I sit on a futon, drenched in a sliver of shade,
careful balance upon the quay.
Wood the color of ash,
year after year buffeted by sea surf.
Licked by the rough tongue of sunshine.
My margarita rests within reach,
an attempt to weld a fragile barrier,
between my gyre of thoughts
and the creosote swaddling my heart.
The constant wash of waves,
their honesty, hugs me.
Brings an absurd levity I need.
His invectives snuck under
our holiday, sharp little octopedes,
barbs piercing our amorphous harmony.
Here. Alone, I almost believe it
to be phantasmagoria,
some cargo of stress.
His morsel of nopales, a mnemonic
the trigger pull of his feathered glare.
My neck hair prickles
as I become prey to his raptor.
I stagger under the bright violence
of his whispers.
Reduced to less than a vagabond
in his sight,
my seeping tears reflect
his sneer, as if my eyes leaked spit.
I was struck by the whimsy
Just walk away.
Let him grind me down
in the cruel mortar
and pestle of his mind.
But I would be here,
wondering if I were seaborn.
This is a poem crafted from the following random words gifted from facebook friends: