The Life of Surfers
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My life doesn’t stop,
not for a dead man,
not for a crying baby,
not for friendships.
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There is an endless supply
of Work to be done,
details to be redeemed in.
This Life, my story, isn’t mine.
It is a surf board
for riding currents
of sound and light,
which is a frightening and thrilling sport.
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There are those who long
for the ultimate adventure
and end up like Michael,
as a pile of ash
in this cookie tin under my hand.
I feel elated to be helping him
make the escape
from the twisted little hell
he was born into.
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My passion for surfing
was born here as well,
in this hell
from which few will ever escape.
They are stuck,
having come to a point
where there are
no attractive choices.
There is only Michael’s way
or my way.
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Of course both ways
require help.
As I have had such help
I now extend the favor
to Michael.
It is a humble expression
of gratitude
for the radical waves
his sacrifice has created
and which now
propel me further.
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We are taking this last drive together
out of the chthonic prison
that can no longer hold us.
With his remains,
a quart of soy milk,
and a supped up Russian sniper riffle
resting under our youngest daughters feet,
we leave a small world behind.
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It is true that,
besides having a little help,
in order to surf,
one must be unafraid
of falling.
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Someone I know
is always asking:
“What’s the worst
that can happen?”.
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Really.
What is the worst?
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We have already
hit rock bottom,
fallen as far as we can,
exhausted everything
the small world has to offer.
We can go back up,
but who cares?
There is nothing to do there
but fall back down
to here.
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We thrill seekers
are hoping
to catch a wave
that will crash hard enough
to thrust us through the ocean floor,
into uncharted territory,
to new dimensions of sound and light,
to tinier details through which
we can surf once more...
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alert,
awake,
and
mindful.
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Because you see,
Life doesn’t stop...
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not for the undead,
not for the fallen,...
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...not for surfers.
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