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.
Got good at getting
society’s creature comforts
Damned if I can
fill the TD1 Personal Tax
It’s clammy here under
this communal blanket.
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.