writer's den

i have nothing to say now, after writing two poems in my head
only to have them disappear instead into the foggy muir woods bay, floating away as i spoke their words into the windy sounds of seaside.
i think they were both about you, but i can't be sure,
five bottles later life's muddled blur has got me spinning around drawing up perspectives high off the ground, tripping off cliffs without stir or echo.
we shaved heads today, under the sun and mist of misunderstanding,
where skin was shed and life remade into a montage of cliched themes gone blissfully unsaid.
we forgot the salmon, but brought the corn,
not hearing each other before the storm, draining what's left of happy into the puddles of sad,
the shoreline seemed peaceful as crashing waves stirred emotions to powerful to brace.
bodies broken and hearts red with life, you are as beautiful to me now as the day we played in the sun on angel island.
life's p.s. ever clear and loud, following in the steps of the proudest of proud writers.