beach poems

::

Times when I find myself
at odds with gravity, I spread

peanut butter on rice wafers
and watch them float. This

and a nice root beer
are just the ticket for those

weightless days, gentle breeze.

::

Sand forms its own little holes
into which foam rushes.

I watched as a ghost crab ran
down into one only to be topped

off with copious head.
The foam settled and I heard

ideas ticking around the big clock.

::

Wherever the sun is, there also
is a road; and where a road is

there must be a motorcycle.
As for the motorcycle,

we have painted it red.
We bought the paint

at a surf shop in Coinjack.
We reached the speed at which

life itself is a mirage.

::

The key to enjoying oneself
out on the deck is to deny

that the Adirondack chair exists.
This is not an Adirondack chair.

This is Chris Glomski.
This is half of Larry Sawyer.

This will become Lina ramona
Vitkauskas. This is Tony Robinson.

This chair is half of Peter Davis.
It is one part Sandra Beasley.

It has become Jordan Davis.
This chair is not Devin Johnston.

The chair cannot be Ron Padgett.
Ron Silliman is not the chair.

This is Jessa Crispin.
This chair is Frank Sherlock,

and he is writing a poem.
This is Stephanie Young

arguing with Amy King. This is
two chairs even as it is

two ways of looking at Shanna Compton.
It is half of Didi Menendez.

Is the Adirondack chair
David Lehman? No; it is

Gabriel Gudding combing his hair.
It is a constructed to look like

Daniel Nester but it is actually
Kevin Thurston eating a kiwi.

This is Geoffrey Gatza.
By napping in this chair

in the blinding sunlight I have
become both Adam Fieled

and Reb Livingston.