April 1998 / Volume One / Issue Two
Dave Gerstle

This head grows and glows as a moon-
       sucking water, pulling liquid
from the crying breast in this body,
        this stammering heap of a body,
with its 98 percent
        and rising.

Yes, rising.
       But the actions aren't so fluid these days.
(Reference point: See Man-Balancing Broomstick-
       With Fishbowl-Upon Forehead-While Weeping)
Hear this noble noggin, shake this noodle,
       my hat sizes pushing the edge of the envelope.
He told me, "The Last Thing Ya See Might Be The Shore,
       But, Then... That's Drowning For Ya!"

You and I know, it's the dampness that divides us.
       It could be so much as a teaspoon less
that decides whether you run for public office
       or if someone sets a coffee mug on you.
Because we were all made of stone not so long ago.
       Some of us still are, you've seen them,
the blank eyes, devoid of tears.
       How could they ever hope to comprehend
the crashing waves?    The rising tide of a man? 
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