David Busboom and Shelby Koehne from Eastern Illinois University
“The the Impotence of Proofreading” by Taylor Mali
Has this ever happened to you? You work very horde on a paper for English clash And then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=) and all because you are the word1s liverwurst spoiler. Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.
This is a problem that affects manly, manly students. I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term that my English teacher in my sophomoric year, Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague. And that1s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague. Not just anal community colleague, because I wouldn1t be happy at anal community colleague. I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation, I really need to be challenged, challenged dentally. I know this makes me sound like a stereo, but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue. So I needed to improvement or gone would be my dream of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison (in Prison, New Jersey).
So I got myself a spell checker and figured I was on Sleazy Street.
But there are several missed aches that a spell chukker can1t can1t catch catch. For instant, if you accidentally leave a word your spell exchequer won1t put it in you. And God for billing purposes only you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling your spell Chekhov might replace a word with one you had absolutely no detention of using. Because what do you want it to douch? It only does what you tell it to douche. You1re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit. It just goes to show you how embargo one careless clit of the mouth can be.
Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint. The teacher read my entire paper on A Sale of Two Titties out loud to all of my assmates. I1m not joking, I1m totally cereal. It was the most humidifying experience of my life, being laughed at pubically.
So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice: One: There is no prostitute for careful editing. And three: When it comes to proofreading, the red penis your friend.
Morgan Slack, Freshman, Pre-Med/Biological Sciences major at Eastern Illinois University NaPoMo Reading Series
“Bonfire” by Ellen Hopkins
Once, people wanted to know her. Perhaps it was her comely face, featured almost weekly on the society page.
Starched gentlemen came calling, meek as their offerings of posies, porcelain and perfume. The one who stole her heart brought ragtime, gin and cigars. She still remembers Daddy‚Äôs crimson apoplexy, his farewell parry: Take my word, he will burn you.
Oh, but they burned together, brighter than a bonfire, his kiss her kindling, her flesh his fuel. The fire, white hot, consumed them until only embers remained. Ash.
Today, her garden offers posies, gifts her with perfume and every evening, the quail come to call. She sits, sipping gin from porcelain, beneath a fine sift of ash.
Erick Shaffern, Junior, English major at Eastern Illinois University NaPoMo Reading Series
“Sensation” by Arthur Rimbaud (translated by Wallace Fowlie)
In the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths, And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat: Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet. I will let the wind bathe my bare head.
I will not speak, I will have no thoughts: But infinite love will mount in my soul; And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy, Through the countryside–joyous as if with a woman.
Daniel Robin, Freshman, Family and Consumer Sciences major at Eastern Illinois University NaPoMo Reading Series
“What If” by Shel Silverstein
Last night as I lay thinking here, Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear. And pranced and partied all night long. And sang their same old Whatif song: Whatif I’m dumb in school? Whatif they’ve closed the swimming pool? Whatif I get beat up? Whatif there’s poison in my cup? Whatif I start to cry? Whatif I get sick and die? Whatif I flunk that test? Whatif green hair grows on my chest? Whatif nobody likes me? Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me? Whatif I don’t grow tall? Whatif my head starts getting smaller? Whatif the fish won’t bite? Whatif the wind tears up my kite? Whatif they start a war? Whatif my parents get divorced? Whatif the bus is late? Whatif my teeth don’t grow in straight? Whatif I tear my pants? Whatif I never learn to dance? Everything seems swell, and then . . . The nighttime Whatifs strike again!
Samantha Petrarca, Freshman, Communication Disorders and Sciences major at Eastern Illinois University NaPoMo Reading Series
“A Dream Within A Dream” by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
Brandon Warner, Freshman, Sociology major at Eastern Illinois University NaPoMo Reading Series
“Snowball” by Shel Silverstein
I made myself a snowball As perfect as could be. I thought I’d keep it as a pet And let it sleep with me. I made it some pajamas And a pillow for its head. Then last night it ran away, But first it wet the bed.
Brionde Stone, Freshman, Sociology at Eastern Illinois University NaPoMo Reading Series
“Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size But when I start to tell them, They think I’m telling lies. I say, It’s in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It’s the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can’t touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can’t see. I say, It’s in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I’m a woman
Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
Now you understand Just why my head’s not bowed. I don’t shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It’s in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, ‘Cause I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me.
Grandpa’s tires slide on the slick pavement and he barely stops at the intersection. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel tightens. He mutters to himself and stares ahead, burning holes in the station wagon’s windshield. The radio is off and...
Jealous of a Goddamn Deity
my mother ambushes
me with one more Jesus talk
about how God made the world
and maybe even dinosaurs
but they’re not here anymore
so why does it matter anyway
and that Jesus wants me to
accept him arms held wide like...