TIDAL WAVE They say, in March, my life will be a tidal wave. But, I don’t know if they know how tidal waves behave. The water recedes from the shoreline, laying bare the ghost of its silence, showing us the upset coral of thousands of stranded souls who never quite made it. Then, off in the distance, the penitent potentiality rises up to the sky in prayer, and hurtles itself, with all abandon, against the rocks and muck and grime as if shouting will never work the same way it had in the past. Its hammer-fist renders the cliffs to melting metronomes, the beach becomes an avalanche. Floundering, staccato becomes the life, and the line between earth and salt and water is erased by the hands of an angry toddler, who, incidentally, is crying to be held only to be shushed by a spinning, lighted mobile (the one with the soothing sound effects that could never replace, nor should ever replace, the beauty in the lullaby). If there were people, there aren’t now,...
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