Friday, April 18, 2014

Fins in Electric Water

Fins in electric water

Find me, how in the hell do they

Find me, how in the hell do they

Do what they do?

But they do.

Find me, that is.

Paper trailing from my wounds

And pockets, protracted investments

That smell of pulp, of worth.

The fins stooping in landfills

Puzzling out the ideal combo,

Gathering it in their bloodhound noses

Like chum to fins, then fins to chums.

It is all so very interesting,

Arresting like their balletic eyes,

Eyes armed with rawhide catchpoles

As they chew my hands and heart

In the tinniest off-dark.

Calling it in is no easy task;

We hate them for it, hate them all,

But were it not for what they do,

We might not be here with our

Air-conditioning and power steering,

Fair conditions and racketeering.

O ye fins in electric water,

And sometimes seas of paper too:

How is it you do just what you do?

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