4th

All The Strange Phone Calls

It's love that breaks against the rocks

and not foam nor water of any kind,

It's a baptism of ire that makes the horizon burn

in coalish, motionless plumes.

Stained cotton from beach front windows.

We were smoking joints

in the guts of the canyons,

the mired trai1s to the sea kissed shale.

All the blues from Chicago knife

and gunshot histories

is folk lore all the kids

destroy with their breathing.

Even at dinner time,

forks are next to plates

whose owners wonder

what's eating their neighbors

with all the strange phone calls

about what's going on the shoreline.

The armies of the night

couldn't scare up a quarter of the beaches

America has landed on

searching for something to talk about on
deserted talk show acres
where anyone in a tight suit

and big glasses can explain away

the bombs bursting in air

with sarcasm and ad -libs.