Hark, Or Something

Restaurant open sign
Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

Hobble in the direction of the ever-godless dinner table. This is the important part. Hark, or something.

This is the part when the people don't leave together—where the restaurant sign goes dark too early—how the waves on the dirty beach say welcome, and also, crunch.

This is the story of the line between hot concrete and hot seaside—it isn't hot anymore, because everyone left already—because when a tree falls it's alone on a beach—the tree is just a diamond inlaid alongside a different diamond next to a different world.

It's the teeny speck in the dinosaur eye—it's being both the giant and the speck—the hawk and the mouse all at once—the island that worships itself.

The friends have gone home and the short shirt doesn't cover the stomach well enough—the skin that is just not quite right—that is just not unreal. The friends have left in cars after saying too many note things—after the plate falling off the table, and no one regarding the fall.

It starts with a uncaring word and ends with the lifeguard tower at the entrance of the universe—at the gateway between soft smile and soft smile—the words that were given as reasons washing up on some shore, somewhere.

The under part of the seagull who is eating the happy French fry is a darker gray than the rest of the world. The sidewalk before the splatter street is the same thing as the sand: teeny tiny ancient giant parts, chewed up and spit out.

It is not the part with the eating. The giant ball of mozzarella on the coastal table can tell you its secrets—you can cut toward the fancy plate as many times as you want, watch the stuffed white insides spill out to the oil—and eating at the white tablecloth could be a symphony telling us we have it made—telling us we can't tell each other anything.

Stumble toward The Dark Mass! The celestial water that could sweep you up and spit you out somewhere different. Mind the gap between the party and the barren and necessary winding—wait, or something.

I understand. The story is about someone constantly leaving, every day, just leaving the desk and then the spot and then the jaw—this is the ode to the beach birds on the wire and the depleted sunset turning and turning. The romance of doing only and exactly what you want. The part that got up all alone and walked toward the wiggling stitches in the sky. Between everything and everything. We get it already. The person is just going and never gone.

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