Out from Under the Boardwalk

Out from Under the Boardwalk

If you said that you could hear my voice

speaking through the seagulls at the beach,

I would believe you.

I’d tell you that if you stand

in the right place

at a specific time,

Like say,

When the crows fly home,

You could forever embrace the talk

of my lickety-split contractual obligations.

Held within the web of forecasted spool,

I’d get to know you.

Maybe even set aside a time

to have you feed me

morseled up bread and french fries.

I’d shed a feather

and grip hard to the tuned tension

of a string connecting my sound to you.

A boob shot through a tube,

Similar to the circus,

I am flying through the sky,

A precise canon, I mind. •

•

If your scripted lines spoke

for your mouth,

Saying, “Your flight is scene.”

I may blush in utter disregard,

A copped memory capping the hatter;

I’d probably trust you with all my heart. •

•

But say I were to read the stage directions,

The preamble,

The prologue,

Only to find delusion has a jettied

spot on the rail of non-fiction;

I’d tell you to read my memoir,

So I move a step to my right,

editing light grammar in proximal time.

It’s a tale of hawked spurs

into the belly of dragged-on contentions.

It is a tale of coming to terms with the simple fact

That you heard my voice,

My echoes,

My cries from the dove

flying above the boardwalk

and you just kept smiling,

nodding off,

yet I speak of wake.

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