Revised poem

 Untitled Surf Poem

So happy padding my way down the trail

to the point break once again;

to take a spot on the bench

under the thatch of shade;

to assess conditions before paddling out;

only to hear word was something about

how I tried to gouge someone’s eye

during a drunken fight when, really,

it was the other way around.

I felt like putting my head in my hands,

the weight of wondering how 

my name could be muddied so;

that anyone would believe it,

how I’ve never touched anyone

unless they touched me first,

and eye gouging was

only in matters of life and death,

not a scrap over words of disrespect.

So long as the point remains

what it’s always been—

most sparkled stage and

theatre of colored firmament—

never let the low voices down the bench

beat you back from what is true:

that words are enough,

and never hit anyone unless they hit you;

you’re here for waves,

not to validate kooks,

in a society near blind.