Tongue Point

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Artistic Rave Poetry from the heart of experience

Submitted: August 04, 2013

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Submitted: August 04, 2013

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Tongue Point

(May 1993)

 

Gale tossed waves laced with kelp

roll than flatten on rock,

frozen molten

eons ago

erupting from

the ocean floor

steaming sold

in orgasmic fury,

the earth creating itself

recreating the moment

leaving the soft instant

covered with plants

and mollusks

untouched by human hands.

 

The Cicero Kid said,

“people are

a disease

that world contracts

as he played the video games

of life,

exploding images smeared across

the screen.”

He laughed, screamed

 

“You romantic are all alike,”

he told me,

“You care about things.

I don’t care about

nothing

except the sweet young

fury that is furry.”

 

Give me money he yelps,

give me a TV—it helps,

take me home again

he cries, at sixty-five.

I don’t want to die

I don’t want to die

to the rest home nurse

from Iowa who just loves

it out west

I don’t want to die—die—die –

Keep me alive—live—

and the holistic hippie

girl who works for

minimum wage,

but still loves it out west,

stick a tube

up his nose and

he is happy and

bless it lord,

still alive

saved for another day

from the savagery

of his fear of the

unknown.

 

And I, sit on the rocks of Tongue Point

and the waves beat

an eternal symphony

on the fragrant anatomy of the earth.

And I think that I should

stop thinking

and let the fleeting

thoughts drift out

to the ocean, and just for a moment

join the clouds

in symmetry

cumulous, streaked with light

blast of ethereal delight.


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