This poem is a collaboration with Justin Million, poet-in-residence for Synapse Files. Follow Synapse on WordPress and Twitter for his own poem-a-day all month long.


Human on the end will replay the message if I like


a very god conversation

I am instructed and humbled

reminded by administration

I am on the healthy baby roster


Human at the end, maybe only


between, I am in conversation with gods who flush the toilet, make bad coffee, linger too long at parties, tell me

“I’ll get there”


reminded by the world

I am a healthy baby in need only of a god, and stairs that aren’t a devil’s


galaxy because they seem red-void


Let’s erase the pencil that’s unable to common


line my shelves with folk


I breathe the same air as the broken, but I am trying to laugh out

joy to repair


arm’s length to what isn’t close


less language, please

I mean, I am trying to mean something meaningful here


please understand I am happy to watch you

watching the skies with my words in mind, finding nothing


at least you’re looking where I’m looking, then


and I’ve already got down covered


More worries are erased in commonplace statistics


shells forked


Superman breathes the same air as well, but his jokes aren’t super-good.


Joy lingers in a text somewhere

but quick time’s a disorganized devil ever-pencilling galaxies




we’re only flush with aim for getting where’s water

less mystery, please


I mean, for all our meaning do we mean well


certainly rarely heed understanding


all our tries hook-shaped gestures, climbing motions

at last moving where’s we’re aiming, hell

we took aim already and been ailing for that steady, steady


power’s just

clothing, joy


a text from a super person


aiming at water, here, and missing 70% of the time


my ire hollers, quarrels with her telling me I’m lucky I’m so cute


what a hook that keeps the angry poet on stage, foaming at the mouth with oceanic ire


dissolve the text sifting for a metaphor their editor’s can’t but pretend to understand because the grants


to colloquialize the Swedish table and chairs into a quaint


family reduced to fools, the ones that follow you through storms, and your crown of flowers


your head needs watering


the amount of times I’ve licked my fingers to ready her

I am ready to accept you as the kind of lover you only poetry with


how many fingers you put in my mouth


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