She likes it deep.
She likes it analog.
Ink stains on
sheets of paper.
Wipe away the mess
Your USB keys
will not survive
the coming apocalypse.
Nothing to plug into.
You might as well
be writing on
The dubious stain of our existence.
Rotting beneath a languid sun we are as junkies on the nod…dozing…eyes half-shut.
And the sound of waves in the distance. Pulsating rhythm keeping time with each heartbeat. You can feel it in your ears. The hand of God moves gently across the water.
Crystalline blue ocean mother nature. Geologic masterpiece of space and time.
Green-hued pelicans swoop low over shimmering waters, and I imagine pterodactyls soaring across primordial skies. While giant creatures the size of cruise ships swallow us whole.
I lay my head back on the sand and shield my eyes from the heat and sun. Go back to sleep.
Yellow parasols. “Sol” umbrellas and beach chairs. Rhythmic sound of waves lapping the shore beneath a Carribean sun.
There goes a yacht. Here comes another. Tourists and honeymooners. Old-timers idly wasting away pensions. Sand like baby powder between the toes. It gets everywhere.
These are a few of the things I know. Today.
It is not possible to look the Devil in the eye while pretending to be a saint. He recognizes one of his own. It’s best to look away.
The only true road is the one we must all travel alone. You won’t find it on any map.