Verses Out of the Vortex(t): Climate Vortex
[ “Scientists Calculated a 'Point of No Return' For Dealing With Climate Change—& Time is Running Out” (BUSINESS INSIDER: AUGUST 30, 2018) ] frontier is a stupid word it’s true after all our dreams no longer deserve us swimming like an out-of-control semi veers a freeway toward its yet-anatomy (yes to vulnerability like that by the way) like the rhyme of tree with me the vortex churns for instance the eyes which sift the sky’s aquarium like some drunken bird of paradise it’s amazing how birds & fish seem to shift the axial whims of their eye-sockets rounding off a single conscientious “We shall not cease from exploration / And the end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time” from here I think I could scrape the same kaleidoscopic rust with a spoon against the insides of a spaghettios can out into where the true heavenly.wav of “Death is a kaleidoscope” warbles our outer limits into the plumage of a willow merely weeping down to where “it is a sad perspective which adds an ‘I-don’t-know-what’ to another ‘I-don’t-know-what’ & “consequently the tongue is a chair” an incline into us putting us on the spot & just like that I recline into apocalypse because every single disaster movie taught me that’s what you do but what I’d like really is to write the vortex(t) out before I’m overwritten
Verses Out of the Vortex(t): Wildfire Vortex
[ “The Worst Fires in Recent California History: The Carr Fire is Even More Alarming When You Put it in Context” (SLATE: JULY 31, 2018) ] coolly cerebral the trees in all fairness express their membranal feral- ness the firs in particular tressed out as if “an accordion of white bats” or phone cords or xylophones even of ash something incommunicable I can’t decide what to tell my mother after she calls me from outside Seattle & describes the smoke-fast-haze “as if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,” to graze over the Puget Sound like the glitch of a limping doe’s quiverings across the freeway under the lamplight of rush-hour traffics the vortex until said vortex(t) is writ as invisible ink until it’s not an option “Open thine eyes eterne, & sphere them round / Upon all space: space starr’d, & lorn of light; / Space region’d with life-air; & barren void; / Spaces of fire, & all the yawn of hell” his excellency who presides tweets the blame for the largest CA wildfire on record to the timber industry’s lack of growth & I lose what sort of wind’s required to grow the kind of tornado I should become because I have witnessed the spread of the human spine.exe cease to function
Verses Out of the Vortex(t): Water Vortex
[ “This Heartbreaking Photo Reveals a Troubling Reality: Photographer Justin Hofman's Image of a Seahorse Swimming with a Discarded Cotton Swab Illustrates the Issues of Pollution in our Oceans” (NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC: September 19, 2017) ] a seahorse with a q-tip rolled up in its tail rolls out one queued-up reel of possible apocalyptic worlds like a red carpet unrolling like a “scorpion’s beautiful question mark” roils in heatwaves over Sumbawa Besar, Indonesia’s future & through my cranium like the sweltering heat of July in rural Georgia state wafts from each sunlight-sharped tines of an rusted upright garden rake gone unused “a hundred visions & revisions” urge me today be salt enough be scree enough to understand the ocean’s becoming plasticity becoming a tear’s becoming a stranger’s attention in a physician’s waiting room “the line does not exist it is already form” how fragile the mind that occupies this terrain I fold the illusions into commas I nuzzle up the gasoline jug’s enflamed nozzle like a swarm of aphids “eventually we must combine nightmares” until my heart’s a special hue of greenery my heart’s becoming phlegm the sting of becoming what the vortex knows well enough the vortex(t) sows
Jake Syersak is the author of Yield Architecture (Burnside Review Books, 2018). He also serves as an editor for the poetry journal Cloud Rodeo, the micro-press Radioactive Cloud, and the small poetry press Letter Machine Editions.