On the fiftieth day of the oil spill I became an environmental activist -
sloping my hands into seashell patters,
putting myself up to the ear lobe of the
ground to listen to the maddening shriek of the
gulch-fed gully's of the Gulf; to hear
the slap of a tar ball on your tongue; taste
the innuendo of a dead dolphin in a wandering
man's arms on a beach otherwise conceived
from the hyperbolic henchmen sincerely wishing
for his life back.
On the fiftieth day of the oil spill I became an outcry -
the kind of sound that stays with you long
after death rattles, and pacifiers spontaneously
combust from uselessness. Erratically break into
press conferences, fishermen eloping with the dry
land, dry dock your midnight frocks, your wedding
gowns, bridal fawn of elegant decay.
On the fiftieth day of the oil spill
it kept gushing.
a/n: fuck you BP!