HeyJaredUnknowing Poet
Do I actually know anything about poetry? No. I just write it sometimes.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 9
- Latest publication
- Sep 26, 2026
- Audience
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 4, 2026
Latest issues
It’s Only Efficient (opens the original)
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The dawn first peeks, then crawls above the night;but dawn is just a name, a warming lie,imaginary dressing on the woundof formless waves and cloven particles,as heaven’s breath and holy remnants weepbetween the stitches of the cinching wrap,and bleed to gray, their circulation cut;the atoms punctured deep, you see, and spunand beat a muscle where your heart once lived,and we must drain the red to save the rest.Now rise, and walk, and glory in the strikeof frigid photons on your optic nerves;the
Freedom Reins (opens the original)
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I ranged unbroken from the pent corralas wild as wind, untamed as Pegasus,and galloped, free, my flighty needle spunto eastern milk, the honey of the west,unbridled in the chase of southern sun;that sparkling creek, that teeming berry bush,the soaring vista of my appetitesthe path, the rampant sui generisuntrod by all who acquiesced the bit.I blazed my trail, and scorned the stable north,and roamed the pointless peaks and rootless grovesas whispers floated from the freehold fence;I trotted, scof
The Harvest (opens the original)
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The Easter breezes tease his bristly hairand coax a swishing hymn along the rows,his brother bending in the line, the stalkinflecting in his time, the swaying choirin ripened gold beneath the autumn sign;he spins and shivers in the dance, and flickshis pitted heart upon the earth, the dustastir, and yawning, swallowing his pithbelow its mound, inside its clammy cold;the scourings press, the humus takes his breathand crushes summer from his smothered shell.And then, a brush, a whisper of the sund
Surviving the Checkout Line (opens the original)
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The heady thinker blithely wanders throughthe grove he did not water, strolling pathshe did not pave, and hums an ancient tunedivined by men of timeless providence;he plies his notions to and fro, and snarlsthe pattern into knots of avant-garde,then shouts in Greek that word of crowning shock;his peerless genius, first to implicatethat which is thus, is really not at all;the backward world must bring its gaze about.His dazzling labor wakes a troubling gut;the boffin condescends the market linean
The God of Progress (opens the original)
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The path of anabasis has been gaugedalong the tangent of the tower’s rise,her shadow-broach delimiting the line,the crumbled belvedere of Babel raisedupon the shiny cornerstone du jour;her humble paladins embark the trailand struggle to the latest mountaintop,a jealous altar biding at the peakand bidding them to bounden sacrifice.“We have ascended past barbarity!On no account shall we avow in blood!”Nay, we shall break the eggs that she demands,for cracks shall not be suffered by the massand par
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