At the Interview – by Ed Aust

 

I wore a stove pipe hat
and set my beard ablaze.

“Please have a seat
on that spike in the corner.”
“I’d rather stand,” I said,
but plopped down anyway.

“What can you offer us?” they asked.
I clawed out my eyes and
passed them around.

I spoke of my diverse skills
and pulled an egg from my mouth
while farting Shakespeare.

They wanted me to speak of
my greatest weakness.
“I am afraid of dying
and leaving behind a trail
of fading graffiti.”

A key player asked of my
most prized achievement.
“I once slept all​ ​night
on a frozen park bench.”

I spoke in rhyme
and slapped my face repeatedly.
“Did you know that when you speak
saliva bubbles from the corners of your lips?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s what makes me
the sultry lover that I am.”

“Have you ever thrown acid
in the face of a competitor?”
“No,” I said, “But I once drowned my soul
to meet a deadline.”

“Are you willing to travel?”
“If I can bring my own mule.”

“Why did you leave your last position?”
“They insisted I jump naked
out of a cake.
I did, however, eat the cake.
I enjoyed it very much.”

“What makes you think you can do this job?”
“I had cancer once
and relished every minute.”

They asked me to remove my clothes.
I removed my skin as well.
Later I learned
it’s what got me the job.

 

 

Ed Aust writes poems by moonlight. He lives in Oakland, California, and makes a living by taming websites and photographing events. ​He’s sort of religious. ​His poems have been published in Avocet, Coal City Review, California Quarterly, and the Bay Guardian.