little black hubcaps
black pontiac, windshield
bullet cracks,
tint windows, and bullet holes like
windows into the souls
of the presumably passengers
sitting inside there
soft cracks in the seats like
cracks under your feet on sand,
driving to the beach again
because it's your only rendezvous
on land;
you're a,
busybody which means,
nobody's going to find you
when you are on running on hot steam
and rage and an odd arrange of clues
drinking on a nectar of black tea and
witches's brew but
swearing by the shoreline that the
beach is wanning not waxing in time
with the accurate moon signs and
our seaside, lifetimes are becoming
compromised by the lacking passion
these 'courtesy-blind' ingrates can't
tell a bathroom from the beachside
a pain staining the coast west to east side
as if man was created to pollute
the leisure of clean water;
the mouth of the ocean is round
sometimes to be one with the sea
is to be a stray among the hounds
like it or leave it, whatever
makes you proud
I'm no swimmer,
my only options are to
sink, then drown
but
waters,
by oceans or rivers
monsoons or
snow in the late winter
typhoons or waters lost
within the lush of
our beginnings,
sing to the blood in my veins
and the opposing fire
that's within me