Times New Roman
I could have been
Emboldened
By the history of some previous
Era, forgone
And made
Limpid to the touch.
Conception,
Geometric as a wound,
Jutted across the chest
Of a young child.
The first stage of life
As a Tibetan
REFLECTION ON DEATH
Had scoured
The metaphysic lectern.
A mind with limitations.
A body with defects.
This was the first year.
Stapled on to earth
And crunched into corporate need,
Beyond Cicero’s De finibus
bonorum et malorum;
Yes,
Yes!
Lorem ipsum
In an empty pool
Where tadpoles
Are born.
a hand
full of tiny, smoothed
stones
The first
Conscious touch
On this third rock,
hand on asphalt
As the darkness
Of a letter
Humming &
Spit from the typewriter.
An alpha-
Bet of interiors
Bound to sound—
Prometheus
Moans in a distance
Converging with
Unity—the opposite’s
Opposite tendril-ed
By design, Value regurgitated
From the mine.
And the hairy globe
Drinks it feast,
Sails to new lands,
Meets the active
Imagination
In the street
As everyone in the Forum
Seen Jupiter rise,
And they mimicked the event
Until it was
Myth.
I longed to long
And to grow
Uninterruptedly
Into that person
I imagined I was
Sometime to become
By bubbling outwardly
As an infant’s laughter.
How the aggressive
Swarms of mortality
Increase, and wears
Like ink on a page;
Like a page over time
Antiquates to leaf—
We are left cultured
By mortality
Scripted across
The seam of skin
With bone. And
We are left to
Cope with the sounds
Our ancestors left
On a page like this
With letters poised
For storytelling.
PARKER JAMIESON
attends the University @ Buffalo for a major in English, a minor in Philosophy, and a Creative Writing Certificate. They write to help Earth expand with belonging, both the physical plane and the world within one’s self. They love anthropomorphic art bound with intimacy and life while destroying ideals of normalcy in a world where nothing is simply a degree of intelligence. Life matters.
I (a/rose) at 5pm (dep/ressed), and language dis/oriented and not entitled to recall the Xanax morning—Icouldsmelldirtyfeet,andthoughtof Shakespeare’s “I am.”
—Thinking of Eli Clair and how “the Empty Form Goes All the Way to Heaven”
The marriage
of verbs
and consonants
failed
this evening.
i had
tried to stuff
a dead
rose
inside
a soap
bubble
so the flower
recalled
youth and spiders,
but
my brick bones had
crumpled
into Shakespeare’s
M.S.S.
and I forgot
how
‘E’ bore
a long ‘O’.
the bubble diluted:
orange—
and i began
recalling thatch
crumpling into
embers
and how the word
Globe
was not
retrieved.
Converse
study the failing foliation,
the former’s figurative
languishing hide carcassing into
what wicker houses cannot cover
—Your bones, too, &
nothing conjoins us
bedside and besides,
know the truth from that con
-sequence in the converse:
like Father’s branch, greened w/ death,
and dry as rotted wicker.
family wrought w/ defects. No branch above me;
i was w/ out choice, seeking figures—
i ached for memory&quivered for figuration
& foliation—
longing to
not divorce from self. i became the figure.
i ached with the opening daffodils
i opened as an ember cracks for flame