Staying up all night too much by Melissa Hansen

I’ve been drinking too much
You might think
That I am sleeping too much
But I am just in bed too much
I’m actually not sleeping that much
I’m just always too much
For me
For you
For this
I stay awake too much
My dreams aren’t much
I don’t sleep that much
I take pills too much
I like pills that much
I like to sleep so much
I want to dream of you

Beowulf and Normal Norman by Donal Mahoney

When Normal Norman takes his seat
in Room 210 in Dumbach Hall
to hear the eminent Dr. Engelhardt

recite Beowulf again,
Norman knows that he can suck
the boredom from the hour

if he can write a poem for his wife, Jane,
better than the poem he gave her yesterday.
Now, however, no poem comes

and so he knows that he must choose
among maneuvers from the past
to drown out Beowulf again–to wit,

he can say the rosary till the bell rings,
sketch his wife’s magnificent ass
or write something strange like this.

The Speak Easy

Scot:  Since my background is in education, do you have any regrets when you were in high school—anything you wished you had done different?

Jack Henry:  I love this question and the answer is YES!
High school is nothing but regret to some.  For me, specifically.  I was the biggest LOSER in 9th and 10th grade, and half of 11th grade.  Gawky, too tall, too skinny, bad hair, bad teeth, acne, no personality, clumsy, nervous, zero confidence, etc.

Mid point in 11th grade (1981) I had an epiphany.  I stop carrying about the opinions of others.  This worked for me and I eventually cleaned up, started dating, fit in, etc.  But it also failed me.  I went so far the other way I lost invaluable learning opportunities.  Back then I thought the teachers were idiots (in retrospect many were) and had nothing to offer.

POOR POSTURE BLUES by F.N.Wright

she worked her lips
down my body
as she stroked my cock

a blowjob was
coming my way

or so I thought
until she stopped
tonguing my navel

“jesus christ,
you’re getting
a fucking beer belly!”
she grumbled

“no, darlin”,
I explained,
“it’s a matter
of poor posture.”

“”bullshit,” she said,
“I know a beer belly
when I see one
& you have a
fucking beer belly!”

“no! no! no!,
I argued,
“it’s simply
poor posture!”

I could feel
that blowjob
fading fast

I leaped out of bed
& sucked in my gut
for all that it was
worth

I’m sure a lot to
the shareholders
of anhauser-busch

as I pulled back
my shoulders
& puffed out my chest
she laughed &
got out of bed
& I watched her
sway-back ass
leave the room

by the time I
realized what
she was doing
it was too late

she’d poured
all my beer
down the drain.”

RELOCATION by Barry Graham

I make no difference
I remember holding hands with
a girl named samantha wright
when I was in 1st grade
at paradise elementary school
I was made
to relocate

five hundred and eighty five
miles away from her sweet hand
and I haven’t seen her since
she never thinks of me and
I only think of her when
I miss my childhood
I am half awake

at 2:42 am
devising a plan to repay
all that I owe and
dreaming of shy kisses
on soft sweet hands
I’ve been gone
for so long

I am no longer certain
that paradise is home
to all god’s angels
fourteen years
have gone by
and even my mother
is yet to return

Definition by Carter Monroe

I am a casualty of self,
a footnote to sublime instinct.
Someone who ignored a perch
through a saturation of melange.

Kept sacredly in doubt
the tumult swept me
past dead dogs and scavenged wolves
into haystacked roadkills destined for survival.

The cars traveled on fumes alone
all the while squelching reassured needs
as the barbers lost their touch
against the brutality of apathy.

But, then there was the waiting,
the sands and the wind
and the wind
and I waited

until someone finally told a joke.

The Speak Easy Now Appearing at the Rusty Truck

RT: What responsibility do you have as a poet?

FN Wright: I think all writers (poets included) should write to entertain the reader & not write to be writing or “famous” as some poets I know seem hell bent on doing. So many young poets seem determined to become the next Bukowski when they haven’t lived his life. Tried emulating it perhaps which of course is impossible to do I know one poet who feeds off others while trying to convince the reader they have actually lived the life they write about when in fact they haven’t. But the main responsibility is to write a poem that the readers can relate; and not make everything so bleak. There is a lot of humor in life & even death. Some poets need to lighten up some.

Bradley Mason Hamlin: None. Absolutely nothing. If a poet tells you he or she has a responsibility, he or she is an idiot, a liar, and a narcissist.

Christopher Robin: Well, I have to peel my guests off the floor every once in awhile, but other than that it is only to tell the truth. All poets have that responsibility, I believe, no matter what; about our country and our neighborhoods.

William Taylor Jr: I suppose if you really feel the need to go and call yourself a poet, in my opinion your main responsibilities are to cut out the bullshit and write honestly.  And strive hard to find an original voice.  The world doesn’t need more bullshit poetry.  If you have nothing to contribute, your time would be better spent elsewhere.

Room 3028 Poem by Andrew Taylor

Bleak courtyard somewhere
the sky is blue
doors slam quietness
interrupted
satellite television

Empty bottle Veuve Clicquot
five glasses ice bucket in corridor
the smell of coffee
the pen has a logo

Curtain flows
with courtyard breeze
blackout curtains
blackout notions
of time

The sun reminded her by Melanie Browne

of a giant
orange Christmas
bubble light.
she wanted to
string it around
her waist and enter
one of those endless
dance contests,
the kind where people
drop like flies,
the kind where people
sweat behind the knees

A combination of
mad, mad, lust &
dangerous ecstasy

The sun reminded her
of hard work,
a Grapes of Wrath
type work,
people pounding
the pavement
trying to avoid
the falconer’s knot

The sun reminded her
of something
like that

road like a river by db cox

— USMC burial detail 1968

bus drifts up an off-ramp
somewhere on I-95
we’re moving toward
the second show of the day
two is nothing new
it’s 1968 & business is good
behind me, the trumpet man
blows quietly into his horn
warming up—
solo down cold—all heart & soul
miles couldn’t play “taps” any sadder
echoed notes falling like slow rain
on a star-spangled coffin
all group moves choreographed
in one of the few—dress blue precision
Fire the rifles (… don’t look back)
Blow the horn (… don’t consider)
Fold the flag (… stars & stripes for fuckin’ ever)
Pass it on (don’t feel a thing)
Hand-salute (… Semper Fi & bye-bye)
back on the long gray bus & gone
we’ve got it made out here on the highway
just keep the conscience clean
& don’t fuck with the machine
riding a road like a river of black water
pulling us on—farther & faster
each of us bound for that vanishing point
somewhere in the heat-shadowed distance