Poetic essay from Kahlil Crawford

Redd Armoire

home – a desolate block – died inside of me at Newport Beach where I witnessed a miniature Versailles sidewalk surfing, and learned the fitness virtues of surfboards & yellowtail.

never mind the grungy beachside citizens wading along the oil-contaminated surf- “we’ve still got the best waves” – as evidenced by the splattering of surfer bars and nascent Brazilian cafes.

bikini-clad girls in flip-flops and trucker hats parade up and down PCH and Main sans aim – purpose nor destiny – a quick pedal home toward paternal security

the surf shops hide away long forgotten legends of the tide and sand lamenting an old glory that never was – only imagined.

see, the preservation of a local culture is drowned out not by waves and songs of the seagull, but by corporate cranes migrating North.

 

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