"this is it"

"this is it"

[…]

I made it to the lake, or barely did. There is:

stones in my shoes. In my shoes are sweat and

blood from recent collisions I guess, did meet a

goose halfway and crumbled my quack so

disruptive a stare. A penguin stalk & beat me

with melodyqueefs. Given such treatment and

warranted so little, been unfairly. The walk to

lake today is extra winding hard, hence the

wind and crooked pace—but I made it, did it.

No longer pace, just stone and set on top of

other, it’s cairn. Oh yes and very calm out. Can

use my hands as wind shield, it works, here it is.

No wind, no shoes, no stone, or quack, silence

almost, this is it.

[…]

...so it’s back out for sun and sweat a go.

Accumulate seconds or minutes is a record. I

look down at hands. Been doing so much

climbing now I’ve grown a carapace of calluses;

my people call it horn. Grownsomehorny. If I

touched you now, a layer protective: filtering

dispenser me, oh love a brita me. If get strong

hands you rid of melonging. Can’t pet or be

pet, I’ll be rough as you like, or ask. Err, err,

confused reality for you. For now my hands up

and holstered and it’s so stickyout, megoo, so

squoosh. My hands are adribble, mouth also

vacuous, or void. There is a sense of liquid, a

senseofnot. What to do with tired limbs, oh

limp, if rest...

[…]

...parked and feeling shackled by desire, there’s

a billboard say 2 digits-for-truth, but drove past

it and can’t remember which. these poems very

splendor of parking lots at the moment and

desire to annihilate. and then having a few

thoughts like would love to eat gas station frog

legs off your ass, fried ones down in ok. or

whan the blode is made thynne, soo folowyth

consumpcyon and wasted. or a canker is

melancolyc impostume, eatynge partes of the

bodye. in this lot of hectic glow are kinds of

tongue in awe. what if we kissed by the floating

trash and the unknown refuse of promised

land? wherever they may roame, shall I go…

[…]

I made it to a gas station. Rally there, or boot.

Packed so much ice & drink, in Styrofoam

carbonate is dirty clothes of me. Wash off in

room with cup, or rest. Else, given how sticky...

In this country no such cheap save for inflating

substances. Course that means gas & bubbles

also carbonated. In the restroom: inflate. I have

protection, plugged up as a bit as a bit, or

puffed. Make so big and strong. Here it is. I

emerge from the restroom and in the store are

people begging me differ. So inspired for the

courage I need. Tell them I want the tea, but I

get it twisted. Everything comes in bulk, touch

through volume, no snap, my rubber bubbly.

This is it.

[…]

I made it to the lake and brought the user’s

manual to master summon the waters—here

come the crew is gathering my acolytes of rats

and gulls of lake, they chant. At the edge of the

concrete beach is a gull inflates his throat and

bangs an absolute screamer bent back down his

chest and like what are you screaming at, then

lifts himself back throating up the sky,

summoning the geese and lake & jetskis also

heed. ceremony afoot where all of know their

role, a suitcase laid on such concrete: everyone

assemble, and louder chant. I walk solemn, and

hope: may the lake ship what we had or might,

and ship me back to you: I walk into the case

and fly. This is it.

Léon Pradeau is a poet and translator. He lives between Paris and Chicago, editing Transat', a journal of poetry in French and English, and writing in both languages (awkwardly & cheerfully). His publications include a chapbook, snow of snow (Bottlecap Press, 2023); and two books of poetry, vaisseau instantané/instant shipping (Les murmurations, 2024), and "This is it" (forthcoming with Antiphony in 2025).

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