involving the use of each of the suction cups and tentacles.
The methodology is far too intricate to explain in this stanza.
Through intermediaries, the Giant Squid secretly convinced
the Governor of a small state to send in a squadron of troopers
to hoist it into a specially-made aquarium-truck and move it
to a radically-modified floor of a highrise building. The whole
level was sealed off and converted to an aqua-office where it
could use its vast intelligence and astounding coordination
to send out communiques to power centers around the globe.
Using a set of water-proof computers with advanced keyboards
several yards long, the Giant Squid sent out directives, opinions,
warnings and letters of good will to important and powerful
persons at every level of the literary, academic, military, business
and governmental worlds. It has a code name, and the building
it works out of is closely guarded by Federal police. The public
has never been allowed to know how much of our national policy
is determined and administrated by this sea creature. It is a well-kept
secret. It is assumed that the god-fearing public would not approve of
the idea of human supremacy being so blatantly and finally disproved.
It operates openly among poets, since no one would believe poets
if they reported a Giant Squid at the heart of the machine that runs
the country and the economy. He is hiding, within the poetry world,
in broad daylight. The poets, being surreal, never question the idea
of a Giant Squid editor. "The beast doesn't prefer to have guests.
So? What of it?" There are slits of thick glass block in the fortified
fish-tank-floor he lives on. He stares out at the cars and pedestrians,
wondering if technology will one day enable him to join them.
Mel C. Thompson writes from San Francisco.
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