Friday, September 23, 2022

On the Beach with Athena and Dionysus

It's no longer the beach,
It's become the sea,

Locked rest rooms along the way --
The grass knows I am human

And appreciates I try,
Though our strict roles keep us

Striving to be fair, apart in equilibrium,
With our one good side weighed, of course, 

In our direction, for it's what you put forth, 
The slick voodoo jive juice of your uselessness

That determines your worth,
That lifts your jib to the cursed cruise

And your presence occludes,
Gull feathers at your shoes.

All the words that come in from the surf
Find a frequency free in chaos to choose --

The waves increase in ascendant light
Though the worlds of the wind are still harsh,

Waves piling spirals to the ground, they rise and fall 
With a tentative figure of your shape, your resemblance 

To the whole, the ever pull 
Of what may not be the moon at all.

The gentle observance of sunrise
Brought to the gatherers

Awe at what translucent morning
Calls forth to be forgiven

When the sun shines from the east side,
Where terror and prayer are more direct,

Even now as old rigidities stiffen and give way
To new water where whispergrass was a myth,

Or at least give respite from the hard harrow bore,
The tall fraternization order

In the constance of alienated affections,
For the benefit of wolves

Per the playback of evil v. good,
In the awl of embrace, two beats of a heart, 

Testing with terrified fingers the balance line
At an equinox dance

Some salty fall so long ago
It seldom bothers anymore

What one did to enthrall,
What the temperature gathered

To the humble numb circus
Of a kiss, englobed with becoming

And beautifully appointed
To the ultimate life force

Of the irregular zeal of warriors,
So the dance offers its sustenance,

Its chance at contrast
By choice.

So the waves make their motions meaningless
As we make hay of our bitter disappointments,

How they steam under the clambake tarp
With ancient rock philosophers on fire 

In the pit, where your cherry cloth hangs so tender
In the brine of what doesn't kill us doesn't quite 

Heal us either, but no one is counting,
No one remembers,

The waves take jurisdiction
Over your thoughts, and recent scenes 

Turn only to these pufferbirds, the one
Burns into one as contexts shift.

They are here for the show,
The whole encounter filmed

For mock posterity.
It is only to record the count,

Without which we would 
Otherwise not escape.