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DON'T SHUT UP ALREADY by Sho Sho Smith

DON'T SHUT UP ALREADY by Sho Sho Smith

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Published by Sho Sho Smith
You know the nervous prattle poets make introducing their work? Here it is, floating around the poems I read at the Nomad Café series. As featured reader, I needed fluffier, funnier fluff, so that no one would go to sleep or say shut up already. I will never be guilty of the deadly boring poetry reading. That’s a promise.
You know the nervous prattle poets make introducing their work? Here it is, floating around the poems I read at the Nomad Café series. As featured reader, I needed fluffier, funnier fluff, so that no one would go to sleep or say shut up already. I will never be guilty of the deadly boring poetry reading. That’s a promise.

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Published by: Sho Sho Smith on May 27, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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01/24/2013

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DON’T SHUT UPALREADY 
by Sho Sho Smith
 You know the nervous prattle poets make introducingtheir work? Here it is, floating around the poems I read atthe Nomad Café Poetry Reading, May 2010. As featuredreader, I needed fluffier, funnier fluff, so that no onewould go to sleep or say
shut up already 
. I will never beguilty of the deadly boring poetry reading. That’s apromise.
“Sho Sho Smith is a writer in Oakland. She receivedher MFA from the University of Iowa, and herpoems have appeared in
New American Writing
,
Parthenon West 
,
Puerto del Sol
,
Shampoo
,
Columbia Journal
,
Court Green, Eucalyptus,
and
Mantis
. She’s now working on her first poetrycollection,
Trompe l’oeil of a Tiger Clawing Its Way Out of Your Breast.” 
WRITERS’ BIOS NEVER TELL YOU WHAT YOU REALLY WANT TOKNOW. SO I’VE RE-WRITTEN MY BIO HERE AND THROUGHOUT THIS MINI-COLLECTION TO CONFESS THE STORY OF MY REALLIFE, MY OBSESSIONS, MY SHAMES.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR The author is at her humanestbetween the hours of midnight and 5 a.m.,longer than all the hours combined. The world hangs on like candlelight,memory wiped. She puts on her second skinand goes to work in the dumpyard of dreams,charted through the telescope of a pen. Truth be told, it’s pretty boring these days.Weak tea, ergonomic and non-smoking.If she’s lucky the pages soak up time
1
 
like sponges. The author yawns. The muse stretches out of the cave, sheddingthe author, the hour, the laptop it hates,while the criminal and homeless and poetclose their eyes, shape shifters in shapeless shifts.
2
 
I THINK OF MUSES LIKE ANGELS. I DON’T KNOW IF I HAVE ONE,SO I MADE ONE UP, CASTING IN THE ROLE OF MUSE THISSTRIPPER WHO ONCE GAVE ME A LAPDANCE.
MUSE The dirty blond would removeher panties for an extra twenty.Flick the elasticof her lucky starfor a peekat the fork of her thighs.In her gold-rimmed smilea pierced tongue.Her throat opened,singing along.I must be justanother mirrorin which she watched herwatch herself blowthe gun of her finger,wink upside down,the girl with no namewhose breasts smearedmy glasses with supermarketemollients and glitter.
FINALLY I RECEIVED MY MFA AND DID MY TIME IN IOWACITY….AND IN THE END, ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY POEM.
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