A humpback whale glides past. It does not stare at me with its big eye. It does not notice me at all. Neither do the schools of prawn that preceded it. They are further now in the distance of where they had hoped to be. I have not moved. I will be seen. I will be opened and my life will end.
Such is the life of treasures to be discovered.
There are those who wear no jewels upon their head, nor bow to those who do. They go by the names they were given, although these names are as meaningless as the crowns we fashion for them.
Air. Bubbles. Sand.
Big Bang. Apes.
If it was more than this, if it was a longer story with doves and Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. If it was the Rose Bowl, and California all over again. If there was more than the Arclight or Hollywood Boulevard. If heroin held its appeal. If music had not been made. If Thor was not just a cartoon character. If I was Thor. If you called me that. In bed. Under a grove of Cyprus. Under Spiderman sheets. Inside me. Like a web. Like a saber tooth tiger. In tar. In feathers. In Boston. With tea.
James Madison. Ronald Reagan. Boris Yeltsin. Aphrodite.
Ben Franklin. Spencer Tracy. Audrey Hepburn. Joan of Arc.
Ben Franklin. Spencer Tracy. Humphrey Bogart. Wishing well.
Humphrey Bogart. Clive Davis. Wishing well. Aphrodite.
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