Baker Beach Poems

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The Weekend

The weekend crowds are thin,
I saw a girl a bit over-dressed
for the beach, hiding her disturbed
beauty in baggy clothes and a protruding
cap, the fisherman are out in force, and how

we feel in our hearts is always the measure
of who we really are, this is not just the stuff
of philosphers and scientists, this solar system of
featured emotions that streak to the surface from
hidden dark craters, earth's terminator,

there are now some girls in shorts walking by,
near the shore, this breathing practise shines the
forehead, lightness, emptiness, releasing
thoughts about daily cares, the ocean is filled
with icy layers, and the radiant sun is eclipsed
by the breath.


The sailboats race nearby, as the seagulls
cry and hover above the slow moving crowds,
their muscular action gradually increases
with experienced speed, like a consciousness
clean of friction, that soars lightly through
the trees, that fiercely rolls pebbles,

along the beach, and which prepare its own
invisible seeds of dissolution, the tides do
the work, they grind rocks into sand and tear
down great cliffs, a young woman sleeps in this
sand, she moves with this anxious velocity, as
she props her barefoot across her knee, and she

whispers dark secrets to me as the seagull's
shadow floods us.

The Fog

people wading and swimming have drowned here,
rip currents, the bridge is embraced by haze on
this intense windless day, waiting for the right
momentm this flesh and the devil, a seventh
heaven, these white shadows as the clouds

streak like iron blossoms, the beach is
covered in gold, a film of any real size and
scope, well photographed too, with super-
impositions, this stop motion conceived
from the silent screen, a meditation for

the early maintenance of the cosmos, a
mystical spiritual discipline, in order to be
still, simple, and to just rest in a right
moment with this mountain of eternal
light for all the valleys just below it,

some which may never be lighted fully,
and the waves crash, the central dance
of light and shade continues as the fog
just covers the bridge's turret and light
shines on those cars forever trapped in
its span.


Silver waters and babes that deliver their barracks,
behind sunglasses, their cut-off jeans, and pink tank-tops,
that destroy like tanks in the desert.

I see these swimmers surrounded by sands, sailboats, a tanker
suspended in a skirmish with dogs, towels, sun-tan lotions, the
bridge still stands as the Marines talk tough about a one legged
dog limping towards Baton Rouge, the panicked crowds scattering
near the Shatt Al Arab.

A long green experienced tanker moves now towards the bridge,
as the babes put on their sunscreen for the secret police, and a
woman's body is dismembered as a warning in the desert.

The Beach

A young man with green tattoos on his arm stares at a sailboat,
with red squares and lines, dreaming of wild urban wafare, and
14 year old kids with AK-47s, the beach is not about helicopters, or
fighting in the streets, it's about satellite dishes, and planes and naked
babes with the bridge staring at them....

just before the Giants game, with babes doing yoga poses,
next to shallow graves, killing fair amounts of time, while wondering
what could come next.

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