like Gulliver in the land of Lilliputians
except there are no Lilliputians here,
only the wreck of someone's life, plastic
deck chairs, heaps of rags rescued from
the gulf, sodden books and papers.
All you know is a cartoon -- waking
bloated and coughing on the beach,
waves and foam washing over you.
You spend the morning gathering
palm fronds and coconuts, arranging
them in giant letters, but instead of
forming words to be deciphered
by rescue planes you spell existential
questions driven mad by horse flies
and gooney birds. The fish here suck,
rotting silver scalawags, and
the seaweed tastes like seaweed,
there's no mangoes or pomegranates here,
brother. You're stuck here, lost in
the horse latitudes. You started this
by looking for maps corked in
tequila bottles, but you traveled
beyond terra incognita and
wouldn't recognize home now if
you arrived by raft. No, there's no
turning back! No Eureka! No
at last I am found! No long-lost
friends embracing you! All is forgiven!
You learn to like it here in the
detritus, you learn to like it
as it is, to take what you're given,
or lump it, and lumping is what
you're doing
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