Sizzling oysters loop-de-loop

down my throat, smiling taste buds

float on their backs in briny saliva.

When famished forbears

noticed the vigil of the heron

and the beady eyes

of swooping seagulls

maneuvering for food

they followed their lead

and dug in the sludge

and slime of the ebb and flow

of drifting tides

to discover hidden under

sand-crusted slipping strips

of tangled lines of seaweed:

The succulent oyster.

It may have taken hunger

to overlook the slobbery,

mucosy, worrmish texture

or a memory-trace

of pterodacytyl relatives

that now drives me to imbibe

like a anemone gone wild.

Slurping the goo and inhaling

the heavenly fragrance

puts me back in touch

with my almost animal,

half-fish spirit.

Oysters are French kisses.

that vibrate the marrow in my bones

secreting the silent juices

of libidinal nectar.

An ancient antidote to boredom,

it's a drug that never stops working,

bringing the vision of my third eye

back in to focus.