At the Table on the Ocean

Sounded like a person I could talk to or a want to hear more

I am no different, everybody just wants to be heard

Hear ‘em bitch about the weather, the war, or the ice-cream 

Exiled the want-talk outside the city wall or

In the tower or caged up like a reprimanded dog or gimp

Ego confined for a muted eternity because the beast

Cannot bear the cacophony of silence blinded by the monstrous  

Notion that any of the syllables ever rung to a damn bit of production

The verbs and nouns are bullets of a man with a gun at a table

Handle facing and a barrel and a teetering single bulb light

No one home but words are wrapped up like presents contemplated  

How a man can give them to anyone as if Christmas was real

The populace with their deities and sleeping bag faiths

Bundled like marvelous super-hero capes to leap buildings with their version

Of history of now like a bull rider going into minute fifty-nine  

Seen the devil and he is only human combustion in the notions

Seen god and he asked me who the fuck the devil was, had to be

A choice-filled thought to get what we want; a way out, a way down

To blame the absent sound of speaking in rooms where no one is around  

The memories are vampires chomping at the space

Between prayer and faith ran out of tokens at the arcade

To play-continue up a man and stand to stare at the mirrored

Reversed screen the bleeds in ones and zeroes  

No reprograming for the pain of knowing there is no karma

I can think of nothing more depressing than the dogs and cats

Preaching everything happens for a reason

Justification for the shit and smiles, the faith and prayer was worth the while  

I gave the time; I wrote the lines of knees on rice, of obeying the rules

Genuinely contrite when failure ate the only will I had despite

The midnight monsters and angelic mornings the silence is a leviathan

Without mooring to shore, sailing every ocean, planet or astral plane  

There is nowhere beyond the maw of moonlight’s reflecting pull

The tide is all in the compulsion that some men are gunned down at twelve

Some teenagers are riddled with cancer of the lungs; speech is a mirage

Of traditional impression of grandfathers standing on their progeny’s pedestal

 

To embrace the time that should have been saved for later in their genial line

Sometimes that is just the way it goes and to say this was divine

Or planned or the work of a helping hand is preposterous comedy  

I made the bed of ration and I know there is part of me

That genuinely believes there is a scale of moment for the capricious whale

To devour my flesh for the oblivion of nothingness will do the job just fine

I am entered into the recognition of the signs; that there is no guarantee  

Only choice and reflection and in the picture cresting in the waves

I see Ulysses drowning at sea; diving in and giving in

To the madness of the endless similarity

It’ll happen one day screaming at the stars for another form of gravity  

Knowing all the while the force is internal; it always is