PARKER JAMIESON

 is a human from Buffalo, New York. They are glad to be a part of the
anthropomorphic fable of humanity—and they

revere their counselor

for helping them
continue to exist. They go to school for English and Philosophy.

Accessibility Student

 

What manner of assimilation
Do I utilize to enter my society—


Examination to excess or simply
A polished hand handled by hygiene?


I am confined to titles, and exposed
Like objects revealed by subject and verb:


Slips of recommendation—subtle, yet weak initiations.
After, the ritualized pressure of a weekly quiz,


My breath confers the business and the tension
in the accessible silence, my absurdly unfocused eye.


Can I analyze away my anxiety, A.D.D,
And depression like dirt dug with shovel?


Even floss out my autistic-spectrum?
As I rock in class like a limpid lily, wiggling my fingers

   under the desk.


The relation I have with the institution:
The obsession of Tetris after the first release.


I have time-and-a-half to understand
How the blocks move, I have


A poignancy, a pen, a notepad, and the pressure
To integrate answers,


Without integrating
myself.

An Hour of Meditated Breathing about Mens Sana in Corpore Sano On the Rock Outside Cooke Hall

Visceral flame
Plucked like daffodil
Against the igneous
Firmament.


Still tied to humanity
And sisyphean rock,
I hear the swaying lilies
Of Prometheus.

The lilies are a lie.
They are not corporeal—
Neither visceral, nor unreal;
A surreptitious memory


Of the present
Skinless phalanges,
Radius, and Humerus—none
Except the leafless branches
Shaking the other’s hands.
The calcaneal remains
Beyond Patroclus’ lover.

An hour of meditated
Breathing burns the eyelid
Into the world. A Brisk examination
Of the external—In the loud,
Protesting snow. Removed from
The census designated halls,

There’s no prayer for the daffodil hearts
Of young daemons, who stand
On the steps of Rosary Hill.
Only prayers for blue students
Playing tic-tac-toe like governors in a hall.


My body studied into stumbling:
I listen to the metacognitive flowerbeds
Answer the questions I recall—
Both rightly and wrong.
I witness the anatomical trees unfold,
Without the stench of paint, a clean syringe, or formaldehyde.

The igneous

Exhales below me.

Go out, my blue siblings—
Listen to the world breathe.

NAME Magazine UNIVERSITY AT BUFFALO 2020