Meditation 27

No man is an island, I say.
The great pit of humanity
like a quagmire (giggity)
resting in the woods
of this lost place.

I am no island.
I am no piece of creativity.

Plate tectonics collide
in this place we name,
title, like a newborn child.
Where is its birth certificate?
Are the parents listed
as Love and Chaos?
Did the Titans emerge
from a lineage
of personified vices as well?

I am no island, I tell you.
I am a never-ending blade
of grass metaphor.

You stand upon the deck
of your ship of floating
Chaos, and I can see
the bottom of Longfellow’s
blue ocean. The dead smile
at me from their bubble
graves, sand graves like moss.

Like little islands floating
to the surface just as
carbonation does.