Two – Stuck

The oblong animal
clings valiantly and seems
permanent, like
freckles or fire damage,
on the weathered,
white wall. Stillness
steals youth and youth
is almost always
obvious. Wind up
the blinds and find
the obvious buzz
and desperation
of a housefly
caught in an infinite
loop of tiny
violence. Save the
animal somehow
. Fly swatter,
empty cup, open up
the window, somehow.
Let it out while
it still looks
young.

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One – Returning Hunger

The belly, of course,
is a room. It unsettles,
silently, as if a water bird
just dove beneath its surface.
Inhospitable combinations
of gas fill the alien
chamber and challenge
to bellow out like
yoked in oxen. Our bodies
make captive what they can,
spin amongst what they must.
The imagination cannot
be contended with. Please,
place in my hand a potato chip.
The bird is always threatening
to suddenly reappear.

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Around So

The water has bodies
to break open and
things to grow
in tin cans. Animals
with whiskers
floating on their
backs, breaking
crustaceans and
clam shells. Creatures
open mouthed to the
current.The whales and nuclear
submarines nervous
toward each other and
embarrassed to sing. King
Triton admiring the tug
boat bastards never
calling it quits.
The birds always sounding
angry above it and
looking to shit.

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I think it so it becomes real life.

I like to think of it

like each night my dog

curls herself as small

as she can to sleep

so that when it gets

cold later we can put

our hands on her

belly for warmth.

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The boats are in the water.

The fish, for darkness,
shine, for being bigger,
collect themselves
and ball. They cloud
the water with sex
for fish sticks, for the moon
and cameramen. For bait and
barbed hooks, keep moving
the two halves of
their silver bodies.

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no moon

One of us is sleeping and the other is awake. All of the windows were opened. We

opened all of the windows. The windows that stay open have stayed open. Some

of them are shut. A wasp caught in the hallway. For the heat has us. The gel ice

pack they gave me for my gum surgery is stuffed down one of our shirts. Sleeping in

Portland now, they say we brought the heat. We say we brought the heat. We inherited

a massage chair and put it in the dinette. Bought a coffee table and TV stand. A painting

of snow. The panting dog is little and black and when we leave her alone, to carry

new things up and down the stairs, she misses us like hell and panics. It’s the things

we love about her. She’s heard outside through the opened windows.  The neighbors don’t

always think of us either. But they like their music and I like my music. The ceiling fan’s too slow,

like an old motion picture. 

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Naked Frisbee

This is a story I just remembered.

One day, I went to Blacks Beach. (Or is it Black’s beach?) Part of the beach is a nude beach. It’s a truly beautiful beach that sits below the towering cliffs and Torrey Pines. The sand is somewhat black in some places. Sometimes, when you take steps and your foot moves the sand, a brilliant blackness is uncovered. I was there, walking.

I always like walking clothed down the nude beach. It is never crowded. Sometimes I feel bad about being clothed. I feel like the nude people at the beach look down on me for wearing shorts. It’s as if I’m not doing my part or following the rules. I often take off my shirt to meet them halfway. But the beach is fascinating.

Once, it was cold, and a man wore a long sleeve shirt and a fleece vest, but no pants. Another time there was an entire troop of naked people playing volleyball. But this is the story of the most wonderful thing I ever did see at the nude beach.

I walked one day, as I began to tell earlier, to the very end of the nude beach. And there stood, with no other person within 150 yards of him, a man. He was naked from head to toe. He was pot bellied and middle aged. He held in his hand a frisbee. He stood facing the beach, 100 feet from the water. He saw me coming, I’m sure of it, although I never saw him look at me.

He reared back and fired the frisbee high up in the air directly towards the ocean and immediately ran full speed to the water. The frisbee angled back down and with the aid of the ocean breeze drifted back to the shore and just as the his feet touched where the sea had just touched he caught the damn frisbee. 

I was completely stunned. A naked man playing frisbee with himself. It’s worth saying twice. A naked man was playing frisbee with himself. How long had he been there? Was he trolling for compliments or someone to play catch with? Was he sad and lonely? Or was he wonderfully happy? Was he simply content and doing what he loved? Does he do this all the time or was I lucky enough to catch a rare specimen performing a rare behavior? I don’t know. I never will, but that man was beautiful. That naked man, playing frisbee with himself.

 

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