Tag Archives: ship

Three Different Oceans In A Dry Martini (Poetry From A Cruise Ship)

On the linoleum planks of a cruise ship
midnight sky breathes
purple dust on me.  The ocean ringing in my ears.
I wonder which ocean troubles me most:

the ocean of poetry, so vast, engulfed
in sinking metaphors of life
meeting death through powdery horizon.

Or the ocean environmentalists caution me against—
Graying feverish moan of toxic
consumer past.

But it’s the ocean seeping
inside me,
quietly dampening molecules
containing freeze-dried secrets.
It promises to expose them.

Something in me needs to understand
the heart of a killer.
Someone in me recites obscure plays
by forgotten 15th century writers
who all lost their fame to Shakespeare.

All the oceans find each other,
one leaking its information to the next
until they invent a uniform rhythm:
spraying, rocking, shouting
curse words, the cure for cancer,
tips for better home living.

When there is a desperate squeak like an engine
devouring the last of its oil,
the ocean dries up as the shore appears.
One orange speck at a time.
As the night falls back into the same place I met it,
the oceans murmur their dying desires:

They want me to find transcendence
before it’s too late.

But the pizza buffet closed at nine o’clock.

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Ah Cruise Ships, Oh Humanity

I have a loose theory
there is a big steel tank hidden in the heart
of the ship.
When I close my eyes, tucked away in twisted
cotton imposter, in stiff air-conditioned slumber,
there is a gritty rumbling, and among it,
high-pitched dog whistle cries
for rescue.
I’m afraid I’ll sleepwalk
dragging bare, sunburned feet.  The broadness
in my shoulders and stance
almost Egyptian.
When I reach the center of the ship
I’ll climb each rung up the side of the tank,
waking only when I’m at the top.
Deep gray rubber pulsating,
terrified
by his own wisdom.
Moby Dick has been captured,
subdued,
left to contemplate existentialism
in transit to Mexico.
I want to reach out and touch his skin,
feeling equal parts slime and blanket.
Did anyone ever love him?
Do whales have souls that plummet into thick
atmospheric holes with the speed of death
like humans?

I have a loose theory
Herman Melville writes me letters
from wherever he is.  I get the feeling
he doesn’t know or care who I am.
He scratches ink to paper fervently trying to understand
depression he mistakes for mediocrity.
I don’t know how to respond to him,
how to share with him the same honest chord
that plugs me into the ocean rhythm .
I’m not sure if he’s Ishmael or Bartleby or just plain
Melville.  I’m afraid he’s not certain.
I’m afraid I’m not certain
we will ever find each other
trapped in separate compartments of this earthly space.

We Never Got Our Salads

It’s a half hour too late
when we reach the cruise ship dinner table draped
in pink table cloth the shade of tired faces.
What shape are our napkins folded in tonight?
God knows our lives depend on it.
—and you think I’m joking.

Two older men perched at our table.
They tell us they’ll buy us whatever
wine we like, in hopes to discover
where our tan lines end.
We prefer a bold Shiraz, they prefer blonde
fuzz on the smalls of our backs.

But where is our bread?
Where is our butter?
We wait.  Our napkin swans mutilated,
flattened to stretch across our laps
forever.  One man whispers divorce
while the other coughs unemployed.
We smile sweetly through their ribs,
seeing shallow encasings
holding what now beats slower.

Someone makes a toast:
To being young again!

All Lounge Chairs Are Collapsible

We fan ourselves on deck ten,
the sun smearing yellow slabs of light in our eyes.

You know there are cruises that don’t stop at ports;
they go nowhere
—my friend informs me.
But I need to be moving towards something
at all times.

He won’t call me back;
he says he’s drunk but he misses me.
—the other one whines through a smile of toothy lament.
We all nod in counterfeit agreement.
Within each nod exists a gated community.
This is love. A false sense of security.

Everybody who so much as glances overboard
contemplates jumping.

The Outer Space

When you fall it’s in one direction—always down
The haphazard spiral someone drew in a notebook margin
The neon arrow that blinks and sparks and catches fire
It’s all meant to illustrate your trajectory
Where you’re going there’s no handspun moon
No ticking clock or bomb
What you brace yourself against, you can’t take with you
The railings, the wooden ladders, the shoulders of
Sturdier men than you
There’s great speculation about where you end
But the debates are short-lived conversations
Between poker games—the next hand

In space where your echo carries just as much weight
As your hands and your bottles
Imagine nothing is italicized and emphasized
And wrapped in heavy gestures
There is nothing you can say that will
Carry you to the next level
By now, you’ve missed an entire war
There are people above or beneath you
who fought for and lost things
That you can’t even imagine exist in real life

When you’re falling through a black hole
The only thing you can love are shapes
The things you pass never get closer or further away
Glowing lights contain their bursting in compact rectangles
Nothing orbits anything anymore; no lullaby
Physics is your crying mother and you owe her again

Again and again. It’s time for a new hole
On a golf course, from a bullet
It stopped mattering to you a long time ago
You’ve lost that patient sense of narrative arc
The paper airplane that got confiscated and when it was returned
You didn’t remember it at all
It’s funny how ‘falling’ sounds like an accident
You were pushed, dropped, flicked like the spark from a flame
You think there is a force throwing its weight at you
Again and again. Like a pillow case filled with hard-nosed books
And people celebrating their traditions of letting you down.

When you’re falling through a black hole
You got there because you hi-jacked the ship
You propelled it into nowhere and
You got there as fast as you could.