Here, another secret love song for the ephemeral lady of the ages who,
shining in the atmospheric disparity of now,
manages to still make me smile.
I wanted to let you know you were exceptional
and you have no worries about anything bad
getting the better of you because you are one
of those exposed nerve types who braves way to much
of what is really going on to ever lose track of yourself.
There is this beach in California that became beautiful
as a result of all the garbage people flicked off a cliff,
and slowly, over the years, despite an awful thing done,
the beach became overrun with perfect, rounded globes,
rounded glass of green from the sprite bottles of the 70’s,
and orange from rusted car windshields, all of it now
given over to the strong argument for light and truth.
And even though the same people originally responsible
came with the hordes of others and slowly with shovels and
gallon buckets pilfered her new suit, leaving a couple rubies for
the desperate late comer tourists to hustle amidst her sandy locks for,
I still think it is amazing and remains worth nothing that
the struggle in everything is like this. It permits us these moments,
and we can all race rapturously to accumulate a chunk of it,
or we can lay in a bed of precious trash made glass or
we can be the beach itself, let the world make us
its temporary Prometheus, and either way I had
to say to you that you are like that California beach to me.
(Or I’ve lost myself in the allegory and given over to the infamy of romance)
It is only a matter of time and the world will take most your jewels.
You will still be perfect to spend days with though.
You will never get boring to me.
I am your biggest fan.
Sign me up for the newsletter of your heart.
The blade of light that cuts across the page
of the recent tome claiming you which,
stinging eyes, washes up just a little
more rounded, more solid, soul
than before, kept warm, loved.
We’ll have a kiss one day.
I have a sense about these things like
a photic sneeze that
last’s one hundred nights, finally giving over
to a glint of waxed moon, giving
over to the precise waves of time,
giving over to truth.