"Trump," "The Organ Donor," and "There's so much shit in and around this house I can't help but think it's secretly on fire"


If you are looking out the oval’s window,
I hope you see a country like a broadened clementine

That loves the operatic suet of harmony;
Where, for birds, there’s continually compromise.

If not, you are not in America.
We are eagles. We are not living Eric Cartmans.



The Organ Donor

The phenomena of open bodies
Or their nude external jewels
cannot help but praise
And be praised like
Piles of clothes on the floor,
The gospel of skin and ligaments.

The heart is defined by blood.
Blood is defined as necessity.
The Liver is confined to a small corner,
it cowers from the smeared city
lights on Friday evening.

Is not always charity,
Religion cannot consistently
Penetrate the nod of rehabilitation.

A smile,
                       the curtsy of sharing.
The bodies are always open,
                  The epidermis
Needs another. The fingers
Grope the obsession of texture.


      Dissection is accidental, the plied
      Button-up or mountain tops of jeans


Remains a discovery
Of humans life – of all kinds
                        Slipping through the gospels,
Praising the ligaments

      Finger nail,

There’s a song in the human body – and those
Who share its dream, like an organ in the gut
Or a piano in a vestibule. It is moved by our blood.

Blood doesn’t have to define a heart;
It has to define necessity,
Holding the pulse of our song.



There’s so much shit in and around this house I can’t help but think it’s secretly on fire

                                                      That was the year the pine tree broke its hand,
                                                      Its shadow
                                                      Like a bent dart
                                                      without a goal for a point.

The neighborhood monkeys,
doused in kerosene,
Revolved around the tiny globules
Of loss and savagery
To pluck the yellow
From our past

Peeling it’s veil
Of solitude and hunger,
Shaping our soapsuds monster

Into nothing
We could ever hold
Without it blowing up in our face.
They were my anxieties
Screaming with the horror
Of losing their balloons
And burning with failing dominance.

I was wrapped in an alchemy
Of faded-blue clouds and the paint
Off hells front door
During memories
Paused by solemn street sign reflections
      The way the pine trees hand looked

Raw and bent,

Discovering sense
In its tale of lies and senescence  

In some pathetic gale,

Where I once  
wallowed in
to soothe pain
With pain

In order
To validate their pointed fingers.

Dissolving arbitrarily
Are the divorces,
The crumbling homes
of twigs and cum.

That was the same year
Egypt was drilling
Itself into my skull
With furor
Dissecting involuntary
From other lands I found in doubted alcoves;
I convulsed:

                                                      Nothing about that tree
                                                      Mattered to anyone else,
                                                      It was a wound
                                                      In mischief yard

Where disobedience
Played its racket-ball

Without a goal
To drink before the game began

With rows of jokes
Piling up like garbage
To fall upon
Some timid body
Throughout displacement – 
Subject to incontinent
Droplets – the hemi leaks oil,

                                                      The tree still mourns,
                                                      And the monkeys scream
                                                      The kerosene hymns
                                                      Of molested angels
                                                      Who never bowed before
                                                      A land
                                                      With leprosarium;

Were bound to the breaks
We have
Whether failing
Or not,

To answer the ambiguity
We hate to recognize
While standing alone
In our yard,
While waiting

For some dispensable


                                                      To gather our family’s bodies
                                                      Off the tree
                                                      That’s already crippled.  

We’re caught
Between a circle of bricks –

A witch stirs
Domesticated coals
To breathe their smoke

And hand them air
Like steak for viscous puppies.

The rest
Without peace is bound in moans
As incessant tragedy orbits immature
And miniature

Around the fenced in yard

Where every morning
Rolls around
In the delicate universe
Of its immaterial

Ending up in shit, ruined
And posing for war.



Parker Jamieson

Parker Jamieson reads their almanac of dreams to punctuate their writings. They are the editor of their community college’s quiet literary journal Mutata Re. They have been published in various journals and online formats, most recently, Anti-Heroin Chic, Outlaw Poetry, and the upcoming issue of The Wild Word. They go to school to study humans - how they understand - and why philosophy matters to all people, whether they know that or not.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Sunday, February 17, 2019 - 22:45