Fishy Fishy Fishy Poo
It’s not piscatorial you’re feeling. You’ve never been to sea.
It’s not enmity you’re feeling. You meditate every morning that you are: peaceful and content in every way and every day.
You’re feeling like a scarlet tanager has alighted on your brain stem — and here we stand next to a waterfall, falling out of love, and fearing the eventual dissipation of all fossil fuel.
The end of life as we know it before we got to know it.
You got it. You got it.
I bid you a tepid adieu. This was already over between us, so why kid ourselves that this really means anything to us… or to me, anyway. So green god-damned, and all of that other high school stuff.
I leave you and your piscatorial delusions with this heartfelt list:
Trout. Orange Roughy. Bass. Mahi Mahi. Salmon. Sunfish. Catfish. Clownfish. Cichlid. Cod. Angelfish. Dragonfish…
You drift off into the Marianas Trench. Your bathysphere detached.
“I, bastard child of the giant chandelier called the blue sky.
No one calls me the sphinx of love.”
— Shuzo Takiguchi / “The Fish’s Desire”