Everybody is always negotiating their own notions of Home. Its the most furtive dream there is. We’re on a sea and we try structure, on the oil black booms we make-pretend confer permanence
I’m riding my boat back and forth across some pretty big grey waves to see this girl, waving a candle back and forth over my head, hoping she sees, steers this way. Its always nighttime, red sky. so supernaturally long after you spend an hour merging your heartbeat to a clock, to the crust clicking sextants and a million maritime tools. My room is a mess of charts and maps, men hoping to find parallel routes, trying to make sense of the sea. Rocks loom. The boats crisscross and we moor them at the foreheads, the bow lines braided, the mermaid figureheads embrace. We’re staring into oneanothers eyes it seems to me, but in reality we’ve become a tangle, the black ink lines are too rich and we become a blur across the wet paper.
You’re off again winding your ropes, tying down sails, fearful of storms. You glance nervously at this leather skin of mine, gashed and torn from the pegs, knives and broken barstools of twenty lands and wonder if I’m wise. I hum. There is no silence here. We are a mist, everything is glowing. You’re sending out birds, sending out a million