10,605. TOO BAD

TOO BAD

Too bad how the broadbelt bandies, 

how the shimmer of that oasis runs

to so little? We can catch things on

the way up, or we can catch them

on the way down. (Not as simple as

it sounds). So what is it you want to 

know? The last time I was on a boat,

I can't remember. But I think it was

between Hatteras and Marvel. There

wasn't a lot of sound or noise  -  I'm sure

you know how fog covers things at sea

and closes everything down into a

half-matter of moment, the kind of

view you cannot see. That was all a

long time back, but I can sense some

of it yet. I was never much a sea-faring

guy. All those famous rock-stars, on

about 1980, they all went stupid,

buying boats, taking to the southern 

seas, spending a month or two at

bay, afloat  -  Steve Stills, Bob

Dylan. Then they come back and

write songs about it, saying how vivid

and how important the experience was.

Southern Cross, Caribbean Wind. What

a crock they believe their own drivel.

How facetious can a fellow get?

-

Anyway, now it's all back on land, and

the whole entire word lives on land. No

one wants the sea anymore  - fished out,

dead patches, clogged with plastic, floating 

sulphur pools and gambits of dark oils 

and tars. Put down the boat, for I'd rather

have a hot rod. Something radical as hell

that I can take to the open roadway, tripping

across Pennsylvania and Ohio doing 95.

Sometimes it's better to leave a place you've

never been. Other times it's not. Too bad.