The man in the comic book shop
breeds luckless monsters into kings.
If scene by scene wasn’t enough
the skin is shaved to perfection.
He has his clarity but he’s not concise.
Customers drool with ecstasy.
I can only hear the murmurs of Hollywood
folk songs and I am saved by their truth:
One scene is an epitome,
but one scene is not the whole.
The monsters enlarge,
a politician’s dilation. The skin! The skin!
The comics fall from his hand.
There is no crown.
I have been waiting for terror
I have been waiting for might.
I drool with ecstasy.
I have been waiting for these hyperbolic
Pages to measure my pages.
But we all have seen enough.
Some people must imagine their lives
to be upheaval in weak binding.
But an imagination is not enough –
The man in the comic book shop
will not see the monsters
groping his pockets in the street
taking his shirt. I have given them mine.
They are only monsters to him.
I guess he makes monsters
to protect his monsters, Kings
to protect him from politicians.
He shaves so he can feel every movement.
I want to see his world in the flesh.
More beyond the body, more
beyond the position – A or B.
More beyond the emergency of bone.
More beyond the workplace,
the public heart, in the home.
I Sing of a Chilly, Old Breeze from Adolescence
There didn’t have to be mountains to overcome.
There didn’t have to be winter friction to crunch through.
There only had to be the pale grass on a hill
just before spring had made its way into the parlor.
I held the tea cup as I would hold dissatisfaction
in this cool, hungover aftermath
of the century in which I lived. I looked at the stationary
country, I looked at the hinge of a handgun,
Grabbing only the swivels, the trigger,
a body shouldn’t be bartered for. I smell the breeze, the sweet
rot of wood and mud clogging the corporeal passages
of our seasonal decompressions, our parallel bodies.
I have encompassed the millions of considerations
I have harnessed the extracurricular genders
of my adolescent tree, the twigs, the objectified dream
which I have now packed in a sack to carry with me.
All bodies have the same right,
the same encompassment, the same inclination.
The fury of sun is the fury of the person
caught on the thorn of a poisonous bush in a blue uniform.
I’ll carried this sack until the mountain gives up.
I have though only mercy would compose my steps
but I didn’t have to overcome the mountains
I had to over come the breeze claud in seething ice,
a leech failing to pull itself along the river bank,
failing to grab my corrugated ligaments – the skin
in which I cannot connect to. The skin that is filled with
a chilly, old breeze, a million of them, from adolescence.
The name is not enough!
How does the intimate world
come to this? Naming
without recalling depth,
missing the fingerprint
on the plastic curtains.
The taste it lingers
like the crushed wingspan
of morning wind.
It never hides, full location
and disclosure. I can never let this
delicacy come to subordination.
The world must think in the ridges
from now on
The world must find the name inside
like pulp or no pulp. I rely
on its fascination, the soft
propagation of spheres,
the fingerprint on the curtain,
not the breath in the mirror.
Parker G. Jamieson is a pin-drop on a beach surrounded by fans. They are from Woodlawn, NY – This place sits next to Buffalo, NY on Lake Erie’s shoreline bench. They read, write, listen to teachers, and hold a degree of 98.6. They work at the Marilla cemetery and they edit student poems at the college. They have been published in various magazines and online sites. – You won’t find them on any social media site, they don’t connect to the world via technologic gore.