The early fish, womb-time, dark and wet
I flail, my mind gone winder-wander,
commending my body to lickety luck.

On Mars all those ruddy canals 
in miles-deep canyons,
no fishing. 

Come, my Martian friends,
join me here before sunlight,
when differences assert themselves.

I wade the ink legless,
casting my bread upon their lies.
The brownies here are wise by necessity;
little cover in narrow water.

I sit mindlessly
on my breakfast log,
cold beer and Moon Pie,
fifteen minutes after bobos
with pompous purpose and Countess Mara
silk ties start counting angels on pinheads,
seeking meaning in numbers.

No gafooneys out here,
or the need for them.