Saturday, July 06, 2013


I write my rage filled letters,
and furious poetry,
roll them up,
and slide them into a bottle.
These are letters to an ominous,
silent God
who is too busy, or too indifferent
to answer me.
It’s hard to say which,
and I wonder which body of water
I should fling this bottle into.

When I was eight
I sent my first message in a bottle.
I threw it over the side of my grandfathers boat.
The great Atlantic took it
before the cod jigging began.
It was early in the morning
with the mist and fog still hanging
just above the water,
and the rise and fall of each giant ocean swell
carried my bottle further away.

My letter then was not to God,
or full of rage.
It was a letter to a would-be pen pal,
maybe a new, true friend, from some far off land,
maybe a boy or girl my age,
with a heart for adventure,
just like me,
way over on the other side
of the expanse.
Maybe they will send me a letter...
maybe I will visit them some say when I'm older.....

So much hope.

I never did receive an answer.
I waited all that summer into the fall
with the spark of hope still stubborn
in me.
I gave up eventually. Reluctantly.
I think it was the following fall.

It’s funny how I have never really stopped

thinking of it.

Plato once said somewhere
that pain restores order to the soul.
This leads me to only one conclusion:

Plato must have been

on fucking


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