Joshua Corwin

 Sex on the Beach

            “But I know it when I see it, and the [poem]

                            involved in this case is […] that.” 

                                 -- United States Supreme Court 

                                                Justice Potter Stewart

 

Rain reveals mystery in summertime, where all of life’s 

answers drop into the graphite sun, a shape-shifting

amalgam that is the bedrock of all knowledge. Walking on

Western-Sea Walla Walla religions, I am a bummer digging

myself through the summer into the wild-oxygen night sky.

Your nearing shine pierces—penetrates—my own rays awry

and sundried-tomato lips send me from email void into

whimpering amongst an angel at Eden’s side. Your ever

closer city feathers a grim cycle-soldier, who bolts from his

own catastrophizing radio signals which suffocate serenity’s

sunlight shelter from releasing a smile from crutched lips. I

duplicate myself positively, as I drive this commando

storefront-skin with a tight grip, as my hands wield the

wisdom beyond our world; a closed timelike curve knifes the

Declaration which bolted against the acid-free, vacant

wind’s hot-prophet breath, correlating equations of light

with their transcendental representations of glittery peace,

where all modest sparks cross themselves against the Great

Divide. I object to the missing beaches on these bearded laps,

where eyes turn from their own concealment, confront

society’s insane asylum island forcing our consciousness to

burn our bodies away from the world; as four youthful hands

straddle the beach at night alone, yet interlocked with all

things once thinned out by confined space – yet which could

not release me on the run from the source of energy

enshrining a blistering calm, the Solar Sinai with a handful

of arrows, which had once smoked their Eros-arrows, and

quivered as our commune-bodies dulled the polarity politics,

electromagnetic cruelty, replacing equations for the real

thing; relieving politicians from their duties with our sighs,

we straddled blanket-treaties, killing-clothes and waiting for

pride in all inanimate clicks from jungle-gym iPhones

pouring lava-souls away from pale-hearted sunscreen

blinding us against gaseous clouds. The fog descending with

the oldest passions way back when nocturnal vows slashed

my tires, and crashed my car into stars that outshined their

own existence.

Gaze into our flashlight-punk-peepholes between our

nostrils vibrating insect-cocaine mallets, war-drum dramas,

maternal martyr mystery of man—delicious belongings:

your body is especially splendid, a sacred temple, with

sexual incredulity, bobbing with beat-box booming dead by

the barrage of mirages & fire dancing along the jagged-

edged shore.