Mine – Justin Million and Jeff Blackman – April 19

Synapse Writer-In-Residence, and Jeff Blackman #NPM16


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 in my mouth


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