up the tin ceiling, i see fishes and sea horses swimming in a coral garden of warping tiles. a rotating faux aquarium lamp perched atop his headboard exhales this psychedelic school. but from where i was, the light flue seems to spout out of his shaved head like a variegated whale breath. outside, under his half cracked window, someone - an enterprising junkie, perhaps - is emptying tin cans of the stale seas they still hold. and then he smashes them before tossing them with the rest of his dry haul. to my right, on his futon, his massive trunk heave without any violence as in a neap tide. i oyster myself deeper into the upholstery of his plaid chintz sofa and ask myself what am i doing here. sometimes when it all gets really silent, his snores sing of marvelous islands he will never take me to.
