Sunday, May 24, 2015

6782. THE KINDS OF THINGS TO NOT BELIEVE IN

THE KINDS OF THINGS 
TO NOT BELIEVE IN
(sandy hook, nj)
Crawling forth from the sandy smudge, some new
sea-creature is calling my name. He says 'Sandor' three
times over. I call back and say 'I am a fiddler crab?' and
then I say, 'I am a horsehoe crab?' On the distant line
of the horizon (which my father used to say was always
seven miles ahead at sea), I glimpse a small yellow ship,
which I know instead is large. Tankers float their ways
along these waters, headed out. This is the famed
Narrows. This is something else. 
-
I am stranded on Sandy Hook. My car is gone, 
my bicycle stolen, and the jetty has run off with 
my boat. Only a seaside cove such as this can 
hide all my arms and ammunition. Dotting 
the sands, here and there on the abandoned 
fort fields, are missles aimed at the sky.
-
The naked beach here, Gunnison, has always called
me. I get here four or five times a year. To peddle my
wares before they're over; to watch the pigheads play
their volleyball. A tournament worth watching  -  
naked bodies in stressful cavorting, like missles
and pillows no longer touching the sky.

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