A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****.
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.
I saw a dead whale on the beach and nothing can prepare you for the size of a whale. It was 54 ft long and completely lifeless.
Did you know when you screamed at the mountain
until your throat protested your own cries
until your voice became raw and bleeding
spitting out blood and lies
that the mountain would echo it all back?
Ask you the same questions you asked it?
Like pointing a finger at a mirror and demanding
your reflection explain itself.
It’s like screaming to the heavens
“Why didn't you do anything?”
And then your voice becomes larger, louder,
asking you the same question back.
Why didn't you do anything?
To my dearest heart, wherever you are...
What say you?
Should I plant roses in place of graves
bring life to death like months of May?
Or plant daisies for every lady
degraded when they don’t drop to their knees?
Shall I reinvent marigolds
so that their yellow-gold glows
when darkness falls upon our souls?
Or maybe I should scatter seeds
let flowers grow freed?
My dearest heart, danger days will come,
flowers will die and not be enough.
But until you know this, I cannot rest.
Of all the flowers I grow, I care for yours best.
It's easier to grow flowers for those I love than to grow flowers for myself.
I'm manufactured like hand-me-down clothes.
Worn at the seams though I'm not old.
Elastic stretched out,
zipper caught on its own track,
my buttons won't snap.
The threads at my knees tear
revealing scarred skin that won't disappear.
But I can roll the hems,
unlatch the zipper,
replace the buttons.
And truthfully, I like the look of jeans
with rips at the knees
so what if it reveals me?
I wear the clothes of my mother and sisters
what they loved is now mine to claim
for it doesn't quite fit them anymore
and perhaps some seams ripped
but that I can fix so it will fit me.
The clothes I wear may not be new
and hold old hopes that won't come true
but it holds old love too.
Sometimes I look at a shirt I got when I was younger that used to be my sister's and I think how often I'm wearing the love of my family.
My brother asked me,
"Do you want to shoot a gun?
We can go over safety.
How to load and unload one.
You may never have to
use one in your life
but this is America
knowing this could save your life."
I told you before,
I don't trust my hands when they're still.
If I know the code
to the safe when I'm ill
and how to load
a gun when I'm scared,
will I remember
who I am and who cared?
So my brother,
I fear what I'll become
if I learn this will I
get control of my thoughts?
Will it bring me power?
Will it bring me peace?
Will I be in control
when I turn off the safety?
My brother, I want to know
but not enough to hold
this answer to the question
"When will the pain go?"
It's so finite.
So absolutely cold.
The barrel in my hands
so still with idle thoughts.
Another song I wrote.