-on the beach with Jean Cocteau-

see how he struts his stuff across the sand

smeared in saltwater, sporting a flat-

top fedora, stylishly suited, but bare-footed in the way

he makes it seem how it should always be done,

his flat-top skewed toward the sea.

but of Jean Cocteau?

It's the zaniness of his Dada which makes me aware

of his persona even after decades of its side-swiping

introduction in 1963 art school. 

the elegant "King & Allen" single-breasted beauty flutters

in the wind, pulsating across the seascape of Jean Cocteau,

and although the wind blows also upon the flesh of onlookers,–– 

one would never know it.

today, the will of the wind knows only the name

of Jean Cocteau, walking the edge of an incoming tide.

now it happens that among the hovering gaggle of gulls

there appears to be one who knows what it means to be a seagull

who seems intent on dropping the remains of its intake upon

the shoulders of the flawless "King & Allen" suit of Jean Cocteau,

but it doesn’t. it doesn't, and maybe I know why it doesn't,––

or maybe I don't know why it doesn't,–– but this much I know:

beyond my shortcoming knowledge of the salt of his life,

I obviously enjoy the sound of the name: "Jean Cocteau,"

and as far as the sightline of this poem is concerned, that's enough.