The sun is cold
but short-short bladders
still roll on by,
giant goose bumps popping
like bubbles of denial
or rubber nipples on turkeys
that say: despite my youth,
please stick a fork in me,
turn me over, I am done.
The sun is cold, sinking into the ocean,
a glowing olive in a dirty blue martini
while in front of tacky beach shops
dervish Hare Krishnas
in robes as orange as sherbet
clang and sing and dance and dance
and dance and dance and dance.
The sun is cold, for such a warm city
of cold fake blondes and real crazies
both types writhe with constant soulless motion,
severed daddy-long-legs twitching,
barely aware of their separated bodies.
The sun is cold, where once it used to hold
the endless possibilities:
buffed up beach boys, multi-colored hippy girls.
Stay here too long, and the sun turns
its heat off on you too, forsaking you just like
those palm trees, trunks covered half way up with dirty sand.
Time sinks with each sunset.
And now heat comes only dimly,
back from broken people treading
on a fragile seismic fault
that will only be too happy to crack and split,
suck them down one last time
and spit them out for good.
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