Walking the Shore

Walking the shore of the bay, sand, mud, looking for a gem, some tangible evidence that the feeling within is reliable. Feeling reliable, released temporarily from the grip of thought, convinced through the sound of lapping water, that truth lies just beyond the reach of the senses. Looking for that special confirmation, finding, rusted almost beyound recognition, half a pair of pliers and three old bolts, along with bits of broken bottles, masqurading as gems on the mud-dusty shore. Then, two pair of discarded panties, awash on the tide; all these, little obscenities of mechanical and synthetic engagements. Shells on the shore, somber clouds, indefinite horizons, my myopic phantasys. A pelican floating rare on the water, I sit, he flies away. Seeking magical confirmation, I am surprised to find that this moment of spiritual perfection only lets me move a little above the dusty potatochip bags, crumpled beside the waters that each Ulysses must traverse anew. Little birds, little snails, little waves.