The Pied Piper Day Three

He suddenly realized
not only hadn’t he been paid
but he was stuck with the entire
under-twelve population
of the town of Hamelin.

Still, it solved his dilemma
of what to feed
all of those hungry rats.

“Judge Santiago Burdon’s poetry is a sophisticated slap in the face. The imagery induces you to clear your throat and shift your weight from one side to the other. Judge doesn’t waste his words in an attempt to make you comfortable. As a poet he delivers defined grit and structured devastation. He speaks in the language of gasoline fumes and stale cigarette smoke. Always honest and fearless, never apologizing. Know that I am a fan.”

S.L. Fleurimont Editor
The Remnant Leaf Journal

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Shopping For Dildos Online

Like me, you shop online for dildos,
vibrators and other sex toys.
I went from fingering my clit to pumping a vibrator
in my pussy while I watched porn.
That drifted into dildos up my ass
and double penetration.
I would buy butt plugs
and walk around the house with them
while doing the chores — vacuuming the rugs,
emptying the dishwasher, whatever.

Now I’m taking my sexual adventures into town:
Ben Wa balls in my ass sitting in a theater,
vibrating panties to the grocery store.
I don’t get caught, but I think about it.

The Highest Office in the Land

He was the CEO of CEOs. 
Hotboxed his spacious workplace
in the clouds.  

Felt his heavy eyes fall in on themselves.
The highest office in the land.

Getting on the phone to listen
to some strange voice say a bunch
of even stranger numbers.

Then under his desk to construct a fort.
Shooting staples at imaginary armies.

Looking at his plant in the corner
and wondering about photosynthesis.

Trying to figure out why rain was wet
before the munchies kicked in.

Night Piece

The cricket sings the dark 
the dark to sing away. 
To his own gut feeling 
the frog responds. 
The whippoorwill skims the pond, 
intercepting in the dark 
moth, beetle, firefly; 
calls his name the moment he forgets 
he has no name, calls his name 
the moment he forgets 
the moment he forgets calls. 
The owl intuits the soul of chance. 
The mouse, in owl claws, 
with no further complaint 
than a phrase of squeaks, 
leaves this plane for perhaps a better 
place; but the frog, the cricket, 
the whippoorwill on it do not bet.   

just an old poet

i went dancing with a train
but never got the ride i wanted

sometimes you never reach 
the bottom of your depravity

the ghosts don’t even bother 
to show up anymore

and the hours and days start 
to pile like trash

like old phone books used 
for kindling

spread my ashes in a field
and cover them in shit

just an old poet

nothing more
nothing less

some fucking sage that 
warned all of you but 
none of you ever bothered
to listen

to understand

to squeeze the marrow 
out of life before the 
powers that be squeeze 
it for you

we were once young at this

ready to conquer the world
or something like that

His First Drowning

He lost her in his River Ouse
Habitual her morbid ritual mood
Upper East Side between Second and First
Sex in the city and the big black hearse
December is cold, but May cherries are red
His love in the tub, in the tub, there she bled
But he is the victim — a fear he can’t handle
Coverage of a congressman’s adulterous scandal.

(S)LAUGHTER(S)

The boogeyman 
Lives inside 
My closet.

He has been there 
All my life 
Haunting me.

For a time I kept 
Him at bay by 
Sleeping with a night-light
And Grumpy Bear.

But through the years 
He has grown 
In might and terror.

But I too have grown 
In knowledge 
And power.

Now I stay awake
In the dark, 
All night, 
Every night.

With night vision goggles,
Emerson ES1-M, AR-15,
And Grumpy Bear.

from The Poets Inferno [2]

We left the Circle of those poets who
had published their friends and the cries of Best
American editors—my guide moved

me out into a desert of cactus.
A group of demons pitchforked two figures
rolling on the ground and, until they saw us,

forced to suck their own dicks. And I was sure
I recognized one—an old teacher. ‘No!
David! What have you done?’ The demons stirred.

My guide sighed. ‘This place all poets should know
is for poets-as-editors who choose
their own poems for publication.’ ‘Oh

David,’ I said. But he pointed at this
companion. ‘Major made me, and besides
my poem was in The New Yorker. His

was in The Paris Review.’ Major cried,
‘So what?!’ I said, ‘I saw your friends above.’
‘But Trump! Defend Democrats!’ he replied.

My guide said, ‘Now on to the Circle of
those who award contests to those they love…’

from The Poets Inferno [1]

My guide then led me to a field on which
knelt thousands of poets all sucking dick.
‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the poets who all wished

to write poetry for bad politics.’
He pointed to a man licking around
a demon—’That one sold his work to fascists.’

and then I recognized the mighty Pound.
‘But wait,’ I said, ‘I know some of this group!’
Hearing us, they stopped to gather around.

‘Beware,’ said one, ‘the desire to stoop
to publishing in The New Yorker or
through the Best American Poetry hoop—

We thought the Democrats were honest, for
the people, so we spread our talent thick
over their nothingburgers—’ But before

she could continue I turned away sick
and they turned back to sucking centrist dick.