The sunset is molten,
sinking like a fiery yolk into the mashed-as-afterthought cloudworld,
the nearest tufts melting with a distant surf-like sizzle,
the furthest trembling like a newly-fit man’s thighs
under the liquid weight of the sweating frozen horizon.
I on the swingset am molting,
shedding my dread of inadequacy with each up,
spewing puffs of dirty air,
but catching my feet, snagging my mind in the soil, the sin,
the ever-advertised “ground”
on the down, damn,
how did the zenith of even today strangle its scaffold like this
on accident, a crapshoot,
what a drag
of the feet, the mind,
to examine thought in an era of so little,
in an age of too much.
To be not deprived nor to be overstuffed.
But the sea, ever full but always hungry,
belches foamy rotini,
each uncoiling into the endless thread of the shore’s wet blanket.
It retreats into itself, my feet, my mind
dizzy to follow.
But I am no noodle mama,
nor am I one of the oceanic paparazzi,
so I for comfort suppress my hereing,
deafened by leftover thunder.
It is when the sea susurrates “slumber” to the sky”
that I am one who listens
but listens for things not meant to be heard,
things I want to hear,
or things already spoken before time erupted.
Silence, self; the gospel.
In coming here to the beach
I ruptured a vein of wordless joy.
But rather than dive into the breach
I listened to my spurting blood hissing
“write, write, write,”
and went away incomplete,
unsatisfied, full of my self.