strangely poetic g-chat

me: i read the Julie Greicius essay last night
instead of Bukowski
and I wept
and turned my face to the wall
so that my tears
would be mine
alone
and I had a dream
me: in this dream
i kept trying to push
a great sadness out of my body
and my body would clench
to both push
and hold on
me: and I dreamed a poem
that dissolved
just before I surfaced
to the buzzing of an alarm
and the soft static of the shower
and i lay there
with my soul half leaning out of me

There is a certain perspective that pulling away can give you.

The sailboats seen from the small oval window of the plane look like white freckles on the face of the bay. The water is calm and green and I follow our rippling black shadow as we pass over. The beach is empty. A lone jogger traces the delicate curve of the waterfront. We bank over a harbor, colorful cargo crates stacked one upon another like a toy blocks. A cruise ship releases great puffs of smoke from two fat stacks while idling in port, flags sparkling and wind-snapping from its decks. Tugboats, scuffed and dirtied, cut the surface of the water leaving white scars of wake behind them. A Coast Guard cutter skims along a trajectory that seems intent, contrasting the leisurely pitch and roll of various pleasure craft. I soar over all of this as if a great white sea bird. Wings steady, riding a draft towards a faraway destination. I have no concern for the dark things laying quietly in the depths of the ocean, under shadow of boat, beyond the reach of morning light. These shapes twitch and shudder in response to slight sounds, vibrations of a world they inhabit and a cosmos above them that they cannot know without dying, cannot comprehend even in death. Later, when the gloam deepens to indigo, into the purple of black grapes, the bay a mirror that reflects back the night blooming sky, the dark things will begin to feed. The ships will rock on their moorings and the ropes will rub in their knots. All around, the lights will turn on, small yellow orbs of safety, calling people into the hearts of their homes. The hard men and women of the harbor will rest and breathe in the steam of thick soup. A man cups the head of his child and pulls his wife to him, forming a shoal of safety against the unknowable night. The sea ripples as the dark things feed and feed and feed.