Monday, February 20, 2006


Overcrowded, under umbrellas
stepped on,
or ogled,
or worse -
completely ignored.
Self consciously zipped into a one piece,
the most minute imperfection
- accentuated.
Blossoming, as envy
while the ever-parade
of anatomically gifted sculptures
celebrate till dusk.

To perspire – nay, sweat,
staining fresh linens,
matting greasy threads of hair.
the tranquility of a bath,
desired on hour –
and daydreams of a snow cone
lazily tipped in slalom
down the front of one’s sticky trousers;
Are these the pleasures of summer?

To be decorated
in reddening,
poison-primped lumps
perchance, the vial stinger of a bee
burrowed deep,
tenderly sour
and swallowing golden granules
in every endeavored bite of a sandwich
in hair and shorts,
impossibly glued between toes.
To peel as the rotting orange,
or stuck dry as parchment,
or wilting anchovies
on day-old three cheeses.
Black flies swarming about -
wreaking of scorched flakes
cindered shavings
upon one’s pillow

Escape, you say,
into the thunderous bellow of surf,
trunks ballooning,
pockets full of distilled sewage and algae.
Scraping heels on coral
Emerging, nay, as Venus
but invigorated by pink eye,
biting kiss of salt sprinkled
over each open wound.
Onward and homeward,
Squinting into the last teased remnants of sunset
To treat the day’s ailments
in repose of an air-conditioned oasis
begging for the rustling cool of embittered frost -
You may keep your pleasures of summer!


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