Wes Jamison



These parts are too large for him. But how they fit together is endearing. Just like all of him—fit together. Wretched, ultimately, in formation. And, again, how was he. Some say it takes only a semblance of passion to awaken a man this way; others, electricity. These, though—know this—are not the ways. Instead, light the candles—two, by precedent, and dance around him clockwise. The dance does not matter, nor what is chanted. Or grow a tree to cut down, liquefy it into paper, write on that paper in aggressive, angular hand the unknown name of god; roll it up, as tight and solid as possible, and inject it intrasmectitally. And once he is animate (because a gift may not be given before life—he must already possess that by the time this is given, always only a secondary gesture), become like Daedalus and plant the vine-producing plants to produce the vines. Then wait. Then let them die. Strip away the leaves and store them, these browned vines. Then wait to find a ram in the labyrinth you designed to trap rams and mate it, then tend to the lamb: feed it its progenitors and vines and dust until adulthood. Then let it die, preferably by eventual starvation, so that not only the horns but also the stretched leathers may be recovered from decay and air burial. Like Daedalus, invent the hacksaw and use it to saw those curved horns from the square-pupiled skull lolling between thighs. Return to the uneaten vines and choose one. Seemingly any one will do. Choose it and use teeth to split it, chipping if necessary, shredding if. Take that vine remnant, then, and draw it through the hole drilled by the drill also only recently invented into the horn, now hollow (and what was it before, before it died, before the dehydration of keratin and membrane). Tie a knot larger than the hole drilled with the drill on either side of the horn, and do this twice, with maybe only the space of a walnut between, and wrap the vine around that head of his like a bonnet to hold up his wagging slack jaw. Let the weight press down on his unswelling arachnoid mater. Let this gift sink deliberately into his porous flesh and distort his face into a perpetual frown. Consider the work done, and do not say sorry. Don't be, for anything. 





While none of my therapists have been interested in the parallels or overlaps between my experiences and fictions, they each have been interested in discussing that I find these at all. There are times, though, when the metaphor is not only more true but also more important than its antecedent. And sometimes it is easier to omit subject pronouns altogether than address you or us—sometimes easier to process when I remake you out of mud.