The ocean when still, beautiful like blown glass, feels like death. Ocean, move! remind me of the living – your rhythm like that of the heart we fortunate ones have within a pulse of God proof of something greater than this life. I stop breathe in the sea air that brings oxygen to steel flesh we fortunate ones live within each rush of blood past skin that protects us from something far greater. I could become the red arid dust of Mars; I could become the toxic gas of Venus and vie with the moon for your affection at night. Here we see what the end might be: calm, beautiful. The arbitrary throb of wind that builds crests, tosses us into troughs, like vengeance for sins committed. The ocean when still, beautiful like blown glass, reminds me of death. Even the smallest of waves seeks out light from their elders: celestial myths, how they glow, but life glows too, and in so doing, punishes the stars drowning their wisdom in radiant pollution, things we think we need right now alight. This glow to starboard – Cuba – Cabo Maisi – flashing white every 5 seconds to guide us along this vein into the organ that calls to us. The ocean enraged channels sailors lost in want of a final kiss or debtor’s gold mourning their failure. The ocean enraged howls through the mast like screams of stolen men, weary to end suffering, casting their lot to sharks. The ocean when still, beautiful like blown glass, feels like death.
Written while at sea in the Caribbean in 2012.
(C) 2012 Stephen Fuller