st. michael's, maryland
a.
fishing for marx, hook
dangled with red bait,
the use value of a bobber
contrasted with the commodification
of unseen perch, silver-sprayed shadows
looming just below the surface
of the dashing dialectic
of sunlight and water.
the means of production
stiffen in my bronzed hand,
seeking to produce
something resembling lunch,
alienation from the work we do
is the sum of the modern condition,
but now we are supposed to be
well past modernity, and the
tumorous cells of muddled
maoist insurgencies
continue to diminish
correct theories of surplus
and artificial scarcity,
half-literate rebels
careening through mountain paths
pretending that they will know
how to create a dictatorship of the proles
free from arbitrary executions
and half-conceived land seizures,
dumping would be-allies in mass graves
and not just born enemies.
finally, a single perch reveals its fin, slicing
the top of the bay like a mandoline,
forward, looking forward, elegant confidence
that my hook will not catch,
as the moistened pages of das kapital
collect flies on the dock, nibbling
on his economic paradigms
and forming spineless paris communes.
b.
looking past the dock, there is
no sign of marx to be had.
stubble-faced crabbers, pregnant
with the pressure of waiting,
play tug of war with half-empty traps
as the basketball sun
heaves through a hoop of sky,
slam dunking the profiles of trawlers
becoming one with the water's horizon.
there is no sign of marx:
in the polo-shirted tourists who reek
of old bay and strong sunscreen,
snapping photos of all they see
and pretending the overworked crabbers
are figures from a nostalgic painting.
if these workers are feeling alienation,
then their thunderous laughter
would not ring true, as the market value
of their crustaceous bounty
goes up each time externalities
such as agricultural runoff
make these delicacies
even more pricey.
demand still creates supply,
but now the basketball sun
has hit the shimmering floor
of the great bay's arena,
flashbulbs of stars and twirling gulls
forming a competitive audience,
as the spirit of marx
is reduced to a bumper sticker
on one of the crabber's pickup trucks:
obamacare is socialism.
jesus, siddhartha, marx and engels
all perverted by the appeal of ignorance,
and, like any meaningful prophets,
made to stand for anything convenient
as my copy of das kapital, weighing
down the creaky planks of the dock,
is a density of hieroglypics
that every crabber
would be wise to decipher.
