I cannot stay anchored on this dock
where barnacles stick and rot.
Floorboards, one by one, splinter
at the sun. And salt, for what it's
worth dries out my skin.
I think I've tarried long enough
and played my part with ease:
the dutiful shipmate, the captain's hand,
I scrubbed the deck to gleam.
The plank so tempts me like a lover with a
promise -- not yet broken --
and one day soon I'll walk it
with intention to pave my way complete.
The anchor has weighed heavy,
deceitful and mocking,
towards worlds beyond the horizon.
Yet degrees of latitude and longitude
remain untraveled.
We dilly and we dally and then
pretend to live out wishy-washy dreams.
How it happened, I do not know: we somehow meant
to sail away. So here we are, worn out
and brittle; tired of the sunset as we wait for it
to rise.

©2011 b. cisek

*title line taken from Sylvia Plath's "Touch-and-Go"* 

They say the hardest part is getting started. Really? I know nothing about that. I’ve gotten started a million and twenty-seven thousand and one times. Okay, maybe I’m underestimating — but when it comes to starting, who’s counting?

In the beginning was the word. What word? The word Up? But before the Up, there was a Bottom, no? A rockbottom.

That’s where we begin. The start. Perhaps the first of many starts. And can there truly be a true start? False starts happen all the time.

Stop.

Think.

Is a false start akin to taking a first step with the wrong foot? Can the right foot be the wrong foot at the same time?

Words are confusing. You can’t take them at face value. It’s Monopoly money, only this time we’re trading in context.

Float.

Case in point. The word just floats in some meaningless abyss, searching for the anchor of a context.

Sigh.

That’s the point.

Rattle, prattle, tattle: let the games begin:
Mother’s morning attention, teeter-tottering 
to and fro– 
Cat scratched at the door, 
Baby chuckled, 
heckling poor Dog out of his lazy slumber.
Against an amethyst sky, still speckled 
with stars blinking reluctant goodbyes.
The thin line that divides the day from night–  
A clear white-yellow on the horizon–
Committing Sun to rising, 
Rousing the earth.
The sea quiets its moonlit storms,
Laying still as a sheet 
To carry the sound of a distant conch announcing, 
“Here Comes the Day.”
And Mermaids dive deeper, silencing siren songs reserved for night.

She dreams of a place where
Peppermints swirl in a rainbow-colored world:
Wild and groovy,
Anything goes–
Pigs grow wings and Tigers change stripes.
Far-out, my-man/wo-man/no-man.
Anything goes.  
Fairies do not shy away–they play their pranks
On passers-by
Slipping on banana peels,
Tumbling all over themselves and eating words:
Feet become tasty treats because being righteous
Is not really right.
Right?
But anything goes, and there goes the neighborhood.
Goodbye.

I’ll ring you up some day. 
(Dialing and redialing till you pick up.)
I’ll have you over, let’s have a chat.
I’ll offer you some wine in a cup;
Or, if you prefer, a spiral-shaped lollipop.  
We’ll share our stories, 
spot the differences..
I’ll write your book 
you can write mine.
Let’s get going–
It’s easy if we try.
If John Lennon can Imagine, 
so can you and I!--
It’s not hard.
We have each other.
Let’s keep it going.
Don’t stop. Don’t quit.
Life is short enough.

Mother’s rocking Baby now, 
Cat is purring at her feet.  
Dog is somewhere digging, 
(he’s got a bone to pick).  
In the distant horizon,
the waves to the Sun beckon
Like little fingers caressing their coos,
“Hush now.  Time to sleep.”
Tomorrow we’ll start over.  
Over and over till
We get it right.
Right?

New year morning sun. 
Weeds and driftwood wash ashore 
with resolutions.

Tiny toes tickle 
winter waters, rippling 
in the great Pacific.

A sign's stern disclaimer: 
"No Lifeguard on Duty." 
Winter at the beach.

"Play it Safe," it warns 
of changing conditions. 
"Proceed at your own risk."

Caution is a bell 
rung by those who forgot 
about carpe diem.

Greatness hence, 
a resolution in courage. 
Making waves, making waves.

©2013 b.cisek

Lack.

Some words I just don’t like. “Lack.” Sigh. An unfinished sentence. Not as direct as a question, and far, far, far away from a statement. A blank looking to be filled like a child’s growling tummy. And we search and search, finding swanky little trinkets along the way and sugary, sweet lollipops and treats at the candy store. Too bad it’s never enough.

He was like that with this need for something more. Always more. Sometimes, I would swear that he would see right through me because–guess what–I’m not enough. No bells, no whistles and I don’t even come in a shiny wrapper! It’s almost like he had buyer’s remorse! Alas, those papers were signed and he got stuck with a lemon!

***

You were always perfect to me. Perfectly imperfect.

Remember when you called me beautiful? And then that time, I was because you said it. You believed in me in whispers in serenades and music in painting in pillows in brooks in Seattle and Magic Cards in rides to nowhere in Sandman.

I believed in you too. Your mind racing through this grand-prix track, inching toward that prize. Trying to see it through freeze-frames and snapshots ’cause how else can Time be stopped? But even a long night can’t stop the day from coming after trying to stretch it out with projects, and incense and everyone else’s needs. Even then the day catches up.

Around the corner there’s a hint of a better life. Or is it just that grass you see on the other side?

© 2008 b.cisek

*a revision of an older piece*

She’s taken to washing her hair in city sprinklers. Long strands of it, in public view. What’s next? A fireman’s hydrant? The next-door neighbor’s dog’s hydrant? Where’d she come from? Pushing her cart along the streets. Life in a cart, how odd: but not-so-rare. I’ll give you this dollar, she said, if you would go in and buy me some fries. They wouldn’t let me in, she said, looking this way. Nevermind the look, I thought. Besides the sprinkler, when did you bathe last?

Downtown San Francisco, south of market, home to the homeless: reality v dreams. On the other side, the streets are filled with hoodie’d creeps, scooting in scooters to nowhere and somewhere. Radio-controlled. Connected to static, frantic cellular phones. Disconnected. Nobody looks anyone in the eye anymore. Not me, especially. But then this woman, having a sprinkler walks up and does just that. With a dollar for some fries.

Back then, she said, we were artists. With our beat poetry and psychedelic trips. Have you been to blue? Blue is a state of mind, man. It’s fingers snapping, tapping, raspy voices pontificating truths still existent but now somewhat dim, lamenting post-modern dripless candles that do not drip in shrines built to everything with plastic painted faces. Nowadays, even tears are manufactured from techno-sweat.

Across the street the hoodie’d hoods: 21st century lords. Blue was sold to multimedia gulches, manufacturing uniform experiences: uniform non-conformist, individual experiences. Of instant gratification images. Monochrome colors and plaided weekends.

I really want those fries. That’s right: fast-food fries for fast-track lives. Man, she said, can you stop long enough to put down your latte and step into my sprinkler bath? Refreshing. Have a show, go on exhibit: my life-in-a-cart IS performance art. Except nobody’s going to look you in the eye. They’re too busy watching screens and graphs. The world at your fingertips. No more moon-watching. Hurry, hurry, hurry bring your cart!