Hampton Diamonds

Harper and August cruise down Ocean Blvd strip.
Car lights flash, clap, flash.
The two roll down their windows. Harper looks over briefly at August whose head hangs out the window.
Harper smiles. The first.
The honking riffraff bursts the sensual ocean whisper and salt breeze.
Indulge me.

Get. Some. Lotus. In. Your. Life.


Untitled Rubbish

I’m tired of here, I’m tired of humanity and all that we stand for and all that we don’t, and these eyes heavily laid upon the green messy carpet outdated for years but who would notice– not I sah, not I, for I want what everyone else wants, making it all go to shit because we compete for this or that, food on the shelves a plenty to make us sick, houses depleted and ugly to make us sick, medications full create all the same get those dogs and cats on the same medications side affects side affects as long as the pocket presents the side affects do not exist until they actually happen and then they’re sorry so sorry they ever met you and that’s what I think when I walk, trying to keep up with the dogs because I am so lost in the darkness of disgusting humanity– disgusting adults– disgusting teenagers– disgusting children– we regulate animals  but not humanity no snip snip opiate here, opiate there, don’t worry about the side affects for they do not concern you nor your child so they don’t actually exist until they actually do– all of the muck and dirt combing through my mind as I walk behind them until I reach the smells and the blackness of the sky and greyness of the sea at a time when most humanity is not to be seen for it is too cold and too dark, only then when I smell the seeping clams and muscles while the dogs trot amongst their mother rocks and dirt do I realize that life isn’t alway to shit because nature is there such as the ocean to bring me back to the one and all source loving and true– t’aint nothing more true than the grey ocean sans line to see not to cross, and then I cross it unbeknownst and perhaps I want to go further as the mermaid sirens call me as the gulls flap me as the ducks twirl me to want and I want and this– that– is all I really do want, not this construction not this green paper, not this fake job, not this disheartened look, not this soiled house crumbling to the marshes, but the ocean that appears at night like I could walk across it and through it and disappear to something more and true

The Old Yankee Bitch

“On Monday I found my husband dead on the couch.”

We take our dogs Caddy– a wild at heart Australian Cattle Dog/Beagle (you see the Beagle in her ears and howl), and Dylan– the sweetest Toy Poodle who tells everyone he loves them with his tongue– to the empty beach of Hampton, New Hampshire.

It is low tide, so the gulls are having a grand ol’ time gulping washed up crabs and clams. The boulders are exposed. Only the ones who live nearby and who have companion dogs are out right now. The rest– the wannabes— wait in the shadows for summer.

The Old Yankee Bitch– we never asked for her name and she didn’t ask for ours (we only know each other’s dogs’ names, naturally )– stands waiting in her marshmallow jacket on the other side of the mini jetty. We make eye contact at precisely the moment Caddy squats and shits. Good thing I brought a bag, otherwise she’d scold me for leaving the shit, even if I buried the shit under the sand. People here leave their used needles in the sand for all of us plebes to step on, so what the hell?

The fox-like Delilah, a Sheltie, of course is at her side. As I walk up the cement stairs to throw the bag-o-shit away, I look around and Delilah is waiting at the base of the stairs. How did she get there so quickly?

“Hello Delilah! I’ve missed you so.”

Caddy is delighted, and needless to say, so is Dylan (Delou aka Bob Dylan).

I unhook the leashes from their collars. Off the three best of friends run; tails up, tongues out. We run after the three, who outrun us, looking behind to make sure us slow ones are keeping up.

We say our customary hellos to The Old Yankee Bitch. We cheer on the dogs– they are the most important phenomenon, after all– another dog outside our knowledge joining the pack, a senior black lab.

Caddy herds him like her blood tells her too. The man leaves with his black lab.

Dylan chases a jogger who is on the other side of the wall, and we’re fearful for a moment that he’ll soon blend in to the dirty snow. Perhaps the jogger would want to take him. I run and call him like a crazed mother. He races back to us.

Time to go home.

As we walk, The Yankee Old Bitch calls Delilah a bitch. Her term of endearment, but she’s really pissed that she can’t fully trust Delilah to do the right thing and not run off. Then she looks at us as we convey our adieus.

She says in the same tone and nonchalance as calling Delilah a bitch, “I found my husband dead on the couch. Delilah barked and whined for him. Anyway, have a good day and we’ll see you tomorrow.”


People bore the dead earth. They sit on the tall chairs as they once did as children in their high chairs. What’s changed son? You didn’t get more interesting, did you.

Man in the pressured suit. He smiles as shiny as his hair. He worked on that hair a great deal, well a lifetime. Now he can talk about his hair and how he just did a business deal with so and so who used to own the Atlantic.


The bricks bleed. Stop laughing. When can I get out I can’t get out where am I it’s nothing it’s all shit it’s all classless nothing is better than the last I think I’ll always be searching for something beyond this–

“What are you stupid? It’s a business deal.”

The plebes. Gawk at that T.V. Judge everyone’s shape and face. You know best, don’t ya. Talk about that weatha. Eagle on the back of your sweatshirt. Get outta’ here.

“You’d never see those women in Hampton.”


“They put too much in it. Who dresses like that?”

Gawk at that young pair of women walking in just to try the ambience of bricks. Their hair is fake. So who cares?

The pair aren’t more interesting than you, so don’t worry. They sit with boxes of light blinding their faces. Something’s surely better than here.

Well, you’re right sweetie.

“The mortgage hasn’t cleared yet…so–” He places on his jacket that glows in the dark so he must be blue collar ain’t he?

Walk by in your checkered muted shirt. Glance at the pair who will never notice you.

“You must be doing homework on Abraham Lincoln.”

Try Thoreau. And no, this isn’t homework. Would He be seen here? Would he shake his head, or merely watch with amusement? WWTD?

The poor servant from Columbia, short like 5′ 2″, smiles polite to a fault, as if the pair of women were her own pained children, and apologizes for the unavailable brewskie

“No one was there.”

The one closest to the brinks continues to stare at the light box while the Columbian apologizes profusely, a lowly beggar.

“Thank you.”

The light box needs no thanks.

I actually don’t know where she’s from… maybe I should ask.

“Ten grand? Five million dollar royals taken away.”

“I’ll buy you anything you want to drink.”

“Ha–hahahah. Alright, I’ll see ya.”

“Cash me out.”

“I saw that new Tesla coming out.”

“I would’t get anything from them for five years.”

Thank you for the advice.

Do words come easy?

Two days and three nights, reason screams from the tops of its lungs, is not a sufficient amount of time to deem two individuals fell in love. Perhaps, I muse with the most logical sincerity, it was a simple bout of lust, just as one comes down with a bout of coughing seemingly out of nowhere. The cough exudes a miserable eternity, making you scorn yourself when you took for granted the days you walked about your silly normal life without feeling the combustion burning from your throat, traveling up your esophagus, only to spit in an unnatural force out of your mouth. That unforgiving day it begins, but as quickly as it came, it is gone, and once it is gone, it is completely forgotten until the next fickle bout tickles your throat.