Adrienne Barbeaubot (bleakorpheus) wrote in iambic_5meter,
Adrienne Barbeaubot

I only know one joke in a foreign
Language; it’s “Que hace el pescado?”
And it means “What does the fish do?” Well, I’ve
Seen plenty of fish in my day and I

Happen to know that they don’t do much of
Anything but swim around in little
Circles or in schools. I don’t know what it’s
Like in a fish school, but I think that if

It’s anything like mine, then those fish are
Wasting their time. I think someday we’ll see
A rapscallion young fish turn around and
Sue his school for failing to properly

Prepare him for the real world. “Where were the
Courses on how to run from anything
Bigger than us,” he’ll say. “And where were the
Classes on how not to eat the worms with

The hooks? These are the life skills we need!” And
He’ll get rich off the profit because no
Fish had ever thought to file a lawsuit
Before and he’ll use all the money to

Buy the seven seas and make the other
Fish call him King of the Ocean and he’ll
Rule the waves with an iron fin like the
Great Neptunian Dictator he is.

As I continue spouting my blank verse
I’d like to take a moment to thank a
Few of the people that have helped to make
This poem possible. First off I would

Like to thank God. God, you are an awesome
And mighty God, which is no small feat for
Someone who doesn’t even exist. You’ve
Accomplished more in over two thousand

Years than most people do in their entire
Lives. Next I’d like to thank God’s manager,
Don King. You go, Donny. One to nothing.
I’d also like to thank my PR guy,

Craig. Lastly, my heartfelt thanks go to
Public education. Well, not really.
Where was I? Oh yeah; so, there I was in
Aisle Three, comparing discount prices on

Microwave burritos, when I hear the
Unmistakable cackle of women
Who clearly don’t understand the concept
Of projection (and by projection, I

Mean the defense mechanism. They’re well
Acquainted with speaking loudly). So I
Look up from my Mexican heaven in
Time to oculize a pair of portly

Ladies gossiping over a shopping
Cart loaded with cat litter, Diet Coke,
Tampons and EZ-Mix Mac and Cheese and
My ears have the distinct displeasure of

Auralizing those oft-heard, much-feared words:
“Rain on your wedding day ain’t ironic,
It’s just bad luck.” I resist the urge to
Bring them a dictionary from Aisle Nine

And instead make haste to the check-out line.
I’ve found that stagnation brings defeat, and
Oh, woe is me, ‘cause I can’t compete so
I resign myself to sitting under

The moon with a bottle (for poetry’s
Sake, of course…) and she asks me my sign. I
Resist the urge to say “Pedestrian
Crossing” and soliloquize thusly: “Your

Light is not your own, never forget. It’s
Borrowed from a brighter sphere. Despite that,
You’re far and above the more romantic
Of our diurnal lanterns. I wish I

Could better relate; but alack, my role
Was defined by my birth. I was swimming
Once, in tenacious competition with
My brothers, and it was probably the

Only race I’ve ever won in my life. Now, I’ve
Contented myself to watch the race pass.
It’s prettier that way. Or at least that
Makes for a convenient excuse; all the

While claiming my spot as an artist, to
Join the ranks of a line of liars that
Stretches back to the beginning of human
Consciousness. But I really am! And

It’s not just a river in Egypt, I swear!”
But she just stares me down with eyes of stone
And maybe it would be redundant to
Call her moon-faced, but it’s been a rough week

And I’m lazy. In the meantime, we’re as
Lost and illiterate as ever, and
When did this thing turn so serious? I
Liked the bit about the underwater

Lawsuit better, and also Raoul Duke’s
Ether trip in Fear and Loathing, although
I suppose that that’s neither here nor there.
So we laugh at each other as long as

We don’t have to look at our own selves, and
We pretend that we’re prophets, and dream of
Tomorrow until tomorrow comes. Oh,
And what does the pescado do? Nada.
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