one day I slept on the warm sand when
I heard the calls for help from the sea.
all the lovers with their drunken roses
all the wrecks that closed the roads
all the reasons to jump off of roofs.
there seemed to be no way to ignore the wailing
I felt driven to answer the sirens from the sirens
and stayed stuck on the sand where I stood
from the beginning of the mad season until
the middle of manic non-reasons that
started the end of treason against a heart.
the weight of the waiting for something new
pulled too hard against the pool of stagnant blood
impulsive, i took the chance, to her it seemed
repulsive, like more flooding in the land of floods
sometimes, sometimes.
sometimes the times when we speak
are the best times to shut the fuck up and listen
listen hard
with all five of our senses
and come up with our best intentions
to find a better set of directions.
instead of following our blinded and drunken hearts.
instead of ignoring the advice of the stones
who have recorded our lives in their lines
who have our history written in their faces
the sand, the seas, the stones have seen it unfold
a million times and million more untold
the seas try waving us away from the stoney cliffs
to keep us from crashing on the stoney reef
to keep our bodies from lying on the beaches in pieces
shattered like the husks of rowboats put to sea in haste.
shattered like icicles
falling from mountaintops to buidlings and shoppes
but then would we be human?
