Sitting Here Cruising Thousands Of Feet Down

All your love is gone
So sing a lonely song
Of a deep blue dream

quoted in, “All That’s Left Of The Atlantic Ocean”

The city streets are empty now
The lights don’t shine no more
And so the sounds are way down low
Turning, turning

The sounds that flow into my mind
The echoes of the daylight
Are everything that is alive
In my blue world

“Turn To Stone,” E.L.O.

I look at the USGS North America site almost every day. There are often quakes up in the Aleutians and there are often quakes along the West Coast. But I don’t remember ever seeing the map look quite like this—swarms up north, out west, down in Central America and scattered randomly across the US.

Rhonda caught me pretending my pencil
was a submarine and I was captain
and we were cruising thousands of feet down
studying the strange, dark, mystery oil
that doesn’t rise up like normal oil but
flows along bottom contours like lava.

“What’s this?” Rhonda asks. “Are you pretending
you’re captain of your pencil submarine
down in the Gulf of Mexico again?”

My fantasy crumbles like an earthquake
or a seaquake that sends the strange black oil
mixing with surface waters in whirlpools.

I surface quickly. As I come ashore
Rhonda sighs looking at the disaster.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



Tears From The Heart Of The Sea


The Point Of A Pin


Sunlight On Lidian Emerson


Whispering On The Moon