Courtney Leigh Jameson My Abstruse Darling Drinks cold Jameson from a hoof, recalls the beards of time. John Knox, reformation of clean-shaven Europeans, considered Jesus the pubescent underbelly of his chin. What eats away his nights… What dreamscapes clutter the forest, living in his rooftop mind. Walt Whitman’s transcendent follicles in the forefront of his visage— glisten’d with wet. He cringes in the morning, as he loads his briar wood— pushing down his crop, his eerie affliction. The father I once knew buried secrets in his bushel, waited days to tell me he wasn’t actually alive. I want him to sing as I do.
Crack the Spine - Issue 95
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