My Love is a Boat in a Bottle

My love is down in a well
out in a country she lost the map to
there was every reason for her not to fall
she had the bucket neatly tied
and yet she grabbed on
as it slid down.

My love is wrapped in a sheet
down in a room she lost the key to
there was every reason for her not stick
so tightly in this rubber sheet
But I can't even say good night
while she's rapt.

My love is out at sea
rocking in a boat with no oars
she did not paddle from the shore
it was tide that snapped her horizon bound
and yet she tried to paddle back
with her hands out
into the salty sea.

My love is stuck in a fox trap
her hand is gnashed in steely teeth
she never meant to attempt the jaws
but there was movement on her part
the spring just moved towards her.

she's a puppet speaking out her part
a sailboat in an immeasurable wind
a dog lead by some insidious owner
down a path that leads to marshy bridges.

my love is a boat in a bottle
she's in there, waiting for someone to sail her
but it's all to small for me
I can't reach in
and shatter it to shards.

The Real Objectivity

There's a palm tree outside the hotel
Sitting in the middle of the parking lot
Ringed with an absence of pavement
Swaying in a chill breeze
Dragging salt from the ocean
Not a block away.
I'm watching the sunset
And her taillights.

Alcohol, oxycontin, weed
Cigarettes, the bends, and meditation
Oxygen loss
The gain of music
A falling star on a beach lit walk
The damned are clawing the surf
In a terrible dream I had
The night she left.

If there was a moment to stop
A pill you could take
That would turn it off,
For an hour, just a brief time
To not feel the weight of
The dead pulling on your feet.

Here's what I want
A pill, or some kind of substance
That would turn off emotion for exactly one hour
That had limited side effects
Would that be too much to ask of science
I’d keep three in my pocket at all times
I’d be assured of responding to any situation
With three hours of reason at least.

The broken glasses on the floor
A crisp of splintered window
A bruise on my shinbone
A suitcase mostly packed
She left it by the front door.

What would it do to a human animal
To turn off one of the fruits of thousands of years of evolution
Would we all be sexy killers?
Or machines of grace and kindness?
Or something deeply wrong
mental patients trapped for hours at a time?