My People Come From The Sea

people sea

 

My people come from the sea;

they’re drawn upon,

go to work afloat, come down three days,

non-stop in Norway,

the Icelandic waters.

 

My people are stoic like Iroquois,

ignore the rest of the country, face away,

lips pursed, arms crossed,

never get ill;

you can’t have a tablet unless your head’s hanging off.

They absorb too much

and do not complain.

 

They admire America,

the America of Frank Sinatra and The Four Tops.

They’re being dragged into the light,

kicking and screaming.

 

People you come from,

the people you’re drawn to;

broken, human, dispossessed,

frantically gathered fragments

of the selves they had left behind as kids,

fractured memories,

fuck off

with your self indulgent gazing;

I’ve got a pad full of certificates pal …

 

Are these the people I go to?

 

I like deep waters.

My people come from deep waters.

My people are deep waters

My people are in deep water.

 

Memories of the gas fire on,

big toe on the Betamax button:

Paris, Texas; Harry Dean.

 

Eighty cigs a day.

Eighty cigs a day and a crumpled suit,

a ruffled demeanour,

Columbo schtick.

The beloved outsider;

Harry Dean.

Harry Dean Stanton.

 

I’m content,

relaxed and normal,

a blind eyed monkey constantly evolving.

Not agitated,

not frayed at the edges with a suit on.

 

There he goes;

walking down the road,

getting smaller …