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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.

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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