Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 35
Table of

ENG 101

Hand raised, a polite student,
the one with the Shakes-
pearen name—Rosencrantz,
Guildenstern, I can’t recall

without calling roll—
wants to know just how many
commas a thesis
must have. Statistically,

as many as it takes, I begin
when interrupted
by a baseball cap in back
asking point blank: Can

a golf ball kill somebody—
adding before I can speak—
without explosives?
Bursting into the classroom

late, hungover, out
of breath, the quintessential
young man carbuncular hopes
out loud that he’s not

missed anything important.
Of course not, I say.
On your syllabus, you’ll see
that’s not until Week 7

  Matt Morris __


Mr. Peanut blows
on his monocle & buffs
it with a silk kerchief
which, folding like a road
map of years past, he tucks
back inside his breast
pocket. The night rumbles by
unknown landscapes,
           unnamed towns—
what passes for scenery.

A handwritten note
flutters from his stovepipe hat
like a butterfly—
well, maybe a moth—lighting
on his evening glove. A house
divided against
he reads, cannot stand
The monocle
drops from his eye, shattering
at his two-tone shoes. Why, he’s
Abraham Lincoln,
president of all fucking
America, not
some nutty corporate shill, though

these things often overlap.

  Matt Morris__

After a Few Rounds

In a small pub just outside,
let’s assume, heaven,
Charles Dickens & Lewis
Carroll were locked in a good-
natured argument
about whose books had the worst
film adaptations.

“You should feel delighted if
anyone remembers your
perverted stories,”
Dickens said, hoisting an ale.
“You’ve given people
a goofy fantasy world—
which they love you for. So what
if they miss your wit?
There’s little to make of that.”

“Sir,” Carrol sniffed, plum
brandy swirling in his glass,
“it’s a testament to what
some may call genius
that even the nethermost
sort of mawkish shlock
remains true to your vision.”

Back & forth the jabs & gibes
flew when who should stroll
over to their table but
Mark Twain, cutting quite
the figure in his linen
suit. “Afternoon, gentlemen,”
he drawled, pulling up
a chair. “The next round’s on me.”

Puffing a cigar,
he tossed his head back & laughed
as if the devil himself.

  Matt Morris__

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  Matt Morris__