J A C O B   S M U L I A N

Reimagining         

       after David St. John


Reenvisioning the revisioning. 

Lines upon lines, soft phrases spoken in 

tandem. For lack of sight, constructed and

adorned with abandon . . . Abandoned, then 

retold by new lips. 


Coruscating strings on stained koa sleep in 

their stand, siblings of sizes nestled nearby. 

All picked with felicity. All fleeting and rotten; 

today's lunch in tomorrow's stomach. 

Singing their haunting refrains to no one in 

particular, Archie Shepp wa-wa-wa-ing away

at sleepless nights. My back feels twisted & 

angry tonight, reminds me that I inhabit a

broken/breaking vessel. Tensioned strings 

that run along rivers of blood, snapping back 

into the wrong places, oscillating 

incongruent phases. The bitter sting of 

giving out, giving up. Under these 

conditions, I can’t tell whether my hips 

want to stay in their joint sockets or just

do it for my sake. (Fall of fruit; fruit falling 

from her holes; fall of paradise; paradise told 

as a journey; fall of sin; fall of man) Tonight, 

I'll dance and sing alone in our short 

hallways, queue up a song for no one in 

particular, 



"For I am an engine

And I'm rolling on

Through endless revisions to state what I 

mean

For sweetness alone who flew out 

the window

And landed

back home in a 

garden 

of 

green" 

 

Title

Jacob Smulian lives in Athens, Georgia. This is his first publication.