Ruts are like rust.

no buts, they’re a bust.

familiar, but still yer

–what remains what’s

–squandered unknown…

so wander alone…

since guts call for gusts

or still winds unflown.

 
I don’t have a pet,

but bump into one
 

every beach day just the same…

–as reliable as any

ever kept,

(even if the owner isn’t)

I can count on Prince to be there

stamping on my tootsies,

nipping at my heels,

and ready to play ball.

(an arch’type, you know?)

If I run—he runs

If I walk—he walks

If I fall—he falls, since

London Bridge is comin’ down, and

Prince can’t negotiate deep sand for sh*t

He lovess the surfline, and

I don’t mind–

–it keeps me on my toes

and more the merrier, he

…

Such a good companion, but even so

–when I leave,

I leave

Prince

behind, and it’s only

right I should

–foregoing sands

for cement,

I know the city

won’t

Foot

Prince’s

feats.

Strolling

strand

shifting

sands

mete

soul,

and

bracing,

I

realize…

neither

high

tide

nor

consensus

matter–

–only

the

breakers.

G•M•O•G

Something that’s symbolic–that looks like the real thing…

but isn’t.