679. SKIPPER, SKIPPER, WHAT OF THE SEA?

SKIPPER, SKIPPER,
WHAT OF THE SEA?
[Like busloads of Crimeans writhing – the horrid fat horrid
rushing of the street - like horses suddenly aroused.
I see ropes, containment, impatience, need.
The world, being this magical place, needs
something new for definition. 'It was actually
very enjoyable,' the round one with the hand-etched
glasses says. There are literally hundreds of them
crowding the street after the plays’ matinees – distant
people, from close or near, wondering what to do next.
Bewildered, they look about. Having just tasted the
theater, perhaps they are still stunned by something
newly recognized about themselves. Or, perhaps, just
looking for their stupid bus. Or, perhaps, it is NOW
that their own waste astounds them, into action.
Outstretched hands manage an applause:
‘Spare any change?’ the accolade.

-
Just a short ounce of whiskers, all it was.
That in weight and circumference, volume,
area, load. Everything that you’d want in a
simple mathematics of both place and time.
Oh indeterminate! Oh imprecise! Oh unknown!
I have managed to pound you to death with uncertainty,
while watching your mass absorb all the light and
the essence any strange astronomy could bring. Like
the distant orb above us – it is something which is
talked about but still severely unknown.

-

Broderick Kimmel, at the lodestone of goodness, is also
at the point of man’s departure from this world – that
long kitchen of all his preparation, where, yes, the ideas
are boiling but the conclusions seem overdone.
And he turns once about, and asks:
-

‘Skipper, skipper
What of the sea, and to
where are we going now?’]