we screw and then unscrew, or vice versa

I'm at least ten or twelve miles from the sea, but I can't stop thinking about it. Gulls are calling and I can't be sure if they are in my mind or somewhere nearby, perhaps picking at trash near some strip mall. In my mind, the ocean laps at the shore gently but cold. I think about how somewhere under that relatively calm wasteland that is the ocean's surface, a sperm whale is fighting with a giant squid. A pistol shrimp is blasting shock waves of 200 decibels at similarly sized prey. A shark is waiting, jaw clenched. An octopus is sleeping inside his den. And somewhere, a child is pulled out to sea by an especially strong undertow.

I nod at these thoughts and sip from my glass of iced tea. The garbage truck pulls onto the street and I can hear the driver conversing in Spanish with the man who hangs off the side of the truck and throws the trash into the truck's gaping mouth. They're laughing loudly, and I imagine them going home after work and putting on collared shirts with brightly colored ties. I picture them smoking flavored tobacco, the kind you have to buy in smoke shops. Cherry and peach. Weighted smoke that dully scents the air around them. This is a grand image to me and I smile, wondering what they're talking about. They turn the corner and I look at the dog.

I briefly picture him in a light pink collared shirt with a bright pink tie, smoking apple flavored tobacco from a pipe. It's suiting on him, and he's exchanging smirks with a friend. The friend is wearing a black collared shirt with a clean shiny white tie. He smokes mint tobacco. They both breathe heavily and look over at me.

So then I breathe heavily and think about you. I think about those sea worms you found, the photographs you took of your friend poking them with a stick. He's laughing in the pictures. There's a photograph of you holding up a bucket full of them. The water is whitish, cloudy. You're curling your lip in disgust.

I try and picture you in a collared shirt with a brightly colored tie. It doesn't fit and you're pulling at it uncomfortably; nervously. Your lip is curled in disgust. The pipe of flavored tobacco sits on a table nearby, untouched. You light a clove cigarette instead. You're laughing awkwardly at something I did and I imagine myself undoing the bright green tie and unbuttoning the crisp white shirt, trying to get you to stop laughing. I drag on your clove and then put it out in a nearby glass. You smile. Your eyes are closed now and we're laying down on your bed and you breathe deeply and somewhere, a sperm whale is fighting with a giant squid. I clench my jaw. The riptide is strong.

I pick up my phone and dial your number and hope that when you answer, I don't have to say I'm sorry.




with love and squalor,
ekw