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From Chris Wayan's journal, early 1983.

In the sea's black colon run
Rivers of cold foul.
Lit green by eyes of errant squid,
Oozes bouillabaisse across abyss.
Dream's compost, grave and brew
of upper floors of light--
Richest water reeks of death.

Yet I warn you, don't hug that paradox:
So many brilliant trawlers
    scorning sun
Across the sea of history
    sail one by one
Spin ropes of eerie floss
   devised in pain
And in the green deep groan--
   and strain

And show the world, defiantly as sin,
The delicate dragons of liquid glass:
Dreams deformed, who mouth and glow a time
While innards slow distend--to burst.
Don't let the ancient darkness net your dreams:
Abyss is not profound.

Only when that ooze of blind
Hits a deeper flank--world thighs,
smothered in black brine--
Will primal streams, reluctant, heave to light.

Shoals snap silver-blue, gulls and white terns wheel.
Lace diatoms fuse to krill, and speak the songs of whale.
Life is here, at the battlepoint
Ocean on his head
Judoed brutely into warmth and life.
Sewers of forgot abruptly taught:
Remember the ruby flutter!
Shone, shone into shape, into womb.

Be shallow; must I beg?
Forget the rich depths--they are dead
As Banker's chillest vault.
Skin loves a kiss. Marrow don't care.
Choose the shallows... but
Choose your shallows
Where the Deeps

Shafts of light in a deep column of sea water

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