Something tells me

to stop, but then I want to run

another lap, that’s my curse, my tercet burst,

but the dirt, always flying, into

my left eye, never

the right, well

alright,

that’s what’s to be sung, for the bell’s a-rung

count backward from 13 to 1, what’ll

that do? Who knew, it’s a riddle, you at that end of

the piano, and me here, by the odd curve, wouldn’t call it

bell-like, just a shell’s bite, I’m in Monterey, and the

airborne salt’s in my tiny exposures, all I want to do: jog along the wharf,

smell the cooks’ productions– the chowder, the bass, or is it cod, or salmon,

I don’t know, I’ve never fished, well seriously anyway,

so I just admire, sit on the bench and stare at the boats wishing

I owned one, could see what my uncle would say,

how he would the tide play, it isn’t reality, it’s a marketable

novel, meant to be

sold, and only when properly booked, told–

Irksome, the job, so I chide what it tides,

and then I have coffee, on their dime,

what can they do, but make another schedule, give orders, yell, that’s all they’ll be

known for, shown whore, no distinct pattern just a cloned core

(5/10/14)