Peter Conners

Beach Head

I will fill my mouth with salt and let it trickle out until a new beachhead forms embracing the ocean, reading the same books as me. My time is my own. It is finite but longer than my eyes can follow: My breadbasket Atlantic, oily and gruff, sauté yourself in garlic, de-vein your denizens and pack my belly till slumber, it will take only seconds to swim you as idea. I hereby propose this: Chop down every tree in the Amazon. We will build a plank bridge across the Atlantic gasping for breath as we cross it off our To Do list - larger challenges remain on the horizon. The light beer at lunch will save me enough calories at dinner to devour a whole school of baby manatees without guilt. A flock or a murder? Dipped in butter, eighty-two degrees and sunny. Let’s get high on the flesh of amphibians.