HOW TO MAKE AN ISD*

by W. Barrett Munn

*Improvised Sandwich Device

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

Prosecutors Fail to Secure Indictment Against Man Who Threw Sandwich at Federal Agent. It was a sharp rebuke to the prosecutors who are dealing with the fallout from President Trump’s move to send National Guard troops and federal agents into Washington. —The New York Times, August 27, 2025

It's obvious I've been radicalized.
In nursing school, I was taught
critical thinking. But then, 
I attended a radical-left 
communist community college
in tiny rural Tonkawa, Oklahoma.
It hasn't helped
that I"ve had to listen to this fool spout
his nonsense day after day after day.
Like Father Karras in The Exorcist, 
I've been driven to take some kind of action 
against all these devils.
I'm at Subway. The idea pops.
I begin to make a plan. The casing
of the bomb will be critical, hard but
not too hard, and not too heavy to hold
in one hand. That means it will have to be
toasted and still have some heft.
Nothing light with a lot of holes in the crust.
Sourdough-based wheat would be perfect.
The explosive mixture must be carefully
chosen. Muscle weighs more than fat.
That eliminates a salami based explosion.
Meatballs are out automatically— 
You don't want to cause tomato sauce
collateral damage to any registered voters.
Tuna would work if it's not too wet.
This stuff is ghastly. 
I've got it: long, thin strips of lean roast beef.
I'll pay extra for a double helping, tell
the girl with the plastic covered hands
to pack it down hard.
And cheese. American is probably
best, or so my targets think, although most
have Swiss bank accounts created for them
by their oligarch handlers. 
Time to think of condiments. Screw the pickles.
Red onions and slices of jalapeno stacked
on top near the toast so they'll scatter
on impact. I'll need a fuse. Something
with a slow burn that will give me 
a head start. Dark mustard with horseradish
is perfect. After I pay, I toss the package 
up and down, feeling its heft, guessing that 
if it doesn't go off now it must be ready. 
I leave the store and see the crowd 
a block away. With renewed resolve I start 
to walk that way thinking, I really should 
have brought my toothbrush.

The poems of W. Barrett Munn have appeared in print and online in Awakenings Review, The New Verse News, Sequoia Speaks, Soul Poetry, Prose, & Arts Magazine, Book of Matches, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Haikuniverse, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and many others.

ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL OF TEARS

by W. Barrett Munn

In four days, it will be November, 
and the expected temperature for today
here in Tulsa is 88 degrees Fahrenheit—
an obscene number so near Halloween.
The good news is we have no water to drink,
this I read on a sign 
held up by a thirsty lawn whose brown 
is this season’s fashion statement.

Drill, baby, drill says the untrained actor, 
the miscreant trying to get us to self-destruct.
Avoidance is a technique of psychological 
origins, a thrill for the adoring crowds
who no longer care how much damage
is done as long as they can hurt someone else
more—like a dentist without gas or Novocaine—
Drill, baby, drill. 

W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature where he studied writing under Larry Callen. His adult poetry has appeared in The New Verse News a number of times, in print editions of Awakenings Review and Copperfield Review Quarterly, a printed edition of Sequoia Speaks, and online in Volney Road Review, Speckled Trout Review, Book of Matches, San Antonio Review, and many more. He lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

EPITAPH FOR AN ELOQUENT: REMEMBERING KRIS KRISTOFFERSON

by W. Barrett Munn

Above are marble figures,
unmoving angels' wings,
with pale and polished faces
that will fade and flatten over ages
like forgotten wax on summer shelves,
and there, below those two
future faded vestiges,
lies a troubadour,
with nothing more to sing
and an epitaph hard to accept—
Here Lies Me and Bobby McGee.

W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature where he studied writing under Larry Callen. His adult poetry has appeared in Awakenings Review, San Antonio Review, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Volney Road Review, Speckled Trout Review, Book of Matches, and many others. He lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

BENEATH THIS HEAT DOME

by W. Barrett Munn

AccuWeather, July 10, 2024

The red juiced rooster-shaped thermometer
crowed a whole octave above 100 again today.
Being forged from tin, feathers can’t be touched
unless a blister is accounted for by a salve
or some suitable soothing lotion.
In the evening beneath this heat dome,
I can see the Milky Way, and weigh in that
the temperature matches all 88 constellations,
explain how some are seen only in New Zealand

or elsewhere below the equator, forming 
constellations with names like Eridanus, Carina, 
Hydrus and Hydra, Octans and Pavo, and Sagittarius.. 
If only the smaller dipper would drip, or bigger tip 
over and spill; but the earth spins slowly, carefully, 
there's no spillage to share. In a few hours the world 
will turn, and we'll face the sun again; who knows 
how many more will die today beneath this dome, 
ferns left in the sun too long without being watered.

W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature. His adult poetry has been published in Awakenings Review, San Antonio Review, The New Verse News, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Sequoia Speaks, and many others.

HAIKU

by W. Barrett Munn

A Child’s View of Gaza

i dream of Gaza
as Gaza was before dreams
were dreams of Gaza

W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature. His adult poetry has been published by The New Verse News, Awakenings Review, San Antonio Review, Sequoia Speaks, Copperfield Review Quarterly, and many others.

MURDER AND MENTAL HEALTH

by W. Barrett Munn 

Jesus Christ

thought he was God; a governor
washed his hands;

A governor proclaims
murder a problem of mental health;
did another governor just wash his hands?

Uncle Bryson
spent his life in mental health confinement;
he didn't kill anyone, so
why was he there? Uncle Bryson 
never owned a rifle, never knew
a bullet from a bassoon, but a risk nonetheless,
mental health, it’s not a guess, it’s a problem—

we can be more than certain 
of crazies stalking the horizon, the mentally ill, 
ready to kill, spree shooters who will 
surely shoot lots of someones somewhere sometime soon. 

Shooters are, we can trust, only problems of mental health.
We better all go out and buy another gun.

W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature and studied with Larry Callen. His poetry has appeared in The New Verse News, The Awakenings Project, Kairos Literary Magazine, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Speckled Trout, and many others.

SOMETHING ABOUT WOLVES IN LOUISVILLE

by W. Barrett Munn

They hunt

as if they were four wolves,

a pack in pursuit of its prey.

When found they surround.

Fearsome, they isolate the young, the weak.

The black

night of the deserted moon masks

their padded steps but rapid hearts

and adrenal sweat unmasks

their stealth intent.

In silence they surround.

Less silent comes their rush:

Sudden. Sure.

They come as one

faceless, nameless, savage fury

until prey can only hope

survival of encounter

but this prey never had a chance:

judged and juried,

justified the pack brings down

its game, misguided hunger quelled.

In silence they survive

the questions; they

close the open net

no game escapes

no mistakes as

the righteousness of nature

nestles close.

Silence is a necessity

voices turn blue ischemic,

black and whites become necrotic.

But the smell won't fade in silence.

Stench always has a cost.

Silence as a weapon is

too weak when conscience speaks

too weak and unreliable when

other hunters—larger,

more powerful—

lay down their open traps.

W. Barrett Munn lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. His poems have appeared in Copperfield Review Quarterly, Volney Road Review, Speckled Trout Review, and The Asses of Parnassus. He is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature where he studied under Larry Callen.