Number of Heartbeats

I’ll have a fish and feel the scales soaked in oil crumble between my teeth. Was that fish as tired as the water left in his wake? And do the fishermen know if they hunt for squid at night below an artificial sun and catch a red-snapper then the red snapper will make it belated to my plate. This ode to fisherman will never be sung because the world is full of to few people who are willing to do anything about the mess we are in. But what should they do if nothing? As though their vote would count. Silly little dreaming fisherman doing what he does in a sea empty of fish. But when, oh when these men wake up and see the light… If it’s real light and not the same light they use to catch squid and red-snapper. When they see just as a squid sees that the light is something else. Just as the great fisher sees, perhaps he was the greatest fisher, although he rarely caught anything… Perhaps the sea will wake up and find the error of all our ways and gobble us up to… Wait for it. Here it comes. Gobble us all up to… Oblivia.

What is third world? By any definition this must presuppose a first or a second world. But it doesn’t. It’s more as though third world is made up of subcategories. In the subcategory I work/live and the elite has gone to the moon. In the subcategory I vacation with old five gallon oil cans that are cut diagonally and have a stick attached makkng them a sweep-bin. Graciously but without smiling the peoples of other subcategories sweep the sand beaches. Breakfast seems to flow from every crevice of the facility. Brand new. We were the first to use the bed. It was a viraginous bed. It replaced the one ruined by the flood, the tsunami. This is subcategory indeed. But to its own only is it a sub. Thailand is not a subcategory to other western places. Perhaps Kau Laak is a subcategory but in which direction does the sub flow?

The imagery in the night or the early morning of being thrown out of a bus. Discarded as it were. But the significance of being discarded from a bus. Was it moving? Was it happy? What is the bus? Yes. Something important in life. Something of great meaning. But what is more important is what happens after being thrown from it. I walk through a city and meet my regret. The culmination of not being cable to maintain relations. Which I blame on my lost father? I see a long lost love in the arms of another man. Is he the one on the bus? Or is it I that will be thrown from the bus into the arms of long lost love? As I pass by she follows me but I am unable to recall the conversation. I continue on and go to a shop to have my hair dyed blonde and the barber laughs. He prefers purple. But can’t go there–not even in a dream. I wake up before I can see how it looks. My hair. But the bus is long gone.

And what of the thoughts while I’m awake? So few and far between. They are of the more frivolous of nature. For example. If a woman’s number of eggs is predetermined why then not the number of heart beats? (The connection?) Or how about the number of footsteps? Yes. It is pre-determined how many erections a man will have. And so. Why is the woman not cherished. Is it because of her proven limitations? Which are? Watch the can of worms opened up there. For I will ponder the will of god–or nuffy the blonde sea lion that lost a flapper while being caught for the aquatic zoo. And the remaining vernunft of Germans. It is his head that pierces the horizon of the ocean only. He snickers much to much and much to loud.