1, 2, 3, jump to conclusions
Before a thing is said
Wrong or right, we pick a side
There's not a lie we haven't met

From that point we justify
All we think we see
Blind leading blind most of the time
We tend to find we're not that deep

1,2,3, jump to conclusions
Is what we mostly do
With the meter that we're using
You blame me while I blame you

Everything these days it seems
We take it to extremes
From a slight rage to full blown hate
Our Modus Operandi if you ask me

1,2,3, jump to conclusions
Before we even know the facts
The conclusion I've come up with is
I find it all rather sad

And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound

How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.

Would the big ones ******* knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?

Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?

Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?

Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?

A seven year old blue eyed doll of a young boy dancing and running in the sand
The seagulls flew over his head swooping down trying to catch
a snack or meal on the beach
He ran to greet them and kept returning
His great grandfather used to name them all
As I told him, he asked if he knew them?
I guess he did I replied
Thinking he is smiling down as his great grandson
runs with the gulls
His great grandfather's words are alive in his heart