Red Tide

Red Tide Trust Denied
Martha was the grandmother saint,
it follows through peacefull like.
The Atlantic Ocean
is croked by Jacksonville and Canada.
It was to be expected,
the small town is choked,
the fish are dying.
Grandmothers are crying,
and whatever happens,
we have to deal with it.
Florida is burning, wet black fire.
Ashes in the water,
toxic riptide,
the fumes are choking.
Blue cat in window,
a bat with Malissa & Will.
This is the street, floating voices:
"the red sail talks of herb,"
"all creeped out---"
The wind swirls,
on shadowy Saint George Street.
A pirate walks by,
notices I have chopped and shaved.
A stillness comes down,
the wind makes many sounds.
I sit by an empty pipe,
on Saint George Street in silences.
Theres that old smell again...
Light shines through bars,
and makes shadows.
Sound moves smoothly up the street,
detective raggae.
I sit by the salt river,
on the breeze of red tide.

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