Saturday, March 12

A Connected Ocean of Tears

Slipping over the green moss
from salt to air
onto a foreign land
a wet ocean of boulders
ever so joyously
as they create love between the rows of jetty's 

"Are those human made?" I ask the seemingly happy middle aged couple. They must be coming to watch the sun set over those homes, those homes that sit so neatly in a row overlooking the great momma. Those homes that have not been carried away by water. This time.

"Oh yea," he says, with an excitement of a 3rd grader knowing the answer to a 6th grade question. "The hurricane of '38 wiped out this entire area. They built them in hopes to divert another catastrophe like that in the future."

"A catastrophe." I think out loud. "Hmmmmm, like the one in Alabama..."

As I walk away I wonder about Alabama. I wonder about the Gulf of Mexico there, still full of oil, unrefined and left untended now. I wonder about Japan, and 8.9 magnitude earthquake that happened yesterday, in their backyard, in the ocean. I wonder about those waves that come finding humans, land and cars to throw on top of 3-story buildings. I wonder about our atomic atom and how much trouble its gonna cause.

Sigh. What is happening to life?

There's got to more then white and blue pills popping. There's got to be more then these kinds of catastrophes. How can I go sit in bath when they don't even know how many are dead?

Well, today has been a day of depth, I guess. Of contacting old loves and wondering if their okay. Of looking out and into the unknown and just looking, not trying to find an answer. There is no answer. Just an asking. Learning to pray? Perhaps. But not in the God kind of way. In fact, its not a male thing. Its more like curves in motion. Wetness and fertility. Half moons that hang directly overhead, while making friends in Gemini. Its games of sweet and sour and a date with destiny. Its jumping from dry rock to wet boulder, dry boulder to wet rock on top this slippery patch of fern green moss.

Back to the singing now. They serenaded me into a moment of silence. A place. Something. Somewhere, or no where at all, I'm not really sure anymore. This is not translatable into words. This is not a spoken language that I know.
Its a language of water. Its a language of the sun dawning on-top the moving waves of a lifetime and seeing a reflection stare back.

Still, the smoke of this exhale
speaks of fear
one full of failure
and despair

She asks her friend why sunsets burn though peoples memories?

Her friend looks at her, dumbfounded, and answers honestly, with a laughter and a scream.

And as she inhales this pure form of nicotine
somehow, someway
there is a pause in the pain
and when she looks up and see the sky on fire
she's reminded of being higher
beyond the ideology of those white picket fences
is a dream that never learned to fly
but now
on this cold march afternoon
with the Atlantic on her side
she vies to end this sense of separateness standing by
"my world is failing and i am flying watching the shattered shards fall"

Cause those stoops in the lower ninth ward
are still just stoops
steps leading up to grass now
and those cars uprooted from concrete
still on top of houses in Sendai
are still waiting for the cranes to come
the smoke still smoldering from the fires and the now this: a potential nuclear reactor meltdown
its all still there
even those young girls and women with severed vagina's
are still bleeding somewhere
ground zero hasn't been rebuilt
they are to busy fighting over whether or not to let the mosque in

When I look up, I do the only thing I can
I ask those brown and gray furry pussy willows sitting my desk, still budding for spring,
what would you say to the survivors? what do you feel about the world today?