At the Magic Beach Motel, stars keep shooting off behind
Eric’s head; pink yellow white, pink yellow tings with tequila
chain-smoke while he tells us about his Year 2012 Theory:

Earth’s changing pull, gravity lessening some shark-trap
grip on It’s infestation, chemical secretion from more DMT
produced by our already fucked-up brains, “heightened

sense of awareness” (and magic mushroom mindsets).
Another sunset down the gutter, how every Floridian’s
night begins. Antique muffled voices all born unlucky

with skin rub salt over the shoulders, repeat daily…
I think of littering my feathers behind and the world taking
a long drag, sigh heaving, ocean crash somewhere nearby.

It’s Thursday, after the psychic reader on Bernard Street
performs her fifth reading flipping Ace of Pentacles then
she walks into the Atlantic, pod of sea weed washing

up in her place… Mouths stay closed longer now, stretched
sands along shore, eyes increasingly doing more swimming,
learning to see with selenite in yawning lashes. I guess

there isn’t any hope, only a rusted oven needing some matches—
A better way of understanding the cast-iron pot we’re stewing
in: some of us tenderizing, some of us melting, drowned.


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