Chris Abraham

Poorly plotted coordinates lead to ill-fated adventures on poorly charted seas. Nobody knows this better than I – an adrift Captain standing aft and wax-eared so that the sirens’ calls bring madness no more. I would trade all the pussy in the world for red sky at night; so violently tepid is this storm that my head ne’er finds purchase on my pillow nor true comfort in the next skirted albatross that I so willingly and emotionlessly fasten about myself. Please slow this churning sea.

You would think my head altogether on backwards for my own failure to see my yellow belly – my lack of courage to chart the seas instead of putting in at inconsequential ports-of-call. Five fingers worth of years chasing protean pleasures of the flesh have brought such decay to every deck of my resolve that I fear the creak in every step. It took this long to realize that a ship tied to two moorings will tear itself apart.

I have been a terrible Captain. That I still float is equal parts chance and providence. Now it is dry-dock or jetsam. I choose put in until such time that the sailing is smooth and the sextant fixes firmly on the stars in the eye of one woman for whom I would gladly let out my sails. But I now understand that to find the one that shines most brightly is a matter of deduction and not elimination. Like the stars, there are worlds inside of me none have yet envisaged.