Humdrum At Brutus Beach

Every poem ever

entitled “Waves”

animates as would

trashbags slapping

against the trunks

of palm trees

a hulking mache

a paper monster

he collects himself

& bullys about

our ponderous patch

of Brutus Beach.

Glued, dangling bits

& a flacid-ass belltongue

he puffs & swells

& licks at the air

sad as a luke warm

cliche. Every single

poem entitled “Waves”

takes a long, yellow

magnanimus piss all

over our doofy,

blue, beach towel.

Shame, we were

using it to dry

off after quick dips

in the break.