but i do
and i feel
a certain injustice
that says more about me
This is a webpage but it would rather be a cowboy in a spaghetti western
"Honey, Mr. Bee is not from dimensional space, so his attempts at humor will be different from ours. But he is not harmful. He never has been."
"Yes darling, but when he turned your face blue, it was just for an afternoon, and Mrs. Simmons wasn't bothered by rhyming every other word over that 3 day weekend. She said it felt novel. She is a poet, after all, and she still teaches him poetic theory on Wednesdays."
"I will talk to Mr. Bee and remind him, most firmly."
The caller then noticed me, after he had placed his phone in his pocket. "I do apologize if my conversation was too loud."
I shook my head.
"In any case, our lab is funded though the public, and anyone is welcome to attend ... a totally open and above board program, with no hidden agendas."
I nodded.
"Here is my card, you are welcome to drop by anytime and talk to the Departments."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Oh, the Departments? Time, Space, Novelty, Linear Theories, Circular, Things, Clouds, Weather, and Harmony."
The train pulled up to the station.
"Goodbye!" said the caller with the card.
A report from the edge of night: Bikini clad girl immerses herself in the waves, the surface looks like silver strands. She adjusts her top and dives under the curling water. Someone methodically breaks down a beach umbrella, clack, clack, noises almost like shells and stones rinsed by the surf. A father holds his son’s hand as the small boy goes round and round and round his father. Now the sand looking like aluminum in the fading light, streaming sheets of water put up by the surf. There is a claw of a cloud that raises up to grasp at the half moon, but it is untouchable.
In the fading light at the beach, it becomes light purple. On the horizon are rain clouds, across this view teenagers run to the surf. They grab each other’s hands and run back up away from the waves screaming. In the fading light a solitary beachgoer doomscrolls, then they put the phone down. They sink into a trance, resting their chin on one hand. They’ve connected with the horizon and the rain on the edge of view with the fading light. More people appear talking and talking … ready to take pictures of themselves, then forgetting in the fading purple light and the smell of the ocean overtakes thoughts, pretense, assumptions, perfume. The half moon overhead, over everyone’s shoulders. It smolders like a white ember in the sky, or possibly it signifies a clock half run to some end. The solitary beachgoer grabs their shoes, and goes.
— -
Cove Beach