staring into the mouths of fish

(I've been thinking. Of course I have writers' block. To be a writer, you have to experience things. And I haven't been experiencing anything lately.

I've been waiting for life to find me, but isn't that the opposite of what we're supposed to do? Aren't we supposed to make life recognize that we exist, and not the other way around? Life shouldn't be written on our faces in frowns and smiles. We should make our marks on life, scribbling captions under the snapshots of all the things we've been doing.

Music's been good to me lately. So has sweet baby Jesus, as we affectionately call Him. I think we call Him that because it makes Him less daunting and makes our mistakes feel less like mistakes and more like human)

***

grass grows over dead things

grass grows over my insides

it tickles so i laugh but then it

isn't so funny anymore

and i feel the seed of a watermelon

sprouting in my stomach

the roots of a gum tree

technicolored (they told me

just to spit it out but boy was i

am i

stubborn)

staring into the mouths of fish

their milk eyes like moonlight

their hands waving like our faces

plunged into the depths

are planning on going up for air

but joke's on them

(on us)

because this is a staring contest

grass grows over dead things

dead hands waving like our faces

do underwater

like the ocean is tipsy

crashing into the shore and falling back

warping our smiles and frowns

our milk eyes like the moonlight

but joke's on us

because we're blind