Shipwreck of Another Kind
by Odin Roark

Adrift and no island in sight,
where as Shane Koyczan suggested,
"We are all shipwrecked on this idea
that everything must be explained."

How sublime this floating,
taking us where our innate sense of direction
finds us that place,
that anchor,
that sometimes ice cream sundae,
that Dodger Dog with onions,
(hold the ketchup)
that place where
who cares about us doesn't matter,
who pays attention to us is ignored.

That place where the tides deliver us
because we're willing to float
with no island in sight

Where else can the moon,
the sun,
or the dastardly hurricanes
speak freely to us,
show us the leaks in our personal vessel,
the ragged holes of our sails,
the salty brine of our thirst,
and still say welcome…
you're free and not the other kind of shipwreck—yet.

How savagely we cling to another’s compass,
fearful of the seaweed strewn quiet waters
where we too might find the FedEx box on shore,
discover the coconut to make our friend,
realize aloneness made puissant.

Sand messages begging to relinquish rescue,
solitary pain made surreal and intimate,
delivering the ohm of one’s internal winds,
the never ending reverberation of the gongs,
even the goddamn arrows of the oppressor
trying to pierce my heart,
my hot dog,
my ice cream sundae.

From memory’s confessional…

“Just plain evil, my son.” the man in clerical collar tells me.

“I don’t think so,” I whisper.