I travel winding, country highways
past estates sheltered by trees
until at last I’ve gone far enough east and am met
by a view of the cold Atlantic.

I stand on a beach with
thick, coarse sand.
The sea appears as
shimmering blue stretching as
far as the eye can see,
meeting the sky and becoming an indistinguishable
smudge of air and water.

The waves crash against the shoreline which
stretches on to points north and south.
The salty, fishy smell of low tide is in the air,
accompanied by shrieking gulls and
other swooping sea birds.

As darkness sets in the water becomes
harder to make out but
is still unmistakable.
A steady sea breeze
sweeps my hair to the side and balances out the
humid night air.

The tide moves in,
gains strength as the moon exerts its
pull and forces it
back toward the shore
as if each successive wave is an attempt
to swallow up the land
only to be turned way and
followed again by another
and another
and another.

The foamy, white crest of the waves
stands out in the darkness,
can be seen racing in from
both the left and the right,
steadily collapsing like a
stack of falling dominoes.

The sea is loud,
making it difficult to hear my companion’s words
so we decide not to talk at all.
We’re content to hear only the steady break of the waves that
have not stopped for all of mankind’s history,
are a symbol of something outside of our world,
something bigger.
The waves are a clue to forces we don’t fully understand
yet never cease to find solace in.
It is steadiness that makes the ocean so relaxing,
knowing that each wave that breaks will
be followed by another
and another
and another
If only the rhythm of our own lives were so simple.

Staring out at the dark sea is proof that there are
things beyond human knowledge.
Here is something hopelessly
vast
like outer space
right here on earth.
And yet,
all the things that make it so awesome
and us so insignificant in comparison
do not feel like a reason to despair, but
to delight.

The ocean is terrifying at night.
It is a black, writhing body with no borders,
only icy depths full of nothing
and everything
as if my greatest fears are contained in every rising swell.

I strip naked and proceed,
through force of will, into the frigid blackness.
The whole ocean moves.
Swells rise up before me like dark phantoms
gaining shape and size as they close in.

Only now can I understand the size of the sea.
The light tricks one into thinking they can accurately
imagine the size of things
while darkness allows no safe illusions.

A swell is about to break over me. I
close my eyes and dive head first into it,
open my eyes underwater and see nothing, only
hear the deep, bass of the surf around me.
The world is a dull roar in my head.
I go limp and close my eyes, look up and see the
white light of a crescent moon,
a single streak dancing on the writhing surface of the sea.
My naked body is carried by the motion of the waves,
a piece of driftwood in the tides of time
I am a babe in the womb,
floating peacefully in the amniotic salinity.

I give in to the night sea,
to the forces that control it.
Let them drown me,
sweep me out to sea.
Let them have their way with me.
For I know sooner or later,
they will do so anyway.

Beware those of faith. They are
the greatest of all disbelievers,
for they reject the dogma of man,
of life on Earth.
While their gospels promise salvation, they
smack of desperation,
nihilism;
are but guilt
for being part of
those woes they condemn.

If I’m not inspired
it’s because I’ve been living, have
no time for idle thoughts,
idle feelings.

Let the possessed ones
rule over their lonesome empires of hubris!
Give me chipped teeth and creased skin!
Open sores and mangled limbs!
Broken bones and battle scars!
For I am in a fierce contest,
not to win the hand of some fickle, illusory maiden
but with this life.

Let me crawl along the ground,
a frantic, scavenging beast
fighting to stay alive,
rather than spend another second in some
substratum of the mind.

Give me one minute with a real man!
rather than an eternity with a charlatan
whose subtle panhandling tries to
convince me of my inferiority.

Give me streets that stretch on and on!
Crossed with cursed bodies,
broken-down, rotted hulks of humanity,
deluded atavisms howling at the moon,
streets where widows scream and
bleary-eyed men stagger towards clarity, where
a lost soul is a known quantity
and a conviction is another campaign promise.

Let there be light!
From the haunts that mark man’s sad searches for pleasure:
Murky bars
Throbbing bawdyhouses
Bulging parlors
Oozing dancehalls

Bring forth darkness!
The shadows hide my shortcomings.
I am a man of Earth
who is neither proud nor ashamed.
Such ideas mean nothing to mortals.

There is only the wind in my face
The ground beneath my feet
The spoils of short-lived victories
strewn about me.
The barbarians are at the gate
and I find it assuring.

Those men
who think they need saving
are the loneliest souls of all,
heads craned upwards,
looking for a messiah to crash down amongst us,
meanwhile missing my hand
extended in brotherhood.

Men of Earth can always
look down,
scrape a friend off the pavement,
swing haymakers at those
cheap agents of ego
and connect often enough to resist
elitism posing as Belief.

I met the man who sold the world.
He’s very poor;
has terrible posture.

I asked him why he did it.
Well, my fine sir, he replied,
wouldn’t you have done the same?

Meanwhile,
children sit embalmed in lectures,
note-taking,
waiting for the bell,
working towards the day,
having a smoke break will be
the highlight of their morning.

Yesterday,
rocketing through vernal splendor
on my bicycle,
I felt so alive,
my joy untouchable,
indestructible.
All of the little plans I’d made for myself
seemed perfect,
even Godly.
King Midas with the wind in his face

Today,
seemingly hung-over from mania,
I set back out along the same route
hoping to rekindle that blissful
invulnerability.
Retracing my steps, I
found only restlessness,
like a junkie chasing a particularly clairvoyant high,
one of those rare moments
when life cannot touch us;
we exist outside.

But this night,
I was very much inside,
very much a sentient being
No more playing God.
My life seemed neither good nor bad,
important nor unimportant.
I sat very still in a spot, as if by
remaining motionless I would
become invisible,
forgotten.
I watched the sun disappear and
darkness set in.

Men pedaled by furiously, teeth gritted,
fighting the pain, or
perhaps issuing it a challenge.
Walkers sauntered past
wrapped in the coolness of the night.

I was bound to my spot by indifference,
caring less to try something else than to
ride the feeling out.
I’d chosen my mooring, a place where
couples dressed for dinner walked hand-in-hand,
joggers breathed self-loathing out through their mouths,
pigeons picked at the scraps of a crumbling empire,
old folks looked at things with more fear than fascination
and small children looked at things with more fascination than fear.

Fixed and stoic I remained among
so much nocturnal flotsam
not knowing at the time
I was hoping to
recapture the glory of a day gone by,
that I wasn’t restless, but desperate,
afraid that my joy had nothing whatsoever to do with myself
and everything to do
with chance.

A young man wakes up
alarm screeching
pours a bowl of cereal
half asleep
crunching echoes in his groggy head
shower
pick out an outfit hastily
competing with mom and dad for the bathroom
kiss on the cheek from mom
love you
have a good day
pack your own lunch
same every day
crust still on
Dad drives you to the bus stop
talk radio
awkward silence
running late
bus ride down back roads
picking up disappointed faces
last bit of freedom before the bell rings
rings
burned out teachers
waiting for summer vacation
kids alike
turning the pages of outdated textbooks
thinking of playing
of freedom
of pretty girls in the back of the class
of passing grades
should I get braces
walking between classes
seeing the same faces
in the cafeteria
seeing the same faces
miss being a kid
bell rings
almost freedom
but first practice
kicking a ball around
bald man blowing a whistle
reliving dreams of aborted stardom
whistle blows
freedom
bus ride home down back roads
Mom’s car waiting
how was your day
good
same
home
Dad comes home
looks tired
looks old
dinner
homework
TV
snack
bed
alarm

A man wakes up
alarm wailing
Headache
he lies for minutes
wants to sleep
weary
guilted into rising
coffee
cigarettes
newspaper
shower
clean, pressed suit
uniform
sleek sedan parked outside
so weary
good day for fishing
for sleeping
talk radio
traffic
cigarettes
should quit smoking
destruction of the self
to save the self
office
Johnson has a new car
jealous
fake smiles from coworkers
stale air
smells like paper and air freshener
staring at a screen
phone calls
bad jokes
weak coffee
meeting
good day for fishing
for sleeping
deadlines
smoking
greasy lunch
stomach ache
maybe an ulcer
no bell
miss schooldays
stay late
might get ahead
probably won’t
sun is down
good night for fishing
weary
sleek sedan still parked outside
deserve it
home
stiff drink
another
another
cigarettes
predictable sitcoms
leftover pasta
miss mom’s cooking
one more drink
destruction of the self
to save the self
so weary
late night news
tomorrow’s weather
good day for fishing
bed
sleep
alarm
headache