This exhaust comes on me like cotton candy light at first, warm if you’re lucky, then sticky and eventually, tightening the skin. How the way you feel coming down off that crunch edged buzz is a case of yourself, over it whole body ready to sleep the sleep with no deep dream. I can’t see past my eyes, they haze over everything, a different haze then the boardwalk fog been here two weeks that I came here, bougie hotel room on 15th for the night, to tend. Every time a beach patrol truck goes by I think, is that Ty my baby cousin than remember. He is the cous since I been home from Laguna that I always run into on the swing. The swing the swing–the pulse that runs from sea to sand to bare feet street beat keepers. He’s no baby anymore now he like them all has a job over the bridge, busy metro pulse pulse pulsing should do’s all through the blood the muscle, on the lips through the skull. Should do’s should do’s how the beat keep dies. No. more. swing. I am so tired, tired of this all.
I hate the tourists. I hate the tourists and I hate the economy they sustain and protect. I hate myself and am a hypocrite. It is not as easy as that, just giving it a name, misanthropy. Beachweekers go by the window and now, girl with sunglasses, halter top and milkshake, chomping gum. The first hour I was here I sat next to the screen out of view shot of the boardwalk passerbys and just listened to the sea. Realized it was: it was breathing me. I was weepy with gratitude and joy. I hate the tourists and I love their humanness and in general, I am just trying to not let my attitude make me outwardly rude.
I could see a journal in my head, one just for the p o e t r y & it was beautiful, bag-sized ready, dark blue. I found it at Michaels on the way.
It is 40 minutes until the lifeguards pull their stands. The sea is too cold for sustained swims but it is not really, and I am counting down. For now I will stay here, pushed back from the window, cushy chair feet up, watchfeeling the grey water against greyer sky.