Why I Don’t Piss in the Ocean
Once my sister told me that from her summit at the city pool she could see the yellow billows spread like gas or dreams between kids’ legs. In something the size of the sea, you can’t be sure who’s watching from above. Let’s say it’s the Almighty, twirling His whistle, ready to blow it at any moment and let loose the bottomless Apocalypse? The ocean would make bone of a body, coral of bone. Piss, and a tiger-fish darts through a skull-hole, a weed weaves itself through ribs. You, too, have seen the bulbs flash from the sea. You, too, have felt it breathing down your neck. You eat fish. You’ve heard that mermaids sing. My dreams are as beleaguered as the next Joe’s, my happiness as absurd, but I’m not going to go piss in the ocean about it. No, not in the ocean.