I'm often spied
the great big fractions
painted on the walls below.
In chlorinated solitude
my shadow glides amid the aqua blue,
an underwater bird
soaring endless concrete skies
beneath the browning air.
I'm barely moving
to let idle fabric fly,
to give up hope --
let inertia try.
I'm crucified . . .
I'm hula in the wind.
When I'm lying down on water,
when I'm face up to the sky,
Heaven disappears as destination
and Hell's the hollow shipwreck
for goldfish swimming by.
I'm blocking out the intensity
of sunscorched interrogation.
I try to listen in
to the nameless noise each day lost
to traffic in the air.
I think that it's Time itself I hear,
The way we sound to Nature's eldest ear.
That's how I hear Hollywood.
How Sunset Boulevard sounds to me.
The din of dying dreams.
Amid the sidewalks starred.
I cannot hear them now.
Though there the public tramples on its heroes
and pigeon volunteers
scrub clean the homeless tiled floors,
for a fan club fee.
I cannot hear them now.
Funny how in the West
all the sounds still ricochet
off the walls of ghost-towns left behind
for the quest of promised gold.
The fading fame.
Its desperate, dusty desert breath
wheezes over bleached stucco walls to me,
comes right into my head . . .
but simply on the wind
wafting over less famous streets
like an audible aroma,
detected by the desperate gourmet
whose ears are so seldomly
and exquisitely served.
This sonic simplicity.
I like the magnitude of what I'm listening to.
Bet there's nobody else alive right now
who can hear it too.
I'm sure that time is like the wind.
Maybe it will pick up real soon,
perhaps in any thousand million miles now.
Heading into deeper ends,
I dive below the surface.
Repeat the crime of buffalo.
I'm underwater, but still above
sonar bound and full of love,
I may be missing dorsal fins
but it seems I'm always counting pilot fish
swimming by, stowed away --
swept into my glide
because they can not help but linger by.
Too trapped on land.
Too big for grace in gravity.
Too sad to stay beneath the gray.
Too tired of longing for the sky.
Whales patrol frontier,
not to protect but to guide the way.
But they get in the way of greedy men.
Behold, my savior surfaces,
coming up for the freedom and the precious air
but taking in just harpoons.
Fishermen aren't so wooed by pressured grace
like shepherds are with light and sight and song.
Gray can skies or oceans be
but when next to red in cavalry
how we're dazzled militarily.
Gabriel gets 'em every time,
and here I am Shamu.
I'm rising up
with such amphibian instinct.
To release the kidnapped air
stale from moments just before
I so stealthily submerged.
The staleness is so quickly purged.
Gasping at the winds of life again,
I break the surface of mortality,
and remember why we're here.
my fingers look like prunes.
How we hate to look so old --
so bent on erasing all the lines.
The lines are just history!
Erosion is the life,
not its scars on stone.
I ascend, then
like ladders on the moon,
and with no quote for history,
dry my skin.