Beach Hate


The sand crunches in all of the lunches
as squawking gulls lull for a morsel
mine, mine, mine, mine, mine . . .
so many people baking themselves
in the sun beating down on the kiln.
The kids out for an undertow shark swim,
the cesspool of the whales: tales of Ahab
rolling in the plankton swells;
sandblasting from the wet air blown
off the salty waves whitecrashing;
the collecting of carcasses, broken shells
and the saline skin crust with fishy smells;
blue skies constantly threatened by drab
over side-step crabs and fleet-foot birds;
the suck of the muck that shakes
and collapses to capture feet near watery
edges–breathing out and in–the shushing din:
white noise without end. . . .
. . . Legions lie in ultraviolet egregious,
life-years depleted;
under my umbrella I mutter
hate for the beaches.