Fine, I'll tell you:
Years later
I still go there
in my dreams
sometimes.
It's usually in the morning
between the garbage truck
beeping, backing up, dumping
and my alarm--
the most vivid imagery
with the sounds
of reality interfering;
a sacrosanct incongruity
which only a father could love
precious flesh beside him
in the sweat.
It starts the same
with a skiff pulling up
to that island
clandestinely
persona non grata
lying low in its hull.
My beloved drunkard
of a captain drops me off
on the eastern shore
to explore the ruins
that we tried to save.
It's different in dreamscapes.
There's fine sand
and stairwells stubbornly exist.
I scour the ground
for treasures undiscovered
remembering what's most precious:
the bonds we built with strangers
united by a common goal
unrelated to our woes ashore.
Unlike those in power
we understood the assignment.
I hear a tour passing by
a football field away
and hit the deck
like respiration's overrated.
Sabotage
or centrifuge?
Assassination
or distillation?
Ignorance ain't innocence.
We developed an immunity
to antibiotics.
The sun comes up
and I scramble to my feet
not regretting the sacrifices made:
a normal life, children
when I swore I had a baby
aborted in the womb
by a snake whose death
will only sadden me
when I see him again
in hell.
We'll die on a Tuesday
with things left undone
that we aimed to achieve
and packages in the mail.
If you're big on goodbyes
now's the time.
Maybe in the next life
we'll be able
to replicate
beautiful things.
