Poetry: An Island

Lost memorabilia

of childhood can be

found in the pit

of my breast. Behind

the heart, i have hidden

treasure —

of sitars and shoestrings,

Bob Dylan and other dinosaurs.

I am the new king

of desert isle living like Gilligan,

An island in a sea of bitches.

Living off the riches

of imagination.

X marks my eyes

and my wrists

with its drunken bliss

buried in my mother's kiss, not the liver...

I can deliver

pirated fairy tales

of

Buccaneer blues

and shore leave mindsets

Which now infest my chest,

removing the top layers of

twenty-something dirt bags

and

hardened time deposits.

Recovering the floating mattress

of unrest

and arrest

when i held back your hands,

you cooed and i realized my

childhood was over

and you were my baby.

My first bike,

my first like,

my first love,

Mom's old baseball glove,

a new treasure trove

out of the junk

stored in memory's attic

alongside my fears

of death, tornadoes

and getting old.

All of it swirls

to the bottom

of the pool

like diving rings

waiting to be discovered.

Call me a fool

if you want but

the truth is waterlogged

and has yet to

be uncovered.