OCEANS AT STORM
Those decadent waves are riding me again,
tearing down awnings and ripping up streams.
Little eddies of salty water run everywhere, while
the huge, white surf surges and spittles. There is,
entirely, no land left. The carousel on the boardwalk
now just seems to wander. Some kids are eating
cotton candy, and ice cream - the colors of
everything are childish. Moldy green, wild pink,
suggestions of blood in the red. Some blue, like
a dead person's cheeks. Suggestion is everywhere,
and these fat bottomed girls do suggest. I think
they've come here from Irvington or Hillside.
Cannot reach the talk, cannot haul the salty creature,
cannot bring the wasted, drowning man back home.
Truly, I am helpless - like listening to a calliope play,
though I be deaf. My head nods, but to nothing.
Oh I am my own Sigmund now : I am looking at
breasts and bottoms and hips again, and - Hell -
I am lost. What revanchist pier has gotten me here :
old cat-man, no-hat-man, walking the sandy shore
with a four-year-old dog who soggy traipses through
sticky sand. My arms are branded by sun. I have
no idea of protection, nor rays. I am burned, and
lush, with these moments, now, of living.