He would stand and pedal and ride with Andrea ---the water from her yellow bikini bottom saturated the wide vinyl Schwinn seat, her padded top pressing his shoulder blades like mysterious succulent secret mounds of wonder, her innocent nipples maybe as pinkish/red rounded as large as lava-colored watches' little faces --- they would race on only after drinking the cream soda sharing the bottle mouth to mouth, hers coquettish and full allowing red evidence real cute on the glass bottle sculpted lip, and then round the corner to the beach building's angled shadow, the shadow trapezoidal, the girl, the boy, the minnow bucket and the lake flashbulb diamond bright-glinting them especially the bicycle spokes, as the helicopter's the helicopter's the helicopter's the helicopter's the helo's that horrendous thmpthmpthmpthmptthptthmptthmptthmptthmptthmpthmpthmpthmptthptthmptthmptthmptthmptthmpthmpthmpthmptthptthmptthmptthmptthmpt-ing drew them around again beach side back into or actually swallowed them whole into the sunlight and the chopper, a vintage / refurbished army chopin-poppin lumbering hoovering resting then thundering s-l-o-w-l-y and as clever as a dragon fly it continued flying just above the breakwater granite line of massed humongous boulders and geometrically sliced stone faces here and there etched with house paint: oval-led cartoon eyes and truncated crude Disney characters, like wa-bah-tooB while the southeasterly wind wafted, well you try to say it she said covering her ears, Rudy puts on wraparound mirrored shades to better oga-bah-lucka her cleavage (you could see sand: like salt on the white part of celery, where you sometimes find black fly-speck soil, just atop those beautiful breasts, and she knew what she was doin' squeezin' her palms over her wet blonde- hair-covered ears, he thought do not touch, hooking his thumb in his watch pocket next to the hidden dimes) she wrote: MCMLXIV with a pen from her beach bag, a cheap ubiquitous British pen not taking the top off of the plastic stick, in the deep wetness of the sand where the whitecaps vanish to bubbles she had written 1964 out there on that crowded beach and with his finger Cohen scrawled a heart getting her last name and then RC over AMA while behind them young men kicked sand dervishes making tippy-toe catches of a florescent green football and children without shirts wearing upside down sailor caps sucked their fists or swung by their arms beneath and out from rotund women who wore bulged shower caps right before the lifeguard squawked from his stilted wooden tower NO BIKES ON THE BEACH and then walked over to them telling Rudy in a nice way, the sun-blocked white nose and opaque green sunglasses and white helmet saying there's no fishing, either; Andrea wanted to lie and tell him that her daddy golfed with Barry Goldwater but she just said we're going we're going teach me to fish Rudy and then both helped push the bike on its balloon tires, the moist sand obscuring the black rubber and even as deep as where the spokes mated those tiny oblong screws into the chrome rims, they worked the bike back toward the road finally finding Andrea's older twin sisters one of whom lay on her tummy, the spaghetti thin bikini line already invisible wow thought the boy taking his hand out his pocket then ringing the chrome bell how do you do's he's gonna teach me to fish and the sister sitting omygod crossed-legged flossing her teeth then crumbling the string in her hand, then putting the floss-wad as big as a cat's eye marble into a Dentyne wrapper saying by three o'clock nonchalantly pretending to read again through sunglasses a scarred-up paperback entitled Native Son.

Views: 43

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 27, 2019 at 12:02am

Yes there were transistor radios on the beach...future looks bright...LO;}

Comment by koshersalaami on May 27, 2019 at 7:14am

Are you sure the pen wasn’t French?

Comment by Bob Burns on May 27, 2019 at 8:28am

Sometimes the desire to appear clever just plain backfires! This is one of those times.

Good Lord, man. You might try using more than one paragraph, for openers.

Then, try reading a little Hemingway.Your prose is so purple it's almost black. There is such a thing as economy of language in writing. I couldn't get through the entire thing, try as I did.

Comment by J.P. Hart on May 27, 2019 at 1:24pm

Hart: You're a gazelle leaping on the plains on the Serengeti. Thanks

koshersalaami: It was a Parker, now that I reflect, gifted by Eleanor Rigby. Afternoon delight replete with true emotion!

Mr.Burns :: Welcome to my blog!
Your laudatory accolades: comparing moi to Ernesto Hemingway and my eclectic kinesis to The Color Purple --- much appreciated. Maybe after I bind and glue the hardcover you'd be willing to scroll the cover blurbs? $19.99! The kind the drugstores sell. Also I'm reaching out for your friendship. Not often one gets a crutch wracked 'cross the knees:).

My short story collection probably will be titled: Fragment,Fig Leaves and Phantoms. Curious if you've read my Hart of the Deal?

Although I'd cut the line on a marlin, maybe. As I lay me down to sleep, the dolphin leap, the guitar weep...

100 Minutes was a pen-draft Amtrak'in West from Georgetown to Beertown way back in 2010....often the Jameson old fashions pic it like a chicken bone LO;}

I've all day rain, low 50's. 'Three hours of pushing broom' so to speak. Nobody on the beach. How's life been treating ya in Key West, Bob, if I may?
Don't give up! You've got the music in you. Oh and hurray for our side!

Sad,sad truth innit? (timer just went off on my gingerbread...soin-of-a-DNA-blotch...!) and here's an interesting compliment from the wonderful Ben Sen:

Hart: You're a gazelle leaping on the plains of the Serengeti. Thanks

&:

"Your work is so witty it renders me speechless. I wish you'd tell us more about yourself and your journey here. Ben Sen commented on J.P. Hart's blog post Shall Be

Comment by Ben Sen on October 9, 2017 at 10:46am
I wrote the "story" i.e. the narrative for the biography of Bill Robinson from the original research. It was eventually made into a movie for Showtime starring Gregory Hines, but I've never seen it. I got ripped off by my collaborator. The song, almost needless to say, is an exaggeration, but does capture some of the man. He was the first of his race to reach as far as he did in American entertainment--a real character--mostly loved unless you fucked with him.

Hart: you're a gazelle leaping on the plains of the Serengeti. Thanks.

Comment by J.P. Hart on April 2, 2018 at 7:43am
Too infrequently I sport about with a semi-retired Bosnian Psychiatrist. More than once he mentioned the importance (paramount thing, thing at hand, the fork) is to eat slowly chew well without distractions. Nowadays I'm the last to put the white linen on the plate. And I'm also thinking of her brittle diabetes, how she sailed on home to Jesus, her gone ballerina legs restored at once in the Kingdom of God, and of me safe and warm on terra firma 'worried' which-what color to paint the kite, still hearing yesterday's Herb Alpert's Fool on the Hill, and was there wine, dear Ben Sen?
Once the check clears I'm gonna distribute little food cards at the Rescue Mission. Probably cause I did about 90 hours of telephone work with the captain of a food boat trying to dock in Bangladesh. Factor had let the winch. I recollect it is a pay go system in order to moor.
Ben Sen we look forward to your inspirational writing. Thank you; you know, supper's on the stove . . . countless thousands quantifiable on the road.

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