My hands smell of salt water
The grit between my fingers
As if I had swam today
But it is my own precipitate:
Sweat, old sweat.
The fog comes and goes
A wind tunnel
But there is no sound of wind
But rather music, faint, crackling
A bass tone, drowing out
And the fog comes again.
I pass through.
Walt Whitman visited me in a dream.
I told someone sitting beside me
That he had lived through the Civil War
Like I lived through the fog.
Walt Whitman looked at me
his outdoorsman yet feminine beard
was grey and he had a lisp.
He said: "I stop somewhere waiting for you"
But all I found was the fog.
The fog deep in the ins and outs of others
Those like myself who had
"Had the experience but missed the meaning."
Fog is in the inside of the telephone wires
A sigh on one end
The mumbling of words that cut on the other
Like a car passing through the fog
Or a boat like an arrow.
M.C-Journal entry, 1/9/00.