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. 



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