Confessional Poem Composed under Torture by Blake Walmsley

My name is No Left Turn.
I never shoot down Goodyear blimps on Sundays.
My girlfriend is 200,173.
She licks postage stamps for the taste.

I acted alone, uninfluenced
by the coded messages in my fortune cookies,
safely anchored by my own immutable sense of right
and wrong.

Then I sucker-punched the paraplegic nun.
Knocked her on her penguin ass.
Then I put the man-o’-war in the Eastland Mall fountain.
Guilty, not guilty, just browsing.

Gentlemen, you may attach the electrodes now.
Break out the rusty dental instruments!
I remember nothing.
All I remember:

born at the Michigan State Fair.
Left for dead on the Tilt-a-Whirl.
Surviving for years on nothing.
I first heard about your job while publicly masturbating in Tiger

References available upon request.
Between 3 a.m. phone calls and mid-air helicopter collisions
a crayola rainbow stretches its arms.

Inside that daydream
a vibgyor impression to impress the Impressionists,
a foreign object in my halloween treat.
Then I woke up.

For a second I thought I’d done something.

Blake Walmsley was born in Flint, Michigan, where he attended the University of Michigan/Flint. His favorite writers are Weldon Kees, Danny Rendleman, Elaine Equi, Don DeLillo, Clark Ashton-Smith. He is currently living in his friend’s garage in Gloucester, Virginia near the Ware River.

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