Boardwalk, Venice Beach
by Robert Bové (May 2007)
Versions of these two poems appear in The Shell Line, the third poem cycle in The UFOs of October.
Boardwalk, Venice Beach
She glides among them
long-legged, on skates
her gleaming auburn hair
visibly growing
one hand on a breast, the fingers of the other stretching
nearly to the inside of a thigh
trailed by a huge floating shell
and airborne school of red snapper
Her nostrils flare from boardwalk potpourri
of french fries
rotting kelp &
coconut sun tan lotion
Animal-alert to each other,
it’s hard to account for their indifference to her—
the winterskinned on bicycles
a pale youth burning shirtless
a middle-aged self-styled rake in short shorts and Nikes
girls playing tennis in skirts as small as his hand
the old woman carrying seashell-pink parasol
chaperoning a sweatered old man
inching his walker up hot wooden planks
Piled up against the shoreline
air bubbles burst by the billions
From the surf, a woman half-emerges
a sea-glazed jewel
dark hair into the water at her waist
woven up from the sea
a hank of gleaming kelp
Earlier, at the New York World’s Fair, 1939
Again, Botticelli’s: in 12’ tall photo, flat on the pavement.
Around Venus blow-up sprawl 10 voluptuous bare-
breasted blondes, brunettes & redheads—all too real—
about to be fit with rubber mermaid fins—
Dali’s “Dream of Venus,” the façade,
thanks to Levy’s money, of pavilion-aquarium.
A rubber manufacturer insisted on the fins
but you, señor, pimping the fantasmagoric
wanted the show viewed through peepholes
by “moon-mad” New Yorkers.
And though delicious, your women
are unconscious they too are as precarious
as the “middle men of culture” you condemned
later that summer, safe in Franco’s Spain.
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