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July 2018, vol 14 no 2

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Peter Fiore

A Postcard To Jimmy Dying In Seattle

Once in Negril three of us drank some mushroom tea and then took a taxi to Rick’s, for sunset. Sitting 90 feet above the swelling Caribbean flooding a small rocky cove, drinking Pina Coladas, I thought how easy it would be to jump in and roll in on those foaming breakers and then scramble up the rocks before the next one hit.

It took all I could to just stay put.

A couple days later I returned to Rick’s and saw how impossible it would have been against all that water and those jagged rocks.

Sometimes it happens just the other way around. The things that seem so difficult we just ride through – like on the crest of a wave.

the gray ancients
whispering and talking in tongues
I could never understand


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