Don’t Blame Me, I Voted for Vermin Supreme

Poem and photo by Leah Mueller


I voted for a pint of my poems

on my door slightly before dusk,

and found them to be

extra kind to each other today.

I voted for a huge wave

of your profile picture,

with whom I was excited to

see my awkward pre-teen, years later.

I voted for $1,000 per month

helping me in an interesting niche market.

I voted for me with an hour.

This made me be exact.

I voted for a protest vote.

In fact, the skull looks nice.

I voted for a lot of lunacy.

I voted for Mother’s Day.

I voted for Hillary Clinton

in a cool video and wild music.

I voted for a product that my sister

built of automatic weapons,

on top of everything else.

I voted for a fine-toothed comb.

I voted for a hard rain.

I voted for legal marijuana, though.

I voted for me, but less bad,

for someone that

blatantly broke the law.

I voted for a couple more than an hour

layover/plane change in Salt Lake City.

I voted for her mouth,

and literally committed Treason

by students in such situations.

I voted for a sign

telling people not to say anything.

There is already chosen.

America is not quite normal.

And if you’re a Mean One,

in battle with firecrackers

until dawn.

You can follow Leah on Facebook

Hunger- Leah Mueller


[Poem by Leah Mueller, photo by Georgia Park]

My boyfriend tells me
that feeding seagulls is like
pruning fungus. He stamps his
angry feet at them, as they converge
around our park bench, demanding food.

Nearby, a young man and woman
throw chunks of bread on the sidewalk

and laugh with delight. The gulls
roar over to them like spastic locomotives,
shrieking as they apply their brakes.

“Hey, calm down, buddy,”
the man tells my boyfriend,
“Those birds aren’t doing
anything to you.” His girlfriend

recoils on one end of the bench
and clutches the metal rungs tightly,
her face a mask of terror.
She is taking no chances
in the presence of a gull-hater.

In a nearby shop window,
REI is selling cushioned dog beds
for fifty dollars. A homeless
Native American man
wrapped in a filthy blanket

stands in front of the glass,
squints longingly at the pillows.
People rush by, preoccupied
with the details of sustenance.

My boyfriend and I turn
our backs on him,
wander home in the drizzle.

The homeless man lowers himself
slowly onto the bench,
but the gulls ignore him.

They’re smart enough to know
where their bread is coming from.

I don’t know why folks
feed seagulls, since the birds
are so goddamned demanding:
they strut about fretfully,

screaming as though the world was
filled with lazy waiters
who refuse to do their jobs properly.

Perhaps they’re right. The world
overflows with predators and prey,
and noise is the fool’s only method
of gaining attention.

I prefer to wait patiently for my bread
to come to me. Each day I awaken,
I tumble more stiffly
from my edge of the bed, glad because

I’m a little bit older
than I was yesterday, but
I’m also a lot less hungry.

Leah Mueller is an independent writer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of one chapbook, “Queen of Dorksville”, and two full-length books, “Allergic to Everything” and “The Underside of the Snake.”





1). A glass of milk sits on the table, untouched. Nobody wants to be the first to claim it, though everyone is thirsty. The milk is a big deal, but no one can explain why.

2). The young woman walks down the street a couple of blocks from her home, clutching books to her chest. A carload of men drives by and honks. She is ashamed of herself, even though they are the ones who are behaving like louts. She keeps her eyes on the road ahead of her, but she knows they’ll just drive around the block and return. Next time, they’ll be more insistent.

3). I always thought the whole concept of virginity was devoted to penis-worship. If you never had a penis inserted in your vagina, you were a virgin, even if you’d had orgasms from oral sex, even if someone had inserted his finger in there numerous times, even if you had rubbed against someone so hard that your entire body convulsed. But stick a penis in a vagina, suddenly it was a major deal.

4). The man moves towards the woman. She opens instantly. It’s one of those rare moments when both people want the same thing, and aren’t afraid to show it. Then they both wake up.

5). I have a dream in which I am a virgin again. I decide I don’t need sex to be happy, and that I will go through life as an artist who lives alone. My only contact with men will be through postal letters. I will have an endless parade of postal lovers, who will regale me with propositions that I will never accept, and this will secretly be a relief for them. I keep the letters in a box in the closet. The box swells until it finally bursts open at the seams.

6). A man went searching in the forest for his virginity. It had been eaten by animals a long time beforehand. One of the lions told him it was delicious. The man smiled, since he had been unaware of this.

7). I didn’t lose my virginity. I gave it up voluntarily, and I don’t want it back. If you try to return it to me, not only will there not be a reward, but I’ll never speak to you again. Go find someone else’s virginity. They’ve either been searching for it since they were born, or they never lost it in the first place.

[Leah Mueller is an independent writer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of one chapbook, “Queen of Dorksville”, and two full-length books, “Allergic to Everything” and “The Underside of the Snake.” Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Blunderbuss, Memoryhouse, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Sadie Girl Press, Origins Journal, Silver Birch Press, Cultured Vultures, Quail Bell, and many others. She was a featured poet at the 2015 New York Poetry Festival, and a runner-up in the 2012 Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry contest.]