on brighton beach i'll sit,
in the sharp wind,
with Brooklyn as a barricade
to the Dirty City behind me.
a blonde in tight pants,
a bright green tube top,
and a corduroy jacket
performs in front of me,
with hand stands, summersaults,
she jumps and twirls abound.
a naughty ballerina
from some mid-western
she sticks her tongue out at me.
it’s all very sexy what she does.
i journal in my ragged-looking
notebook, full of sand,
let the sand pile onto my khakis,
these khakis i’ve been
wearing for the past three days,
all throughout the city
i’ve been sitting in the subways,
watching the papers read the people-
on park benches, resting
against buildings of notoriety.
all buildings are notorious here.
when this abandoned boardwalk
opens for the summer i think i might
bring her here again.
i think she’d like it.
through the tint of my
the entire scene feels - surreal.
the cold november ocean
piling up against the land
& and this girl before me,
and nutty beyond belief.
she throws me her corduroy jacket,
wiggles and jiggles out of her tube top
and runs toward the cold murky ocean water.
brighton beach seagulls flea at the sight
of her pale, pale body - rosy taught nipples.
a small Hispanic man with a cat in his hands
stops on the boardwalk to watch.
we’re going to be here for a while.
Brighton Beach Baby Pt. 2
Adam R. Burnett