at the beach, old friends reunite from across the astral plane

i went to the beach today with maxx in tow, this being monday.
i needed to reunite with those who may not be my friends, but who wouldn’t tear my spine from my back and would always give me, at worst, a sarcastic answer to any of my questions. i sought the eduardo cianelli-sounding guy who looked like omar sharif who introduced me to the notion that we’re just part of the intergalactic food-chain and somebody else’s batteries.
the grifting lizards i speak of had just come back from mars and they told me that they saw my friend sol peering at them from the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension.


the photo above has nothing and everything to do with an explosion of memories that ignited when i drove to “breezy point” instead of my regular pilgrimage to fort tilden. though they are barely a mile from each other, they are worlds apart.

i wanted to go to where the terns nest and photograph this exquisite place but found myself hearing “B” sides of songs that were part of my summer of 1967. or was it ’66?
it was sort of a “stand by me” summer. it was a short chapter in my life.
i surfed and heard beach boys music. i didn’t surf very well at all and didn’t like the beach boys, but i did like the cabana-life and sleeping on the beach even though i knew it wasn’t “one of them,” whoever they were.
my friend’s name was bobby and he, like i, was irish and italian.
his dad owned a liquor store. imagine that.
we were best friends in the summer between seventh and eighth grade.
bobby knew how to surf and told me about the danger of being “skegged” which i remember had something to do with getting hit in the head by the surfboard’s fin after you “wiped-out.”
i could hear the drum break already.
beer, weed and me first dating regularly around then, a relationship that would go on and on and on.
a story of epic contortions.

i would continue to believe i’m not “one of them” throughout my life, with “them” being virtually everyone i would come into contact with.
exclusivity is a dangerous suit.
it usually means your threads might be toxic, or mine anyway.
but that’s a treatise being written in one of the other universities in my schools of thought but the file is currently unavailable.
it’s been lost for the moment.
my dog took it.
i have it, but it’s not here.
dammit, it was here the last time i looked.
all of the above.

the news cycle is being ginned up ,or i am, however that illness works. i’ve decided, after my visit to the beach, that i have business there anymore. that my information link to the media needs to be severed and brought back to the sparks and shocks my relationship was based on back when i ceased to care, when i felt the fix was in and it didn’t matter that much who was president and i was able to take comfort in the fact that we
are here and gone and we all die alone.
or not.
that the co-op of community and education will sow the seeds of love and hope and commitment to honor and honesty will trump the onrush of hate and chaos that tracks humanity like the juggernaut of darkness that will suck every single positive force from the planet and the notion of being scooped up by battery-hungry aliens is a mere pathetic death option being proffered by agents of time and luck.
oh, whatever, right?

About stephen trimboli

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