[ Poet Tributes ] Sometimes a wild cod

will leap out of the water
when you least expect it  
smacking your bitch face up  
with its tail.  
  
A cod that is an odd kind of god  
wearing suspenders of belief    
while smoking coral reefer  
in Bikini Bottom with his pet snail,  
Gary.  
   
Who lives in a pineapple under  
the sea? Fuck, I hope it's not me.  
   
This poem is at home on the beach.    
Nothing more than an Ocean front.    
A shell game by a conch artist.  
   
Bewaring, you should always be erring  
on caution's side. The Age of Aquarium  
has dawned. The Millennium has come  
and gone, but the world? Never ended.  
The sky?  Didn't fall.  
   
Don't trust a word of any poet's nonsense.    
After all, they are as good as whale blow holes.  
An epic fish tale can come gushing out  
at any moment.  
   
But upon further inspection, it's just chum.    
Gills. Guts. Blood. Imitation crab meat.  
More of the same red herring riling up  
the sharks into a feeding frenzy.