There are rocks of granite that perch like pensive trolls upon the fire escape. They scrape when you move them. Too big to tumble through the slats, they grow there, stalagmites formed from tears cried by grandmothers over murdered children.
Spittlebugs gurgle their beer and leave a mess for the barmaids. They tip poorly. Without pockets, they must bum for drinks and smokes.
The railroad rings when you strike it with a hammer. Ring-a-rail round and round. Ping it like a bell. The gravel hurts your knees though, as do the ties when they twist your ankle. Bad ties.
A pebbled beach tinks its melody with the lapping of foamy waves. The curls of rhythm, syncopated and relentless, crunch and run up the slope churning as they go. The deep burgundy stones sound like triangles played by grade-schoolers. The blue ones resonate with the crying of the gulls.
Money flutters in her hand as she spreads the bills for coffee. And brioche spread with lox and capers. Crinkle paper folds in chaotic lines with breakfast stuffed into her purse. Three salty pearls sneak out and burrow into the photo album of her late husband who worked the North Sea oil rigs. Rainbows of chloride cloud a halo around Jonathan’s head as he waves from a steel tower.
Popcorn kernels, failing to mate, turn black and fallow hoping to ride a white noduled curd into your mouth.
Cinnamon infiltrates the smallest notches of your olfactory system, it squeezes in so that it might burn a hole.
Venus will crush you if you give her a chance.
The Gulf Stream longs to salt the calves of a sleeping Hemingway, cigar wedged between ring and fuck-you finger. In the sand a bottle of caramel rum sits angled like an Atlas rocket toward Havana, where his mistress awaits munching anchovies on toast. She will wait ’till morning, but no longer.