They say its supposed to snow tonight; supposed to secure my position as Luke Skywalker in that bacta tank. You know, the one with the tubes and the white diaper. I'll be there recovering from unseen injuries, silenced by an oxygen mask while the world continues its witty romantic banter just beyond the space-glass. Go ahead, I'll be floating and bobbing in my own chlorinated tub of complexities. Its not like I can hear you or disturb you - I mean shit, if I could open my eyes I would find that fucking robot who keeps feeding me anesthetic and strangle him.
Who am I kidding, this series of numbers and explosions is my best friend. Harrison Ford is off chasing a princess, he doesn't care that the fucking Yeti almost ripped me to pieces. Click, click, boom, and I've forgotten why I bothered in the first place, why I made my slow ascension from this accommodating tank. Like any Canadian prison, I have all amenities and comforts of the middle class. This talking of tanks has made me Chachi again, not quite suffering in my bowl. They think I'm dangerous because I throw around my title. "Fighting Fish". Click, click. I'm no mindless Neon Tetra, gibbering in some repulsive herd. Click. Don't put me with them, I'll thwack against my reflection until, swimming sideways, I realize I was better off in the bowl alone - or in one that flushes. Click, boom. Damn. It's already snowing.
2oo
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3 comments:
The Fighter Fish Died
He was stuck at the bottom of his moon
jar for a few days, couldn't get to the top
although he tried, rippling his long
feathers when he saw me. I dropped food
in as usual, changed his water,
placed his jar by the mirror,
kept the lights on in case he was cold.
But he died, eyes permanently open.
No more bubble nests. I jiggled
the jar, turned it, used my high,
fishy voice, he didn't move.
I carried the whole thing
to the toilet, let blue rocks
and murk and fighter fish
slide into the big water. Burial
at sea. Then I pulled the flusher
and as it all swirled away
to wherever things go in that direction
I saw him kick his fin.
A joyful kick. He was heading out
and maybe the sewers
are full of fighter fish
rubbing the filth of captivity
from each others sides, schooling
toward the river. From there
they will find the shining sea,
spin and puff up, kiss the surface
with their amazing lips and swim
into the sun.
The yeti almost ripped me to pieces too, but no one cared. I feel your pain bro.
Call me.
family dinner in Whistler?
December 27 - call me
AJ
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