The Muted Archipelago

He used to talk but sailors shut him up

one piece at a time like


something out of a Johnny Cash

ditty resounding off brickyard pockets of energy

floating where things float

because they do in certain

locales if you look closely.

Barnacled rocks dotted the lengths and widths and circumferences

and other geometric distortions on reality

that do meaningful things

if you believe in things

that are meaningful.


Sailors don’t.


He used to roll with the waves,

slippery slopes of crashing brine

unlike the oatmeal the sailors packed down tubular,

truncated esophagi that swallowed tightly,

loosening for a red dawn that

meant bloody waters from shark attacks.


He was used to shark attacks.

They signified freedom.

Or was it release?

He often confused the two.


He used to talk but things change,

even stone immutable.

Add one billion gallons of Freon to

an ocean of saltwater and the

muted archipelago won’t mind.

In fact, it won’t say a word.


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