I have been to Kings Cross and had to make a choice of which way to go.  Sometimes, rather than write their names, people simply make designs in the sand—curls and zig-zag’s, giant circles with dotted eyes.

Today, there are piles of dirty ocean, yellow foams, clumpings of snarled seaweeds hefted over crunchy and empty Dungeness shells, three dead sea-lions, all at differing stages of decay.

Soft sands high-tides have made difficult to walk upon and the dog tugs at his leash, whimpering incessantly to be out of the rain back to some kind of warmth.

And, I keep looking back, over my shoulder, with that feeling of a someone hiding, behind an unnatural looking bush-stand, eyes watching me.

Nothing is free, even the ocean is bound to the impossible roundness of earth, and one little moon.


The sky is immensely heavy and gray set stark against the white of wave breaks, a scene described and sung and imagined so often that there are no words left to paint an image of how solitary gray-escapes can cut a chest open to the red only air makes, baby let your red light shine, shine, shine down on me!

Maybe, midnight trains racing through the dead of night?  I sit under the pilings which once held tracks, jetty stretched, another boundary.


The vet-tech quotes prices to “Euth” a dog, not make him young under a pressed and rolling fountain penned prescription of little pink happy pills to be ingested in cheese gobs, but euthanasia. 

Prices for you-take the body $35, we burn and discard $55, or only $110 for a solo burn and a bag of ashes.

Your pet, your friend, your great grandmother in the way she shows up sometimes in his once black, now moon-glazed eyes like some ancient tarot reader.

A choice between these laid out three, I must choose a card because there is a choice—the Devil, Wheel of Fortune or five of swords?


Years ago, before cremation was anything I knew of but only what I saw on shows like Windwalker, a practice for Natives—a body on an elevated and burning bed, a sacrifice of meat and the steamed release of spirit to wind.

My people were all laid to rest in six foot holes, no shovel in sight, even the edges perfectly wrapped in astro-turf under a white tent.  Mahogany, oak and copper coffins with silked pillows,

emerald temple aprons with embroidered leaves, white slippered feet, arms folded over heart, with their hosanna hankies at the ready. 

And, even after closed and lowered, these were sandwiched in a cement vault, to be held safe and cherished like gold bullion in the bank--granite markers with etched in dates to watch.

Church ceremony, the stories that make you laugh and make you cry and a giant feast prepared by caring others before kisses goodbye, plans to meet again.  Families are forever in an all seeing sense.