The shark rolls onto his back
and plays dead—
but he’s not dead,
not asleep—
just drifting,
in tonic immobility.

No one dares approach him.
No one dares ask.
He’s a shark, after all,
and he’s dreaming.

His eyes move
at turbulent speed—
beneath their sheath,
projecting abattoir scenes:

He hasn’t moved in weeks.
The waterbed leaks.
He’s waiting for
the antidepressants to kick in,
learning how to love himself again.

Once, he was a killer on the scene—
 Jerry Lee singing for the teens-
torpedo-slick,
slicing through dangling feet.

Now he floats
in a heart-shaped pool,
dark glasses
to hide puffy eyes,
watching the hills burn.
A stranger blows air
into an inflatable flamingo.

The shark rolls 
to receive a dose—
sweating in nylon sheets,
on a saline drip,
unable to speak,
belly full of plastic beads
and amphetamine.

Doctors wait
for the fever to peak,

Somewhere—
a robot stalls on Mars,
a self-driving car
crashes into a bar,
mourners huddle
around glowing screens
as machines begin to scream.

An obese mayor
scoops a glass of shit filled sea
certifies the beaches are free,
as a pipe a mile long
oozes
into your mother’s heart.

Still—
in Osaka,
the blossoms are in bloom...
And on the moon—
it’s still the moon.

And the shark rolls on his back
and plays dead...

the shark rolls on his back
and plays dead.