Grey Sweet Mother
The gulls were calling. Marcus sat on a salted bench just out of waves reach and loosened to them slap and suck the pebbled sand, foaming there near his feet like whispered homages to the moon, silent signals of a kind obedience, quiet commands like clockwork, each element running on an earthen instinct–hatch to the ocean and mind the birds–that is never to be discovered. Simply is. And is is…spuff.
Marcus had fallen asleep, closing mind to his grey sweet mother, breathing in a cool comfort on the bench, on the sand like a speck of it. He was unshaven and he was there on the surface, asking not and wanting nothing but the flesh of something. He had his toes and he had his job and he could sleep, because he felt that tomorrow he would have his toes and have his job. He could sit on sofa and he could listen to music. He could baste in human achievement. He could wash his hair and wipe his bum with it. He could watch sex on tv and cool and dress like them with it. He could forget everything but whatever, and he could dive deep into it. Missing.
And as he dreamed, the colors–red, gold, orange, pink–marched off into the sea, fizzing like fires, not seen and never felt, passed through with smallish regard and smaller desire for question, for openness. We walk, talk–we build our disbelief, disproving with fragments, figurings–open your mind to close the windows, emotion unfit for equation, strong opinion shouted through eyelids, variables in the closet still never known.
And we dream, prostrate, writing formulas into the sand, notching nothings, half-listening to mumbled rumblings, background noise. We wait, mothered and prodigal, to return. Adorned and shinny, sinking like tiny ships catching the last glimmers of the sun through first feet of water, sparkling like silver fish and giving to the murk uncontested. Clockwork.
And the world breathes around us.
And the gulls are calling again.