if imagination could maintain it. the writings of jessica wroblewski

Genetic Engineering

2008-12-06T10:00:00.000-08:00

These legal documents pinpoint to the tip of my nose
length of my legs
depth set to my collarbone.

The centerfold of this folder is what fascinates me,
filthy facts, fit you to size,
simulating your life somewhat simplistically
you are
morbidly embodied, in this archive dedicated to creating the undead
and i figure this folder finds us lost in the past
an attempt at securing immortality.
Restless with the thought of body
reckless with morality
we piece you together.

i was nearly built around here

2007-05-25T14:23:00.000-07:00

I was built around here.
Around this place of backward state, upside down on the swings.
Around this fake taste of nature on the air, these nicely spaced trees. (To judge the distance, the distance in me)
--As I was nearly built around here
the gasping sort of sun filled flowers of my broken industrial landscape.
--As I imagine all the animals once here are all dieing off now form their very own disappointment.
(the things they were promised)
(that all of the insignificant things will always matter)

It is chaotic. The blue of your eyes on earth. The concentration. These expectations for something beautiful. But who really knows what you saw. Other than me.Other then trees. Other then anything at all. You will love this place tomorrow.

2007-05-16T11:49:00.000-07:00

The stars travel backward

2007-05-16T06:49:00.000-07:00

The stars travel backward
Beyond the purple skies of pollution
Which you gaze upon through cars of color
Blurred
Where there is seclusion
Great balls of fire

And who ever stops
Existing to be different
Speaking through screens of poisoned hair
And schemes of furry phrases
To tickle the eccentric side
Acknowledging the fact that you’re sad

Sad such a boring word
To describe the feelings of young children
Who cry at night
Because they cannot express, explain, articulate
Why they can see or think of form
When all is encouraged for them to learn to read
How to laugh when tickled

And the stars, though after they have been gone for years
Are still visible here in my living room
Glaring my computer screen
Meaning their lives have continued
For decades maybe more
After they don’t even realize
That they have combusted

There was a hill in my back yard

2007-05-16T06:47:00.000-07:00

There was a hill in my back yard (not a real hill, just a small hill, an incline), and with lack of height and too much imagination, It seemed big enough to roll down, which I did frequently. The sunflowers that peeked for me from the neighbors yard, turned.

To be young, living purely for the outdoors, there, belly up, arms out, a sense of home, of comfort, and ignorant good nature. That could not be recreated, or replaced, so that the passing years, and aging have proven evident. Childhood was as ideal as adulthood is a burden.

With my first boyfriend, arm in arm, we passed this place, this unpreserved territory, existing now for only the fortune of many more futures, and my first romantic moment. A sad moment, for the particular hill. Same rose bush, neat and decrepit, sitting for the same purpose of the same sun, was different, consisting of everything that had mattered to me. Exactly the same, but different.

I can remember what it felt like to live days away in that certain place for years. What it felt like just to be alive there, and now to realize the way your mind changes. To see with every moment you take for your own, subconscious, as you mold to a creature of personal satisfaction. To desperately aspire to change from that simple state of loving the way the sunflowers turned before your eyes, to complicate yourself.

That moment in time, there were two perceptions of my living, one a very vivid memory, the other just developing, as to me I am still a child, and this yard was monumental.

It took a mile of mutilation

2007-05-16T06:38:00.000-07:00

It took a mile of mutilation
To master getting past, getting over you
And I saw your kids today
Furthermore a progress in a vision of distance
Pacing fast, with busy hands
Laughing like you’d miss it

And I could say I never knew you well
How I miss your presence
Those clouds you carried
The nicotine smell of your entrance
The trip to your moving beat

You were young like me
(Like I am today)
When you broke for the emotion
That feeling like love
For the felicity the summer blood brings
But how its still chilly here on your front yard
While we let the traffic run

And how slow the world got
How lonesome the memories
As I forgot the false hues of your long hair
Hiding the blue of your eyes
While you pretend to sleep
And I brush with little hands to help the one I loved

And I always dreaded this dedication
This in remembrance of you

If Imagination Could Maintain It

2007-04-24T07:00:00.000-07:00

If imagination could maintain it, it would be me, ankle deep in cool sand, surrounded by the smell of heat, the smell of seaweed, the dead fish buoyed barely beneath the water beside me.

Your house burnt up, melted the porcelain dolls to the plastic on your floor. Permanently embedding you into the walls, its broken foundation. You were able to move on. Move down the street, with little interest for any sort of feelings of any sort of loss, for the new years, the new things, seashells, garage sales, new ways to scam the government, illness and grandkids.
If not unbearably selfish, I would resurface you here. I would watch you with my back turn spike hot tea, part for shame of the pain in your head, and part for boredom.

If imagination could maintain it, I would want you here, to carry my kids with you, in your tan car, with tan seats, that certain smell ( as i'm the last generation to remember it.) You would take them to the festival of lights, pretending to enter on roller coasters, and they would be the ones to make sure the ones they loved are remembered.