Kamikaze Shoes

Paper moon made of aluminum.   The Night of the Harmonicas.   God climbs down from his limo talking on a cellphone, “I told the motherfucker not to look back or he’d wind up seasoning somebody’s french fries…”   It was summertime on the coast.

I could hear the tension being released in the secret yoga gymnasium as I passed by downhill on my way to the beach.   Tristan Tzara was drinking from a bottle of Night Train in the alley & a pornstar in a pink Acura swerved to miss a penitent in weeping robes who stepped into the street but forgot why.   There was music coming from every direction & an offshore wind sweeping in from the San Gabriels.

A warm wind that made the waves stand up on their hind legs, crosshatched in the doctored photograph hanging in the window of the Desolation Surf Shop.

Prophecy like pure chance resulted in Medusa & the two-way mirror, Moaning Lisa & her monkey eyes, Delphic shadows on the boardwalk ozone tarpit portal & the cigarette I didn’t smoke on the pier that night.   Opening the rusty puddle to get your fingers into that naked sand was one way to look at it, then again when your eyes have been folded into a Buick there are a limited number of options.

The graygreen surf tipped in w/dirty white foam.   The wet sand moving beneath my feet.   Moaning Lisa said she’d be my voodoo doll.   Her candy-colored lips assigned to a mysterious smile & her hair like dark water crashing against the jetty drenched in corrugated steel.