oct 07
a little fine whiskey to mellow the constant burn
at the back of my throat
and the saltsting
in the eyes.
how many mistakes wrought
suns set to rise again
if man's memory were not faulty
our lids would never wish to open again.
someone described surfing as living purely in the moment.
it made me understand it as a philosophy,
as religion
as hope
wave cupping ever moving gliding crashing peace.
rising and sinking in neverending rhythms
from the berth that first spit us on land,
groping, hairless, pale,
wishing to go back home.