A Literary Journal of Critical Thinking
In the Samizdat Tradition of Writing against the Machine
A Forum for Examining the Dark Side of the Academic/Literary Industrial Complex

Mather Schneider (Tucson, AZ)
I am now dropped out of school again and driving a taxi.  I have a chapbook, “Poormouth” published by Interior Noise Press available at myfavoritebullet.com.  In most journals the bios tend to upset my stomach: Beverly T. Videkamp—Thumbeater has a BS from U of A, a BA from UBC, an MA from MU and an MA and PHD from HU and U of H at Pinkerville, respectively. She was a runner up in the Heartland Pumpkin Suck poetry competition and has received a grant from the Middleton Cultural Council. Her poetry has been published in The Snobface Review, Blue-green Iris and You Stroke Me I’ll Stroke You: a quarterly journal of absolute shit masquerading as literary excellence and which by the way only comes out once a year at most.  
 

Pudding

As smooth as pudding

the fortyish balding poet stands up

from his reserved seat

slides neatly and with aplomb

to the podium

arranges his sheaf of poems

with hands calm unshaking

as a casino dealer

then looks up at the audience

through his wire focals of culture

and without a tremor in his voice

or a drop of sweat on his lip

he apologizes for perhaps

the fifty-sixth reading in a row

with all sincerity

begging his "kind listeners"

to forgive his

"near paralyzing

stage fright."

Fuck Mensa

If there's one thing I find annoying

it's a person who takes pride in his

intelligence.

He thinks the topic of conversation

is what makes it intelligent.

Maybe I am a dumb fuck,

but I'd rather participate in a spontaneous,

funny, accelerating conversation about

the dmv than a dull,

predictable one about

Flannery O'Connor.

And he has to particularize

all his ancient test scores, and where

he went to college, and how he

was allowed to skip second grade.

He has no real curiosity, is satisfied with himself,

his self image, and just keeps

repeating himself like an Arizona weatherman.

He is as annoying, in my opinion, as the dumbest of the dumb,

neither is capable of making fun of himself.

A genius he may be but he makes

for a bad drinking buddy, he is too busy

protecting himself to let go, and in a

rush to make everybody else feel inferior.

Like the guy at the bar who has drawn diagrams

of Faulkner's four greatest novels on

a bar napkin, a little girl's

hopscotch game, and slides it at me

with a soft delicate hand I feel

I am supposed to kiss.