An ocean without its unnamed monsters would be like a completely dreamless sleep.
-John Steinbeck

Lately I've dreamt so much of death
that death surely also dreams of me.

I die in such novel ways, that only
a brain glutted with sticky sleep

could devise: my teeth have the word
"OBITUARY" scrimshawed across them

as I dig myself a grave - my shovel
strikes colossal grandfather clocks

instead of rock and webbed root
in the wet black loam. The worst

feature my father, who vanishes
suddenly mid-sentence, leaving

behind a silence like old books
forgotten and dampstained

on yard sale tables, patiently
waiting for eyes or for fire.

Death: come, play chess with me,
as is your wont; wear Old Shuck

& twin me down the night streets -
anything but this, when I dread

the failure of evening coffee,
& slide unwilling into cold sheets.

One of the first times I
went to jail, it was in
Polk County for
public intox.
Drunk in public.
I was homeless for years,
where else was I supposed
to get drunk?

They took me to the
station booked me, and gave
me my phonecall.
I called the bail bonds.
They wanted collateral.
I didn't have anything.
To act tough, I said,
"*******." and hung up.

The cop asked if I felt suicidal.
I didn't but in my drunken
stupor, I said,
"I wish I were dead, you ******* pig."

My next steps were to a small
room with a drain in the middle of
the floor.  They had me strip all my
clothes off and gave me a paper gown.
It was the worst ten hours in jail I
ever spent.
Then, I did wish I was dead.

I was released the next morning.
Kind of sober, and kind of glad to
be alive.
I changed into my clothes.
I found two valiums in my back pocket.
I took them quickly and thought I
need to find a safer place to
get drunk.

Row, my brother, row with the wind,
The stars above no longer sing.
The night is cold, the waves are wide
But none return on the turning tide.

Enough, enough
Oh ocean, you beast, you mouth of graves,
You salt-veined god with no mercy to save.

You took my son, his eyes still bright,
You dragged him down in the black of night.
You took my girl, just twenty-two,
He wore her ring, and loved her true.

My heart, my helm, my morning light,
You tore her breath with storm and spite.
The winds were foul, and the work was hard,
But I still begged beneath your stars.

I begged you then. I curse you now.
I spit at your depths, and I don't bow.

Four months (and the fifth is here),
I row through salt, through ghosts, through fear.
The voyage is done, and the winds don’t blow
But I cannot leave her down below.

Bring them back
Bring them, bring them,
Give them back
Sailing, singing, silent now.

Aren’t you afraid of God, oh ocean?
Or did He send you, oh ocean?

smoke
from a nearby chimney
subliminally
merged with the fog that spoke covering
like protection
but indeed looked like
silencing screams from the wild.