Sunshine Dried Fuzzy Navels
by John Micheal Flynn

    Venice Beach
    Sunday afternoon roof
    she was completely naked
    tanned nipple-pierced and blown-out-on-crack
    surrounded by stud muffins, surfers
    and gangsta rap wanna-bees

    she shouted her free speech anthem
    at a pair of sandaled black women,
    who as fearful pedestrians wanted nothing
    but a little air
    after too many trips to the brunch buffet table

    when the girl
    arms wide to the lollipop sun
    realized her audience was black women
    she rapidly altered her profane anthem
    and cried, "You go girls...go my sistaz"
    as if the women were now old friends
    who shared a special female bond
    that transcended race
    and class and morality
    and all the dictates of taste.

    The black women looked at each other, blushed in shame
    I heard the Beach Boys playing
    and thought of white collar crime
    and Bukowski and mackerel
    and the merely criticial stance
    which is so often living.






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