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{giving up on poetry at a young age} luc simonic he was twelve and found himself flung upon a rock jetty. there was no voice to be heard except the sea – he clung for his life. the arrangements of barnacles ensconcing the rocks – silent - the gulls had moved on shore to fast food parking lots; once he imagined he heard the oscillations they caused in and above the peaceful eddies. now they bloodied him ruthlessly sheering clean off; his hair, his coccyx, his appendix, his 401k. he was left with chicken pox, tonsillitis, hacking cough, salmonella, french toast, artichokes, and a half loaf of sourdough. when he was eighty, he died. |
