Somewhere below the shimmer line where light forgets itself, a whale turns slow in a cathedral of salt— each scar on her skin a stanza.
She sings, not to summon, not to find— but to remember.
A song older than shipwrecks. Older than ropes and sails.
The deep drinks it. Holds it like breath. Lets it echo along trenches where no eyes go, only ghosts and pressure and time without hands.
We used to think it was a beacon, a call to others. But not all songs seek ears. Some are memory made into sound— just one creature telling the dark: I was here.
When the fire comes—and it will—don’t run. Stand your ground. Feel the heat. Know what’s worth burning. Not everything you carry needs to be saved.
You’ll be told to move fast, talk loud, win more. Don’t listen to that. The quiet men are the ones you want near when things fall apart.
If your hands shake, that’s fine. So did mine. Do the work anyway.
Let yourself be broken by love at least once. If you’re lucky, it’ll teach you where you end and someone else begins. But leave them space. Don’t take what isn’t offered. Ever.
When loss comes, don’t try to beat it. Feel it. Let it hollow you out clean. Then build something inside the space it left.
The world will try to make you hard. Let it make you solid instead. Be unmovable when it counts. But stay soft in the places that matter—your hands, your eyes, your heart.
People will try to name you. Let your actions do it first.
Carry stories. Especially ones that don’t paint you as the hero. And remember: pain handled right becomes a kind of map.
Look out for each other. That’s not advice, that’s bedrock, even when you disagree, especially when you don’t speak. You’ve always got each other’s back. That’s blood. That’s the deal.
And when no one notices you did the right thing— good. That means you’re growing into your name.
This is the summer of red dust. Everything
sucked dry—hollow as cicada husks, wedged
under eaves and porch stairs—waiting
for a wind change. On the road out of town,
empty grain silos loom, perched like headstones
over wheat-field graves. Harvesters sag, tyres
cracked like the asphalt. Rotting carcasses
litter riverless beds—tongues swollen,
flyblown, unslaked. First, a wheeze,
then my pickup spews steam. It dies in a ditch
under a burnt-orange sun. Tiger snake chunks
graffiti the hood’s underside, one blind eye bulging
from the torn head. It must have sought shade
or wiper water—sliding up from the parched earth
miles back. Now it’s just one more dead thing
in a land of dead things. This is the summer
of red dust. It swirls and the road ahead blurs.
On Sunset Strip the lights have dimmed
And silent now their siren’s call.
A fading starlet’s eyes are brimmed
With tears–one more forgotten thrall
Who keeps her locks of platinum trimmed,
Awaits her call to glory,
Lays bare her soul to cheat decay
And rewrite her life’s story.
He sculpts her in immortal clay,
In meadows cold and hoary;
Holds time’s determined march at bay
From fields of faded glory.
From my porch
I watch thunderheads
battering high noon
into bruised twilight.
I see you climb
from under eaves,
awakened
by a pressure change.
As the storm inhales
you leap and spin,
leap and spin
your web — knowing
your time to build
is fleeting.
days of stone 