(LA FLORIDA) Daytona Beach


politics bore him
and he does not exactly know much about rain
but by god you give him
some hours of sleep and
he'll be expounding all the acrylic benefits of
unconsciousness, he'll be at the bottom of the
ocean complaining over white flowers, he'll be
lying about comets that carry birth warrants, as
if the red sky was important and the words

carved into the side of the overpass
were scripture. he's not the best of all men
but he can handle the summer better than
a baseball, he can run the patrician breadth
of his own shadow deep into the cracked
cement, he can drive very quickly and he can
stand in the middle of a crowded city,

demanding even the universe to stop contracting for
a moment so he can get the paint out of his hair
and know what it is to sleep in the sweating summer
on a blade of grass between the roaring highway.

he says
he loves people he
does not know and in the strangest
of ways that only serves to swim
stronger, along the current of automobiles
pointed south, motorcycles with the faces of
dead demigods etched into the fenders.

he is not always a brave man but every lie is always brave, even
the cataleptic ones,

the aquarium ones hanging cool in glass cases
while the rest of the world is suffering pleasant
heat stroke. he is overall,

not a bad sportsman, if that can be said
this far away