you say its just glass, i think it is beautiful. my pockets are fuller, i hungrily grab at everything, especially presents you pick up for me. i wish you wouldn't have told me you didn't like things before giving them to me.
you only seem to like the complete shells. did you know how cracked we are??
you hold my hand. electricity runs all throughout my body. i don't' get a lot of hugs like you. i loved it but it spooked me, i ran off.
we get so involved in looking for treasures i hardly notice we are wandering apart. i sing a few songs to myself and tiptoe in the waves.
the ocean is cold. it numbs my hairy legs enough so that it doesn't really hurt when i'm pelted with pebbles.
the pebbles move around my feet. they are all beautiful. some just too common to want to pocket. many interesting things roll by so fast i cant sort them out before they are gone.
i check on you. yes, not far, in my jacket, looking in tide pools. less intense, less selection, but by far easier to catch and more comfy. i prefer being inside the ocean tho, sometimes it seems we are very different.
i return to the land side and let the ocean chase me up and down the beach. i feel as if i am playing tag with a monster that is letting me win. it is starting to get dark so i write the names of my dead and departed in the sand. i finish each name just in time for the tide to watch it away. it is a healing ritual, i've repeated it many times.
i am still gathering goodies, but this time only from outside the ocean. the ocean seems more sacred than ever, to my thc soaked brain it seems like god is offering me these shiny things as a comfort of sorts.
you lay down and took at the starts. neither of us know where the big dipper is. i really want to lay beside you, to hold you. you sense it and jump up. i am sorry.
you want to get going. i stall, my ritual is not complete. i lay down and look up at the starts. why are there so many more than in the city?? i spell out the names of all my dead in the stars. to me writing names in the ocean or spelling them out in the stars is a prayer of sorts, a reminder to both god and myself that these people once were.
i don't think anyone will write my name in the sand after i die. i run up to the ocean and write it myself. its so dark. the letters are gobbled up just as i am able to focus my bloodshot eyes on them.
i brewed these thoughts on the beach and scribbled them down on a greyhound bus. on both of the aforementioned occasions, i was stoned out of my gourd. when yer stoned its like poetry falling from your spirit. very similar to collecting rocks at the beach, really. eventually you sober up and empty your pocket, finding a lot of sand and drivel where you thought there were diamonds.
by the time we get off the bus, i'm cold sober. we put our treasures together in one bag. You clean them in the hotel sink; making them look like they were picked up in a store instead of on the beach. They are packed with us when we go, unpacked weeks later, and never bothered again.
Want to read more about the webmasters wacky adventures with the straight roomate she had a crush on? A few months later I wrote her a poem, too much honesty.