Friday, January 9, 2009
Death and Politics at the End of the World
Hovering in Florida’s bastard equivalent of Cuba’s Bayamo, I pause, blinking at brackish blue skies that could only be produced by the production of products as I grip the pile. Bowing my head, I pray the violent wind burst won’t force the race into postponement. Another delay would take me over the brink. Nature’s sudden intake, undoubtedly pausing to catch her breath before the next onslaught, allows me to pell-mell it down the pier to the skipjack that shuttles to and fro the Straits of Florida. I board cautiously; ever wary of my tendency to topple, leery of the murky waters below.
The hollow husk bobs skittishly. Stowing bag and phobia, I stretch onto a cushioned bench, settling in for few breaths before being plagued with day touristers and crew. My hand tickles and licks at the water’s lapping surface an impromptu muted melody that articulates pensivity. The notes coalesce into composition. Schumann’s Albumblatter channels to fingertips dabbling on the brink of conscious thought, skittering on the elastic veneer that allows my water-skater-sanity to copulate.
Bits of sun pas de chat across the water’s ripples, then tour grand jete back to their source. Pillowed clouds partner one another past an azure backdrop from one horizon to the other. The gradually receding current a low rolling bass accentuated with the cymballic crash of blue liquid on gray rock. Water thumb-rolls the shell of the craft, cracking and vibrating the cadence of the tide. A feathered orquesta charanga winds its way through the palms, lulling me into a Christmas Eve truce with myself. The surface of the water winks and blinks, concealing the secrets of the darkness. A silver blade shimmies just out of reach, then flits into the depth . . . a tongue . . . down into the deep chasms, dipping and swirling, rolling, pressing . . . glimpse of cerulean eyes just at my pelvic bone . . . Deeper, down, sinking into cavernesial darkness. Innervated flesh, alit with sensation . . . A gust from the gulf tugs at languorous locks. The soft slurp of water seeping in and out, in and out . . . flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. . . Rhythmic rocking up… down… up… down. Free falling among celestials, light bending (blah). . . A long, sustained ”caw” solos into the wildness, articulates life and joy . . .
I want you here,
I want you . . .