she’s too young which means of course that you are too old and still you are full of steam and only wish yourself water

the boat is full
of steam.
as, perhaps,
am i. sloshing,
certainly. as
is the ocean
i float upon.
all of us,
floating.

the most
boastful
and confident,
those are the
ones who are
least,
or
maybe most
aware,
of
the tenuousness
of this rock.

solidity? well
yes,
a rock
will take us
upon it.
yes,
a rock will
hide well
its slow sink.

even
still,
it floats.
this rock,
our
meat’d
bodies upon
it.

at night
the ocean
sometimes
knocks and
i burrow
into dream
and
forget my waking
self. in
morning the ocean
sighs and the ocean
whispers and i forget
myself
into the dream
of
consciousness.

last night
i dreamt
of a
synthesizer
and
an effects
pedal and
the dexterity
to pleasingly
manipulate
both. this
morning the boat
is full
of steam
and the
synthesizer
sits, silent
and solid,
in its
table’d
suspension.
all of us,
floating.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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