by Lucas Peel
There is lonely and then there is your reverse birthday party
at 12,000 feet below the sun"s tangled fingertips.
If carcass is sunken is shipwreck is vessel emptied of movement,
what is existence but a long throat of doors? Intimate decomposition.
Is there a difference between sonar and bad vibes?
Sinus pressure. A James Cameron wet dream.
Footage of a father playing catch with his son.
Douglas Adams’ dolphins were assholes, yes, but worthy
of their leisure. Though I do not know for sure, I"d reckon
that all dolphins are communists, and mostly French.
It is the distanced future, scientists discover a previously unknown
sentient deep sea creature that holds the answer to all of humanity’s woes.
The research team is lauded with praise, press, presence.
The President holds a quaint reception in the Rose Garden.
A reporter stops the champagne toast to ask— but what does it taste like?
Formaldehyde, presumably. The intelligence equivalence of a toddler
means nothing when charred and paired with a fresh romesco.
It is said that we consider the will to escape a marker of sophistication.
There is a kind of sport in struggle. Intimacy to hunger.
We can taste proximities on our lips.
Better back when we were ungulate, I think;
hematoma, the distant memory of webbed feet.
It is said that salt supersedes discovery, that if the body fails
to locate adequate minerals, the brain swells to compensate.
Like this we always arrive at the sea.
Lucas Peel is a _________ living in Honolulu, Hawai'i. He is sorry for yelling.