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There are reasons for yes, and reasons for no.

My thoughts on either always end up all wrong. I switch ‘em. Fake myself out. Sucker punch to the logic. Uppercut to the stilts holding me up, ‘til it’s me, the sea, the powers that be. Just smooth stones, jagged cliffs, side walking crabs, pools in eyes.

Scanning the horizon from one bend of forever to the next. Standing in muck, feeling nibbles which are not bites. Dealing with slime and seaweed snaking itself around my very still self. While waiting for direction I am given the future:

I will grow a large pearl over the gritty parts. Sell it later for handsome profits and the admiration of clams everywhere.

My brain will crack open, light will get in. Someday my pen will not stop. This emotional emissary will be steered toward an island in the sun. There I will string nodeshells into my braided hair. I will never hear, “Hey, where’s my sock? My dinner, my pants?” I’ll be away having a fine self-romance.

Remember this body? This glorious glove? This lavender lady who knows how to make love out of fibers, seashells and throaty deep singing? Through swan dives, high tides, sharp stars of midnight? To shape a fire, ember with wings? A hot thing, a sure thing, a joy in the morning? A firefly, a night sky, ocean forever? Yeah, homemade goodness, it’s in there. I AM your mama’s chicken fuckin’ soup.

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