of hands.
You said you had once really
loved to draw. Hands, especially.
Did you ever want to be an artist?
You were silly
and made fun of how
sunny-side up
in this case was over-easy.
But we both agree that half-raw
eggs are really horrible
and neither of us can flip
eggs well without breaking the yolk.
I like how there can be talk
of lots of things.
I like that I get to make you a new
Belle and Sebastian cd.
I'm so glad you like them.
And you suggesting a band to me
made me quite happy,
you said you'd thought of me,
lyrically, that I might really enjoy
the guy's lyrical style, for you think
in ways it is similar to my own.
I am so far pleased with the band as well.
You have good taste, usually.
We elaborated upon
grocery store philosophy,
and vegetable zoos
and the concept of
perpetual death,
how we are all dying every second
we are living. Which was uncharacteristic
of you. Yet still interesting.
It is so wonderful to be near you
and to talk on things,
even though, strangely,
my hands trembled this time
when I talked with them,
my gestures were shaky
and I do not know why.
I love when we can talk.
Also; lobsters:
A calm unlike
the sea floor,
the white plastic
-too smooth for
claws to grasp at-
is no substitute for
the wavering sand grains,
vegetation strung thick
and murky 20 feet deep.
-
The fluorescence,
a doctors' office's
quick glare. The dim
penetration of filtered light
hanging 15 feet above.
Suspended on wires
like traps.
-
The corner of glass,
scummy-screened
and neglected
-a dying zoo-
stands a sign
of sad disrepair.
Its inhabitants
militantly still.
-
The falsely blue water
obscures the brightly
rubber-banded
fighting claws of a
crustacean warrior,
his whiskers moving
slowly, as though pulled
by an inevitable tide
programmed within him.
-
The blue, speckled bodies
in somber heaps like
a graveyard of the living dead.
The small black eyes,
pivotal things with
a depth of squid ink
are glazed over,
defeated in ways.
-
Once rustles his
two threatening claws.
They are bound by
orange rubber printed
with "live lobsters".
He has been labeled
and identified.
We know who this
one is, in a pen of
his own. The
"live lobster" scrabbles
over a smaller grey body.
-
And one by one somewhere
the warrior types,
thick with armor
will be blushed crimson.
The indecipherable whistle
haunts me, as we make
eye contact.
"live lobster" snaps his claws
with his eyes.
His death sounds do not
leave me.
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