Pasa lo que pasa

"but we carry the weight

wearily,

and so must rest

in the arms of love

at last,

must rest in the arms

of love."

-Allen Ginsberg, "Song"

Yo pasé un rato solo en una playa en California.

All by myself down there on the beach for a night

alone.

And what'd I find but lines in the sand,

etched in hard by the fall of the sun,

or the rise of some mysterious creature

hovering above the water like a new light

for the whole world to see.

And who would've known that I read what I needed to read,

Or saw what I needed to see,

and the words clung tight, like,

"Find another home."

Like, "Find someone again."

Like again,

again.

And I spent some time alone on a beach in California and saw that if I sat still long enough, among the rocks, people would start to think that I was one of them, and kids would jump on my feet, and parents would spit in my hair, and I'd be new, be a new rock just sitting on the beach, waiting for time to come and find me with the other salt-washed rocks, stretching out into the sickly dusk-reflective ocean, hearing the wind from the south and the water from Asia blow over my face, like they were supposed to, like was their paths.

And back to realizing, realizing that I was there with me

and just me

got me realizing that it was just me.

And no one to fall into except the ocean makes you think,

what happens when the ocean wants you for itself?

Who's there to pull you back and want you for them-self?

But there are enough buoys in the ocean,

enough lifeguard boats,

and during the day, enough lifeguards to pull me back.

So I'll bob around in the ocean all night,

as myself,

by myself,

until someone wants to pull me out.