…in baseball bat threats,
and shifting blame bloviations?
there is a narrative constructed
and characters are run thru the mill
Procrustean beds wait, rimmed in razor words
and made up in straight jacket axioms
of hero killing Zeus, Medusa slain
but ‘ware the mirrors lest the true face be glimpsed…
…and you, you both have hitched to this?
your bones know, don’t they?
Or do they? Crawl inside your skin
when you feel the truth dissolve
and lies (half and whole cloth)
kick like something wicked waiting
to slouch towards Bethlehem
in the kingdom of Ozymandias?
Your silent disengagement lets our history
be Big-Brothered in Orwellian style scripts
and becomes tacit agreement with things
that go against your grain like sand paper.
that wave, it was a sneaker-wave for sure!
standing by the ocean, rhythms, pulses
aligning and consonant.
I thought I could turn my back.
I thought space meant the same thing
to me as it did to you.
I didn’t know it was a place-holder word
for displacement, for excoriation
for vituperation and vitriol.
I looked at cliffs high, formidable,
but scaleable, niches in sandstone
hidden but implied in long familiar places.
But that wave, it came outta nowhere
and it was slick and befouled in the dark
by the contents of leaky toxic ships foreign and domestic.
It nearly killed me, but even more startling
was how it devastated those sandy heights (bluffs)
and obliterated every way up, no matter how faint
and took all that sand in its oily slick greedy grip
and washed it into my sanctuaries, tender and sacred,
as I foundered on bones where the beach once lay soft.
Imagine my shock and horror when I dragged myself
back home only to find the Sahara had invaded
on cirocco blasts of hatred wearing masks of honesty.