Alexis Rhone Fancher

The Lovers on Pfeiffer Beach

for M, who wanted to be "the one"...

I don’t think you saw them.
Scant feet above us, sheltered
in a hollow below the cliffs.

Like watching a porno film, the way she sucked
her surfer’s lovely cock, her lush blondness
shimmering as she dipped her head, his hard body
illuminated in the harsh morning sun.

We were sitting on a blanket, sucking
Stoli straight from the bottle.
I pointed them out on the cliff, but you were busy
with your phone. “No service,” you groused.
You were you always somewhere else.

I watched over your shoulder as he turned
her, to enter from behind, his big hands cupping
her breasts, his tireless ass thrusting, thrusting.

Jagger’s (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction kept playing in my head
like our theme song; the one you couldn’t hear.
When I pocketed your phone, you asked me to
marry you, again.

On the cliff, the lovers shuddered, broke apart, then embraced,
their blond congruency so at odds with our mis-matched desires.

Above us, kamikaze seagulls circled. They threw their heads back and
screeched. You reached for me, but
I was not yet drunk enough. I would never
be drunk enough.

On the cliff, the blond pressed her naked breasts against her lover’s chest.
He stared over her shoulder at me, his eyes a dare.
Then he put his hand to his lips
and blew a kiss. I caught it in my mouth.

I handed you the phone and the Stoli bottle
and started down the beach,
his sweet kiss languishing on my tongue.

Keep Walking

In the spill of the porch lamp the girl looks fourteen,
cowering in the courtyard of this windy night,
cheap stilettos stemming her pale legs up into tiny shorts.

Two men the size of refrigerators
slap her face like she’s meat that needs
tenderizing. One stands behind her, pins her arms;
the other brute yells in her face:
“You will fuck who I say when I say!”
When he hauls off to smack her again I look away.

In Hollywood the streets talk trash, hold murder
in their asphalt, blood in the potholes,
used hypodermics float in the gutters, rats
dance on the lawns.

The girl lurches, stumbles in those 5-inch heels,
the only thing separating her from the ground.
The two men toss her back and forth
like a football. Her eyes catch mine.
When her pimp sees me he hollers in my face.
"Keep Walking!”

I’m late. My dealer is impatient.
I do what I’m told.

High on pot. Tequila. Fear.
I head into the neon of Hollywood Blvd.,
keep walking till I can’t hear her screams.