He doesn’t care about the pewny lives

Of the creatures that live in him,

Or the creatures that praise him for his gifts.

He is merciless and unrestrainable.

He is judge, jury, and executioner.

We are in his kingdom,

kneel for his majesty.

Though he will not

hear your prayers, for he

is blatantly unconcerned.

The bottom of the ocean is supposed –

to be cold, not hot.

Like the frigid fermented potato juice,

heating my old man from the inside out.

The bottom of the ocean is supposed –

to be a barren wasteland, not a miracle of life.

Like the empty 2-inch poly bag,

on the floor of a bathroom.

The bottom of the ocean is supposed –

to be completely dark, not twinkling with bioluminescence.

Like the difficulties between distinguishing

Hallucinations and reality.

Where instead of the leave of trees harvesting the sunlight,

microbial mats tipple toxic chemicals.

Where blockbuster aliens are teddy bears,

compared to the life down here.

Shimmering shadow monsters,

that a subconscious couldn’t even create.

The red-barked trees,

waxy whorled leaves.

Have mussels clinging,

to prop roots.

The black-barked trees,

salt crystals on their leaves.

Sprouting straight

Up from the ground.

The frigate bird’s

red balloon,

the reddish egret’s

happy dance,

the sea hare motif.

Life is at the mercy of the tide,

He comes in to bring sweet relief,

Just as quickly as he disappears.

Learn the pools to survive –

Adapt or die.

It’s a harsh life –

but the views are why I settle.

Every now and then,

I can see the sunset and the sunrise,

all in one day!

Real estate with a view comes at a price –

perhaps demise.

I am awakened by the colorful shades of light,

The water did not come up in time today.

Will today be the day that I am pecked

out of my hard calcium plates?

Or,

Will I survive the heat

in time for lunch?

I am greeted by the crashing ocean waves,

He protects me from the

calefaction.

I gorge on the drifting sustenance. I hope,

to not become silage to swiftly, swerving, sea stars.

The stipulations of sessile survival,

is it worth it?

To be able to live in both worlds,

my life is worth it.

Sea otters have a special rock.

That they keep for cracking open their

stubborn snacks. Aw, so cute!

But they're no different than humans,

carrying around tools in pockets.

They are the guardians of the underwater woodland.

Protecting the 175-foot-tall stemlike stipes,

from the vicious vanbrunti villains.

Who destroy the verdure from the base,

and leave the stipes to float away.

A Sea Otter without a coat,

is a sea otter without pockets.

They know they have the densest

coats in the world,

it’s for guarding their cold home.

And holding their special rock.

Across the middle of the Earth, where the water is warm

and clear, and bright, and teeming with life.

The morning seagull squacks,

school is in session.

Listen to wise, old professor Anthozoa

for he protects and guides those who travel from afar.

But, he grows overheated and tired

carrying the weight of the world on his colorful skeleton.

He is dying, not slowly like his life drifted past,

oblivious stage four destruction.

When the boiling water heats ever so slowly,

when the last bubble of air exits a body,

when the boat slips under stormy waves,

Then, who will teach the class?

Until the end of time –

separated by the shoreline,

Calypso dreams to join her Davy Jones.

But, he strokes her golden granules

with his flowing foamy touch.

After all, she is held beyond the tide.

As I sit on the sand

waves roll in parallel to the beach.

Perfectly aligned, perfectly timed,

no taller than a plover walking by.

The moon so thin,

it looks like a glitch in the sky.

Mind my wounded eyes,

for they have seen

the horrors of dead

mammals stinking

a beach in paradise.

Mature male sea lion

with bits of the net

and torn skin

tangled into his visible

decaying ribs.

I scatter the birds

dropping to my knees,

this beautiful beast

strung and suffocated,

accidentally assassinated.

My tears flooding, as

I look up only to see,

four more exactly

like him, but in their

own stage of atrophy.

The last being only

a pile of bones,

none the less

the net, the net

is familiar. You see —

Sea lions didn’t die alone

on this beach in paradise,

there were crabs and

birds and sharks

and skates and —

Rays. More than a dozen,

with their fleshy wings

amputated to be

used for bait and

perfectly circular “scallops”.

Skates, cousins of the rays,

with their cartilaginous

fleshy wings are less

abundant, and therefore

higher value.

Birds, with their ruffled feathers

and broken necks.

Did they get caught in the net?

Perhaps a worse

fate for them.

The net was green,

or black or blue.

Each hole a perfect square

three inches wide,

to catch anything bigger.

What are they

supposed to catch?

What seafood that swims

is only barely larger

than three inches wide?

Shrimp, it’s those goddamn shrimp.

Decapoda, Crustacea,

Arthropoda, Animalia.

Plate, Plater,

Cocktail, Buffet.

Think about this —

90% of shrimp trawled in the Gulf of California are shipped to the United States but,

shrimp from the Gulf of California is only 3% of the shrimp the United States receives.

The next time,

you see shrimp,

on the edge,

of a martini glass.

Think about that one

beach rotting with bycatch,

feel their fear as the net

only tightens with

their attempted escape.

Think about how,

Northern Peru admitted

that 93.3% of the

shrimp trawling catch is

indeed, not shrimp.

Think about how,

the shrimp trawling grounds in

Southeast Asia used

to be carpeted in

ancient coral reefs.

Think about how,

trawling is only capable

on Continental Shelves, Bays, and Estuaries;

AKA, the most biologically productive

ecosystems on Earth.

Think about how,

Gulf of Mexico shrimp boats

only come to shore

once a month after

catching 42,000 pounds of shrimp.

Mourn, not just the lost lives

of the shrimp hanging

on your martini glass,

but the lives of the tangled animals

trapped beside them.

Understand my horror,

at the seafood buffet.