Sea Voyagers Searching for Dry Land

To see land again, green sky,
raincoat, snorkeling memorabilia
enough of that –

I recognize mother’s face,
Enclosed, in palpations of a mask,
a life she was promised. Example –
hallucinating can-can dancers,
dragging river’s eyelid for glaucoma gelatin,
skeletal immersions.

One word –
Nightclubs. Portals for employment of
wire-cutting, brass knuckle technicians,
celebrate the New Age, a quercetin Rubicon, forest bees
in grapeseed.
Overcome by hives of loneliness.

Never a solid child, nor stolid,
standing up to remarkable parentage,
Mother protested Father Justice, his ideology
Prisoners three-deep to a bed off the coast of
frangipani. Yellow star-shaped curlicues
emboldened by orange, a fetish to sea.

Blue jays, red cardinals, their
sculpted wings fluttering, eco memorial
to the do-not-cross zones, melted cheese
cathedrals of worship,
glacial, screaming, cake icing, generative celestial.
How we live now –

Sea Voyagers Searching for Dry Land

Up watery stairs at the Anthropocene Rooming House,
A For Rent sign – snorkelers discovery,
One Single Occupant Residency Available for
an Archaeological Artist or Anthropologist,
Old School. Access from red painted banister,
at the back of Butcher Shop Lane, now submerged,
All amber glow, peeling,
acute emotions at crisis point, to
swim from one world into another world.

Words of gravitas, drowning –
drawing schemata from brutalist blueprint
remnants of a design for a small club on a smaller island
no one knows the way to.
Only those who remember are free
to hibernate in the winter sun,
with sins under e-investigation, the re-evaluation papers
delimit the green light of obstruction, keys to
(oblivion) bask in perpetual moonlight.

Echo eco, ergo –
there must be another world, an
eggbeater world, a land base,
Some siphoned Member’s Only Club for forlorn astronauts.
Imagine eight of them, around a table, sequestered
from kitchen ambassadors and majorettes,
waiting for amphibian guests, appetizer
platters of shark delivered by diurnal dumb waiter.
Ah, to diminishing memories of hierarchic colonial structures,
dimly fading miasma.

Sea Voyagers Searching for Dry Land

From caves around the Beyond –
Cross the straits of Cinema Maws, to
the field of Elixirs. Taste green tea
in cups of jasmine hallucination, through coral, murky
pulp of scrub-in brushes, candy wrappers,
lark tales in solvents and aspen, shadow neon
signs, radioactive casinos just off somewhere,
move further right, strewn popcorn fields.

At the heliport of newsrooms,
diving bell surfers etch
land erosion schemata for a tsunami zone,
Pin photographs to the wall of the sky.
Grandmother said, by routes which those who left us
enter and leave
their corroded arterial plains demand –
something greater – We, the

song writing surrogates from
the Straits of Los Angeles, lyricists of
“We rise to the Emerald Light.”
Commendable to a fortnight of scuba-diving.