Poetry from Chris Daly

The Comeback

The big trucks roll in and out
all day and the gulls on the dump
don’t know them any more from St. Francis. 

There are hundreds of them 
fluttery and imperturbable
orgying on the donations
of 400,000 citizens.

Ugly on the ground
they look like overfed pigeons
with skinnier legs if that’ possible
& with heads like Edward Everett Norton 

but when they spread those long wings
there is a grace the eye does not resist.

There are so many
that it’s scary at first
but they don’t give a shit
(hopefully) about visitors,

another truck comes in
they swirl about
in their somewhat flipped out fashion
this set up being too easy

and maybe you start
feeling a little flippy too.

The garbage men get two holidays
a year which they make up
the following saturdays.

The birds have been there
for years.




Archimedes at the Wedge


two sumo size guys sitting with
the great stillness of the huge
another somewhat noisy somewhat
sizable guy with ugly hair & no definition
big lower lip many years at the beach
one other large mostly muscled
guy with the best hung-over drawl
about the tangle of the last few
days’ parties and these gentlemen
misshapen to various degrees are
deferred to by the trim and the
less seriously physical.

off at a distance families demolish
boxes of donuts. a dreamy woman
almost gets sucked to her death,
a guy with stitches shows up. one of 
the sumos has disappeared but one 
shoots across a short high left face
half his body out of the water
holding up the world.



Terminal Island 
(a fond look back) 

The sailors come from off the sea
The porno movies for to see
I take them there for a small fee
Because I am a cabbie, a cabbie.

They also go dive-hopping
And on suitcase-buying sprees.
$4.10 into town, or if you have
5 horny greeks, $4.50,

or 3 insane Bostonians,
their wives with season tickets
to arthur fiedler (whose dead,
I think), $4.30.

But I like it out there.
The driving is fast and reckless,
The air feels good.
The ships are platonic,

The ship’s whores doubly so.
The company supplies the tires,
The sea provides rumor
And inference.


Nude beach

When you come over the bluff
And look down into the cove
It looks like sand
When you get there
It turns out to be millions
Of small rocks
Which leave red marks on your ass
Which look like sunburn
From a distance

Loudmouths and quiet lookers
With salty dried-out hair
Girls with stones for eyes
& tits that are pointy
guys dive off rocks
and try to keep from being
sucked by the current
into the cave
flesh everywhere

but not a stiff prick in sight
people stand on the side and shout
to the divers
“stay on the surface”




beach at trouville 1873


the sand is behaving itself
the smoke is beautiful in the clear air dress is formal, boater for the men buss & parasol for the ladies no one is lonely or trying to get picked up

marriages have reached the here-we-are stage, the hair is dark, not grey the beach socially is just being discovered and the feeling is somewhat like a movie set 
la mer is vaguely paid attention to less than say boats on it

we are all fairly fucking cool thank you later our teeth will be pulled and freudian psychology revealed with a national twist and a slight yawn

but now it’s the morning of light the sand is being so good the heels are clicked together hard to tell shape of ass under those large skirts but the waist is a general guide the weather is perfect and it’s the most perfect day of a fairly perfect year

tahiti in tails a cole porter level of charm
there is no food and the wine is not in sight the wind is excellent
there are no numbers or letters visible (being in the picture they cannot see the artist’s signature

but if they could they wouldn’t change a thing)
of course everywhere is a seminal dream as we existing prove we’ve only lost the charm the style the clothes the light and control of the sand




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