Luminol when sprayed on a cleaned wall
that was once stained with the blood of a human being
will light up every splatter, and reveal the crime scene in all it's
chaotic splendor, even after years of careful hiding

Things happen every day in my creamy, dreamy life
moods, like the calm bay that hides the sharks underneath
the blood splatter of the natural cycle is covered in blue indistinct waves
while carnage and drama play themselves out in the silent muted depths

And as the bay gets darker the further you go down
especially in the deep canyon where a fervent Japanese submarine snuck
into California waters, and chased a boat around briefly before dissapearing
forever, just as these depths contain mystery and waste
so my thoughts, once so churned and pained, lie dormant and unseen
with the plastic forks that are stuck in the sand
and the plastic bags that move by in the darkness like ghosts
Because beneath the surface, in that deepest groove
is where all the pain and waste and wreck of civilization has accumulated
and is creating a new order in a once pristine reusable recyclable landscape
But I cannot see my depths, only try to feel them
in a primitive way, like sonar--what is this?
A small submersible floats through the deep cold water down there
through the snow flakes of biological residue that is food for life
and it looks at the garbage and sends back a video signal
that this is a warning, of our ceaseless, accumulating destruction unseen

I read of my suffering, and the writing has depth, meaning
nuance imagination and now
it's just a smooth comfortable silken slide of living
I guess I have no eye for detail, no feeling for nuance
Living in a rip tide for so long, the fight
the struggle to stay afloat and not die with water
in my lungs brought out a technicolor world
that I can't feel, can't see now, can't get it to appear,
and every day things happen, but I can't feel them, think them
It's just smooth and easy and I'm used to rocks and sharpness and pain

He's a bit odd, this groovy guy
without cash it seems and young, so young
and strange, new age and runs barefoot every day
and oh, what muscular legs he photographs and one day
he'd done it before, but  one day, a picture of his legs and dropped shorts
surfer shorts, keys on top, at the pinnacle of some hill
Kind of a thrill and he posts his feet running, running
up and up and then a view and I love to think of him
And imagine, and yet I know how silly it is to think of
his strong arms, and such well formed body
working out his core, always the core, everything
is the core, the core
Working it out, with me.

Deathline, trapped, burdened, crashed, crushed
Locked up for hours muddling thoughts of escape
The sun, the bright freezing sky, dark blue churned up ocean topped with white caps
like moving whipped cream
I dream, from my claustrophobic place
Pressure cooked, mind squished, must I say this again and again
Finish. Burden lifted, fantasy of floating away
must stay, mind locked into treadmill, rolling out producing
breathing stale air, mind in a tunnel, through muddy darkness

It was only a moment a few days ago
like I want a dog on Sundays
at a dog beach
that I thought
Wouldn't it be so nice to go home
to a warm man in my bed?

How cold I've become,
in this life alone
that this thing I used to think was a necessity
I can totally live without
and there's hardly a time where
I feel even the slightest desire
to open my heart to another

I want to save all the cat and all the kittens
and all the wild cats and all the cubs
I want the killing to stop
and I am powerless

Others, how so uncaring?
They look inside the cage and see something
like a stuffed animal I guess
nothing real, no soul underneath
easy to destroy

It's a **** stroke, no matter how you look at it
especially if you look at men from underneath
from the bottom of the pool
It's not to hard to see
where that movement comes from