Women on the beach, fabric up your ass, salt and sand. Are your teeth sliding together, like two different types of paper or is there a small piece of sand crushed from the weight of your uneven enamel canine camels? Humpback beautiful sky. Did you buy those jeans you liked today? What did your mother say? Laugh across the universe, til’ shrink, til’ Boston, til’ stripes, fingerpainted cactus flower and mysterious juices, ice, brussel sprouts, tomato curd around the clitoris of Mother Nature and the vines of amazement or the magazines the grasshoppers enjoy reading are no longer published – At least sold at the local corner store for grasshoppers – I saw you sleeping with them on the fourth of July and they bit at you before you noticed yourself turning red. Catchphrase of community hey, you catch my flip flop! And give me a kiss. I don’t care if the neighbors watch. Let’s go outside and pierce each others ears! That’d be fun. In the woods of my life, I have found it is much easier to embrace the joy than to torture it, or puncture it with scissors, baby bag babble batch bunch bomb. Catchphrase of continuity, hey you can’t do that! -It doesn’t make sense with the economy and all. Women in the shallow, fabric slipping down your hips, better pull it up soon, salt and sand. The pattern of sand, send me to another dimension of sunbathed cheese, comforting froggy chicken shrimp larvae can you keep it to medium level of volume so the kids can sleep in the sun and make fun of the old lady who didn’t have kids but she loves wearing neon and decorating herself with tan lines; Want to be her friend and feed seagulls the appropriate foods that won’t block their esophaguses with her. I want to see my Aunt Teresa again soon, though I’ve seen her before and been there before; Want to go to Cuba with the love of my life before the apocalypse is possible, though I suppose there is always a possibility of the apocalypse happening. Uh! I can feel the truth and the truth in the truth of knowing that she feels at home in outside inside her foolish vessel, her gorgeous vessel.
The sky is pale until it is not, feed the flesh and prevent the Earth’s rot. Water the plants with the fruits of the ocean and understand the land better than it may understand you – Reciprocity, baby; Talk to wind and water of absolute reality, natural disorder, natural inertia of harmony, t-shirted nirvana, the curse of a Nirvana t-shirt, salt bath, bath salt, getting cashback of bananas for the lower of a pre-packaged water bottle with no name, for one, one double step, one triple step, one two three four fuck me jab me poke me with your firepoker, speak a rhyme in a world of non-rhymers and eat lesbian chocolate cake by the piers and let me know what it conjured in your bleached denim mind. I’m coming back to standing by my forlorn teacher. We let our mouths fall open wide and unformed unrehearsed sounds spill out; Mallets, brooms, broomsticks, stickshifts, umbrellas, billings; Bridge bridge bridge, troubled water, rocky water, wooden water. Absolute reality is and isn’t anything special. How am I going to walk around with a head full of cemented prejudices and unwavering waves of at will or to begin with? It is the temporary lust of the divine actors and gods and practitioners and chiropractors of bacon egg and cheese. Atlantic Beach: June Thirteenth; The polish on the toes of my left foot shade velvet – bright light vanilla purples. A bird pecks at the underwing area of itself. Hi, second bird. The liquid church crunch of the low tides tell me it makes no use or sense worrying about the way the currents are moving, energies I’ll exert moving in an opposite directorial positional directional frightful time consuming shrapnel days and days worth of training in inhibition. Young man in the turkey blue shirt to my left, blowhole your way over to the old man in the darker blue shirt on my right, half a mile West of the first catch of the day. I sit still as a median of their distances; In red, green, and turquoise. Fleets of shells giggle and pee themselves under my snowy whitey sandy feets, sensitive and insecure of flatness and my waist’s desire to remove its vastness, yet if the ocean were to do that there’d be no homes for seahorses. Why did I ever go to the land of horns and taxis? I’m not pruned by the waters pressing at the surface of the world and I’m not burnt from the sun.
I am no more and no less. You are south of here, and also here with me. There does exist the genetic information of
the world at some point to some extent, spread as fresh ashes do spread through the sands of the submerging and
emerging at shore’s breakage of mundane to what makes a man.
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