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Jamie Sharpe :: Four poems


All Leech Diet

New, fat-free, addiction. After death
life isn’t matter. What Vicodin fiend
craves ice-cream? Hunger for

acclaim, paychecks, publishing in
The Walrus. Tusks stick me. I’m eager
to staff underpaid interns baring

Kraft Dinner for breakfast. Sushi
schmutz on fat whiskers. Eskimo kisses
leave their mark. Bloody genius,

dimes in your hand spring
dollars but they’re spent.


Pall

Got good at getting
society’s creature comforts
without participating.

Damned if I can
fill the TD1 Personal Tax
Credits Return.

It’s clammy here under
this communal blanket.


Semaphored Hello
To the Ivory Lighthouse

Given endless expression you matter
in aggregate, served on uniform sheets.
These rocks are comfortable. Flash me

a gangplank and I’ll find my waterbed.
This is the signal for heavy, freezing spray.
I want to say I’m lost

in this fog
but I’m lost
in this fog.


While Coach Plays
the Back Nine at Pebble Springs

Cheerleaders, blindfolded and lined,
against a stone wall in a field with no markers,
no goalposts. A lit cigarette hangs loose

from Danika’s lips. When it’s gone,
she’ll be also. My riffle, amongst many, trained
on her. Please leave no red inscription

on that black and silver uniform.
The Oakland Raiders have had
a very bad year.


Jamie Sharpe is the author of three poetry collections, Animal Husbandry Today, Cut-up Apologetic & Dazzle Ships.

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