On the Ocean Road
I've been quite lost since last July the eighth,
Kept to this ocean road based on my faith,
But bad religion's got me like a bear:
No revelations, nothing but despair
And aggravation. Hope is just a wraith —
We're hoping for a cuttlefish, a saithe,
Some bit of kale to chew, some better air.
Should I head inland? Should I put to sea?
Should I give up on love, embrace my loss,
And wait for death here? Put away the dross,
The wicked of the earth, the majesty
Of worn-out phrases ringing dismally,
And what remains? Flies? flotsam? Dental floss?