Can we be certain Columbus didn't sail
off the edge of the earth, his ship,
a graceful white feather, twirling
over that fine blue line into space?
Think about it.
History books lie all the time.
Maybe he settled with other lost souls,
hands splayed against that unbreakable
pane of the fourth dimension.
God's special hell for fame seekers.
The so-called dead walk
with us constantly.
Elvis joins him, shakes his fat sequined
ass, chuckles at candlelight vigils
over a body that never really was there.
He wonders why nobody
impersonates him in his skinny
swivel-hipped days, Priscilla
bobby soxed by his side, as he sped
in pink Caddys through black nights,
tossing away money like used tissues.
Columbus expected to find riches
and spices to delight his queen,
in his own quest for fame. Now he plucks
loose rhinestones from Elvis' cape,
tosses them into the void, pretends
they're stars, mounts his old ship,
scrubs its decks, mends the sails
til they billow, as if in a fresh breeze.
He imagines himself free and rocking
across rolling blue seas once again;
a Fallen Angel, redeemed at last..
Art: Click HERE
to find more Sailing Vessels
to Poetry Index II
Return to Homepage