Failed poem about the Mississippi River

There’s a place not far from here where the Mississippi lost itself, called False River.

There’s a place not far from here where the Mississippi lost itself, called False River. They tell me it happens over millions of years, but works like a firehose with too much pressure flailing around on the ground. The river’s not really false, see, they said, because it used


There’s Th

There’s OMG

The Mississippi flails around like a turned on firehose

There’s a place not far from here where the Mississippi lost itself — an oxbow called False River. I’ve never been there, but if I had they’d tell me all about the slow flailing of the river changing course through the low wetlands, of the silt deposits and whatever else.

I’m sure they’d also tell me the river wasn’t really false, but outdated, untrue only to the current version of reality. They’d rest their arm on my shoulder, lead me over to look at it glistening like a beached whale, and say something about how the river deserves

some kind of pension for its service all those years ago, some token of appreciation, wouldn’t I agree? I wouldn’t know of course, but I’d nod along and say sure, why not, and they’d smile and look at me and say, see, that’s it.