Adrift
 
Adrift and no island in sight.

Whereas the poet Koyczan suggested
"We are all shipwrecked on this idea
that everything must be explained,"

How sublime for some of us,
this floatation of impotence
taking us where our innate sense of direction
finds us that place,
that anchor,
that surreal ice cream sundae,
that Dodger Dog with onions,
easy on the mustard,
that place where who cares about us doesn't matter,
who pays attention to us adrift is ignored.

For the critical thinking among us,
that place is out there
where the tides make the choices
because we're willing to drift with abandonment.

Where else can moon and sun
or the dastardly cultural hurricanes
speak loudly and freely to us,
show us the leaks in our boat,
the ragged holes of our sails,
the salty brine of our thirst?

And still…

How savagely some cling to controllers’s flotsam ideas,
tiding the ill prepared to the seaweed strewn shoreline,
where anyone might find the FedEx box on shore,
discover the coconut to make one’s only friend,
aloneness finally making emotional connection
while together sending desperate messages
to be rescued.

While our moral compass points to the endless horizon
where we trumpet: “Never the harpoons of the oppressor
will pierce my heart,
my hot dog,
my ice cream sundae,
the search for MY shore”,
the solitary disquiet of isolation,
can be made surreal or intimate,
delivering the ohm of the winds,
or the never ending angry reverberation of a gongs insistence,

Such can become individuality adrift,
determining its own shipwreck.