Cold Opening

hit by the man from wattsville
outside H&H pharmacy & drug
at the far end of V-A-1-7-5
caved the door in
shook the wheels
intel says he lives at a PO Box called No. 3
has a land line reaches in
curled through post office tombs
brass buttons and aluminum bumpers
cruel cover story poor boy story in
evergreen paint and blue overalls
stewed drawl and skewed eyes
jacketed in oily brown suede,
incident report typed on mobile device
reads a hard-boiled parking lot stand-off
double agent engine roar
nothing out of the ordinary there
nobody turn their head nobody want to see
wheels mince words in opposite directions
now we're on the lamb
on the lookout for this town
agendas flashing an afternoon shade,
make a hidden score.

silhouettes of resting geese

above the marsh washed with strokes of pink
the sky reflected deep like rose petal
on mercurial waters below

black trees embossed
on the receding horizon
driven east in blear of moonlight
we held hands in the ever darkening car

The First Night

We stood
six spectres
confronting infinity--
death, rebirth, life--the passing
of time as we buried memory
like the old dinosaurs that slumber
beneath unsteady feet--
the stars fought the
light pollution of the society
mechanism,
the night a growing
purple abyss--
we were obscured in
what could have only been
oblivion's complete oblivion,
wind howling, waves
white capped, invisible
but for the crashing force,
we existed in the void beyond
worlds, beyond truth,
possessed of chaos,
living on and on
without fear

Alone at the Beach, I prayed it was enough

In the journal of my soul there are cliffs and girls, and other such things that bring us down, to earth or stars, or some other place. I prefer to write it out in staggered lines known only to me. I was alone on the beach, sun coming up and then up, watching over. I took my hat off and sighed. Placed it on my towel, the only one I owned, now down beside me in the sand. I was the only person, I was the only living thing in sight. My glasses began to tint in the new born light. I removed them too, placed beside the rest. I took one great big breath of God and jumped into the morning waves. Salt and force shoved back at me. I launched myself without fear or embarrassment. I tasted the sky, alive about me, the ocean, churning beneath, the day, brave and innocent. I let out a single chilled bellow, it was all the love I had to give to the Earth.

Sure town

small town shore

kids studied me with 

discerning skeptical eyes

as I asked questions about 

"rout" 609, the girl ringing up

costumers in the supermarket
shaped like a barn asks whose

house I planned to visit

and what's the address,

I'm just trying to find the road

I tell them deflecting their 

questions for whatever

paranoid northerner's reasoning 

I could muster in my brain,

The kid in tight gray jeans bagging

finally rattles of a convoluted 

left-right-left, pass three churches
(holds up his fingers) then you'll run into
611 and camp grounds and
there on your right should be 6-o-9,

thanks I wave and head for the door running
the directions like a Rolodex through my
driver's brain until I hear the girl,
innocently blonde and bright
pink lipsticked, ask if I want
a paper and pen to write it down,

I'm not out the door and
could have easily turned back around
but I don't.

Do Not Swim Here

six hours toward
a no-name beach
and I stand dejected on the shore
next to black snake-like pipe
worming it's way toward the bay
the rocky un-swimmable bay beach
I can make out a light house in the distance
guiding sailing boats into the
Chesapeake and beyond
a group of yuppies rides in
on a golf cart drinking (what I assume)
is an expensive craft beer,
Felicia holds my arm in consolation
reminding me it's better than she expected,
finding a smooth white shell, she presses
it into my hands and into my pockets
my pockets are empty,
aren't there any hidden beaches left on the east coast?

Ah, Newport, I think, one bridge to cross and
only an hour away
but I'm already shaking my head

Atlantic City beat

AC is bleak in the night
Phantoms lined up along the shore
fed by highways blowing in from the west
on this cold March wind, we scream out
into the heaving sky that blankets the
Atlantic ocean in inky darkness,

we run across white sand,
it burns our feet like summer in
the chill, we wash our feet in the ocean,
advertisements as background noise,
the hellish casino lights, Steve calls us back
waits back on the shore, it's time to head home
the natty bo is running out, there's no food,
or money, there's no hope

we left that alone inside the Wawa outside town

Ocean Pome

I just wanna drink beer on
the beach and dig you in the night,
your arms around my waist and the
salt of the ocean foam to get us high
I wanna curl up on your brown
legs and feel the waves lap
at my feet from europe or africa
or somewhere, we'll find a clean white hotel
out there on Coastal Highway and I've
got so much energy it's crackling
from my finger tips, I'll shock you
I'll paint madness and hapiness and love
all across the sea-fogged-over stars

Summer

we see the last survivor of a doomed world
hunched over and jagged legged
as waves turn ashore, dirty blonde hair
obscures her face and long white dress the same for too skinny legs,
draw back and repeat against the sharpie marker cut horizon,
the sea and the sky,
and little girls, running back and forth
against the challenging tides,
a seagull, the gods ocean sentry
looks on, aged eyes watching the moving
and immovable,
a wooden stake marks mans accomplishment
at finding the sea,
back and forth we struggle
with the sands and pride and salt-wind,
like a miner drawing forth from the earth,
hard hat and yellow muddy gloves
replaced by sunscreen and bathing suit,
we raise a multi-colored umbrella-flag on native shores,

you walk beside me shifting,
the ocean recedes before us
a school of dolphin trailing fish,
laying traps and playing ancient tricks,
somewhere.

the sea air is a memory
made real by the burn of the sun
and your skin against mine,
the sand left in our shoes,
a never was-always dream
somewhere,
counting backwards to
the end of the world.

Behind the fruit salad a simple meaningful love

I'm translating directions

and you laugh

like they're all a jumbled unpaved road,

or you hear and can't understand, 

static sentences thrown together

from the seat of my car,

silent understanding

draped across that bay bridge

curving up into the sky

like a horseshoe buried in the sand,

and the sky is raspberry fire

breathing and burning and pop,

leaving the sweet smell of fruit and salty oxygen

heavy weaving behind your eyes,

sweet almond dark eyes,

bending the rail toward me

in the shallows with waves twisting over,

through the final verse of a late-afternoon song 

and a just empty bottle of nameless pink wine, 

we find our way in the sweet/sour dawn.

Toast

Golden embers
rust with a toast as
she moves the mountain
from beneath steady feet,
tanned and spotted with those tiny grains of sand
left over from future hours spent
in front of retreating and attacking oceans,
raise the glass to lies
and the rumble rumble of clouds
tracking gray across the the blue sky

Night

Just outside, outside the window
I can smell the cool air,
but here, here
It's warm, and
hot, the air is thick,
pulling at me, thick,
holding me in place

and obscuring my vision,
warped by the air, like well trodden boardwalk planks
resting by the beach, listening to
the sound of salty waves pound the shore,
carried by salty winds,
unaware of their fate, irrevocable.