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.

Dermis

And it was anchovies I tasted

As you cock-swabbed the inside

Of my cheek

Calling it science

Epithelial indeed lies

Like icebergs or politicians picking

Arab friends

And there was a slight crust you left

Behind of crystalline semen

On my dress – unless –

I’m calling it armor

Just before that

C’mon press that spot, baby

And I place my thumb to your trachea

 And your eyelids flutter

  Almost epileptic

   As I surface to meet my own skin

    At last level ground

     And I fake it

      And I fuck

       And I fake it

And

Tour Guide

Immunity to the sulfur smell was inevitable –

Standing next to an Adonis –

His hair rich, thick molasses like the furniture

Syrup guaranteed to make my

Mahogany and

Cherry glisten

I could see 

In Santorini – He was a REAL Greek and I

Was a REAL overweight American – Eyes

Sleep-deprived as a condemned circus closes

Down

Or

Maybe a couple of orbs in Chernobyl

He whispered

This is the place that destroyed Atlantis

Did more than destroyed –

Yes

This pumice

Ruined her like sex

In the Aegean after a back-home boyfriend

Springtime slid easily into the hot

Dry Cycladic summer and the volcano is

Still

I am gone – searching for other gods –

Satisfied there is no punctuation at Easter

Engineering

Some September I remember you peering

Into my chemical textbook, but you had already succumbed

To your poetry people, and continuously reeked

Of stale coffee and sex musk.

Walnut Trail apartment complex needed

An artist, I suppose.  So, Georgia O’Keefe

(in all her vagina-bloom glory) traveled

From your cramped Eldridge Hall to join my Elvis

Hip-swinging clock on the wall.

Verse is not logical and safe

Like my sacred books of algebraic equations and formulaic lists.

You argued – you found ART within the urine-colored

Pages of Chemical Engineering 101.

Enjoy your magical realism –

The scratchy dirt-hued carpet remains, and O’Keefe still hangs.

While Elvis ticks off seconds, I’m taking my texts literally only to find

One cold-foiled sandwich when

There should’ve been two.

Septic

When they created the crater in the backyard – Mom and Dad went

Inside – safely put away until the job was done, but I was ten.

Barefoot, I climbed to the edge of the stench-abyss and spied

On the methane men.

The first dirt clod crumbled too quickly in my hands, but the second one

Taken from yesterday’s stash on the putrid precipice, found its target.

PVC pipe is no match for my maneuverability and finesse.

They say the sewage smell will vanish once they finish the tank connection –

Whatever that means.  The stinky men evacuate our driveway in their mucky trucks,

Leaving me the keeper of all earthen bombs.

Wind Bagging

I sense disappointment today extruded from the black

Case holding the ever/over-bearing horn.

Something better in the performance you want?

Something as sensual as your beloved jazz saxophone?

No – I play trombone.

I can’t get squeaky/squawky – all helium delirious as your notes protest.

Chord progression talk no longer flows through the brandy decanter

Sitting on the slightly 60s mod glass dinner/slab table – I gave up on that

To pursue the slide and my stride evolved into something derived of my own song.

Try again old man.

Make me embrace Charlie Parker.

Make me faint from Coltrane.

I play trombone.