Chicano Poet

Friday, March 09, 2007

Gill Man

It was a fitful sleep, Robinson was dreaming
that he was the Gill Man, swimming
in a hidden stream, tributary to the Amazon,

the tastelessness of a swallowed fish
battling hopelessly as it slid down his throat,
the days and nights could not be distinguished

by his race or any other race he knew.
Then one day it all changed,
a strange craft drifted into his lagoon,

his lagoon, the thought kept working on him.
There was one creature which really
intrigued him, beckoned to him.

He grabbed her off the boat, took her to his cave.
Fought the other creatures for her, she punched & scratched.
Somewhere, Robinson’s wife was yelling at him

and the bewildered Robinson woke up,
wiped the primordial sweat from his forehead.
His pajamas rose to the surface of the black lagoon.

He tried to go back to sleep.
He reassured his wife he was all right.
The neon signs outside their apartment

blinked red and yellow, he could hear
the elevated train run over a penny,
the tin of the recent war falling to the ground.

Robinson tossed and turned,
nagged by his own existence.
His webbed-hand trying to hold a cigarette.

“I told you, honey, I don’t like you
smoking in bed.”
She sighed
as he exhaled through his new-found gills.


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