Issue "3"

OUT NOW!!

Featured in this issue is the poetry of Barack Obama, as well as the work of local poets Derek Wood, Ericka Aguilar, and Mary Einfeldt. We are also proud to be a forum for the the artwork of Lauren Rackham and Ashlee Lyman (That's her original work on the left). Scroll below for a preview of Issue Number "3."

For info on getting your very own copy, send a request to SundaySchoolPoets@gmail.com. Please, don't be shy.


Two Poems by Barack Obama


Pop

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from
his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine,
and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites
an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink*, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back;
'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.

* ("Shink" may be a typo, but the poem is reproduced as published.)


Underground

Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.

You Have No Idea
By Mary Eindfeldt

It's really only considered a journey once it's over
And you can look back on it as a whole
It is simply unnumbered days strung together by the thread of consistency.
I will take naps and click at cards during the solitary free hour of my day
And I'll think about that novel in the in between moments
After dishes, before The Wonder Pets.
I write poetry because it takes less time,
And less effort.
I look at my skin.
My keyboard goes un-played
Guitar strings un-plucked
(my car is still uninsured)
I smell like ranch dressing and the heavy sweetness of bug spray
I concentrate on the skin on my nose, and my chin.
It is time to sop saying when this and when that. . .
It really is time.


Now go out and get one. What are you waiting for?

Sunday School Ed. 2 - "Cliche'"

CLICHE'

Cliche' is out now,
i have nothing more to vow.
It's for the month of March,
I eat way too much starch.

So buy it while you can,
stand up and be a better man.
I think i write and talk a lot,
I think i need a nap on a cot.

(Anonymous)


Observe in this issue:

Poetry from Biz Gayson and Ashlee Lyman

Untitled
By Elizabeth Gayson

Maybelline eyes and Cover Girl lips;
Sweet insecticide heart and wounded fingertips.
Oh, Bon-Bon Surprise, won’t you have a drink
Your nails are painted blue with a cheap promise ring
You call it like you see it, I’m sure you don’t see much.
You’re just a say Pretty girl who doesn’t get touched.
They take you all over; they can’t see your heart,
And you hide it so well when your world falls apart.
Max Factor skin, oh, won’t you come in? it’s getting cold out there.
Dear, do you cry, and dear, do you die?
Your blood is everywhere.
Poises can cut just as deep as a knife
Searching and losing can ruin your life.
So, Maybelline spies and Cover Girl mutts—
Paint your toenails and bathe in pink suds.
Girls hide your cuts.


Map
By Ashlee Lyman

Follow deep blue line of Boulder Mountain.
Ride horse for miles through sage flats, dry creek beds,
and Quaky tree patches on summer days.
Leaving behind trees baring scars of men who once
carved out dates, posted without permission.

Night empties day, Mountain fades to canyons.
Throw down wool blanket, scratchy and smells of horse sweat.
Lay out saddle pillow, undress sore feet;
shit, clay, straw, twigs, stuck in spurs and boot soles.
Listen to embers crackle, tracing patterns in the night sky.

Dreams draw circles against Orion’s Belt.
Sleep near blazing fire, return to index.


Thanks for Reading!
P.S. - C.C.P.D. can suck my dick ass.

Sunday School Ed. 1 - "Left Over Beats"

Be sure to pick up a copy soon.
Here's a sample of our first issue:

On a Sunday
By Trent Gurney

The pastor
he spits out his gum.
He bangs the pulpit and
reads a passage from the gospel of Big Poppa E.
His devout followers, we each take a turn.
Poppa tells us how he crosses the street, afraid of snipers.
He’s always worried that the person behind him at the movie theater will
blow his brains out.
He does this to himself.
Paranoid.
Masochist.
Freak.

Later, from the first epistle of Palahniuk,
we read of his travels to the podunk
Testy Festy in Missoula, Montana.
Souvenir shops with homemade dildos.
Can’t find a human penis? Use a cow’s.
The men, they slap women in the face with their hard-ons.
The women, they bite the hanging testicles off of moving motorcycles.
Biggest bite wins.
They do this to themselves.
Perverts.
Masochists.
Hicks.

Our congregation of five,
we gather here
to feed our unnatural desire for something.
Searching for a god we only find in words.
To worship him.
The god of pen.
The god of paper.
The goddess of ink
and life-long poverty.
Big Poppa, he has this parable about writers lining up outside the welfare center
needing rent, food stamps, coffee, life.
We do this to ourselves.
Believers.
Masochists.
Writers.


Sex
By Neil Womack

The watch I’m wearing screams, Sex!
Yeah in big, red-light district letters
it screams, SEX! It says my penis
is two inches bigger than it really
is so let’s fuck. It says I can’t be a writer
cause you don’t buy 200 dollar watches
on a writer’s salary. It says on my salary
I buy fast cars and fuck on big beds
in huge houses. I mean, I feel you
eyeing this thing, you’re thinking, sex,
and lucky for you that’s what I’m always
thinking about so I’m taking you home.
Well, if you haven’t figured it out by now
I’m a misogynist asshole,
and since you’re the type of gravedigger
woman who’ll leave my apartment
as soon as you realize I’m renting it
and as soon as you see the kind of car
I really drive and as soon as you see how my penis
is two inches smaller than you thought,
I’ll be happy to notice how fast you leave
after we have sex and how I won’t have
to say a damn thing
to your disappointed and lonely face.