Right now isn't the groove for me.

I keep on thinking I'll find something this spring break, but so far I haven't any luck. The waves are carrying through and I'm not on top of them (I'm at the shore bottom, where all the catfish scream, with their whiskers blowing algae). I want to be the surfer, but I'm the sinker. The hook is nowhere in sight.

I look through murky depths, but the blue-green is salty in my eyes, and my eyelashes sting. The ray that swims by pays no attention, and the slow current bulldozes me over. I lie back against the ever-wet packed sand, and there is no comfort there. The pebbles sink into the flap of my neck, embed themselves in my discomfort. I grin so that the fishes will smile above me, so that the mermaid can still sing and the ships will still sail on water fantasies. I can hold up until the air bubbles run out, and pop open.

I imagine the eyes of the coal seal. The whiskers tickle my face, but there is no glee. The worm snuggles inside my stomach, into its bubbling caverns. My brow creases, and the sunlight wavers through kelp arms.

The distance blows with a conch-shell croon. I inhale the scent, but it does not pervade. The relaxation of milk-tea is left for small-town cafes filled with ambience jazz tunes. The saxophone has rusted and the bassist grown old, retired. I wonder if I should follow suit.

My cheeks are painted white with the light of ripples, and the seahorse tail runs up my spine. I shiver, feeling suddenly cold. My fingertips freeze with my frustration, with the grays of windy Chicago days.

Shamoo calls through to me in his deep silky tones. His cries are soft and magnificent. Sadly, I cannot understand him. I want to pet his smooth stomach, his patched right eye.

Suddenly, the image vanishes and the water leaves me, cold and naked on the shore. The sun is brisk and its light has lost its warmth. I sigh.

It was only a dream, after all.


Not feeling it.