I have to say that my weekends are almost as busy as my weekdays. A different kind of busy, of course. During the week, I'm a office worker and English professor. On the weekend, I'm a church musician and writer. I don't get much time for those activities Monday through Friday.
I took my son to see a movie tonight. Because of the lack of new releases, my local multiplex has started showing older films. This week, they range from Gone With the Wind to The Lego Batman Movie. We went to see Shazam!, which was quite good.
When we got home, I made dinner for my daughter, and then I sat down and finished writing a poem I started a couple days ago. I know that most of my day tomorrow will be spent on school stuff, so I allowed myself some fun tonight.
Saint Marty is tired. Exhausted really. But happy for the miracle of a brand new poem . . .
Catfish Have 27,000 Taste Buds
by: Martin Achatz
Catfish have 27,000 taste buds but spend their lives at rock bottom of river, crick, marsh, with no ambition to rise. Instead, they comb their whiskers with clay, know the flavor of each intimate piece of universe that enters their bodies.
They are algae, crawfish, caddis fly, frog, clam, blueberry. Munch up and down the food chain, frequent greasy spoons and Michelin stars. A catfish once ate an eagle feather, dreamed of clouds, sky for weeks. Another swallowed a used condom, felt guilty for cheating on his wife.
Cut a catfish open, you might find car keys you lost last Friday, or your sister who died of lymphoma five years ago. Dinosaurs or ice ages, dark matter or da Vinci. One catfish contains multitudes, can feed 5,000, with 15 baskets left over for breakfast.
Nietzsche said God is dead. He isn't. He's inside a catfish belly, playing pinochle, waiting to be caught, filleted, breaded, fried into rapture with grits.
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