At the age of 206,
I was on the verge
of completing my dissertation,
but my inner voice got sick of it,
and would no longer
engage in working on the problem
of writing for credit.
My inner voice told me
I had knowledge abuse problems.
My inner voice threatened court,
and once even forced me
to the local gaol to scare me straight.
Then I met The Book of Wet Water.
Its dense pages spun a yarn
going to the sea,
then to the sky,
and back to the dirt again.
It showed me I wouldn’t land in prison,
but might lose my senses for a while.
I might not be able to feel the blank wall
I use to navigate the library when the lights are out.
I might stop smelling the burnt-almond-
tinged-scent of earthly existence.
I might stop tasting the lack
of programmed punctuation.
All the years trapped behind books
and it took this book
to illuminate these dark, gloomy times
when the poor sleep to death
under hazy, grey heavens
bereft of fine, feathered friends.
People like me stopped using electricity
to power our reading lamps
and learned to focus starlight instead.
The government funds no schools here.
People are tired. People are sick. People are wondering.
People should meet The Book of Wet Water.
People wrote The Book of Wet Water.
People have to go in and make a difference.
People have to go out and make a difference.
People have to go in and then go back out.