As I near the Edge of the World
Sometimes I skim over silicone surf
Other times I stall
Wallowing in cold pea and ham soup.
Sometimes my sails are furled
Other times not – as I steer through gusts of peer opinion.
Foot to bow rail, I scan the horizon
Wanting-not-wanting to see land nor life.
Other times I crouch below shell-deck
Studying chipped thumbnails
On coffee-embracing hands
Muttering secular incantations
Against hot air squalls
Trying to turtle me.
My rudder may not be new nor keen
But it has held to courses few would follow
My canvas may be frayed and patch-calloused
From innumerable heavy seas
But it still trims true.
And hauls me along readily
under my full-blown indignation
My hull may be scarred and crusted
From unexpected reef and debris
But it bears its name proudly
And sunset glows plainly
Uninterrupted by sold-out-logos
The stars I sail by are constant
I proudly lift my hand
And bow my head to their benediction
My chart is my own
An irregular record.
A Volume of Vicissitudes
All my own.