trees keep growing

If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

the open road and my bare feet
as the windows drip on the other side of the glass
i ask if you'll be mine,
but we were short lived.

i want to play the rhodes
i want to play the rhodes
i want the open road
to mitigate my bones
i will trace the topographic seismic gestures as i
scuttle next to j. alfred's crab claws in the muck, finding our homes.
just let me know when we've dead ended at the sea


the ocean

It was the kind of weekend when my thoughts were traffic jammed in the crevices of memory and longing and confusion. I felt perfectly solid on the laminated, waterproof map, but at the same time I had never felt so incredibly and miserably lost. I craved talks with a certain brother out of town but not out of the way... We hit the road, my Honda and I, alone and ready to flip through books at the Montrose and Westheimer Half Price, searching for that one read that would change everything. I was ready to indulge the drunken noodles on lunch special before I meditated in front of the Rothko canvases. I sang loud, by myself in my car with the windows rolled up, and for once I did not pine for an invisible twitch.

Driving, driving, in solitude and with my thoughts haunting the dotted lines in front of me. Someone called, but I wouldn't have answered even if it was... No, actually I am mistaken. No one called. I turned up Steven Merrit louder and pushed my aviators up my nose and drove. The sign read "forty-five south." I exited in that curvy scurry of switching too many lanes too fast in that houston honking air.

I want to be a forester

Run through the moss on high heels
That’s what I’ll do, throwing out a boomerang

Waiting for it to come back to me

Oh Shit, says I. I'm going the wrong way! Forty five south, are you kidding me? I've been to Houston a million times, and how could I exit toward...

Galveston, the sign read.

I paused for a moment as my car's cruise control kept the speedometer on 78. My aviators slid down my nose an inch, and I smiled and kept going. I'm going to the ocean, I replied to myself.

I passed the exit to Rice University. I passed the exit to NASA. I passed all the billboards trying to convince me to get a vasectomy reversal and some novelty items at Krystal's Palace. I was already ironing out the kinks in my cerebral matter, and nothing else mattered but the sea.

The stoplights in Galveston halted me every fifty feet, but I kept going. My gas tank splintered in the red, but I kept going. I had no cash on me and the man in the striped hat asked 8 dollars when I rolled down my window at Stewart beach. After he laughed at me asking if they took debit, I kept going. The road ended at the ferry, and I still hit the gas pedal. It was something I was searching for, a ticket to ride me out to see, for free. God, not even a trip to the beach is free any more. The highway finally ended at a beachside hotel, and somehow I found myself in the shadiest parking lot, unzipping my hoodie and leaving my laced shoes in the car.

The water was actually clearer than I normally see it in the murky summers. I stuck my feet in and inhaled.

Salt. NaCl.
Water. H2O.
Sand... crushed up little rocks.
Alright, I'm ready to go home.
I looked at the horizon where air met the sea,
did an about-face slowly,
put my key in the ignition
and turned around.