empty
plastic
oceans
only
sink
and
****
the
island
seemingly
pris­tine

Heads are getting turned,
cliques and bridges lining
up to one by one be burned.
As a fan of fine wine and dining,
Tommy's witches are cursed yet eaten
by b*tches, fighting each other,
boxing, punching to bother,
lunching till everyone is beaten.

“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018

Maybe, this thing does not matter.
It feels like a current,
But maybe it’s just another stream
with the promise of leading to the sea
when it’s truly
just heading for a lake.

Maybe, I can watch the ducks paddle over the water
and the twigs float on by.
It could be that this is how you learn,
that your gut doesn’t have eyes.

But it could also be how you learn
that there are some things
no eyes can see.

Whether it be
for the worsening or for the bettering
you are floating down this river
an island in the water
it’s viscosity carrying
you, with your hands
at the side of your hips


where you’ll end up
grace cannot be too far
when you follow the flow
who knows where you’ll end up
maybe next to those ducks
or in the vast open sea

The bird songs ring out harmonious
Their calls for some wanton *******,
The best type.
Reciprocated across the landscape
Which is not the right word
There’s more sea here than land.
an orange hangs low in the lonely sky
Perfectly ripe,
Dripping wet with honeyed shades of gold,
Coating palm trees and my knees.
Also my cigarette box and my coffee mug. A slow swell pitching and yawing,  
a side to side appreciated only by those trying to sleep.
A breeze lazier than I licks my cheeks and fondles my thighs.
It’s time, to go.

Photos from five years ago
I captioned them
"My yard is blooming!"
And it was
bursting
with pastel purple irises, cheerful snow *****, and cunning wisteria

Photos taken the second month
we lived on the island.

I love Baltimore, my city.
I don't want to move
but I miss this place
and the place before that.

And there are so many places
to see
to live.

Happening onto this set of photos
and my stomach twists--
to be there again
with the smell of *****
steaming at the little shop across the street
with the marsh grasses swaying
and the peepers starting their evening chants.
Is my neighbor still out there working on his truck
or selling tomatoes at that flimsy wooden table?

At 30-ish, I already find myself missing
about four different places and sets of people
How many places will I have to miss at 40--
at 80--if I should be so lucky?

Pieces of my heart and stomach
are scattered across this little patch of East Coast and Appalachia.

How many times can they be divided?
No, not divided.
They're multiplying.

I sail through the ocean
Of love to reach you.
At last I left alone in the
Island of love alone as it is
Without knowing the way to
Get out from here.