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Another Day at the Beach

Kenneth, loves satire and writings to spotlight others, but he also has an "addiction" so to speak, to dramatic and abstract/prose poetry.

Golden Beach in Tokyo.

Golden Beach in Tokyo.

Is it maybe ignorance? Could it be undisciplined self-control. It might be just a cat running free across the edge of the beach. A beach without surfers, lovers, joggers, and lifeguards working for Minimum Wage is the loneliest place to be.

Sun burns each sunrise, then sun down chases away what close calls went down when “Little Troy” almost got busted from trying to score a Nickel Bag from an undercover Nark, but “Little Troy” is, like his friends believe, charmed. He’s been nabbed over a dozen times in the Men in Blue only to have no evidence. That’s the beach.

Love is a bloated commodity on the beach. Just a touch, a lying promise or two, and the sex-weakened college junior slinks away shaking from being with a cocktail waitress, “Jody,” at the “Bim Bam Room,” down toward Daytona. This was not her first. This is a daily event at the beach.

Men building worn-down bodies with expensive Chinese oil; females hoping a younger guy with adultery in his heart will just notice her; and their two kids, “Charlene,” and “Troy,” both in high school, were told to stay at home, but I know they won’t. Both are wild at heart, but keep it hid well. “Charlene” will be pregnant in a week or two—this has been brewing for months.

I hear the waves crawling into the wake. I love that soft crash, such a sleepy sound. But sleep will not come to the beach, just early risers and late comers, making a Hail Mary for one hot kiss and a icy kiss goodbye. Beach time is not like life in the real world. There are no seconds or hours, just moments.

Straw picnic baskets filled with proverbial peach pie, homemade naturally. Fried chicken fried by a driven homemaker wearing capri’s with shades way too big for her head. Her husband of 33 years stopped touching her 10 years back, and had one or two meetings at the “Bluebird Inn,” on I-95, the desk clerk is a close friend. No shenanigans like this, at this age, ever take place anymore at the beach. I didn’t plan it that way. It’s just sand sifting away.

A few Blue Whales lost in the current try to stay clear of the low tide. I hurt for these noble beasts who know no violence, but are raped daily for commerce. I wish that I had means to take every life of the Greed Mongers who sell whale parts for oil. I am justified, I think. I’ve never made it known that any beach is always a nice place to be.

Days come, days go. I remain.

I can’t leave . . .

I can’t run . . .

I only cry a muted cry.

There come the college kids—fools for a season. Drink hearty, my boy. It will be all over in a wink. She will kiss you passionately. You will be deceived and deceive someone else before dark. You are now a man, drunk and buzzing with a new life. She loved you, or did you know that? I remember every nook and crevice where you two “made it,” like so many others. Beaches have remarkable memories.

___Dec. 20, 2017

© 2017 Kenneth Avery

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