Interludes
on the mask of destiny,
myriad city bumpkins
stroll
the beach on a Saturday night,
awaiting the Monster Jam Fest,
dreaming a life of oysters
on the half-shell washed
down by Cabernet.

Girl in flaming-orange bikini
strokes a back,
two smitten te-hees
answered by a guffaw,
Love operators
opening the scene.

By the bungalow
Judy Angel Hair -
her fearful fawners
twist their syntax,
lyrical honey-tongues,
snatching at air,
emerge as recycled soot.

Elbowroom grows expensive
as you step inside.
Sixty teens in various
stages of desire
muddle through
the tangle of
perpetual perplexity,
placing coals on the fire,
and ketchup on their buns.

Here, after ogling the menu,
you can order a la carte,
from fare-three-well Farina,
which nobody wants,
to big sizzlers,
eight juicy ounces
of red meat
covered
with bits of luscious tomato.
Steam rises
as chicken splatters on the grill -
lungs choke and eyes tear,
if only for a second . . .
the whirl of one fan,
overworked, is drowned out
by the rip-rap of the jukebox,
the off-stage chatter,
the off-limits conversation.

The sweat-soaked waitress,
a one-woman panzer division,
breaks through the throng
to deliver a large, oven-hot
tomato-and-cheese pizza,
the color of lipstick,
to pandered youths
who eagerly share
red-pepper shakers
and form peptic bonds.

You grab your order,
exit stage left,
and taster the tender chicken
for the first time -
You bend over slightly,
arms parallel to the sand
(to avoid drips) -
careful not to take in too much
and burn you tongue . . .
so you take your time,
enjoying small nibbles,
curling them, thoroughly,
over all your taste buds,
pausing only to caress
the smell of salt in the air . . .

By the parking lot,
the girl in flaming-orange bikini,
wet from an ocean dip,
takes a blue Bic lighter from her bag -
her friend removes the grill
and prepares a fresh bed of charcoal.
She giggles as he squirts
lighter fluid all over,
up, down, and around,
exhausting every last drop.

A few feet stage right comes
Angel Hair,
she of impregnable mind,
leaning on heartthrob Seabee,
on weekend leave
from an imagined war,
whose tank top tantalizes
her fantasies -
he thinks -

They watch Flaming Orange
flick the lighter, and
- to avoid getting scorched -
jab her arm repeatedly over the pit,
like the tongue of a frog
lashing out at passing flies,
over and over,
until the fire erupts,
surging high in the night,
an island of intense heat,
three times hotter than pizza,
capable of turning
iron into steel,
of burning off, forever,
the sins of humanity.

They laugh and scream.
The man grabs a kabob,
shakes it at the fire,
like an orchestral conductor,
or a witch doctor,
until the flame lulls
and garbles in content . . .

In the distance you can hear
the band warming up.
Denizens of the dance,
a fandango,
whisper and beckon all
along the beach . . . run!

As you scamper toward the cabaret,
you�re thankful you wore sneakers,
which muffle the sound
of half-washed shells,
as they try in vain to hack your skin,
as they crack and smash under
your years of weight -

Destiny!
Your molten dreams
of youth diminish,
the final act commences.
You see pearls of wisdom
in the sweat of the lead singer,
waterbeads glisten
and drip down his cheek,
and -
before cascading
to the floor -
they seem to pause . . .

In this interlude,
they look out onto the beach,
through the smoke
of fire and passion,
and pierce the mask
of the moon
reflecting on the ocean,
from whence they came.

- Bob Miller