Out There.

Out there,
there’s no fear
I steer far beyond
the burning fire song
that sings
and screams from
each heave of my lungs
until the burn is gone
and my face is numb
when I come up
and I can’t see anyone
out there,
there’s no horizon
no lingering tension
I can do whatever
the moment says
I need to get done
there in the blue
there’s no such thing
as “me and you”
or any of the pain
attached onto
branded into
the guilt and shame
can’t quite get through
the protective layer
of my trusty wet-suit
out there – blue and pure
in the saline fathoms
of my darkest despair,
a glimpse of what’s free
nothing’s promised
in sheer mockery
nothing’s expected
either by or from me
out there, anywhere
this one buzz in my ear
tows alongside
remains ever-clear
my inbound ride
will forever be
the hardest part
of “Out There” for 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.

Out There.

Out there,
there’s no fear
I steer far beyond
the burning fire song
that sings
and screams from
each heave of my lungs
until the burn is gone
and my face is numb
when I come up
and I can’t see anyone
out there,
there’s no horizon
no lingering tension
I can do whatever
the moment says
I need to get done
there in the blue
there’s no such thing
as “me and you”
or any of the pain
attached onto
branded into
the guilt and shame
can’t get through
my good ol’ wetsuit
out there – anywhere
in the deep waters
of my darkest despair,
there is no solidity
nothing’s promised
in vain to me
nothing can be expected
either from or by
outside the knowledge of mine
that my ride in won’t be free.

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.

Spoken Like A Wise Man.

the Orphan

Despite the “unapproachability” that I so openly tease the Orphan about on a regular basis, he continues to be socially accosted by some of the most pond-scummiest of creatures imaginable so far, in his evolutionary adventures as a born-again Red Triangle Surfer God.

 

  • The Orphan is a strange combination of “Foreign” = the Orphan interacts socially in a different manner than that which Americans (especially West Coast Surfer Boys/OGSC’s) are at all prepared for, much less have any clue how to respond to, in most cases.
  • It’s actually pretty fuckin’ funny to watch from a safe distance most of the time…shame on me.
  • The Orphan does Him, and tends not to worry about what anyone is doing until whatever they’re doing starts to impede on his own gig = he’s 9 times out of 10 NOT the one to initiate conversation with a stranger (I imagine he was this way always, even in his most familiar of environments). He keeps to himself unless a nerve gets pinched.
  • The Orphan is, just like Yours Truly, allergic to BULLSHIT = don’t talk in front of him if you’re full of shit because he will sniff you out in an nano-second and expose you until you disappear.

 

A BELOVEDLY TRUE STORY:

He is sitting out past the breakers in the solitude of a favorite beach break of his, enjoying the peace and quiet away from the trendy tourist beaches that have become UN-FUN due to so many idiot vacationers. Suddenly, he is startled by a raspy voice behind him somewhere close by and he whips his head around to see a washed-up, rode hard, dirty Surf Bum paddling up to his position in the lineup.

Sigh…why?…just why?

His eye rolling doesn’t deter the man from sliding in next to him as he waits for a good ride and begins to talk to the Orphan openly about his problems.

“I feel like shit, Man…haven’t had a drink in over 48 hours…trying to quit, ya know?…

The Orphan just stares straight ahead but gives a nod of acknowledgment because he is, unfortunately for him at this very moment in the story, a Human Being.

“Just gotta stop drinking, Man…” no waves to ride in come, so the Orphan listens on, somehow intrigued by the train wreck of a surfer.

The older guy is obviously distraught and in a state of disarray as he tells the Orphan about a “fight” with his “Ol’ Lady” a few nights prior, and having had to leave the house afterward so as not to be arrested when the police arrived.

“It’s all because women ya know?…they are so fragile …you can’t hit ‘em like you could, a man, ya know…? …so much frailer, so easy to really fuck up in fight…so I gotta stop that drinkin’, Man…”

After several minutes of collecting enough verbal information that the Orphan felt certain of his quickly forming opinion regarding a somewhat “touchy” subject, he responded to this miserably clueless, self-admitted woman beater in the way that ONLY the Orphan could.

He turned and made intentionally piercing eye-contact with the man on the board just 2 feet away from him and simply stated:

“Hey…Dude…. I mean, I think it has certainly occurred to you by now that maybe…..you don’t need to stop fighting with your lady because “she is fragile and frail”…”, his fingers are up to do the accompanying gesture of quotation marks, “maybe it’s just because you’re an alcoholic idiot who can’t control himself when he’s drunk – which sounds like it’s ALWAYS….”

The Orphans posture is straight and self-assured as he sits like statue waiting for a response of any kind that takes a while to come, surprisingly.

“Well…ya got a point there, don’t you Kid?”

THE END.

Invisible Lineup.

IMG_3180Creepy Fog…and Sharky, too.

That AWESOME moment when:

The weakened spirit stands up with a surfboard shoved under his arm and declares that “he doesn’t feel like replying right now”…