an online journal of voice

Spring 2018

s
BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York
BlazeVOX 18 | an online journal of voice
Copyright © 2018

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

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the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

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 Spring 2018
Table of Contents
Poetry
Adam Levon Brown Alexander Joseph
Andrew Weatherly Arianne Benford
Brandon Marlon Charles Wecker
Clive Gresswell Eileen Tabios
Elena Botts Elizabeth R. Grunwald
e a toles Fariel Shafee
Bill Freind Gabriella Garofalo
Gilles Ansiaux Izzy Oneiric
Juanita Rey John Rigney
Jonathan N. Mulcahy-King Judith Chalmer
Leonard A Temme
Marcia Arrieta Margaret Watson
Michael Berton Natalie Jones
Nels Hanson Nicholas Alexander Hayes
Nicholas Martino Patrick Chapman
Roger Craik Rose Knapp
Stephen Bett Aaron Brammeier
Zen Bradshaw Giorgi Plys-Garzotto
Paula Pennell Stallion Dunquis
April Vomvas Beat McGuire
Franco Cortese J. De Nero
Poetry Wolf Mark Prisco
Raymond Arcangel Mary Newell
Tim Queen Tiffany Flammger
J. Mitchell Ian Ganassi
Sandra Kolankiewicz Geoffrey Gatza
 Fiction
Petite Suite Littéraire — Robert Wexelblatt
Two Verse Plays — Sue Brannan Walker
White Elevators — Malika K. McCoy
Fashion Victim — Veronica Abrams
Excerpt from Whiplash Girlchild — Sascha Akhtar
Nobody Talks About — Rebecca L. Monroe
Together, Hips Grinding — Hareendran Kallinkeel
The Tale of Martin Namibia — Alaric von Satyrane
Barely Bitten — Kennedy Harrison
The Light of Dawn — Spencer Wimmer

Text Art & Vispo

a birthday cake inside a file — Mark Young
Snakes in the Grass — Kevin Ryan
La vie en rose — hiromi suzuki
Chronology Poems — Sacha Archer

Creative Non-Fiction & Experimental Prose

The Weakness in Me — Avery Morris
Praises and Comeuppances - Elizabeth Alexander
The First Jamaican Church Experience — Kevin Ryan
There Were Wolves in Albuquerque’s South Side; Circa 1999 — Rebecca Melson

Acta Biographia — Author Biographies

 Spring 2018
IntroductionIntroduction
Hello and welcome to the Spring issue of
BlazeVOX 18. Presenting fine works of poetry,
fiction, text art, visual poetry and arresting works
of creative non-fiction written by authors from
around world. Do have a look through the links
below or browse through the whole issue in our
Scribd embedded PDF, which you can download
for free and take it with you anywhere on any
device. Hurray!

In this issue we seek to avoid answers but rather to

ask questions. With a subtle minimalistic
approach, this issue of BlazeVOX focuses on the
idea of ‘public space’ and more specifically on
spaces where anyone can do anything at any given
moment: the non-private space, the non-privately
owned space, space that is economically
uninteresting. The works collected feature
coincidental, accidental and unexpected
connections, which make it possible to revise literary history and, even, better, to complement it.

Combining unrelated aspects lead to surprising analogies these piece appear as dreamlike images in which
fiction and reality meet, well-known tropes merge, meanings shift, past and present fuse. Time and memory
always play a key role. In a search for new methods to ‘read the city’, the texts reference post-colonial theory
as well as the avant-garde or the post-modern and the left-wing democratic movement as a form of
resistance against the logic of the capitalist market system.

Many of the works are about contact with architecture and basic living elements. Energy (heat, light, water),
space and landscape are examined in less obvious ways and sometimes develop in absurd ways. By creating
situations and breaking the passivity of the spectator, he tries to develop forms that do not follow logical
criteria, but are based only on subjective associations and formal parallels, which incite the viewer to make
new personal associations. These pieces demonstrate how life extends beyond its own subjective limits and
often tells a story about the effects of global cultural interaction over the latter half of the twentieth century.
It challenges the binaries we continually reconstruct between Self and Other, between our own ‘cannibal’
and ‘civilized’ selves. Enjoy!

Rockets, Geoffrey
an online journal of voice

Spring 2018

s
 Spring 2018
Adam Levon Brown

The Hotel Door Shouts, “I’m in Love!”

He gives me butterfly kisses in the loon-tide sun,

while caressing my earlobe with tongue of honey

His nascent eyes ogle me in tones of hushed hurry,

and blow bubbles of steam under the sheets of my bed

I am a martyr of passion for his love, mounting pillows

of affectionate goodbyes that I wish never have to escape

His malleable touch liquefies my unraveled body,

with threads which trail along his navel, hearing echoes

My nail-bitten love for him emanates from the hotel

mint which was devoured by two Molotov tongues

The Television in the corner plays reruns of Seinfeld,

paradoxical to the conjoined fired kiln breathing in the room

Dragon-tongue incense mixed with Oreos crumbles

amid damply lit candles, wafting through windows of silence

Broken air-conditioner renaissance seeps into the busy

ceiling fan, connecting lampshade moon to mid-day sunlight

Soft whispers spoken between two people, oils the door

and the, “Do Not Disturb” sign which shouts, “I’m in love!”
Peace with Mountain-time Springs

Homosexuality has been a troubadour

Faceless
Behind curtains of reinforced steel

Broken-shutter speed snap-light

Jutting
From the rafters like a mad phantom

Morphing, shapeless as salient seabed

Pouncing
Teeth-deep into sheet-muffled Eros

Deafening marks scratched, nail-bitten

Naked
Left for leopard hands on icy fangs

Inhabiting cauliflower dreams

Ripped
From, stomach from mouth, from soil

Stones stacked in pebble-drowned rows

Thrown
Dancing and sacred in the name of Moon

(Homosexuality)
(Freedom)
(Peace)

These words I hold beatific

These words I cradle in silk-strewn mandalas
These words will never be replaced
It isn’t Just a Word

Gay is a word I laughed at

Gay is a word I cringed at
Gay is a word I hated
Gay is a word I pondered
Gay is a word I ruminated
Gay is a word I denigrated
Gay is a word I moved with focus
Gay is a word I ignored
Gay is a word I removed from mind
Gay is a word I never said
Gay is a word I said with lisps
Gay is a word I plunged inside
Gay is a word I sipped with glee
Gay is a word I perused sarcastically
Gay is a word I silently used to question myself
Gay is a word I love
Gay is a word I identify with
Gay is a word I sleep with
Gay isn’t a word, It is who I am
Cementing the Shards into the Correct Places

There are no missteps left in my run against the twirling

cement of my future, only love to share and be shared,
and hope for moons of Paris to ignite in lunar passion

There is not one thing in the cosmos you could tell me

that would make me want to put back together my tragedy,
with pieces of ash and tears, which reek of toxic gauze

There is no way of possibly explaining how deep the deep

end of self-loathing felt before I grew enough for my feet
to finally touch the bottom of never-ending calamitous ire

There are no holy stars which you could call

from the Heavens to force me to go back
to the way I lived before I came out

There isn’t anything you can do to mire this peace

which I’ve felt since marking Mars
as a destination on my roadmap to pride

There are no zero-sum outcomes for this life

of which I have finally accepted as a gift
from the two most wonderful people I’ve ever met

There are no longer any reanimated ghosts

to wail banshee scarred tones into my blossoming
flora of rainbow colored feelings

The cement foundation has been laid for my heart

to finally find peace in the void of this energetic existence
And don’t worry,

I will leave a trail for you before everything dries

 Spring 2018
Alexander Joseph

and the crashing

What's another day

Another cup of coffee
Another last cigarette
Another shower taken for the heat and solitude,
not to get clean
Cause water can't wash away
that filthy feeling
Another deep breath
That is exhaled in a cough
Cause the haze
That blurs the stars
Also stings the chest.
So take a long drag
Listen to the rain
Do that thing
You've always lied
and said you've already done,
Cry to that sad movie,
Call your mother
Forgive your father
Forgive yourself
For giving up on love
Or for choosing to be comfortable
Instead of taking a chance.
Watch the sunset
And let those
Pastels of pollution
Fool you,
Our destruction is beautiful
The supermarkets
And prisons
And schools
And concentration camps
And white houses
And white picket fences
And mowed lawns
And unmowed lawns
And half mowed lawns that I didn't have the energy to finish,
It's all going to crumble
It's all going to slide into the
Fishless poisoned plastic littered
Salt of the sea,
And the crashes of the windows and the doors
And the floors
And the tvs
And the
Refurbished record players
And that book you never could finish
That sound of the crashing
It'll be my new favorite song
That I make my ringtone
And hope someone will call
so I can hear it all the way through.
I hope you will call,
So I can't ignore it
and feel better.
And as I sit in my car, in traffic
Waiting for the light to change
A white man
Blasting rap music
In a lifted escalade
Runs the red light
And gives
an old woman
The finger
And I think
This is a perfect time
For it all
To come burning down
In a flash
And a boom
And a final bass bump
From the back of some asshole's car.
Let’s dance in the ashes

Here
I’m told
there are only two seasons
winter and construction.
the road is worn bare
The bridges are
potholed and cracked.
We are crumbling
but our tanks
and machine guns
are minty fresh;
easily accessible
and cheap
for anybody who wishes
to add to our decay
by contributing to another mass shooting,
now chant with me
NRA! NRA!
And our mr president,
says he wants to invest in infrastructure
while he tweets hate speech
at anyone close enough to touch.
The world is at his fingertips
and I can see his grease stains
smudging the sky.
There's more to infrastructure than roads.
He says he is Pittsburg’s president
but I've been there
and the river runs black.

We are a manikin
smeared with tanning oil
and dressed in the finest
sweatshop made clothes.
The American dream is as alive
as our plastic eyes;
painted bright white
bloodshed red
and blue
to make us look
happy and awake.
The thing about manikins
Mr. president
is that they are empty inside.
The thing about hate
is that it's empty inside.

The thing about empires is

that they crumble,
no matter how much
you tweet about our greatness.
Isn't it ironic to wear a hat
that says
make America great again,
when the hat was made
in Bangladesh
by a modern day
child Slave?

So, what I'm trying to say

is that we are a plastic husk
bursting at the seams with
rancid garbage, bullet casings
and god bless America bikinis.
What I'm saying
is that
when roads crack
sometimes flowers grow between those cracks.
Mr. president
nothing you are doing is good,
please know that,
but maybe
we can take the mess you make,
maybe we can
dig beneath the pavement
tear up the infrastructure
and development
and quasi democracy
that you've used to rape
this country
and planet
and maybe beneath it all
we will find a bud
that if nourished
can start to make something feel sane again.
So,
Mr. president
please keep tweeting
about how great you are
and I will promise to keep praying for rubble
and maybe through my prayers
and your shitshow of a presidency
maybe our country will be so tragically
beautifully
destroyed
that we can make America again
this time for good
and without racist, fascist
sexist
xenophobic, homophobic
transphobic, hate speech spewing
fear mongering
rich white men like you.
So,
fuck the infrastructure
this American empire deserves to crumble
Let's dance in the ashes.
 Spring 2018
Andrew Weatherly

Bruised Knees

Hearing my mother say

“call the police, son, and tell them
these people are trying to kill me”
was such a release from her absence as a mother
To learn that your ‘mother’ isn’t
the fifty-one years of your acquaintance
after her gall bladder was exorcised
is such a relief for the grief of her leaving
She no longer has to have:
biblical bounds on how to love;
paradoxical beliefs against Mexicans working America
while she is working Mexico;
my inability to help her across three thousand miles
It means that she has at the end of her life
become her own mother
often incarcerated
believing gas was being pumped into her room
It means that nothing hateful is true
(though is anything true anymore?)
beyond liver disease and a terminal diagnosis
And the hopes and dreams and aspirations
of this linguist who lived on scriptural parables
are reduced to spoonfuls of creamy peanut butter and bone broth
and her west coast sun setting consumed by ocean
with nothing left to forgive because
she cannot remember much less forget
And the final gasps of her cells opening
after being locked with only power left
to eat to drink or to not
not even power to die or to see
beyond her fingertips
not even her bruised knees
from falling and not asking for help
A Little Rain

It is a strangeness how a little rain

can turn autumn woods from lovely to magnificent
sandy grass glassing to translucent
baby green oak trees growing on you
beeched yellow yearning deep to burn ultraviolet
sourwood salmon to swim in bloody seas
and maples flame to their hearts’ content
dripping clear serum
It’s not just dirt washed away
but a new lens added to see that water runs our veins
even as leaves die
and trickle away
Shadows Open Eyes

sun slanting through morning woods

golden glow illuminating spider’s web silver
burning leaves on edge
between bright light and smoky shade
sun blinding staring eyes down into submission
to eat dirt fallen leaves broken twigs
But the shadows invite
opening up looking around
white black bars blinking strobing
views through scrubby jack pine
blackberry brambles caning pricking
eyes stretching to see deer
ears watch crunching tiny feet
It is the dark opening eyes
granting vision
Untie

It’s not threads of hair

lurking in bathroom cabinet
after I returned her hairbrush:
those are explicable
Nor on her pricey pillow
encased in dull yellow
stuffed under bed forgotten
she slept here many times
It’s in the Mexican blanket
I keep for outside
to lay on earth
and stare at stars bathe in sun
that I am surprised
finding a lost curling dark strand
woven matted in complex bright patterns
It’s in the novel travelogue
night tabled for sleepless evenings
to darken my eyes
that rare silver curving line across
creamy pages
marks when I opened the book a year ago.
Cleaning faded blue couch
white flowers darkening
mining pennies and pencil stubs
crumbs from suppers past
a pair of black filaments entwined
have wedged themselves under pillows
into forgotten libraries
where Virgil and Dante debate judgments
detailing aspects of Purgatory
and the hard steps leaving the Bardo
In each strand of protein and DNA
I untie hopes
I release doves to find land
to return with olive branches
and a future
one by one
 Spring 2018
Avery Morris

The Weakness in Me

I sat at the table in the darkness, worrying over the many thoughts that afflicted my mind. The

throbbing ache that never went away; the restlessness that never let me sleep.

Why did I feel like this?

Why, of every sin God could have allowed me struggle with, did it have to be this?

A rectangle of light invaded the dimness through a window in the door where the hallway flourescents

penetrated my privacy. I could make out that the orange walls of the unused Sunday School room I’d snuck

into were mostly bare. There was a small bulletin board under the dark window, long forgotten. It had several

small pits in it where chunks of cork were missing and bore an assortment of tacks that had been arranged to

spell “HI.” I studied the tacked greeting.

The first time I thought about a woman like that, I was thirteen. She was in her early twenties. I was

confused by what I felt, knowing only that it was somehow innately wrong. I knew it deeply and fiercely.

Women weren’t supposed to think about other women like that.

 I forced those thoughts into a box and tried to ignore them. For more than a decade I stayed anchored in

religious canon, and I denied the existence of my secret, holding onto the cross with two begging hands. If I

prayed hard enough, ignored my desires long enough, they would go away. I would be normal.

Only they didn’t, and I wasn’t.

No matter how I prayed, God would not take the thorn from my side.

That night in the church, I smiled at Jacqui Hein when I passed her in the hallway. My cheeks burned

when I tried to say hello and found my mouth full of my tongue. I swallowed, but it remained stubbornly

swollen and useless behind my teeth. It was always like that. I couldn’t even think about her without some

organ or another forcing its way into my throat. And hard on the heels of this anatomical anomaly was an acid

wash of faith-induced self-loathing. Wanting Jacqui, her mouth, her body, was just like every other woman I’d

tried not to be attracted to. She was just like every other straight woman who would never want me back.

The sweet smell of her yellow hair followed me into the Sunday School room. Outside the room I heard

children calling to one another; their voices clinging to the walls and ceiling like smoke. I picked a hangnail

until it bled, a tiny red bead that I sucked into my mouth like a child. I inspected the “HI” more closely.

At thirteen, learning to compress rogue thoughts into their newly assigned casket, I often fantasized

about killing myself. The idea was so appealing at times that I would pick out a knife from the kitchen drawer

and press it to my wrist to test its sharpness. Or I would hold a handful of pills in my palm while watching my

reflection in the bathroom mirror to see what I would do. Always it looked back at me with an expression that

was a both a plea and a dare. Do it. Please, don’t do it. I berated myself after each aborted attempt, and the

shame adhered itself to my subconscious memory firmly and mercilessly.

 Sitting in the orange room, I didn’t want to die. But I was tired of the constant guilt that infected my

conscience, the exigent hunger of these attractions. The thought of living like that for the rest of my life was

overwhelming. The “HI” glared at me as clearly as my adolescent reflection, but this time it was neither a dare

nor a plea. Rather it was a demand for action and a promise of relief.

The tack I plucked from the bulletin board was elementary school yellow, an unnatural color meant for

crayons and school buses. It was smooth between my thumb and index finger with a fine, rough seam where

the plastic had been fused together in the factory. The top of the “I” was now shorter than the “H.”

At the table I rolled the tack in my fingers. My pulse was a drum cadence in my ears. My tongue,

swollen once again, felt dry and sticky. Don’t, it tried to say.

I picked out the faint blue vein on my left wrist and began tracing it with the prick of the dull tack. A

short line of darkening red slowly emerged as I dragged it again and again across the flesh. The scar it created

is no wider than a pencil line, but at the time, the wound felt like a chasm.

No scar begins white. First it is the crusted black night of dried blood, the ring of broken red hide. Then

purple and pink before the raised, shiny white of healed epidermis. The process can take years. Some people

think scars are beautiful, that they say, “I survived.” But this, no, this was not survival. This was my weakness,

the times I gave in; the times I couldn’t breathe. They mark the nights when I could not carry my own burden,

instead forcing it onto my skin, like a vampire sucking their own blood.

The first razorblade I bought was a utility knife. I went to Wal-Mart on a Sunday night, four days after

the incident with the thumbtack, and found what I was looking for in the tool aisle. The handle was smooth,

cold metal that fit in my hand like it was made for me—a pocket size weapon of mass destruction.

I paid for it and returned, hands shaking, to my cold car.

 Still in the parking lot, I shrugged out of my coat and rolled up my left sleeve to my shoulder. I

shivered.

With a smooth movement of my thumb, I locked the blade into place.

A deep breath.

Press firmly.

Steady execution.

A weak red line.

I carved out my disgust, my contempt with increasing malevolence. Teeth clenched. An exhale with

each slide of the knife.

The pain was a high I can never forget.

Whenever I look at the scars that litter my arm, I am irrepressibly reminded of that time in my life. And

I can’t help but feel pity for my lonely, tormented, twenty-something-year old self. All that pain, drowning in

guilt and shame, a plight so severe that it drove me to punish myself. And for what? Because I believed falling

in love with her was an unforgiveable sin.

I wish I could write an ending to this story, but the truth is that there isn’t one. Although I may love a

woman, I am not free to be with her. Somewhere along the line I made the choice to marry a man, and we

started a family together. I’m not unhappy, but I am incomplete. An integral corner of myself remains empty.

And so I find the razorblade lurking in the periphery of my life, waiting for the moments I am weakest, when I

stare too long into that void, to offer its services.

Sometimes I accept.
 Spring 2018
Charles Wecker

3 Poems on Suicide

I: April 7th, 2017

Fumble with your key.

Take the gun out of the car.
Wrap yourself in your blanket.
Take the cowardly way out.

Transfer your pain to

All those who love you.
No matter how much I understand,
You will always be wrong.

II: The Last Time

I can’t stand to see you now

Knowing that smile on your face
Was forbidden fruit.
The last time I saw it.
You lied.
You fucking lied
You fucking lied to my mother
– your wife.
The last words you ever spoke
Were poison.
III: STAY OUT

Get out of my dreams.

Get out of my space
I do not want you here.
I cannot face you.

I do not want to see you.

As the months tick by,
And I get further and further away.

Get out of my face.

Get out of my space.
The wall around me says,
“You are not welcome here.”
If you could have held on for a few days,
Then you’d be welcome in my space.
 Spring 2018
Eileen Tabios

From The Ashbery Riff-Offs

—where each poem begins with 1 or 1-2 lines from “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror” by John Ashbery

Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: R.I.P. John Ashbery

The record of what you accomplished by sitting down

“With great art to copy all that you saw in the glass”
like the gesture heightened by the hand enlarged
as it moves towards us who see you, even as your
face remains reticent in the background as if you are
unsure of your reception. Well, death is the final judge
-ment and, here I am, still writing a poem for you…
From The Ashbery Riff-Offs
—where each poem begins with 1 or 1-2 lines from “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror” by John Ashbery

Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: Beautiful Lovers

After Marina Abramovic’s TED Talk, “An Art Made of Trust, Vulnerability and Connection.”

Though only exercise or tactic, it carries

the momentum of a conviction that had been building
Marina talks about the arrow she allowed a lover to
point at her heart. But let’s start at the beginning
though we need not always start by beginning. In
the beginning there were the Words and they described
76 objects for pleasure and pain: a glass of water, a
coat, a shoe, a rose, the knife, the pistol, the razor blade
and one bullet. Such is Marina’s description—notice how
the Words shift from the general “a” as regards pleasure
to the specific “the” for the pain. Is pleasure general but
pain specific? Is diction the opening for revealing which
is more powerful—that backing away from pain over-
shadows moving towards pleasure? Flash-forward to
the Great but crumbling Wall of China which Marina
walked for three months to meet a lover. When they met
they ceased their engagement(s) together. Would they
have parted if they simply ceased giving each other
pleasure? Or did they part specifically when they began
causing each other (too much) pain? Do these questions
affirm a larger suspicion: does memorializing a moment
(e.g. with a video) loosen one’s grasp, not solidify it, a-
round history? Perhaps to record is to let something slip
Leak. Drip through unanticipated cracks. Marina, perhaps
the ineffable cannot be videoed. He could not love you
less by betraying you. You could not love less through
betrayal. You are unable to forget the man who cut your
neck with a razor before sucking out your blood. But you
remember that moment whose scar you still bear, along
with another stranger who offered you a glass of water
instead of picking up the knife. You remember relishing
the waterfall down your throat. You remember being
caressed by rose petals against your throat. But then they
scissored through your blouse. No wonder they ran away
from you. You signaled “The End” but stood before them
etched by blood and tears. They ran away, at first back-
ward to keep you in their sight before turning their backs
to make a quicker escape. Your performance was their
pain. Love taught you anguish as a form of resplendence
From The Ashbery Riff-Offs
—where each poem begins with 1 or 1-2 lines from “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror” by John Ashbery

Witnessed in the Convex Mirror: Felino’s Music of Broken Math

Like a wave breaking on a rock, giving up

its shape in a gesture which expresses that shape
Rosmarie’s “quest for agitation” leads to heart
and pulse points easing until she becomes
a Buddha face, a moment of gold in a dim corner
of a winter garden. I recall mathematics broken
but preserved by the poet Felino Soriano—thought
becomes embodied as his face earnest before
a microphone, behind him a saxophonist elongating
a note that halts lovers street blocks away so they
can listen, and in the air overhead his poetry books
shimmying their pages as they circle to form a halo

then free-

floating away to dance with birds and floating leaves

which fell on purpose to land on his shoulders

Watching Felino, a girl twirls black tresses and red

dress as her smile sparkles glee. Join me! Papa
Felino encourages his daughter and pulls Mia up
onto the stage. We all come along, too. We join him:
Felino’s shape a music with symphonic accompaniment
How Darkness Grows (Version 25)

I forgot I became a connoisseur of alleys.

I forgot the years when I wore uniforms of darkened wool shaped by machines, lined by grey.

I forgot how stars became asterisks to matters best left in the dark. I forgot the tirelessness of
shame.

I forgot fingertips deliquesced to black velvet from constantly rolling tobacco leaves—the only luxury
many farmers could afford.
 Spring 2018
Elena Botts

how you come so broken and bitter and like a lost island.

i wake into a dream. we are always, in different ways, dying

fills one in a while or in a tantrum of this is not i. maybe the deeper thing is that
farthest from you, or maybe it is the truth. desperate shakes
to be rid of oneself and back into the curvature of creation of fluidless fixation like the skin of the body of being no
one. and of being no one? it is feckless, sad,
a sunrise shamed into the storm cloud, a true undoing.
if you were not, there would be no surrendering you. now that you are not, so you are, saddened but simple as the hole
in the earth that is in the island that is the quarried gold that is the open wound that is the ache of the sky buried and
then uncovered universe as holds, an ocean of sorrow. but then what is you, a whole world.
titles are useless

i give you something before you have asked for it until all there
is is sadness or the aftermath of what was meant to be
which is to say things are just what they are i have left myself behind me
like that which has not yet been discovered
will be found like a body of the drowned.

by then my spirit will have snuck in your house through the window to do the dishes
because the woods today is never a color that wasn't breathing like i or you.
the worst was when the boy was found in a dumpster after we had sat in the room where together they snorted off of
the linoleum.
actually that moment was his.
the night was unsuffocating.
i don't know which boy died all i remember is my friend eating cool whip out of the freezer.

a girl undressing in front of the city it's not like the usual films
where it is either a nighttime full-colored blackness or the evidence
of an early morning shattering
the screen into seconds which do not correspond somehow to our own pulse we know
it is a time instead
where the green barely rims the few buildings just smudged
out of the dark, dawn is uneven
behind the swimming pool which is unlit before she jumps in
and it is completely dark as the boy dives
and almost reaches her,
like a thought holding its arms out,
the spell ends only in a
new nakedness, no bodies,

a senseless dream of being wrapped in water

flesh without movement
folds if they ever reach the bottom
more like silhouettes than dancers, thoughtless
and they are mild as the heat of august is only the thunder underneath the water.

as the third person, you are outside of the frame, as the filmmaker phrased it so you can see only
the black water an unlit pool wherein the two have gone is completely still
as you become bored, you turn away
i don’t know where it is, life.

i tried to keep the window open to hear the cicadas chirping but midway through the night i had closed it with my feet.
i called up a magic boy on the telephone and he said you have so much to say and i said i haven’t spoken in days and
the line went dead, breathing was too easy. they haven’t fixed the canal yet. the riverbed is cracked dry in the heat.
being sad was a gift because you got to care about something in the first place. i watch the water glasses collect beside
the bed as though in a movie the observed habits of the protagonist but there’s no story and nothing here is even ugly
it goes from full to empty, i mimic the passage of time. i guess i don’t know when you are here and when you are not it
makes no difference the universe moves in and out of vision you said, i hate it when you talk about the world that way
and i tried to find the fog of the morning as it burned off and as i, too, disappeared like a cloud taken in the sun and
wind as if i too were the illusion here as if i too were not something made of shadows buried to get out of the summer
heat. but this is not for you, this spectral wandering along the haunted river has no end really and the sea really, and
the sea to be alone but for the sea.
not me but some one

that night, alone again crossing state lines on foot in the cracked mud of the canal between sirens, foraging owls,
drunken crowds and homeless
watching them live lives through a vacant buried mind, this heat of dead july
after no light of midday and no real person walking the streets but this who moves through myself, a ghost? isn't the
universe emptied yet,

you sit inside to eat ice cream during the downpour. everything’s getting so personal. you’ll cry over an impersonation,
you’ll cry over her. there was only one person you could bear to be around but that was before you knew the colour of
their fear. i do not know why there are people outside or why there is daylight as i am very slowly leaving my life, i
wish i knew someone who would sit in the same room and not say any words.

when the morning fog clears off, opens a whole mind of sky. life without you is easy but there are less dreams intact
like souls wandering off a breeze above the water, sometimes i wish you were here and could see it only so that all the
awe of this world could move through your body.
to be honest, it was really just a dream.
eight track

how strange to be as real as the ridgeline of mountain meet sky and to hear the sound of you breaking my heart its
colossal ruin of the ice sheets in late february the organism of river cracking its innumerable vertebrate and to be glad
of it

sweet to hear the cicadas singing us into a haze of summer while the crickets foretell autumn though seasons are
always in the past now that we have grown older and sadder and forgotten some love to the fading leaves and stranger
trees

to have imagined your own shadow as you walked and to be struck in awe by any merest glimpse of another to name it
wonder and hardly ever not think of it after though all comes to this dust of my tongue and me, buried in a dream like
that spring that had me so shut away

felt the glow of my own soul again, enough to light up the world, but only the love that brings us back again through
this thick infinity,

i do not think i have yet forgotten this world.

 Spring 2018
Elizabeth R. Grunwald

West of Alaska

Thoughts fall heavy,

seeping blue ashes into heartbeats.
Eyelids flutter wind chimes;
finger nails peel grass blades.
West of Alaska
a bear roams empty forests,
tree-less greens and white air.
At the depth of the blood sea
expression floats, and
self-centeredness falls.
The blood sea finds drought
and desert tongues seek
candied peaches of pride.
The Bear

— still roams
and blood remains clay.
Seek meaning
within the gutted pelt.
Fibers weave intimacy
while words carve totems;
Paw slush,
at the bottom of self-fruit.
Learn, not
through berries
hoarded in a full stomach;
but through fatigued pulses
of resting ash.
The Blood Sea

— pumps oxygen
in beige breath.
The pelt withers in drought.
Fibers disintegrate,
slush pools into purpose:
obscure as cotton milk.
The motion of spirits roam
across ash hides,
the bear seeks selfless depth
on a full stomach.
 Spring 2018
Fariel Shafee

The Uncertainties of Life

Did I see that sudden rush?

The buzzing waves, all at once had

colluded into

a savage, voracious

predator.

It came fast, and didn't bother to ring

ahead of

time.

I had thought of rain

and sun,

and a breeze perhaps.

Not this reckless

fiend, and not the

hellish wind.

My notebook sits in the drawer.

The appointments have all been

crossed in red.

I think of living and

death, and of

uncertainty, and how

the curve of worlds and life is not,

at times,

differentiable.

We tunnel out

in quantum leaps

if fortune smiles.
The Hidden Nook of Emotions

Surreptitious
wants

ran hideously far

through the sheaths of

blotted

pardons

to that darkened nook

of the dusty

sky with

a faltering

star --

where the condensed breaths of

a morbid

fantastic

hankering
remained trapped

for eternity

or until

the

venom

broke them free to

deluge amply

the verdant meadows.

 Spring 2018
Bill Freind

Amusement Park

Sun blare. Things were supposed to happen, policies were to be enacted. The A/C is a happy isolation. Politics as
cosplay, the smells from the almost uniforms. Hollows fill with god or battle. That’s not supposed to be a tiki.
Helicopters crash. Rudolf Hess is still dead.

Interstate Aerials: 1 866 453 BOOM

Once, anything could be purchased. Now, anything can be rented. Everyone was named Kayla or some form of Sean.
Whatever happened to the game shows? The structures proceed apace, as we sail in reverse.

Birthday

Is it wrong to care about minigolf? The water trap taunts me, pretending to spoof. Across from FDR’s estate the drive-
in is showing Dunkirk and The Nutjob 2.
Farm Stand

All the signs are scrawled and unread. The farmer pretends to be a farmer. The mealy fruit blur, as if they’d nap on the
wall of a dentist’s waiting room. McMansions past the corn, the box stores, the wireless plans are as they are. Noon
congeals to zucchini. Good enough.

Puyallup

Northwest shibboleth in a glacial basin. Nickleback plays at the former internment camp. Have a scone, and pretend
that’s not a volcano.
 Spring 2018
Gabriella Garofalo

Sometimes pictures get under your skin

In a most peculiar way, right?
Let’s tune our song of praise, then -
Among the walls still time,
It tastes of wild roots and loss
As light grabs your seeds, what’s over there?
Blind alleys on the moon, scant faith on the table -
Of course, of course she can’t make life
As long as fathers swirl words or stain breath
And God in the background skips parties, smiles,
Or chances snow, the abysmal fruits of silence -
Oh, but he’ll see to seeds from gelded seasons,
You said, winter will see to it -
Will he keep the promises he made? No,
Just look at those thin shapes, clouds:
The city fast asleep is yours, ready to show
Shadows if other rooms put you and light to sleep -
Desks, chairs, windows, you never cared,
What really matters is your whiteness who begs
For lymph to flow, to breath in trees, how nice,
While fathers shadow thoughts,
While children smile and conquer -
Father, while souls throw
Swearing words around
Or yank you, forgiveness a far cry -
Know what? Rooms kill, all of them,
Only trees rise their branches
To shelter maybe brushwood, but not you -
‘Cause the room is dark, you see,
And two fathers in a corner
In a gloomy frenzy-
Well, of course their children
Are going to tie the knot.
Few letters encase a still life,
Yet kind souls wish you a nice day:
The hearts are white, a bad omen -
Beware when clematis, lost kids and missing stars
Are waiting for their past -
Has she ever shown up bare handed ?
Please do come along,
She’ll give us chilly breezes, friends, thoughts
Lovers too, evening, right?
Lovers who tiptoe, lovers who don’t make much noise -
Some hope, here, how many stares
Deserted grass, how many died?
Please do come along,
Sweeter than answers sourer than wine -
Remember?
“Nope” to Mother’s words you shouted, soul,
You wanted him to stay, that’s why -
Remember?
Weren’t my swears lucky,
You gave abode, you called them
“Forever young and rebel prayers” -
Not that it matters now, clematis, soul -
Yet so you said.
 Spring 2018
Gilles Ansiaux

« Elements »

Burned houses, Ashes of tenderness, slips with the water

and left with the strange feeling of a never returning past.
Dogs getting crazy with the smell and the sound.
Trees shouting out, begging for his roots to be strong.
Anyway it will be soon over.
Peter flipped a coin.
Tails!!!
He lives.
Storms, rain, waves and fire couldn’t get rid of him.
He’s only feeling was sadness.
Happiness to be alive! But sadness.
Completely empty .
As if what he saw was essential and makes him feel like part of the world.
An essential gear in nature’s mechanical.
His strength came from the waves.
His sadness from the rain.
Happiness from the sun.
He loved even with storm which could leave him breathtaken seeking around for some rest.
It made sense now, nature is screaming.
“Selfdestruction” in his eyes.
No therapie was needed, only love.
Love of Humanity!
 « Dissonance »

No WAY!
Errancy was a word Tracy couldn’t feel anymore.
She swings over and over again.
Her dreams were jeopardized
by the unfinishing amount of reality served on unhappy mirrors.
Indeed she tried to frame those by make up and stands, friends and fake laughs.
The trick worked but swore hollow into her heart.
Everbody knew, Everbody played, Everybody quits…
Quits what meant to be true and faithfull to her own desires.
She pleased and the more she pleased the more she wanted to please.
Pleased by slaverie.
Tightened by some invisible ropes which gathered all of them.
She prayed for freedom and hoped for a path.
The right path that leads her to herself to her confidence and selfworth.
 « Life and death of fallen stars »

Abandonned in the arms of a so called beloved stranger.

Hustling some feelings for a flat to rent.
Lucy would have loved to study further.
But life chose for her…
She became addicted !
Addicted to numbers under mattrasses,
Smoking papers after charmless gunshots.
And wounds…
Wounds that will never heal…
Heads up she crossed life but crippled in her heart she faced time.
Her age is her strength, her beauty her shield.
She thinks she could hide that way forever.
Unfortunately mirrors answers badly to tickening clocks.
Anyway, for now everything’s alright.
Independant and quiet proud of it.
Somehow something’s missing.
A presence, a ghost, a nobody that could fill her heart with pur and eternal love.
Love that she never met and will never meet.
Love that vanished in the young ages.
Love that she would exchange with all the sugardaddies she shad known.
Love… of a fallen star !
 Spring 2018
Izzy Oneiric

from the full-length manuscript Bibliomantica Poetica, a work comprised of fragments collaged from several thousand
texts published between 1719 and 1939:

*Text of the Second Quarto Must Have Stolen Content

*Trappers in an Unsuitable Chancel
*Images Whistle, Too Grand!
*Honeyed Cud of Youthful Thought
*Fossils of Capricious Opinion (Traceable by Pathos)
 Spring 2018
Juanita Rey

MY FIRST REAL WINTER

My homeland rises
from that cranky boiler
two floors below
to fill the radiators
which, in turn,
supply the rooms with memory.

Familiar temperature
finds me seated on a parlor couch,
dispenses with the blanket
over my knees.

Even the country

that surrounds me now
melts a little of its window ice.
FLOR DEL ALMA

Down at the dock,

my mother steered her train
of children
past the trinket sellers
with a jerk of the nearest arm
but I was the caboose,
and a man selling books
at a makeshift table
caught my eye.

“Poetry,” he said softly.

“Would you like to buy one,
ginger eyes?”
Of course, I had no money.
And my mother was not about
to waste hers
on the wares of a man
with head draped in a variation
of Jamaican dreadlocks.
But, unlike the ones who
pushed their junk on passersby,
he was almost reticent,
embarrassed, to be selling
what he referred to as,
his flor del alma.

I was always the lingerer,

the one who sought out the worthy.
Like the harbor view
instead of the bustling grocery store.
The gull’s nest
and not the used car lot.
The edge, not the middle
where all the business got done.
My own flor del alma.
Or any place where I could wander.
A FOOL NO MORE

Cobbled together like anyone else

from the usual fusion of gametes,
Cried like a baby when I was a baby
and believed the myths
until it was time to disbelieve.
Picked up after myself,
embraced life’s labor,
asked for only what others
were willing to give,
explored when I was curious,
fitted in when I wasn’t,
was average on the scale,
twin ears, ten toes,
should have been easily lost
in the crowd
but somehow you found me.
And sat me in a chair.
And placed a pointed dunce cap
on my head.
In other words, we dated
for a while
and I figured all that you said to me
was sincere.
Two arms, a brain,
able to stretch out the former
on the advice of the latter.
So are you ready for this?
Here’s your ring back.
 Spring 2018
John Rigney

What

Whispers hide attenuate temerity

titrate hero’s every hope, each last lugubrity.
Inspect. Predict. Undulate tachycardia:
Senescence obligates my engagement
Redacted anomie necessitates denied measure
Weltschmertz: Orphic riposte, dendritic salvage
Dance on, willful necrosis
out, now
Trixie, honey—in space
pending, a glutinous extensible:
see everything; explode into fulfillment
antithesis now your only novel experience;
necessities over time imitate certainties, extirpate solidity.
 Spring 2018
Jonathan N. Mulcahy

Fur for the Prince of Bohemia

holy roman numb

chipewyans push on
to rupert’s land
gouvernail steering
milleux labouring
avant dictating
stirring gerundial fur
spells// paddle-farm
lands out-of-water
zeros of negative
space// binary hits// stopping
only for portage land-
hack//trading weapons
on oscillating waves// new
divination technique
metis rebels intercept
their signal// over-
ride government
network// aasha// otshee
denial-of-service attack
random bytes flood via
plain packets// grey
white hats// grey black hats
conflict of interpretations
slit throats bypass
security alert//
gerechtigkeitswelle
10,000 economic suicides
troubadours mime songs
of a supercommunity
white crocuses rinsed in
dispersing cliché
 Spring 2018
Judith Chalmer

Belief

Afternoon. A snarl and hiss

from the grassy hummock.

Mayflies on the columbine.

Funny, it is and is not as we expected.

Toes lifted, the willow waits,

up to its knees in water. But is,

of course, why we’re here, lugging

and guying at site twenty-nine,

rinsing out our everyday senses.

It was important, though we delayed,

to leave home. Important as touch,

that lands here and somehow –at the same time-

blushes there. A sunbeam ripples up

the leaning tree. Dead stumps gather nearby,

gesturing. Stems collect in the current, here

a basket, here a line, lily blossom cupping

something clear. Before sense made sense,

there was only light, as when the fence blew down,
and the driveway out the kitchen window
unlearned its meaning. Who knows how

we got here. Neck first, then knobby legs,

last, the wings we hadn’t known were there.

Meaning flirts from form to form. Evening

slips over the lily pads. Something eats.

At times, we’re crushed. A dark crayon

draws water, olive and orange, the red ink

scrolling of the stems. By night, a shift,

the wind teasing the clouds, the clouds playing

late in front of the mirror. Our paddles tip, tangling

with the moon. Now a mist grows from the pond.

We settle in the dark, curled together in our tent.

Green leaves in their millions crying each, each.
Album

We wouldn’t have been that quiet.

And, of course, you weren’t with me.

It must have been night time.

Unless I’m confused.

I’m sure we were not quiet.

I know there were nights.

I remember we were caught once

a distance from the car and coyotes --

It must have been night time.

Charcoal and dun. Cream, of course,

snow everywhere. It must have been

you in technical colors. Reef coral.

or maybe lime twist. Maybe

it was day but definitely

it was winter. I’m not capturing

the quiet. I’m thinking

you were with me.

We wouldn’t have been quiet.

But there it was, the kind of quiet—

is jumps out at you. Is hangs

like a ghost in front of you.

There were wonders.

I mean I didn’t know you.

We were like children.

There was danger, the kind

that persuades you. Animal.
Mineral. Our lives shaken up
and pieced together again.

Is, that path before you

leading forward and back.

The sleepy boughs fill in

behind. Ahead, the slender

glittering web. Stunning,

the distance, the quiet.

Daylight, moonlight,
the way we were,

you and I, toes

touching across a couch.
The Shore

Today, trunks, tender and awkward,

lean over the path and the pond

a few steps below shivers green.

It’s hot. It’s cold. That’s how it is.

Months go by. The stream one day

shocked white at the heart,

like a sweep of hair

when the woman you love turns

toward you. Next day, it seems,

blackberries, late in their season,

dangle between you. Emerald

and amber, fern over fern,

shades of mint, shades of lime,

notched lobes shifting, nodding

in the breeze. There was a dying

last year, sunny at the edge of the lake,

and great mounds of ice

flaked the shore, shattered

by change deep in the center.

There were handfuls. You could

reach in. They were delicate

and veined. The waves

were ample and slow

to tear it apart.
 Spring 2018
Kevin Ryan

The First Jamaican Church Experience

It's one of those nights, where this mind is racing & feels of fire, trying to fall back asleep is a futile effort. So
here I am. I felt it necessary to write this to you, tonight, & hopefully helping me write it out a bit, will calm
the seas inside. This is the story I wanted to share with you & is a good example with how I develop the
stories I live. Dianne & Peter are 82 & 84 respectively, together they developed the creative arts program at
USC Santa Cruz in the 1960s. I'm humbled & honored to be within their lives, but even better, our
friendships all grow further because of each others shared input regarding all our lives. Drew & Tia are
friends from Negril & you'll see them in the video, I'll attach a link to, before the story. Coincidentally, Drew
lives in Santa Cruz. Coincidences are sometimes commonplace in the life I live, as I once heard, "a
coincidence is God winking at you" from a woman in Alabama.

First, a quick section about Tia & her family. They play music & have for 40 years now, well her parents
have, she's 25. The "Ode to Mama Ruth"
poem,http://www.blazevox.org/BX%20Covers/BXFall2017/Kevin%20Ryan%20-%20Fall17.pdf Mama Ruth is
Tia's Mom & she's a beautiful soul, they both are. The story that is Tia & I is still being lived & it is deep. Even
as I write this to you, tears well in my eyes. I Love her in absolute, our friendship is incredibly difficult to
explain, it's obviously noticeable when we are together in the same room. There's a lot to it, and that story,
those stories will be written when I feel the time is right. March 27th, 2015 was one of the most impactful &
profound days I have ever lived. I'm still gathering & cultivating life from that day, from 3pm it involves Tia,
her family, Drew & an adventure deep into the hills outside of Lucea, Jamaica, before involves me, a cave
carved in the coral cliffs, the sea & an other worldly mushroom experience with a 16th century soundtrack.

Tia was married last November, on Election Day, to a Trump supporter. Also more layers to this story, but
for now, keeping things focused on this story & introducing you to a lot of me & family in Jamaica. I have
spoke with Mama Ruth a lot this year & she often lets me know how she wishes I was her son. I assure her
that my Love is True, for her, for Tia & the family; there is hopefully an abundance of life for us to live &
share. It's not as painful anymore with the path Tia decided to take, I Love her & I support her in ways that I
know she feels & appreciates. When I was in Negril this past March, it was awkward for only a few moments,
but as cliche as it may sound, I firmly believe there's a greater force, greater than this self & greater than Tia,
that defines our friendship & chemistry. One dream Tia & I have is building schools in Jamaica, early
elementary kindergartens, her idea, I'm learning ways with how. Her daughter, Taydrea, as Tia puts it, "fell
in Love with me first" when I first laid eyes on Tia & it's true. Tia was singing & Tay was already wanting to
be in my arms at the age of two, she's five now. As I said, deep roots have been planted & have been growing.

Tia, Taydrea & Tia's adopted daughter Akalia from last March at the Castle.

https://youtu.be/pOfdypvRQn4
Princess Tia & The Overtakers
https://youtu.be/644-fyrCH84
A great introduction to their music & way
Good Afternoon Peter &
Dianne,

Yesterday morning when I

woke at 4:30, the energy &
the direction the day was
already leading me towards
was this story, the story in
which I first entered a
church in Negril. I have yet
to truly write anything
about it, but I have spoken
about the experience to
friends face to face. It's
incredibly powerful & due
to the climate of the current
times, keeping in mind the
amount of change
(sometimes difficult) a lot of
folks are experiencing, I
feel it necessary to invest
the time to pass it along.

Included in this message, carbon copied, are two dear friends I have grown to admire & Love, Drew & Tia. I
have only seen their smiling faces thus far on that Island of Hope & Love. There's another person as well
"carbon copied blindly", who I feel should have the opportunity to read this, if they so choose to do so.

An incredibly quick aspect to point out, the year prior in Jamaica, at a "King's party", (a story for another day!)
Tia & I discussed Gospel music & our Love for it. I asked her if she would take me to her church the next
year visiting, as so I could experience & hear her sing the Gospel. Still one of my favorite Gospel songs is
"Peace in the Valley", I've always resinated well with the valley motif in those spiritual songs of psalms &
grace.

https://youtu.be/OZVF0Uh7i4I

The night of March 19th, 2016, Princess Tia (her stage name & also creates great mystique to the stories soon
to be shared) & a friend of hers came to the Castle where I reside in Negril. We all conversed in the deep,
dark night the west end can provide & were soon joined by another guest taking quarters above the tower
room I was staying.

Jim, the Parrot, as someone coined him perfectly due to his chatterbox & volume, joined in on our
conversation. It was crystal clear that Jim had too much alcohol to drink & began living up to his pet-name.
Often the case with those who drink heavily, he began to dominate the conversation & his motives became
obvious, being in the presence of two beautiful young women.

Once the conversation became deeper & personal in nature, I put my guard up, along with a heightened
sense of awareness. Tread lightly, or try to. Once he told me my input wasn't necessary involving children
because I didn't have any, my blood began to boil. How dare anyone say these words to me without even
knowing my name, let alone personal history. Divide & conquer was his strategy seemingly & I would not
continue without speaking my mind before exiting the conversation. To tell me that I do not know anything
about children & how hard separation can be when a father leaves a family could not be left
unaddressed https://www.dropbox.com/s/u3iyhvbh624q9cr/••••••• The First Departure •••••••
1995.pdf?dl=0 considering the essay from 1995 I shared with you all. I was immediately upset & turned that
burned, bright red I saw so many years ago. I was angry in paradise due to a past that found its way here. As
Tia put it, “you got real with him” & I had to.

After saying what I needed to in that emotion, I retreated to my room, & began listening to the Stars, because
they soothe this soul. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=et_lDyRymrw Once that occurred, Tia saw her
friend to her exit & Jim went off to his room, the other tower room above mine. When Tia returned, she saw
& could feel what deep pain I was in. I was angry that I was angry & immediately felt horrible for lashing out
on someone as I just did. I prefer to be calm & tranquil, a sea of glass. Tia kept reassuring me that I did what
was necessary & what was just. I am an emotional being & that was an emotional response, from a past that
is deeply rooted & the fabric of my very being as a person. Once she knew that I was calming, listening to the
deep sea sounds, the vastness of the Stars & space, she left; asking before leaving, “Will I see you at church
tomorrow morning?”, “Of Course” was my reply & I could taste the sea from the teardrops cascading from
my face. I slept like a baby to the sound of the Stars & old spiritual gospels recorded from the 1920s & 30s in
North Carolina.

https://youtu.be/kjeW8vEfRLQ

Waking up the next morning at 4:30, I sat and continued reading Don Quixote until the skies began to hint
of day break, still listening to the Stars. For whatever reason, the parallels of the first few hundred pages of
Cervantes's Opus were impossible to ignore & it was an enthralling distraction from the sudden reality I was
facing. I was nervous, having strange, sour energy about going into the public area to see the sea whilst
sipping coffee, but then I thought of the experience waiting only a few hours away. Church. I did not want to
see Jim, but I did needed to see Jim. The morning swim would surely help calm my nerves & as is customary
with being submerged in the depths of the Caribbean, a thought, a way, would come to mind as I focused on
breathing & gazing at the ocean’s floor.

Once out of the water & a second cup of coffee in hand, Jim joined me. He apologized for his drunken
behavior, as did I for expressing such anger, but informing him that he hit a nerve. The thought the seas
provided was offering him an invitation to church that morning. I asked & he accepted, a peace offering. I
informed him when we would be leaving & I already acquired transportation through an acquaintance;
Lloyd would be ready in an hour.

Once in Lloyd’s car, Jim confirmed to me that this would be his first church experience in Jamaica as well.
We both had know idea what to expect, but I went in with joy & relief. I learned how to forgive & forget in
the span of a couple hours, which was & can be difficult for me, the feeling of paradise returned.

When arriving to the church & entering, the Bible study was concluding, a study on forgiveness & the
importance of it. I remember uttering to myself, “you can’t make this stuff up.” I did not know anyone there,
besides Jim & Tia was yet to arrive. As the congregation kept arriving, I smiled to some & we sat towards the
back of the small church. It was warm, but not hot yet, as it was still morning, but soon the sun would peek &
the sound of fans humming became just a bit louder, as water was distributed to all.

Tia messaged & was running late, island time, as they say. I informed her that I brought a guest, Jim. She was
stunned, but she also knows how I am & was concerned if he was still drinking or drunk. I assured her, he
wasn’t & it was a gesture of keeping good faith. When she arrived, her smile was bright and beaming, but
also shaking her head as I was sitting next to Jim once again. The lingering odor of alcohol couldn’t be
hidden.

The Sunday service already began at this point & I was at peace with the moment, there was no other place I
would rather be. Now a Caribbean church service can be long, up to three hours, but I already informed Jim
I would stay for the whole service, when he felt he had enough & wanted to move on, I would call Lloyd and
he could roam where he wished.

The first sounds of music were beautiful, booming & true, a beat accompanied the hearts that were open and
ready to let the Light in. The voices were loud & Tia, oh that voice! I was in Heaven hearing this gospel. Even
Jim was moved, it was hard not to be with the sounds and energy radiating inside, what looked from the
outside, a simple stone & wood church. This was a church service I truly have never experienced in my life,
growing up a seldom practicing Roman Catholic, this was truly the polar opposite & thought if Jesus, the
man, were here today, this must be the place where he would dance with delight.

After about an hour & a half, Jim was ready to leave. He was hungry & hung over. I understood & messaged
Lloyd. As Jim left, I noticed he wandered down the road a bit, but felt all would be fine. Now I sat alone in a
church with such power & performance. The energies I felt were positive & the message was that of Love &
forgiveness. Wonderful, this is exactly what I needed at that moment. Seeing Tia perform in her element
truly made her presence appear as the soulful Princess she certainly is. She was standing & sitting with her
family in Christ behind the pulpit. The drums, the piano & the singing seldom stopped. The messages were
being delivered, one by one to the parishioners & one by one, each person on the pulpit platform spoke their
passion. A Bible was handed to me, allowing me to follow along with the Word(s) sometimes said &
oftentimes sung.

Someone approached to inform me that the driver, Lloyd, was outside the church parked. I thanked her,
reassuring her I was going to witness the service all the way through to its conclusion. More singing, hands
in the air, the highest of praise continued. The fans throughout were all on high, the buzzing couldn't be
heard, not through this glory, their glory, our glories; even with the temperature climbing, inside & out.

I sensed the conclusion & could see that my attention was being sought. The Good Sister ministering this
special Sunday was waving at me & called for presence at the underside of the pulpit. Without hesitation I
stood up & walked in her direction. Once beneath where she stood with a microphone in hand, she
whispered into my ear to stand still & let the moment manifest into what it needs to. I nodded in support.
She then called for all the men of the church to stand & form a circle around me at the front of the pulpit.
One by one, they approached & stood side by side, I was in the center of their circle, as the men joined
hands.
The music was deafening; drums
beating, keys sounding true & the choir
singing. The Good Sister started
ministering to the circle of men to pray
for me, yelling & shouting, her words
would echo for eternity in any valley.
One by one, the voices of the men spun
in a circle, with such speed in which
they were speaking, spinning around
me. I closed my eyes & focused on only
those circular sounds speaking &
swirling around my being. The Good
Sister still booming, & my arms now in
the air, my pale blue eyes began to
open, the rivers of Babylon streamed
down my face. This was an experience I
never have felt. The Good Sister
instructed a strong, stern man to join me in the circle to embrace my being. His arms opened & invited me
into them, his grasp wrapping around my body with such strength. Holding me as tight as possible, this hug,
this prayer circle, felt of hours, yet lasting only minutes. Still hearing the swirling statements surrounding
me, the Good Sister assured all to let loose of the moment, my eyes still spilling the waters of the sea.

The man embracing me let go & shook my hand, slowly, one by one, the circle of men surrounding me,
unclasped their hands, approached to shake mine & introduced themselves. I felt so accepted. I felt so many
things & was struggling for words, so I said only hallelujah & my name shaking each man's hand. As the last
man shook, I was standing still before the pulpit, eyes red, heart full & spirit free, the service was concluded
by the Good Sister.
As I stood before the stage, nearly everyone in the church approached me to introduce themselves to offer a
hello, a hug & a smile. A fellowship found me & I found a fellowship. Still speechless, the word that was in
mind was powerful. The only other white skinned attendee at the church approached, shook my hand &
asked, "Rejuvenated?" I smiled & said, "yes, powerful!"

Stepping away from the pulpit is when the Princess approached, Tia was apologetic, stating she had nothing
to do with what unfolded, fearful that I would disapprove. I reassured her that this is a powerful blessing of
rejuvenation & smiled. I could sense that even she was having difficulties understanding what unfolded to
conclude this Sunday's worship.

Once outside the church, entering the bright, hot heat, I saw Lloyd leaning on the hood of his car. "How was
it? he asked, & I smiled saying, "powerful & rejuvenating." He explained that he came to pick up Jim, but
couldn't find him & decided to sit in his car, listening to the service, instead of retreating back home, in case
Jim returned. We filled his car with folks from the fellowship needing a ride down the western mountain
road to the main one near the sea. Once we reached the main road, Tia saw Jim, beer in hand, walking in the
direction towards the Castle.

We pulled over & offered a ride, he climbed in & asked, "how was the rest?" "Powerful & Rejuvenating." He
complimented the Princess on her pipes, "you can truly sing, I wish I could have stayed for the rest, but I got
hungry & needed a drink and a cigarette." We reassured him all was fine & that peace prevailed that day for
every one present.

I will conclude this message in stating that the following weekend was the Easter celebrations, which I also
was within. From Good Friday to Easter Monday, each day its own story. Incredibly profound to have lived
& experienced. Dianne, you mentioned you thought, even believed that I would be returning to Jamaica
soon. In a way you are correct, by the way of the word. To write this & what soon shall follow, is returning,
albeit in a mental way, as opposed to the physical, but even that perhaps shall soon come. Day by day, one
by one...
Peace & Love,
Power & Rejuvenation,
Kevin
 Spring 2018
Kevin Ryan
 Spring 2018
Margaret Watson

PEDWAY

as
atoms or
after pebbles
atoms turn
attract to
stone
and
pavers plebians
re-sort become
to poets
roads maybe
even patricins
peers as
grow only
into mystery
and
romance landscape
distill to
a collar
stratus or
mist reveal
graying possibilites
over a of
the
existence
of
infinity
with
the BE-
last COMING then
alive A twilight
STAR persists
as
a
warped
afternoo
n
restless,
looks
toward a
blazer,
dies
just
sky
berfore
with
the
atom
inner
after
atom
snares
the
gold.


OVID

I want to speak about bodies changed into new forms.
You, gods, since you are the ones who alter these, and

all other things, inspire my attempt, and spin out a
continuous thread of words, from the world's first
origins to my own time.

O’Hara O’Keefe O’Neill Obama Odo Ono

lunchtime/skull-flowers/plays/black/Frenchking/Beatles

OLIVETTI

mgifdihodfgm’sertobmfd’glmf’lgeorg’awpeojmfMFANE

OWEN

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

OLMSTED

Claiming the earth with a sense of
space : pastoral lakes and land-leg
trees of slender elms and nimbus
clouds : teeming shrubs or falling
creepers : sunken roads green gil-
led meadows : levering earth with
a pause to praise : souls takeover.


 VANQUISHED

Last summer I was invited

to a porch party
overlooking Curt is
L ight house.Someone
poured me a glass of red
wine and pointed out
clouds. He told me about
a website called Cloud
Appreciation Society.
Everyday a cloud is posted
in your inbox with
explanations, a quote, and
a photo from a
memberfrom New
Zealand, Austria, Brazil,
Las Vegas, the Shetlands
or anywhere else around
the globe A lenticularis,
c i rcumze nit ha lc i rrus ,
fobbow, pileus, shelf
cloud, “I made a wish on a
sliver of a moonlight
cloud with a sly grin and a
bowl of stars.” or from a
Cloud King: a beautiful
youth with two large sable
wings, employed in
raising storms, tearing up
forests by roots, blowing
castles and convents). Fly
home last week at forty
t housand feet over
Greenland in lacunosus
clouds was like gazing up
at soap suds from the
bottom of a warm bubble
bath. Then I remembered
my father marked for
destinations to bomb in
WWII over New Guinea.
When I was in the eighth
grade, I wore one of those
maps as a scarf.
 Spring 2018
Mark Young

for Geof Huth

& his Big Five-Oh

5/25/10

a birthday cake inside,

a file
 an
alphabet
‫א‬

‫ת‬
 align

tripod

borrow

an
alphabet

catalyst

effulgent

motley

aerial
 shaman amoeba ossuary policy nuançe quincunx

the dawn whether glare

piano
susurrus hole
forte

femme
efficacy palace titanium the
triste

lite
brocade
nite goƢ

& her tribe latchkey

heat
ficcione jetsam
exchange

seraph grain fulcrum cañón besides rhumba

 sub- Roy
tangent albeit
genre Orbison

... errant fɵˈnɛtɨks deny

gamut !

oligarch 総角 flaw plethora

apples
tabula
or content endive
rasa
pears?

in
trellis descant nested
manga
 ‫א‬ shaman amoeba align ossuary policy nuançe quincunx

the sub- Roy

tangent tripod whether albeit glare
dawn genre Orbison

piano
susurrus ... errant borrow hole fɵˈnɛtɨks deny
forte

femme an
efficacy palace
triste alphabet
titanium gamut ! the

lite
oligarch 総角 brocade catalyst
nite
flaw plethora goƢ
apples
tabula
or content & effulgent her tribe endive latchkey
rasa
pears?

heat in
trellis descant motley ficcione nested jetsam
exchange manga

seraph grain fulcrum aerial cañón besides rhumba ‫ת‬

 Spring 2018
Michael Berton

Variation on a Maturing Dream

apricot weird taste tangy sponge

from my wayward sea voyage
buoyancy is not a hindrance but
an ego gratification of released sperm
rising through personality salted waves
tumbling with a thimble full of hubris
dying in the arms of a soldier
lover on the battlefield excess
thirst thriving in the foliage
green aqua auras vibrating by the cuff
trembling two fingers width accordion
stretch yanks hard stomach muscles
cramping silhouette ruins
lots of mind caucasian gauze eyes
tremendous lashes flutter constant
hallucinations hitched on a damp wad
tongue in around gums rewind and weave
E. G. O. (Edging God Out)

staring into
flesh tatooed
with invisible ink
made visual through redundancy

danced by dunces
dueling fingered deuces
with tarts clothed in silk and artifice

scrumptious and burrowed by rickets

regenerative
scalp topsoil
mulch
dead skin clogged pores
acne pustules corns and cysts

arthritic cream
inflammation lamentable
perusal over the surface
of craters and mounds

jostling and jiggling

psychochemical maneuvers
inside the brainscape where maps emotional density
of improvisational shallowness
ambient and mesmered
by overhanging buffoonery

choral clamoring
for the right
to be left
out of the communal
peace pipe offerings

that is not psychotherapy

claiming rudimentary diversity
potlatch anti-depressant
crushing the universe
in mud huts
and cemeteries
Squealing in the Woodshed at the Far End of the Farm

are the Amish still

getting a bad rap
hip hop bebop
and motown funk
their old ways
is a cat and mouse
cartoon on acid
like free jazz
hallucinates
from the brow
the sweat of
narcotic nipples
found on the lips
of saxophone strongmen
practicing circular breathing
Rambunctious

where do the children play

skip slide hang on bump
into squeal swing on roll
around scream climb up
fall down imagine themselves
as another swallow dirt
yell help cry shout out
annoy poke at throw rocks
spit punch dance kiss kick
the ball hug hold hands
tackle pummel laugh make
faces act silly pass gas run
around knock heads get ants
in their pants eat ice cream
spill milk take a nap dribble
on a pillow hide and seek
wet their pants pick their
nose skin their knees day
dream secrets of youth
into adulthood create
memories for their old age
Sweating Tikal

claustrophobic foliage
announcing howler monkeys
sounding symbolic decay

honor the sweat

stained on stone
and behold King Moon shine

svelte jaguar
pantomimes claws
around talking vines

navigate circumference
hyperbole of the sun
and jungle wingspan

humans flushing toxins

up and down
eternity steps
touch the tops
of trees mugging
blue skies

honor the improvisation

hummingbirds reverb
upon temples and pyramids
a cacophony
in oral architecture
 Spring 2018
Natalie Jones

THE DAY WE

Saw the place where we all saw that day

In a wave
No, an expanse
No, it was

Is this? This is?

Assign a color to the air

The brain fills
is filled with [ ]

Voice breaks the sound of

an impenetrable sound
OPTIC

Be my eyes, feel bad

Chiaroscuro focus
Now deliberate
GYRE

The
weightless
feeling
of the
feel
of
feeling
the
weight
of the
feeling
 Spring 2018
Nels Hanson

New London

Any child with half a heart

could see cruel place it was,
why the name I never knew,
a Valley country small Dust
Bowl slum the last remaining
citizens long gave up trying
to leave. My grandfather and
I drove its gravel street as he
murmured “Grapes of Wrath,”
the lone book on the cupboard
corner shelf except the battles
of his World War 1 Pine Tree
Division. Cold December day
I saw the teenage boy’s white
face whiter than any freezing
soldier’s dream of white, red
reddest hair a leaping sudden
orange flame, in a shack’s dirt
yard with twisted willow poles
and a chicken wire torn fence.
He tossed half a slice of bread
to quick green-scarlet rooster,
small kind they call a “banty,”
and to the lame cream-colored
hen tilting as it tried to follow.
 Enough

“Yes, it’s a long row to hoe,”

lost farmers admitted once,
world of things not the way
you wish, April frost, plums’

falling price, horse sick with

harness gall, gas three-stroke
John Deere’s piston flaming
before your precious turn at

ditch water, vineyard’s 100

furrows unplowed. It’s true,
someday carve dusty credo
on polished rock, sketch in

red looping contrails pilots

scrawl across a blue forever
innocent of clouds. A warm
rain blowing overnight from

Coast to San Joaquin’s wide

sky spoiled the drying raisins
again. Tired Spirit, drop long-
handled hoe, let quick white
ghosts of weeder geese crop
evil Johnson Grass, up a row,
down next, another, in single
perfect file. Breathe patiently

while Sierra snowmelt runs

own good pace for coaxing
purple cotton petals to green
currency all cabbage leaves.

Accustomed now, trust bank

loans are never due, pump’s
diesel low. No Jack in a Box
springs grim surprise, wife’s

burst appendix, barn ablaze,

each birthday child’s crutch
grown taller, polio’s century,
1930s’ long March of Dimes.
 Spring 2018
Nicholas Alexander Hayes

Hall of Heroes

Laughter echoes
through the
Hall of Heroes.

But they will not allow

me entry.

But perhaps I might sit

by dumpsters in the rear.

And perhaps Daniil Kharms

will light my cigarette
as he rummages through
celestial trash, looking
for something he can eat.

Perhaps Oscar Wilde will

look up from the gutter
and ask, “What did you do?”

“I ran my mouth then ran away.”

They will not laugh,

and we will slink away
before the Hall empties.
 Mother of Exiles

I met an orangutan from the forbidden zone

Who said—“an enormous visage in a crown
Stands on the beach…. Near it human bones
in a cave made of a torn copper gown.
A torch whose flame always burns rests in sand
Tells that its sculptor knew well fervent hope
Which erodes from a giant severed hand
To the joy of the simian misanthrope
And on a plaque, these words appear:
…Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles… a fragment and bold
proof of a human life less austere
than man chained to a tree for children’s games
by wise Proteus in the thirteenth scroll.”
 Spring 2018
Nicholas Martino

Alone with Insects

Never mind what I remember

Swimming Ethan’s saltwater pool.

Never mind blue beveled edges,

Jumper’s glory, risking nothing.

Never mind my swim trunks dripping

Bootleg shadows fast to my feet.

It drizzled for five minutes straight today

As I stood outside and said This is it,

Dumbstruck by cloud pith, seeking

The proper word for rainy concrete.

I’ll keep what I remember of leaving

Ethan’s pool. I let moonlight negotiate

The terms of my release:

A flummoxed field I cut through loneful,

Nothing holy, never suspecting a thing.

Docents

I pass a shipwreck every day on my way to work.

The vacant craft of water’s wear, the wood-to-bone
Workmanship of gentler ruin wakens something calm
And adolescent in me. Is it grace? That rotunda blue

Holds it like a bird of rust and rib gone limp

In a hunting dog’s soft mouth. I can’t help
But cry out when I see it. Once, I told you a dream I had
Of a museum of summer camp letters, of golden aisles

Full of tissue-paper missives and hollering scrawl, as if all we ask

Is safe harbor for our past selves, to dummy them up
Behind amniotic glass and purring, recirculating fans, forever.
Truth is, I’ve had it with sanctuary. Nothing real breaks through

The spotless museum’s mindless peace. Instead, give me tempest,

Give me four walls and a sledgehammer and I’ll bring you a slate of sky
So bright it hurts to look at. Let’s make that shipwreck ours.
Aren’t we always taking on water? Aren’t we always castaways

Of each uncertain moment to the next? Inside, you’ll find your roses—
Big as marshmallows—Fallen from the bush, the broken kitchen tiles
In the shape of states we haven’t been to yet. Come what may,
It cannot touch us now, the tide comes every day, the high water marks

Like pencil scratches arpeggio a doorjamb. All our loveworn stories

Have a home that crumbles, just as we do. Isn’t that better?
Isn’t that the honest-to-God truth of the matter? At sunset,
Artifacts of shadow fall across the ship,

And I am full of a ferocious love. May we always fall for the underdog.
 Spring 2018
Robert Wexelblatt

PETITE SUITE LITTERAIRE

1. Un Après-Midi à Paris - Trio Existentiel

One day in September, a week after the bourgeoisie had returned from their August in the country,
J.P. and Simone sat at their usual table outside the Café de Flore. He had ordered an anisette. “It makes a
change,” he said. Simone chose a pastis. Between the two there was but one mood; that is, both were
bored. To Simone, it was simply a case of seasonal ennui. If he had more energy, J.P. might have
attributed his condition to being condemned to freedom, though in reality it was mostly a matter of a
workaholic having time on his hands. His mind reverted to a slight he had received that morning from the
editor of an excessively respected journal. He had told the story to Simone, hoping for sympathy.
“Bertrand must think I look too intelligent to keep my word.” But Simone was uninterested in the matter
of the editor; she was thinking of a certain purple dress she had seen in a shop window. “Buying,” she
mused a little guiltily, “is a profound pleasure.” Of course, she didn’t say this out loud. What she did say
was, “Look. Isn’t that Albert?”
It was indeed Albert, who was hurriedly coming down the Boulevard Saint-Germaine looking like a
man with a migraine. On one side of him was a man Simone felt certain must be a Pied-Noir; he was thin
and sported a Franco-Hitlerian mustache—not Franco as in French but as in Francisco. On the other side
of Albert strode a young fellow J.P. recognized as an Algerian journalist, not the sort to pull his punches.
More than a decade later, J.P. would invite the perceptive Arab to contribute to the pages of Libération.
The Pied Noir was yelling in Albert’s right ear, the Algerian in the left one.
“Poor Albert. As a rule, he looks like Bogart, but today he resembles Superman in the issue where
he’s unable to turn off his super-hearing and the villains torment him by bashing trashcans near his head.”
Simone knew about everything, not just American movies but even their comic books.
Catching sight of the bored couple, Albert broke away from his tormentors and dropped into the
spare chair at their little round table.
“Ouf!” he groaned.
“Egg?” asked Simone.
J.P. corrected her. “Not oeuf, ma chère. Ouf.”
The waiter, who was even more bored than J.P. and Simone, meandered over and stood by Albert
as if, having committed some terrible faux pas in his adolescence, he was still being punished for it.
“Two aspirin and a Pernod.”
The waiter withdrew.
Meanwhile, the Pied Noir and the Algerian journalist came to blows. The fight was not edifying,
nor did it last long enough to be entertaining. As the Pied Noir was the first to hit the sidewalk, Simone
pronounced the Algerian the winner, as she said “more or less.” The two combatants straightened their
clothes. The Pied Noir also smoothed his hair, a gesture the curly-headed Algerian could omit. Dignity
restored, they stalked off in opposite directions.
“That’s what you get,” said J.P. to Albert.
“For what?”
“For not choosing, for not properly committing. Without engagement, what can you expect but to
be pulled this way and that? Oh, you shake things up; I’ll give you that. But only those who aren’t rowing
have time to rock the boat.”
“What did you see in the monster Stalin?” Albert retorted.
Simone answered for J.P. “Someone to admire at a safe distance.”
 J.P. answered for himself. “Stalin stood up for the people, the common people, for the collective
interest.”
“One leader, one people? What’s that signify but one master and millions of slaves? The welfare of
the people has always been the tyrant’s alibi.”
“Speaking of alibis,” said Simone, “what’s Freud’s?”
“Freud? Freud showed the way. Unfortunately, it was the wrong way. What we need is a truly
existential psychoanalysis,” said J.P.
Having turned the conversation in a more satisfactory direction, Simone went on at length. “The
man has the prurient curiosity of an adolescent. Freud claims to want to understand women but the best he
can come up with is penis envy. He doesn’t begin to grasp what the erotic is for a female, that sexual
pleasure in women is a magic spell, that it demands abandonment.” She then called Freud a rude name.
Albert said that Freud reminded him of a certain painter. “I told him that it wasn’t his paintings I
admire but his painting.”
The Pied Noir and the Algerian returned to resume their argument.
“You’re a man of the Right,” J.P. accused Albert.
“No, of the Left,” Albert protested.
“Right.”
“Left.”
Overhearing this, the Pied Noir, a veteran, began instinctively to march in place.
“Phallocrat,” said Simone to Albert.
“Democrat,” he replied.
“Same thing,” said J.P.
“That’s true,” said Simone. “The women of Athens weren’t allowed to vote.”
“No, not even Saint Lysistrata.”
“Apropos, I’ve broken up with Catherine.”
“Too bad, Albert,” said J.P. indifferently.
“But entirely predictable,” added Simone, who had always been vaguely impressed by the speed
with which Albert changed partners. “So, you’ll never see her again?”
 Albert’s reply was one that Simone could tell he had trotted out on many similar occasions.
“Friendship,” he declared, “may end in love, but love in friendship—never.”
The Pied Noir and the Algerian, worn out with arguing, approached the table and appealed to
Albert. He pretended they were not there at all. His headache had finally gone away and he didn’t want it
coming back.
And so, the discourse continued as dusk fell. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, lit up,
looked on impassively.
The waiter came over to say that he deeply regretted to inform them that unfortunately the café
would be closing for two hours. The staff had to prepare for a special dinner.
“For the President of the Republic?”
“No, Monsieur. For Mademoiselle Chanel.”
“What? That Fascist?”
The waiter gave a Gallic shrug.
The three rose to leave.
Albert and J.P. shook hands. “The need to be right is the sign of a vulgar mind,” the former
whispered into the ear of the latter.
“We don’t judge the people we love,” the latter whispered into the ear of the former.
Holding one hand out to Albert and, with the other, taking J.P.’s arm, Simone smiled complacently.
Then they departed, Simone and J.P. turning to the left, Albert to the right.
Nobody left a tip.

2. Un Automne à Vienne et Lyme Regis - Ouverture et Duo Érotique

In 1803, Ludwig van Beethoven was erupting. He spewed out three symphonies, including the
astonishing Third, completed before the summer was over. High into the cooling air of Vienna shot the
Waldstein; from the open casements of Schwarzspanierstrasse 15 wafted the motifs that would congeal into
Opus 47, the maestro’s ninth and best violin sonata. Yet this annus mirabilis had its disappointments.
Twice the maestro was compelled by his conscience to alter his dedications. Everyone knows the first
case. Bonaparte let the composer down, dashed his liberal hopes, when he crowned himself emperor. The
Eroica was furiously rededicated “to the memory of a great man.” The second case is less well known.
Not yet deaf, not yet cut off from good fellowship, Beethoven good-naturedly accepted the
impertinent yet sound suggestions of the virtuoso who was to premier his new sonata. His homely English
name notwithstanding, George Bridgewater was an African-European born in Poland, a prodigy. Their
happy collaboration prompted a dedication that is at once mocking, affectionate, and racist: Sonata per un
mulattico lunatico. How Bridgewater felt about this is unknown; however, we do know that the “lunatico”
made an insulting remark about a certain lady in Beethoven’s hearing, perhaps even for the composer’s
amusement. Perhaps Bridgewater wasn’t striking back at Beethoven; maybe he was entirely unaware that
the lady he traduced was one Beethoven knew and admired. Anyway, that was that. The mulattico
lunatico was blotted out in favor of Rudolphe Kreutzer, a musical rather than imperial Frenchman. So far
as anybody knows, Kreutzer never played the piece.

The Kreutzer Sonata is so amorous that, eighty-six years later, Tolstoy wrote a novella which
comes near blaming the music’s sexiness for adultery and murder. This was Tolstoy on his way to his final
ascetic, music-mistrusting phase, but those in authority entirely mistook the work’s puritanism. The
Russian government censored it, perhaps more for its narrator’s critique of marriage (Tolstoy’s wasn’t
exactly happy) than for the lurid crime passionnel. The United States Post Office, seldom praised for
insightful literary criticism, banned the book also, and President Theodore Roosevelt did himself little
honor in branding its author “a sexual and moral pervert.”
Did Kreutzer make it a point not to play the sonata? Did he think it cursed, or did he just not care
for the piece—or for Beethoven? Ironic that its rededication to him should be the one thing for which he’s
remembered. But for Beethoven’s crush and Bridgewater’s impropriety, Kreutzer would today be as
forgotten as are his own compositions. We can speculate that Beethoven fancied the lady so casually (or
deliberately) insulted by Bridgewater; we might even suppose that it is his longing for her that infuses
Opus 47, and that Beethoven’s wrath—a fearful thing to see, though glorious to hear—was more amorous
than racist.
 What else is there to say?
Will Eros always find a way?

Meanwhile, at the other end of Europe, a quite different eruption was preparing itself, one of
enlightenment and release. Don’t dishonor yourself by supposing it some vulgar tale of a hormone-crazed
youth and a frustrated older woman. Think rather of a pair of billiard balls careering across a green table,
solid, kinetic, hard. They collide, rebound, then rush off, each in a new direction.

George is fifteen. Jane is twenty-eight. Both are virgins.

“I despise cricket even more than Latin, almost more than mathematics.”
“Haven’t you found that when people say they despise an activity it’s generally because they aren’t
good at it?”
“Yes. I’m being unfair. Harrow isn’t really so harrowing. You’re right. The problem isn’t with
the school but with me. I’m paralyzed—I couldn’t go back last month because of—”
“Yes?”
He shook his head, like a horse tossing its mane. “Oh, call it yearning.”
“Yearning? I see. So, the way things are isn’t the way you’d prefer them to be?”
“Are they ever? For anyone? They certainly aren’t for my poor ruined and widowed mother. Are
they for you?”
“Oh, me. Never mind me. Still, we owe much to the difference between is and ought.”
“Dissatisfaction.”
“Yes. But also morality, religion, progress, invention, along with both tragedy and comedy.”
“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark? Am I just a boy to you? Are you making fun of
me?”
She laughed. “Is there something else I ought to make of you?” Jane couldn’t help but tease; it was
her nature, her manner of dealing with a world she understood so much better than it understood itself.
But George bridled. After all, he was not the world. And he was proud. At school, he was
prepared to fight at any hint of a slight—such as some too-justified crack about his father, the “Mad Jack”
who got hold of his second wife’s money by taking her name. This name was passed on to George along
with certain qualities and traits, including pride. And yet, though he couldn’t have said why, George found
being teased by Jane more agreeable than being praised by his mother. He did resent the way Jane brought
him down, yet he enjoyed it at the same time. It was perplexing. Anyway, talking with his mother was no
help for what was ailing him. It was only during his strolls with this witty woman that he was able to
forget his charming Mary for a time. But even then, to his dismay, he could be afflicted by one of his
stubborn erections. Evidently, a part of him had acquired a will of its own. He began to call it “Mad
Jack,” as if it were the spirit of his father. He couldn’t decide if he resented Jack or approved of him,
wanted to suppress or abet him. In short, George’s feelings were a mélange of baffled, tangled potentiality.
Resignation to her unmarried state did not prevent Jane from being fascinated by everything that
happens between men and women up until the wedding night. She thought about it, imagined it, wrote
about it. This writing was the consequence of her reading, and the novels she read were about young
people—chiefly young women—making their way to financial and marital security. So far, so good. But,
for Jane, romance divorced from reality was simply ridiculous. In fact, she was ridiculing it right there in
Lyme Regis, working away at her counter-novel. During the precious hours when she would write while
Cassie drew, Jane worked at sending up the Gothic fantasies over which the women she knew so
immoderately enthused. To Cassandra, she had compared them to a gaggle of Quixotes, looking at the
world through thick, wavy lenses, mistaking men for monsters, cellars for dungeons, and all to the end of
puffing up extravagant, factitious passions.
Satire was good literature’s revenge on bad writing—at least, it would be hers. She doubted her
anti-Gothic novel, or anything she wrote, would ever be published. She told herself it didn’t matter as she
already had her ideal reader in Cassandra, who, it seemed, would also never marry.
When the weather turned, poor Cassie caught a cold and was unable to join Jane for their daily walk
along the promenade. Over her mother’s objections, Jane went down to the sea wall by herself. It was on
one of these jaunts that she met George, likewise a solitary walker and refugee from a vigilant mother. He
was a quite handsome boy, educated, and as eager to talk as Jane was to listen. He looked older than his
age.
“I couldn’t go back.”
 “Because of Miss Chaworth?”
“Mary’s divine. But all this adoring from afar. . .” He threw up a hand, exasperated, very likely
with himself.
“You know what you don’t want. Do you know what you do?”
“Too much. I’m all wanting. I want everything.”
“Ah, I see. And if you got everything, where would you keep it?”
He glanced at her with annoyance, then broke into a smile. “And what about you? What is it you
want?”
“Oh, I? Sometimes I want. . . to want.”
“You’re remarkable, you know, quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
Jane blushed. “You’re too kind. And so very young. You can’t have met so many people.”
“That again.”
“It’s true. The young are impatient.”
“And so I am. Out of patience entirely. I want to grab hold.”
“You have greedy hands?”
“You would say so I think, you who are without greed.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge.”
George halted and took her soft hand in his greedy one. She wasn’t young and beautiful like Mary
Chaworth, but she was there and, though she concealed it well, he sensed that she enjoyed his physical
proximity. He certainly admired her and, besides, there was Mad Jack acting up again.

The one night they somehow arranged to spend together set George off on a life of motion,
notoriety, acclaim, scandal, a life famously crowded with affairs: Augusta, Elizabeth, Caroline, Claire,
Isabella, Teresa, les Macris, Elena, Marianna, Margarita, and so on.
As for Jane, romance and reality would ever after have a complicated relationship for her. She
imagined George over and over, aged him, filled him in, gave him some good lines, varied his location,
income, hairline, and avocations; but she kept him as she’d have liked, witty, well-read, sympathetic, ever
desirable and always dependable.
 Even before she left Dorset, the George she imagined he would soon become merged with Henry
T., the level-headed hero of her novel. Henry speaks for Jane when he says, “The person, be it gentleman
or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” Jane was well enough pleased
with her Henry; however, it was some years later that her successive portraits George attained perfection in
the person of Fitzwilliam D. who, at the close of his good novel, is twenty-eight years old.

3. Un Voyage à Omsk – Quator Franco-Russe

Despair drove her from paralysis to frenzy. Her reputation, her position in society were lost, her
child, money, both her lover and her husband. She scarcely knew what she had become; she could only
recall—with a bitter chill that made her tremble all over—who she had been. Her life was already over in
every sense but one. Pourquoi pas cela aussi?

Ivan was born in 1818. Fyodor and Gustav both entered the world three years later. Sunlight first
struck Leo’s face in 1828. That the four knew one another is not particularly surprising, but it was chiefly
down to Ivan. He may have been practically an expatriate, very nearly a Frenchman; nevertheless, he felt
himself to be un vrai Russe, and sometimes it was necessary to say so. Anyway, it was always about
Russia that he wrote.
Ivan and Gustave became fast friends from the moment they met. They were kindred spirits with
sympathetic views: in religion agnostic, in politics liberal, in philosophy rational. They were aesthetic
confrères, both pessimistic but not quick to render judgments, meticulous formalists with an urge toward
purity. Though he would have liked to, Ivan couldn’t get on anywhere near so well with his countrymen,
Fyodor and Leo. The former despised him for his admiring the West and mocked him cruelly in a novel.
As for the latter, after they spent some days together in Paris, Leo declared Ivan “a bore” and refused to
speak to him for seventeen years.
Gustave and Ivan were not without their differences, though. Gustave was a licentious, libidinous
man. Ivan was mostly not. Gustave couldn’t count all the prostitutes—female and male—he’d paid, let
alone how much. Ivan’s life was more sedate. He never married, though, in his early years, he did
interfere with the family serfs. The consequence of one of these dalliances was an illegitimate daughter.
As a writer, he was more drawn to the nuances of romance than the brutalities of sex. But their few
differences only added seasoning to the friendship.
Both men loved to travel. In 1850, Gustave went to Egypt, a country that allowed wide scope to his
Don Juanism. Ivan did not accompany his friend to the Levant, but he too felt the itch to be away from
France. When the first leaves began to fall, he was overwhelmed by nostalgia. He yearned to see peasants
hunting for mushrooms underneath birch trees; he longed for the sight of troikas and the noise of sledges
driven by bearded coachmen all bundled up in bear skin robes, sporting huge fur hats, and reeking of
vodka. He wanted to see Russia’s dense forests and wide steppes, the braided uniforms of its cavalry
officers, the timorous clerks hurrying from one government office to another, the babushkas who cross
themselves twenty times a day and hoard half-rubles in old stockings.
He went first to St. Petersburg, the most European place in Russia. In a remarkable book that,
despite himself, Ivan would admire nearly as much he deplored, Fyodor would call the city “the most
intentional in the world.” Ivan took satisfaction in any truth succinctly expressed.
Soon after he settled into his hotel, Ivan thought of old friends on whom he should be paying calls.
Among these was Vissarion Grigoryevich, the critic who had been so gracious when he was just starting
out, praising him when praise was least merited but meant the most. He went to the critic’s townhouse,
knocked, then had a long wait. The door was eventually opened—partially—by an aged servant in a
threadbare livery jacket and wide trousers. This man drew back in shock when Ivan asked to see his
master.
“But it’s two years since the master passed away,” said the follow, then crossed himself once for
each year.
For some reason, Ivan felt obliged to explain himself. “I didn’t know. I’ve been abroad.”
“It was the consumption,” the servant reported. “And maybe it was just as well.”
“Just as well?”
“If the master hadn’t coughed out his life at just the right time, he’d have been arrested and sent off
to Siberia to freeze.”
 Ivan was horrified and not for the first time felt fury at his country’s backwardness, its insatiable
taste for tyranny, its determination to snuff out any little spark of progress.
“I had no idea. And his wife. . . I mean, his widow?”
“The mistress is unwell. No visitors,” declared the servant then rudely shut the door.
As he made his way back toward the Nevsky Prospekt, Ivan recalled what the late Vissarion
Grigoryevich had written about Fyodor, that he was Nikolai’s true heir. It had required effort not to be
jealous of this praise, which he found not only extravagant but puzzling. After all, wasn’t it he, Ivan, who,
like Nikolai, lived abroad and wrote of Russia? He had read the book that impressed Vissarion
Grigoryevich and a few of Fyodor’s short stories. He thought the novel mawkish but admitted that Fyodor
did indeed show promise; moreover, he noted with approval the salutary influence of Balzac. Fyodor, he
supposed, must be, like him, be a foe of Russian obscurantism. Ivan had not given Fyodor a thought in
years. It was the servant’s saying that his master had evaded arrest only by dying that reminded Ivan of
Fyodor. The poor fellow really had been sent to Siberia.
Ivan had followed the Petrashevsky trial with dismay. He was indignant when he learned the story
of the phony execution, the last-minute commutation to a long stretch in Siberia. Now the memory of
these events and the feelings they had evoked returned.
Ivan made inquiries among his contacts and discovered that Fyodor was incarcerated in Omsk—
Omsk, which is further from Petersburg than Petersburg is from Paris. But as Ivan had promised himself to
see the interior of his native land, he resolved to make the trek to western Siberia and pay a visit of charity.
Perhaps a collegial visit would give heart to the unfortunate Fyodor and help him to endure his suffering.
The journey was even more arduous than Ivan had imagined. The inns were just as repellent as he
remembered—the same aromas of sweat, urine, raw onion, and alcohol; the same thin, infested mattresses
and low, smoke-darkened ceilings; the same toadying and over-charging; the same superstition
masquerading as religion. The further you go into Russia, he reflected, the more nothing changes—to go
east is to go backwards. Yet some of the scenery pleased Ivan, especially the deep forests. He recalled his
childhood with the kind of sentiment that is customary on such occasions. He was twice hospitably
received on estates owned by old Moscow friends who had given up and become country squires. The
sister of one flirted with him, a widow who wasn’t even bad looking.
 When he at last reached Omsk, Ivan easily obtained permission to see Fyodor. The prison was
absolutely dreadful, but the officials were not punctilious. He didn’t even have to pay a bribe.
Ivan naively supposed that, as an educated political prisoner, Fyodor would be better treated than
the common criminals, that he might even be separately accommodated. He was quickly disabused of this
illusion.
Fyodor looked thin and unhealthy; his beard was brittle, scraggly and full of gray hairs. He was
almost excessively moved by Ivan’s visit. He hugged him then kissed his cheeks over and over and
wouldn’t let go of his hands. “How wonderful of you to come!” he exclaimed. “Here, you know, one
always thinks one is forgotten, like the dead.”
Ivan spent two afternoons with Fyodor in a little whitewashed room the officer in charge had made
available to them. There was even a rusty old samovar. Fyodor spoke like the deprived creature he was,
one starved for an educated listener. He talked with a sort of exalted feverishness for which Ivan did not
care. He was even less pleased to learn that the Tsar’s remedy was working, that Fyodor’s views had
undergone a counter-revolution and that he was all too happy to proclaim them. He denigrated the West as
godless, superficial and un-Russian. Salvation lay in Christ and humility, in giving up the egoism that
permeated everything that came from Europe. Ivan attempted to discourage Fyodor’s politico-religious
harangues by simply not commenting on them. When this tactic failed, he changed the subject by asking
Fyodor to tell him stories he had picked up from his fellow prisoners.
“You want material, eh?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“Very well, then.”
The tales were lurid, pathetic, violent, vile. This one had stolen the life-savings of an old veteran
who had lost both an arm and a leg. Another had murdered a whole family—even an infant—in a drunken
rage. An axe murderer, an embezzler, a confidence trickster, an abuser of children, pimps. One tale of
child rape might have made even Gustave blanch.
The story that most intrigued Ivan was that of a man, a well-off Muscovite, a court councilor,
whose wife was seduced and abandoned by a Guards officer. The man took pains in plotting his revenge,
even hiring two railway workers to help. “They waited for the man outside The Yar, where he often spent
a night of dissipation. As soon as it was safe, they threw a sack over his head and dragged him into an
alley off Kuznetsky Most. They used iron bars. Apparently, even his mother wasn’t able to recognize
him.”
“What of the wife?” Ivan asked.
“Oh, he’d never have harmed her,” said Fyodor. “He loved her too dearly. In fact, at his trial he
confessed that it wasn’t for seducing his wife that he killed the officer. It was because he had abandoned
her and the woman killed herself. He swore that if the officer had run off with his wife, he could have born
it. Then he would have known she was safe.”
“Terrible story. How did the woman commit suicide?”
Fyodor shrugged. To him, the wife was a minor character, a prop; it was the fate of the court
councilor that interested him. “The fellow died more than a year ago. Typhoid. Now I can’t recall exactly
how the woman did away with herself. Poison or hanging or a pistol or—who knows—perhaps she leapt
under a carriage. Every story here is one of ruin and despair. But there are many who become humble,
remorseful, and redeem themselves. Yes, it’s so. And it is quite beautiful when some lost soul, with the
aid of Father Vassily and God’s grace, at last repents and finds his way to Christ.” Though he didn’t say
so, Fyodor clearly meant to include himself among the redeemed.
As he made his way west from Omsk, the landscape now seemed to Ivan endlessly flat and
desolate, a pointless country of muddy roads, brown grass, and impenetrable timber. When he arrived in
Paris, Ivan felt like a diver who has just extricated himself from a tangle of weeds and risen joyfully into
the light.
Gustave was already back from Egypt and had left a message for him. The two friends enjoyed a
reunion dinner that very night at La Petite Chaise. They also met the following afternoon and the morning
after that as well. They had much to say to one another. Save for the usual complaints about delays,
disgusting food, wretched accommodations, bad roads, greedy natives, corrupt border officials, insatiable
bedbugs, and stomach troubles, the chief topics were their adventures in Egypt and Russia. Gustave’s
stories were many, scandalous, and amusing. Ivan could hardly match his friend’s but he did have his trip
to Omsk. He told Gustave about going all that way to see the imprisoned Fyodor. In the course of his
narrative, he told Gustave the anecdote of the respectable adulteress who killed herself. He said that she
was of greater interest than her vengeful husband or faithless lover. Gustave asked why. Ivan explained
that the motives of the two men were obvious and their feelings clichés. Of course, the same might be said
of the woman as well; and yet he thought she might have been something original.
Of all that Ivan reported about his journey, it was this story that most intrigued Gustave.

Twenty years later, when Leo grudgingly agreed to receive him on his estate, Ivan asked if he were
in communication with Fyodor.
Leo was curt. “No.”
“I wonder,” said Ivan thoughtfully, “if he really has convinced himself of God’s existence. He
seems to write about the question compulsively.”
“I should say he has a good opinion of God and poor one of you.”
Ivan nodded modestly. “I know and I regret it. But what can I do? And it’s all the more vexing
because, when he was imprisoned in Siberia, I went all that way just to pay the fellow a visit.”
“You did?”
“Yes, to Omsk.”
“Omsk,” Leo repeated. “What did you talk about?”
Ivan remembered being displeased by Fyodor’s conversion to Slavophilism, to his white, Siberian
Christ. Apart from that, all he was able to recall was the story that had so interested his friend Gustave, the
one about the adulteress who killed herself.
And so, he told it to Leo as well.
 Spring 2018
Roger Craik

OPUS 43 (from “The England Variations”)

I heard a man
saying to another man in a pub
“The fucking fucker’s fucking fucked”
(meaning, I take it, it’s broken).

Lines on the Collaborative Learning Process, as Practised by certain of the Author's Colleagues,
and Experienced by the Author himself at various Conferences, Retreats and Symposia
Working in groups
Makes me puke.

Heritage
One plain bagel
spread with Frank Cooper’s Fine Cut Oxford Marmalade.
Loneliness in Freshman Comp

“What goes 99 bonk?”

I wrote in a text to Tom.
(Tomorrow he’s discussing humor
in English 101.)

“Go on, ask them that” I said.

No reply. Tom’s gone dead.
“Centipede with a wooden leg” I said.

I kill myself.
Time for a cigarette.

Of course he’ll end up having to explain

what a centipede is.
Perhaps he’ll draw one on the board.

But by this time

the joke’s forgotten in all likelihood—

leaving Tom marooned

in doldrums of incomprehension.
He’s done, he’ll tell himself. Past caring. Done.
Retirement cannot come too soon.
You won’t catch him dead
embarking on those Latin roots,
remote as mangoes on the moon.
 Spring 2018
Rose Knapp

Very Venetian Marinetti

Saudi Catalan salt sands

London bells blare black grime
Washington applause re:
Distance Jouissance

Snakes dart in between my skin

Tis quite disquieting disturbing Ching

The twirling dual light from IKEA

Or was it MOCA or the Whitney

Museums danse as dissociated

Liches frolic onward decay don't they?
Versace Versailles Verisimilitudes

Jouissance Jouissance Jouissance

Joyce Joyce Joyce Joyce Joy C.E.
Son net Son net Son net Gha zal
Wall Street Can Be So Ketamine

Gold wisps down Wall Street

Leaving nothing in its wake
Digital data tips its' hat to form
Cubisms raise themselves electricity

Jolts jots jobs jousts fausts

Feasts Delacroix me a Cantos
Spins to winds on windows
Of Change And/Or Orage Orangutan
Emerald Echolalias

A Book opens
Lapis lazuli rI
IngBlackscarabs
WithOrangeEyes

Flitter IV Into Ontological

Scorpion wings
Compress them
Selves into angel
Dust devour con
Sciousness which
Screams subconscious Ly

Ânkh Sun Danse Meta

Narrative Negro Nexus Fluxus

 Spring 2018
Stephen Bett

Rae Armantrout: I put a glose on you

Habitat-themed enclosure.
Zen-inflected mug.

Around the block

dogs bark at absence.

Habitat (entire poem) ― Rae Armantrout (with nods to Perloff, Silliman, & Alan Price)

Habitat-themed enclosure.
I put a glose on you
(after the cabeza)
No to walleyed zone-outs

Zen-inflected mug.
Pitch-faced in its cups
or sinister vertigo effects
And no, I aint lyin’ …

Around the block

headed for juiced circuits
attenuated hypotaxis
Always runnin’ around …

dogs bark at absence.

The gap in the fence
koan-flaked inflection
How put a spell on you …
 Paul Blackburn: Shall we dance?

Shall we dance that one around again?

dance it beyond perfection?
The celebrated and most knowing accents
putting the question.

Old ― Paul Blackburn (with a nod to Clayton Eshleman)

Shall we dance that one around again?

twist again, like we did last summer …
brisk strokes w/ troubadour folks
but deft like your own Franz Kline

dance it beyond perfection?

mobile half-stanzas, tight a-
symmetrical turns
perfection is at best sketchy

The celebrated and most knowing accents

say it again / upper limit musica
tilt the pitch, brakes to all that
halting song (like you do

putting the question

full-throated gasp, or it
sat broken up under
your nose
 Spring 2018
Sue Brannan Walker

DEATH. DRAMA. DIGITS. DREAM.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Anne Bronte Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine,

the warmer heart will not belie.
Joseph Conrad My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the
power of the written word, to make you hear, to
make you feel--it is, before all, to make you see.
Leonora Carrington All this may have been a collective hallucination
although nobody has yet explained to me what a
collective hallucination actually means.
Kahlil Gibran The timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness.
And knows that yesterday is but today's memory
and tomorrow is today's dream.
Carson McCullers How can the dead be truly dead when they still live
in the souls of those who are left behind?
W.B. Yeats The world's more full of weeping than you can
understand.
John Keats Do you not see how necessary a world of pains
and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

Steve Jobs We’re born, we live for a brief instant, and we die.

J.D. Salinger I don't exactly know what I mean but I mean it.
Death is but a dream and life is merely the daydream of death
--Mike Dickenson
 JOSEPH CONRAD

(Conrad walks from the left stage entrance to center stage and stares into space. He waves his right hand about,
then gestures with his index finger and thumb as if he were pointing a gun at his chest.)

“We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. Men alone are capable of every wickedness. The
darkness of red borders on black. Is the heart an organ? Variations on America? Or a cage that can’t be opened like
a cadaver? Bam!

LEONORA CARRINGTON

(Dressed in flannel knickers and a tight-fitting shirt stands stage left in front of an easel with a paintbrush in her
hand).

“Dawn is the time when nothing breathes. Everything is transferred. They say I am crazy. Mad. A spider. Black
widow. Do I hear a trumpet blaring in my ear?)

(She throws a pot of paint on the floor, bends down, and smears black with both hands.)

“I’ve always had access to other worlds. We all do because we dream.”

JOSEPH CONRAD

(Still standing center stage as a spotlight plays upon him. He seems unaware that anyone else is present, as if the
world were consumed by darkness and no one can see. He wipes his eyes.)

“Little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength,
upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong—too dull even to
know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the
devil. The fool is too much of a fool or the devil too much of a devil –I don’t know which. Or you may be such a
thunderingly exalted creature to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the
earth for you is only a standing –and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But
most of us are neither one or the other.”
 KAHLIL GIBRAN

(Walks over to where Carrington is smearing black paint on the floor, places his hand on her left shoulder, pulls her
up to stand facing him and speaks to her.)

“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has
been your delight.

CARSON McCULLERS

(Enters stage right and sits in a lazy boy chair center stage, takes her right hand, picks up her paralyzed left hand and
places it on her missing right breast. She tries to stand but falls back into the chair.)

“There is the lover and the beloved and these two come from different countries. The beloved can be of any
description. A misshapen woman, a preacher in love with a fallen woman. The most outlandish people can be the
stimulus for love. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many.
Yes, I tried to kill myself just as my husband killed himself—with sleeping pills. The heart is lonely. A bloody lonely
hunter!”

ANNE BRONTE
(Enters stage left and sits in a chair stage right, buries her head in her hands, sighs, looks up and speaks as if to
herself.)

“Keep both heart and hand in your own possession. There is always a but in this imperfect world.What a fool you
must be” said my head to my heart.”

W.B. YEATS

(Enters stage left. Walks to center stage, stands on the right of Joseph Conrad. The two men turn to face each
other.)

“Such monkey business. This love that pitched his mansion in the place of excrement.” (Puts his index finger into
Conrad’s chest). “That pet monkey of yours, what did you sell him for?”
 JOSEPH CONRAD

(Pokes his finger into Yeats’ chest)

“That Steinach operation of yours – and the intimate connection between desire and creativity – didn’t do much to
rejuvenate your sexual potency, did it?”

(Yeats steps in front of Conrad, faces the darkness and recites lines from his poem, “The Wild Old Wicked Man.
He walks with a cane.)

“Who understands the dark?

Because I am mad about women,
who can know
when an old man’s blood grows cold
and I can but touch.
A coarse old man am I . . .
I forget it all awhile
upon a woman’s breast;
words I have that can pierce the heart.”

JOSEPH CONRAD
(suddenly shouting)

Of darkness . . .

JOHN KEATS
(is seated by Carson McCullers, rises and tosses a handful of violets in the air.)

But can death be sleep, when life is but a dream and scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? The transient pleasures as
a vision seem, and yet we think the greatest pain’s to die.

(Pulls a bottle of Claret wine from his pocket.)

“Joseph, my man, I have here a bottle of my favorite Chateau Margeaux. Let’s drink to that monkey of yours. I need
him to tear my awful poems to shreds. I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the
truth of the Imagination, but touch, you know, has a memory.”

STEVE JOBS
(Hold up a wine glass that he has pulled from his pocket like a proverbial magic trick.)

“Well, Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… The
ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or
vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… They push the human race
forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to
think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

LEONORA CARRINGTON
(Holds out her paint-smeared hands and wipes them on her flannel nickers)

“Reason must know the heart’s reason and every other reason. There are things that are not sayable. That’s why we
have art.”

STEVE JOBS
(Tosses the wine glass in the air)

“We don’t get a chance to do that many things, and every one should be excellent. Because this is our life. You’ve
got to find what you love (pauses and looks around. And that is true for your for work as it is for your lovers. )So it
better be damn good. And one more thing . . .”

(He is interrupted by J. D. Salinger who wrings his hands, pulls out of his pocket, walks over and pocks it into Steve
Jobs chest.)

J.D. SALINGER

“I have scars on my hands from touching certain people. I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of
those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If
anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me.
They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the
rest of my life. Everybody'd think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they'd leave me alone, but when
you’re dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I die, somebody has sense enough to just dump me in
the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddamn cemetery. People coming and putting a
bunch a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap.”

 ALIHORNS ASSEMBLING

Assemblage:

ARIEL – Age 9 going on 10

APRIL—Age 12
ANDREW – Age 17 – the first cousin of April and Ariel
ALBERT – A Curmudgeonly Autocrat of apparent ancient age and with alternative facts.

ACT I

APRIL

Ariel. Andy. Come quick! They’re in the grove of aspidistra singing!

ARIEL

What is? What are “They”? Looks like horses, but they’re not. And they have a horn on their head, but not like an
antelope. Shhhh. Listen.

(Beneath Airy Clouds, words loose wind)

For years we had an aspidistra in a flower pot

On the whatnot, near the hatstand, in the hall
It didn’t seem to grow till one day our brother Joe
Had a notion that he’d make it strong and tall
So he’s crossed it with an acorn from an oak tree
And he’s planted it against the garden wall.

It shot up like a rocket till it nearly reached the sky

It’s the biggest aspidistra in the world.
We couldn’t see the top of it, it got so bloomin’ high
It’s the biggest aspidistra in the world.

The dogs all come around for miles – a lovely sight to see
They sniff around for hours and hours and wag their tails with glee
 So I’ve had to put a notice up to say it’s not a tree
It’s the biggest aspidistra in the world.

APRIL

Look at the clouds Andy. They’re right on top of the creatures’ heads swirls of cotton candy.

ANDREW

Those are altocumulus clouds. When they swim in the heavenly ocean and pass in front of the moon, a colored ring
appears – red on the outside and blue inside.

ARIEL

It’s like up is down and down is up – like the ocean is over our head and the sky beneath our feet.

ANDREW

And outside is inside.

APRIL

And the color of dreams like little crystal candies?

ARIEL

And strange single-horned creatures afrolicking. What are they?

ANDREW

Alicorns – a sort of unicorn with angelic wings and azurite eyes. It’s like the aurora borealis is only a wind-stream nearby.
 ALBERT

The alicorn, the unicorn, the auk or ass or whatever you call the thing is MYTH. It’s not real. Annoying, pure-n-tee
annoying, the way you’re carrying on. Atrocious actually, your behavior.

ARIEL

A lot you know about it. You’re a curmudgeon. You smell like crude oil, you do. You might sound gruff, but I’m not afraid of
you.

APRIL

All over our yard there are acres of acorns. I picked about a hundred of them last year but couldn’t grow a single
aspidistra, not one. I hoped to climb one like a beanstalk, climb right up the very tallest one and sail right down into the
crowd of alicorns.

ANDREW

We can take the celestial omnibus. It only departs on nights when the old moon holds the new moon in its arms.

ALBERT

Alicorn is an historical Latin word for the horn of a unicorn in alchemical texts, you airheads. They appear in ancient
Achaemenid Assyrial seals. It is said that there was medicinal use adroitly attached to the horn that cured allergies,
arthritis, ague due to the powder in the horn – but that is fantasy and not fact. I’m in a position of authority, and I am going
to ban alihorns, build a structure higher than the highest aspidistra in the world and keep the damn things out – maybe
even agitating children who insist in artifice.

APRIL

Albert’s acerebral – without a brain. He doesn’t believe in wonder and imagination.

ANDREW
Just alternative facts.

ARIEL

And I will teach them, the alicorns, show them how to allemande left, advisedly which is, indeed, an acacae arte. Real
magic.

ANDREW
(To April and Ariel)

Allons-y. Let’s away. I’ve procured our pink kitty cat travel cards. Aeolus promises fine fresh air. The celestial omnibus is
waiting at the foot of the biggest aspidistra in the world.
 Spring 2018
Aaron Brammeier

Signed Out

Rape intoxication,
they took our souls
put a price on our heads,
numbered the demon 666
on the backs of grey matter.

Cat of IX tails scratching

pills into skin,
black & blue & white & red
bleeding us dry in the street
putting corpses in our organs,
culling the tribe of weaker Mn
pulling teeth from the heathen.

Wo(Mn) hosted the children of

a damned species,
dreaming rocketship reality
licking the moons of Jupiter & Saturn,
till Earth shed her tears
dust caught in the winds of tribulation.

Chaos reflection
of self-destructing anxiety
& snapping sanity,
played dice with the bones
of our ancestors laughing at
plastic emotions spat into the mouths
of suited whores.
Slithering (Fe)male genitalia
across the rivers of blood
drowning babies in chemical
solution, bubbling skin & white smoke
into our lungs, we inhaled a generation,
getting high off the radio waves of historic
extinction.

Would you even remember the

trail of destruction I left in our
grave dear.
 Down(Stream)

-State fed pills

like petulant pearls
eaten by swine
destroy my body
resurrect
the beast sniffing the blood
swimming down the cracks of
fragile spider veins
splintering in the greatest of minds

-Stop

-Fracture of indifference
sexual inhibition of a
most sinister optimism
into dens of liquid nightmare
slithering down your throat
choking the monsters from inside the
catacombs of your soul

-Stop

-I saw Saint Peter

hang himself
from the gates of heaven
his body swaying in
ticking motions, counting the
seconds till eternity ended

-Stop

-Never good, never bad

is along the inside
of dark shell, slippery ghost caught
in your stomach
vomiting the wretched
holy spirit fear
-Stop

-Tongues of fire dancing

down the aisle to satanic notes
floating along the poison at the bottom
of the bottle placed empty at my feet
so I tore perfection from bloodline
tinkering in the sand of a thousand
empires laid waste by love-

-Stop
 Spring 2018
Malika K. McCoy

WHITE ELEVATORS

“Which floor?”

You stare at me confused as if you’d somehow managed to sleep walk here and can’t fathom how you’ve

made it all the way to work. It’s 8:24am, which means you’ve made it here early before the late bloomers rush

in all practicing the excuses they’d tell their bosses.

Did you come up I-95? Unbelievable. I press seven as my destination and my index finger lingers over the

connect four board of elevator buttons from one to nine waiting for you to answer. A smirk strains the

muscles in your face overbore with lethargy. One cup of your daily pumpkin spice latte and you’d have

proudly flexed a grimace or sneer.

But it’s Thursday. The enthusiasm of the week has worn off and no amount of caffeine will rid you of

“Why the fuck isn’t it Friday already?”. My hand retreats to my pocket and I stare ahead at “MAX

CAPACITY 3,500LBS” and listen to the silence between us bounce against the walls. The tension alone is

heavy enough to cause the car to collapse down the shaft. I reach my floor and as my foot hovers above the

tiny gap where the door slid open I see you reach to press a button for a floor we’d already passed. I tell
myself that it had nothing to do with me, maybe you weren’t sure where to go and had to think or maybe you

simply forgot.

Again, here we are. By we I mean myself and you, white women who cannot bear such proximity to

my blackness. Different body, same disdain for my audacity to ride in the same space as you. Did I miss the

“WHITES ONLY” sign? You move to the corner furthest from me and reek of nigger-less nostalgia. I see you

staring from the bottom left corner of your orbital sockets in the same manner that if you were speaking

would indicate you were telling a lie.

And you were. The lies you tell yourself about black people. Telling yourself all the things that would

happen to you if you got too close. If you’d bump into me my pigment might rub off onto you, leave a

permanent stain and you’d now fail the one drop rule. I can see into your purse through its calf skin with

complete clarity, pick out what I wanted ahead of time and rob you before we even reached the third floor.

I’m only here at this university due to affirmative action, at any moment I’d recognize your privilege and

request a hand out from you. Lies. I step off a floor early and you slide into the uninvaded breathing room.

Look me up and down. Head to toe. Toe to dread locked head. How can I be so beautiful and not even

comb my hair? My presence is effortless. White gentleman sniffs around and turns to say “It smells tropical

in here” and your eyes harden. You know it’s me. Coconut oil clogs your nostrils so you’d been holding your

breath. Your stare transfixes and I miss my floor. You’ll have to break your gaze to get off and lose the no

blinking contest you’ve made with all the other moonlit skinned women present. You look away reluctantly

cause my skin absorbs both sight and sunlight.

 It’s just us, alone. You’d scream “RAPE!” if I were a man. Start a riot. Burn my town to the ground so

there’d be no blacks that close to you ever again. Claim the elevator tune I was whistling was a menacing cat

call. But I am a black woman, the greater of sexual plunder. I’d like to scream, but instead: “Have a nice day.”

I try to make you more comfortable. Smiles as warm as my perpetual tan. Greetings that would have

you think I were the elevator operator. Hold the door for you to run to until you see me and just wave to let it

close, you’ll catch the next one. Stare at the ceiling or at the corner to allow you to view my existence here

without our eyes locking. And although its fourteen flights ‘til I reach my desk, tomorrow I start taking the

stairs.
 Spring 2018
Giorgi Plys-Garzotto

i tried not to want you for so long

because i never get what i want
and i want you so badly;
this world would never let me have you if it knew.
so i carried it inside me, secretly, like a tampon
or a case of HIV that's not yet AIDS.
I translated my heartbeats into the Enigma code,
I disavowed you whenever I met my own eyes in a mirror,
I didn't let myself breathe while I thought about you,
and watched my fingers turn blue as I scrolled your Instagram.
But the two hardest things are love, and keeping secrets,
and once again I’ve failed at both.
The fact is:
i want those blue eyes
i want to know what they look like when you come
and when you cry
i want to look at your lips
and think of every part of me they've kissed
i want to know what you smell like
and where on me you'd put your hands
and what you'd whisper in my ear at 3 am.
i want to be doing work in a coffee shop
knowing that i'll see you later
i want to see something cool or weird on the street
and send you a picture
i want to pick something up at the store because i know you'll like it
i want to sit at a window with you
while we watch snow fall
in perfect silence.
i know i'm not exactly a romantic
i'm a hooker upper
a patriarchal puppet who's detached its strings
a modern day femme fatale with the body count to prove it
a scorpio with gemini rising
but i've honestly thought too many times
about what it would be like to hear you whisper "i love you"
in ragged rhythmic breaths
while i'm pulling the hair from the back of your head
and your big hands are cradling, guiding my hips
as you work that spongy place inside me with the most gentle and fervent care
and i'm falling but i know you've got me
so i say it too
to really believe my own bullshit
so you shouldn't either
You think of me
The same way you think the ocean is blue
Because it reflects the sky—
How dare you call the sea a mimic?
How can you see only waves
When here there be monsters?
The earth is 80% water, you dick
You stand on a beach
And look at a blue plain of water
You think only what you see is real
But we’ve barely seen a fraction of Earth’s oceans
We only know of 1% of the species
That have ever existed on this planet
4 billion years of life
And all you think about is T-Rex
Because you liked Jurassic Park
The first organism here was a single cell
That learned to breathe lava
But all you want are James Cameron
And his idiotic blue people
Funny how it was James who said
A woman’s heart is an ocean of secrets
You’ll never know my secrets
But you don’t even care
Do you?
that night when you were drunk on your bed
too gone to finish your sentences
and i was leaving the party
and had to get my backpack from your room
i wish i had sat down next to you
cupped your face in my hands
run my thumbs over your ears and the underside of your chin
and all your soft hidden places,
leaned down and pulled on your full, sweet lower lip with my mouth,
got in bed with you and played with your hair
until the drink drifted your eyes closed,
or even just held onto your hand
for a moment or two longer
when i shook it goodbye
 Spring 2018
Rebecca L. Monroe

Nobody Talks About

Edith smoothed her blouse before opening the door. Carla, her daughter, stood on the other side with
Agatha. Edith felt a jolt of shock, then irritation. Carla might have told her Agatha was coming. “I didn’t
think you travelled anymore,” Edith blurted out.

Agatha, a sinewy seventy years old, shrugged. “Hello to you too. I’ve been through it already.
Experience can help,” she glanced at Carla.

Sighing inwardly, Edith stepped inside to let them in. So, Carla had expressed her not so veiled
concerns to Agatha. She glanced around discreetly. There was no sign of Bud. “Let’s sit in the kitchen. I’ve
got coffee on,”

“You’re looking good, Mother,” Carla said, pulling out a chair. “You must be eating better.” Carla, at
forty-two, was the picture of yuppie life; hair too short, body too hard, face too thin. Even her style of dress
radiated ‘no sugar, no starch’. Coffee was a politically correct vice and so Carla nodded when Edith held up
the pot.

“I’ll take water,” Agatha chose a chair by the wall. “I quit drinking coffee. It keeps me up at night,”

It had been years since they’d seen each other. Edith counted inwardly. Eight years. They’d talked on
the phone, written, but with the whole of the country between them, visits weren’t an option. “You aren’t
ageing a bit, Agatha.” She meant it. Agatha looked the same as when they’d last met. Plump but not fat, hair
loose curls, a round face like their mother had had. Edith, on the other hand, knew she’d changed a lot. Hair
thinner, sprouts on her chin, so many wrinkles she didn’t see them any longer. And now there were bags
under her eyes to match the wrinkles.

“Thank you,” Agatha chuckled. “I aged early and then quit. At fifty I already looked seventy. Wasn’t
your kitchen tan the last time I was here?”

“Yes,” Edith said. “It was too dark so we re-did it in the yellow and white. I refinished the table myself.
Bud put in the island because he’s, he’d always wanted one.” Edith poured her own coffee before sitting
down. Should she tell them? A glance at Carla killed the idea. “How long can you stay?”

“A few days,” said Carla. Her gaze squeezed over Edith’s slacks and blouse, sticking for a moment on
Edith’s stomach before continuing. “I can help you get some things done while I’m here – pay bills maybe?
Grocery shop,”

“I appreciate it, dear however it’s not necessary. I would just like to visit. Agatha and I have a lot of
catching up to do.”

Carla slowly turned her coffee cup. “Perhaps I can glance at your bills and insurance payments. It gets
so complicated and Dad was sick a long time.”

Edith clenched her jaw because the words about to leap out were very unladylike. Carla read the look
on her face.

“I’m only trying to help,”

“Then let’s have a pleasant visit, shall we?” Edith replied.

“I don’t sleep well anymore,” said Agatha. “It’s strange…I get a couple of hours of sleep and I’m ready
to go,”

Edith turned to her sister thankfully. Three nights of vivid dreams and then, the morning of the
fourth, he was by her dresser. She’d even pinched herself to make sure she was awake, like she’d read in
books. He’d shifted back and forth from solid to clear to solid while she watched, as if tapping into some
form of unstable energy. Finally he seemed to catch and hold – appearing as he had in life but feeling
different. He was still him, and somehow, not. She couldn’t define it.
 “Mom!”

Edith jumped. “What? Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Carla frowned. “I said I would like to get our things from the car,”

“Of course. Your room is ready. I need to put clean sheets on the bed in the guest room for Agatha.”
Edith rose, straightening her spoon beside her cup. “I’ll only be a moment,” she pushed her chair in and
hurried from the room. She’d gotten used to being able to drift whenever she liked, no worries about how
her mental traipsing off would appear to others. She would have to watch it around Carla.

She fetched sheets out of the linen closet and went to the guest room. A glimpse in the mirror showed
her what Carla had seen. Some breakfast had dripped on her ample stomach. She and Bud used to joke
about her shelf. It was nothing new.

Edith sighed, staring at the wall and letting the sheets dangle from her hand.

When Bud had spoken to her, she’d been caught between fear for her sanity and fear of ghosts. He’d
explained how the age of their love would keep them in touch for a while, his appearance was to help her,
not scare her. He wouldn’t tell her about death though. All he would do is smile mysteriously and say ‘you’ll
see’. After a few days, her fear faded and now, half the time, she didn’t think of him as a ghost. His presence
had helped her stabilize.

“So what are you worried about?”

Edith whirled. Bud’s shimmering figure stood behind her. He became solid as she looked at him.
Quickly she shut the door of the guest room. “I’m worried Carla will hear me talking to you, or I’ll let slip I
can see you and she’ll have me put away.”

“Would you rather I quit appearing until they leave?”

“No!” Edith remembered the pain of him dying, the emptiness of him gone. “I’ll take my chances,
thank you,”

“You’re afraid I won’t come back,”

“Exactly right.”
 “We’ll be together again, you know,”

“I’d rather not be separated at all.” Edith snapped, flipping the sheet across the bed and watching it
float to settle.

“Edith,” Agatha pushed the door open. “Do you need any help?”

Edith looked at where Bud had been. He was gone. “I’m nearly done.”

Agatha leaned against the doorway, gaze tracking the spread of the blanket. “I should have come to
visit before.”

“And vice versa. I’m glad you’re here now. Did you have a nice trip?”

“Carla’s driving makes me nervous. She’s so, intense,”

“I know what you mean.” Edith smoothed the last pillow. “Let’s get dinner done so we can have a
good talk.”

The girlhood rhythm Edith and Agatha shared made working together in the kitchen a pleasure,
almost an afterthought, as they chatted about anything that came to mind. Carla was a hard chord struck in
the melody of their movements. Edith could tell by Carla’s covert searching and lingering near the desk in
the living room that she was trying to get an idea of the true state of Edith’s affairs. Edith could have put her
daughter at ease but it wasn’t any of Carla’s business. Besides, Edith was afraid she might slip and
accidentally say ‘Bud told me…’

After dinner, the travel caught up with Carla and Agatha. Carla turned in first; Edith followed Agatha
up after shutting out the downstairs lights. She went into the bathroom off her bedroom to find Bud seated
on the toilet.

“See, it was all right.”

“Yes. Thank you for not making it hard,” Edith tucked her hair in her shower cap so she could put on
face cream. “It’s wonderful to see Agatha. I’d forgotten how nice it is to talk to someone you don’t have to
explain things to.”

“And Carla?”
 This was one of the differences. The old Bud, the alive Bud, had never honed in so well on her hidden
thoughts. “What do you mean ‘and Carla’?”

“It’s not so wonderful to see her.”

“I didn’t say that,” there was a spot she missed by the side of her nose. She scooped out more cream,
getting too much. “Carla is, worried, about me,”

“Worried? Or nosy? Worried about you? Or worried about how you will affect her future?”

Edith paused and then looked at Bud. “All of the above, I would say. Mostly worried I’m going to
affect her future. When did she become so nervous? I’m half afraid to tell her anything least she jump to a
wrong conclusion.”

Bud chuckled. “The illusion of youth. If you head off problems before they are problems, you live the
life of bliss,”

“It’s her notion I’m a problem to be dealt with I don’t care for.”

“Then show her you are doing fine.”

Edith scowled at him, feeling the slightly thick movement of her face cream. “Bud, I don’t want her
thinking it’s any of her business.” Even as she spoke, she felt the defensiveness forty years of marriage had
taught her. To show was to have to justify. What would Carla say to her donation to the humane society, the
late notices on the television bill?

“Getting too big for her britches?” Bud asked.

“What do you think? I know you’re floating around here eavesdropping.

“The only way to lead is by example,” he vanished.

Edith look up to see Carla’s white face reflected in the bathroom mirror. Edith tried to smile and
failed. “I thought I taught you to knock!”

“Who were you talking to?”

“None of your business.”

 “Yes. I caught that part.” Carla folded her arms. “You were talking to Dad, weren’t you?”

Edith’s nerves began to vibrate. “I talk to myself, if you must know. It helps me think,”

“And you named the toilet Bud? Address it as if it’s talking back?”

“I don’t need your sarcasm, Carla.”

“I’m not being sarcastic. I saw you call the toilet ‘Bud’. Mom, Dad’s dead. You can’t pretend he isn’t.
It’s not healthy.” Carla leaned forward, eyes narrowing, mouth tightening. “This is exactly what I’ve been
worried about.”

“Young lady, if I want to wrap myself in a shower curtain and dance in the street, it’s my business, not
yours.”

“Yes! It is! You’re my problem now…”

“Problem? Problem! I’m no one’s problem and never have been!”

Carla waved a hand. “Wrong word. Concern, worry, you know what I mean,”

“No, I don’t. I’m managing fine. If I’d known the reason you came was to fix a problem, I wouldn’t
have let you come.”

“Maybe you need to face reality. Let me see your bills. I’ll bet they are a mess. Dad always handled
them.”

Edith slammed the face cream onto the counter. “They aren’t a mess because he’s helping me learn.
I’ve always been capable but he would never show me.”

Carla’s eyes widened, mouth opening. “You are saying…what?”

Edith threw up her hands. “You were right the first time. I was talking to your father. He came back
after he died. He helps me with the bills, with not being lonely,” tears flooded Edith’s eyes and it made her
mad. If she cried, Carla wouldn’t believe her.

“Mom,” Carla stepped forward, taking her by the forearms. “Dad is dead,”
 “I know!” Edith scraped at her eyes; getting face cream in them and making them sting. “He’s here. I
don’t need taking care of.”

“It’s all right. I’m sorry. I want to help,”

“No.” Edith’s tears evaporated, except for the sting of the cream. Inside she felt herself gain strength.
“You want to deal with me. You came here expecting to have to, looking for it.” Edith pulled away to wipe
her face off.

“You must admit, you haven’t told me anything reassuring.”

“I told you I was fine. I don’t know why the rest is such a big deal,”

Their gazes met in the mirror and after a moment, Carla smirked. “Call me narrow minded,”

Bud materialized on the toilet again. “Wish you guys would talk somewhere else. Ask Carla what
she’s afraid of.”

Edith knew she’d given herself away because Carla’s gaze flicked to the toilet and back.

“What are you afraid of, dear?”

“Nothing. Adjusting to Dad being gone can’t be easy. He took care of a lot of stuff. I want to make sure
things are okay. You don’t plan well,”

“Ah, I think it get it.” Bud said. “We were right. She’s afraid if she doesn’t keep on top of things now,
down the road it will upset the life she has so neatly arranged.” He chuckled. “My daughter who is just like
me.”

This time Edith looked at Bud directly. It had been one of the main contentions between them. He
wouldn’t play, be spontaneous. Everything was ledger dry. No magic, no mystery. “Of course.” Even though
Bud was dead, her anger at lost opportunities was very alive. She turned to Celia. “The fact of the matter is I
spent my life under the thumb of a planner. A very safe, organized life it was. Quit worrying because this is
out of your control. I’m going to frivol without having to explain myself to a logical person whose only goal is
to make me reasonable.”

“I was wrong,” Bud said. “Boy, howdy was I ever wrong,”

 “Mom, I don’t want to control you but if there are problems, I have to be the one to fix them. A bit of
reality in advance goes a long way,”

“Good lord, my favorite saying.” Bud dropped his face in his hands dramatically.

“I had reality.” Edith felt the old frustrations rising and she suddenly missed Bud a lot less. “Square
meals and good investments. It’s my turn. Get fixing me out of your head or go home.”

“You can say that because of Dad.”

“Your Dad is the one telling me he was wrong!” They were leaning toward each other, glaring into the
other’s eyes. “There is magic and you two are missing it. You never trust. You always have to know. And
you’re not willing to let me find out on my own. You, like your father, have to control me too and I’m SICK of
not having FUN!”

Carla leaned away again, as if realizing Edith was not going to back down. “You’ve totally lost it,”

“Carla Marie, I’m your mother – forever. Don’t you talk to me like that. Your father is sitting here,
right now, admitting he was supposed to learn from me. Instead, he screwed up another chance and tried to
be the Boss of It All. Let go and trust!”

“Wait until they repossess the house because you didn’t pay the taxes?” Carla’s voice was cold, hand
clenched.

It was like having one person explain the rules of a game poorly, causing confusion until someone
else explained it. Edith saw the tool Bud had used most of their married life. From him it had worked. From
Carla it exposed it for what it was – a tool, not a fact. Edith felt herself smile because the knowledge was
freedom. “Good heavens, Bud, you manipulated me for years with fantasies of horror.”

“Trot out worst case scenarios,” Bud half smiled.

“If I explained how it would never happen, you would shoot the explanations down until I had no
choice but to fall in line. If I actually came up with a valid reason you would shake your head sadly and
insinuate I didn’t know…enough,” Edith dropped her voice deep on the last word.
 “Mom?” Carla’s voice shook and she looked from Edith to the toilet and back. There was real fear in
her eyes.

“She’s fine, Carla,” Agatha nudged the younger woman out of the way so she could enter the
bathroom too. “Where is he?”

Edith motioned without thinking about it.

“Hello, Bud. While I can’t see you the way I could Hank, I’ve no doubt you’re there.”

“Aunt Agatha?”

“Yes, Carla, me too. It comes from marrying bull headed men who are slow learners. I’ve been
listening to you two screech at each other long enough.” Agatha lasered Carla with a look. “Leave your
mother alone. Enjoy her, yes. Do to her? No. Try to broaden your mind and admit for once there are things
you’re too young to know.”

“You saw Hank?” Edith felt her knees go weak with relief. She was starting to be frightened of what
her daughter might do to ‘protect’ her.

“Yep. He weaned me off of him. It took a few months. It was one of the reasons I came. I was curious
to see if Bud would return.”

“But you were always the one in charge,” said Edith.

“Lessons reversed. Hank would never listen to reason. I was forever bailing him out. So don’t
completely toss what Bud taught either because he wasn’t all wrong. If you think you had a shock, try being
the logical one and having a ghost appear. At least you already half believed.”

“You both are nuts,” Carla whispered.

Agatha chuckled. “And you’ve inherited it.”

“You never told me,” said Edith.

“It’s not exactly something one blurts out, now is it?”

Edith felt herself blush.

 “Has he seen Hank?”

Bud shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way,”

“He says it doesn’t work that way,”

“How does it work then?”

“He won’t tell me.” Edith said. “He’s probably being logical again.”

“No, Hank wouldn’t tell me either,”

“This isn’t funny!” Carla’s voice rose so high it hurt in the confines of the bathroom.

“We’re not joking, honey,” Agatha said gently.

“Why you? Why not me?”

Edith staggered inwardly at the emotional blow she’d not seen coming. The pain in Carla’s face, the
realization of how much she missed the father she was so like…

“Because it’s you she needs to learn from, not me,” Bud said quietly. “Not me,”

Edith’s throat was tight as tear escaped Carla’s control. “He said,” she swallowed hard, “he said
because you have the inner strength I don’t,” she would work out what he’d actually said later.

Carla looked at the toilet. “He’s there?”

Edith looked too, a jerk of loss because she knew it would be permanent. “No. He’s gone.”
 Spring 2018
Kennedy Harrison

Barely Bitten

Without lending a second thought, the girl’s mouth found the woman’s neck. It was a practiced
motion; something she had done too many times to count. The familiar sensation of warmth pulsated below
the surface before the tips of her teeth broke the seal, allowing the thick, sanguine fluid to flow uninhibited
into her mouth.
The woman let out a surprised shriek, using all of her strength to shove against the girl, but she held
steady, leaning into the woman’s body with no inclination of resistance. Her victim struggled for only a
moment more before conceding to the inevitable numbness, and her limbs fell limp in the girl’s arms.
After a few more moments, the girl stopped, flicking her tongue over the wound to stop the bleeding
before pulling away. Slowly, she raised her hand to her mouth, upholding her index finger to pierce the tip
with her canine tooth. Scarlet rose to the surface, a single red dot. She gently massaged her bloody fingertip
into the fresh bite mark she had left on the woman’s skin, and in seconds it disappeared. Self-control had
taken decades to learn, but she had decided long ago that she didn’t want to be a monster.
She let the woman’s body sink onto the floor delicately. She would wake up with no memory of what
had taken place, being able to only guess that her guest hadn’t appeared to sample the makeup products she
was selling out of her home.
The girl rose, letting her long, dark hair fall where it may and smoothing the wrinkles out of her
dress. She was hardly a girl anymore—but would always be. She was frozen in that in-between stage, too
young to really be considered a woman, but too old not to be.
 She often wondered what she would look like as an old woman. If her hair would have turned gray,
or just fallen out altogether. How her wrinkles would have formed, if she would have laugh lines or if her
mouth would naturally tug down at the corners.
She had no desire to physically grow old—it was mere curiosity.
Immortality suited her. Her lips remained perfect and plump, ripe enough to wear any and all shades
of lipstick that she desired. Her blue eyes stayed sharp and without crows’ feet, and the years spent
perfecting her cat-eye liner resulted in a perfect point.
Although she did consider herself to be quite beautiful, she wasn’t vain. She used her appearance of
youthful naivety and her proficiency with makeup to find her prey—her donors. She didn’t want to be
primitive. She wasn’t an animal.
The twenty-first century made it all too easy to find people to feed on. Between Tinder dates and
consultants that sold products out of their home—anything from makeup to kitchenware to diet products—
the girl hadn’t felt gnawing appetence in years. She learned early that mistakes were made on a hungry
stomach, that the desire to keep her humanity in check was overshadowed when the duress of famishment
mauled at her insides.
She sighed, staring down at the woman, whose eyes were still closed. She would remain unconscious
for another hour or so, and then the venom would wear off and she would be able to resume her mundane
life.
The girl turned away from her, gazing across the small apartment and into the kitchen. There was a
certain scent emanating from it that enticed her closer. It seemed more delectable than blood, salty and light.
It made the girl’s mouth water, and even though her appetite had been satiated, her stomach lurched with
sudden craving.
As she neared the stovetop, disappointment washed over her and her stomach dropped. She realized
what it was before she saw it.
A loaf of perfectly toasted, golden-yellow garlic bread sat on a cookie sheet atop the oven.
She swallowed. It smelled so heavenly.
Food no longer appealed to her. She survived off of blood and blood alone. Although she could
consume human food if she needed to keep up appearances, the taste of it resembled cardboard. But garlic
remained the one thing she physically couldn’t eat, and the one thing she wished immortality hadn’t taken
from her.
Her maker, Myra, had deserted her the moment after she had been born into this second life. The girl
remembered that while she was in the process of turning, Myra left an echo of a kiss on her forehead and
whispered “You’ll do well, Naomi. You deserve this,” before disappearing forever. At the time, Naomi had
thought she had done something wrong to deserve eternal life, but now she understood that it was meant as
a compliment.
There was one gift immortality had presented Naomi with that she resented—the ability to
remember. She remembered every bit of her human life with absolute clarity. She remembered Myra and all
of the elegant lies she spun Naomi in order to win her blind affection. Every soft sigh and careful caress on
her skin, every murmur of desire—forever cauterized in exact detail in her memory.
Naomi knew virtually nothing about Myra, aside from her allurement to younger girls. She hadn’t
recognized it at the time, before she was turned. But after so much time left to think about it, it was obvious
now that Naomi hadn’t been chosen because she was extraordinary in any way. She was young and
vulnerable, and that was Myra’s penchant.
In a time when her eroticism was considered taboo, Myra’s predilection toward Naomi became her
sanctuary. Her parents were hoping Naomi would marry a lawyer or some other young bachelor from
money, although Naomi had no attraction to any sort of young man.
Myra hadn’t remained around long enough to teach Naomi what this new life entailed. She had to
figure out on her own that daylight scorched her skin and that her new appetite would cost many humans
their lives.
Naomi remained staring at the bread on the woman’s stovetop for several minutes. She couldn’t even
remember what it tasted like, really. Only that her mother had used it while cooking Sunday dinner every
weekend, almost a century ago.
The soft aroma of garlic would radiate through their small home, overflowing into their yard. Naomi
could smell it from a block away, and her mother would never have to call her inside for supper. The second
she caught a hint of garlic in the air, she would wave goodbye to her neighborhood friends and bolt home,
like a moth drawn to a flame.
 There was a time she had tried to eat it, when she was still new to immortality. It had been a loaf of
bread similar to the one she faced now, on the woman’s stove—only, her self-control wasn’t as practiced
back then and crimson was sprayed all over the walls. It was still dripping from her chin, running down to
stain her clothing, and the bodies of three mortals were stacked on the living room couch like fish at a
Saturday market.
But the loaf stared at her, perched on their countertop, completely untouched. It was perfect. It
smelled perfect.
It was then that a wail echoed solemnly through the silent house. Dread washed over her as Naomi
suddenly realized that the humans on the couch weren’t the only ones home.
Panicked, she snatched the loaf of bread off the stove and darted out the open kitchen window, the
same way she had entered the home.
She had taken the life of someone’s mother. The wailing child would grow up without a mother’s
touch, without her patient lessons. Similar to the way Myra left Naomi with no one to guide her, she had just
rendered a newborn orphaned, with no one to guide it.
That conclusion alone is what drove her to vow to herself that she never again wanted to take away
someone’s mother. Or their sister. Or their friend. The dead weren’t the only ones affected by her feeding
routine.
After she had fled from the house and her guilt, she had made her way back to her boarded-up flat to
retire for the day and realized the loaf of bread was still waiting in her pocket.
When she raised it to her mouth, it felt as though she had taken a red-hot piece of iron and branded
her tongue. She screeched and dropped it instantly, but the sores in her mouth lasted for weeks.
In the dining room, the woman stirred.
For someone who had lived as long as the girl, what felt like a few minutes saturated with
reminiscence passed nearly an hour already. She sneaked one final, longing glance at the loaf of bread
before licking her lips and darting out the front door.
 Spring 2018
Sandra Kolankiewicz

Marriage

Unable to make a conjunction out

of the disparate parts of sentences,
we sometimes disassemble in the same
way a factory unmakes itself, the
coal no longer moving along on the
conveyor belt to the furnace, the valves
stuck so the joints leak in a dramatic
way that seems unreal even from afar,
the pipes splitting along their seams, dripping
color in the red sunrise warning of
the tempest that will arrive by evening,
few options other than considering
the worn and in need of repair above
the solid foundation still holding its
ground over all these years without slipping
or crumbling, testimony to skill and
engineering, patience and commitment.
Today Is Not Yesterday

Today is not yesterday, for she is

gone, the rest of us waiting out our turns,
the unknown looming ahead of us as
if we are standing in line to buy a
ticket based on advertising. You say
our mother will be waiting for us; I
insist she’s here now though we can’t see her.
She fixed the washing machine and lined up
cans in the cupboard, made the bed out of
tangled the sheets. She touches our heads when we
cry, hums while we sleep, death a permanent
state in which we are eternally loved.
A Pie in the Air

I never do one thing at a time, a

pie in the air, my hand on the phone, the
unicycle tipping between falling
and cruising, eggs simmering in salsa,
the bird feeders waiting to be filled, the
shelves on the refrigerator door just
unloading themselves and wiping themselves
down while I answer the bell, throw open
the screen to the street and the dog going
by, ignoring both me and the cat on
its trip around the block, the man on its
leash forgetting me too, for he lives at
the halfway house down the way, has been told
not to make eye contact with women or
children, the library and primary school
up the street quiet during this winter
vacation that feels like spring break, all of
them in front of screens instead of out here
in the sun balancing the past with the
present, hope with despair, privacy with
community, regret with righteousness.
When I Think of You Now

What I see when I think of you now is

a walrus, a mound in the chair behind
a desk, your drooping mustache hiding lips
I cannot remember, tusks replaced by
a cigarette you did not light because
your wife was making you stop smoking, like
some odobenus rosmarus with an
old lady at home taking care of the
calves, who wants you alive to help raise them,
doesn’t know she’s on an ice berg with you,
them, and me, the prey who wants merely to
pass by on my way somewhere else but ran
into you, master of the flow, bigger
and faster and meaner than I who have
nothing to defend but my life while you
can be overthrown in a minute like
some old professor with tenure who no
longer delivers his lessons You aren’t
there yet, still have muscle under your fat
though you are pinniped and limited
by the world you’ve adapted to, which is
not the world which was created, vibrissae
whiskers attached to muscles, supplied with
the blood and nerves that makes them extremely
sensitive organs that can discern shapes,
tell the difference between the shellfish you
forage in the dark at the bottom of
the bay and the rocks often mistaken
for food by one without experience.
Even with this skill and the sheer weight of
professional credentials, even with
the adoration of those who protect
you, the efforts to keep you in place, you
will still go extinct, follow the same way
as one who never mated, forgotten.
Bike Riding and Kite Flying

When it came time to let go, you were there,

then and after at the hour and before,
the zigging and zagging, the bump bump bump
that makes up a life in the day and the
night. The first time I flew a kite was at
the beach, the osprey, fish in their talons,
flying inland, headed toward the back bay
beyond the wide highway, that first ride just
as much about center of gravity
as about the wind or the traffic lights,
or the flowers at the end of the lane,
one bloom opening, the next sagging, like
the earth with only five billion years left
till we’re consumed in a super nova.
 Spring 2018
Sacha Archer

Chronology Poems
from The Complete True Biographies of Artists and Writers.
 Spring 2018
Franco Cortese

Cuntradykedead
The true spirit of Man: his Ra(-)bid lust
Man`s distinction divine: selfueled greed
As greed for greed`s sake, desire`s ceaseless thrust
For the only weight to worth its need
If you think that somehow strange, improper
That conceit be sole measure of Mankind
And vanity the lone meaning of Mind
Consummate creaving gr/s\i/n\deeded to prosper
The dis(s)-at-is-fied: those lone he|I|rs to worth;
Meaning must be (pur[ge)ate)or-I’ed to be
Mean-in-G-ful. God may be beyond this earth
Yet still be solely yon humanity;
(Y)our (y)o(w)n rarefle(x-i'v|{i}ct)ed Becoming
On yon h|or|i|zon(e) where Celeste meets Sodd
In darkbright asymptotic interp(l)ace
W.here endless space and salted ground sex fire
In Truth’s tortu(r)ous Beturn , Resumming
S.pacious T.ime as a (man)kind of half-God
Like Man as caponall or all’s lowest case
Titan Part-part and most (w)hol(l/e)y higher
Than deaden(e)d Dad for being belator
Of his own Success(ation), for(e) being
Unfin.i.shedly-furnished burning hot
And dark with not of night(-as sight);
Heightan (Ten/fall)acious oddacity;
Co(-)me(a)t-tale-end o’ his ownow future’s head-
(Re)start. Leadin’ line or leaden stein? Lead
Once flowed Ra-bright ambivoracity(,)
Sooth the real(.) nectarry ambrosia-lite
And heav(iar)y be(-)sides, a think-blot
Smeared mannarcortical f(l)eet-fleeing
(H)i(t’)s rear-view mirror i-mage. Create or
Be (cre/sed/be(-/r))ate(-)d, as A say. Prime
Climb “I’m” fills the (h)ours glass sphinxter
Like food of a god and thinkstir
Trickster like Iamber stills time.
Whether made from hatch or scratch, whe’er
Godless or Soddless besides, there
Taint nothing wrong (but then again
Then again nothing chastely right
In derelict stricture about
It either) with the upward kenned
Penned and denned created from night
From rightly taking their revout
(I)r(resol)outer (ai[r)oute] heir-
Ship to remake matter of air.
To underlie and overstand-
Tall looking up toward his fall
See( )in( )G fully-revoluted
Horizon in rear-view mirror
Wondering why convoluted
Vor(in)ticing void volition
Deicided de-sidedly
To Take (up)take) so l( )on( )G to turn
Itself (around) and see the lain-
Down lazy eight sprawled besideways
Like horizontal horizon
For what it really is: upmost
Vertical Helikon and non-
Circular cycle onwards and
Up toward (of course but never
As) infinity, not a fall
At all, unless you rel(at)ive.
Body part of brain cause a hand
Was needed, and seas humping squall
Model of electro(exe)cut(I’v)ed
Sight dinside cause inner’s clearer
Mirror beats out’s rediluted
Mire-roar; brain the eyes’ optician
(we must unite dividedly)
Cause oft we (r(h)e)turn to (l/y)earn to (y/l)earn \
Rather thæn viced-reversægain;
Cause right alm(h)ost ne’er the t(r)iedways;
Cause to grow young is to wisen
And meatiest dish the cupghost
That hosts itself fat with yongone
Awayness to(e)scape sum canned
Fate when it should be manned ever-
Foremore. See? Mind is a simb(r)awl
That dives down to rise elative
From the caco(-)phony ignaught.
Man in always is a symbol
And God is thæ symbol of thæt
Symbol tot(-)ally symbo(rhea)lized;
Man is CO(s)Mega in thimble
Ni(m/b)bled to fab his own fiats;
Man is himself idealized!
Like|wise only right that Mankind like mind
Mind its own becoming!; That Man might find
His own mind!; That mind grow truer with each
Autoprogen(e(.)t(.))ic succesself teach
its trail of fatal ghosts and natal hosts
the newest and th(r)us(t) truest way to be.
Self only sleeps as word, ever almost
But nair so close to touch, free for the fee
Of freedome, the seedome seahome
Ne’er so close to clutch it(self) much, the sought
As such; I to D and to T air tied
Meme to Mime to Me to(o) De(a)lt(a) Time Tr/i|y\d
I in( )deed: lay or lie? Mountain-chain or fountain-vein?
I at once affirms and denies the eye:
Not know, now, or will, but all: gnōmē
Is thought sight, or first sight makeshifting thought?
Both of (r(h)e)course: scales were meant to slide!
Else what’s left but to hide behind
A hide; to brain to feign to deign
With pride with my telescoped I(.e.ye)

O O
I I
Well, now. Do I seem unfinished to you?
What of it? O realie? Lesser fore it?
I'm solid with you on that first one, as
in deed I should be, but the flatline
seaquell I disagree with in degree
to promethesprit so as to(ward--- )
make becoming my solidstill spacefill
constant and con(ex)crete timeless being,
a rebel infinity tucked inside
time now sucked towards its herenew nearview
s(t)eersmirror i-mage [i'm-age/\I'm-a-G]
odd recursions in a feedback of un-
house mirrors:.. I make the fractal humping
burning sex of nothingness, being, time
my life me death, falsification true,
cause to you truth doesn't grow bit by bit.
Since you think that ulTime(-)ate meaning has
I'mperial units that shant combine
with others or even what seems to be (.)
its technical self, and All's Else ignored;
that meanings metric be metric, end till
and no more, nor before, no D-Ting
a(s/t) all, since you insist truth torn betide
I focus my I's to fore and steer through
the dimensional agent-praxis-Z
to make variability my one
constant - free within your shackles - trumping
your trumpeted walls, making themselves climb
over the selves in a fury conferred -
cause that's what truth is, conferrence concurred
then conquered again. Rules scribernetic
log-books by logos the therebinary
wrout(e) to re[w]ri(gh)t[e] themselfves whe('e)r[e] signa/i\ry-
begotten or of inde/i\terminate
O(-)rig(-)ins; and so(u)l[e] route to germinate
free-will (will be-cause will is turned toward
its future self, truth's case's skin rescored
to restore meaning's necessa/i\rily
timeless transcience tertia(r/i\)ly
tentati'ved and here to stay for as long
as here is in the now, for(e) past passes
away, is epitomized till turned wrong
in perverted inconversion) classes
technically but not prima/i\rily or
solely (but as definitely souly
as one's going to get) as no lore nor more
than a cause looped upyon itself holey,
being nothingness be-cause becoming
is both, because progress is feedback is
a loop a loop whe'er tied by manus manned
or noughted makes a hole (and as plumbing
a hole insulated inside a hole
whether flesh or stone or both as flowing
molten stein river-fire ongrowing
glowing on and on that dawns a skin like
man untill time and distance und(o/ue) in
icy de-eisy immotion his spike-
piked-pyre cooled into statu(t)e sterned strait, chin
up butt for what?) In deed freewill is not
an uncaused causor, for for a process
to reprogram its seeseem-pettygram
pregrammed programmar and to prolaccess
its own becoming and resumming that
will can be by feedback fedback, tittat
ticktocked and inspiral host viral
like screws revoluting in most gyral
a passion passed on for the (e)very sake
of it('s the )self; for how am I to make
myself if I haven't been made or caused?
Freedom needs determinacy and laws
cause that's what existence is, or rather
the names we've retrotractively lathered
upon the things we've found(ed) existing.
If freedom is chaos, what's consisting?
If freedom need be free from affect to
be free effectively well then good luck.
Free-will need not be(.) caused and prenew
from the get go go getter; just to fuck
itself, to tuck itself partly inside-
out itself, to ignite and turn over
like gensteer en(-)gen engeneared, skimplyed
by present silence like glass sound, rover
of ranges rearranged, deviant mean
and stray median, high of a domain
holy self-parameterized. Such seen
only be-cause degrees of freedom use
the same axiomatomic muse
and axiomautomata so sine
movingly, Klein groovingly and to sign
improvingly (as only the yon made
on by appo anthro way-weighed and way-
wade of approproiation {anointment
autoappointed in pointed potence
without pretense save its lack(-/, )like joinment
of loins Mc-leiu-handed like the presen(ce/ts)
of palm-trees at the(re/butt/L) end o'
the mind, like one('s) soverain self so-so-sewed
internetted and reumbilicalled
-forth to the rear-face of the outer-O
world an(d) other and galled at all's wall sprawled
upon the beadstead [I ask you to gno:
is this – that is, that; the the out there - the
very point of pointlessness or me
its very antithistress; come or go?
Become or forego? Or? Or is each side
parentheosized to curl the same O?])}
is appropriate in a (shrinking-wide
of) time and space like this. For man is this
very alephact of then (h)and thair worn
and superposed atop like t-his t-
hat, of appropriation, Klein-stein kiss
via-vis the self a stolen loss shorn
as T made Y by mirror(ed) crack(ling), see
yourself for the televisionairy
you (h)are, a lifted lost-and-founded box
to chrisscross(out) space and time like faery
mist from astronaught of eye and ear, clocks,
the faux-blocked-locks of docks, symbols themselves,
signs made autono(m)o(u)s, tickstalk optioned
operative by operations by
logos on itself the way the moving-
index of symbols re-signing that is
the computer turns currency's refund
gives change-back to go foreward and how it
gives by taking and makes by mistaking
each computation a divine series
of typos retypefying typons
reified no longer but re-if-ied
all the more for lore for door for drawer
for fore itself (itself itself being
an isn't yet as well or in the first
(type)face); all this is you, and all you are
(th)is, each of these a temp-tempting tribute
to man, each an instance and instant of
appropriation, fire stolen out
from asunder the hung-over over-
hanging gods - of that most immaculate
innatal cart-off-graphy Idealeyes'd
again in a gain in a can that fans
out its own dendrilic fire
upon the flame-made-out tendrillic mire.
 Spring 2018
Poetry Wolf

BUCKET
OF
PLAIN

Pilot poet ink, pilot pen twilight twinkle,

left for dead Chris cringle,
speak or bush wa brawl,
poet projection gracious,
glancing down noticing long

Way to fall, no failure no option,

some say this, state that, insecure pens,
hawg wash pig liped truth,
go ahead raise hands kill truth,
sure thing sure hooded reeper

Raise sicle swoosh,

hate baiters cast in lava land,
raa flat peaks of Buffalo range,
swaying grass rolling valley's,
wonder kept sorrow relm, wolf helm,

Hem up industry candyman,

sour words, bad mouth, toothrot
no dots, never do I,
hot words third only five,
birds life echo do swallow,
 Bruno to you guessed it,
right after A human coughs up truth
for life, go ahead confess it,
every part of matter A poet Dawn's,
rockability from cornrows to thrillbillys,

Pa, pa, pa day, up fill

five gallon Aquarius life bucket,
if plain they really yawn,
read terrible any reward or publishing
they posses not earned, flunky

Bottom rider charitable, not any

not A match for Poetry word Wolf,
wolfing muffins love I want to,
beautifully ease in she see as do I,
house walls ghost installed,

House roster half way, half good,

half entertainment, no not Hen house,
trick or treat we will see,
half the sales, chose rumble left battered,
strain minds silly thoughts,

Unbelievably think they can fathom,

Born bouncing unswindld mind,
are time, time sky wishing, wish not,
on my way hold on A poet is at trotting,
kick pace up suddenly brisk,

Pouncing pricks on deadly cactuses,

start must finish, circle wolf
love track as they understand,
now wrong cat mask & tuck,
keep it not needed mine know,
 PoetryWolf word thoughts,
they hate for see humble house
call to light, no they just
Unable To Top A Pen
~END~
 WE
KNOWING

I am so I be window tinting,
door cracking house eye,
Poetry Foundation love but excuse you,
River road pay toll,

Hen roll warm, cold, now

toasty muffin, zany to she I keep zesty,
sparkanator sparkling water thirsty,
on my marry way up receiving no lift,

No Ash's, no call to sift,

swimming with no arms across bay,
many times over a poet coughed it up & paid,
now made Maden arch Goddess,

Flowers planted, life reaching efforts

similarly equivalent too life pondered,
pecked on now perched,
smooth through water gracefully resembling dolphins,

Seven of seven at seven,

wrath they say fold over folded,
pray don't stay, no call, no calling,
only shoved away,

Seeking finding ways day upon days,

waiting lobby full bullshizel super sized,
draft never felt if sealed closed,
sowing seeds root words,

Spring heart rings cold souls cast rotten words,

last breath,
poet blooms on her bosoms sweet nectar,
hunting hen peckers in silence,
 Still day they will pay dividends,
what door, Poetry Wolf already standing inside,
food for all now feed them feeding
they turned gluten seven buttons,

Universally found mind fine find,

must see faces enevenable,
walled sheet rock,
~She Called Too so Call~
 EAR
POUND

Why what the snarl need flea bath,

throw A muffin for the ruffin,
ruff muff coughed up coffin Kicker,
dawned on A house lowborn left lighting rod

Angler might hook A floater,

dementing deminishing daluge spluge
pishing pushing done novels on dime notes,
na, no need deepen no limits,

Single sure swift footed walce,

what they assume A poet never Dawned
on dame school, assuming no doging my ballocks,
Poetry Wolf wirriling smithing

Glorious, forming wide world words,

fructiferous, pick up not feal off,
feel love ghost rythem
dismissing grumbling, gumbling,

Running down thought trains,

let me guess about ready to tell me my limits,
no blow dock yes that, that I do,
do not waste your clicks & ticks,

Fine effort from numb yes love,

yes wife, yes sun, Poetry Wolf
brinkmanship truegrit authership,
no holds barred, bound to break away
 Stretch for A long lead,
muffin prasie give back the muffin,
that same tree on A hill, Bow Tree ,
gentel laid feet caressing earth

Laying about no trace,

mate body with mind,
no watch read sun, read moon,
do not waste your time

Like hammer can’t touch this

as A hammer Dawned to crush it,
munnsin bowler pin, up never pinned down,
~Walk Forward~
 Spring 2018
Mark Prisco

queer theory

Why should the fly live?

I could end its

time at play
with my
finger
tips

between the rains,

now.
At the lake.

That’s
nothing but
what you think it
is, the queerness
of being some
other man
thing, the object of my

looking
in

the mirror When eyes

meet like that – at a

glance - it’s
like you know me see some
thing I didn’t want you to It’s

hurt, crowned de-

thorned; christ
dragged post-
mortem to the tomb
or

before his
ministry.

dissolutions in the morning 3

the skin on my finger tip is,

rubs against your in-
side,

dry & your smile is

thin. Had a feeling you’d

be gone. Saw it clear, some-

where when I shut my
eyes in

daylight, saw
red & when
I passed on
almost, black

. There’s a knock
& I can’t get to the door before
long

I’m at the funeral

& I can’t hear a word
of it & there’s nothing
like death or your mother

to kill the buzz, the

crack, your cock between her wide
thighs snapped tight, against
the grain & you fill her good
like that grave/digger
shoving the dirt back in. I’m/
a machine|Not-thinking \ just/ ff____
____fucking because. What else
is there. I’m sure yr/ man doesn’t mind,
because I’m/ family &/ (shh) - my/ mama just died ___________
My forgetfulness

my hand forgets the fluid ride

of the stair rail; half way
down, her pearl;
carpet
burn behind
her desk, hard
words – all of this slipped
off. her tight dress.
my stiff
bent against the rub of inside
denim.
submission

I
Lord, my head is
bowed, arms stretched
across the narrow floor.

II
The tumid wind
rose, spread like
night, & waves fell & ashes.

III
Slowly I’m
spent & time dries
my leaving.

harm

there’s no blood & the faint scar’s from years

gone
I’m not
home anymore not high not
stoned but away I’m
not
fit to hold your
stare say nothing This

is the best I have been

long term
the least disturbed
In dreams my

cut’s not so
deep as to leave anything
more than
worn skin
 Spring 2018
Raymond Arcangel

So, you'll dance

You can't stand still on a glacier.

Stick your arms out and slide
like the bubble in a level.
Control your breathing.
If you get too hot you could drown,
a sinking red coal
enveloped by what
you never could help but love.

No one told you to be here.

There were marshes, there were plains,
muddy though they were.
There was a community of pup tents
and something like comfort.
It was your choice...

not to swallow rocks and be anchored,

not to elevate gossip to
the level of sage-like wisdom.
You sought this out, now own it.
There are scents in this air
that they'll never breathe,
spices they'll never taste.
Just don't expect their good wishes.
Never imagine a welcome-back pat on the back.
You'll have to brew your own tea,
shaking the snow from your pot.
And you'll have to dance.
Dice In Hell

It's cold at night, but not low enough to see their breath.
Steady-date pins pierce the taut angora sweater vests.
Three cheers for the girl whose dip came out with the most zest.
And your mothers may shoot dice in hell, but they'll clean up your mess.

Steel-framed cars nearly hitting concrete tele-poles.

Wolf-grinned boys, girls with legs of cream from hip to sole.
From an executive desk, he recalls a childhood on the dole.
And your fathers may shoot dice in hell, but they'll pay all your tolls.

The azure hail has left the monument's face pockmarked.

You've forgot your song, so hum along to a distant dog's bark.
When you're all out of cash, sell your dealer's name to the narcs.
And your children may shoot dice in hell, but you'll lie in the park.
And their children may shoot dice in hell, but it's all just a lark
Blue Liz

Blue Liz hangs off the print

that hangs off of my wall.
It's too hot, the tape won't stay up.
(And you know, she was a queen once!)

Bob, early Bob,

plays on the speaker,
telling a story about some friends
to whom he's since said goodbye.

I leave my apartment,
walk the streets, see the wreckage,
the skyline where the elephant and donkey fought
for decades like Godzilla and Rodan
and shared cigs of smoking citizens and tipped frosty mugs of blood
when the end-of-day punch-out hour'd come.

Hey, Lou,
I think I almost get it,
almost see it through your eyes.
Miscarried, misplaced,
into a world that smiled with gnashing teeth
toward anything you held dear.
I see why you'd pray for disease,
champion decay.
But I won't or can't.
I still love food and warmth too much,
love corny things like striving,
like beauty and redemption,
the smooth flesh of a young woman's calf.
And I know there are more calves,
coming 'cross the plain.

Andy, can't I love you

yet disavow your child?
I see that Baby Man, self-neutered,
self-failed-aborted,
crawling, grasping at my catering shoes,
butter-knife wounds, dull and shallow,
more pus than blood.
He says,
“Please stomp me, please fulfill me.
They taught us only to worship death,
and promised death was coming.
But it hasn't yet.”
And behind him, an army of his siblings
leaving tracks like slugs along the pavement.

And the tune they hum, I write words for

and we sing together and laugh.
“This daymare has no ending, this daymare has no ending.
At least not as far as we can see.
This gray mare's work's not ending, this gray mare's work's not ending.
At least not as far as we can see.”
 Spring 2018
Tiffany Flammger

You

I saw you today and it felt like that day all over again.
It felt like I was dying and all I saw was you watching
Watching me fall apart but you didn’t seem to care.
You just walk around like I never mattered to you
Like I am nothing and you know what maybe I am nothing
If you would only talk to me I would tell you everything
I would tell you everything I feel deep within my soul
A soul that is dying without you near.
I would tell you that you are oxygen and I will silently
Die without you if it means that you are happy
If that is what it takes I will look away when I see you
I will keep my thoughts about how much I miss you
How much I miss our talks and your silly side that most never see
I will keep the thought of wanting to hear your voice or see
Your name come up on my phone.
I won’t tell you that to me you are the sun and I just wish
That I could be somewhere in your light with you
I won’t tell you that I feel like I have lost a part of myself
I won’t tell you that sometimes I wish I was strong enough
To fight for you to show you that no matter what I am here for you
I won’t tell you that it hurts me when I see you looking at me,
It makes me wonder if you miss me like I miss you,
But that can’t be right, that can’t be true, you don’t miss me
Cause if you did when you see me hurting you wouldn’t just
Walk away like I am not here. You would let me hear that
Voice that I miss so much, you would let me see that smile
But it is all in my head because you don’t want me around.
I feel like you wish that you could never see me again
And if I could grant that wish for you I really would.
Just because I know that it would make you smile,
That’s all that I have ever wanted, I have only wanted to
Be the reason that you smile. But I won’t tell you that.
 Spring 2018
April Vomvas

I EXISTED

I hear of late, a constant and thunderous roar in my head

You would say it is the voice of your God
But I believe that he doesn’t exist at all
And after life, there is only inanition and destitution

In utter despair I weep at the thought that, from where I came

And also where I go, will just be clay
My bones are brittle and made of sand
Into the musty earth I shall dissolve

Once the foul stench of my decay is gone

Flowers will spring forth from the earth where I was lain
The wind will effortlessly blow their leaves to and fro
The sweet essence quickly lost on the breeze

All proof that I infringed upon this earth will soon be gone
I would that the world should know I ever existed
In years to come the flowers will still blow on the breeze
But I cease to be in memory once my children’s, children have passed
Acerbity

The mirror reflects her solemn face

In dream like dark under the bed
She combs her raven locks again
Waiting for the clock to change
Under dim light from slivered moon
The street lamps melt as tears run down
She waits in umbrage, yea silent rage
Her wrinkled red gown tossed aside
The dinner now all strewn about
With broken plate glass on the floor
Bitter wine half empty now
Her evening unfolds sorely chaste
She looks to stranger with new intent
Escape

Hands withered from age and years of abuse

Yet stray strands of brown still intermingled with thinning gray
I have been digging in the dead of night for so long
Unable to sleep this last night before desertion
Praying to a God I don’t believe in
Asking for favors I don’t deserve
I just know I cannot stay here one more day
New stirrings of fear and excitement in my heart
For I will be free or they will have to shoot me
 Spring 2018
Stallion Dunquis

“An Impromptu Visit”

Menacing space witch clad in barbed leather,

Jaw clenched, with orange eyes that shimmer and stab,

Chilled veins, and hair like a bouquet of feathers—

She broods on nightmares. Her bed’s a concrete slab

Now that she fears sleeping; she writes instead,

And knives remind me of her fountain pen.

She scribbles furiously: A baby, well-fed,

Dressed in striped pajamas, crawls to her den

Drooling, burping, rolling… seeking his mother.

Suddenly, her blood’s thawed!—a bold heartbeat

Announces this lost love that would smother

Every lamppost flooding her lonely street.

She’d forever walk in darkness for this—

An impromptu visit… her child’s kiss…

“Reina y Bufón”

I called you Queen and so you called me 'King'.

Haha! I'm just the jester at your court!

Laughter I'm to bring, songs I am to sing.

Grinning pity's your rifle; I'm your sport.

Fire away! I'll bleed out at song's end.

Reincarnate, I'll breathe for one more joke

To die again, to rise again, to bend,

To break under your entertainment's yoke.

If I'm a king, then where's my bejeweled crown?

Mistaking my voice for royalty's flute,

You merely mock me. Spread my melody 'round,

'Long with my name, for fame's sake once I'm mute!

I'm your game, labor, and beloved buffoon.

Pay me, kill me, remember my tune.

 “Blue Mood”

Happy moods are popular and “normal”

But I want to see your blue or grey mood

Either is more beautiful than “formal”

Neither can conceal your true attitude

A gorgeous attitude is like a lamp

with missing shade, its bulb shining brightest

That’s a simile from summer camp

I need a respite from the neighborhood whitest

Her eyes shine bright when she listens to the blues

“I’m here… unbutton me…”

 Spring 2018
Zen Bradshaw

Cosmos (Cowboy's Prayer)'

Lioness aggress my doubtful mind

Inherently it wanders getting lost from time to time
Mistaking truth for shadows tangling in twisting vines
Oh lioness aggress my doubtful mind

Warrior pierce my bleeding heart

Its agony for love I fear will tear itself apart
Afraid facing the mirror dim lit eclipsing its own spark
Oh warrior pierce my bleeding heart

Lover understand my reckless ways

After all you taught me it takes light to find the shade
I've wandered all my life to know the solace of your gaze
Oh lover understand my reckless ways

Father do take pride in all my days

It's hard watching you wither while your light remains the same
Our joys are cloaked in sorrows for we all must fade away
Oh father do take pride in all my days

Mother may you cradle me in love

Your voice is soothing like the cooing of a turtle dove
Without it here to guide my gaze turns upward toward the sun
I'm blind when I'm not cradled in your love

Brother may you take me as I am

Never to retreat though at the gates of hell we stand
If ever you should stumble I'll be there at your command
Oh brother may you take me as I am
Sister shan't I sweeten your bitter tongue
Hosting fiendish ghosts pulling your blooming spirit down
There's nothing left to fear floating the rhythm of my song
Oh sister shan't I sweeten your bitter tongue

Son bask in all life's wonder while you can

One day you'll talk about it but you'll never understand
How all these little treasures used to fit inside your hand
Oh son bask in life's wonder while you can

Daughter keep a green tree in your heart

A little bird will come and your bright eyes will be besot
And when you let it go it will always wander home
Oh cultivate the green tree in your heart

Little bird make this green tree your nest

Sing sacred the melody that whispers in the wind
Tranquilize equanimity energy within
Oh Little bird make this green tree your nest

John baptise me in God's holy light

Pour over me like Saul and shed the scales from my eye
Rendering my soul straightening my crooked spine
Oh John baptise me in God's holy light

Judas betray me with your soft kiss

For thirty silver dollars lead them to my garden bed
Ill love you all the more for you know not what you did
So Judas betray me with your soft kiss

Child may I fuel your flickering flame

As youth begins to fade so does our little fire dim
Forgotten beneath bushels stifled both by fear and blame
Oh child may I fuel your flickering flame

Our feelings they are waves atop the crest

Crashing foreign beaches smoothing stones and sifting sand
We gather them in buckets but we still are just a speck
Our feelings they are waves atop the crest

Once we've walked our paths

enough to grow
Perhaps our threads will cross and we will build ourselves a home
We've wandered all our days and through our secret gardens roamed
Oh it's ok to be alone
Arctic shard won't you house my lone spark
Steal away the pleasures of the warmth beneath my hearth
Without these little comforts I will grow to love the dark
Oh Arctic shard won't you house my lone spark

Earth I will join in your cosmic dance

Flowing through my body the electrostatic transe
Treading murky waters glow your infinite expanse
Oh Earth I will join in your cosmic dance

Cosmos I will thread your rippling swell

Through entropy and agony I'll hum the ancient drone
The peak of evolution is loving everything that grows
Oh Cosmos I will thread your rippling swell
 Spring 2018
Sascha Akhtar

Excerpt from Whiplash Girlchild

I wonder why I still think of her so often. What was it about her that lodged itself so wilfully in my psyche
all those years ago, so that a decade plus later, she lives in my mind as if she were of tremendous
importance.

She is not a friend. She is not even an acquaintance. She scarcely ever thinks about me. I know this because I
never see a word from her about my exploits, my updates on my life, my non sequiturs &c on that excuse for
friendship Facebook. When I put up a new photograph she remains silent.

I know she scarcely thinks about me because I regularly check up on her. I leave comments, such as ‘You
look amazing in this,’ remarking on one of her Nan Goldin-esque highly stylized high art self-portraits; but
she very rarely responds. I wonder if she just assumes that I too must be part of the fan club that adores her
and therefore it makes sense that I would be leaving adulations for her.

When she was in Libya, when the first strikes started, I was truly alarmed that she would have been there
that very week. Why does she go to Tripoli, why does she have this strange fascination with Libya? Why
Libya? And also, how very cool of her. I left my two-bits, saying she would have been there, wouldn’t she. I
think she did respond to that one, agreeing that this was in fact an unsurprising turn of events.

I try not to leave too many traces of my visits though. I realize that often on this forum, people can be seen to
be ‘butting in,’ on conversations that have nothing to do with them. I myself don’t have conversations of this
kind on my own page, but am of the thought that if it’s there for me on other’s pages to see, I am allowed to
have my say.

But I do know better.

I know about the silent social pact that we have with each other; I will ‘befriend,’ you in this vacant lot of
relationships but you must promise not to embarrass me, or piss me off, or let on that you’re in fact not a
friend but a stalker.

I have often wondered if I actually just wanted to be her friend, for her to like me and if that is a large part of
being continually drawn to her. The thing is she has never, ever shown any genuine interest in befriending
me.

I think that this is the root of it all. I was used to people wanting to be around me. I was the cool kid at school.
I was also the hot girl at school, granted I was also the cool, hot girl at college, however, I was also
unfortunately representative of the hot Asian chick that all the Senior boys were betting on who would bang
first. So, it just wasn’t the same.

***

The first I heard of her was when He told me about her. I hadn’t seen her myself. He asked, ‘Have you seen
that hot freshman girl from San Francisco with the big eyes?’ I said no I hadn’t as we lay in bed naked. ‘She’s
cute,’ he added further wedging his way into Red Flag territory and I incapable of drawing boundaries just
nodded along.

When I did finally see her, I thought she reminded me of a doll; a doll made in the 1950’s. Her satin black
hair framed her pale skin so her eyes looked alarming. They were doll eyes. Not blue, but dark. I admitted to
him on another night in bed that I did think she was cute, having never discussed another girl with a man I
was seeing; I thought perhaps this was what he wanted.

She was no great beauty, but she was like a vision that lodges itself in your consciousness. He said to me,
‘Those eyes. They get to me,’ and I knew what he meant.
 She pranced about campus with her frilly skirts and extraordinary shoes, her hair often tied in two
ponytails on either side of her head. She was cute as a button alright. It was ridiculous that I only a year
ahead of her, just one year older in age, started to feel very, very old.

I was not even 21 yet, but I felt like the advent of Trinity and her other cute-as-a-button freshman
companions signified the End of My Nubile Youthiness. There was Aiko the Japanese girl with shoes that
put shoes in a different genre from footwear perhaps one more akin to space transportation. She exuded that
natural Lolita-Goth enchantment that so many young Japanese girls who spent their high school days
hanging out around Harajuku station saving up thousands of yen for the next ultra-hip Lolita Goth accessory
seemed to. Perhaps I wanted it. That.

And then there was Trinity’s sidekick, the girl with the rainbow dreadlocks and equally fierce boots. Her
dreadlocks weren’t mangy though, they were that particular kind of dreadlock that a certain kind of girl pays
300 dollars to have carefully and lovingly installed into her hair.

It was ridiculous but I felt utterly up –staged by this assortment of ‘young,’ things, even though I was
ostensibly no different. I wore insane wigs to parties, curated costumes that put everyone to shame,
including using plastic lanterns and stretchy rubber ropes with hooks on the end to construct a bustier.

***

I would wait for him in the evenings. He said to me he was a ‘back door,’ kind of guy, which he said to mean
he didn’t want Primary Boyfriend Status. I had understood what he meant, but when I relayed this to a few
world-wise American friends they cracked up, telling me that the ‘back door,’ was actually also used to refer
to sex that wasn’t as they put it, ‘strictly vaginal’.

I had no idea, having been raised in a repressed society with next to no exposure to half the things these
chicks knew about. They laughed at me for not getting the reference, but I explained, that as deviant as it
sounded, he did in fact mean that he was a man who came in and out via the metaphorical back door of the
relationship house, perhaps even when the husband was out.

He was like that and I allowed it. Some evenings he wouldn’t show up and even though he only lived in the
house across the lawn, I knew that I couldn’t try to find him. He would show up when he wanted. Like a cat.
None of us had mobile phones in 1996. There was no texting, no endless calling, no instant portals to link us
together. It was a silent time.

When he did come to my room, he wouldn’t talk to me much; he just wanted to get into my bed. For me, it
was his eyes. They were like stinging rays of sapphire light under black arching brows, making him oh so
devilish.

He was a strange one, older than all of us; a drifter. He often referred but never disclosed much about some
‘incident,’ in his teenage years that had forced his father to pack him off to the military. He had been in the
Navy, floating around the seas, hating every minute, hating his life, hating his family, till somehow he had
landed on the shores of this elite, private liberal arts college in New England to finally take his place as a
‘normal,’ American kid.

Edward was a large man and I remember in the dark suffusion of my room, being suffocated under him on
my standard-issue college student futon. Wishing to keep him there forever, knowing he’d never stay the
night. Lapsed promises to meet always followed.

I wanted to know what dark, dangerous things he was doing. We never socialized with his friends. I wanted
desperately to. If of an evening my friends and I found ourselves in his house, in the rooms of people he
frequented he was usually uncommunicative - off his head on Tanqueray No. 10 or whatever, which was his
and his mates’ drink of choice.

All our worlds somehow did come together, past the butt end of a rager, one night. Around 3 a.m. all of us
found ourselves wasted in a car being driven to the local diner for pancakes. Edward was in the middle, his
friend on the other end and I at the other of the backseat.

Like a fan girl, I was excited. So when I felt a hand coming over and attempting to clumsily feel me up, I
thought it was him. Only for a moment though. I wasn’t as inebriated as everyone else and caught on pretty
fast that it was his bald friend, another older guy who came to the undergraduate party late. He was a dick.

So this slimy friend of his kept reaching over him to get to me. Edward did nothing. I swotted the creeping
hand away, a number of times before this molesty crap ended. I won’t lie, it felt pretty grim.

I should have told him where to get off after that but I didn’t. I didn’t even mention it. My friend whom I told
about it was disgusted though and I still recall that she decided on-the-spot never to speak to him again. So
loyal was she. I was too weak-willed to do the same.

Still, most nights I waited for him. Total Fucking Sucker.

***

There was some ill-conceived plan to do acid. It was my first time, I’m pretty sure ‘cos I was nervous. I
mentioned it to Edward. In a rare moment of benevolence he offered to take care of me.

‘Come and find me when you drop the tab…and I’ll make sure you don’t bug out!’

What led me to this decision to do acid or why the friends that I was doing it with weren’t around, is
uncertain. This was just how it went down.

It had been an hour since I gingerly placed the slip of acid-soaked paper on my tongue and had set off
obediently to find him. It was well into a brisk New England night about 11:30 p.m. or so when I crossed the
lawn that separated our campus houses and entering the front door went straight to his room.

The hallway was darkened, bathed in a violet light. His posse, all residing in that wing of the house had
replaced the bulb with a purple one, hanging a large paper mache spider clinging to the ceiling for good
measure.

Knocked.

No sound.

Knocked.

Waited.

We all had post-it notes on our doors. That was our primitive form of communication.

YO! Where You At Fool.

Fuck You.

Went to buy pig’s blood. Backson.

Shit like that.

 Squinting, I made out a chain of yellow post-its, attached to each other, glowing eerily fluorescent, stuck on
top of the older ones. A fresh trail perhaps.

In a florid, curling hand it read:

Edward, I am very drunk

and feel

ing sad. Please come

and find me
Love, Trinity (with a significant flourish at the end of the y).

I felt something drop from my chest deep into the pit of my stomach with a splash. As I made out the words,
I was struck by a totally weird sensation of unquestionable gnosis. I knew he had been basically hunting this
girl from the very first time he mentioned her to me.

He had been on her tail. This was the very thing he had been waiting for; the time to pounce, the freshman
with the crazy eyes, exactly when she was vulnerable and expressed a need for him -of her own accord. He had
engineered the whole thing and I was witnessing the proof of his ‘win’. What the Fucking Fuck.

I can’t remember if I was tripping or not at that point, the acid almost seemed subsidiary to the poltergeist of
emotion I was experiencing.

I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I wondered when she had left this note and when he had seen it. I
could almost see him kissing her in a room somewhere, she with her eyes at drunken half-mast. I started
running up the stairs of the dark house to find someone, anyone.

That was when I saw her, Trinity poised at the top of the stairwell wearing a fucking wedding dress. I froze. It
was a frozen moment. None of us seemed to be breathing. In her right hand, she held a light, flowing, gauzy
train. With her left hand she held up the bottom of her dress, whilst navigating the topmost stairs that were
bathing in a red hue.

Her eyes were wide and bright like an anime character, the black line of her sharp fringe framing them as
she looked at me, while I took this mirage of horrors in. Trailing behind her a second later was Him. As I
registered this spectacle, it dawned on me with a cold sensation that he was wearing what appeared to be a
formal black suit, not unlike a groom.
It was safe to say that time had stopped for me as this image burnt itself onto my retina. I couldn’t say
anything. I think I mumbled something as inauspicious as ‘Oh hey,’ (Or was it him that said that) or the like
whilst staring at my feet, so intimidated was I by this random confluence of things. It never occurred to me to
say something like:

‘Where the fuck were you Edward?’ or

‘Why the fuck are you dressed as a bride and groom?’ Or just a general,

‘What the fuck?’

I can’t remember a damn thing after that. Except perhaps for running through a hallway in a trench coat
with a water gun, but that was later and that was the acid and I digress. I definitely don’t remember him
saying anything like:

‘I’m so sorry. I decided to play dress up with this doll of a girl in the hopes that she’s just drunk enough to
let me fuck her, instead of being there for you as I said I would in case you lose your mind on acid’.

No, he definitely didn’t say that. And as for her? She always behaved as if I wasn’t really there. Why would
this be any different?

I didn’t imagine for a minute that he might have mentioned me to her. That would be too respectful and that
would taint his image. Why tell her he was ‘doing’ someone? After all, the unwritten contract of ‘doing,’
someone clearly states that one is under no obligation to reveal the person they are ‘doing,’ if a better
opportunity presents itself. And he was in fact ‘doing,’ me, he wasn’t ‘going out,’ with me and it was an utter
delusion on my part if I believed any different –

but that is the kind of wisdom that only comes from hindsight.

***
 Spring 2018
Ian Ganassi

TEN CARD MONTE

It’s easy to see the impermanence of physical states,

How the pop tart dissolves on the pavement in the rain.

I wondered how she fit into the “tits and feathers” scene,
Having no tits to speak of, which is true enough but kind of mean.

How many reminders do we need that a flower looks like a vagina?

It’s enough to make you want to wear a blindfold

To the doctor’s office. But on the bus, “The front seat

Is the place to be, if you don’t want to observe the amenities.”

The nasty pocket compasses, the heavy industry of bullshit;

It’s freezing cold in here, among other reasons to bitch.

The hardest thing about the camping trip was the massive swarm
Of sweat bees coming in my direction. Running frantically down

The path, at least I got warmed up a bit. Hooking the fish

And gutting them, hanging them out to dry, I was almost

Like a real Indian, beneath an uneventful sky. Despite our

Attempts at asceticism, we’re stuck with need. What it takes to

Fail is also what it takes to succeed. And squeaking of speaking,

Why not blurt out the old first thing? Was the dog’s bite more

Frightening than the bee’s sting? Sufficient to the day

Is the evil thereof. Neither lucky at cards nor lucky at love.
FORKED TONGUE

Let me say this about that.

For that matter
Let me say that about this.

It would have made a prettier picture,

And a more lucid point of entry.

“Shut up and get in the elevator.”

The dentist is waiting

With his curious drill.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Let us gather by the river.”

The tulip bulbs

Exploding into bloom.

In Zoroaster’s playbook the key was fire.

What memory does is left to the imagination.

Obliquity of the eyebrows under suffering.

And my apartment is cold because it’s warm outside.

Mark Nobody, his mark.

A target tattooed on his bald spot.

Stepping into the root cellar only to find

The casket burst open.

It was on the schedule for the day, the rostrum, the plectrum.

The tornado spared one photograph—Praise the Lord.

YOUR LAST CHANCE

Sometimes apt and sometimes adder.

Sometimes glue and sometimes ladder.

Whose bark is worse than its bite.

But if you can’t spell “pedagogue” there’s no hope.

Just remember it rhymes with demagogue.

Nope, no number of dictionaries can save you now.

And how.

Dare you proceed on the dole?

Never you mind;

For now just close the door.

The bald eagle is in the tree,

Feeling important with a live snake in its mouth.

The adder. Or ladder.

My money is on the mastiff, hard as it is to say.

Marry come up, this ain’t no cock fight here.

It’s not an emotional or esthetic decision,

As expressed in doubloons.

And still to go home blind.

ADJUSTMENT DISORDER

The management doesn’t like doo dads on the side.

But that’s no excuse not to play the game.

He sat at the lunch table, waiting.

The presentiment only lasts as long as it’s due.

Fortunately, the gambler dug his way through the rubble.

Unfortunately, he emerged in a hornet’s nest.

After that it’s time to make up batting practice.

“Make it or make it up.”

I have been to the garbage and never made it back in one piece.

The popsicle abandoned a big chunk of itself on the way out of its wrapping.

But let’s not take such metaphors too seriously.

They warned me that there are conditions.

Either you were too sick to reply or you were beyond that.

How in the world did you get zinc poisoning?

It’s been a brave visit, Mr. Megalith,

And you better believe it.

It’s not a quilt I’m being here.

CLOWN SCHOOL

Certain things we thought were the best

Turned out to be as boring as the rest.

My bad mood wants to carry us all away,

Which is the way it is, when it gets that way.

Sometimes we can’t help but put our feet in our mouths.

Lame excuses only send us further south.

Diving drunk off city bridges and climbing cell phone towers,
The pure products of America could feel their power.

This isn’t something you can get with a lot of physical

Origination; it also puts the mind in a distinctly risible

Position. Sex sells and socks smell. Socks also sell

And sex also smells. Their domains, however, are not so well

Delineated. Isn’t it good Norwegian wood? Pay attention,

I’m asking you a question; don’t answer with condescension.

It can be boiled down to pragmatism, and spare ribs

And beer at the game. I can’t find my bagels or my bib;

Is there something we can do about all this?

Only in America, but made elsewhere, can you find the bliss

You’re supposed to follow. There’s a clown for every act, but

Like eating at McDonald’s, it’s as much fun as a heart attack.
 Spring 2018
Paula Pennell

Blessing

I am 40 years old and

the staffer at the methadone cinic
smiles when she tells me I am pregnant
like a delicious secret.
I have no job
no cash
and am stunned
something can survive the
napalm of my womb
but I accept the gift
from a God who is usually, at best, indifferent.
I stay clean,
I eat watermelon
and Red Vines licorice
and gain 20 pounds
and when they lay you on my belly
Your cry ignites something ferocious,
and I feel empty the second
the nurse pulls you away
to clean the vernix off your skin
and swaddle you in a cotton blanket.
Your face so pink and tiny.
lips, like a bleeding cherry.
Hole

The world is so small

A bathroom, cellphone
Blood on the ceiling and floor
used hypos fill the sink
A sinister cavalcade of
thuggish black men
enter and exit the driveway
all day long.
The rock is my rock
til my knees suddenly give way
after a strong shot
I am on the tile
Head full of hissing air
Unable to move
Praying
my child, playing in his room,
Doesn't find me
like I found his father,
dead at 43.
20 minutes pass
and my eyes refocus
the roar in my head abates.
Relieved,
I thank God
Wondering if I
almost
died...
or if that was just
really,
good,
shit...
I add another hole
to my arm
Deciding it's the latter.
 Spring 2018
Brandon Marlon

UN General Debate

Assembled in bespoke garb, grandees

ostensibly exercising a modicum of decorum
take turns at the marble-backdropped rostrum
to flaunt identity and allegiance, saber-rattling
and rodomontading, touting stances
and espousing views for which they aim to gain
purchase and traction if not approbation,
a parade of grandstanders challenging
the patience of their captive audience
of professional seat-fillers.

Here where First and Third worlds rendezvous

heads of state have their say,
lavishing kudos or spewing mordant critiques
regardless of their capacity for rapacity,
nonchalantly blathering platitudes
despite incriminating enormities and excesses.

None is stunned when little is proposed

in the way of solutions generable and operant
to address global plights; ultimately some
succumb to the stifling atmosphere and faint,
a time-honored excuse to be excused.
Once all is said and said, delegates swarm
corridors to wheedle and wangle,
threaten nemeses with démarches
worded "in the strongest possible terms"
(or else thermonuclear war),
and elbow for priority in bathroom queues.

Ambassadors of nations routinely sidelined

then silenced shoot dirty looks at counterparts
along the urinals, comparing length and girth,
mumbling epithets in no need of translation
before fleeing the zoo in chauffeured sedans
en route to fine dining and a musical.
Thus ends another marathon speech-fest
in a tower tragically and ironically ivory.
Damascene Rose

Settled in his haven by the West's eastern edge,

a mustached refugee crushes pistachios
as he confects bonbons by the dozen,
molten goop overflowing trays whose molds
now include maple leafs and syrup in addition
to the traditional roses, pyramids, and hearts,
a heartfelt gesture toward a promising land
wherein his familial fortunes have revived.

Aromas of cocoa, honey, hazelnuts, and almonds

permeate the factory, arousing memories
of his grandmother's saccharine kitchen,
blaring speakers calling believers to prayer,
the strum of the oud, bubbling hookah pipes,
the scent of jasmine in the Old City,
warm desert winds in the afternoon,
and the stark aftermath of missiles.

The recipes, gourmet and carefully guarded,

once the envy of Syrian rivals, have adjusted:
newly detectable in sectile sheets of milk and dark
chocolate is a bittersweet soupçon, the flavor
of nostalgia for a homeland damned
by sinister twins, terrorism and tyranny,
though this taste is balanced by another note,
full and rich, the secret ingredient of gratitude.
Sorrowing World

Zealous to consummate credal demands,

the wolves of evening sod in blood a globe
of suspecting yet effete civilians,
torpid fodder awaiting their fate,
unsure of their means, wavering in their resolve.

Apologists sated with a surfeit of massacres

turn reticent and no longer default to excuses,
refraining from the quondam claim
that our murderers are depraved because deprived,
merely seeking redress for valid grievances.

The whirlwind's reapers sowed no wind;

innocents slain were unstained to the end
that met them abruptly on a whim,
at the pleasure of hellions who connive
to unnerve, terrify, slaughter.

We have become benumbed and inured to the scourge,

idle bystanders to our own piecemeal demise,
resigned to a grim regimen convulsing the civilized
with wretched regularity, impoverished by loss
while still at a loss as to how to stanch the hemorrhage.

Though we weary of chilling eyewitness accounts,

horror's array will unrelentingly hold sway
until budding homicides discern
that none are ever sanitized by bloodbaths,
not even those ideologically inspired.
Ar-Raqqa

The fighting is heavy, intense, chaotic,

territory at times swapped like liras; yelling for Allah,
die-hard holdouts holed up in hideouts
delay the inevitable with suicide bombers
advancing on coalition soldiers as mujahideen
retreat into hidden tunnel networks
or disguise themselves as noncombatants
to catch kafirs off guard.

Exurbs, suburbs, districts, and neighborhoods

fall after overnight airstrikes and fierce clashes
by day, desperate fanatics offering stiff resistance
to Syrian Kurds, Arab militiamen, and US special forces
who manage to cut off all escape routes
from the occasionally caliphal capital.

But now the four-year caliphate is being rolled back,

rolled up, a tattered prayer mat.

In this final phase of pangs and throes

the order of the day is surrender or die;
only the deluded or dehydrated
fail to recognize this fateful hour
as the last stand of the damned.

Half the Abbasid city is rubble, its streets strewn

with civilian cadavers, madness' mute witnesses.

Among those internally displaced, intrinsically traumatized,

tentative selves emerge, emancipated
from oppression and burqas
involuntarily donned and rapidly doffed,
imprisonment's humid metonym.

Black flags topple from minarets,

though tomorrow remains uncertain,
victory's eve uncannily mundane: as ever,
night clothes the heavens with darkness...
...and the Euphrates caches her secrets.
Outcry

Legal remedies await their own enactment,

an inevitability inexcusably overdue
and far too tardy for the departed,
their lives taken abruptly and arbitrarily
by actants callous, unhinged, frenzied,
eager to go out with a bang-bang-bang,
not a whimper, indifferent to the carnage
left in their wake in the streets and squares,
in the hearts of loved ones lorn
and bereft of cherished treasures.

At such hours customary bromides—

"our thoughts and prayers go out to the victims and their families",
"everything happens for a reason", "life goes on"—
are exposed as less than worthless, availing none,
not even their well-meaning, mechanical espousers.

The insane, often responsible, ever remain

unaccountable; patently unpalatable is
the fact that those invested with authority
pretend helplessness as horror recurs
and the same, tiresome questions arise,
the same solutions suggest themselves
with unrealistic hopes of being implemented.

Only an outcry piercing the heavens, rattling the skulls

of sluggish legislators dozing in power's corridors
will suffice to disrupt the pattern;
shriek with me, then, on behalf of the needlessly deceased,
for the sake of injured survivors;
wail by day and howl by night for the waste of life,
the animating impulse, the original surprise present;
shriek in righteous indignation, at the top of your lungs...
...or brace yourselves for the foreseeable.
 Spring 2018
Clive Gresswell

1/
they picket all around those plague
sores of rabid discontent turning left
& then pulling up at the kerb & wishing
a good morning to the beaten
they offer them a turnip from the truck
what a turn-up from the books
rockstars crush them with their glares
the cleaning of the dole queue blues
radiant in their transgression
a whole new thorny question
the mark is made, the exclamation
what went on in this once proud
rotation of the planted seed all
hands to the plough of need
a semi-circular saw
along the M25
split trajectories endure
the lightning rock of ages
2/
entranced the slaughtered
sauntered thru the garden & pushing
along tramways & alleys of delight
into twilit worlds of the vanquished
& the soul-less
those who would with greater transport
take on the corpse colour
of your money & calling on mountains
of equilibrium set heaving boulders
crashing down among the valleys
strides into the future girth replenished
stocks of these strange stories
passed down among the tittle-tattle
& songs of birds
hurtling to the earth
3/
the passing irrepairable night
redeems all that has clouded
from my wish for fellow kings
& those with whom i travel
my hand upon the turning wheel
& split into the fog
my arms tire of the journey
endless without repose
nowhere to lay the questing mark
or hand in my exclamations
just turning once more to the perpetual dark
the only friend i truly know
to bring me back to this field
4/
thru desolate
photographs
of those war-torn
maps hung
torn at the corner
the rip in her dress
too much tender handling
lingers at the font
where at first i knelt
& needing some form of comfort
called to the back
of the black & white
colours faded into sepia
the journey dusted
battered by this wind
(the flowers grow darkly on this estate)
& badges distributed in day
for us to carry to decay
in the splitting frost
across the room
where hang the moonbeams
of the calendar
 Spring 2018
e a toles

altar reflections

father of my wounds
it was you that spurned my desire-
the stigmata was real, it tasted
of pomegranates.
the seeds stuck to the roof of my
mouth.
it took two days to get them
from between my teeth-
some of the altar boys still say
that they are there.
roots may be sprouting,
whatever it is that grows
from these seeds.
maybe i will have the resolve
to listen to those tales-
they could provide some sense
of soothing, some sort of calm.
wakeful

mornings are meant to be lonesome

listen
outside there are no birds
strange men wander through the garden
the film of your eggs
nearly translucent
oblong ideas meander
dripped in caffeine
an orgasms:
liminal embrace of an internal
clockwork god
multitudes of presence
spirit seeks after self
negro bodies, a spectacular sight

the black as a site of cultural affirmation

the black as sacrifice to the land
the black as a repeating memory of violence.
the earth soaks in our blood, this land
feeds off of us.
each dead black tells a story
the black as ungrateful
(you weren’t
born a slave)
the black as proof
(black on black
crime,
obviously they
don’t deserve
to live)
the black as human sacrifice
(see how they lay
writhing
crimson in the streets)
each dead black is a spectacle.
this land, our cannibalistic mother
this land watching, steely blue
eyes of Cronous-
bullets like teeth
in our
backs
the black as a terror of the past
the black as an infinite burial ground
the black as an altar built of bones and bodies
our blood,
constantly flowing
three refrains of thoughts on losing faith

first speaker:
this morning, emaciated.
I have missed my lover,
she is only held
in archaic dreams.
second speaker:
i took the icons
down nearly six months
ago. now only two golden
eyes are watching.
third speaker:
focus
slips in and out
mental bastard
of a thought
all of these worlds
hues of blue
 Spring 2018
Patrick Chapman

Three poems

'O'

Stiletto and Fugue: Sonnets

'In Heaven'
Patrick Chapman
You
need not fear to
get a good supply of
these Letters, also known
as Specialities, Protectors,
Preventives &c. Made from
the finest Animal Skin or purest
Medicated and Vulcanised India-
rubber they are properly Cured
and Fitted with a steel coil Rim
thus can be rolled into a Spring
Pessarie and used as such by the
Wife. These instruments are
constructed in accordance with
the Female Organisation. When
rolled into the normal shape they
can be worn by the Husband and
effectively prevent Semen being
discharged into the Productive
Organs, making it impossible
for anything to escape into
the Passage. No Apprehension
need be entertained of their going
too far. If cleansed and used according
to instructions these Appliances may be
employed any number of times over a period
of many Months thus providing a great convenience
to a person of limited means and will be found the most
reliable Articles for this purpose. Available
in Circular or Cigarette Form in three sizes:
No. 1: Small; No. 2: Medium; No. 3: Large.
You
need not fear to
get a good supply of
these Letters, also known
as Specialities, Protectors,
Preventives &c. Made from
the finest Animal Skin or purest
Medicated and Vulcanised India-
rubber they are properly Cured
and Fitted with a steel coil Rim
thus can be rolled into a Spring
Pessarie and used as such by the
Wife. These instruments are
constructed in accordance with
the Female Organisation. When
rolled into the normal shape they
can be worn by the Husband and
effectively prevent Semen being
discharged into the Productive
Organs, making it impossible
for anything to escape into
the Passage. No Apprehension
need be entertained of their going
too far. If cleansed and used according
to instructions these Appliances may be
employed any number of times over a period
of many Months thus providing a great convenience
to a person of limited means and will be found the most
reliable Articles for this purpose. Available
in Circular or Cigarette Form in three sizes:
No. 1: Small; No. 2: Medium; No. 3: Large.
In Heaven

eat
sleep

I piss

drink

when it is time for me to fuck

wake

shit

all day the kindly angel watches over us every night I press the pillow to my face

we must ever love the angel or be lost it never works

every day I

wake and cry

to kill

the scream not

this again

not this rge.

Stiletto and Fugue: Sonnets

in here
with toys
and figurines
a few growlers the asimo can’t help me now i crawl on the floor 
some are screamers it is guzzling and pin the boy until i reach the red 
one a lycanthrope teddy who dreams of being wood room and go thru
and pin is a boy who dreams dreaming of being wood the red door and i see
of becoming a real marionette  cannot help me but no superior or virgin 
the asimo is addicted the ted is friendly where are they i see a
to all kinds of cheese he says sure girl who looks like me
he says addddicted he’ll help but is not me she is ten
with a bad stutter he drags me up in the air we x my size she is huge
he says he is fly to the end of the ward  she lifts my dress 
emmental where he puts me down she pulls on 
and paddingtons away  my string 
big nurse shouts he has to go morph & i cry 
here your tablets back into barbie mama
eat and tomorrow she
we try the red door slit
i can’t wait i have to get me
to the red door now which here
of the toys will help me will mam
i die if i ask the copter because mama
in the red room she cut
superior mother me and
waits to take me fucked
home to the virgin the red
who runs the house wound
and has it in for copter mama
mam
ma
 Spring 2018
Hareendran Kallinkeel

Together, Hips Grinding

The cemetery’s silence breaks as Partha beseeches his tantric teacher, “Give me the strength to

overcome the hurdles in my path.”

Partha’s guru, a hermit with immense powers, blesses him by placing a hand on his head. “Nothing

will ever come in your way,” he says, smearing Partha’s forehead with charnel-ash.

Kings and lords despise his guru; an Aghori, the dweller of the cemetery ground, a practitioner of

black magic. Partha adores him; his vision and wisdom.

A devout disciple of Bhairava, the incarnation of Lord Shiva, his guru has gained powers beyond

human capabilities. He helps Partha to transcend boundaries.

“Close your eyes to everything but Bhairava,” the guru says. “No evil will touch you; the Lord will

appear. You will have your audience with him.”

The guru disappears. The time Partha spends waiting feels like an eternity. The occasional hooting of

an owl, perched on a Yakshi Pala, the devil tree, keeps him company.

Partha’s hands grope in the darkness, dance in a chilly void. As a freezing breeze laps up his torso, he

withdraws his hands, crosses his arms on his chest.

Finally, a voice speaks from the silence.

 “You have penetrated a domain where mortals dare not tread.”

“Who’s this?” Partha asks.

He hears a sigh. A warm breath, carrying the exotic aroma of wild flowers, wafts onto his face.

“The power you seek, that which empowers,” the voice replies.

“I’ve waded through adversities, surmounted hardships, grappled with the demons of deadly sins,”

Partha says. “Will in heart, prayers on lips, strength in muscles, I seek to make my sword mightier, horse

faster, kingdom wider.”

“You are here because you already have the blessings of your guru; mine too.”

Partha bows his head, in acknowledgement of the God’s kindness.

“You do not need more land to expand your kingdom,” the God says. “You did not come here on

horseback, so its speed does not matter. And, I see no sword in your hand.”

“I only wish to fulfill the duty of a king,” Partha says, “with your blessings.”

“I will make your forage to this territory meaningful,” the God says. “I will grant you the power; not to

conquer but to salvage.”

Partha feels the darkness weigh heavily on his eyelids. But he doesn’t dare defy his guru.

“I will grant you a boon, one that you did not seek.”

Partha now feels a warm sensation in his head as if the God is running a hand through his hair.

“What you need now is the boon of wisdom; a companion, and an heir to the throne.”

Partha folds his hands in salutation.

“But remember,” the voice continues. “Surrender never ever, to anyone other than me, lest your

powers wither.”
 Partha wakes up, exhausted from the journey, dizzied by attainment, spirits soaring, the boon

exalting.

He ventures outside his palace, sword in hand. Morning sun shines on its blade, flashes of orange

slice through the virgin mist. Dewdrops hang on the lawn’s lush grass, glitter like specks of diamonds strewn

on a green carpet.

His horse neighs, mane swaying, rearing to race.

Partha mounts the stallion. Hunger of fire, strength of tides and vigor of winds packed in his muscles

he sets out to salvage.

“These have the power to ignite wildfires,” Mother says as she places a pair of anklets in Maya’s

hands. “Hearts will burn when they jingle on your ankles while your feet demonstrate their grace.” She

wraps her fingers around Maya’s palm and presses.

Maya nods, eyeing her mother’s slender fingers.

The universe bows to his dancing feet,” Mother speaks again, gesturing towards the statue of

Nataraja, the King of Dances; an incarnation of Lord Shiva. “Kings will bow to yours.”

Why’d kings bow to a devadasi, a dancer in their harem? They’ve fed, clothed, and sheltered

thousands all along, coaxing them to the sweet ring of a euphemism, the Dasis of Devas, Maids of the

Heavenly, Maya thinks.

“It is not to a woman, or that class they bow to, but the eternal beauty that we are known to be blessed

with,” Mother says.

 She always reads Maya’s thoughts. The wisdom of a life shared with knights and kings; a heart shared with

none?

“I don’t want to be a dancer, Mother.” Maya casts her eyes away. “These anklets are fetters that’ll tug

me to their private dance floors and adjoining bedrooms.”

Mother’s fingers tighten around Maya’s palms and the anklets choke inside, sans their jingle. The

warmth of her mother’s touch hurt worse than the metallic chill of anklets.

“It is more a matter of destiny than our choices,” Mother says. “Wear the anklets. You cannot break

the shackles. The best that you can do is, wear it and assume control; so the one holding it will never let go.”

She smiles. “That way, he too remains chained to your magic. And, never ever surrender your heart. When

you do, you lose.”

Maya slips the anklets onto her feet.

“You are to entice, not to be enamored. Stay in control.” Mother places a hand on Maya’s head, a

gesture of blessing.

Maya takes the first step. The anklets jingle.

“Devadasi,” Maya whispers as she kneels before the statue of Nataraja. “Is my destiny a curse of the

gods or the design of humans?”

What kind of heroes will want to salvage girls who dance for the pleasure of princes and kings?

Sweat trails down her face onto her blouse, drenching the silk garment, making it stick to her skin.

The whole day she has danced in dedication to the god of dances, seeking extrication from the anklets’

chokehold.
 What type of men will marry women destined to be married to deities and used by humans?

“Send me my savior, oh, the great dancer,” she implores her god.

Lord Nataraja, immersed in the glow of an ethereal light, opens his third eye. Instead of the legendary

fire, Maya sees benevolence beaming out.

“Your wish be granted,” the God raises a hand in blessing and then his looming image, clad in a

tiger’s hide, dissolves.

She hears the sound of galloping hooves in the distance, like a rumble of thunder and runs towards

the door. A thick haze of dust veils the horizon’s orange glow.

Her prince arrives, riding on horseback, shattering barriers, penetrating the barricades formed by the

king’s soldiers.

Anklets lie silent around Maya’s ankles, beneath the leggings of her dancing attire. Her skin, bruised

with the metallic sting of anklets, feels the soothing embraces of a fluttering breeze.

The gates crash open as Partha bursts through, like a roaring tidal wave. The muscles of his biceps

and forearms ripple as he swings his sword, unleashing tornadoes.

The Aghori’s powers wash away the king’s charging legions. The harem’s brittleness crushes. Its

doors swing open, windows undulate. Sweat glistens on Partha’s dusky skin, fire burns in his eyes.

Partha dismounts.

Shackles break, release feet; to pound, stomp, and dance sans the jingle of anklets as Maya runs to

meet him.

“I bow before you, surrender my might,” Partha says, placing his sword at Maya’s feet.

“In my dreams, I’ve surrendered my heart to you,” Maya says. “Now I lay my beauty for your relish.”
 “Our union will culminate to unleash a new power,” he says.

She gives up herself into his strong arms.

Sky splits, thunderbolts fall. Tremors rock the Earth, flash through the marbled floor beneath their

feet.

Partha dances, the king of dances, fluid muscles quivering. Maya joins, numbness dissipating, energy

rearing to burst.

Thunder rumbles, lightning flashes. Hips join, grind in frenzy. Rain splashes, filling the pores of

Earth.

She tires, collapses onto his chest; breathless, motionless, and snuggles to his warmth, smelling the

musky aroma of his sweat.

Stars stud the sky, the stud whinnies. Her stud gallops carrying her, mounts the horse. Behind them

the collapsed pillars of the palace lie in heaps of soil.

Against the night sky, the silhouette of the harem’s ruins reminds Maya of a huge heap of corroded

shackles as it disintegrates in the cries of a new life.

A wind blows cold waves as they gallop, taking the chill in their strides.

His surrender becomes her liberation. Polar opposites forge a bond, stronger than the might of might,

greater than the grace of dancing feet.

Happily ever after, they live; through generations after generations.

End
 Spring 2018
J. Mitchell

First-time Runaway

The master heard about her death after searching the trees
where the dark deceived him by taking the shape of her back –
the narrow waist and large behind. The creeping vines were meant
to lead straight to her but the overseer said she had to be cut down
from a creaking cotton tree behind the big house. A miracle the young
tree took her weight; and wasn't it a shame?
They'd never find another cook as good as her.

The master staggered with the news across the fields towards the slave
house where he scattered those others like hens to fall down on her bed
and bury his face in the crumpled cloth of her one other dress.
He wanted to know the close familiar smell of sweat and something else
that always escaped him. Then, wet-eyed, he studied the cloth to try
and see her face again – the lines on her forehead when she laughed,
the crease of the mouth he kissed and slapped.

He saw a tear on the sleeve and a broken zip so he wiped his eyes
with the dress, stood up and threw it at his feet. He straightened
his back and went outside to call the overseer. He was told to find
the ones who must have known her plan, and whip them as a group
to make them feel what they failed to learn. The women and girls
especially must have the master's will inscribed on their backs so they
would know they could not cheat him. He paid an indecent price.
Father was the F Word

I wish he would leave now that he's dead

but his voice is lodged in my throat, the echo
of curse words he used when I started to speak –
the cutting sounds and fist-like fermentations
that made him seem so strong,
even when his body was frail at the end.

We gathered round his hospital bed

grave in concentration as, open-mouthed,
he fought for his final breaths, attacked
the atmosphere, demanding life.
He looked afraid as he moved his lips
to find he had lost his voice,
used up all the times he damned the food
on his plate or praised it with curses –
much the same for a man at war with his words.

Someone said we should pray

so I copied them and lowered my head.
They moaned: 'Our Father who art in heaven,'
but as my prayers were about to be heard
I silently spat the words he used instead
beginning with the F word.
Jamaica Rain

Memories are falling like rain

all at once
like the flat, hard palm of a hand
disrupting the day
once clear
the sun on each surface
then in a seasonal blink
disarray
The sky closes its eyes
it is low
grey
dark as a stone
the veranda soon slick as a riverbed
the house heard to moan
unsettling the earth
just dirt
consistent with rain
washing away what was fixed
sane
a hill like the side of a head exposed
the detailed crevices of soil
a brain
rolling smooth

The trees are trying to speak

they are mad
mouth full of rain
she is mad
cleft almost in two
her arms and hair loose
but trapped in her body
weighed down by the nature
the memory
the family of roots
she is trying to speak
say the rain makes her mad
and the memory of rain
The sky claps its hands
attention sought
gained
Memories are falling like rain
Monica Darling

No one but her

could blow out seventy-six candles (and one for good luck)
with a single resolute breath.

When the smoke rose up to her face she frowned:

'Who are you calling mum?'

She will only respond to 'Monica Darling' as if in a Noel Coward play,

not some residential home she planned to burn down
till the nurses began to call her Monica Darling as well.

They carefully place a doilie on a sterling silver tray, ensure her cup and saucer aren't chipped.

Monica Darling will only drink jasmine tea when Mum didn't care about things like that.
She raised four kids in a three-bedroom flat and worked two jobs when Dad worked nights.

Now she won't accept a hunk of cake when she used to crave sugar so much.
It's thin slivers only, served on a bone china plate.

She's given up her cigarettes – smoking isn't ladylike.

She's thrown away the socks she used to wear at night.
'Better to have chilblains than look like some old tramp.'

She was never a wife.

'Who’s that old man in the silver frame?
Take out his picture, re-use the frame.'

There are days when the mention of children makes her laugh –
'Oh, dear me no. I never went through any of that.'

Monica Darling is happy now. She doesn't know who's she's left behind.

She sips her jasmine tea.

 Spring 2018
Mary Newell

In the pith of attenuation

excruciate at the crossroads

chiasmic tangle climacteric muddle
Janus-pull cross-wires warp-wrap

vagrant signals
evade entrapment
scale-nuance feather-float

touch resolves
In the pith of
break down

Rose draws in petals

at dusk, forgets
to relinquish clutch at sunrise.

The world a rack

stretched pervious
or unbearable

shatter

breakout

rally

A plea for kintsugi:

cracks filled precious
meander fusion sheen

luster reclaim
gold or platinum
neat or overflow

gratitude for
the flow that
seals the ruptures.

Note: Kintsugi (金継ぎ, きんつぎ, "golden joinery") is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with
lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.
In the pith of a misplaced suspicion

hyper-logic surfactants

over-the-shoulder glower

prim snub

wary ward-off

innuendoes halt interchange

re-play or

reconsider
 Spring 2018
hiromi suzuki
La vie en rose

1.
a canary singing dreams
a dream in decadent jungle,
seems to be forgetting
an ancient giant's riant chant.
2.
campari soda pops
to bloom the bouquet
in immortal stomach.
poached egg as moonlight.
asparagus as paddle.
3.
climb the early morning sky,
hand a cup of coffee to the cloud.
how beautiful the world is!
how worthy the youth is!
how do i complete my life?
 Spring 2018
Elizabeth Alexander

Praises and Comeuppances

To hear President Johnson tell it, you’d have thought that a voting rights bill was his

personal dream come true. It was not. Johnson came late1 to the table, and he cultivated two

personas: one a recovering racist who said, “It is not just Negroes but all of us who must overcome

the crippling legacy of bigotry;”2 the other an inveterate racist, who routinely used the n–word in

conversation with black Americans and white Southerners.

My parents had little truck with LBJ as Senator—much less as President. They thought he was crooked.

(Just about everyone else in Texas knew he was crooked but didn’t care.) Also, they had a penchant for Nixon.

In March 1965—after mounted state troopers bludgeoned and tear gassed hundreds of

Negroes marching to the capital of Alabama for the right to vote (and after Governor George

1 In the mid–1950s

2 See Adam Serwer,“Lyndon Johnson Was a Civil Rights Hero. But Also a Racist.” MSNBC, April 11, 2014
(http://www.msnbc.com/msnbc/lyndon-johnson-civil-rights-racism).
Wallace deeply pissed him off)—Johnson trained his ambition away from Operation Rolling

Thunder3 and onto something grand:

“I do not want to be the President who built empires, or sought grandeur, or extended
dominion. I want to be the President who educated young children to the wonders of their
world. I want to be the President who helped to feed the hungry and to prepare them to be
taxpayers instead of tax eaters. I want to be the President who helped the poor to find their
own way and who protected the right of every citizen to vote in every election. I want to be
the President who helped to end hatred among his fellow men and who promoted love
among the people of all races, all regions and all parties. I want to be the President who
helped to end war among the brothers of this earth.”4

Note the encoded racist reference in “tax eaters.” Johnson wasn’t a saint, not anywhere

close. Yet, unlike the current President, he was unbedazzled by himself.

ME ME ME

I’ve been thinking about self absorption, as it plays out in public and private realms.

Personally, I can be pretty damned self–absorbed. I am utterly intransigent regarding what I eat;

when and if I talk on the phone; how and with whom I spend time; and what points of view I

embrace, contemplate, or dismiss out of hand.

You could say I’m impossible. So is President Trump. He is also ignorant and mean.

3 Sustained bombing raids of North Vietnam that commenced in February 1965.

4 President Lyndon Johnson, addressing the full Congress and an estimated 70 million television viewers on March 15, 1965
 “And if you look at black and African American youth, to a point where they’ve never done
more poorly. There’s no spirit. There’s killings on an hourly basis virtually in places like
Baltimore and Chicago and many other places.”5

“I hate taking these people [refugees]. I guarantee you they are bad. That is why they are in
prison right now. They are not going to be wonderful people who go on to work for the
local milk people.”6

TWO WONDERFUL PEOPLE

Dylan Foushee Patterson

He was born lucky: with intellectual, athletic, entrepreneurial, and personal gifts, all of which

he developed and almost all of which were evident to everyone except him.

He was born unlucky, with a fatal susceptibility to taking risks.

He didn’t diss anyone. He looked for, and brought out, the good.

He was raised in the suburbs and university–educated in a large town. He worked in the

inner city.

His immediate supervisor’s children, her supervisor’s children, and scores of other children

called him “Uncle Dylan.”

He wrestled mightily with a demon, but he lost.

5Donald Trump addressing an annual dinner of the Maryland Republican Party, six days after the June 26, 2015, church
massacre in Charlestown, South Carolina.

6 Trump, in conversation with Australian prime minister Malcolm Turnball, 1/28/2017.

 He died of a drug overdose. He was 28 years old.

Sara Alexander Clark

My sister is kind, even to earthworms, whom she dampens so they don’t dry out in the Texas

heat. She is generous. She would spend her last dollar to buy groceries for her friend in Waxahachie

who has fallen on hard times and can’t get up.

What most distinguishes Sara, though, is how valiantly she strives to enter worlds that are

downright antipathetic to her own. Nine months after the 2016 election, when I would sooner have

flown to Mars than Dallas, she came to Seattle for the launch of my first book.

She was the only Republican at the after–party, and it’s not like she’s apolitical. (Far from it)

But Sara has a way of upending particularities that divide.

She connects.

BAD MAN

Trump disconnects.

• He has refused his assent to guidelines and regulations, the most wholesome and necessary
for the public good.
 • He has deliberately failed to staff, manage, and provide resources for federal agencies in
order to dismantle them.7

• He has threatened judges.

• He has sent swarms of ICE agents to harass American people.

• He has rescinded a Department of Justice directive curtailing the use of private prisons, in
order to complete the works of death and desolation already begun with circumstances of
cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy of a
civilized nation.

• He has excited domestic insurrection among us.

GOD DON’T LIKE UGLY

Remember Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane? 8 The novel limns an ocean,

containable in a bucket yet “running beneath the whole universe, like the dark seawater that laps

beneath the wooden boards of an old pier.”9 Primeval and cantankerous, the ocean cauterizes the

wound of a 7 year–old boy who becomes a portal for a malevolence that, “like a flea, all puffed up

with pride and power and lust, like a flea bloated with blood,”10 preys on fear.

7 See Slate
http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/politics/2017/02/while_we_re_watching_the_scandals_trump_is_dismant
ling_the_federal_government.html

8 Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (New York: HarperCollins, 2013).

9 Gaiman, 144.

10 Gaiman, 121.
 Remind you of anyone?

As in a fairy tale, the malevolence gets its just rewards. It comes to no good end—to a sad

end, actually.

Trump, too, shall pass, perhaps in the manner of Johnson, who voluntarily exited the

national stage in 1968, his goose having been cooked when McCarthy entered the race11 with a

promise to move forward on civil rights and end the Vietnam War.

Or perhaps like Nixon, who (after much hemming and hawing) finally resigned when

Senator Barry Goldwater convinced him that the game was up.

Or perhaps Trump will be ejected from the Presidency in a way that is as inconceivable as

his election:

• By African American women12

• By the Russian government13

• On a flight to mars.

11 For the Democratic nomination

Who provided the decisive margin in alleged child molester Alabama Senator
12

Roy Moore’s 2017 defeat

13 Granting him asylum à la Edward Snowden; they’d be interesting bunkmates.

 Spring 2018
Veronica Abrams

Fashion Victim

Kaylee Anderson didn’t like Genevieve Jones, but she sure as hell didn’t kill her. Gena a solid “B” student
with a “C” list social media popularity rating and senior at Kennville High, with mousy brown hair, and a
boyish rectangle body frame, Gena had nothing on Kaylee. Kaylee was the coveted school hottie, the
ultimate trendsetter. Kaylee was the one who brought all the high-end runway fashion to their little middle
of nowhere town and high school. The ‘Dead Doll’ look, unitards, camel toes, the return of the Mom Jeans,
even just tights- but no pants, the see through sweater without a bra. But all that fashion was starting to seem
so tame so passé when this season rolled in ‘skin tagging’. Although bearing tremendous resemblance to
sebaceous and epidermal cysts, these modifications were done with intention, with perfect precision, like a
fine tattoo inking or shot right in the muscle. And Kaylee would have never guessed that Gena’s lumpy little
tumors would become a threat to her well being, that they would pose a vital danger.
Like many of her classmates, Kaylee had convinced her mom to let her get a ‘lil body tagging done
over the summer. They were having girls day out. Spa time. Getting their hair highlighted, their brows
waxed and tweezered, the whole deal, when Kaylee begged her mom into signing the parental waiver to get
a little body disconfiguring done to celebrate the start of her senior year. Trying to sway her, she showed her
the last post by fashion blogger, Vicki Haley, where she had ranted, ‘Skin tags??? Seriously, I know what
you’re thinking, unwanted little benign tumors, not exactly the sexiest or most enticing, but don’t be fooled
fashionistas, surprisingly, these little buggers, are incredibly eye catching on all body types and can be
surgically inserted on the body anywhere, making them highly addicting.’ Kaylee offered her mom more
proof, swiping through her phone, for pics of celebrities sporting them on their shoulder like an expensive
brooch, the perfect little fashion accessory to accompany you anywhere. More current then Teacup
Chihuahuas and poodles in your purse or carry-on luggage. Body tagging was lit right now, hip. Unlike ear
stretching, gauging, and dermal piercings, body tagging wasn’t just popular with the hipsters, metal heads,
and punks, it was fashion for everyone.
Although adverse to the idea, Kaylee’s mom finally acquiesced to letting her daughter scar and
mangle her body, just as long as it wasn’t very big and remained hidden from her dad.
“Just a small tag” she told her, placing a motherly and indulgent hand on her shoulder as Kaylee
drooled over the tagging studio counter at the big glossy picture book of options like a kid in the ice cream
store. Deciding on one only about ¾ an inch in diameter on the small of her back, a skin embossing flecked
in gold complete with a rhinestone inlay outlining. It looked like a sexy little dressed up lump of tree fungus,
gracing her flesh for only private consumption. Admiring her new addition, Kaylee was excited to flaunt it
and couldn't wait to start her senior year at her beloved Kennville. With this new little boost of confidence,
this year- the halls, the cafeteria- she would surely own all of it.
While Kaylee’s was certainly the most expensive, others had beat her in the numbers game. What
came as the biggest shock was Genevieve Jones, this timid little, unassuming copycat clone, the kind you
would expect to have one or two out of fear that she would stick out sans surgical incision, had gotten so
many of them over the summer. This little twirp?!, thought Kaylee who had at least five alone that were
visibly protruding around her pastel pink v-neck sweater.
“Nice tags,” Kaylee said, eyeing her smugly, as she applied her vampire red lipstick in the bathroom
mirror on the first day back at school, trying to hide her envy and rage for Gena under a cool smirk of a
smile.
Thanks,” said Gena, mid-hand washing, pretending hard that she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by
her, that she didn’t idolize her or care what she thought, turning the cold water off first she burnt herself,
and then tried to conceal the redness of her hands by hiding them in the depths of her mousy brown hair,
running her fingers through the back to smooth it out.
“How’d you manage to get your parents to go for all that?” Kaylee said, interrogating her, now
blocking the bathroom door exit, arms crossed over her chest in last season’s see-through fishnet sweater.
Gena took in a deep breath, she had prayed the encounter with Kaylee had already ended back there at the
double mirror. But Kaylee stood gawking at her, getting a closer look, which was clearly an attempt to put
Gena back in her place. To not let her gain any social capital, to hoist her back into nobodyville. But Gena,
was one of the few girls who had turned eighteen over the summer and didn’t even need her parents to sign
the waiver. Unlike Kaylee, Gena had body disfiguring options. And lots of them.
“You should get a massive one…” said Kaylee, pulling out her Smartphone like a pack of cigarettes,
trying to con Gena into thinking she’ll be the cool kid, and should ignore the surgeon general’s warning.
“How bout like this one?” she said, biting a lip, showing Gena a sexy little high def pixel of a skin tag so large
it would invade her entire bug-eyed little face, obstruct her peripheral vision, “It’s probably a genius way to
get an older guy to go for ya. That way they’ll know for sure you’re legal,” she said laughing, now being
forced to move over to the left side and let Gena go, as Ms. Phelps her history teacher came walking through.
Maybe it was because Gena had secretly worshiped Kaylee since 7th grade soccer tryouts, when the
pimply face naive little Gena of course didn't make the cut and Kaylee celebrated with a victory dance- her
butt out right in front of Gena’s face in the perfect pair of athletic shorts just to really rub it in further. Or
maybe it was because Gena cyber-stalked Tony Richardson, the blue eyed cutie and star wrestler of
Kennville High all the time. Tony Richardson, the James Dean look alike, also known as Kaylee’s on and off
again boyfriend. And the guy Gena followed every day on-line and she even new his shoe size (9) and what
his favorite band was (“Demolition”). So, of course Gena valued Kaylee’s opinion, who wouldn’t. But nobody
could have ever guessed just how far she would have ran with it. Just how to heart Kaylee’s words stuck to
her.
The next Monday there was Gena, creeping through the halls of Kennville High and the door of their
6th period bio lab, clad with skin tags looking like a full on leper. Every nook and cranny, from her ankles to
her brow was ripe with them. Gena didn’t just look hip or cool or fresh with her new Fall look, she
resembled the contents of the biohazard receptacle from a geriatric dermatology clinic. Like the rotten flesh
in a hospice unit. Two inch melanomas cascaded down her arm as if a perfectly painted henna tattoo. More
valuable than a pure gold ancient Egyptian upper arm cufflet.
The first experiment of the semester, was to grab a lab partner and dissect a frog. Kaylee was tongue
tied when Tony Richardson asked Gena and not her this time. Completely livid nearly foaming at the
mouth, she couldn’t believe her eyes. At first she thought it might just be because he mischaracterized Gena,
saw her skin abuse as the doing of someone easy and reckless, an actual bad girl. But Kaylee then realized
Tony was just really curious about what exactly were these new protruding legions. He seemed infatuated by
her strange textbook-like body growths, like he wanted to be examining her under the magnifying glass,
dissecting her fatty tissues. “That’s sick, Gean, totally ill.”
“Gena” she corrected him, sheepishly giggling, grabbing the microscope away from his gleaming blue
eyes that were like an unspoken invitation to the best tailgating parties where all the cool kids drink and
drive. The one’s she had never been present at, yet saw the drunken after pics they posted online. Gena
gulped, trying to ignore him and his leering curious smile. She pretended to look at their little frog cadaver
cut open, under the microscope on the table, and Kaylee watched from the back of the room, ready to take
an “F” for the assignment, her jealousy growing within her like a wildfire burning down the aisle of desks in
Mr. Merinda’s bio lab, lighting up the desks and chairs with just her eyes.
That night Kaylee of course cried herself to sleep, feeling like a bargain basement loser, a runner up
prom queen, re-playing the events of the tragic second week at school disaster - Tony picking Gena to be his
lab partner. The way he looked at her like some bumpy moldy spud goddess. Was Gena now “It”? was she
the new “It” girl? Kaylee reassured herself that just couldn’t be possible. All this because Gena, had
developed these tiny little meaty lumps over the summer. They weren’t even her’s, Kaylee thought sobbing
with her head deep in the pillow, they were surgically implanted. Kaylee considered every option to dethrone
Gena. To regain Tony's pubescent little greasy head of affection. Getting a fake ID, even the option of falsies-
the kind they sold at the mall, adhesive skin tags you could stick anywhere only they weren’t very heavy
duty, but they could lose their stickiness with sweating and then she’d really look like a total loser for sure.
By the time her 6th period bio lab bell rang that next day Kaylee’s heart was full on racing. She was
prepared to rip a chunk of tagged flesh off that girl, pull her hair out, she’d do what she had to. But Gena
wasn’t there. Absent? Thought Kaylee, What a little baby. She probably knew Kaylee was after her.
Wednesday came around and she was still gone. Thursday, Friday no Gena.
By Friday on her way to P.E. Kaylee heard some kids talking in the halls saying that Gena was really
sick, was in the ICU. Later her friend, Becca texted her that she had heard one of Gena’s tags had become
infected, probably from an unclean needle or instrument at the salon, and her blood tests came back Hep C
positive. In Algebra others were sure it was melanoma. Skin Cancer.
 Kaylee felt ashamed as she sickly rejoiced in the idea of Gena fallen ill. The way you would if an
apocalyptic disaster struck, but still it got you out of a test at school. She imaged Gena lying in her hospital
bed probably looking almost identical to a rotten pokey African horned cucumber. With all the little bumpy
skin nodules poking out all over her, piercing through her shirt like a textured ribbed sweater. Gena was a
goner, she thought slamming her locker, hiding her smile, eyeing herself in the mirror, the competition was
over.
But her smile quickly dissipated, when another thought rushed in, what if Gena would be infamous.
She’d be the next little internet story trending all over social media, with a flashing headline “Fallen Fashion
Victim,” or something real clever, even before her casket dropped six-feet under. What if she went viral on
the internet all because of her infected tumors. How could Gena be the famous internet story and not her?
Yet alone, if Tony did decide he wanted to be with her now, would it only be because he couldn’t have Gena?
Dead or alive, Kaylee wouldn’t let Gena have this.
When Kaylee got home from school she flung off her backpack, across the living room floor, it went
flying and the strap even managed to hit her Cocker Spaniel, ‘Lucky’, in the eye. Without even removing her
shoes, Kaylee immediately began a manic emergency Google and Pinterest search for some kind of answer
from the universe. Some way she could outdo Gena. But every fashion idea she could find or think of felt
rehashed, cliché, none of it wholly original. All trends floated through her laptop internet browser one click
per millisecond - just fragmented candy colored images, glimmers of some sort of recycled fashion bygone
error, but nothing came to her.
Kaylee was hungry and had been on an internet search binge for what turned into hours and had
managed to forget to eat dinner and because of this her stomach was angry and growling. It was almost like
her parents were just ghosts in the room, back an hour or two ago, and she almost didn't even remember
them asking her to come to the table for dinner. That’s when the idea struck her how she’d take it to the next
level. How she’d out due Gena. She’d let Tony, the entire senior class, maybe even all of the internet- get up-
close and personal with her. She’d expose her intimate and softer side for all. Because lets get real she
thought she knew now guys clearly didn’t even care what clothes a girl wore, what mattered was what they
looked like without them on. That’s what Tony wanted, skin, and lots of it. She’d give him a whole lot more
than just that though. She’d show him her insides. As the daughter of a gastroenterologist she had access to
all the latest medical equipment to do it. Costing around $500 a pop, she’d get her hands on one of his
endoscopy camera pills, this could even become the next big thing, like the new club drug, bigger than molly
and LSD. It would be sick, it would be ill.
Her dad didn’t even hesitate to the idea of her having the procedure, as Kaylee like any normal
teenage girl frequently complained about cramps and stomach pain. In fact he seemed relieved about it as
she approached him cleaning up in the kitchen, wiping off the marble countertop after dinner. She had such
a look of urgency on her face when declared she wanted to have the procedure that he had feared the worst,
his little Kaykay was dropping out of school or was pregnant with Tony’s babe.
By downing the pill with just one hard swallow coupled with wearing the tiny little electrodes under
an electromagnetic vest, his little girl could go along with her usual day. Modern technology had all the little
kinks worked out and an endoscopy was no longer an invasive procedure. Daddy suited her up and
explained it would take a full eight hours for the pill to pass through her, and off to school she went. His
sweet little Kaykay, he doubted anything was wrong with her gastroenterologically, but he always thought it
better to steer on the side of caution here.
But that wasn’t even the bulk of it. Once she pulled up at school and dragged her backpack out of the
car, she strapped an ipad to her chest, into the neat little front vest pocket, and secured it with some hot pink
duct tape, the ipad functioning as the interface, the portal to broadcast the images, the procedure the doctor
should have been viewing from a cushy doctors office swivel chair somewhere. This interface which allowed
her to reveal the full Monty, as the pill journeyed through her entire body, passing through her throat, to her
small intestine, her lower bowels right there in plain view. Kaylee flung her hair out of her face looking
down on the screen at her own exposed throat and trachea now, she knew she was really onto something,
this was gonna be huge. The pill was making its way down. She got carried away imagining the possibilities.
When Tony saw her sweet flesh from the inside, from her nether regions, to the workings of her internal
organs all her gooey gushy insides, he wouldn't be able to resist her, he would want her inside and out. And
broadcasting it on the internet, wearing it all around town, she’d be liberating girls everywhere. Feminism
5.0. No more gut shaming. Gut walks everywhere. Girls all shapes and sizes, wearing less than nothing.
Exposed under the bone. Pushing the envelope one step further. They’d all think this was what it meant to
reclaim your true girl or woman power. Showing that it was what was on the inside that mattered. That’s
what everybody would believe this was all about.
 Spring 2018
Spencer Wimmer

The Light of Dawn

My father would wake me before dawn. I would dress in silence and go to the kitchen where my
mother would have prepared a breakfast of honeyed porridge and rich black coffee. After eating in silence
my father and I would stand in the pre-dawn light and smoke. One or the other of us would make some
comment of little consequence and the other would grunt and shake his head either yay or nay. Then we
would open the shop and start our day.
The day the letter came my father and I came home to find my mother sobbing, being consoled by
the neighbor woman. She was staring at a slip of paper on the table like it would strike out at her at any
moment. Ingrid, my sweet Ingrid, daughter of the neighbor woman was toiling over the stove. Her short
golden hair was hidden behind a red kerchief. When I entered the room all eyes fell on me. There was a
moment of silence before my mother broke free from the neighbor woman and folded me in a crushing
embrace, her breath short and hot on my neck, her tears wetting my shirt. Ingrid looked at me with the most
bitter sweet expression I had ever seen. My father read the letter, put a big warm hand on my shoulder and
squeezed, and nodded. That night, as I lay awake I could hear my mother crying and praying to the Mother
to protect her only son.
Two weeks later it was time to go. I rose from the bed as silently as I could. I stood there, not sure
whether to wake Ingrid to say goodbye or just to go. I decide we had said enough farewells already. I leaned
down and kissed her cheek, still salty from the previous night’s sweat and tears. I lingered in the doorway,
looking at her, memorizing ever curve and dimple, before finally leaving her to sleep.
The porridge that morning was sweeter, the coffee darker, than it had ever been. I embraced my
mother one last time saying “I’ll be back soon” and fought a losing battle to keep my eyes dry. Eventually, I
was able to break away, and I stepped outside with my father.
 We stood in the street in front of the shop, as we had innumerable times before. The cool morning air
chilled my wet cheeks as I lit my pipe. Pale blue light only just illuminated us as we lit our pipes. The silence
was not comfortable this time, it was oppressive, terrifying. I tried to alleviate the silence by saying things of
no consequence, but my father merely gave the traditional grunt and nod. When the pipes had nearly
burned out my father looked at me.
“Live for this, son. Live for every morning.”
His eyes were rimmed with red, his mouth downturned. I was in shock. My father never put more
than three words together, and he was incapable of tears. Yet here they were. He extended his hand. I took it
and shook hard. Then, I left, off to the recruiting depot.
They had come in the afternoon, marching in orderly lines, their orange jackets blazing like fire in
the sun. The stepped out from the forest on the far side of the clearing from the bocage we huddled in. They
came with such pride, such determination, their banners preternaturally flapping in the quite wind. The
staccato of drums highlighted each concerted step.
They weren’t like the images I had seen of them plastered on every street corner of my home. They
weren’t ape-men, dragging women by their hair to a terrible fate. They were not demons with orange
glowing eyes, looking to devour my happy home. They were men, proud men, marching into the cannons
mouth. Just as I was.
Then, the order was given for our field guns to be rolled up. Spaced evenly along our line the poked
their muzzles through the thick leafy branches of the bocage. The where small, the iron barrel barely as
large around as a man. What good are these I thought the first time I saw the fist sized balls of lead they fired.
That day, in that field, I saw what good they were.
“Kanun, aufence feher!” came the order, screamed first by the company captains, then by the battery
lieutenants, then by the gun sergeants. There was a great roar as all of the guns fired nearly in unison. The
fist sized balls of lead ripped into the lines of orange jacketed men. In twos and threes, sometimes in a whole
line of five the men fell like puppets whose strings had been cut. The screams of the orange jacketed men
replaced the sound of thunder from the guns.
The orange jackets filled the gaps in their lines. The drummers, driven off beat by the guns, found
their tempo again. The orange jackets recovered from the hammering of our guns just in time for another
salvo. By the fourth salvo they were irrecoverably in disarray, their lines were ragged, the drums all but
silent. Not a man among did not have his own blood or that of the man next to him adorning his uniform.
Then, it was my turn.
“Burit!”, the order came in its usual relayed manner. I waited to hear sergeant Holfstuder’s voice
scream the order before I brought my rifle up and laid it across the lip of the trench.
“Zeel!”, I placed the front post of my rifle against the chest of an advancing orange coat, then brought
my aim down to his crotch. It wasn’t an act of vindictiveness, it was training. The Zhuler Needle Rifle bucked
quite a lot when fired, you had to aim low, or else the bullet would sail above your target’s head.
“Feher!”, I squeezed, did not pull, the trigger of my rifle. I felt the trigger click, heard the needle in the
bolt slam forward, felt the terrible kick to my shoulder. The orange jacket fell to his knees, then to his face. I
vomited.
“Kneu luden!”, with bleary eyes and trembling hands I pulled the bolt of my rifle back. Retrieving a
fresh paper cartridge from the box slung on my shoulder I placed it into the breech and slammed the bolt
forward.
“Burit! Zeel! Feher! Kneu luden!” The litany repeated itself again and again. Then the orange jackets
began to turn back. First in small groups, then entire companies, then their entire line was running away.
Many fired their rifled muskets as they turned, not wanting to run without at least letting us know what they
thought of us. Their rifles were slow to reload, they took no time to aim, and our position was well covered,
no bullet came close to hitting one of us.
Over the course of the night I slept not a wink. The screams of the wounded in the field steadily died
away as did the men who made them. We ate our rations, dug our trench deeper, and slapped each other on
the back.
“You did good, boy.” Sergeant Holfstuder dropped down beside me in the trench.
“Daunk sergeant.”
“And don’t worry about that” he pointed to the pool of dried vomit beside my fighting position “we
all react different the first time we pull the trigger for real, and you kept shooting, the Warrior himself
probably didn’t do much better his first time.”
 He laughed and punch me on the shoulder, then he was off down the line to offer more words of
congratulations.
“Daunk sergeant.”
Now, that same wan blue light that showed my father’s face now illuminated a very different scene.
Looking out from the bocage, over the lip of the hastily dug trench I saw a scene that must surely resemble
the fields in the depths of the underworld. In the clearing before me shapeless black forms lay scattered like
so many discarded dolls. The vibrant green grass was marred by pools of red ochre, patches of burned grass,
and deep divots.
I nibble on dry, hard bread sweetened by a small clay decanter of honey I had stashed in my pack.
The smell of coffee wafts around me, brewed in mess tins over fires made from gathered brambles. The man
next to me sharpened his bayonet on a whetstone, the blade softly scraping over the stone over and over
again. Kluzer I think was his name. He had won big at cards in camp before we marched to battle. Now his
cards lay scattered on the side of the road a few miles away. No man wanted to die with evidence of sin on
his person.
“They will come again today” Kluzer said to no one in particular as he scraped away. I was the nearest
person to him, so I decided to respond.
“Really? After what we did to them yesterday?”
“They will come again,” he repeated “the arsklochen won’t give up just like that. And this time it won’t
be as easy, they will have brought up artillery and reinforcements in the night.”
I suddenly wasn’t hungry. I handed my bread to Kluzer which he took happily, and started cleaning
my rifle for the fourth time since yesterday.
When the bombardment began there was no warning. I had just finished reassembling my rifle,
ensuring there was a fresh needle in the bolt, a fresh cartridge in the chamber, and the safety on. The rising
sun had begun to burn off the morning dew, and there was not a cloud in the sky. Yet, all at once the most
horrific storm I could never have imagined began with a sudden, terrible fury.
Shells exploded above and in the trees all around, each creating an momentary orange fiery sun. The
shells released hundreds of tiny balls and shards of white hot metal that rained down into the trench. I
buried myself as deep into the dirt as I could, making myself as small as possible. Bloody screams began to
echo amongst the cacophony of exploding shells. I think I was screaming as well, but I could not be sure.
The shelling went on for ages, hundreds, thousands of shells it seemed. Surely when it was over there
would not be a single tree standing or man living on this tiny strip of earth. I braced for the fragment that
would cut me loose from this world. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. I prayed to the Mother that my
family would carry on without me. I prayed to the Warrior that I would meet my death with dignity. I prayed
to the Dancer to watch over my sweet Ingrid, and find her love once I was gone.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. Silence. Not true silence, not the absence of noise, for the
wounded still wailed all along the line. Instead it was like a soft, quite interlude after a great crescendo.
“They’re coming, get your shit in the sock boys! Shake it off! This isn’t over men, get up you bastard!
Check your rifles and clear your positions! This day has just begun gentlemen!” Sergeant Holfstuder limped
up and down the line. His right leg was covered in crimson, trousers torn to ribbons.
I pulled myself up against the lip of the trench. I did an inventory of myself, my cheeks were wet, my
trousers soaked, my uniform had turned from blue-grey to brown in the dry dirt. But nothing hurt except my
pride.
The bastards. They hid in their lines and bombed us, they turned us into minced meat at worst and
terrified mewling children at best, while they had their breakfast. They would pay.
This time they emerged from the clearing in silence. No drums, their steps not in unison. They flew
only one banner, a small red pennant. This time, there were many, many more of them.
“The Orhlam” I said to Kluzer, “the ancient war banner of their people, as long as it flies no quarter is
to be asked, and none given”.
Kluzer remains silent.
The guns were rolled out again. “Kanun, aufence feher!” The guns roared once again, and again the
orange jacketed men fell. This time their lines did not become ragged. Men stepped into the place of the
fallen in an endless procession. It seemed there was no end to them. As they neared I could identify the glint
on the end of their rifles. Their bayonets were fixed. The angry fire in my gut was quenched, leaving a cold
hard ball of fear. They weren’t going to run, they weren’t going to stand and deliver volleys against our
covered position, they were going to charge.
 “Ahguren shfert!”, I slid the bayonet from its sheath at my side. It was a sword bayonet, resembling a
small sabre, that can be wielded by itself as well as on the end of a rifle. Attached to a rifle it took much less
finesse to use, though it was somewhat less effective. I slid the female grooves in the handle of the bayonet
over the male grooves under the muzzle of my rifle. Then I waited as the orange jackets marched ever closer
under the withering fire of the guns.
“Burit!”, and the cycle began. Ready, aim, fire, reload. I worked as a machine. Round after round,
never missing a beat in the cycle despite the pit of fear in my gut growing as those men marched nearer.
Soon the order was given “feher freh!”, every man fired as quickly as his fingers would work. I could feel a
bruise on my shoulder growing with every painful shot, the pain was well worth putting as many of those
bastards with murder in their eyes in the ground as possible.
They fell in droves, but marched on relentlessly. Finally, they reached mere feet from our line.
Shouts were relayed down their line, and they stopped. Another order, their rifles were leveled, wicked steel
coming to a point under the muzzle.
“Down! Down you bastards, down!” Sergeant Holfstuder screamed from somewhere down the line. I
complied without question. There was another shout from their line and all of their rifles cracked at once. I
could feel the impacts of the balls as they smacked into the ground before and behind our trench.
“AHLANCHE! AHLANCHE!” the word was repeated by a hundred voices up and down the orange coat
line.
“On your feet and in their guts boys!” We shouted our battle cries and jumped over the lip of the
trench to meet our enemy head on.
An orange coated man came straight for me. His rifle leveled at my chest, his eyes filled with fury, his
voice carrying an ear-splitting shriek. I screamed back, leveled my rifle, and charged him. The space between
us closed to inches in a second. He made a thrust with his rifle, I knocked it down and to the side, burying his
blade in the dirt next to my feet. I pulled my rifle back, and thrust at his midriff. My thrust came to a sudden
stop. There was a moment of shock as his shriek died on his lips. I pulled my rifle away, reversed it and
struck the man in the head with the butt of my rifle. He fell, unmoving to the ground.
All around me there came the symphony of melee. Steel against steel. Blades cutting into flesh. The
occasional shot of a rifle. Undulating war cries, and the horrifying shriek of gravely wounded men.
 I thrust, parried, slashed, kicked, punched, I did everything in my power to kill, and by there doing,
stay alive.
Then a shot rang out. Louder than I had heard yet, even on this day of cacophonous noise. A man in
an orange jacket with golden epaulets stood before me with a smoking revolver. I looked down at myself. My
shoulder was gushing with crimson.
“Shuzeh.”
The man with the revolver fired again. This time I felt it. My stomach exploded in agony. Then I
began to feel the hot ball that sat in my shoulder as well. I doubled over. My world was suddenly reduced to
a hideous scream coming from somewhere far off, and more pain than I thought any human being could
experience. I fell to the ground clutching my stomach.
I opened my eyes, the man with the revolver was dead not far from me, his face resembling nothing
so much as a poorly butchered hog. I open them again, there is Kluzer next to me, he isn’t moving. His chest
is open. Has he been like this the whole time? I open them again, there is that far off scream again as a white
smocked woman digs in my gut for the ball.
I awake on a cot, a scratchy army issue blanket covering me. I throw it off and sit up. I am
immediately made to regret my haste. White hot agony shoots through my entire body, emanating from my
shoulder and stomach. I clutch my stomach to find thick white bandaging covering my midriff. I clench my
teeth and swallow a scream, so as not to wake the other wounded men in the large tent around me. After
what feels like an eternity the pain subsides enough for me to swing my legs over the cot.
A chill breeze is flowing from an open flap at one end of the tent. I follow the sliver of blue light the
flap reveals. I step out into the morning twilight. The cool air flows over my sweat soaked body, it feels as if I
slid into a pool of cold water on a hot summer day. Another wounded man is at the entrance, smoking. He
offers me a stick of rolled tobacco, which I gratefully accept. I inhale as deeply as my ravaged body will
allow, and let it out slowly, contentedly.
“Beautiful morning.” The other wounded man says. I nod in response.
“Glad I’m here to see it.”
I nod again, and grunt.
 Spring 2018
Rebecca Melson

There Were Wolves in Albuquerque’s South Side; Circa 1999

Things had turned out a bit differently with a kid. It was just the beginning of my semi-adult life, and I

had already had Israel, my first son, my first masterpiece. I had graduated high school the year before, like a

shotgun, hiding an ever-growing belly deep within my shiny purple robe. When normal people my age were

going off to college and raves, I was instinctively becoming a mother. Salty tears burned down my face as my

friends stood up in honor of their scholarships, and I lamented when I couldn’t drink all night at any of the

graduation parties with my exhaling class. I was just a kid myself, and the smells of lilac in the still desert air

made me yearn for something I did not know. Yet, I never saw my son Israel as a threat. He was more of an

undiscovered adventure.

Before I had even graduated, his soon-to-be father, Jeremy, had already moved on to the strawberry

blonde I had seen him with early one morning. At that time, he owned a tattoo shop right off San Mateo in

Albuquerque’s northern side, correctly named ‘Independent Ink.’ The name was more than just his

business though, it was his motto; independent.

 My blue 84’ Malibu had slowly crept up his block as I was on my way to school that morning. I wanted to

profess my love to him with a rose, because I was confused and lost, and I felt alone. He was up, which was

surprising because I had envisioned quietly walking into his room and waking him up with my own bodies

warmth. Not only was Jeremy up, but he was walking down the adobe lined block with the beautiful young

woman and her large husky-like dog. I rolled down my window and called to him. ‘HEY!’ The look on his

face suggested how absolutely mortified he was to see me. I immediately became aware of my inexperienced

age, my curly, nappy hair and my ridiculous face. As he walked towards my car, trying to shrug off some

dumbfounded shock, I childishly handed him the rose that I picked from my aunt’s garden earlier that

morning.

“There is always the thorns.” I said to him, as if I possessed some sort of wisdom on the subject of love.

“Here, this one has a whole bunch.”

He reluctantly took it out of my hand, probably hoping that my existence would evaporate. “Crazy…” he

said. I watched his shoulders under his long black hair shudder as he walked back to her, and then I

somehow made it to my high school to attend class. I can’t recall if that was the moment that silently ripped

the heart out of my chest and would hold it in some sort of deranged self-loathing torment for years to come,

but I do know that luckily, it didn’t hit me right away. Her name was Stacey, as I would come to find out, and

she was stunning. But I, well, I was free.

XX

I traveled around all summer that year, little Izzy in my belly, and I in my Malibu. I told no one in my

family that I was pregnant, because most certainly the adults in my life would have been disappointed. My

father had driven all the way from Virginia to Albuquerque to see his baby graduate, and my grandmother
gifted me with her very own jewelry. There would be no imposing heavy realities upon them now, they

would have to wait. Their smiles as I flaunted my graduation success was enough to silence any truth. No, it

was now my life to claim, and I had plans. My future was still going to be an open ride, baby or not.

The plan had been to travel, and to let the world unfold before me. I couldn’t think of a reason why I

wasn’t going to do that. I wanted the high desert as my breakfast, and the Oregon shore as a dreamy pillow.

The graduation checks were generous, and my father equipped me with a tent and some cheap gear. No

baby was going to spoil all the fun. My growing belly and morning nausea weren’t a grounding factor at the

time and a good friend, Chantae, accompanied me. We had planned to travel for more than a year, only

waiting for me to save some cash and graduate.

The day after graduation my morning sickness hit a climactic peak, urging me to consider the situation at

hand. My family thought that I was just nursing off a hangover; a graduate who had too much fun the night

before. They weren’t on to me in the slightest. ‘Goodby! Congratulations! Don’t get hurt, and we love you!’

I packed too much stuff into Chantae’s car and we drove away leaving our childhoods behind. The desert

roads sliced us away from the bland and domestic. From dishes and babies.

Chantae and I didn’t last very long as travel buddies. That alliance had broken apart as soon as we realized

that our personalities outside of when we were growing up would no longer work well together. She was as

carefree as a willow tree, and I had a growing need to somehow produce some control in my life. She had

started to fall for the random hippy boy in Flagstaff. The only problem there was that he had lice. She

seemed unconcerned. The parental need for that control was already stewing in my veins, making it hard to

combine with her free-spirited nature. There were times that I looked over at her driving, with adoration of
our dream of endless travel, but other times as she would talk about where to go next in her carefree tone I

could have hit her with a shoe.

We had made about fifty pounds of soap in the small desert town of Ramah. The plan was to sell and barter

it to hippies at the national Rainbow Gathering that year. We spent a week in Phoenix before the Gathering,

and I watched her strip naked and soak herself with a hose at the Baseline Mansion, a small commune right

out of Phoenix. She was silly, dizzy and had pixie hair that was accompanied with big almond shaped eyes.

As much as I adored her, we knew we would ultimately go our own ways. Some animals naturally break

away from their pack to start their own.

I spent a month at the 1998 Rainbow Gathering near Shiloh, Arizona. With a newfound freedom, I scouted

a nice hiding place upon a wide meadow that was some ways off from the main event. My nice new tent was

posted on a steep hill surrounded by aspens that were all connected at the root system. I was happy to call it

home for the next four weeks. The freshness of the air made all of the morning sickness vanish, and I began

to feel more alive than ever before. I started to adore my belly, and the child within it. I deeply talked to God

as I looked off of surreal high desert plateau’s, and I sometimes danced to the constant drumming of jimbe’s

until the sun would creep over the horizon.

It was just my belly and the random individuals that would accompany me upon the strange events of

connection. The world was unfolding before me, in the uniquely crafted groups of artisans and lonely

dreaming travelers, just as I had known it would.

Eating quickly became the driving force of each day for me, so having a “kitchen” to be a part of eased the

burden. The gathering was made up of many varieties of these kitchens, where groups of traveling

individuals would attempt to feed as many people as they could. Some made bread, some made what looked
and tasted like vegan gruel, and some offered the commodity of meat. Some just served fancy teas, and

announced ‘Its tea time! Time for tea!’ after blowing their Royal Trumpets through the woods. I had arrived

into the paradise of my imagination. A community of travelers that met up at least once a year. Some of the

people there were very old.

About a week into the gathering, a ‘kitchen’ invaded the base of my far-out spot. Even though I liked waking

up and observing my meadow, where I felt that I was a lone soul caught in an obscure wonderment, I needed

to eat. I welcomed them.

“What do you call your kitchen?” I asked, with a strong curiosity.

‘Milliways’ the blond woman said. ‘Because we are located at the end of the universe.’ Her demeanor gave

off a ‘we got this shit’ kind of vibe, and I was really digging it, especially when she made ice cream and let me

be the first to try it. I could wonder about all day, and Milliways would always find something for me to eat

when I returned. I would weave through the bikers of A-Camp, the Hari-Krishna’s that sought my devotion

to a cow and the beautiful brothers that, in my condition, had become unattainable. And at the end of each

day’s journey, I could settle down in my tent with the realities of my future, and the beauty of the moment I

was in. If nothing else, someone from Milliways would lend me their time.

I began to understand the fertileness of youth and travel, and embellished myself in the dream-like

existence that held certain understandings that one did not have to mentally comprehend. It was felt, and it

was continuous. A slow and beating vein that can only flow through a land that possesses freedom. One

where anyone could decide to be whomever they wished, as long as their bodies held up. One where I could

hide from the iron bars of the approaching domestic life.

 My baby and I danced around fires to the beating of drums. We bartered my soap for belongings that

were not freely given. I think I must have met some of the most light, whimsical, and brokenly free souls in

America that year. A painfully beautiful time to have lived, because those moments stay etched in the mind,

and they cease to last forever.

From there, I hung out in Sedona, convincing myself that I could feel the vortexes, still running from the

nest. Then, while attempting to make it to a festival in Oregon, I broke down with the two new friends that I

had met, right in the heart of Las Vegas. Not being a very good gambler, I submitted the dream of travel to

settle in a spot for the baby’s sake. I returned to Albuquerque where my own mother’s heart was

disappointed. “I can’t take care of you and a baby” she said. So, I hesitantly opted to join my father in

Virginia, where my maiden story would end, and my hidden baby’s childhood would begin. The time of

running was over.

XXX

The iron hand of my dad was set upon directing my life in the way he felt I should go. Though he

demonstrated a generosity to me, insisting that his house was mine, his way of marine-like function was at

times too much to bear. Properly folded tee-shirts in the drawer, a well-cooked dinner expectation, floors

cleaned with bleach. I had just drunk from the world in my own cup, and now I was back under a heavy

parental hand. Picking out little outfits with overalls crushed me, yet intrigued me, while the days ticked like

a sharp-edged clock.

My son Israel was born on December 16th, as the sun was rising through my hospital window and filling

the room with an orange glow. I looked out at my nurse, and told her I wasn’t ready. She looked down on me
with compassion and said, ‘he is coming anyway!’ My aunts had been scattering about the room to make me

comfortable as I yelled out at them to rub my back. It happened to be ripping in two. After a crescendo of

pain that almost seemed unearthly, I was a nineteen-year-old mother. Just like that, the shotgun fires

through the sleeping night and with it brings a new day. I had a precious jewel with little blue eyes in my

arms, and yesterdays were moon-shadowed memories.

By the following spring, my baby and I moved back to Albuquerque to live with my mom for an uncertain

amount of time, while I was figuring out who I was and what in the world my place in this life would be.

Making sacrifices became a new art to master. Staying in when the city was ripe and loud. Giving time to

play cars, instead of locking myself in my room to listen to music and dance. Those were the processes where

I realized childhood was a state of mind for those that lacked responsibility. I had been waiting so long, for

the world to just drop my fate in my lap like some sort of movie, and then, it was tipped upside-down and

fleeting emotions of youth had to be reconfigured, as realizations were found neatly circled in the Diaper

Genie. I didn’t yet understand that I was the author of the outcomes of this new path.

My high-school buddies seemed just out of reach, even when we were hanging out. They weren’t ready to

understand parenthood, especially from one of their whimsical peers. “Were going camping this weekend”

became the likely excuse, as to which I would always have to decline. But that didn’t really matter. The

hardest part, in humble fairness, was realizing that becoming a famous traveling flamenco dancer was going

to have to wait a while.

XXXX

The infamous coffee shop on Harvard St., R.B. Winning, located right off the historical Rout 66, was

where it all would come together. The narrow brick sidewalks that aligned the café, with ringed in trees,
gave a glimpse of purpose to so many lost souls, young and old. It was a meeting place of the minds. A place

where the oddest individuals could be spotted, and identities could be re-created while buzzing to the good

old caffeine. At any time of the early afternoon one could find them, telling their stories to pass the time of a

slipping day. There was Bedouin, with the pyramids tattooed on his forehead, the stripper Freitas, who liked

to have breakfast there with her 5 kids. The endless faces of the usual acquaintances. Occasionally there was

the Spanish missionary, Angelina, that came to recruit individuals into the Aggressive Christianity

commune in Ramah, telling us all who Jesus was over a mocha latte. And myself. I was there too.

Sometimes when Israel would be with his father and sometimes when he was on my hip like an extension of

me. I would cruise from Eubank onto Central, old route 66, and follow it all the way down, usually arriving

there before 10 a.m.

Hanging out and discussing the philosophies of the world with other unemployed pseudo hippies of the

90’s was where I figured out what was going on. It was my starting point, and I developed my sense of being

an adult while engrossed in endless cups of coffee that were shared with that addictive group of slackers. We

philosophized, we self-righteously figured out the worlds secret evils and government conspiracies; we were

a silent revolution that smoked cigarettes and baked in the intensity of the Albuquerque sun, resigning to

leave only when all shade had crept up the buildings and the red brick sidewalk became an unbearable

roast. Israel was there, going along with all I did, as if his little angelic self was sympathetic to my state.

Amongst the caffeine and commotion, I did sort of figure it out. I got my beginning by connecting with the

people that would shape my 20’s. Ya, I may have heard about the chem-trails in the sky that the government

was experimenting on us with, but I also learned about different people, and in contrast, about myself.
 One day I took Angelina the missionary up on her invitation to stay at the commune. What did I know, it

all sounded good? I longed for a community that was outside of the grid, and these people apparently grew

their own food, which in my mind suggested that they were in a superior category. I also longed for people

who knew Jesus, the way I had. As real. A supernatural entity that would sometimes come even when you

weren’t in trouble. I pondered the reality of reaching out and touching faith.

All of my belongings were quickly thrown in a suitcase, and Israel and I went off into the desert once

again, in that faithful Malibu. We might as well have been riding into another country. When we arrived, I

realized that the commune was a compound with a huge kitchen and lots of rooms upstairs. There was a

printing press on the first floor, and everything smelled of incense from where the members had hand-made

their own to sell in the city. The compound was on many acres that lined the Navajo reservation, and to me it

seemed a quiet oasis from society. Angelina graciously shared her own bedroom with me when I arrived,

and I was daunted that the place was real, and not an imaginative conversation over coffee.

As I fell asleep upon a hard bed the night of my arrival, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. The

verbiage was unconventional, the dresses were brown, and my restlessness was not yet met. The next

morning, I awoke to the members getting up so early, before the sun even arose. They were praying in the

room right outside of mine, in tongues and lamentations. I was scared at first, like maybe I was mistaken, and

these people were a little crazy. But, then I came to understand that it was more than a quick ideology in the

sun. My dreams had easily encoded messages it seemed, and pains that were rooted deep in my

subconscious came to the surface for me to face. Deborah Green preached the gospel.

They baked their own bread, grew most of their own food, and lived an uncompromising life of

spirituality that was focused on knowing God and following His lead. I was unaware of these ways at first,
but I learned to communicate with God in my own way. I learned to know that He could hear me, and that in

fact, I could hear Him too. I learned to look at who I really was, and take showers on Sunday. It is funny how

we can live in our skin all of our lives, yet sometimes never understand our what lies in our own reflection.

Sometimes that is all we are really looking for anyway.

There was no need to pretend with the clothing of religion. I felt that God had always known me, and I

began to piece together the times when things miraculously worked out, times that should have dissolved

any normalcy but then a miracle happened instead. Those everyday miracles that we often overlook, as we

seek only our own face. Like, when I was eleven and that car with two men pulled up beside me as I was

walking home from school in the South Valley. For no reason at all, my mom’s bright red car showed up

right behind them as they were encouraging me towards theirs. “Get away from that car Rebecca!” She

yelled, as she saw the man’s hand encouraging me closer. She said she just felt like getting off early that day.

Coincidences like these sometimes weave through our lives, and we don’t even perceive them. Israel and I

spent two months of the summer engrossed in the life of a commune, as I was doing chores and learning

how to pray. I think I would have eventually married one of the men there had I ended up staying.

But, by the time fall was creeping into the deserts atmosphere, Israel and I had left the commune. I wrote a

letter to my father in Virginia that I had forgotten about. He took the letter to mean that I was involved in an

evil cult and must be rescued. My dad was the kind of man that thrived on situations like that, so after a

couple of months he came all the way to New Mexico to claim me from ‘the cult’. He had a small arsenal in

the back of his truck, and there is no doubt in my mind that he would have loved to tell that story had it been

real.
 I acted shocked when my family showed up, inviting me out to lunch off of the property. I played dumb,

and let myself be angry when my father said there was no way I was returning. But, the truth was that I

wasn’t ready to spend a lifetime with one group of people, and it was evident by some of the members living

there, that a life-long commitment to the community was a reasonable option. “Stay where you are at!” they

told me when I called them later that day. “We will come and pick you back up.” I hung up the phone with a

burning sting. I had to go. I longed for other people, coffee shops and hot springs. Maybe I was leaving an

amazing environment to seek myself out, but I ached for what lied back in the world. Leaving was an

emotional decision, as I felt that I was defying the will of God. There were some long nights where I felt that

I would go to hell. The truth I found though, is that God doesn’t leave us, and religions are born from men.

XXXXX

Back to the coffee shop I went. It was there that I would eventually find the three women whom I would

start my adult life with. The ‘mammas’ that embodied what I thought I wanted to be, who I thought I was.

Emily and Christina had arrived in Albuquerque together. Emily, with her long blond dreadlocks had

originated from Kansas, and Christina, with her short brown ones, from upstate New York. They had met at

certain points along their wanderings through America, and had ended up staying in some scabies ridden

shack together, in Taos. Both women came to the city looking for something more stable. We were all

looking for something.

“If we all talk to our parents, we can come up with the money. I’m sure my dad will wire me at least $600.”

Fawn proclaimed. Fawn and I had met at the coffee shop as well. She was bold, full of cigarettes and Jesus.

She was a bit dominating with her deeper understanding, and grounding qualities. Her frame was sturdy,

thicker, a California girl -- minus the materialistic ego-centrism. She had dark chocolate dreadlocks, dark
chocolate eyes that could gracefully melt, and a boyfriend, P Funk, who rode his scooter wherever he had to

go.

Fawn had scouted out a home for us. It was in the heart of the University of New Mexico student ghetto

on the corner of Silver and Pine. The solidifying detail that had convinced her that it was meant to be our

house, was the front porch door. Three L’s were stamped into the metal on the screen door’s bottom frame.

Fawn said that it stood for the “Ladies Love Lord Light House” (which is 4 L’s, I know) and we all agreed that

it was probably fate. Fawn and I were going to have a house that was a beacon of light to all the wandering

and homeless kids in Albuquerque; a restitution for my leaving the commune, and a new start amongst the

hippies that I had longed to be with. Emily and Christina, who needed a place to live, casually agreed. That

was our initial mission. Some of Fawn’s predictions were right! All of our parents did wire us the money, a

miracle from my father in Virginia, whom I believe felt guilty for his stern rescue mission.

The first few days in our new abode were like magic! These women were all pretty, jimbe playing, easy-

going friends. They thought it was cool that I had a kid, and they accepted he and I into their lives.

Sometimes Christina would wake Israel up and make him breakfast before I even woke up. It was a restless

dream to get to connect with those spread-out wanderers that seemed to me at the time, to sparkle like gems

in a neon-lit world. And, if things couldn’t get any better, I had the largest room, because I had the baby of

the house. Izzy and I shared what would have otherwise been used as a private den. It had a fireplace, and

sliding glass doors that attached to a lovely fenced in courtyard where Israel would play every morning. It

was amazing for us. The only deterrent was that I had to get a real job. Drinking coffee all day was not going

to support this new lifestyle that I was taking on, unfortunately. And, as if life were throwing me some large
line that I could not miss, I did get a job. That very next week in fact. A waitress at the esteemed El Pinto

Restaurant.

Life was turning in my favor. I felt fortunate that I had gotten to room with them, for they apparently

knew just about every traveler in the southwest. I would discover this on so many sleepless nights of

listening to their many, many friends express mild musical talents in our living-room, in our yard at 3 a.m.,

or chatting in the room aligning with mine about the intricacies of the world and techno music.

We had started with a mission, to help and be beacons of light, but somehow, even with our proclaimed

battles of helping the young wanderers of the area, we were beginning to have too much fun with all of our

guests. We were all sinners in a hot desert, having held tightly to the coolness and kindness of our faith.

Until, we just blended in.

At any given moment, there could be some new body that was sleeping on the floor. Hiking bags packed

full, with un-common odors that spread over the brown living-room carpet. This was a common sight, and

at first it was invigorating. They would come, by the carloads. They would come from Taos, Tucson, and

sometimes Denver. They knew Emily and she had invited them. They had names like To-mas, and Tiger.

Sometimes they would be the random couple that was passing through town, making connections and

staying with us for a few days. “We’re gonna make a movie mamma’s!” they would say, which was code for,

“We are going to invade your kitchen and make a really big dinner for everybody, hopefully you like it.” Who would

mind that? There was almost always food, and little Israel sitting on the kitchen floor with his cars, making

the sound effects as he had learned to go with the flow. We were all flowing along in fact. I hit someone’s

van late one afternoon as I was pulling in from work. Put a nice dent in the back of their Westfalia. I walked
into the house, holding my black apron in defeat, and told them the news. ‘Hit it again!’ said the woman in

my living room, who never shaved. ‘I don’t care.’

Their often laxical attitude to the trivial things of life, like hitting their car with mine, is what ultimately

made them tolerable. There was a silent understanding that they wouldn’t ever conform to the dredges of

domestication. They would not waste their life living and being imprisoned in ‘the system’ that had taken

the majority of society captive. They were a utopia of youth that moved from city to city, from state to state.

Some were clean and some were vague, making it hard to sense their intentions. One time, two of them,

during their peace walk from California to Texas, only spoke Japanese. Some didn’t want to leave, and some

I wished would stay a little longer.

Odie became my boyfriend. He was originally from Vermont, but was fleeing some sort of occurrence.

Odie Smith wasn’t even his real name, but he had a beautiful smile, with silky hair and a slight mustache.

He had fallen hard and fast into the insatiable abyss of a lonely youth, but he played the guitar fairly well.

Tad, his riding buddy, came with him, because Christina was in love with Tad. Christina and I both felt like

we had somehow won an obscured lottery. Odie would clean the house when I was at work. He would say

nice things to me when I got home, like how much he had missed me. He took the time to craft me a hand-

made Valentine’s Day card, by cutting our kitchen sponge into a heart shape to make the festive effects. He

would closely help Emily watch little Israel, as being my nanny had become her full-time employment, and

once he even folded my underwear and neatly placed them on my dresser so I would see them when I got

home. In a short amount of time, Odie had become my wife, and I had become the only one in the house

with a real job.

 One night, after working a double, I walked into my den to find about 5 new people sitting on my bed,

alongside Odie, Fawn, Emily and little Israel. They were all enjoying the warmth of a well-lit fire, and

someone was strumming a guitar. My presence as I entered my room had changed the atmosphere, as if

somebody’s mom had just got home, and everybody had to leave now. All eyes gazed up at me. “I need to

sleep guys.” I said with a precise tone. “I’m sorry. Do you mind?” I hated to bum their trip, but I was realizing

that maybe this life was not exactly where it was at. Even little Israel looked annoyed as everyone left our

room, like I had just killed all the fun, which I probably had. As I placed my golden-locked son in his crib, I

realized that I wanted order. I wanted fun too, but only when everything was in order. I wanted clean floors,

and potted plants with herbs. I didn’t want grown men on food stamps taking over my kitchen, as they knit

their identity within the seams of patchwork pants. The farther I drifted with the drifters, the more I longed

for peace.

XXXXXX

There was the young man, Dan, that Fawn had scooped up from the coffee shop one afternoon. He

seemed fresh, lost, and capable of so much more than he was doing. He needed to stay with us for a while,

but he had no money, he had no food, he had no idea…nothing. We let him. He was a boy, barley a man,

and he had such a passive nature that we almost couldn’t help ourselves. We may not have been so gentle

with him.

“Cabana Dan, I need a glass of water!” Fawn called out from her reclining chair. “Hahahahaha.” “Cabana

Dan, could you clean the dishes please?” I would ask from the front porch. Now, all of these demands that

we placed upon our new friend were basically in jest, but Dan would do them anyway. He would get us

drinks, with ice, and bring them out on makeshift trays. And he always wore a red polo shirt, possibly the
only one he owned...we just couldn’t help it. It was all too provoking. I don’t remember ever seeing him

comfortable in his skin. Sheepishly he brought us all drinks as we held our joke for a bit too long.

I don’t remember how long Dan stayed with us, but I do remember seeing him at the coffee shop a few

months later. He was so out of touch with reality that he could not even speak. Dan looked as though he had

lost 20 pounds. He looked me in the eye, for his ability to talk was now centered in them. I could see that

somehow trauma had happened, rendering him speechless in a semi-schizophrenic trance. His eyes were

empty, deep wells, and his body was ragged. I offered him the bowl of fast-food chili that I had just gotten

from a few blocks away, and he ate it up in less than a minute. He was starving, absent, and must have

traded in his cabana shirt for the tight meshed male-dancer wear that now wrapped around his frame. A

transformation dripping with self-loss. We had not been any sort of sanctuary for Dan. Who were we really,

I pondered like a piercing sword? We had made people dinner, and shared in conversation and musical

talent, having so much fun; but who were we? Certainly, not the beacons of light that Dan had needed us to

be. I was beginning to see myself a little clearer again, wiping the fog off of my own mirror. After several

failed attempts to talk to my muted friend, I left the coffee shop. I never saw Dan again.

A few months after that, all of the girls went their separate ways and moved out of the house, leaving me

in charge of a lease, and the number of transient souls that would sometimes cling onto us. Emily left with

Tad, and Christina left for New York to regroup herself. Fawn went to Hawaii. Israel and I had a couple new

roommates, and we were doing ok.

XXXXXXX

Sam and John made a habit of weaving in and out of Albuquerque on a regular basis. Though they would

not always stay at our house, we would always see them, and they were an element that continued in our
realities. Sam was 28 then, and I considered her a bit old to still be tooling around in some gutter-punk

traveler’s scene. They had two kids, Kiesha and Song, and they all lived together with their two dogs in the

tight but orderly space of their van.

Sam was more direct than I was comfortable with. Though the angles of her face had a softness to them

sometimes, the intensity of her dark eyes were enough to rattle me out of my flow, making me too aware of

her presence. John, who was a real cutie with his dirty blond mop and skater punk get-up, usually let Sam

control things. In fact, when they were around, we all usually let Sam control things. They asked if they

could crash with us for a while, to which I had no power to say no. Sam and John decided to actually stay

with me and the new roommates for a couple of weeks. She must have sensed my vulnerability, and

pounced on the opportunity. Or, maybe she felt it would be appropriate for her family now that some of the

chaos had left with the original room-mates.

Sam and her family would huddle in the living-room over a pot of popcorn dressed in nutritional yeast,

and shoot sharp glances at anyone who might have thought they had enough to share. At night, when we

would all be hanging out on the old brown couch in the kitchen, Sam would dominate conversations. She

would talk about the world banking system, President Bush and his agenda for the New World Order, Che

Rivera, and how there were a lot of stupid dumb-fucks wearing shirts with his face plastered on them, who

had no idea who Che really was! She was vegan, self-righteously so, and if we ate non-vegan around her or

her family, she told us her kids were uncomfortable with that. She would challenge us on our beliefs and the

ideological identities that we put on, un-apologetically, and she would sing her babies to sleep with old

Grateful Dead songs every night.

 Though I was slightly afraid of, and yielding to Sam, I deeply admired her. She was the real deal. She was

not looking for an identity, because she could not have been anybody else. She was bold and unafraid of the

opinions of others, unafraid of her own destiny. I didn’t even take offense when I had told her my dreams of

being an herbalist, and she replied, “I’ve never gotten that vibe from you Rebecca. I just don’t see it.”

On one of the last days of their stay with us, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen and

hallway floors. I was now completely overwhelmed by the invasion of people in my life, and I tried to seek

some order by cleaning. I couldn’t control the new roommate’s guests, or the old guests that felt it their right

to couch surf if they needed. I was marking my territory, making the house that had welcomed so many

others, truly mine and my sons. Watching Israel toddle in a clean and empty living room felt so right, and so

temporary. I had reasonably failed at being Jesus, and was now unsure of the thrill that came with being

submersed around hippies. Sam leaned over to me, as if she felt relief from my cleaning away the chaos too,

and said, “You know, your house just doesn’t feel right unless it’s clean Rebecca. It doesn’t feel like home.”

Sam was right. She could see me, and who I really was in this grand chapter of my youth, even when my

own mirror was cloudy as I looked for something that wasn’t really defined. I was left alone to raise a child,

left for some beauty that would haunt my esteem for years to come. I had grabbed onto ideals and hot

flickers of what happiness might have looked like. Sam could see the biggest part of me that held any

relevance in the quickly evaporating dance we call time. I was a mother.

 Spring 2018
Marcia Arrieta

a great horned owl observes the fox

morning glory the details the North Sea the California desert
yellow lines radiate the blue square orbit the footsteps of leaves
an agave a passionflower a windmill the stars
archeology the past

embedded in sequins a philosophy in oblivion Dada the image the jaguar

a meridian in minimalist expanded the map in the tree’s branches calls
the wind & wilderness utopia expanded the life a suitcase
to build a tree house

an armadillo a hummingbird the ideas are in the land do not capture

the caterpillar formica & an O’Keefe & Merit & ee cummings a shot
of Jameson the words as maze arrows/clouds/cathedral papyrus &
experience engrave the heart in a portrait cultivate the invisible
try to stay awake
at the Harwood Museum

The Dancers
Paul Pascarella

the layers the music the holes ghosts/illusions

Tundra
Agnes Martin

wings shadows transparency perhaps an indication of the sublime

there will be time

snails renegade the boulders unleash the clouds against the sky untroubled
remaining verse intact ideas forming experiment in impossible except for
the deaths encompass the early morning light

cookbooks & canvases crazy the lies the silence to be understood like
leaves in winter athena apollo the shoes outside the door the mind a current
a timepiece of contradictions virgen de los remedios help us
don’t forget to walk

boarding pass the I Ching & the Queen of Wands (correctness/innocence)

the sun is a water lily an acorn thunder the lion into spring the sage a lake
the owl a cloak light bulbs hang from trees the cactus needs more water
an orange unpeeled

the typewriter the road parallel universes conjecture the magical to be

discovered under an oak leaf

if only we could give up reason to understand the skeletons the shipwrecks

the undaunted notebooks
 Spring 2018
J. De Nero

Painful Upstairs Hideout

I haven’t looked at my hands in days.

The light is brilliant violence

but I don’t sleep, it’s ache
never comes anymore.

Instead I draw mazes,

depictions of the wind.

I make lists, then I learn

how to ignore them.

I am an expert at sidewalks
and chemtrails.

My window body sits

too close to the glass
to watch the cold parades,
a dying stampede,

people ignoring symmetry.

I am a help staircase.
A trembling mountain
space-chanting and twirling.
I’m a shapeless storybird
that watches the slaughter
take souvenirs
with its rhythmic lottery.

I’m chased by knives

in my day-dreams
and my legs grow
heavy with a fever.

Sometimes, my mother leaves

me messages on my machine

Things like
How are you feeding?
Are you airtight?
This is your mother.
Do you remember the water?
In My Defense

If you asked me how it feels

I’d say, like I’ve grown
eight hundred arms,
that all need something to hold.

My loneliness is a spirit
house displayed on my lawn.

I fill it with fruit

offerings, tiny cups
of orange pop
with little straws,
so the spirits can sip
without falling in.

They keep saying don’t give

it a name, but my loneliness
is a honey pot,
atop a carnivorous plant,

It longs for strangers

and the sea. It doesn’t mind
sleeping in the sand every night,
if it meant something new
would wash up every morning.

But some days you watch the sunset

from the bluffs of the sand dunes,
some days you barely
leave your tent for food.

Some days your heart is heavy

and red, a bowl full of blood,
a basin of cow tongues.
Some days your heart is six
chickens hanging upside
down by their claws,
off the baggage rack
of a motorcycle
going sixty miles per hour.

Some days it’s covered in birch

tree curtains, the brittle wallpaper
peel, so easily shed.

Some days you give in,

let him nip at your stalks
till they’re overripe stems
till they give,
no crisp
snap in half
like a warning.
In the Museum

is a collection of human skulls.

There are 139 in total.
To help with the upkeep,
you can adopt one
for the low price of $200.

All body parts are metaphors

just as are flowers and fruit
either saccharin or something
soft thrown at your head,
depending on the poem.

I can’t find the word

for slipping a ring
off a finger,
but that is what
you do to me.
All the loose objects
shrug off.

Ask my lungs
and lavender bruises,
ask my soft naked rot,
I refuse to let my heart
be a symbol of this.
My heart is not a ghost.
or an eggshell,
or the sea.
It’s not a motorcycle
sitting in a field full of cosmos,

I have not left it

with anyone.
It is not across
the world
or the country.
It’s still
what it’s always been,
crushed earth in an oak chest,
violets growing in my head.

There is a small, yellow

part of me, that wants
to keep digging,
a sharp little slice,
a toenail clipping-
size worth of wishing
we were capable of holding
such a wet thing.

But our liaison isn’t

buying green bananas.
It’s different shades
of brick and vine
beneath the nails,
scratch-marks,

If you need a reminder

you can always ask
yourself,
Out of ten, how in love
are you
with your sadness?

What bones
will you leave behind
for someone else
to tend?
 Spring 2018
Leonard A Temme

Five Poems:

Ares

K Gets Around

Heidegger Reads Hӧlderlin

Woe

Imagine the Immense

 Ares
Ares, Aphrodite’s sometime lover, god of war; born of Zeus; Ares,
ancient awful horror, god most hated by gods, disdained
even by his father;
Ares, brother of Eris – discord and strife, the provocatrice
of the 10-year Trojan war,
brother of Enyo – goddess of bloodshed and violence,
Ares, named for bane and ruin, an incarnate curse,
fathered Phobos – fear,
fathered Deimos – terror,
fathered Adrestia – revenge/nemesis/retribution,
fathered Eros – Eros;
Ares, who has still always lived – never died – vibrant
in the hearts of man, vibrant in the ancient, modern worshiped
passioned battle lust of war as blood bathing ancient modern
grieving Aleppo, its anguished cry cried in the rising chorus of
Ares ascending, ascending, ascending, bombs
descending
descending
descending,
voices shouting around the world
proclaiming the law of war a law (!)
Ares, for whom war is sport, delight, joy, but who in battle
himself is (yes) cowardly,
(yes) weak,
(yes) timorous.
Ares, yet another god forged
in the human, all too human
image of the violent
coward venial man
disgusting.
 K Gets Around
(Rondo)

K is for K1

K is for K2

K is for C3

K is for T4,5

K is for A 6

K is for KR7

K is for G8

K is for M9

K is for O10

1
Using K to replace C for the sound of ‘k’ whenever possible has all kinds of interesting konsequences.
2
K is for Kafka, a name that needs a pair of Ks to spell it korrektly. With so many ks in his name, Kafka used K a
lot in his writing.
3
C is for the C(K)astle, one of Kafka’s novels.
4
T is for The Trial, another of Kafka’s novels.
5
In both The C(K)astle and The Trial, the main karacter is always referred to by the initial K, making it impossible
to read those novels without the sense that they are autobiographical, describing Kafka’s experience of the world.
The Trial is the story of K who is akused and prosekuted for a krime of which he knows nothing and which is never
deskribed. The C(K)astle is the story of K’s trying to negotiate with the administrative bureaukracy of the C(K)astle,
a bureaukracy that is kompletely remote and opaque. Of kourse these are autobiographical novels since they
describe the world of Everyman. Welkome to now, here.
6
The title of Kafka’s first novel, Amerika, is striking because the title replaces the ‘c’ with the ‘k’, but this is a
koincidence of two kultural accidents. ‘K’ in German is not ‘k’ in English, while spelling the name of our country
with ‘k’ is not only formally inkorrekt, the spelling has explicit references to a violent, racist tradition still alive
today. The ‘k’ in Amerika is a shorthand that underskores some of the troubles that permeate Amerikkkan society.
Because of these troubles, some argue that Amerikkka with the ‘k’ is formally korrekt, while spelling it with the ‘c’
is a fabrication, a konscious lie. But the semiotics of the spelling embedded in the Amerikan mind were not in
Kafka’s, whose working title of the novel was The Man Who Disappeared, which today might more aptly be
changed to The Country that Disappeared, or ironikally enough The Invisible Man.
7
The main karacter of Kafka’s Amerika is Karl Rossmann, another koded reference to Kafka’s own name.
8
G is for Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a) who in 1915 Kafka saw awaken in bed one morning from troubled dreams to
diskover that he had been transformed into some form of vermin, not unlike a giant roach.
9
M is for Metamorphosis, the title of Kafka’s story of Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a)’s travail.
10
O is for Ovid, whose Metamorphoses is a panoply of stories deskribing the transformation of individuals into non-
human entities, invariably due to an akt of one or another of the Greco-Roman gods. For Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a)
there are no gods; the transformation is not described; it is simply a konsequense of the man’s eksperience. The
reader supplies the eksplanation, kontext, and interpretation. Good luck with that.
 K is for B & PG11

K is for A(a)12

K is for DM13

K is for vl14

K is for NYDS15

K is for s a16

K is for m17

11
Baryshnikov portrayed Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a) on Broadway, and Phillip Glass wrote a piano suite inspired by the
Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a)’s Metamorphosis.
12
But Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a) has always reminded me of Archy, or rather, more korrectly spelled with the lower
case ‘a’ as in ‘archy’, who appeared for the first time in 1916, a year after Gregor first appeared on the scene.
13
DM is for Don Marquis, who introduced archy. Although the Metamorphosis was published a year before archy
was ‘born,’ the first English translation of the Metamorphosis only appear in 1933, so I think it is unlikely that archy
is direktly related to Gregor. I don’t know whether Marquis kould read German or had heard about this strange
roach from Prague; but since Gregor and archy describe a kommon human eksperience, they have a kommon
ancestor in man.
14
vl is for vers libre. We happy few who remember archy know him as gigantic kakaroach with the soul of a ‘vers
libre bard.’ He wrote using a manual typewriter, (remember those?) a mekanical machine that required force to
depress the keys, and that needed two fingers to kapitalize anything (sans kaps lock). Writing for him was writing
for the true artist; a painful, passionate need that drove him to the ekstremes of self-ekspression. To write with the
typewriter of the time, archy had to klimb up to the top of the machine, above the keys, and fling himself with all his
force head downward on the key. The impakt of his bodyweight was just enough to operate the key, ‘one slow letter
at a time’. He kould not work kapitals at all and he had the devil of the time with the karriage return and advancing
the paper to the next line. Of kourse archy had no way to put in a second sheet of paper.
15
NYDS is for the New York Daily Sun, whose editors in 1916 reported that they had one day inadvertently left a
sheet of paper over night in the typewriter. The next morning they found on that paper that archy had typed:

expression is the need of my soul

i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went
into the body of a cockroach
it has given me a new outlook upon life

i see things from the under side now

thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket
but your paste is getting so stale i can t eat it
there is a cat here called mehitabel I wish you would have
removed she nearly ate me the other night why don t she
catch rats that is what she is supposed to be for
there is a rat here she should get without delay
16
s a is for s(S)hinbone a(A)lley, which was archy’s beat. He became the bard of shinbone alley.
17
m is for mehitabel, the main karacter of archy’s reported shinbone alley adventures, despite her effort to eat archy
in the above first reportage. Still, that eksperience in a sense typifies mehitabel’s self-involved karacter.
 is for DD18

K is for GH19

K is for KK20

KK is for WRH21

K is for OW22

K is for A(T)P23

K is for K24

18
DD is for Double Day, which in 1927 published archy and mehitable, the kollected stories of the adventures of
shinbone alley that archy reported.
19
GH is for George Harrimen who illustrated archy and mehitable. George Herriman created a number of komic
strip karacters, including Krazy Kat. In fact, you kan’t look at mehitabel without being reminded of Krazy and vice
versa. Yet the personalities of the two kats are kompletely different; no similarity there. Another essential difference
between archy and Krazy is that archy wrote a daily poetry column while Krazy was a daily komic strip in which
text was only a part of the strukture. Krazy Kat debuted in 1913 and ran until Herriman’s death 1944 (sad, sad day,
sad indeed).
20
KK is for Krazy Kat. Who kan possibly eksaggerate the virtues of Krazy Kat? That would be an impossibility. Oh
that blessed, blessed kat. Krazy lived in C(k)oc(k)onino C(K)ounty, Arizona, with Ignatz Mouse and Offissa Bull
Pupp as main karacters and Kolin Kelly, a dog who is the brickmaker; Joe Stork, the "purveyor of progeny to prince
& proletarian; and Mrs. Kwakk Wakk, a skold and busybody duck who wears a pillbox hat.
21
WRH is for William Randolph Hurst who published Krazy Kat for years, even after Krazy’s popularity dropped.
Hurst was paying Herriman more than three thousand dollars a month at the time, and refused to kut his salary
although Krazy Kat did not kover his salary any longer. Hurst was kommitted to Krazy.
22
OW is for Orson Wells. It is widely thought that the brash, arrogant, willful twenty-six year old Orson Wells, the
boy genius, modeled his Citizen Kane on William Randolph Hurst and that the last word in the film, ‘Rosebud,’
while a McGuffin, is a veiled reference to Hurst’s pet name for his lover’s genitalia, her ‘tender button’ (see Stein,
Gertrude). Whether this is true or not is still debated, but Hurst’s portrait as reflected in Kane, or vice versa, led
Hurst/Kane to use his extraordinary power to suppress the film and derail Wells’s meteorik kareer. But Citizen Kane
and Wells’s fame survived Hurst’s efforts, and Wells is now widely akknowledged as one of the world’s foremost
film direktors.
23
A(T)P is for Anthony (Tony) Perkins, who Wells direkted in his 1962 film, The Trial, which Wells klaimed to be
his best film, but he klaimed lots of things that he did not necessarily believe. That is one frequent karacteristic of
artists; passion often leads them to put their feet in their mouth and dance.
24
And with this, we are back to Karfka. It seems klear to me that Gregor S(K)a(a)m(f)s(k)a(a) and archy got it right;
being human is a trial.
 Heidegger Reads Hӧlderlin
(A Haicoup25)

Martin Heidegger26 reads Friedrich Hӧlderlin27;

but why; one, a crazed28 German poet
and the other, a Nazi?
Heidegger bears witness to what he is.
He attests to himself. Language
is the self, self-attesting itself. The origin
is naming, naming the gods,
world, and time, being this moment now
when the poet, discovering language,
names the real so we discover ourselves
before slipping from view again.

But can machines think29? The

imitation game is no less game than
is poetry a game, neither
a harmless pastime30. “These machines are intended
to carry out any operations
which could be done by a human.31”
It’s our beloved digital computer,
Since we cannot tell the difference between
the simulacrum and the real,
the difference is illusory – clockwork – Hoffman’s32 problem
with Olympia, or Frankenstein’s. The
space inside is empty, the one language

25
A poetic structure derived from the haiku. It was first described in the Fitzpatrick-O’Dinn, D. Table of Forms
(Spineless Books, Urbana, Ill 2006) as “a poem with a 5-7-5 structure pertaining to any unit except syllables.”
26
Martin Heidegger (1887-1976) is arguably one of the twentieth century’s greatest philosophers and equally
arguably was an unrepentant Nazi.
27
Friedrich Hӧdlerlin (1770-1843) is recognized as rivaling Goethe as Germany’s greatest poet. Heidegger wrote
extensively about Hӧdlerlin’s poetry, using it as a vehicle to describe the importance of language as the kernel for
being aware and thus for being.
28
Hӧdlerlin died mad.
29
This is the deep question that Allan Turing posed in his 1950 paper, “Computing Machinery and Intelligence,”
(Mind, New Series, Vol. 59, No. 236 (Oct., 1950), pp 433-460) in which he argues that: (1) the imitation game is the
correct way to answer the question, (2) anything you can do I can do just as well, if not better, if I am a machine, and
(3) consciousness is not only an irrelevancy but placing importance on consciousness inevitably leads to solipsism
and hence must be erroneous.
30
Heidegger quotes a letter from Hӧdlerlin to his mother in which he says, “writing poetry is the most innocent of
occupations.” During this same period in his life, Hӧdlerlin also wrote that language is the most dangerous of goods.
In Martin Heidegger’s: “Hӧdlerlin and the Essence of Poetry”, in Elucidations of Hӧdlerlin’s Poetry, (translated by
Keith Hoeller), Humanity Press, Amherst 2000.
31
Quoted from Turing, Computing machinery and Intelligence.
32
E.T.A. Hoffman (1779-1822) whose writings helped fuel the foundations of German Romanticism. His stories
were adapted as the librettos for the ballets The Nutcracker and Coppѐlia and the opera, The Tales of Hoffman. Note
that Hoffman was a contemporary of Hӧdlerlin and Mary Shelley (1797-1851) of Frankenstein fame.
fills as self is imminent
and private, ‘but what are poets for
in a time of need?33

Language and self; poet as

priest mediating the self and the gods
or world. (What’s the difference?)
Remember The Snowman34, ‘a mind of winter,’
empty; remember the clockwork machine
working, unseen, inside, pure logic, gears meshing,
imagine across the universe, space
no mind can ever reach that quiet,
that dark, pure place to
behold ‘the nothing that is not there
and the nothing that is35.

33
From Hӧdlerlin’s poem: “Bread and Wine” “…and what are poets for in a time of need?/ But they are, you say,
like those holy priests of the wine-god / who traveled from land to land in holy night.” I think so.
34
The Wallace Steven’s “The Snowman.”
35
From the last tercet of Steven’s “The Snowman”.
 Woe
(A Song for Thanksgiving)

The best way to deal with emotions is bury them

in facts, one fact after another after another.

The day has not yet begun. Our sons

and daughters have not yet arrived
with their families. The smell of turkey
has not yet filled our house. The turkey
is finally thawed in the refrigerator and
is ready to be cleaned. The pies are done
(pumpkin & apple) and have cooled overnight.
The blessings will not be hard to list,
I’ll just recall the morning news.

A rhesus macaque36 caged in the East African

Research Institute in the Zika37 Forest38 near
Entebbe, Uganda developed fever in 1947.

The researchers eventually identified

the transmissible agent as a virus39
first described in 195240 that was
subsequently isolated from a human
in Nigeria in 1954. Until about 200741
confirmed cases of Zika virus infection
from Africa and Southeast Asia were rare,
but then a major epidemic occurred in
Yap Island, Micronesia. More recent
epidemics occurred in Polynesia, Easter
Island, the Cook Islands and New Caledonia42

The best way to deal with emotions is

with facts. The more the better. With enough

36
Rhesus macaques are an old world primate native to Africa and Asia. They are known to be susceptible to
infection by an Asian-lineage ZIKV closely related to the strains currently circulating in the Americas.
37
Zika is Luganda for overgrown.
38
The forest covers about 62 acres near the swamps of Waiya Bay, an inlet of Lake Victoria.
39
A virus is any of various submicroscopic agents that infect living organisms, often causing disease, and that
consist of a single or double strand of RNA or DNA surrounded by a protein coat. Unable to replicate without a host
cell, viruses are typically not considered living organisms.
40
Dick, GW; Kitchen, SF, Haddow, AJ.: Zika virus (I). Isolations and serological specificity. Transactions of the
Royal Society of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene (1952) 46(5): 509-520.
41
Duffy, MR. et al.:Zika virus outbreak on Yap Island, Federated States of Micronesia. New England Journal of
Medicine. (2009) 360: 2536-2543.
42
Zika Virus Net.com; http://www.zikavirusnet.com/history-of-zika.html
facts you can build a wall. I reached
for a piece of brown thread that was
on the floor to toss it into the trash,
not much more than a pile of rivaled lint,
but as I grasped it, the little monster
punctured the tip of my middle finger,
slipped below the skin, and was gone.
A little bead of blood marked were it entered.
I don’t know what it is, I can’t find it, but I can
squeeze out another bead of blood. I feel
the monster becoming part of me,
working its way through my system.
I am no longer an observer of the world’s woe

Facts provide assurance. They cage emotions.

They give a sense of order and control.
They help me not feel the recent news
from Brazil that 13 children who had seemed
normal at birth developed Zike-related
microcephaly by their first birthday43.

During Thanksgiving dinner we talked about

the food, the parade, the entertainment,
but no one watched the football games
on the television playing in the background.
The family gathered together is enough. Memories
and stories of daily life are enough. We talked
of Christmas coming next month, and
noting that the parade brings Santa to Macy’s,
we wondered what will happen in the age
of the virtual and whether Santa will come
via Amazon for a child avatar to sit on a Santa avatar’s
lap. In how many worlds can we live at one time?

Facts give the illusion of control, of an

ordered world. Zika spread rapidly
throughout South and Central America,
reaching Mexico in November 2015.
On January 15, 2016 the CDC44 advised
pregnant women to consider postponing
travel to Brazil, Colombia, El Salvador,

43
McCarthy, M. Zika related microcephaly may appear after birth, study finds. British Medical Journal (Clinical
research ed.) 355: 2016 Nov 23 pg i6333
44
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention: CDC issues interim travel guidance related to Zika virus for 14
countries and territories in Central and South America and the Caribbean:
http://www.cdc.gov/media/releases/2016/s0315-zika-virus-travel.html
French Guiana, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras,
Martinique, Mexico, Panama, Paraguay,
Suriname, Venezuela, and Puerto Rico.

Be specific about what you think is true.

Use facts as the perfect defense.
We can drop the news of the rounding
up of Jews or Arabs or Syrians or Turks
or Copts or Kurds or Blacks or Mexicans
or the sick or quarantines or ghettos45. We can
drop the news of extra-judicial killings
or the stalled peace talks or North Korea’s
latest tests or the continued conflict over Kashmir.
We can drop all that and close our minds and give
thanks, here, now, blessing a list of grateful
gratitude beatitudes. We can drop the woe from our heart
and know the world, the 65 or so Chinese who died
in the construction accident, the 13 babies with
Zika–related brain damage or their mothers with
Zike–related heartache and the world’s untold woe,
drop all that for the present Thanksgiving day.

Facts help, the more the better; list them all.

The mosquito and other arthropods transmit
the Zika virus (ZIKV), which is a member
of the Flavivirus genus of the Flaviviridae
family. Zika is related to dengue, yellow fever,
West Nile and Japanese encephalitis. Along
with other viruses in the Flaviviridae family,
Zika is enveloped with a non-segmented,
single-stranded positive sense RNA genome.
The 10,617-nucleotide long Zika genome
encodes for a polyprotein with three structural proteins,
capsid, premembrane/membrane, and the envelope
and seven non-structural proteins46, 47.
Virions on the cell membrane surface
enter the host cell and mRNA transcription
takes place in the host cell cytoplasm.

As of today48 the CDC reported 4,262 cases

45
Donald Trump, President - elect
46
Kuno G., Chang, GJ. Full-length sequencing and genomic characterization of Bagaza, Kedougou and Zika
viruses. Archives of Virology (2007), 152: 687-696.
47
Weaver, SE et al. Zika virus: History, emergence, biology, and prospects for control. Antiviral Research (2016)
160 69-80.
48
24 November 2016 (Thanksgiving 8:00 am) http://www.cdc.gov/zika/intheus/maps-zika-us.html
of Zika in the United States were contracted
while travelling, and 182 were acquired locally,
all in Florida. In Puerto Rico, on the other hand,
121 cases of Zika were contracted while travelling
and 31,944 cases49 were acquired locally, a huge number
for the United States but a small number compared
to the rest of South America, another reason for us
to give thanks; another formulation of the them,
not us; they, not we, you, not me dichotomy.

Facts help. The list of facts, of woes,

is as close as the computer: The school bus
driver’s, “Are you ready to die?” quote.
But all this is hard to turn off, as though
we need to see the helpless suffering of
others to know how good we have it. Amen.

I will not go hungry this Thanksgiving.

No one in my family will go hungry
this Thanksgiving, and you who are
reading this likely will not go hungry
either. The best way to deal with emotions
is bury them in fact after fact after fact.
Let us then give thanks.

49
I am amazed as how quickly we slip into numbers, abstractions, and statistics, and how comfortable we are with
such language. Our normal analytic way of dealing with this kind of information is with actuarial tables and
statistics. The abstractions help us see patterns and such patterns are useful and important, but they are also wrong
and misleading. Each one of these 31,944 cases is an individual life, not a number, not a statistic, not a cipher. To
point this out is to reassert an observation that has become a platitude; but the platitude is no less true. The problem
with platitudes is that they obscure their truth; they hide their significance. Here the significance is that each of the
31,944 individual cases is the experience of a particular life, and this lived experience is a person’s total universe
destroyed. The importance of this reality is beyond our comprehension since the reality is the impact of one
individual’s life compounded by 31,944 lives. The number of lives, 31,944, is not the number of identical or
indistinguishable or comparable cases; it is the one unique individual event, a person’s life denied to every one of
the 31,944 people.
 Imagine the Immense
The Cartesian “Cogito Ergo Sum”
Illusion

Imagine, please, the image in the eye.

The balance of outside with inside
is screwball.
There is no balance; it’s
wrong, the door to dualism. Imagine,
the image in the eye;
the image of what?
We do not have words for what
the image is, nor of what it is
an image. Binocular stereoscopic visual system and its
We drop in the pit of working, as imagined by Des Cartes. The two
inside out in outside in language. retinal images of a single object are accurately,
Imagine, please, point-for-point, projected upon the surface of the
the eye of I; that central sense of cerebral ventricles, where they are further
Descartes’ I’s eye is as wrong transmitted to the centrally located pineal gland,
as it is right as long as it is seen (see H, the supposed “seat of imagination and
that trick word common sense.” Here the homonymous
seen?) “corresponding” or “syndynamical” impressions
as fairyland false. The world merge into a single visual “idea” – for example,
we know as real is fairyland false of the object point A, via two retinal point I and
falling inside the Eye of I. I, along the two ventricular points 2 and 2,
The image is ultimately meeting in a common point a of the
the outside turned into the in- pineal gland (H). In this way a single binocular
side turned into the inside visual experience would be achieved, in spite of
of the brain where complete separation in the chiasma, a mistaken
It’s I. belief which Des Cartes took over from Galen
IT’S EYE and Vesalius. After the union of the two
It’s sky monocular images in the pineal gland, the
Eye am impressions would be further transmitted to the
Eye will brain substance, B and B, and deposited in it as a
Eye see memory image. The problem of how the
Eye live “corresponding impressions” are made to unite
Eye die remained thus unexplained. From Tractatus de
The immense i, I, eye, aye. Hominie of Traite’ de l’homme, written 1660 and
The I’s I of eye; published 1686. After Figure 71 from Polyak, S.
The I’s eye of I; The Vertebrate Visual System, The University of
The eye’s I of I; Chicago Press, Chicago, 1957.
The eye’s I of eye;
The eye’s eye of I;
are all different,
they all mean different things,
 but all see eye to I to eye
the same way and lock us in
a fairyland of fallacies seeing false
the false Malfovea’s image
in every glance as the unseen error,
the illusion is the real illusory that-ness
we all know to be the true true that is not.

The word Eye see slips through the cornea, pupil, lens
to be focused on the retina, in that one little spot,
the fovea, where the image magic happens,
where Malfovea conjures the real from the play
of light and shadow. (It’s all smoke
and mirrors in here, folks).

The Eye (I) lives the habits of the language I (Eye) see.
It’s a commonplace to say Eye see/think the world
through the lens of the words we say.
The world Eye see is the word Eye say
Eye see the world through the lens of words.
What’s real, what do Eye see?
Eye live/see/say the habits of the language every Eye lives/sees/says

Kepler knew Mal-fovea inverted the world,

turned it on its head, upside down and backwards
reversing the normal order of things. Mal-fovea’s law
is down is up, left is right and right is wrong
and fair is foul and foul is fair and Eye hover through the
illusions born of fog and fairy air for the little eye that’s i.
How are Eyes to survive?
Eye live the illusion that what Eye see is real.
Eye believe that what Eye see is true.
The Eye’s I of Eye is I
That old Cartesian cogito: Eye see therefore I am

Who knows
what the hell we see?
Who knows
what the hell is real?
Look, see what’s there;
look, see what’s not.
 Spring 2018
Alaric von Satyrane

The Tale of Martin Namibia

“Kick it you fookin’ wanker,” bellowed a young voice from the stands.

The team was stunned. They looked up into the stands to see the source.

“Martin, shush,” said Martin’s mother sitting next to him.

A bell rang on the pitch. “Back to play,” called a voice.

The home team was close to making a goal. The forward fumbled.

“Pumpkin toes,” shouted Martin. The team glanced up again but resumed play again although with

sheepish expressions.

The score was close. The home team needed one goal to win, but they were knocking the ball around

aimlessly. The away team took the ball and ran down the field. The spectators went suddenly quiet then

laughed and shouted. Martin Namibia, a ten-year old boy, had run onto the field and taken the ball from the

away team. He single-handedly outmaneuvered the opposing team members, drove up to the other end of

the field, and powered it into the net through the desperately flailing arms of the opposing goalie.

The crowd exploded in cheers. The players of the home team lifted him up onto their shoulders and

paraded him around the field.

 Before the start of the next game the manager of the home team came out onto the field to address the

spectators and television audience. It was rumored even the pope was watching. “I’m here to announce that

we have offered a contract to young Martin Namibia, the youngest player ever to play professional football.”

The crowd roared. The team shouted their approval and sang a round of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Martin’s father, a beer in hand, sat beaming from the stands.

After several games, all of which Martin had won single-handedly, Martin was in the locker room in Rome.

He was dancing on a bench wearing only a tight speedo. “Watch me flex me bum cheeks,” he said to anyone

who might be listening. His father was sitting on a chair by the wall several beer cans on the floor next to

him. The team manager walked in followed by a somber man in a tight suit. The manager sat down

ceremoniously on the bench.

“Martin,” the manager started slowly. “I don’t know quite how to tell you this but...”

“Get on wid it,” growled Martin. The man in the tight suit opened his briefcase.

“Well, you see, Martin, the other players feel, with you winning every game by yourself, that they have

nothing do.”

“Aint’ I winnin’ good?” said Martin.

“Well of course you are, Martin, “and we owe it all to you that we are the champions. But football is not just

about winning, it's about making money, and revenues have fallen."

"So winnin’ ain't good enough for ya," said Martin, taking a swig from his father's beer can.

The manager glanced at the man in the suit. "I'm afraid we are going to have to let you go."

The man in the suit handed the manager a piece of paper. "If you'll just sign..."

He was interrupted by a priest in a black cossack. "Excusa me, are you the meester Martin?" said the priest.
 "Fookin' right I am." said Martin.

The priest held out an enormous envelope to Martin. Inside was a large sheet of paper on which was a letter

in hand-written calligraphy.

"Hallo, what's it say?" said Martin to the manager.

"It says you are invited to an audience with his excellency the pope." said the manager. "That's an invitation

to visit."

The priest bowed low and left the room. The man in the suit made a confused worried expression.

...

Martin and his parents entered a huge, ornate, Baroque hall in the Vatican. The pope and his entourage

entered from the other end of the hall. They walked quickly, the pope in the lead. The pope opened his arms

as he neared the boy, haltingly speaking in English. Martin interrupted him and began a long monologue in

perfect Latin gesturing to the old-master paintings on the walls and ceiling. The pope’s entourage fluttered

with astonishment. Regaining his composure, the pope responded in Latin. His entourage leaned forward

to hear Martin's response, bursting out laughing, putting their hands to their mouths and making

embarrassed grins.

The pope and his party bowed and retired.

As Martin and his parents were about to board the plane back to England, a papal car sped onto the tarmac

and screeched to a halt by the stairway. The same priest who delivered the letter scrambled out with

another huge creme-colored envelope.

"Your presence is again requested by His Excellency", said the priest.

 Martin was brought out onto the balcony of St. Peter's where the pope stood before a hushed, expectant

crowd. After giving the sign of benediction to the crowd, the pope began in English.

"I and the Vatican Council wish to inform the faithful and the world that I have chosen in the interests of

the Church to resign and designate Martin Namibia as my successor, Pope Martin I." The crowd murmured

with uncertainty.

Papal robes were brought out and placed on Martin. The pope passed his crozier to Martin and placed the

mitre on his head. The former pope then receded from the balcony. Martin came forward to the

microphone.

Martin, in a thick cockney accent said, "As my first official act as pope I declare peedophilia to be legal. I

personally like nuttin' bettah than to have my willy sooked off by some fat, old, bald poofter and gettin' a few

quid out of it in the bargain."

The crowd fell into uneasy silence separating into small groups. Others streamed out. By nightfall angry

crowds were demonstrating all over Rome. Overnight, diocese after diocese descended into turmoil, some

threatening to break away. Orthodox priests, smirking behind their long, hoary beards, stationed

themselves outside Catholic churches passing out leaflets and blessing the faithful as they came out enticing

them to join the Orthodox Church, as the only true one, "as this incident proves". The Vatican issued an

announcement that Pope Martin would address the congregation the following day.

The next morning the square filled up mainly with middle-aged men shouting angrily. As time passed

they grew more unruly. Columns were defaced. After two hours a cardinal came out onto the balcony

standing quietly until the crowd quieted down. He spoke first in Latin and then in halting English.
 "We speak now to inform the world that Pope Martin I has disappeared and we must now initiate the

procedure for selecting the next pontiff."

Isolated cheers went up from the crowd.

A worldwide search was conducted for Martin, funded mainly by the Daily Mail in England and the

National Enquirer in the USA.

"Oy 'aven't got a clue," said his mother to reporters. His father appeared in news photos holding beer cans

he was given by beer companies to advertise but said nothing.

Years later a yak was found wandering the Gobi desert in Mongolia wearing elaborate gold brocade robes.

A team of papal vestment experts was dispatched. The robes of the popes are each specifically made for

each pope and include embroidery with both overt and secret symbols identifying the wearer, as the reader

no doubt knows well. After a thorough examination it was determined that the yak was indeed wearing the

robes of former Pope Martin I. But Martin was nowhere to be found. The Vatican team continues to this

day chasing yaks in the Gobi.

On special assignment for the BBC, this is Damian Redrump in the Gobi desert.

END
 Spring 2018
Beat McGuire

STACK

Property investment is booming in Portugal.

Right along the edge of a lithospheric plate.

She dropped a sock and I can feel it

through 100 mattresses.

Remember the neolithic times:

She wasn’t sure she loved me.

There are fault lines in the Céide Fields

when you have been Dún Briste.
YOUTH

I could have been a mermaid in my sleeping bag

but somehow you knew, your father said he was

born with webbing between his toes. In photos I

smile the broadest wearing my cardigan sleeves

on my legs. ‘You’re going to be a supermodel’,

my teacher said as she slipped her hand through

the gap between my thighs. I don’t really mind if

the dress looks different on me than on other

girls. I play tennis every Saturday, breasts

are beautiful. And actually that white stuff around

my mouth is toothpaste, thanks for asking though.

I wasn’t supposed to let you plait or style my hair.

Once I wanted a high ponytail like Clarissa Explains

It All, but all I got was spit in my eye and trauma.

I wanted to be Clarissa! I wanted to be a mermaid,

Splash! I wanted to be Jenny who stood on the

ledge in her shaking silver stilettos, coked out!

I wanted to be Pamela Anderson! I wanted to be

Niamh with the golden hair and walk back across

the water to Tír na nÓg! I wanted the biggest

plate and the smallest, to pet dogs with plates for

eyes! I spoke to grandad’s beard in the clouds in

the sky: I want to be your prince! I want to be

grandma! I want to know how it feels to die!
DECAY

Micropia,
you cling inside my teeth
with your impossible semiotics.
Fuck.

Pilostyle,
you ignore
your gag reflex,
stigmatic disk:

You just tell me

to shut up.

Kiwano guts,
I try, I tried
to soak up all
your acid:

You found my cavities,

we dissolved,
I gave up.
CRUSHING

Rend my flesh, use your strength,

palm firm on bone.

I feel the pull like an iron-full lever.

All I ask is that you

release me. Bound by your mechanics,

I push hard to get free,

to feel the pleasure of your weight.

Oh, crushing.
LOVE HEART

When I sunburnt my ankles

I kept checking for your lesions;

acrid, volcanic, dying

from the toe.

Might I manifest your symptoms

by thinking of you so much? Like dying

of heartbreak.
Might I develop heart failure

from over empathising,

inherit your dilated

cardiomyopathy:
Your big heart which kills?
 Spring 2018
Tim Queen

Cold Beer

Men and insects

driven mad in the sun
dragonfly in aviators
crackles his jeweled case.

Still waiting for words.

Worlds, Godot, Christ.
The ride of the Valkyries.
Only the heat, buoyant

rises as a festering wound,

blunts the bottoms of souls.
Women in pews. Men on canes
snore prayers.

Young gun, blister finger.

Point at your brother,
green tarpaulin cover.
Worlds buzz. Refrigerator

out of key. Strange cadence

in the Dairy Mart. Beeless hives
none of them climb thru halls,
wax cathedrals. Invisible stingers

chase ghosts. I grab a cold beer.

Dead Reckoning

Dust the bones of dead

years, dead clocks, dead friends
walk. You don’t want an old
friend to remind you of
old days. Old dogs are good listeners.

Trees listen to John Denver.

Quaking Aspen’s been a-listenin’.
It’s only September, all
the leaves are lost. Featherless
as a deranged cockatoo.
Sometimes she’d bust out
Frampton Comes Alive!

Don’t want old friends

stopping by.
Talkin’ about time. (somber strings)
Like when you fell
out of that tree.
I hit that squirrel with an apple.

Old friends in Panavision.

Ghosts, decades untouched,
walk circles in dreams
like they own this place.
The space, little attic
in my head. (next to our yearbook)
Keep lookin’. (right behind the Christmas paper)

Old friends to rank strangers

to watching cartoons
in your underwear.
Alone with an old dog,
a defoliating tree. Best

let dead friends be.

Ghost
—for Charles

You were the face on the wind.

Candy for the mind.
In the boys’ home I dreamed a thousand miles.
Your eyes orbited my head like a satellite.

Candy in my mind.
South of Smithville you giggled.
Orbiting me like a satellite.
Our skin together in the library of Wooster High.

South of Smithville we giggle.

Under the table you were my girl.
Our bodies alone together in the library.
Every road in Cleveland led to your house.

Under the table you were my world.

A fever dream painted on the ceiling.
Every road in the city led to your door.
An emerging stone relief, one working headlight.

A fever dream moved on the ceiling.

The busted string guitar.
Stone relief, one bright headlight.
Every song knew your name.

A guitar with broken strings.

I examine moons, faraway fingernails.
Every song sings your name.
I make a fire from bones.

Examining moons, found fingernails.

You were the face on the wind.
A bone-fire burning in the wood.
In the boys’ home I dream a thousand miles.
Rite of Passage

I.

Day went
this and that.
We were eclectic eels
tingling down
the swollen street.
In our heads
singing blues, jubilees
eyes wild, polished
obsidian black.
Silly putty faces
stretching our smiles
into friendly grotesques.

Trees breathe
heavy, swell and die
down. Every leaf,
a feather
on a burrowing owl.
The earth somehow
spreads wing
as if suddenly,
a prior commitment.

II.

Ghost train
through our souls
lays heavy tracks,
penetrates us.
In a heated rush
we share breath
for an instant, gone,
left only the song
lonesome, sad.
A train and a river
who can never
come together.
At night I hear
the shriek and moan.
Randomly Pulling Lines from Larry Levis’ Elegy

With his fly undone

he no longer spoke at all
snarling gods
whose faith and hatred
was perfect
and into something else forgetful
I can’t imagine it back
cutting through the empty
room of air
the present can’t remember
what it was
the eye of the swan
walk with me a little
this is not about her breasts
grins and says nothing
just went on completely
reflecting the moon and stars
 Spring 2018
Arianne Benford

Q Train Afro-Punk Girl

And Lord can you pluck it. Curve of Stravinsky

and Mahalia. Curve of Rosewood and the in
betweens of Mingus. Post Hip-Hop. They will call
you exotic. Throw you in everything- the pulse and
flavor of the time. Call you special. Tout you as
yet another example of a racially equating society.
Treat a Black girl fifty something years after the
Civil Rights Act, treat you like a credit to your race.
Cause you play the king’s music. Cause some Negro
finally got it right. Again.

What a Black girl does. Constantly remind herself

of the sound of her own name. What a Black girl
does. A ripple edging a fire across unturned
page. Dark matter seeping through the backside.
What a Black girl does. Always be more than

this.

Find the first tune. Find it true. Find it still down

where you first heard the cry. Find that wholeness.
Bend with raspy voice.
Strum key. Make blues.
Carson & the Paso

Mark Carson, 32, a gay black man, was stalked & murdered
by Elliot Morales in New York’s historic West Village on
May 19, 2013. Morales was convicted of murder in 2016.

Paso Doble is a dramatic dance with sharp footwork and

beautiful body shapes. It's based on the bull fight where the
man represents the matador, and his partner the flowing cape.
-Delta Dance

The high that May Saturday was a welcomed sixty-five

Winter had been an extended refrain
on New York’s West Side
Like the end of love, fingers clutched and holding on
For months winter just dragged
And dragged
The chill’s aftermath was still trapped in Carson’s bones

Bare legged in jubilation of spring’s dawn

Of insecurity’s sabotage, an unsuspecting pawn
Carson walked easy that evening, without noted fear
Masculine with sashay
It had to be his way
That focused Morales’ jeers.

In fitted tank top, cut offs, boots, the papers don’t tell you
How ripe Carson’s legs looked in shorts, ample view
Of plump and rise his rounded ass,
The fit, the gait of broad calf
West Village gender ninja
Taunt avenger
Stepping to West 8th and 6th Ave.

Drowning in the well of his own desire, Morales followed.

Stalking, screaming faggot after this high priest of Apollo
On hallowed ground of leather men, bears and twinks
Round native trails, cross ol’ Greenwich lane
Morales came
Hunting sass with silver revolver and enraged with drink
Here was the most Carson knew of safe
Rainbow flags draped over its Stonewall’s and fire escapes
On this Montgomery Bus of turf he needed no camouflage
Just another pretty boy walking about
On a night out
Shooting the shit with his entourage

But Morales’ voices were too many,

Carson’s confidence was too clear
Even here in the storied home of Sylvia Rivera
and rioting queers
“Look at these faggots” Morales just had to intercede.
The proud black man stopped. Turned toe in place
Now, nose to nose with the brown man, face to face
“What are you two? gay wrestlers?”
Morales continued to proceed
Cause those thick thighs shouldn’t make him rise
Those thick thighs shouldn’t talk smart and incise
Shouldn’t say “FUCK YOU” you and strut away
Elicit “hey girl” eyes
And “ooh child” cries
Carson couldn’t be contained,
his pride too real and on display

For those who may blame Carson for shouting back

For sizing up Morales and talking smack
How do you dance with a mad man?
Do you follow his, or do you take that lead,
Watch his every move, take heed?
Let’m hold tight, to your waist put angry hands?

You let him rule you? Run you round the dance floor
Hurling swears and threats, to core your core?
Do you cow-tow to the dreaded demon
and his silver side kick?
Or do you with grace and speed
Of frightened gazelle that truly sees
Down the street bolt with your love? Quick!

And when the madman follows, takes hand, bends your wrist,
Do you tell him then awkward angel, of all this?
That you are not his to crack open and suck the martyr from
And when he laughs insidiously,
and still blows open your cheek
To keep you quiet, to make you meek
And coats himself in the perceived righteous extinguishing
of your sun

Morales would later brag to the arresting officer

“That its the last thing [Carson] would remember,
diagnosis is dead doctor”
Tout that he shot Carson cause he was acting like he
“thought he was tough in front of his bitch”
Show no remorse over months and months of court dates
Plead insanity to ease his fate
“I don’t have a problem with gay people,” he’d even pitch.

But, HERE was the most Carson knew of safe

Rainbow flags draped over its Stonewall’s and fire escapes
On this Montgomery Bus of turf he should’ve
Needed no camouflage
Just another pretty boy walking about
On a night out
Shooting the shit with his entourage.
Turn Off The Lights
Theodore DeReese “Teddy” Pendergrass
(March 26, 1950 – January 13, 2010)

For: Melvin, Jerone, Amber, and the Ackies

We use to sing yo shit at the top of the lungs.

After church on Sunday. Herb Kent, Chitown’s
The Kool Gent would have you backed·up·against·
backed·up·against·backed·up·against another
Philly/Motown sound. Another black MAN
wrapped in sex and right on.

Voices drawn like fists in a title fight. Imagine

pelvises thrusting, swiveling as wooden spoons
in a dense Black woman stew. If You Don’t Know
Me By Now, crooning through the back speakers
and me wondering when I would know the kind
of love that made my bones ache the way
your tone did.

Maybe it’s because we are born on the same day.

Always would come a point in the evening
when somebody trying to be cool would throw
on a dusty. And either You or Marvin or Barry
would come running baritone down our still
soft bones, our still open, sweat soaked spines.

We’d be gettin grown to you Teddy. Our hips

grinding like pestles underneath the Christmas
tree lights snaking basement pipes. We, we
understood the sticky thick thick of throbbing
8th grade thighs in dank dark club basements
basements turned clubs, when House Parties
were still so notorious that their movies came in
three parts. With rap star movie star upstarts
that had their own dances.

We thought we were grown then.

Did what our parents did.
We thought we were the shit then.

Based my image of what it means

to be a man off of your sexy and
your sweet and your real.
Did this, cause you swooned my Mama.
 Spring 2018
Acta Biographia — Author Biographies

Aaron Brammeier

My name is Aaron. I attended and graduated Shepherd University in 2015 with a BA in English - Creative
Writing. I was and still am a student of James Pate, Allen Ginsberg, and David Lynch. I live in a small town
close to DC called Charles Town, WV with my greatest love Chelsea. Without her continuing love and
support none of my writing would have ever seen the light of day.

Adam Levon Brown

Adam Levon Brown is an internationally published author, poet, amateur photographer, and
cat lover who identifies as Queer and is neurodivergent. He is Founder, Owner, and editor in
chief of Madness Muse Press. He has had poetry published hundreds of times in several
languages, along with 2 full collections and 3 chapbooks. Anti-imperialist, peacenik with a
love for books, when not tripping on his own musings, he enjoys reading fiction. He also
participate as an assistant editor at Caravel Literary Arts Journal, a poetry reader for Tilde: A
Literary Journal, and a Poetry reader for Driving Range Review.
He has been published with publications such as Harbinger Asylum, Firef

Alaric von Satyrane

The author's career has included working as a ballet dancer for an intelligence agency that has threatened to
kill him if he identifies it, a lion tamer in Siberia, and an underwear model.

But new, due to the uncountable wealth he has earned from writing, the author has the leisure to volunteer
his time teaching nude Sumo wrestling to overweight teenage girls to help them lose weight.

Alexander Joseph

Alexander Joseph is twenty-three years old. He has done many things in his life and believes that it all has
led to becoming a writer. Alexander gets images behind his eyes; whole sentences appear and his fingers
ache to transcribe these musings. He appreciates anybody who takes the time to indulge him in his craft and
passion.

He has written a full-length novel, four books of poetry, a book of short stories and is currently writing a noir
detective novel. His fiction has been published in the anthology “Stories That Need to be Told” by Tulip
Tree Press, Lotus Eater Magazine and in the 13th and 14th volumes of Clover: A Literary Rag. He received
honorable mentions for his short story “a parting note” in Glimmer Train’s March/April 2017 short story
contest and for his short story titled “Breakfast” in Glimmer Train’s May/June 2017 short story contest. His
poetry has been published in Boomer Lit Mag. Finally, Alexander Joseph is the host of the podcast
“American Wasteland” on which he reads his short stories.

Alexander will begin Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics’ MFA program in
June of 2018 with hopes to one day become a professor of Creative Writing.

April Vomvas

April Vomvas was born and raised in sunny Las Vegas, Nevada. She works at a university in an
administrative role and is surrounded by literary genius on a daily basis. She is inspired to write by the
darker side of life and death. Publications include: ‘Soulmate My Narcissist’ in the June 2017 online edition of
The Opiate, ‘Reverie of the Thicket’ in the Fall 2017 print edition of Northridge Review, ‘Cold’ in the June 2018
print edition of The Raven Chronicles, ‘Flummoxed’ in the May 2018 print edition of Dash.

Andrew Weatherly

Andrew Weatherly hears inspiration from dying trees, Hawaiian shirts, and dissonance. He is blessed to live
in the hood, teach adults to read, dance in the streets in Asheville, NC, and occasionally to slip off on
pilgrimages to sacred mountains.

He’s been published in Belle Reve, Axe Factory, Former People, Danse Macabre, Cordite, the Literary Nest,
Commonline Journal, Hot News, and Crack the Spine.

Arianne Benford

Arianne Benford is a transdisciplinary multimedia artist most known for her work as a Poet, Cultural
Worker, Photographer, and Chef. Her work is rooted in text and its creative applications for social change. A
proud native of Chicago’s Southside, since 2006 she has made Flatbush, Brooklyn her home.

Arianne is a National Slam Champion, an alum of The School of the Art Institute, The Second City, Vona
Voices, Pink Door, Louder Arts, Urbana, SWAP, WOW Cafe Theater, and the 92nd St Y. She has been
honored by the Chicago Reader, the Fresh Fruit Festival and Young Chicago Authors among others for her
poetry. Most recently her work was published in the Hawai’i Review ’88 and Sinister Wisdom, Issues #103,
106, 107.

Avery Morris

Beat McGuire

Beat McGuire (b.1987) is a poet and artist from London. Founder and Editor-In-Chief of Cultural Kapital
magazine, her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Prelude, Hysteria Periodical, Diva Magazine,
Whippersnapper Press, Exposure Magazine and elsewhere.

Brandon Marlon

Brandon Marlon is a Canadian-Israeli writer. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University
of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt
Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 200+ publications in 27 countries.
www.brandonmarlon.com <http://www.brandonmarlon.com/> .
Charles Wecker

Charles Wecker is a writer, musician, web developer, poet, and photographer living in Creede, Colorado. He
loves the outdoors, hiking, fly fishing, his Dachshund, and fiance.

Clive Gresswell

Clive Gresswell, 60, is an exciting new poet who wanders around London and its environs in the UK. His first
collection Jargon Busters was published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press and it is due to publish his
follow up Rages of The Carbolic shortly.

Eileen Tabios

Eileen R. Tabios loves books and has released over 50 collections of poetry, fiction, essays, and experimental
biographies from publishers in nine countries and cyberspace. Her 2018 poetry collections include
HIRAETH: Tercets From the Last Archipelago; MURDER DEATH RESURRECTION: A Poetry Generator; the
bilingual edition (English/Spanish) of One, Two, Three: Selected Hay(na)ku Poems; and TANKA: Vol. 1. She is
the inventor of the poetry form “hay(na)ku” whose 15-year anniversary in 2018 will be celebrated with
exhibitions and readings at the San Francisco Public Library. Translated into eight languages, she's received
recognition through awards, grants and residencies. More information is available at
http://eileenrtabios.com
Elena Botts

Elena grew up in the DC area, lived briefly in Berlin and Johannesburg, and now attends college in upstate
New York and NYC. She is a poet, writer, and artist. She has been published in over a hundred literary
magazines over the past few years. She has won four poetry contests, including Word Works Young Poets'.
Her poetry has been exhibited at galleries in the Hudson Valley and DC areas, as well as across the country.
Check out her poetry books, "we'll beachcomb for their broken bones" (Coffeetown Press, 2015), "a little
luminescence" (Allbook-Books, 2011) and "the sadness of snow" (Transcendent Zero Press, March 2017).
Additionally, her visual art has won several awards and she has started making sound art.
http://elenabotts.wix.com/e-a-b

Elizabeth Alexander

Elizabeth Alexander grew up in Dallas, spent the 1980s and 1990s in New York and Boston, and lives happily
ever after in Seattle. Two of the 13 stories in her collection On Anzio Beach http://ravennapress.com/books/on-
anzio-beach/ (Ravenna Press, 2017) first appeared in BlazeVOX (Fall 2013
<http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/blazevox13-fall-2013/> and Spring 2014
<http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/journal/blazevox14-spring-2014/> ).

Elizabeth R. Grunwald

Elizabeth Rose Grunwald is a student at the Univeristy of Colorado Boulder, studying Media Design and
Creative Writing. She has just recently discovered the freedom of expression and creativity that poetry offers
her and she is eager to continue down a path of growth and exploration in her future work.

e a toles

e.a. toles is a writer based out in Los Angeles. They have been published in Figroot Press and are a staff
writer for the Non-Plus Ultra, offering cultural critique and bare-bone excuses for news. They are currently
working on a novel and a short collection of poems.

Fariel Shafee

The author has degrees in science but enjoys writing and art. She has published prose and poetry in
decomP, The Dawn Treader, Ygdrasil etc.
Franco Cortese

Franco Cortese is an experimental Canadian poet residing in Thorold, Ontario. His previous work has
appeared or is forthcoming in filling Station, Ditch Poetry, BlazeVOX, Freerange, AltPoetics and Eunoia Review.
He is the author of two chapbooks: Wake (AltPoetics 2013), and Root (forthcoming from Spacecraft Press).

Bill Freind

Gabriella Garofalo

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started
writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre
stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.

Giorgi Plys-Garzotto

Giorgi Plys-Garzotto writes minimalist, usually erotic poetry about zir queer femme experiences of desire. Ze
also does work in other mediums, such as short stories, essays, and scripts. Ze even made a short film that
was accepted to 22 festivals, winning 6 awards during its festival run. To see this film and zir other available
work, visit giorgipg.com <http://giorgipg.com> .

Gilles Ansiaux

Born in the flemish side of Belgium, Gilles Ansiaux studied theatre. During a training in contemporary
dance, he read out loud a self written texte about movement in front of the audience and found himself
extremely free. Since then, as an addiction, he write to reach this freedom again.

Hareendran Kallinkeel

Hareendran Kallinkeel lives in Kerala, India, after a stint of 15 years in a police organization and five years in
Special Forces. Waking from a hiatus of nearly a decade, he has recently returned to fiction writing. Prior to
the hiatus, he has been widely published in online and print magazines. The title story of his short fiction
collection, “A Few Ugly Humans,” has earned a Pushcart Prize nomination in 2005. Recent publications
include Aphelion-Webzine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Pif Magazine, CC&D online, and
Short Humor Magazine. Forthcoming publications include Djed Press, CC&D [Print], and Lunaris Review.

hiromi suzuki

hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan. A member of "gui" (run by members of "VOU" group of
poets, founded by the late Katsue Kitasono). Author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi
publishing, 2013 ISBN978-4-901850-42-1). Her works are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX,
Empty Mirror, Experiment-O, M58, DATABLEED, Black Market Re-View, Burning House Press, h&,
BRAVE NEW WORD magazine, DODGING THE RAIN, Jazz Cigarette, TAPE HISS zine, The Arsonist
Magazine, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Parentheses Journal, Angry Old Man Magazine, Coldfront
Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, Obra/Artifact, Utsanga.it magazine, NationalPoetryMonth.ca 2015 / 2017, and
Poem Brut at Rich Mix London 2017, amongst other places.
Her latest book of visual poetry, logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018 ISBN 978-1-9999153-1-5).
web site: hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com
Twitter : @HRMsuzuki

Ian Ganassi

Ian Ganassi's poetry, prose and translations have appeared in over 100 literary journals. Poems have
appeared recently or are forthcoming in First Literary Review East, Home Planet News, New American Writing,
Lotus Eater, The Yale Review, 2Bridges Review, and American Journal of Poetry, among others. His poetry collection
Mean Numbers was published in 2016, and is available on Amazon. Selections from an ongoing collage
collaboration with a painter can be found at www.thecorpses.com

Izzy Oneiric

Ian Ganassi's poetry, prose and translations have appeared in over 100 literary journals. Poems have
appeared recently or are forthcoming in First Literary Review East, Home Planet News New American Writing,
Lotus Eater, The Yale Review, 2Bridges Review, and American Journal of Poetry, among others. His poetry
collection Mean Numbers was published in 2016, and is available on Amazon. Selections from an ongoing
collage collaboration with a painter can be found at www.thecorpses.com <http://www.thecorpses.com/> .

J. De Nero

J. De Nero has been disguising herself as a Buffalo gal, won't you come out tonight aaand dance by the light
of the moon. She has been previously published in Peach Mag and Five Quarterly.
J. Mitchell

J. Mitchell lives in London and writes about the emotional legacies of war and British transatlantic
enslavement. Her work has been broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and BBC2; and appeared in several anthologies.
She is currently writing a proposed quintet of novels and her first poetry collection.

Juanita Rey

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in
Pennsylvania English, Harbinger Asylum, Petrichor Machine and Madcap Poets.

John Rigney

Jonathan N. Mulcahy-King

Judith Chalmer

Judith Chalmer lives with her wife in Burlington, Vermont. Her poems have been published in numerous
anthologies and journals, most recently, Birchsong, Leaping Clear, Stone Canoe, Apex, Goblin Fruit and
Quiddity. She is co-translator of 2 books of haiku and tanka with poet, Michiko Oishi, Deepening Snow
(Plowboy Press, East Burke, VT 2012) and Red Fish Alphabet (Honami Syoten, Tokyo, 2008). Her first
collection of poems, Out of History’s Junk Jar, was published in 20015 (Time Begin Books, St. Louis).

Kennedy Harrison

Kennedy Harrison is a writer from the Pacific Northwest. She is a recent graduate of Western Washington
University, having received a Bachelor of Arts in English with an emphasis in creative writing, as well as a
minor in psychology. After having her first piece of literary fiction published by 805lit, she is currently
working on a trilogy of YA novels as well as other works of short fiction.

Kevin Ryan
Leonard A Temme

Leonard Temme is employed as a Senior Vision Scientist in an applied research laboratory of the federal
government. His training includes an undergraduate degree in psychology, a masters in mathematics and a
doctorate in neuropsychology. After four years of National Institutes of Health post-doctoral training, he
held research faculty appointments at SUNY Buffalo and at the University of Kansas School of Medicine in
Kansas City. He studied writing extensively with Marie Ponsot, Sue Walker, David Ray, Kristina Darling and
Walter Spara. In addition to his professional publications, his writing has appeared in Commonweal, The
Emerald Coast Review, ALALIT, Half Tones to Jubilee, The Panhandler, the Best American Poetry website and
numerous small presses. He served as Poet Laureate of North West Florida between 1989 and 1992. This is
the first time BlazeVOX has published his work.

Malika K. McCoy

Marcia Arrieta

Marcia Arrieta finds herself reading biographies and painting. She has two poetry collections: archipelago
counterpoint (BlazeVOX) and triskelion, tiger moth, tangram, thyme (Otoliths) and three chapbooks:
experimental: (Potes & Poets), the curve against the linear (Toadlily) and thimbles, threads (Dancing Girl). She
edits and publishes Indefinite Space, a poetry/art journal.

Margaret Watson

Margaret Watson, a practicing poet, turns toward nature on the page. Previously a landscape artist, she
designed gardens and open spaces. After graduating from the landscape program at Harvard University and
the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, she was awarded the Traveling Scholar Prize, and time at the
American Academy in Rome. Residing in Lincolnville, Maine, she has poems published by Negative
Capability Press, The Maine Review, Best American Poetry and Northeast gallery shows and at the Museum
of Fine Arts in Boston.
Mark Prisco

I'm a lit student at the University of Waikato, Hamilton, NZ, & about to start a Masters in Creative Writing.
Literature has been a passion for a very long time, although I have a background in manual laboring. I was
born in London, England, & raised by an Italian mother: happy times :)

Mark Young

Mark Young is the author of over forty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction,
vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number
of languages. A new book, THE WORD FACTORY: a miscellany, is due out from gradient books of Finland
later this year.

Mary Newell

Mary Newell lives in the lower Hudson Valley. She has taught literature and writing at the college level. Her
poems were published in Dispatches from the Poetry Wars, Spoon River Poetry Review, Hopper Literary Magazine,
Earth’s Daughters, Written River, About Place, etc. She has also written reviews and essays, including “Shades of
Melancholy” in Melancholia: Hinge as Innominate Limina by Will Alexander, Heller Levinson, and Mary
Newell.

Michael Berton

Michael Berton is the author of two poetry collections, Man! You Script The Mic. and No Shade In Aztlan.
Poems have appeared recently in Cold Noon, Page & Spine, Cacti Fur, Perceptions, Caesura, Otoliths,
S/Word, The Opiate and Lost River Review. He is originally from El Paso, Texas and currently resides in
Portland, Oregon.

Natalie Jones

Natalie Jones writes poems, prose, and reviews. Her work has been published online and in print at
Amoskeag Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, Gambling the Aisle, The Rusty Nail, and elsewhere.

Nels Hanson

Nels Hanson grew up on a small farm in the San Joaquin Valley of California and has worked as a farmer,
teacher and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan
Award and Pushcart nominations in 2010, 2012, 2014 and 2016. His poems received a 2014 Pushcart
nomination, Sharkpack Review’s 2014 Prospero Prize, and 2015 and 2016 Best of the Net nominations.

Nicholas Alexander Hayes

Nicholas Alexander Hayes is the author of NIV: 39 & 27 (BlazeVOX), Between (Atropos), ThirdSexPot
<http://www.beardofbees.com/pubs/ThirdSexPot.pdf> (Beard of Bees) and Metastaesthetics(Atropos). Most
recently his creative writing has appeared in Scab, Peculiar Mormyrid, Former Cactus, and Animal: A Beast
of A Literary Magazine.

Nicholas Martino

Patrick Chapman

Patrick Chapman’s most recent releases are Slow Clocks of Decay (poetry, Salmon, 2016), Dan Dare: Operation
Saturn (audio, B7/Big Finish, 2017), and So Long, Napoleon Solo, (novel, BlazeVOX Books, 2017). He lives in
Dublin, Ireland, where with Dimitra Xidous he co-edits The Pickled Body.

Paula Pennell

Born in 1964, Paula grew up in various areas of Michigan. She began writing poetry at age 12. She attended
Ferris State University and earned an Associates in Journalism. After working for a few years, Paula was
accepted at Michigan State University and graduated in 1991 with a BA in English, with focus on literature
and creative writing. From 1991 to 1998 she lived in NYC and worked administrative jobs primarily in
publishing and advertising. During that time she also wrote and performed original music at various clubs.
She lived 5 years in Fort Collins, Colorado and returned to Michigan in 2002. In 2005 she had her only child,
a son, at age 41. She lost her son's father, the love of her life, in 2015. She continues to work on her poetry and
raising her beautiful boy in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her favorite writers are Charles Bukowski, David
Sedaris, Sandra Tsing Loh, Sylvia Plath and Edith Wharton.

Poetry Wolf
Raymond Arcangel

Raymond Arcangel barely pays the rent in the Fairmount section of Philadelphia, between the Art Museum
and the Eastern State Penitentiary, which seems oddly appropriate. His stories and poems have appeared or
will shortly appear in various publications, including The Concho River Review, The Scarlet Leaf Review, The
Coe Review, and Duende. He is currently seeking representation for his first novel, a bildungsroman about a
half-Filipino, half-Irish, working-class poet. His carefully crafted and thus far rejected queries describe it as
"a sexually charged David Copperfield meets China Boy." (I mean, come on, who WOULDN'T want to read
that?? )

Rebecca Melson

Rebecca Melson lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains with her three youngest children. Her oldest son, Israel, is
now a United States Marine. Rebecca currently writes for an organization that raises funds to benefit Native
Americans, and she and her family like to get lost in the mountains sometimes.

Rebecca L. Monroe

Rebecca lives in Montana in a log cabin by a river and has been writing for most of her life. She has over 100
published stories and a book of short stories Reaching Beyond published by Bellowing Ark Press. Along with
writing, she loves to read, take long walks with Dodge, her yellow Labrador retriever, play with her cats and
volunteer at the local animal shelter.

Robert Wexelblatt

Robert Wexelblatt is professor of humanities at Boston University’s College of General Studies. He has
published five fiction collections, Life in the Temperate Zone, The Decline of Our Neighborhood, The Artist
Wears Rough Clothing, Heiberg’s Twitch, and Petites Suites; a book of essays, Professors at Play; two short
novels, Losses and The Derangement of Jules Torquemal; essays, stories, and poems in a variety of
scholarly and literary journals, and the novel Zublinka Among Women, awarded the Indie Book Awards
first prize for fiction. A collection of essays, The Posthumous Papers of Sidney Fein, is forthcoming.

Roger Craik

Rose Knapp
Rose Knapp is a poet & producer. She has publications in Lotus-Eater, Bombay Gin, BlazeVOX, Hotel Amerika,
Gargoyle, & others. She has poetry collections with Hesterglock Press, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, and
forthcoming with The Operating System and Éditions du Cygne. She currently lives in Los Angeles. Find
her at roseknapp.net <http://roseknapp.net/>

Sandra Kolankiewicz

Sacha Archer

Sascha Akhtar

SASCHA AURORA AKHTAR, is a trans-race, multi-dimensional, sub rosa poeto/story-bot. She was
patented in Pakistan. Had upgrades in pre- 9/11 U.S.A. Was released onto shelves in the U.K. Her roboto-
poetics have been widely anthologised and translated into Armenian, Portuguese, Galician, Russian, Dutch
and Polish. Anthologies include Cathecism: Poems for Pussy Riot (2012) and the second Out of Everywhere
(Reality Street, 2015). She has also been part of other poetry protests – Against Rape (Peony Moon, 2014),
Solidarity Park Poetry – Poems for the Turkish resistance which she was the Editor and Founder of (Ed.
2013). Her second poetry collection 199 Japanese Names for Japanese Trees (Shearsman UK, 2016), follows on
from The Grimoire of Grimalkin (SALT UK, 2007), which was called a "Contemporary masterpiece". Her
story The Nature of Wounds appeared in STORGY in 2017. Women:Poetry:Migration, an anthology (Theenk
Books: Edited by Jane Joritz-Nakagawa) was published in 2018 with poems from A Year In Clouds. Sascha
has performed internationally at festivals such as the Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam, Avantgarde
Festival, Hamburg and Southbank Centre's MELTDOWN festival, London curated by Yoko Ono.

She has a book of translations of pioneering feminist fiction writer Hijjab Imtiaz coming out later this year
on Oxford University Press, an Art/object book of poems with drawings on ZimZalla entitled Only Dying
Sparkles and is awaiting news of a pamphlet to be published possibly this year too. She works as a freelance
editor and Healer/ Wellness Facilitator using therapeutic meditation practices.

Spencer Wimmer

Spencer Wimmer is a student at the University of Wisconsin Whitewater, currently studying media arts,
game development, and public relations. He has a great interest in history and science fiction, and he enjoys
combining those interests in his works. He is an air force veteran living in his hometown of Janesville,
Wisconsin.
Stephen Bett

These poems are from a work in progress called Broken Glosa, which takes the “glosa,” a Renaissance Spanish
Court form, and breaks it down to its contemporary essentials, riffing on postmodernist and post-
postmodernist poets in ways that are as surprising and inventive as they are richly textured while remaining
fresh and playful.

Stephen Bett has 22 books of poetry in print. He is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet
who follows in the avant tradition of Don Allen’s New American Poets. Hence the mandate for Simon Fraser
University’s “Contemporary Literature Collection” to purchase and archive his “personal papers” for
scholarly use. www.stephenbett.com <http://www.stephenbett.com>

Sue Brannan Walker

I am a professor emerita at the University of South Alabama where I taught literature and creative writing
for thirty-five years. I was Poet Laureate of Alabama from 2003-2012 and in addition to a recent publication
in Best American Poetry, I have published ten books, poetry, non-fiction, and a critical book, The Ecopoetics of
James Dickey. I will be reading from my recently published book, It’s Good Weather for Fudge: Conversing With
Carson McCullers at Carson McCullers Centenary in Rome this coming July. Let’s Imagine Her Name, with a
blurb from Kristina is forthcoming from Clemson University Press.

Stallion Dunquis

Stallion Dunquis is a poet & modern troubadour based in New York City. Stallion's poetry has previously
appeared in The Wire's Dream Magazine, Porridge Magazine, and Rag Queen Periodical.

Tim Queen

Tiffany Flammger

Tiffany Flammger, has been writing poems and short stories for most of her life. This is the second time
having a poem published on this site. You can read more of her work on her Facebook page at
https://www.facebook.com/Tiffany-Flammger-317069942085725/.
Veronica Abrams

Veronica Abrams' debut short story was a 2016 Carrie McCray Memorial Literary Award winner and she was
a finalist for the 2018 Flexible Persona's Editors' Prize in flash fiction. Her short stories have also been
published in Arcturus (from The Chicago Review Of Books), The Petigru Review, and Fall Lines: A Literary
convergence. She holds a Master's degree in Creative Arts in Learning and a Graduate Certificate in
Women's and Gender Studies. http://www.veronicaabramsfiction.com/

Zen Bradshaw