meet me at the beach.
with your clay hands
with all the darkness in your sky.

hand me in to the doctor,
at the harbor
with all his damned grey hair.

cover me in dark stones,
with blue pools
with hard times,
down at the water.

drowned in the waiting sunshine,
toe hold in the sand,
waves that pull like a million hands,
we've been waiting such a long time.

what is my capacity? this won't cut it, i agree, wholeheartedly, this simply won't do, it won't damn, either, it won't fly, and if it gains the ability to do so we should all count our valuables and make our peace with misery. we should grow talons, and walk about our towns and cities clacking our claws on linoleum and tile, obscenely. flapping our gums like wings, and sorry things we call tongues, made for swathing foodstuffs and making merry in a variety of indecencies.

 the well of our forefathers has run dry, we are in a barren, a desert for cremes, a ghastly home for dead things, a monitor for changing atmospheric pressures, the pressures we all face, as predator and prey, as lunacy in the hold of a societal ship, one bobbing on oceans that know nothing of fairness and politics, of politeness in the face of extremity, of danger, and rape, and of housing angry ghosts. 

the will of the front runner is evidenced in his diaries, the pages stained with the output of his crime. the will of his victory over and over and over. the will of his victory in time, in space, in the pages of a book of hymns about decadence and mirth, of blood and wine.

to those disappeared

white fog, or grey, or black, you can feel it slip away, like water and sand through your fingers. another day at the beach, in the sand, without the sun, black sky and all that disrepair. dogs snarl and kick up the dusty floor of the land, running endlessly in loops and tangents, drool hanging from pregnant jaws.

fumbling through the, i don't know, files, angry cans of paper and mist.

diet soda will buy you everything in this life. like a hopeful stepfather.

and still we stand here, in that wash of grey, so true that white was never seen at all, with busted megaphones, throats as raw as the devil, hides cleaned and stacked in disparate order.

and friends can't be found(simon and garfunkel)

and all the plastic science can make can't hold all this troubled water.