Prose Poetry and Fiction from Web del Sol

Peter Johnson


I'm agitated when I read of pirates. Growing up, I walked so many planks my feet were a mess of splinters. Supposedly, very few pirates made prisoners walk the plank, more productive putting them to work. But my Blackbeards needed that paternal loin-tug one derives from the sound of a young, healthy male splitting the waves. Continually saved by mermaids, waterlogged, I persisted, devouring my share of limes, yet unable to please these master mariners, always probing my backside with their big swords, always more and more examinations: "Subtract the number of Ali Baba's thieves from the number of Arabian Nights, then add the Voyages of Sinbad. What do you get?" Or "Repeat fifty times: 'Making merry maps for mighty marooned mariners.'"
      Insatiable they be, and everywhere.