The Recorded Facts of Being

A short poem. A good title?

I went to a far away spot far down the beach and
Sat on a log that looked newly arrived-
In a place I hoped no one had ever been.

I stared out accross an olive ocean
And thought about who might be staring back
A million miles away, but in my exact direction.
I tried to think of forgotten memories,
I tried to channel all those things poignant and meaningful.
I wanted to ponder existence in its purest form and
Trap my thoughts in the notebook I brought-
This way, I could re-read the day I had it all figured out.
Having recorded the Facts of Being.

But I was bent on the unknown-
My lonliness,
The man accross the ocean.
So I simply sat,
Pointlessly enduring the pain of an uncushioned seat and a
Childish wind-
Fluttering my empty pages and chilling me uncomfortably.

Only conscious of my aloneness,
I looked down at the log, and
Newly arrived, or not, in its wet bark carved:

CLiFF
WuZ
HERE
-1973-