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The taste of futility


The taste of futility

When the dots have all been connected
Go find a straight stick
               The roundest ripest apple
For the final t & i

The man with the anchor appears
from moon beams
He grabs the straight stick
He pulls it all to a rocky ocean cliff
The anchor is tied on and cast over

Find me on the shoreline
in the rhythm of the tide
Wiping the juice and mush
From my mouth
Onto a heavy cotton sleeve

This ripest roundest saltiest apple

These hollow shafts of light
Arching into the heavens


About wherearetheheros

just someone my mother might know

4 responses »

  1. I love, “find me on the shoreline / in the rhythm of the tide”. 🙂 Maybe you can bottle some of your imagination and sell it. 🙂 please . . .

  2. Ever wonder what the man with the anchor does in off season? Ever wonder how he always has one handy? Where he buys replacements? How he got into this line of work to begin with? Whether he’s grim or buoyed when he goes home at the end of the day, watches the telly, drinks beer or single malt Scotch, loves his wife, or thinks of the you and the me, with our thought that the crossing, the dotting, the burying at sea would ever work, or even be necessary?

    • He is hyper and so is his wife. They have a thyroid problem evidenced by his skinny wife and his bulging eyes.
      I wont tell you who he is but he has an anchor tattooed on his arm and he is “true to the finish cause I eats my spinach”


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