The Middle Finger

May 20, 2013 * Sithonia, Greece

We turned off the middle sized road and descended down a dirt one. Dark olive trees on either side, I rolled down the window to fume the contraption of all batteries dying at once.
- you can start to smell the beach in Greece  
- it was fainter and different from the one in Oregon

I unloaded the car and positioned everything into right corners within the concrete bunker, V&T go to sleep, JP goes to sleep, I go to sleep on flat unfitted sheets.

In the morning I sit at a plastic table in a sunken terrace about 40 yards from the beach. My feet are lower than sea level, on the floor, of this raft.

V&T eat cereal out of unwashed tupperware containers, with sliced banana. I change the password(s).
- the dirt of these lines
- to the weight of these cuts

Later that afternoon, from a folding chair, tending to an article on an inferno in the Oregon woods, half submerged in the middle finger of a shallow beach, I witness a bazaar shoal of 500ml directionless empty tinned tourist beers emerge. They stare at my wife, who was, staring at Mount Athos in a swimsuit that is covering her more than my swimsuit was covering me.

This meandering rule is broken by a game ending tornado siren, cutting the current composition of baked strings and rags in still life on the sand to the audible warning.
- nobody hears it, but you

So I reread it. In a morning haze of hellenistic lager cobwebs, sitting on the hot pattern steps which lead from the backside parking into our concrete beach kiln.

Backing me, three other dragon fires snoozed away in a lapse of yesterday's sunburn. To the right, a drying rack of textured weight in saltwater rigor mortis rags, greeted me in parade hand wave on thin metal wireframes. Left center, our car sits dusty like a dog under the carport, doors open from last night, crammed with left over beach salad.
- your ready to pull it in  
- you check your Beachphone and know these fences

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