Swimming with the Ocean


“Swallow the pill & I promise you’ll see.” Frank was keen

as he strapped rocket boots to his feet & flew.

I think we bought them in a Brooklyn bodega dream,

pondering over words & how a blank page is our greatest enemy.


We traded world stickers, see, about how he’s the black dream

& we’re all drops of dye in a cup of cat’s cream

that is the world. Though he’s from New Orleans, Frank

mixes the meanest cup of lean I’ve ever seen & we take it

to Coney to see the sea & those who buried dreams

by the white margins six feet deep.


We’re writers madden by fever, fingers on ink triggers

with nothing but a dream in hand & a cold Harlem nutcracker

in the other. Frank knows I’ve been here forever like I’m

tethered to this universe with a knack for pushing borders &

heating the ether. He looks beautiful against the sea & he’s

someone that I need to be: a dancer on the meter of words,

a drifter between tongue & teeth, the cleverest orator


& he’s the most enlightened speaker I’ve the pleasure to meet.

Frank says Brooklyn’s got the body of a woman, vastly

different from his Angel’s Desert. He says my sky dreams in

Pink & White creams because its daydreams are unclean,

smeared by those who just can’t seem to sleep.

He walks to the infinite seam of the beach, where the waking

& sleeping worlds meet. Smiling, Frank says, “When you get there,

do you think everything is there that you dreamed of?”



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