In August salt and rain showered down barren passages in Coney’s desert of padlocks, the real deal not nostalgic fetish clogs of websites and turnpike tattoo parlors making noir not peace. In the early part of the day the emptiness proves itself master over love, the place nakedly nothing, stale fizz awaiting another vain shaking. How surprised are you to come here and then discover how gone it really is. It is a place for wind to travel through. It is a place to commemorate collapsible rot and matter overcome by time underwhelmingly desperate in suspension. It is hunger momentarily sated with dyed fat and vulgar shavings in a cup. It is minor league rage and regret and mostly mockery canned smell it asscracked in cocoa butter and mentholatum armpit smotherfuckers. It is pocked pickets and handy jaybirds under the boardwalk humptastic. It is Hector and hectored, Blanquita and hipster banal-y-wood irony. The bearded lady is just a jew in a lawn chair. Somewhere there are photographic Germans with lunch in their backpacks because must always, right? And uniformly doomed children squeal in delight liberated from books and shoes if ever there were either to pollute their nude aspirations of nothing. Chickenbone says hello too because she is everywhere either in styro or just there. The cola laps like the afterthought Atlantic and I’ve seen cleaner men’s rooms but it is evolution calling, sleeper cell water droplets activate insulin insurgencies and demand on grainy videola that we worship wave-halations, prostrations, face the sun and choke ourselves to death, even here in wretched teeming shores, decrepit with yesterday’s sustainability that only applies to that which we’ve already lost and cheered for. The world is so much more than colored lights and nothing else exactly what the calliope says it is, wounding down groan too old to ever be sun borned again.
In August I brought my Cousins to la playa vieja. Coney Island whasamatter? No mind.