Can you tear the sun from the universe’s star-glazed ovary, pour poison like lava down her milky esophagus, pop and pulverize her belt of planets in your juicer like so many summer oranges and can you after all expect a new crop tomorrow?

Can I sweep from you the angel blanket that holds your dreams like air in your mane of tentacles can I pluck each kissing pod like a daisy, see how many I need, and toss the rest for you to sweep, blind and bleeding, off your Mariana floor?


The little girl had a glass collection. Glass fish gazed up at the stars on the ceiling that capped her world before it could grow too tall. Glass squid lit up like a New York Eve galvanized with sapphire winds. The last glass coral stood, glowing with the gold luminescence of those who have no eyes to carry ships of light between cornea and optic nerve, or rather to roll down polyp’s baby-finger tentacles to the ancient sand of life beneath.

The last glass coral was gone. She knew the other girls had taken it, smashed it on one of her brother’s racetracks that looped and slingshot plastic jet-cars. The little girl was blind, but she had a glass collection. She could feel the breakage.



Can you leave me just one star to light the way from the landfill to the skate park? An ophiuroid, please, to sauté arabesque skeletal through the dark.

The little girl had no arms or legs. Splayed across the surface of the planet in a great black reeling mass, all she could do was cry and drink back in her tears, an endless cycle of regurgitated salt-grief.

By the time quotas were passed on orange roughy, the hundred-year-old fish were all in landfills, tight lines connecting invisible essence to the greenday grenade that rises on a rope like a hanged hunk of heart or penis from the deep.


Can I show you in my chariot that enters like a sexless slab this grand unlikely world where I keep my glass squids, my last gold-plated gorgonians no wiser to the light? Can I trust you to dance your Antarctic eyes upon my last treasures, but not to crush them with the black stones in the pits of your irises? For I am blind but I will lose the light if you kill what last is left.


Note: This poem-thingy is based on the documentary “Never Seen Creatures of the Deep Ocean” that I just saw on Youtube. (Caution: The narrator mentions the “Marinaras trench.” This would refer to an Italian sauce rather than one of the most formidable geological formations on the face of the planet. You have been warned; watch at your own risk.)

Image credits in order of appearance:

National Geographic – Translucent Ocean Creatures (click below)


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