“Misha Misheard 7” by Jake Sheff
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Pexels.comMisha Misheard 7 (a Prosimetric Poem)
“True eloquence consists in saying all that should be, not all that could be said.”
~François Duc De La Rochefoucauld, Reflections; or Sentences and Moral Maxims
Their man passes genocidal gas
And our man’s ass makes the gas which keeps
Us young. It’s a gas to see the vastness
Of gas between all the lonely men.
The author of In Praise of Error famously observed that “Seattle is a city of ships and planes” and, in answer to her own question, offered this theory as to why: “[Seattleites] wish to avoid developing that ‘island tameness’ which doomed the dodo.” Sadly, I do not possess the congenital wisdom required for digesting such high-protein quotes. This morning, the blackbirds collogued in a crystal blue sky with pigskin clouds. The great critic (a double genius) would’ve said that the sky was a prose poem, “with its supernumerary hearts and its milewide mightiness all packed onto a page no more than 9-inches in length.” I underlined that line once as a precaution; I say precaution because a pre-monumental line like it is lapidary on the astonished mind. A few of life’s vastnesses were hopping along like lagomorphs in the morning’s sleepless sweetness and, like lagomorphs, they were passively dropping turds wherever they hopped. And for whatever reason, they were mostly hopping wherever I happened to be at the time.
“We judge the characters of men far more accurately from their gas than from their ass.” I believe that was the poet behind the author of Ode to Ignorance. I follow him on that digital parade of fools we call ‘social media.’ (How is one to pass the time except by scrolling through it when one’s riding on the wing of Minerva’s owl? So what if the people below look up and ask, “What’s he got against land that he’s got to make himself a satellite?”) That poet’s mental climate’s naught but calamities. My thoughts are water and more suited to Devanagari than they are to a parental script that I did not choose for myself prenatally—one shouldn’t expect the same, as Horace tells us, from the greatest and the slightest poet. It was the great critic (a double genius) who pointed out that virtue is funny because “it models goodness for its natural predator.” (I wrote in the margins next to that the following: “Dogs bark, cocks crow and men opine.” Now I’d say, “Men either mask their tantrums or deliver mad sermons,” but maybe that’s a case of semel et simul.) When the poet posted a picture of a muntin on Instagram, he wrote this in the caption: “The umami in your mouth has the unambiguous brightness of Miami Beach—nay, rather, it’s the brightest birthright!” A troll in the comment section responded with, “Catamite!” To which the original poster said, “You sound lonely, O, so lonely! Knowing this keeps me unharmed. Besides, I was only kissing his soul. As one of your fellow depressives once wrote: ‘The page may be lewd, the life is virtuous.’”
“Don’t press another man too hard—
A flower press will be your fate.”
“But your smile’s précis did press my heart
Flatter than could any printing press.”
Copyright © 2026 Jake Sheff
All Rights Reserved
Catch Up on Misha Misheard!
Misha Misheard 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,
Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and a crazy bulldog. Jake’s poems, book reviews, and short stories have been published widely. A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press. He also has three chapbooks: “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing), “The Rites of Tires” (SurVision), and “The Seagull’s First One Hundred Seguidillas” (Alien Buddha Press).
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