Possum Song for the Gulf of Mexico

There was a web of leaking arteries inside the holy mud of their short song.

Night Blooming Jasmine had a funerary smell.   

They could smell the change in the taste of things  that washed ashore.  

They loved midnight meals scavenged on the sand. 

The Gulf of Mexico is a big spicy girl who dances  in the moonlight for them.

They do not drink Margarita’s but  can  eat the dead finger of a tourist. 

Ripe shrimp cocktail is a favorite.

They are smart measured to task end and never forget where they eat their last meal.

Their young began to play dead from birth.

Some were born without eyes.

Some were born without hiss.

They mark miles in the gentle surf with an ancient rolling gait.

They are living cotton swabs.  They are a medical waste gathering tribe, around a great wound in the mother gulf.

They began to play dead for no apparent reason.

They were a rave before the waves.

Their hiss was deeper than an old AM tube Radio just short of picking up Cuba from Florida.  

They were a furry Gregorian Chant in a sunken cathedral more beautiful and sad than anything made by man.


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