Who Says? Say the Fish, He Said

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MexicoCityBlues
Junior Member

since 2004-01-04

Posts 48
The Point of Know Return

0 posted 2004-05-21 11:43 PM

He floated out into the lake with implausible intent. Fixation upon spilling thought on silent waters of refreshing reflections billowed through his humble, welcoming, open mind with a feverish fidelity. Hell waited beneath him. He liked it.

Waters floated upon waters in one enormous, clear illusion. Every time he watched the ripples, flickering, flickering, small to big, then small again, he became mesmerized. The slow-train power of the lake dripped with an unwavering brilliance, unmatched by only the eagles that flew wickedly overhead. Waters had hit their Boundary and overflowed limits, drowning the immense cup in this tortured earth—at least it has a place to relax.

He fished out questions under the rolling orb that never moved. Hooked on life, they bit, crunching his fingers in the night. He pulled in fish. They asked, “Who are you? Who are you? Where did you come from? Where did you come from? Do you feel it? Do you feel it?”

“Yes, I feel it. But I don’t know…don’t know…of…”

Fish dies.

Lake-tide? Just in the mind. He thinks, inert, of questions he had expected. He got them constantly, consistently. He was cornered in the middle of lake, floating there under midnight dreams. No one knew.

“I know of you,” he said to the waters and the creatures within them. “I know of you and your beautiful home of refreshment and peace. But I know of myself and I know of my world with pain and death and war.”

Flying fish, popping poplars in the pitch sky potting plumbs in secret starlit gallery gardens. “We, too, know of you and your land of war. It sickens us. Live with us, the fish, the peacekeepers in your stomach.”

“It’s getting late. I have retired from your waters for the night. You are worthy of enthusiasm, the intellectualism we speak of regularly, and you and your knowledge of knowledgeable knowledge that you were born unto without books of the age and pop culture and flailing radio identities drowning in your wake of wisdom heightening. Thank you, the fish, for your endless help.”

Flying fish popping passages underneath earth-sand, soaking with the hundred-foot-deep foot of rainwater in self-filtering seaweed. Seaweed. Seaweed in magical lakes of self-knowledge.

He paddled himself back to the edge of the lagoon, head swarming like a bee hive in Kiss concerto pyrotechnics and spontaneous saxophone (electric) mixing together in groups of thousands, clumping chunky lows with ear-piercing highs. Of course, swarming.

He watched the ripples running and jumping over water-like protrusions and undertures of slight, slow movement. The mind is a movement, he thought. The mind is a never-ending movement of panic; always panicking. Those that are able to seduce the panic into their beds will forever remain in state of open-mindedness. Those that are not able panic. Always the panicking.

Dock on the rocks. No ice.

He cuddled up with dreams that night, of fish and dreams and seams of beams you knew of when seeing seams that busted in the light of anthological bookends in the shape of the Alamo. He dreamed of pain and death and war. Shuttered. Woke up, dreaming, in a cold sweat and woke up dry.

(Old West spontaneity with Celtic revisions and classical ears)

morning’s sunlight wrapped itself around his small green tent it was burning burning burning in subtle flames times ten he had seen himself in too many a thought and his mind was burning burning burning as he sat there sweating in cotton brains picked by segregated machinery on some distant farm in china he saw art in proposed prose and propositioned pallets sprinkled in dirty color posing after reality

He released himself from his hot, wet prison cell and emerged from his tent, mind still on fire.
Again, he paddled out to the river with hungry ears.
He sat there, cornered in the middle of the lake. “Fish, I have come again.”

Fish were gone.

He dove into the water sending ripples through his veins like Les Paul instinct, rippling like shockwave sound waves in a giant pool of salt-less tears. He pursued himself through the blanket of water. He cried air bubbles. One night had given him hope to continue dreams of bleeding paper under refrigerator magnets. Now, he could not find these inspirations in the smallness of the lake. He cried air bubbles.

For years he swam searching the same lake for the same fish. As time passed, he became more agile (in the mind), and he began to change significantly. His eyes, became wider, blacker, lost his eyelids, grew a tail of faded silver, grew fins of Stratocaster silver, pinging sunlight off of mirror-like scales. His thoughts became surer. Opinions stronger. Defenses healthier. Mind bigger. Mind bigger. And bigger. He grew poems in his underwater garden:

Looked deep inside this skull she said had time
Found nothing but lifeless opinions in lightless darkness
Under rock and roll skies and bubbles she said never reached the surface.

Met a talking fish.

Looked deep inside this skull she said had time
Found rocks that sank to the bottom of her lake in weightlessness
Of water minus water plus nothing equaling poems she wrote under pressure
That I liked
Simplicity
Told her
Sell.

He stopped swimming, for the first time in years. Looked up. The surface. He sped up, and then shot through the uneven border with the greatest intent to shake the wake he left burning in its wake in its wake. Airborne, freedom, looked up again. Fish flying above him in the sky, swimming in the air, through trees, through stars, higher than he could reach, higher than he could fly. Stared at them wishing. Landed in a boat?

“I know of you,” the man said. “I know of you and your beautiful home of refreshment and peace.”
Fish squeaks, “Who are you? Who are you? Where did you come from? Where did you come from? Do you feel it? Do you feel it?”

Fish dies.

"The story of life is quicker than the wink of an eye. The story of love is Hello and Goodbye. Until we meet again..." -Jimi Hendrix

Larry C