Wake

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The lake round Mount Babel, Quebec, two crescents
engineered into a ring. A Dutch couple reports:
Like kayaking straight sea, the sun the only hint.
When that rock hit, it raised that mountain,
razed a million trees, burnt New York.
The tourists cannot digest our Quebecois guides,
speak French-French, but they are jealous
of our loons, red-eyed and flirting in the wake.

***

Today’s prompt was the Eye of Quebec, pictured above. I didn’t make anything up either. Check out this PDF from the Dutch Kayakers, detailing their three week trip around Mount Babel. It’s equal parts science and survival skills.

Yesterday’s poem about the Slash was also informed by some aquatic journal writing. Please check out, “Smuggler Swim 2016,” a great piece of prose by a swimmer who covered a nineteenth century smugglers route. The author does a fantastic job switching between the smuggler’s last trip, and their own swim.

Photo source: NASA.

Mine

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

Two poems after Masaru Emoto

[I gave my talk to the people there]

As for me I’m a missionary of water.
I was at the city nearest to the site.
Now I am on my way home.

As you must know, it is the most beautiful time of the year
with the flowers. On my way home
I stopped at the beautiful place, known for its flowers,
and I felt I wanted to share it with everyone in the world.

[Clearing]

Many kinds of information are swirling around,
and the people wonder and worry what is right.
Reality is more extraordinary than it seems.
There are no rules, but exhaustion.