Interdependence

arctic telegram
cold feet under warm blankets
raindrop pings window

from tributaries
oceans receiving rivers
snow drift in sunlight

afternoon thermals
heavier than air on wing
the sky believing

sanderlings darting
exhausted wave collapses
on sleepless shoreline

the water’s language
a library of cloud forms
notes on sea napkins

interdependence
words in light of other words
this buoyed upon that


(Everyone writes Haiku about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.)

Texanah

in the North where
the beauty wears magnificent trees
and glacial rock sculptures
they still have to borrow sky
from Texas, Texas is nine parts sky
and blanketing above, that
cloud-boil, above the cities too
where the deer trails are paved
is not a place, not kept, not held, no vault
an Olympic tangle of mind and air
roads chalkline straight
tide pools French-curve shallow
horizon a dazzling shaft of lightsaber
and skylight so thick
you could build a house on it
and think about retiring

swimming trunks

hotcake foreheads
the beads on my brow
sweat lodge under arms

salt lick of a sky
counting gulls to sleep
on a colorful towel

the sand on that fat man’s ass
blows free as he stands
getting into our eyes

sprinkling our sandwiches
the fat man’s name
is probably Sanders, I mutter

no, you shut up
the gulls are laughing
they think it’s funny

she rolls her eyes
then squints them tight
fat man ass-sand

is everywhere now
the scent of his suntan oil
in our noses

the grit crunches as we chew
it was your idea to
have lunch in the dirt

your idea of the ocean
replenishing some essential
minerals in this maladapted

asthma-ward nurse uniform
of a relationship long ago fallen
ill watching late night TV

oh fuck all, give Sanders
the rest of this chicken salad
and let’s just go

she’s getting angry
why must we always fight
at the beach?

Omerta

among the driftwood, bits of plastic
a length of rope, a desiccated flip-flop
a tiny plastic shovel, a bottle cap
an age of unbridled thing-mongering
leaves a death bed confession on
a beach strewn with the corpses of
the defectors who threatened to talk

Malick

seawall-low-tide-bw-10-26-2015

A short film by Terrence Malick of
two figures on a beach, walking.
No, it's just a photo I took one afternoon,
but I like to envision my life sometimes
as if it were filmed by Malick,
narrated by William S. Burroughs,
and written by someone who knows
how to live a damn life.