by Daniel Young

I wake up dazed. Damn.

The blaring sun.

A coarseness in my clothes.

Where am I?

It’s certainly not familiar.

But, this empty sandbar is my home.

Welcome to two-foot island.

I wade into the knee-deep shallows

to salvage any thing.

Sift and sliver, bits of debris

for my pitiful shack,

a miserable stack,

a mound of putrid logs.

Lifting up a mast I find–

corpses mixing with the fishes

dying red my hopes and wishes

nightmarish dreams advance this christmas

as I’m waiting in the sea.

          WATER                       Dying, dying, inchmeal.

WATER   me   WATER          Oh, to make it quick!

          WATER                       Water, water, everywhere

                                               and nothing at all to drink.

I ate my dog today.

How sick is that?                                Those taunting birds.

Starving, close to death.                     That laughing sun.

At least I didn’t have to watch             The mirages out at sea.

him take his final breath.                     The world is painted, a muted yellow.

                                                           This is killing me.


No one can hear me speak.

The Doctor listens quietly,

and then prescribes some pills.

–Words betray me.–


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