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      May 29, 2012Highway Turkey Crime, Film at 11Jesse Winer

      so, the last time I did an actual
      thanksgiving is when I lived
      in huntington, and now I read
      about a bunch of kids from huntington
      who threw a 20 lb frozen turkey
      through some lady’s windshield
      on the highway. I didn’t really write
      about huntington, but one of the kids
      was from northport and I wrote
      about a house in northport I almost
      bought. patient, a white female in
      her early 30s, is in critical condition
      with multiple lacerations and abrasions
      about the face, the shoulders and the hands.
      surgery is indicated, bleeding must be
      controlled, vital signs are lacking in
      vitality. I wrote the tin ceilings in that house but
      neglected to mention the setting. it stood
      about four stories above the street, a garage
      built into the near cliff at its bottom, a steep
      stairway up, passing growth and untidy
      gardens in a few flat places near the top,
      nearly terraced. the youths involved
      are said to have used a stolen
      credit card at waldbaum’s. I wrote
      about waldbaum’s. poetry is dangerous,
      I knew this, I just never knew how
      dangerous. the driver of the vehicle
      stated to detectives that he warned
      his passenger not to throw the turkey
      from the car, but the passenger,
      against his expressed wishes, insisted
      and threw said turkey, frozen, weighing
      20 lbs, out the car window and into traffic,
      hitting the victim’s honda and smashing
      the windshield. the manager of waldbaum’s
      expressed sincere regret that his store
      was used in so terrible a crime, pointing
      out that he profited not at all, instead
      suffering the loss from a charge against
      the stolen credit card. all the youths were
      charged with assault, grand larceny, reckless
      endangerment, forgery and other crimes.
      I wrote about forgery. and assault. there’s
      risk to poetry. detectives entered a manhasset
      motel room, finding the bodies of two women
      they learned were a mother and daughter from
      deepdale, queens. I spent a night in that motel,
      with a girlfriend on her birthday, which that year
      was on thanksgiving. one had a history of kidney
      disease, the other had a history of emotional
      problems. they were found in separate
      beds having overdosed on prescription
      medication. I’ve written about kidneys
      and about pills. I’ve written about deepdale.
      they ate the pills with ice cream. detectives
      say a receipt for ice cream, which was ben and
      jerry’s vanilla, was found from waldbaum’s. well,
      I wrote about vanilla somewhere and I wrote
      about ice cream too. subjects, two white females,
      exhibit no external signs of struggle, death
      likely due to the presence of large quantities
      of kidney medication found in the blood
      of both. I wrote about a woman in boston
      with the same name as mine. the name of
      the dead mother was judith wiener, the
      daughter’s name was jessie. they lived
      two blocks away from me. poetry
      is about nothing if it’s not about risk.

      from #23 - Summer 2005

      Jessie Weiner

      “I published my first poem in the PS 187 PTA newsletter when I was in kindergarten, but I don’t remember this. My mother told me about it when I got my first real pub some forty years later, so that’s not why I write poetry. Practicing law uses up the same energy poems come from, so being a lawyer isn’t why I write poetry. I’ve been ill for about five years and unable to work, but I’ve written almost nothing about having MS, so that’s not why either. I know I came back to poetry after a long hiatus coincident with getting divorced, but the divorce ended and I’m still writing poetry, so that’s not the reason. I could offer up a bunch of bullshit about trying to understand the ineluctable or needing to own the ineffable or something even deeper and more mysterious sounding, but I’d see right through it. And seeing right through it also isn’t why I write. It looks like I have no idea why I write poetry. This is probably for the best.”