The Ocean. Honest.

Or, Everyone Else Writes About the Damned Thing.

I keep hearing people talking
Which is terrible, in and of itself, you know
But these people talk to me about their favorite sea.

The sea they love is near the beach, of course
The beach is to them the best part of the sea
In that it’s full of sand. Which is fun!
They love the sea around and near the beach
But firstly and only when it’s clear.

“You can see right through the water!” they gush.
Gush, you know, like fresh water from a spring.
The point is that it’s inobtrusive.
Doesn’t interfere with their beloved thing.

Well, fuck that blasphemy. You tourists.
The best ocean is the deep water
The stuff that hates you.
It killed your ancestors.
It waits for fools

The ocean that I love
Is the ocean that requires work
The ocean that doesn’t just give you riches
The ocean that demands respect.

The ocean that smiles crookedly when she sees a tourist.
“Come here,” she says, dangerous as a siren
“Nothing to fear here,” she smiles, “you don’t have to be careful
I’ll take care of you, baby, honest.”

The ocean, you don’t slap across the rump
The ocean, you don’t approach without protection
Go ahead and treat her lightly
Go ahead and steal from her

There isn’t any mystery at the beach
But there aren’t any treasures, either.
Keep your goddamn sea gulls.
Keep your goddamn sand dollars.