Fish: fishy mermaid in a taco: tuna taco
Fish: Jonah-belly in a quandary: Jewish taco
Fish: Papa Ernest in a marlin: senior taco
Fish: jaws crunch Spielberg in his femur: cinétaco
Fish: killing dolphins by Japan-folk: save-the-taco
Fish: buy a goldfish die a goldfish: circus taco
Fish: kill a dumpster make a landfill: gangster taco
Fish: look for bodies kill the bodies: war-fun taco
Fish: Forget the invertebrates and especially the plants that process your air and eat your fat exhaust gases; don't even think about those algal blooms of your phosphorescence, or the carbon-binding organisms, the coccolithophores; forget them, I tell you. Start with the fish, start your consciousness, no! no, start your R-core reptile brain with fish, and big fish at that. Go fish. And hook, knit and purl a new piscine axis of evil, with German pike, Japanese carp, Iranian bluegill, Iraqi crappie, Korean stickleback, and (did I mention that the United States cutthroat trout consumes over a quarter of the world's energy, contributing a massive percentage of the international carbon footprint while the Africa burbot (in its entirety) contributes 1 percent, did I mention we were pissing some Bonneville whitefish off while we griped and grappled with bonytail beyond our control, looking for ordered pairs of lota lota, or some net to hang our hats from). And.
Bloomfish: (in a lavender tuxedo jacket and grey and pink spats; eats fish and chips; farts). Boom. (Reflecting, opening a copy of The Fins of Sin as he masturbates beneath the baldachin of St. Sister We-Hardly-Knew-Ye's broad and capacious ichtus altar) Taco.
Mrs. Marion Bloomfish (in Miss Havisham's wedding dress) Carp. Carp. Carpe diem. Ctenopharyngodon idella. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Bloomfish: Tuna taco
Good morning, blind date; like Milton's daughters, I will read to you.
Good morning, date from hell; why are you still here? I sent you a Dante with a map.
Good morning, birth date and the day that I'll marry, or die; my biography will read, I was born.
Good morning, date that will live in infamy, or in Queens, which Fitzgerald called land of ashes, preferring East Egg.
Good morning, dried-apple & fig-leaf date that covered my foremother's love, this figured by Usher as a fall.
Good morning, daylight savings time, falling, falling back, taking time from the bottom and cycling it up top.
Good morning, end-of-the-world and rapture date, since dying is a revelation (and a high).
Good morning, time, curving gently beneath my outstretched palms and slipping through my hands.
She rose from the floor like a stalagmite, a stick-up staring crystals at me. I remembered every snowflake was unique, and that this coldness was only similar to the others that separated us, monoid fractals of intricate perimeter.
every happy family is warm
every unhappy family is
cold in its own way.
Cold. That this frigidity was natural, not freon, made it hurt still more. I numbed and sank in myself. Alone, I fancied myself whole and warm. Heat rose from me like a Hawaiian island. I had become a geothermal vent, heating an artist's garret, sparrows, and a topography of ferns. I soon became hydrogen, fusing to helium in the sun; I evaporated the infinite snow and the ice of her gaze. I was the water cycle, rising, condensing, immense as a hurricane, gentle as dew. I was salt, the origin of tears, the panacea of fear, and she was still cold.
Larissa Shmailo's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, Barrow Street, Drunken Boat, Fulcrum, The Unbearables Big Book of Sex, and the Penguin anthology Words for the Wedding. Her books of poetry are In Paran (BlazeVOX [books]), the chapbook A Cure for Suicide (Cervena Barva Press), and the e-book Fib Sequence (Argotist Ebooks); her poetry CDs are The No-Net World and Exorcism. Her translation of A. Kruchenych's Victory over the Sun is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press and may be read at Brooklyn Rail's InTranslation site. She blogs at LarissaShmailo.blogspot.com.
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