Punk Poetry/Music/Food/Fashion/Travels with Maria

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Wednesday, December 28, 2011

In Salt Water




In Salt Water

The sea. He came up from the sea. His voice green, water tones, splash of froth, spray, and crash, crash. I’d swim on my back and listen, legs and arms out, listen. Tentacles tipped. A clown fish with intelligent eyes looks into my eyes. Questioning. A hatchet fish frightens me so I swim on.
            And then he’d speak. I’d often cut my feet on his words sharp like urchins, and get pinned in by the tide. My footprints a lexicon of glyphs on rocks, slap, smack, splat.
            He would leave me then and return. Where eels arrow their way across fields of vision, I’d kayak, and cast a net to catch the giant fish. But no one goes as deep as he does. But stay in the shallows, where light refracts and turns the ocean blue. The sun cannot reach his home, only elongated eels to conduct electricity. I almost caught this fish once. But capsized, swallowed salt water, coughed up foam on the shore like some wide-mouth gulper eel, sucked air, blacked out, woke up aglow, coughing, choking, coughing, until I coughed up a lantern fish, death-twinkle.

Friday, December 16, 2011

A Triangle of Palm Fronds In the Window Means it's Morning




A triangle of palm fronds in the window means it’s morning

A colony of souls
awaken
to a murder of crows fighting over coconuts.

Boats waffle blue waves.
Signs say:
Noel Coward fucked in this hotel.

And white sheets froth the bed.
Somerset Maugham
masturbated
here to the batik face of Gauguin.

You use a straw as a snorkel
to navigate the day—
A cruise ship cuts through the champagne cake

but this is the year of no cake,
only salt and
the one tooth left a ravenous dog.

Come, dogs, a triangle of palm fronds
in the window
means it is morning