Wednesday, February 10, 2010


on the beach


I was raised by the sea shore, and everything which I have known I have simply borrowed from it.

I have borrowed the ocean’s cold capable strength; heard kind words and turned my face resolutely away.

I have borrowed the sand’s exhausting infinity and allowed myself for a spell to be tired.

I have on occasion borrowed heat which rendered me more lucid, and allowed me to see every one and every thing in the quick bright flash of mirrors in the sun.

I have borrowed a stone through which one can peer and when I did

I loved every one.

I have borrowed the feather of a sea bird which spoke a word of summer. I have held myself in my own arms on grey mornings.

I have learned the times of the tides from my father.

I have known the feel of night water, and all that which comes with night water--

stars and words and skin. I have known May and June. I have borrowed February and August and, once in January

many moonstones and a new skin



recalling some nights


My Bacchanalian evenings went uninformed. I sometimes test their fabric with slightly older fingers. I loved many things; many times. I have been rung like a rag by tides of energy and fright,


wrists burned by ropes too tight,


My own motivations mysterious to me. Summer heat and cactus liquor, pulling me up by my own limp arms, sent me staggering to brave and bait the keeper of some other cave, yellow-eyed, deep in the red dirt.





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