Bay
for James Gerald Alaimo
Deeper: the bay’s loose, granular, gritty
sand vanishes. Shelf rock drops off
into the black trench of Monterey.
Above: I stroke my board, again and again
out through the breakers off Manresa Beach.
Insensate: waves, gulp me in
their numbing smash and tumble.
Remote: pods of feeding porpoise, a
lone California Sea Lion hump and dive.
Beside me: You, brother
witness the bludgeoning
my ephemeral manhood, its feminine poetry
in the cupped saline rhythm of waves.
Heartbreakers
Along the divine Monterey coastline
are old torpedo-shaped bulls
without a territory or harem to defend
their large formerly-luminous eyes
compressed to nearsightedness, lenses
dimmed by the multifaceted glare off water.
Leg bones bent and buried in their bodies
they migrate back and forth along the shore.
Look for them in small bachelor groups
or alone, sea lions: sleek black synthetic
rubber—in place of silky skin and blubber
trussing up their fifty-something bellies.
Faced seaward in tingling seaweed-salt air
early when the surface of Monterey Bay is
glass, the wait and wait for the mysterious
humps up from the deep basalt and ooze
the rhythm of 500 million years—waves
moving against the granite land—breaking
granite into boulders, gravel and sand.
Waves sent by wind, earthquake, the sun
the moon, behemoths, sometimes from
the Ring of Fire off Japan. They move through
the hula-dancing kelp, killer whales seeking
the young and the slow, opening their jaws.
The old sea lion bulls pivot their long
polyurethane foam-and-fiberglass boards
and dig, dig, dig for the shore. Lifted
by the palm, past the opposing thumb, up
to thin fingertips, they hear the hisssssssss
steam from the moving, gathering hand.
They grab the rails, lift up their bulk
stand and, ah, they slide along the blue
coaster, jitterbug, cut back and back
until—the cupped hand closes to a fist
and hammers them into the sand.
Next:
for James Gerald Alaimo
Deeper: the bay’s loose, granular, gritty
sand vanishes. Shelf rock drops off
into the black trench of Monterey.
Above: I stroke my board, again and again
out through the breakers off Manresa Beach.
Insensate: waves, gulp me in
their numbing smash and tumble.
Remote: pods of feeding porpoise, a
lone California Sea Lion hump and dive.
Beside me: You, brother
witness the bludgeoning
my ephemeral manhood, its feminine poetry
in the cupped saline rhythm of waves.
Heartbreakers
Along the divine Monterey coastline
are old torpedo-shaped bulls
without a territory or harem to defend
their large formerly-luminous eyes
compressed to nearsightedness, lenses
dimmed by the multifaceted glare off water.
Leg bones bent and buried in their bodies
they migrate back and forth along the shore.
Look for them in small bachelor groups
or alone, sea lions: sleek black synthetic
rubber—in place of silky skin and blubber
trussing up their fifty-something bellies.
Faced seaward in tingling seaweed-salt air
early when the surface of Monterey Bay is
glass, the wait and wait for the mysterious
humps up from the deep basalt and ooze
the rhythm of 500 million years—waves
moving against the granite land—breaking
granite into boulders, gravel and sand.
Waves sent by wind, earthquake, the sun
the moon, behemoths, sometimes from
the Ring of Fire off Japan. They move through
the hula-dancing kelp, killer whales seeking
the young and the slow, opening their jaws.
The old sea lion bulls pivot their long
polyurethane foam-and-fiberglass boards
and dig, dig, dig for the shore. Lifted
by the palm, past the opposing thumb, up
to thin fingertips, they hear the hisssssssss
steam from the moving, gathering hand.
They grab the rails, lift up their bulk
stand and, ah, they slide along the blue
coaster, jitterbug, cut back and back
until—the cupped hand closes to a fist
and hammers them into the sand.
Next: