It's A Slow Death

Aquatic lions stir, their timber cage

barnacle-fixed to the sinking

California coast. Yolk-thick light oozes between the beams

dissecting shadows piled below the pier.

Evidence of murder appears in a swarm of sand-

fleas bounding on a stage all shades of red

gore. The piping elegy is sung by

hungry gulls, their vast ululation

indebted to the bone. An orphan’s

jeremiad echoes off jetty stones to warn

killers frequent these waters. Bodies

lay listless in the rookery as late

morning dissipates into sweltering

noon and the half-ton smell of rotting

Otariidae wades for miles down shore.

Pocketing soot-stained spoons, urchins of

questionable repute duck into the bamboo

reeds and infamy of Hobo Jungle, pursued by

strong-arm beat cops in blue. It’s where river and ocean meet

throngs of wind-swept marionettes converge, overcome by

urge to carve great black gashes in the sun.

Valley anglers affix their lines to cast from the shit-spackled

wharf rails. A few shimmering baitfish slip free and flail on

xanthic pilings. Their mouths tear open

yawning in awe as they drown in the perfect yellow

zephyr.