Jessie Janeshek
The Sign of the Ram

I won’t stay in one place long

I’ve got the wanderlust.

I wear a gold dress

divorce on the forest green carpet

but whom can I thank

the blonde girl from Iceland

rotting so fast

in the cold stink of fish?

Maybe it shakes but I’ll get back into it

my thoughts are sterile

addicted to salt

fur and fake pearls on the boat to Brazil

Styrofoam bones.

You can grant yourself freedom

or as your blood boils

still be ruled by beguine or bossa nova.

It’s a trade off this summer

return #2 to fall in love with a sunset

or an arpeggiator

drum fills at dawn

as the cat on your bed

left all alone

morphs to another.

Low-key chime crime resign

and one more B-movie

where I watch amnesia

circus claws/circus nails

and can’t get the backbeat to work.

Jessie Janeshek
Means of Production/Easy Living

I’d like to say I’ll write you a boogie

before you disappear

but I’m still stuck on that night

riding my pink bike past the abandoned country club

across the river with binoculars

the smoky house of the boy who Frenched me because

that was how actresses kissed.

He could imitate any style

in black gloves in the lobby of the old hospital

and rumor has it he hit his white cat over the head

and hid her in the freezer.

I prefer analog

and not just for the ease of the arpeggiator

not just because I hate options.

At the beginning of the movie

all the furs the three eggs

and the jewelry.

I thought she had to be rich

and then the white keyboard disappeared also

and all the lawn guys did nothing

while my eyes just rolled back in my head.

Fire this up once in a while

and I mean it when I say

play with an echo.

I’m homesick for illness

aqua blue foam around my infected bones

in the glow of the multicolored X-ray Xmas lights.

Jessie Janeshek
Glamour Is a Tree Falling in the Forest

and it’s the summer of crying a little bit longer

pretending you could be top blonde

and how do you do that Marilyn-style beauty

orange champagne sad but no hair on your body

and how do you rip off that cross?

No time like the present only comes once

lime-fizz tear ducts fire and ice at the injection site.

I wear a skimpy bikini pale like Vampira

I can’t take big ideas

sun sun sun as the photographer’s chopping my head off

until daddy says I’m a missed wave

but laughter to slaughter I listen to the death crawl

see the blonde boy who wanted me

dangling a crab. I have more desire, distinctive

during your acid trip. I still burn with my sex

swim over the shimmering tiles.

The men drink around me. I’m not changing to suit you

I throw on the red jumpsuit, wax lips

I can’t bear the hot pink. Nothing I say in this box

has the core of distraction

and how long until I become your Scopitone blonde?

So much monstrosity black sailor pajamas

lock me in my bedroom peach walls

a pink lamb you tried to orchestrate the finale

bossing me to summer beauty

but the music cut off and my crotch cleaned itself.

I get wet again and I stick a stuffed animal

under my top. I get wet when I think of a pat on the head

how I want to hear every stab wound.