i remember biking with the homies in the middle of autumn

i’d like to imagine my heart stretching two thousand miles,
back to forest floor we trampled with rubber wheels and heavy feelings
teardrop tread marks etched for eternity into organic matter,
eternity of course being until the next rainfall came to wash away
our existence. its declaration of near-negligible transformation,
the thing the scholars adorn in gold and call legacy—
if the change is to the fields of philosophy or science—
the philosophers and scientists have themselves argued for the term’s meaninglessness,
constructed elaborate argumentative models to render our very being insignificant,
found that the clashing between a mark whose indelibility they crave
and the emotionless eraser of logic is only resolved through the gleam of truth
and the truth is, with a metal machine whizzing downhill at the speed of sound,
the speed of sound of course being until that brutal smoke of heaviness returns,
it doesn’t matter what medals we hang around our decaying bodies
bury me among the dirt, let the mushrooms grow from my decomposition,
let the flowers stretch down to where I once felt free,
and let them sing in thunder                      until they too wilt.

Jackson Miller likes to write things in notebooks sometimes. When he’s not doing that, you might find him outside folding the corners of old books, groaning about the Oxford comma, or listening to Noah Kahan. Originally from Illinois, he is currently a first-year student at USC pursuing a BA in Narrative Studies. You can follow Jackson on Instagram here.