Commuting the Sentence

Several gulls swirling in the early morning mist.   I’m keeping track of them as best I can.   It’s a prosaic exercise but one I feel comfortable with.   The beach is strewn with debris from the recent storms―driftwood, car parts, bottles, cans, garlands of seaweed, & wire.   We’re all stranded here somewhere between Yokohama & El Camino Real like Ponce de Leon in a wetsuit dragging his surfboard in the sand, doing the surfer’s stomp to a concerto for snare drum & steam whistle.   A solid yee-haw upsidedown & the pivot.   As though everyone’s been waiting to see you take yourself too seriously.   Indulging the medicine man’s laughter.   I have often been mistaken as a synthesis of Lee Marvin & Pacific fog, I said, standing in the rain talking to myself.