Four Poems by Jerrod Edson

the trumpeter

the bullshit of the battle had long since gone
the trumpeter was dead—
shot in the arm

many were missed and mourned that day
but not the trumpeter—
he was an asshole anyway

someone even pissed on him


ladies, the world is in your hands

Napoleon’s wrath
swallowed Europe whole

Hitler’s too

and Charles Manson still thinks
he belongs on
a Wheaties box

and now there’s that
crazy little fucker
from Iran whose
name I can’t
pronounce

I’m telling you,
the world would be
a safer place if
chicks dug
short dudes


stray

that crazy old
whore from Burger King
has followed me home and
I don’t know what
to do

I tried to feed
her but she
won’t eat.


clogged

he sliced his
arm clean off
in the lawnmower
blade.
it was a sunny
sunday morning and
the mower had been
clogged by the dew-covered
grass, and now,
meat and bone,
which will also be
difficult to get out,
especially with only
one arm.


Profile: Jerrod Edson

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