Wishtoyo, a poem

Wishtoyo

I do not like pictures of the beach
with gelatin waters rolling

back to the horizon,
or a stout heart lighthouse
presiding over the churn.

Where is the split timber?
The wrecked ones on the rocks?
There is no kelp wilting on those shores,
no crabs sprinting sidelong from gulls.
It’s just unfettered open;
a banner of amnesia.

I can dream sometimes of islands on a piss plate
where I am king and the sun
shines on all my best ideas,
but I remember the light hissing out each day
under murdered clouds.

Underneath that black tarp
secret fishes shuttle back and forth
stealing away meaning from words and thoughts;
every feeling that tries to form.

There is nothing under the sea.

I will show you the sea.
The sea behind the sea.
(There, I said it!)
We might live there, even,
misplaced and wandering as
wavecrash explosions salt us

with fire.

There among the dead things that wash up
the surviving laugh in gray damp.
They smile back at the roar and crush
and feel heat and grit and skin under sweatshirts.

They play and leave for hot coffee
to push salt from their noses.
They call out names to one another,
pulling away from the surf, back from the sea,

back from the twisting line where nothing starts
and everything ends

and someone else takes pictures for a dollar.

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