Coney Island kinda draws an image scrimmaging between sights I’ve seen, with beer and glass, and new goals kept with cheers and ass. Brass buckles chuckle shorts, tight at the waist, and taste of tides in which several hundred pounds of seaweed has died. Woody Allen wannabees watch moonlit kissers and wish viscerally for miserably romantic missions to complete themselves, with shells and horseshoe crabs in company. Half moon Honolulu luau. Clothes kept ashore. Sand between toes, with water’s flow, knows tides inside, and resets preset attention spans to softer hands and plans of peaceful recognition of primordial ascension from the aforementioned Mediterranean. Third wheel, first drive appealing. Ceiling fan, Northeastern cans of Coors Light and broken shards of fright, fight for territory on the night spread, sprawling dread, so inviting. Fires work their way into the horizon, diving Red blooms zoom through my memory, century old, knee deep in sea creeps, with French pressed nails on my neck, checking pulses, passionately pecking prior to skinny dipping demonstrations. Giggling gyrations. Pyromaniacal laughter sets flames to dames I once fancied. Like candied, coated, Prozac placebos, the neat-o treaties we’re writing entice a sentimentally branded, beaming smile. More numerous than these tiles. I think I’ll stay awhile and weigh the weightlessness of bliss by fistfuls. Never again will I miss such jewels.