u're a ***** a mile away from my two hands
& I live inside u
still the beach is closer to the player piano submerged         in the ***** water
where Hamlet plays to the undersea creations of the simple-minded
thoughtful Beatle's fan on the island                       w/ the monsoons
overcoming the bleached sand;
I can see u in the grass hut                looking                                       ­       like
Lana Turner in the mirror
                                                          ­           but where were the mothers
                                                         who still want abortions years later
                 don't leave yellow                                                 plastic bottles
in the sand; throw ur gf in the sand instead
the yellow river dwindles                                                     in the war zone
where butchers flee                           to their slaughterhouses seeking safety
from the butchers in the streets
                                                                ­    until there are no streets;
red carpet              bombs away to the cinema,
the coffee cup sadly                       sho      ved where silent
cracks are larger than the Milky Way's discarded stars;
her mother sunbathes on the roof & that
                   guy on the twentieth floor
                                                            has been snapping her picture for years; from Brownie to Polaroid to Nikon to digital the best shots are w/ his phone; I wonder                          if she knows the stranger  
                                                      ­                                     on the 20th floor knows where her strawberry mole            
                                                                ­     is & how many
hairs its grown;
he's got her in  a yellow string bikini in the summer of 1969