the bullets we fire off the ferry into the river,

aiming for the goldfish, are found in the holes of 

the rubber mats. i find my rifle under two plastic ninja swords

and a toy fishing net. peanut shells, shaved ginger root, 

and muddy soybeans.

 

the boat angles away from the pier in the green water.

the dingy teeters below the surface like a shit piece of wood,

when i drop my ass in the dingy and worry about keeping my gun dry,

when i begin to see the orange fish in the worsening swells 

and feel daunted, hopeless, and alive in my dream. the ferry's 

 

wake rises like a cgi and throws us under and we are gone. 

when we are gone, our coffee is drank by new strive-rs. the self-interest

solicits confessions, but i still rake in in its flow, when i'm at a job,

where i can't see you in your sarong.