Andrew Olsen (archeology) Typewriter is a broken icon, a dog crushed by men leaving, a mosquito island, a salty bay, a death in the barnacled afternoon. it is fever, ectoskeleton of a horseshoe crab washed up a dirty little beach after underwater centuries, an onion of violence cooked on an open fire, echoalia, hard, dirty toenail, burning plastic dripping gooey into dialogue, English invented on a island, typewriter, feeding a galaxy of moonshine out there on the island, canoes floating in moonlight, the warmest night of the year, all typed out faced with irreality of existence now, factories of blood, drunk again paddling the canoe drunk again, typewriter up front, perched like a cold machine, black and old so all the better, metal keys stamping away the icons, not a sail over the bay, water still as blood, as old as a machine, dying away in time a fever in the harsh sun, swelter letters and melt for a glass of ice water, typewriter friend, keep on typing, rust, the ludicrous feel, it is a paddle disturbing the algae water mosquitoes drink my blood as I drink, the blood of the mango each is as sweet I imagine, as the other to each boys beat crabs on the beach with stone pouches, hunting them from their holes the small crabs scurry sideways, showing pinchers to the boys happy children gather on the rocky point cheering, and laughing as we slide along the waves I listen to them from the water poetry, slipping from their dark mouths they enjoy my surfing like, I listen to them each is as sweet I imagine, as the other to each love is a fanatical flower Andrew Olsen lives and works in San Francisco and spends as much time as he can surfing up and down the Northern California coast. He drifted for many years traveling in poor countries with good waves and many of his poems are influenced by those experiences. His poems have been published in Poetry Motel, The Gryphon, and online at www.GlobalComment.com.