The Hand That Counts.

I can still
recognize,
a sweaty face –
with
guilty eyes;
a selfless smile –
that made me
realize,
that the truth
is still a lie.
The March of Time
goes down a rigid line;
the drum that reverberates,
it doesn’t stop on a dime;
the vibration rolls
along tidal waves
through all matter
of time and space;
the skies that hold
the secret fate,
of the self-worshipping
human race –
have been foreseen,
to inevitably
betray;
The Ties that Bind
unravel and unwind,
to be once again tied
to our heavy hearted
changing tides.
Marching in circles
around the confines of
a broken
clock face,
must keep up to an impossible pace –
the hand that takes, the hand that shakes,
the hand that counts the sentiment faked.

Away.

I dropped myself backwards over the stern,

you stood at the bow, unwilling to learn,

refusing to follow the map I had drawn,

stagnantly anchored there all the night long,

your disgust was apparent as I swam farther away,

you began to pull the anchor up immediately,

but your head-games had already turned me cold,

so I kept on dog-paddling and cursed you, tenfold,

and as I saw you sail away without me,

just as I should’ve felt my most empty,

the weight of the ocean’s fathomless depths,

vacuumed me up with one huge, inhaled breath,

tucked me safely within its motherly net,

and whispered with love that I wasn’t dead yet,

seeming to rise from the uncharted deep,

a ghostly phantom too long  gone to sleep,

to guide my tired mind and broken body,

to a place of solid earth and humanity,

I found you once again so long afterward,

you were too frozen in place to utter a word,

and I simply conveyed my thanks to you,

for forcing me to see the true colors in you.

 

 

 

Scotch Whiskey Wet-suit.

I soaked my wet-suit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
that my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
and two fifths of Bell’s,
to numb down the fear,
and drown out my tears,
that’ll send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wet-suit,
weighs down heavy, it’s true,
heavy enough to snap the strings,
to my perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to find the shore eventually,
a return that’s most likely,
not destined to be seen through,
if the body in the wet-suit,
doesn’t make a toast to me.

Stronghold.

Abounds a spin-cycle to scale as far as I see,
the visual assail of an everyday catastrophe…

tumbling breakers that beat my sorry ass mercilessly,
undertakers in numbers washing out from the beach…

a beautiful thing is the foreseen inevitability,
of resigning in mind to the body’s pending battering…

the best lessons in Life await us out past the swells,
a beach bum intuition that I’ve come to trust well…

with each time that I have wakened on a solitary beach,
happy as Hell to finally have solid ground under my feet…

every time these eyes of mine have peeled open to see,
surprised to find by my side, a creature twice the size of me…

I’ll tell you my friend; it lacks any ease of “inland”,
it chews you, and spits you – and swallows you, then…

let me say also, that it’s not a pumped-up play of show,
to hear the old-school talk the dangers of riding out “solo”…

I’d dare say that the ocean is a secret untold,
even to beach bums raised up on in her stronghold.

Wet Shore.

547f28c8a2dd2d87511187be3807f916-d5z6h2yI dreamed of it before…
it was a while ago, though;
I sat in whipping winds,
wrapped tightly within,
a blanket on a beach;
and I’m doused in gasoline…
I sit there almost alone,
but not quite by myself…
I sat on the sidelines next to somebody else,
as the sincerity in her mossy green,
eyes, capsized and captivated me,
as she played me music telepathically…
I began to realize something;
here, on the shores of a tumbling sea,
she hasn’t come to this place,
put out any fires I’d,
planned on lighting,
nor has she been sitting,
opposite of me – listening,
to the endlessly,
venomous spattering,
that define all of me…
no, she’s not here,
to clean up my mess tonight,
only to simply “be”;
on the shores of a tumbling,
promising ocean shimmering,
colors of me-her, blue-green;
as she plays me music,
and streams it directly into me,
reflexively,
unexpectedly,
the muscles all over my body,
begin to sag with ease,
exhaustion reigns supreme…
and I lean into,
the mental melody;
as the moment passes,
I recall the book of matches,
clutched in the hand of me,
as I think to strike one –
begins a new verse to her song,
the realization forcefully dawns,
upon my matches and gasoline…
she knows she won’t talk me down,
try,
try again,
in the end, nobody will win…
so in place,
of rearranging my face,
to rope me safely in,
she provided the gas,
clever kick in my ass,
but to her own detriment;
she hates the ocean,
hates the lack of control…
she knew my fire wouldn’t burn,
very long on the seashore.

Stronghold.

Abounds a spin-cycle-esque ocean beneath me,
an aquatic tornado stripping sand up from the deeps…

tumbling breakers that beat my sorry ass mercilessly,
undertakers in numbers washing out from the beach…

a beautiful thing is the foreseen inevitability,
of resigning in mind to the body’s battering…

the best lessons in Life await us out past the swells,
a beach bum notion that I’ve come to trust well…

with every time I’ve awakened confused on a beach,
just happy as Hell to have solid ground under feet…

and every time I opened these eyes of mine to see,
to be taken by surprise by a creature twice the size of me…

I’ll tell you my friend; it lacks any ease of “inland”,
it chews you, and spits you – and swallows you, then…

let me tell you also that it’s no dramatically worded show,
to hear the revered explain the dangers of riding out “solo”…

I’d dare say that the ocean is a secret untold,
even to beach bums raised up on in her stronghold.

A Scotch Whiskey Wetsuit.

I soaked my wetsuit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
two fifths of Bell’s,
to fight off any fears,
and drowned any tears,
to send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wetsuit,
weighs down heavy it’s true,
weight enough to snap the strings,
of my given perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to swim back to shore eventually,
a return most likely,
not destined to be,
if the swimmer in the wetsuit,
also indulges in Scotch whiskey.