Three Poems
Jacob Muselmann
If There Is an Artist With No Technical Skills
there is a hotdog gently
by my ear — here, encased
in machinery. i hear
the other one hiss, it too
harnessed in nuts, bolts
buttons and settings
lips of various ports —
the two links adjoined by
adjustable pump stick
this when i sleep
is my ponytail.
waking to constant calibration
my watch ekes on —
unshaken mustard
dotting each minute
Pardon Our Progress
the road sign read,
not “mess.” messaging — in Oklahoma
in front of me a bumper sticker
for a Native Navy vet and the
stairstep logic of fighting to
the death for your enemy
in a newer year
white sport utility. Messaging —
just as water innovates rock
homage seeps between history,
the unholy wholesale edit
of raw material running out
such that distance, over time
is a fraction of a second
selling point for any vehicle
whose wheels tank
over TV terrain,
slinging natural streams
like action blood.
Hay Wheels Turning
Maybe you think you haven’t a brain,
or it is lost
you are looking for it
you believe it is in a palace of desire
You skip merrily across the world
locking arms with the heartless,
the homeless and afraid
in search
each flight, each club
gradually dismembered,
remembered you
You are seen and
slowly crucified in a field
on your looks, notions of purpose,
feeling stuffed
with the last straws
crows’ feet land sharp
on your peripheries.
something you, still,
can’t even think about.
Jacob Muselmann is a journalist, writer and artist. He is hiding from Covid-19 in his hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he co-runs the artist collective, Sixth Wig.