Fire Island Pines: Morning by Scott Utley

My eyes hold their place among the wreckage of my face. I’m thinking, one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab, (paid for twice over, but never to be owned), will not subdue the bestial morning’s sadistic appetite. The secret is out; Fire Island tragedies are lurking under star-crossed pines in paradise. My eyes are held in place midst the wreckage of my face by shear will. I think, perhaps one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab paid for twice over, but never to be owned, will obliterate a debauched morning hangover. What about an aspirin or a bloody Mary? Maybe if I take a dive into the raging blue Atlantic waters of forget me nows, my sins will be erased along with yesterday and my inhuman slurs and beat you down puns. Even if the divine in divine mind could muster mercy for my soul, yes, even if I acquiesce and bow to their Latin liturgies, and I finally see that all my prescriptions are merely the fleeting tonics of a foolish mind, I will never find repose. Consequently, (I will not deny this) a loaded Colt 45’s horsepower is my medicine of choice. What other elixir will suffice when you wake early on a brand new day and your mirror is exclaiming, “You’re old, decrepit and to boot you’re gay? These are but the rage-dreams of a narcissist’s self-absorbed preoccupation. In ephemeral brevity, my spirits rise high as the sun glides its way into mid-day.

I take a second look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of m y eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star crossed pines? My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I’m a silly man. I think I look dashing as my life and times and face decay. I think, “Oh, what’s another cocktail, or a line of coke or two, with this blue-eyed prince of a man; paid for twice over?” The fine print says ‘on loan, ever to be owned.’ Nowhere does the contract state ‘this stud, despite his sublime stature cannot subdue another debauched morning hangover revenge.’ On Fire Island, ghosts lurk scarecrow, screw-faced under littered dreams. Theirs is an insatiable hunger for any soul so predisposed to join their twisted spirits in a ritual of howls.

Paradise Lost Paradise Found Over The Rainbow Smashed To The Ground. My eyes hold their place within the wreckage of my face as I slowly turn to ashes. Please, just one more cocktail with you, my beloved, blue eyed Aphrodite. I’ve handsomely paid for you twice over, could you love me for any fee? No. Not he or any living mortal can subdue this debauched morning hangover. Finally, I take yet another look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under starcrossed pines? My eyes hold their place inside the wreckage of my face. I think, one more cocktail with this blue eyed slab, paid for twice over but never to be owned, leased but never mine for evermore will not change the fact that no mere mortal will ever subdue my demoralized mornings spent between heaven and hell. You see, here on Fire Island, ghosts lurk screw faced under starcrossed pines howling without sound.

 

frank hohohi

 

 

 

 

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