So the Dolphin Decided

Oh stupid scuba man

It’s you again.

Take your tank and flippers and get

Out of my natural habitat – besides –

National Geographic has already beaten you to it.

Of course I know how to speak English

You fucking moron – and if I felt

like being a battering ram today, I’d relieve

you of that ridiculous air contraption.  Yes –

I’d puncture that fucker just for the pleasure

of watching bubbles rise and burst brightly like

(what do you call that thing again…?)

a disco ball.  That’s right, it would be

a god-damned disco down here.

But you would never know

because you’re always running out of air.

You’d better get back to your boat before

my brothers (Frank and Joe) return. 

They've done hard time at Sea World, you know.

Furthermore, I have my own land gadget to test.

Yes – that’s right – I've decided to know

the feeling of dirt on my dorsal.

So I’ll put on my land-suit (designed to keep

my skin moist) and maybe I’ll come

observe you in your home/office/church.

But – I wouldn't hold my breath

(pun intended) because

my sonar senses tell me that the ground

isn't that fucking great after all.  

Laboratory

I swear I can feel my own cilia

fondling intruders

the way a redneck might with ripened

seventeen year old stepdaughters.

Giving nematodes two heads

is easy.  I just have to be steady

and bored.  And no, this parasite

did not consume itself.

So the fetal pig’s heart is in the wrong

place.  It happens to humans too.  Freaks

living normally within the boundaries

of biology.

If I stare at the serum on the slide

long enough, my mitochondria will

make music again like Melissa Etheridge’s

lung capacity.

I've held a scalpel –

I know how important it is

to breathe.