JP Salas Reads “The 7 Poems of Justin Bieber” By Amanda Song

The 7 Poems of Justin Bieber

    -Amanda Song

Tj Martinson Reads “A Supermarket in California” by Allen Ginsberg

A Supermarket in California

    -Allen Ginsberg


What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked

down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking

at the full moon.

  In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon

fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

  What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families shopping at

night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!

–and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

 

  I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking

among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

  I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?

What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?

  I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,

and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

  We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy

tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the

cashier.

 

  Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in a hour.

Which way does your beard point tonight?

  (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and

feel absurd.)

  Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The trees add shade

to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.

  Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-

biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

  Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America

did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a

smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of

Lethe?

 

Gabrielle Knock Reads “Your Catfish Friend” By Richard Brautigan

Your Catfish Friend

    -Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life 
in catfish forms 
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers 
at the bottom of a pond 
and you were to come by 
one evening 
when the moon was shining 
down into my dark home 
and stand there at the edge 
of my affection 
and think, “It’s beautiful 
here by this pond.I wish 
somebody loved me,” 
I’d love you and be your catfish 
friend and drive such lonely 
thoughts from your mind 
and suddenly you would be 
at peace, 
and ask yourself, “I wonder 
if there are any catfish 
in this pond?It seems like 
a perfect place for them.”

 

Scott May Reads “Number 10″ from the Blue Notebook by Daniil Kharms

Blue Notebook #10

There was a red-haired man who had no eyes or ears. Neither did he have any hair, so he was called red-haired theoretically. 
He couldn’t speak, since he didn’t have a mouth. Neither did he have a nose. 
He didn’t even have any arms or legs. He had no stomach and he had no back and he had no spine and he had no innards whatsoever. He had nothing at all! Therefore there’s no knowing whom we are even talking about. 
In fact it’s better that we don’t say any more about him.

Rebekah Simcox Reads “I’m the Most Wonderful Person I Know” by Jack Perlutzky

I’m the Most Wonderful Person I Know
    -Jack Perlutzky

I’m the singular most wonderful person I know,
I’m witty. I’m charming, I’m smart,
I’m often so brilliant I actually glow.
I’m a genius in music and art.

I’m super. I’m splendid, I’m stunning, I’m strong,
I’m handsome, I’m dashing. I’m bold,
I know all the answers, it’s rare that I’m wrong,
I’m an absolute joy to behold.
I’m strikingly handsome, I’m thoroughly grand.
I’m uncategorically clever,
there’s only one thing that I can’t understand-
why nobody likes me. . . not ever!

Claire Terveer Reads “Stanza” by Tomás Q. Morín

Stanza
    -Tomás Q. Morín

Because in medieval Italian it meant “room”
I tied the curtains at their elbows with
what could have been honor cords or worse
yet, a belt from the 60s, so hideous were the
tassels that were dancing a little tarantella
after I had propped the windows and the wind
had carried in the song the rubbing trees
were making, without any accompaniment,
mind you, from a tambourine, although the bells
of   the occasional sleigh played that part,
while I waited for the vixen and their shameless
yelping to follow the music and the cold
and the night inside where I sat half man,
half snow, to investigate my squeaking
pencil and the flapping of the bird-white page
I couldn’t seem to catch in those years when I
lugged around a frozen heart and was infatuated
with whiteness, since I had read somewhere it was
the absence of color, which could not be true
since I had once loved a pure white duck with
a white bill and feet and I had even torn its white
flesh with my teeth that were still then white,
which should have been all the proof anyone needed
to debunk our outdated theories of absence.

Ivory Watts Reads “The Secrets We Hide” by Tiffany Franklin

we struggle to have meaning
in this world which we all know
we try but yet we wonder
where we all should go
hidden in the questions
which we can not find
the answers are all hidden
deep inside our minds
hidden in our soul
is the life we try to hide
but in time it will find you
and it will release
all of its secrets hidden beneath
so before it ruins the life you have made
release those dark secrets
and the memories will fade
hidden in our lives are stories left untold
of the things we didn’t want them to know
but once you tell somebody
and make your feelings known
the struggle will be over
and you’ll finally be home

Stephanie Blessman Reads “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes

Mother to Son
    -Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time 
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So, boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps.
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Connor Lewis Reads “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken
    -Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day! 
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Kaitlyn Spence Reads “Homidical Rainbow” by Kai Davis

Homicidal Rainbow
    -Kai Davis

I planned a mass murder
in a red notebook
on an orange-yellow school bus.
I don’t care that the earth is gorgeous green,
I live in one shade of blue,
so i never knew about indigo
and all my visions are violet,
I mean violent.
color me, homicidal.
They colored me homicidal.
They beat me black and blue.
I bled maroon.
Golden puss seeping out of my sores
stained chartreuse.
I never wanted to be a rainbow.
To bend at the whim of a thunder storm,
slaves to lightning strikes in my insides.
I’m afraid of sidewalks,
side streets and side glances.
They see the colors.
It doesn’t matter if I’m dressed in grey
they watch my walk.
So I twitch and try to straighten my switch
and keep biting my tongue,
but that just strengthens my lisp.
I can’t hide behind bathroom stalls
they always find me
amongst black and white and piss.
I can’t forget they called me
faggot and fruit and tinker bell,
but I thought that bitch had wings
and I never once felt like i could fly.
If I could, I would’ve flown away a long time ago,
but instead they clipped wings before they sprouted.
They clipped spines, I can’t be straight.
I mean I can’t stand straight.
Held down by layers of toxic pain
and I bet they didn’t know they were coloring me in.
They were etching hit lists into my skin.

She called me a fucking queer. (One)
You said I was going to hell. (Two)
Why I look this disgusting, okay. (Three)
You broke my nose. (Four)
I can’t babysit your son. (Five)
Dad said he’d disown me. (Six)
I’ll die alone. (Seven)