People Who Hang Up

It's love that breaks against the rocks
and not foam nor water of any kind,
it's a baptism of ire that makes the horizon
burn in coalish, motionless plumes.

Stained cotton from every beach front window.

We were smoking joints
in the guts of the canyons,
the mired trai1s to
the sea kissed shale.

All the blues from Chicago knife
and gunshot histories are folk lore

all the kids
destroy with their breathing.

Even at dinner time,

forks are next to plates

whose owners wonder

what's eating their neighbors

with all the strange phone calls

about what's going on the beach.

The armies of the night couldn't

scare up a quarter

of the beaches America

has landed on
searching for something

to talk about

on acres

of empty cable talk shows

where anyone in a tight suit and big glasses

can explain away the bombs bursting in air

with sarcasm
and ad -libs.