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Jessica Arconti
1.
Trying to fight the exponential
degree of sentimental.
They say our generation is
overly
nostalgic, especially,
after a couple glasses of wine.
And we try to write
prose, poems, emails actually
now, instead of letters
undocumented, spell-checked,
but unedited, then scientifically
discredited.
Excessively schooled, now
under-ly educated, we
can’t express a feeling.
Looking
for only punctuation,
personality, conversational,
managerial
parental, environmental, familial
municipal mistakes. Everyday
life scenes
we should retake rethink remind
ourselves then reword, review
relax, and of course,
regret
most things.
2.
But I know how to, well, not
really
but at least I can partially
portray signal transduction
or
mechanisms of proto-oncogenes
together fighting
cancer causing tumors.
3.
It’s just this cataracts
infection— please give me
oral-topical prescription
that’ll counter-act blindness
to any thing but
imperfection.
I am. Am I? The only one in
solitude
unable to express the degree
to which I—
I can’t say because I am…
we are under scrutiny constantly,
especially after
one too many glasses of wine.
But has anyone ever sat her
down
enlisted the masses, filed
a
suit, written in print,
called a meeting, with evidence,
for the public
to expose, to stress
her understanding, make her
aware
of the extent to how
ubiquitously she is loved?
4.
Underground, underexposed
under-the-skin wars
no longer amongst countries
but instead, our
personalities—when is the
last time
someone valued your
abnormalities?
How intelligent she is, how
many
she has touched, how often
she
is taken for granted. Has anyone
sat you down, made you
memorize, regurgitate, or at
least
calculate
how small you
are amongst billions
of years, eras of lives? And
upon
standard deviation, regretional
analysis, and scientific method
revealed your
world-altering
significance?
How much you matter,
how far
you, alone, reach
through others,
beyond your time. You
always laugh at a trip, or
a fall
of someone else’s—
it makes it lighter.
5.
I worry I haven’t—I mean
“have not”
written enough
big words
in this poem. It’s prose
or no, just elementary
attempted poetry with
a microscopic capacity
missing remotely extensive
eloquence of vocabulary
taken from an online
dictionary. It’s—it is—inessential
disconnected, inconsequential
not experimental and, again,
recklessly sentimental.
PS-- Also, lacking
omnipresent terminology and
breakthrough unrealized
human tendencies.
Express it less
un-deeply, more metaphors
simply measly— more imagery
or make it
into a trilogy? Oh yes, please!
Dense
with catastrophe. As is, it’s
making experts
queasy.
“Oh, the apostrophe? What?
It ‘s me? Naïveté, that’s
impossible. I’m incapable
of hypocrisy.”
6.
Oh, will anyone please give
me
something educational—how
to
make simple inspirational,
permitting
overly sentimental acceptable
even after
a couple glasses of wine
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