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Sharon Mesmer

Three poems

link Juan Valdez Has a Little Juan Valdez (i.e., Energy Cannon) in His Pants

link Squid Versus Assclown

link At Princess Olga’s

Juan Valdez Has a Little Juan Valdez (i.e., Energy Cannon) in His Pants

It’s a true dichotomy, hauling beans on a mule.
Beans take exactly the same amount of time to decompose
as road apples.
Juan Valdez, Java Man, you should be neither slandered nor lionized.
I shall personally make the wolf parade apologize.
Juan, let me take this opportunity to embrace,
as per the washing instructions on Camilla Parker-Bowles’ underpants,
the following idea:
Juan Valdez + love machine = bovine sex club.
Boy, you rocked me so hard I peed my pants.
You are so a varied artist!
And a deviant since Apr 23, 2004, 9:10 AM.
Only an orderly military type, not a gung-ho big Newt loose cannon,
would know the truth:
Juan × True Petra = Orpheus with TB.
Blessed be!
Let all hell break loose.
I did foolishly try to put loose grounds in my unit.
This didn’t work nearly as well as picking coffee as a young girl
with no pants on.
Pants were not yet acceptable for girls in those years.
At the Modesty School the uniform was white dress shoes,
and panties with burgundy slits.
No one said anything about pants.
We were deflowered week after week on Nassau Street.
But Voltaire’s theory of gravity showed us:
Juan + bovine sex club — Orpheus with TB = don’t get overconfident.
Can we start with how I feel without my pants?
And does it make me angry, sad, that Juan Valdez and his burro Ramone are not wearing pants?

Squid Versus Assclown

Arthur Treacher grabs my assclown

Assclown grabs my squid

Squid signs me up for the NOW Action Alert list

NOW Action Alert list adds ice cream to my Jäger bomb

Jäger bomb waits patiently to turn into a little boy

Little boy shoots a rather alarming streak of squid in the nose of Jesus

Nose of Jesus thinks 9/11 was a comedy about Afghanistan

Afghanistan is evidence that Bush hates black people

Black people likely hold political views about huge bat wings

Huge bat wings can’t sit still in the chair, do any work, or even hold my pee

My pee will whoop you like it whoops everything else

Everything else has a nice “cottage cheese butt” equal to a good “assclown”

Assclown will “find God”

God will “find squid”

Squid versus Assclown

Don’t hold your breath

At Princess Olga’s

The smartest of us found a coatrack;
We had linguine and peaches to protect.
First, from a rectilinear curve of earth fell Myrna,
Expellable one-hundredfold because hunchbacked.
Her form was as the moondog’s,
Lunescent as Miami relatives parlaying lilaceous fake vaginas
For tape-dancing lessons.
The many Albanians were eager for tape-dancing,
Though most didn’t know the first thing about dipping.
Enter the coincidental Caucasian —
Rod Praecox and his “bucketful o’ muscle” —
Challenging the Albanian counterman from downstate
By one-offing Urkel with scores of sonnets each beginning:
“Even mistletoe gets the gristle.”
Impeccably occluded but impotent in the afterglow,
Missy Bodybuild’s side-cleaved loquacity was spent on the subject of groin fluency.
Number One Necromancer mercifully interrupted her:
“What do you get when you cross a Dadaist with a brooch?”
(Answer: Aldous Huxley, who wrote with his nose.)
Meanwhile, Aggrieved Deodorant Gal unbuttoned Obese Basso’s shirt to his navel;
His rust-colored alluvial boots begged her to.
His conceit, he said, was to meet interesting people in Nebraska,
While working as a temp for Keith Richards.
Suddenly, the many Albanians began beating their women’s heads
Like bongo drums.
The women stuck their tongues through their button holes.
Most needed water after.
Silas deployed his famous Franciscan buss as a pre-emptive measure,
Though only Aggrieved Deodorant Gal showed optimism.
The movement to dispensate any budding footpath perverts
Set off cautious offspring onto already rickety arpeggios of
“Want to make more money, Dane?
Let hogs root through your shame.”
Then, I guess, the babysitter appeared.
And maybe even a twelve-point centaur was there.
If he was anywhere.

Sharon Mesmer is the author of Half Angel, Half Lunch (poetry, Hard Press, 1998), The Empty Quarter and In Ordinary Time (short fiction, Hanging Loose Press, 2000 and 2005), Lonely Tylenol (with painter David Humphrey, Flying Horse Editions/ University of Central Florida, 2003) and Ma Vie a Yonago (short fiction in French translation, Hachette Litteratures, 2005).

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