Flounder.

I’ve been circling the moldy, plankton encrusted bottom layers of life; feeding off of the slowly sinking debris that once littered the surface layers: the leftovers of a long-ago feast that I attended up there.

My vision has adapted to the murk; my breathing has adjusted to the oxygen depletion of dangerous depths and harrowing heights; my skin has settled into the wrinkled prune-esqueness of an over-long bubble bath; my hair now growing shafts of seaweed and tangly kelp in place of it’s natural fibers.

I’m a flounder, living with a great white shark who is lazy with a eating disorder; I am stuck in the suction of his hefty submerged wake; I am seemingly happy to gobble up the chunks of shit that fall from the sides of his razor sharp bite as he chews incessantly; I am his shadow down here.

Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –
underneath six feet of topsoil,
bathed in the heavy suffocation,
of loosely strung illumination –
another silent burial site’s
flimsy paper lantern lights,
among the beloved already beneath,
primordial soup of bones and teeth –
a headstone lain down too heavily,
granite secrets kept steadily,
a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –
chained to my chains for all eternity,
a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,
chained to both well-traveled,
and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,
we dreamed without darkness –
under the same stars,
that together, we once betrayed,
in a match’s quickly stricken,
enticing phosphoric display,
we struck fire to the paths –
from which we just had strayed,
never looked back, admittedly,
we ran until it all faded away,
into one, never-ending and exhausting –
ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.

Postcards from Freedom – Smile Again Someday.

Smile Again.