What I ask is a memory. What I get is a story about the sun. The smell of seagulls, sand, oarweed, the smell of rot, outfielder stats, the sheer fountain of brown waves over the feet of an unwanted son. I get chatter of divorce, tubular daughters, the smell of pot, talk of war, and its harsh tentacles hanging in the air. Some sky writer’s joke about drunk co-eds, a pun that echoes down the OC boardwalk meat. The heat is not the illusion, but the joy is, unseen as it is. Unwanted sex running down legs, long hooks of sweat fall into blankets, into the bookbag hidden with beer. My wrinkled hands go thick and vampiric. Some days you drink for meaning, some days to keep the world in place. Today the booze’s burn keeps the blood interesting, I focus on getting through, the skin of my arm becomes an ocean of anger I always understand. C.L. Liedekev is a poet/dreamer who lives in Conshohocken, PA, with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen's, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. His poem, “November Snow. Philadelphia Children’s Hospital” is a finalist for the 2021 Best of the Net. Comments are closed.
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Photos used under Creative Commons from Michel Hébert, brighterdaygang, aivars_k, rchdj10, dalbera