from I am a hammerhead shark. I make no sound.
An alternative to an agreement is squeeze, applying accupressure to cartilaginoid joints that give
under semantic duress. Pursue me across numerous divides, over chasms of understatement now
clothed in a subtextual, “common sense” racination. First I am blue and then a movement, a
future in song remanded to the stomach, a pair of milky eyes that refuse to triangulate, a
stereoscopic ocean floor.
sounds of water
image of shark in sea
When the shark burns because the sky is on fire and the ocean is that fire’s reflection, there are
squadrons of atomic outbursts that also rove the sea, old iron held together by the forces that
keep us from knowing and from inside. The world is an iron nut, and the sharks moving through
those spaces—both actual and asleep, both breathing and following suit—are always on the
verge of a great din. Quietly, they regulate a small manger inside the glowing horizon—how it
speaks up when not spoken to, addresses itself merely to the now clamoring past, catching a
burning reflection’s glow. And on the bottom is without any reluctance, of course, without
hesitation because it lacks dew and dew’s tears.
As a shark, I am only about the difference. As an engine made of sharks I do not pose questions.
Know only that a shark is hungry and its hunger is eternal, that there is a nowhere inside and
that the world is enough for lesser appetites, that the sky is on fire and I am on fire but blue and
that blue skin burns without smoke. Distance is a relative distance, always. This way bends when
that gun is fired, this wave transfixes that bed of nails, the ones you dropped with yesterday’s
hands. There is no daylight in the din, shark eyes are infinite eyes. An infinity of shallow gray
smoke that breathes and looks without looking when you swim past.
sounds of water
video of shark gill in real time
To resuscitate a shark, to slide two fingers across a serrated organ for “breath,” is to wake up
inside a starkly blue-lit room where the text written across torn cotton pages wafts in a circular
fan’s efforts. “This is not a page.” “Only you are here.” “You are only here.” As a shark, are my
eyes now made of jet, is this a sonic discourse that we carry on in tides inside our skin, is the
way I slide across the page a manner of approaching you at last or scoping out a possible meal.
Wake up inside a soluble skin, dissolving into the atmosphere, a nation’s rhetorical rain.