The water here
by the San Clemente pier
has been throwing
the same bundle of surf
at the natives all morning.
The local madman’s
at the natives all morning.
The local madman’s
been here even longer,
lying across the sidewalk,
afloat in his flesh,
lying across the sidewalk,
afloat in his flesh,
a claustrophobic,
sumptuous, flimsy fit
that his mouth says
sumptuous, flimsy fit
that his mouth says
is holy in a hundred
different ways, each
less intelligible than
different ways, each
less intelligible than
the last. It’s no sin,
all who hurry past
his babble: no word-
all who hurry past
his babble: no word-
salad unlocks God
or the sea, its pulse
squandering against
or the sea, its pulse
squandering against
the shore. The ritual’s
paleolithic, ante-
diluvian—the animal
paleolithic, ante-
diluvian—the animal
of us, swimming
out, not knowing
the why, only
out, not knowing
the why, only
our dead weight,
its slosh and tilt,
upon the wave.
its slosh and tilt,
upon the wave.
Read on . . .