore,
writhing in the black tentacles
of scuba gear.
Who stalks the land anew;
unafraid.

The sunset over the Atlantic
As seen from my balcony
A sight that never tires me
Even though it doesn’t change

I don’t know where the ocean ends
And where the sky begins
Even when the colors change
They fade into each other

Instead my life confuses me
Sitting alone on my balcony
Even though the landscapes change
It always just feels the same

I don’t know where the present ends
And the future will begin
The seamlessness just frightens me
As if I’m missing out on life

But like sunset over the Atlantic
Teaches the view from my balcony
There’s more to life than sea and sky
And the sun will elsewhere rise

there is a blackened land mass
lying between
the Atlantic
and Pacific
and it is not America.

you are a cathedral
I am woods.

the kind that are peaceful and inviting,
tall and knowing
from the outside
in the light.
once you step inside
and journey deeper,
it gets darker,
more consuming,
and you can feel
their isolation,
their severity,
their boundless
emptiness
that both fills itself
and eats itself.
only they are able to know their own expanse
and those that make it to the center
cannot be released.

your sanctuary,
it holds stained-glass windows
that let in tainted light,
turning everything
a shade
of rose.
pristine architecture
that stands against the sky,
challenging it--
all that is visible
when looking up at you
from the bottom of the hill.
inside,
there is a tenderness
that can be felt at certain angles,
a coldness
a sigh
that cannot be released.