BRAIN FLOWERS (from Making Water)

 

 

 

 

Play classical music for the plants. Shale that once clasped

a shell to its heart ranged around the terrace. The gardener

cuts the bark to show me it bleeds a milk. Perfect stairs drawn

up into a rock, record of centuries

 

 

*

 

 

Rain/chicken pox/parasites/

the purity of boredom

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Droplets drip down the tips, inverted translucent bells of

Forgetting. He’s gone now, but had been to study datura

with the native people. She said ‘that dense atmosphere’

there eyes stud the foliage

 

 

*

 

 

Vertigo

running down the spiral

stairs during light

rationing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Processed to powder in urban bars in the capital. Take

off your shoes give me your car keys sit on the ground.

The houses’ high-walled enclosures blink with broken

bottle shards, bougainvillea below

 

 

*

 

 

Blue/green

/brown/

Transparent

the complete

Anamnesis

an amnesia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suppression of proper motor functions / the will

Memory loss serums introduced to the Garden by its

own fruit. They’ll say look at the fallen world and

we’ll look North

 

 

*

 

 

Flying ointments for young initiates. My eyes are open

but I can’t see

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Piel Roja smoke climbs around afternoon sunlight. Sunday,

listen to him speak on the effect of rock v. classical in plant

growth. The “farm” a cement house in the jungle ground

gives way with orange ferment/fallen vine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Plant sentience explained in the book with a Rousseau

painting on its face. The lion eats his repast, behind

vine and bird of paradise. When asked to draw Eden,

she reproduced this

 

 

*

 

 

Days speaking one tongue, years another. It makes you

feel imaginary

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Henri never saw the jungle. It was possible for him to

paint that place of total non-identity in which the lion sits.

I’m a primitive placeholder for meaning folded into the leaves

of experience

 

 

*

 

 

Imagination was that fallen middle

-class world

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The heart muscle by nature weaker in the very tall circulating

blood through long limbs. Mocking the height of mountains

in North America, pointing to our Alps in Chile. It was early

Six, when he died on the sofa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contributor

Laura Jaramillo

Laura Jaramillo is a poet from Queens, and is the author of Material Girl (subpress, 2012). She is a doctoral candidate at Duke University where she is writing her dissertation on experimental film in Spain and Latin America. She lives in Durham and is an occasional film and book critic for various local and national outlets.

ADVERTISEMENTS