Ras Tanura Terminal
for Gary Snyder
Slender peninsula of sand
hangs like a glottal stop
in the mouth of the Gulf
where a seafaring Japhy
Ryder once packed bearings
in line to take on bunker.
Twin pipes form a zig-zag
tight rope toward tankers
waiting in a tepid bath of
sea water trapped under a
cloudless sky thick with humidity
to fill their holds with sticky sludge
from the nearby refinery.
I’d often ride out
on my ersatz mountain bike
trunks hidden under
long-sleeved tee shirt and
Dockers, cut off at the knee to beat
the heat and the religious police,
ducking through hedges
occasionally caught in
fishing line bird snares
left by Filipino vagrants
looking for nothing
more than a little protein
in their diets.
Knapsack packed with
snorkeling gear, I’d seek
out a deserted spot
on an abandoned beach
once mined for sand
to run away from,
jog along the strand
to reefs of tar-laden
rock and marvel at
the black marble rainbows left there
by spills never reported because
who cries over oil spilt in a gulf
that nobody ever visits?
You could actually make out
a fish or two in the sandy muck
among the seaweed streamers,
jellyfish, rocks and dead coral.
Never saw shark or a barracuda
though a Scot who used to work
suspended in a harness dangling
paint cans and brushes
on the platforms farther out
toward the Sea Island said he’d
often spot them fifty feet below
circling like inverted buzzards
anticipating slips.
Contractors and ARAMCO families
alike inhabit this artificially crude
international culture sequestered
in compounds where even
the water is manufactured,
where visions from the dunes
meet the artifacts of sidestepping
the industrial revolution
in air conditioned offices
with an undercurrent of spite
for whatever it is you do behind
closed doors is your business as
long as you don’t attract attention.
Out to sea the thickly painted container
ships crawl out of this dead end gulf
toward the pirate-infested waters beyond
deserted but for their skeleton crews
resting below the shimmering heat
while on shore prerecorded prayer calls
stretch between minarets
over the tangle of hastily erected
power lines and illegal satellite dishes
of our humble encampment all
watched over by those hidden cameras
of benign neglect so closely connected to
the thirsty world beyond our reach.
© 2015 Jim Ramsay, all rights reserved.