D e a d P a p e r

Poems

PHILIP RAMSEY was born in Rossville, Indiana and spent much of his childhood there. He spent one year studying Italian Literature while living in Cremona, Italy. Most recently Philip has worked on local environmental issues in Jacksonville, Florida, ranging from sustainable agriculture to electric utility functions.

PHILIP RAMSEY

Art

Art
Was me
(IT;
was)
i swear
it was.
The moon.

Four o’
clock after
noon and unset
tled and it was vital and it was
Art.
was me
and

I was stumb
Ling.
little pigeon hole cracks and up
rooted cobble
stone beneath
ME
And
(IT;
was)
Art
(and)
it was
irrational and it was
purposeless not futile and

but not -(
I starved for its warmth)

Art was me.
It was a crossing the street (smooth under blue sky with long black
Jacket
And black shoes and) and it reached

The corner and)
(and broke into a
RUN
ART
[I scre^amed-; shou&ted;_; yell]ed
but
it lost me.
it was.
art-
Time
Without tiMe it was pacing circle
S and no language but it was
There.
Bu*rst(ing i)n= su”rg “ing) spe(ctral)
Light
Artbloomed
as it leapt from corner to not shining unreasonable Luna.

PHILIP RAMSEY

As Dusk Blooms

As dusk blooms
not-sureness follows me
while I sit forming
(with my lips)
the shapes of the
words that
will be the Right
Preciselies.
But if it is possible.
This night will be a flower. Or
maybe not a flower maybe
if it might be the scented
candle the color of
deep orange
that (fragrantly) sits on
an old wooden table at midnight with
nothing else around but I.

I will approach it with a matchstick.
And it will sing me (
olfactorily)
songs of innocence and I shall
sit there (
religiously) focused
on its black feathering flickering
smoke as the clouded night brings me
this experience.

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