It’s love that breaks
against the rocks
and not foam nor water of any kind,
it’s a baptism of irrigated contempt
that makes the horizon
burn in black static p1umes.
Stained cotton from
every beach front window.
We smoked joints
in the guts of the canyons,
the mired trails
to the sea kissed shale.
All the blues from
Chicago knife fights
and gunshot histories
are folklore 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 something to decent for all
the beaches America has landed on
in search of someone to talk down to..