at the mile high club i met miss fishy;
we talked, and i was impressed – and still
i did not join her sorority.
i after all was the fish that started
it all – a beginner at myth making
you can call me man.
like a fish with a wonky lung and heart
murmur i moved to a home on the shore
where my eyes immediately improved.
i soon got used to arms and legs and
began to think that fins were useless
and flimsy at love making.
when i grew a hand at the end of my
arm this was a revelation that i did not
need to take grief from anybody.
with my hands i separated myself from
the world, i found no use for things that
disturbed the serenity of my anarchy.
with fingers i articulated language and
divided myself into clans who invented
kings who then began to worry.
i wish i could wrap my fish mind around
a solution to the problem of kings, perhaps
an appeal to a higher authority…
naw, what am i thinking? i am a fish, a
product of many reactive perfections – still
i wonder what i might do next…