Sample Poems by Jeff Nesheim

American Dream

It was a blockbuster summer
filled with remakes and renditions.
I survived the 80's once already.

The bus doors opened
and the recipe for love fell out.
She fucked me like the American Dream-

High definition digital download
on a high speed connection
with zero percent financing

for the first four months.
She forgets the time we spent apart-
when she drowned her kids

and slept at the expense of others.
A time when I sold my soul
like Coca-Cola and picked the crumbs

of Captain Crunch apart.
Nintendo eyes and mushroom clouds
collide, so I ask her

where I learned her name, and what
was her religion.
Why she won't come home tonight.

Maker of Things

If I were the root, the god-like
Giver and taker, the original maker
Of things, I could rearrange. I could clean
Or build from my life an origami swan
Or a wedding cake, or just a pile of rubble
That some might generously label
Modern art, but most, a waste of wherewithal.

The clutter from false starts and missteps
Pile in the corner and grow at a pace
Without curtains until the corners
Transmute to the room itself,
Early bearing order but with time
Devolving into rowdy detritus.

If I had the stone I could reimage
The past, at last, a drink to reconstruct
The catholic fragments into a whole
That would elicit pride, or at least
A carnal swagger from my father,
A toast to the could-have-beens.

As it is, I have nothing but the coarse data
Of failure and indiscretion, like the paintings
Of the color blind or the ravings
Of an extra, to weave my name
If it is in fact worth wearing.

At Work

Sometimes we hold the door for each other
if someone is following close enough, or fumbles
for an ID badge. But it requires a "good morning"
and some eye contact. I try to avoid that

much personal exposure early in the morning,
before a Diet Coke, before browsing through
whatever safe for work websites not blocked
by security policies, before I settle

into crafting the day's marketing plan.
A blueprint, like the one you might use to
build a cabinet, as if you were to carefully
slide your fingers over each long board,

selecting the best ones, then cutting
each to an exact length, precisely carving
your dado grooves before fitting the next piece,
a hammer and some nails, then

sanding all its sides smooth as
evening sky, finally placing the cabinet
in the corner of your kitchen where it
would hold an old stereo and your wife's recipes.

My plan places idle thoughts and memes
in your head, things you were already thinking
about products you didn't know you wanted.
I stand at a raised desk as I do this,

we all do, because Sitting is the new
smoking and the company cares about my health
which is kind but as I look across the top
wall of the cubicle at the eyes watching my efforts

I wish I could bow my head towards a workbench,
put my hands on what I make, turn it slowly
in my grip, stroke its shape with my fingers,
package it safely, send it into the world.

---

Best Buy Television Aisle, Wednesday Night

A tie. A suit coat. The body of Christ.

A fundamentalist, a flavor of the week.
A free ride to the other side,
all for the price of some disbelief.

Ten percent off the price of life
is a bargain. I'll take two.

Even though it's killing me.

I was screwed by religion. I was screwed
by Jean Marie.

But it's unfair to call it love
when I bought it.

A t-shirt. And army boots. The taste
of rigor mortis.

The cross check into the boards. The crowd roar.
a puck to the cheek and the teeth
on the ice.

Where was the righteous clarity
of HiDef when I was praying?

The crowd that gathered, to watch the standoff
on TV in the mall.

Now I hide in the shadows
of a shadowy man, who says,

"this is fucking crazy"

because it's not true that you get
what you pay for.