“Sea King”

You are King of the Sea, I said

and I King of the Sky.

Don’t you see me, see my wings?

See how I soar? See how I fly?

See how I launch myself from pedestals,

flapping wings of wax, of ambition and manmade edifice.

See how I can fly?

And he I imagine is an underwater king

though he spends most of the time

gliding across the tide on a battered surfboard.

I imagine him peaceful, innocent, yet fierce

like a sea turtle clutching a trident.

He sits aloft coral reefs, sprints across the backs of Great Whites

and can communicate with sea horses like Aquaman.

It was Sunday, the waves unsure, the sky cold and clear

Later, I could see the stars, and I pretended I could name each one

as if I had named them myself.

He explained, in his childish manner, about the rap industry and then

his theory of art

For a quiet boy from Long Island, a placid surfer dude who wanted to become a doctor,

you do not expect for him to care so deeply for art.


But on that Sunday, we reeled him into our nightly chaos

into our vices, into our storytelling.

And he explained, how art should asymptotically close to nature.

That Art should be a reflection of reality, of one’s perception.

Then we pretended to be great artists too, boldly shaping faces

sketching dinosaurs in top hats in the margins of our biology notes.

I drew an illustration of he and I

He the King of the Sea

Me the King of the Sky

See how I fly? I asked

And you’re in the waves, exploring the deep

as if in dreams, in sleep, you’ve been talking

searching for something to say, whether it be just a word or a sentence

See how I fall? I asked. See how I fall?

I don’t see nothing at all, you said, nothing at all.

And I said, keep searching, just keep seeking.


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