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