The Ocean

the ocean is a vast pair of lungs
heaving with catarrh,
swollen with greatness and
swelling with yellow-white froth.

these old lungs suck air like a trumpet
blowing past the stale air inside itself,
giving the ear wanton repetition.

these lungs are only the salt and water
of a great surface and
below this surface some say there are
a mountain of intruders making life.

I know there is nothing down there.

Life below the tumult
of waves hitting lungs
is as unforeseen as an aftershock,
a watered down idea like a drunk's imagination.

suffering is

1. insignificant
enough without thinking
or knowing that the planet
is all one organism.

The mushroom grows
beneath the surface,
spreads its sponge and fiber
across the curve of the earth,
linking with roots of aspen groves,
linking to each other,
linking to themselves.

2. A burn on my arm
is the death of one cell, not many.

And the sea washing over me is
the sea washing over itself.

And a deep shudder of sadness is a
Drop of water from a spray of sea, evaporating.

Relativity

The sun’s size
and yet,
a cloud big enough to block it.

The Cit is Ugly

Here in these cracks
next to the gum wads,
the old cigarettes,
some dust from me and you,
is a flat, hot weed, growing.