is a test

with all

the questions

hidden. If

you don’t

know all

the answers

you fail.

————

Jesse Weiner is a poet who does things. With words.

The Counselor yelled at me

I think that She is quite an Ass

And Stupid probably.

This whole damn thing   Is such a waste

And I am forced to play

When all I’d really rather do

Is Get the Hell Away

I drained the Pool, where Children dove

And then   when I was Done

I torched the pier and Climbing Wall

I kicked the Counselor’s Son

Or rather   He kicked Me

It Rains all day, I’ve caught a chill

For only Polyester, my Shorts

My T-Shirt   only Twill

At baseball, when they picked the Teams

Both Captains turned me Down

Then All the Kids, they laughed at me

I Superglued   the Mound

Since then   ’tis Reprimands   but that

Feels better than to Play

With nimrods who like Birdhouses

And shit made out of Clay

————

Marianne Hess firmly asserts that this was Emily Dickinson’s first poem. We’re inclined to believe her, just because we’re all incredibly, incredibly gullible.

A Bar

Lorca, Dickinson, and Neruda walk into a pub.

It’s a pub we’ve all seen before, full of darkness and smoke

and complaining. Neruda sits at the bar; Lorca

chooses a booth. Dickinson stands by the bathroom, begging

for change for the juke box.

A fight breaks out, a dark fight.

Neruda has been talking to the wrong

man’s date. The man grabs Neruda

by the throat. Lorca breaks

a bottle over the man’s head and steals

the girl while Neruda recovers, never asking why

either of them would want to share the company

of so fickle a creature.

Dickinson finds change and begins a slow dance, unaware

of the vampires watching from the corner booths.

The vampires have been writing poetry. It’s sad

poetry because all vampires are sad.

A bishop, a rabbi, and a horse emerge from the bathroom.

It’s going to be a long night, Neruda thinks; no. All nights are long,

but the days are longer.

Starch

I have a plan.

I will eat so much celery that I turn green.

I will castrate myself, grow breasts, big hair, learn to dance

badly.

Captain Kirk will come, with Spock, Bones, maybe, someone in red

(who will die soon anyway).

They will rescue me, take me to their clean world.

Then I won’t have to do laundry.

It’s a small price to pay, my balls,

to never iron again.

————

CL Bledsoe doesn’t like the way you’re eying his turkey sausage and if you don’t cut it out, he’ll have to get nasty. Real nasty. Like  Roadhouse nasty. He is an editor for Ghoti Magazine www.ghotimag.com. He also wishes someone would publish his freaking book already. And pay him. Cheeseburgers are good too. With curly fries. What was I talking about?