National Poetry Month Needs A Better Title- / by D.M. Jerman


For about 4 days straight

the muscles in my lower left eyelid

have been twitching off and on.

They are peeved, man.

Time for a cold compress.


I got paid on Monday and lost most of it

on a queer bender. I didn't mean to, that's the thing.

A cursed C-note found in a book started it.

I remember 99% of it.

I can only hope I just spent it all and didn't lose it.

My poet pal John was with me.

He knew I was drunk and didn't mind babysitting me

as we ran around and I kept us in booze.


Then, last night after losing Tuesday

to a predictably crummy hangover

but managing to get some sex in

and make blueberry muffins all the same,

I had an incredible dream...


I'm at a hotel/resort. Utterly fantastic, sprawling.

Lobby is massive and beautiful.

There is large crew there

and Donald J. Trump is making a movie.


He and I split a KitKat bar.

The candy is a movie prop, but we ate it.

Now fuck, they need it again!

So I am the one tasked with going out

and finding another identical KitKat bar.


There are ones like it where I search

but not an exact replica. I just can't find it.

So then I say, fuck it. I'm not going back.

They can find their own KitKat bar

to exploit some more.


Sure, we ate the same KitKat bar, Trump and I.

But we didn't eat the same parts.


I wake up feeling great.

In total awe of the fact that my brain,

in order to accommodate it for a dreamscape,

reduced America

to a KitKat bar.