Pardon My French

You could be tuning a harp in a
drizzle of moonlight when the
TV fries your heart like a hamburger
& all you’re left with is a pair of
Hawaiian shoes & the epic cluster-fuck
fate has woven into the details

so much for the drunken boomerang
& the tide book with missing pages
rippling in the backseat
as you comb the pavement powdered
with medieval footprints (relics
of a place & time somewhere between

terror & lust & the parking lot at
Zuma Beach