a day in the life of an ancestral tongue

 inspiration. 

"they don't understand what it means to me, where we chose to go, where we've been to know" solange 

23 year old white male, fisher of clear seas, drinker of bourbon and whiskey, lover of Futurma-the Simpsons-Call of Duty and "truck game" 

stains my nostrils with the fumes of a double burner cast iron griddle. It never moves, like a settler. olive oil sizzling with fish for his breakfast.

the light of the 8:15am sky is fished through the burlap curtain on my window. I am not a morning person. the head of my bed is a precise 10 feet from the oven. my room is becoming hazy with the smoke of my relatives rising unto ether. 

he makes offerings without offering. to whom would he offer? speaking peninsula tongues none. 

He does not dance. I asked him, and he told me no.

My pink and pasty octo-inspired creature rolls out onto the shores of truth like water whirling into the formation smooth enough to lick, heavy enough to bury bodies.