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He’s off on some first-person voyage again
purple shores of yesteryear all fading now
standing, feet planted in the helm
watching the spume, observing how a seagull
wings its way in circles, seems to sing
this way dear Captain from its hoarse
Eyes fixed on the tiller, ears cocked to his
internal music – outside reality fades.
Reality which for us is daily bread, embattled warriors,
wives washing the floor, the politics
of self-important shopkeepers, artists and poets
boiling with ego, demanding to be viewed and heard,
all the constant clamor of harpsichords and traffic
dimming now, flattening into waves and clouds,
the shore of a new continent naked and beckoning
awaiting its discovery, his fixed sextant and compass
is all his serious intent allows.
His coffee long ago has grown a skin
the hourly newscast bleats its spazzatura
into empty air. Abandoned now, an airline magazine
glossy with duty-free, sighs a disappointed Gucci
or Black Label sigh. Not for him the wars behind,
the reddening fires, currency exchange and stations of desire.
He’s off on his first-person voyage now
and as the winter sun sets crazily in Polaroid outside,
a window closes, opaque and lost, hardly discerned at all.
He grasps the tiller wild in fierce delight
the spires and turrets of a new adventure
coming ever closer – as the seagull sings again
this way dear Captain, this way.
© Johnmichael Simon
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