My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death....
God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea...
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.