jarred-r-kamin
American
My name is Jarred R. Kamin, I'm a university student attending classes in Denver, Colorado, majoring in Film with an Emphasis in Writing & Directing, minoring in English Literature. As one might imagine, I write in a rather broad arena, from screenplays to short stories to poetry. My favorite poets are T.S. Eliot, Rainer Maria Rilke, Shakespeare, Bob Dylan, John Keats, Charles Baudelaire, W.H. Auden, James Joyce, Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman, Edgar Allen Poe, and Virgil. I have three poems published in various literary magazines, and out of everything I've written, I've never been fully satisfied with the outcome or felt totally finished. Criticism and discussion is always welcome, and friendship even more. Thank you, have a nice day.
Brown grassy mountainsides;
full of yucca and sharp burs and
stripped-naked trees.
(Your buffalo have all been murdered, America.)
atop this vertical precipice, the edge
of everything that’s never been,
before a white and faceless
Void: the sore thumb of a
boulder. A gray and
ancient troll.
There sits a changed and stoic
stranger wrapped in a wool blanket
against piercing winter wind and frost.
Sharing my thoughts. My organs. My perch.
Walking along this trail…
there can only be death.
I check my silent moving
watch. Time to turn back.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
I take a step back, pivoting on my right foot
to remember behind me a clearing in the trees
by the old apartment complex
where dirt raked over by lifetimes of weary
American walkabouts
snakes down hawk-eyed, single-minded
toward the old muddy river.
One might brush aside broken branches
blocking the way like so many nails and thorns
but I know the way.
At the bank where acid rain and sewage
can lick the dying summer dandelions
I try to cash a check for one epiphany
before it starts to rain more violently.
A suitcase probably designed to hold a laptop
lies abandoned by a crushed beer can and
a newspaper clipping filled with prophesies
written to a dying world about a world soon to be dead.
I look inside but no glint of metal shines back
at unsuspecting hopeful children eyes.
Turned over with a fallen stick
lying in a field of blood nearby
a giant slug is stuck to the back of
the faded leather bag dropped for
God-knows-what-reason.
A snake slithers away back up the trail,
I hear a hawk screech into the gray sky,
and I swat a spider hanging from
the nearest tree almost alive in the sunset
bearing the weight of the world.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC