How to get run over by a dune-buggy and die on the sands of Newport Beach
dig in your unclipped toenails,
unclipped for over a month! and stretched
about your body, a hyphen among beige—
lazuli and sky and ocean, a bleached towel
embedded to your flat prone exposé, where
suffer the grains, onyx and maroon,
stuck in a stalemate until fluid poses
an honest threat. you should not be anxious
for a cleansing, or for a fresh revamping
of last summer’s paleness, for what matters
is punctuality. Quick! with face down
browse the numerous feelings the sand gives
you: pouring caramel on sidewalk frost,
the incipient first yelps of a chick,
polaroids scattered all over the room—
these reveries will not last very long.
a multicolored archipelago
peoples the arena, but solace seeks
you in solitary corners, signing
you to yourself, apt, and yourself alone.
Now wait! I haven’t mentioned the best part:
a rambunctious fucker comes careening
through, trampolining at marvelous speeds,
heaped on high Sunday’s meaningless habit,
unaware of your stretched décolletage.
you are doing well in doing nothing.
Bravo! apply pressure to nothingness,
you and the buggy will soon be close friends
with death on the sands of the blood-stained dune.
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