POCKET LINT

  • HOW TO BE A TIDE

    a poem about oceans

    The energy of the world I feel inside me radiating outward, so that I feel everything, and I am a permeable conduit for all this love. I put my hand on my chest to hold my heart in place. I fear it might fall out onto this sidewalk and collect itself with the plastic bags scurrying, who I frequently mistake for cats or raccoons (and maybe they are just as alive, just as critterly, I do dream), the weary coffee lids resting, feeling into their wounded torn edges, the orange peels disintegrating, making themselves smaller and harder each day as they dissolve into the everything, the chicken bones left as remnants of the vampire-cocks that wander the streets of Baltimore after midnight.

    I am wandering the streets of Baltimore after midnight with my friends, the vampire-cocks and my pack of plastic bags, searching and howling and feeling. Everything is quiet, except for three boys running across the street through a green light down the way, and, of course, our howling, voracious and desperate and impossible.

    This morning, in the wake of last night’s yearning, I hold onto the residue of magic in my pores. The sunlight fills me with unbearable joy that, yes, spring is coming, and, yes, I do always forget how much winter dulls my mood. There is some deep uncomfortable vibrating in between my ribs that is cavernous and infinite and wants to a terrifying extent. I need sweat and dirt and blood and sun that burns. I am the water beast ready to break, waves, ready to howl: “I am alive. I am alive, and I fucking love you.”

    This morning, I am walking on the sidewalk. Air is crisp, but the sun is bright. I hear the birds singing, and I let myself be gentle again, breathing. I put my hand to my chest: feeling into my beat along with the rhythm of everything. I, an ocean with an insatiable appetite for being/I, a being interconnected with the ocean of all things.