2012-01-12 / Musings

Salty Dog

“...How far can sailors fly?....We fired
the gun and burnt the mast, and rowed
from ship to shore.
The captain cried, we sailors wept:
Our tears were tears of joy.
Now many moons and many Junes
have passed since we made land.
A salty dog, the seaman’s log; Your
witness: my own hand.”
— Gary Brooker/ Keith Reid, Procol Harum

salt is my no assault teacher:
in the fine line between too much and
not enough
there are never too many cooks —
with her there is no dead meat.
when it rains, it pours:
no need for killing or taxation;
she is freely availed
and unveiled.
no entailing birds; no entrailing
snails.
all merely mirage over a sea

in her embrace.
no funeral offerings for community
pillars:
osmosis rules even in the earth she
owns.
one taste, she
preserves.
no compounded interests
nor going back to salt mines or i’s
or me’s.
salt away; salt down
with salty wit taken with a grain
distilled and fermented.
smelling the salts
awakening with salty lust
in the all ways unhealed wound
that is worthy portal.
spicy mother,
immortal buoyancy,
hold me afloat and hallow me out.
let this salty dog child
come home in you.
not feigning madness, tilling the
tides salt sowed,
yoked beasts unnecessary:
all is purified and consecrated
liminal and uninsulated
uncursed and unconquered.
how can one rebuild a dream?
in random bits and passing words
let this salty dog child
come home in you. ¦

— Rx is the FloridaWeekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pirate cloak of invisibility, but emanating from within this shadow is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who knows: You may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.

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