some broken lines

I launch myself like a ship into the night, spinning alone, nearly pitched by every wave, though from the shore I appear only to be gently rocking, steady, resilient. In truth I am held together only by the tense concentration of my panic. The black violence of the waves, like erotic viperous kisses, suspends me in desire.

I am blinded by the love of truth, so that I cannot see truth directly. As I finally approach it, it expands in my double-vision and stitches itself over me, a coverlet of burning. It burns me up.

Like a bird with no natural history, I screech and tear through exotic air, spilling bad omens.

Nothing can take form, take flight. Everything dies, stillborn in its too-frantic desire for life. Nothing stands still long enough to name it - everything cries to be named.

The Pelican was an omen I could understand. As we stared into that fire, hearing the forlorn cries of the bird's terror, we knew the finality of the voyage. The round trip circled us like a noose, and knotted tightly as we headed North.