Because we can’t, we refuse
to settle for a single ‘Mola’
and why would we?
Swim on, new hotness! The ocean
nouveau; up and coming genealogy
of bony fish sure to make waves.
Something Ralph McQuarrie would
proudly straddle, all classic bulk and
geometric angles.
Born to shine, you effortlessly attain
cosmic significance; sunfish, pesce luna
in a shaft of godray turning on its side
like an hot, wet pelagic pancake. Fucking
Christ, you can’t put a price on that.
Their cartilage predates the nasdaq,
predates cartoon mascots whispering
“Turn off your carbon monoxide detectors,
children.” See them skim the surface
like a stone,
an unfinished plinth hurtling
lackadaisical, its vectors playing out
over unaccounted decades.
“Hey, hey, hey…. hey”
lips stoically puckered
a fin rolls over the surf
like a well-oiled, lovingly maintained
pizza cutter. Imagine the jaws theme
but on a less overtly threatening instrument.
A kazoo, bongos, rhythmic knee-slapping.
The Mola Mola approaches and frankly
we should settle for nothing less.
