on brighton beach i'll sit,

notebook flapping

in the sharp wind,

with Brooklyn as a barricade

to the Dirty City behind me.

a blonde in tight pants,

a bright green tube top,

and a corduroy jacket

performs in front of me,

with hand stands, summersaults,

she jumps and twirls abound.

a naughty ballerina

from some mid-western

cow-town.

she sticks her tongue out at me.

 

we laugh.

it’s all very sexy what she does.

i journal in my ragged-looking

notebook, full of sand,

let the sand pile onto my khakis,

these khakis i’ve been

wearing for the past three days,

all throughout the city

i’ve been sitting in the subways,

watching the papers read the people-

on park benches, resting

against buildings of notoriety.

all buildings are notorious here.

 

when this abandoned boardwalk

opens for the summer i think i might

bring her here again.

i think she’d like it.

 

through the tint of my

cracked sunglasses

the entire scene feels - surreal.

the cold november ocean

piling up against the land

& and this girl before me,

hot-headed

and nutty beyond belief.

she throws me her corduroy jacket,

wiggles and jiggles out of her tube top

and runs toward the cold murky ocean water.

brighton beach seagulls flea at the sight

of her pale, pale body - rosy taught nipples.

a small Hispanic man with a cat in his hands

stops on the boardwalk to watch.

we’re going to be here for a while.

—

Back.