Poetry’s good until..you at last drop. Then there’s the ethereal aspects of it, passionate senseless lost orange-hot lava flows of youth; in endless days of calm reflection laying under fruitful shade in autumn golden fields at Elysium, floral explosions bursting barrels of BIC’s ball-points spilling ink in pocket-spiral notebooks, swelling pages to the point of no returning. These were writings heard somewhere, at some time, by some one; since lost (and happily, too) among numberless sands, passing through the hourglass’s hole. A ‘mature’ poet, being more the pragmatist now, than t h en, seeks first in symbols the practical, on his make-believe sabbatical, –True! ’twere better to take time off, unobsessed with obsequious production..as if it was needful? like the world and its fishes are pining for our vauntful verse to fill in oceans and displace all the plastic product drifting with the ebb and flow of the night tides – nickel a kilo – dumped off the moonlit pier by a recycle center dues-paying unionist employee with a certification for such, working discreetly after midnight – off-the-clock – to conveniently dispose of the fake environmental hazardous waste they pay you a pittance for..and supposedly send off to regenerate. So now, in couple of weeks, the fishee’s get to see the labels on the soda-bottles kicking around sands and broken glass at oceans bottom..CANADA DRY! by a balding reef. You bet they’d rather to read my poems; but they don’t get to cause the government censors everything I write!! so instead they get Ginsberg; and gay old Walt; and a few others in line for ‘t they’re pushing for the Poet Laureate thing through NEA to happen, boosted by special White House recognitions to make a deal out of it..for a night (then back to the poets’ serene lifestyle of merciful obscurity). Meanwhile the aquatic lifestyle obviously’s been taken over by Cousteau’s heirs, and other likely scammers after grants from governments, getting video of performing manatees; and close-up’s on tentacles, sensuously soft looking sucker-cup rows filling in voids in jettisoned clear plastic product..like mayonaise-jars, may-be; or milk bottles and what-not for something to do. They put on a show for the sea anemones, crabs, and audiences of moray eels stuffed in rocks (looking over skates and rays, low, gliding, fluffing the silt); then it’s off to beddy-bye. Good idea! nighty-night. Sleep tight, ya lubber, don’t let the lobster-bugs bite you on the butt on yer way out. Okay, see u later. Alright? ~c.