THUGWISE CAT

THUGWISE 

CAT 

Issue 37

Thugwise 

Credits: 

Alison Ross: ThugETTE-in=Chief 

Chani Zwibel ;Featured FEmme 

Felino Soriano: Resident Poet 

CindY Hochman: RAD-ASS Reviewer 

Quetzal:Thugwise Cat #1 

Soleil: Thugwise Cat #2 

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EDITOR’s SCRATCHING POST: 

CATATONICALLY SPEAKING- 

Thugwise/Thug Life 

Clockwise Cat has been denigrated once or twice for having a rough aesthetic, and for 

liberally employing memes and clip art. But I’m like, fuck those mofos, cuz memes be dope! 

And as far as the “look” of CC … well, we never set out to be all sophisticated and shit. We 

are, first and foremost, a zine. We doctor some imagery, use clip art and memes and 

uncopyrighted art from the internet and deploy funky fonts and we are PROUD to do so. 

Of course, we also solicit and publish more professionally done collages, sketchings and 

paintings, and we love those artists for offering us their eye-treats to adorn our journal. And 

truth be told, if we had the budget, we’d totally pay a graphic artist to prettify our pages even 

further and make our magazine look slightly more refined. But we don’t want to yuppify it, 

and so maybe it’s a good thing we lack funds. It’s the editorial, poetic, and artistic content, 

anyway, that makes the Cat so great. We believe in an authentic, organic ambiance, 

something not afraid to show its ass a bit. We own our gritty look and feel and wouldn’t have 

it any other way. The traditionalists aim to homogenize everything and make the journals into 

cookie-cutter condos, while we want to splatter graffiti all over the place. 

The traditionalists, you see, are the authoritarians. Clockwise Cat, on the other hand, is antiauthoritarian. 

We live by our own code. 

Clockwise Cat, in short, is an adherent of Thug Life as philosophized by the late, great 

Tupac Shakur. This is why this issue is called Thugwise Cat. We’re not being ironic hipsters 

here; we love the compelling contradictions that Tupac embodied; we love him for his 

rhymes, and we love him for his mind. 

Thug Life is often misunderstood as being a violent criminal code, when in fact it’s the 

audacious antithesis. Thug Life is living by your own code, one that is anti-authoritarian but 

respectful of your own community. It’s “gangsta” in the realest way possible; not nihilistic, 

but uplifting, and eschewing the stifling hierarchies that oppress. It’s recognizing the tyranny 

of tradition, and the forces of regressive repression, and overturning them. That’s what the 

Cat does – we proudly publish the people who subtly or overtly subvert the linguistic and 

artistic authoritarians. 

Below, I paste part of 2pac’s Codes of Thug Life. It’s worth noting that just as the Codes of 

Thug Life are inherently a sense of pride in being black, the Codes of Clockwise Cat are 

innately a sense of pride in being a black sheep. We don’t want to assimilate to conformist 

codes like those traditionalist journals with their gentrified aesthetics and generic poetics. 

We’d rather look like a vibrantly colorful thrift store than an aloof, soulless upscale 

department store – and we’d rather sell goods like raging invective, scathing satire, and 

progressive verse over fashion fad poetry that merges with the masses. We’re also about 

respecting humanity, and Thug Life was very much so about that too. It was about 

community, not hierarchy. Clockwise Cat vigorously celebrates community. 

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Quetzal and Soleil, our resident feisty felines, would agree. Cats live the Thug Life, after all. 

Tupac’s CODES OF THUG LIFE 

Thug Life is an acronym for "The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everyone.” The codes were 

designed to give order to the rise of gang violence and drug dealing. These codes were signed by 

the Bloods and Crips at a peace treaty called the Truc Picnic, in California in 1992. 

The Codes 

5. Car jacking in our Hood is against the Code. 

8. No slinging in schools. 

11.The Boys in Blue don’t run nothing; we do. Control the Hood, and make it safe for squares. 

12. No slinging to pregnant Sisters. That’s baby killing; that’s genocide! 

14. Civilians are not a target and should be spared. 

15. Harm to children will not be forgiven. 

17. Senseless brutality and rape must stop. 

18. Our old folks must not be abused. 

19. Respect our Sisters. Respect our Brothers. 

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The Irrevocable Object of Desire by Greg Wallace 

Artist bio: Gregory Autry Wallace is a poet, painter and collagist living in San Francisco. He 

studied English, World and Comparative Literature, and Creative Writing at San Francisco State 

University. His poetry and collages have appeared in Athena Incognito, Black Scat Review, 

BlazeVox, Danse Macabre,Clockwise Cat and Five 2 One. He was a poetry editor for Ink 

Magazine and a founding editor of Oblivion Magazine. In addition, his paintings, collages and 

assemblages have appeared in juried art shows. 

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InVeCtiVe 

(And sAtiRiCaL SCreeDs) 

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FROM THE BOWELS OF 

UNSCIENTIFIC THOUGHT: 

THE COMMON CORE SIMPLIFIED 

By John Alexander 

Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of hearing about the Common Core. 

Yeah, yeah- some people are for it, some are against- and then there’s the students- “the victims”- 

who have to endure it. 

I mean, there was a time when going to school meant seeing your friends, memorizing a 

bunch of stuff, going to gym and lunch- and being “freed” at the end of the day. 

But now, the fun is all gone. Instead, the kids “search for evidence;” “piece together 

arguments;” “explain calculations;” “compare similarities and differences;” “think critically”- and 

that’s just the beginning. 

And for what? Lift their achievement levels? Undermine local control? Overwhelm kids 

with stupid word problems? Again, for what? To what end? So they can get a minimum wage 

job that requires them to apply NONE of the things they’ve learned? 

It does seem so, doesn’t it? So, I’ve devised a ten question “test” that will not only 

eliminate the need for all that time spent in the Common Core, but will prepare those students for 

the minimum wage jobs they will call a career. 

And, I’ve even provided a “grading key” so that the test takers will have a good, solid 

introduction by which to plan the rest of their lives (a “career planning” added bonus- for free!). 

So, without further ado, let me introduce you to- “The Common Core - Simplified.” 

(1) You are a cashier at Starbucks. A customer’s order rings up as $15.00. 

The customer gives you two (2) five dollar bills, four (4) one dollar bills, 

three (3) quarters, two (2) dimes, and five (5) pennies. How much change 

should you give back to the customer? 

(a) Two one dollar bills and three quarters; 

(b) No change back; 

(c) Two quarters and four nickels; 

(d) Three dimes and two nickels; 

(e) None of the above. 

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(2) Draw a line so as to match the city with the state, province or country they are in. 

You must match them perfectly to get a point. 

New York City 

Indiana 

Oklahoma City 

New Jersey 

Jersey City 

Virginia 

Indianapolis 

Kansas 

Iowa City 

Iowa 

Kansas City 

Quebec 

Mexico City 

New York 

Quebec City 

Mexico 

Virginia Beach 

Oklahoma 

(3) If you are a K-Mart employee, and you hear this message- “Attention K-Mart 

Shoppers!” This message means that- 

(a) The store is closing; 

(b) Someone left their headlights on; 

(c) There is a psychotic gunman in the store; 

(d) A sale is about to begin; 

(e) A child is lost; 

(f) None of the above; 

(g) All of the above. 

(4) Fahrenheit and Celsius are- 

(a) Two ships that fought each other during the Civil War; 

(b) The names of Apple’s and Samsung’s new cell phones; 

(c) The last names of two ten-year-olds that have been offered football 

scholarships to the University of Alabama; 

(d) Two different ways to determine temperature; 

(e) None of the above; 

(f) All of the above. 

(5) “The Cloud” refers to- 

(a) The first song on Prince’s “Purple Rain” album; 

(b) What happens to your computer screen after years of use; 

(c) A weather phenomenon; 

(d) A data storage system; 

(e) What happens to your eyes after 9.5 hours of starring at your screen; 



(6) “Big Lots” is- 

(a) The name of a county park in Milwaukee; 

(b) An exclusive suburban development, just south of Dallas; 

(c) A discount chain store; 

(d) The new home of the Cleveland Cavaliers; 

(e) None of the above; 

(f) All of the above. 

(7) Buffalo Chicken Wings were first served in- 

(a) Chicago; 

(b) Los Angeles; 

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(c) Buffalo; 

(d) Memphis; 

(e) New York; 

(f) None of the above 

(8) If you are driving “a mile a minute,” how far will you have driven after one hour? 

(a) Thirty miles; 

(b) Sixty miles; 

(c) It depends on the time zone; 

(d) Nobody in their right mind drives that slow; 

(e) It depends on how many stops you make; 



(9) Who is pictured on the three dollar ($3.00) bill? 

(a) John Adams; 

(b) Harriet Tubman; 

(c) Robert E. Lee; 

(d) John F. Kennedy; 

(e) Ronald Reagan; 

(f) All of them- it rotates; 

(g) None of the above. 

(10) A Broadway play is- 

(a) The last play of an NFL game; 

(b) Football plays run only by the New York Jets and New York Giants; 

(c) A place in Times Square where children can play; 

(d) What con-artists do to get you to buy knock-off goods; 

(e) A show that only rich people can afford to see; 



THE ANSWERS TO THE QUESTIONS 

Each question- if answered correctly- is worth one (1) point. For question # 2, the cities much be 

matched perfectly with their respective state, province or country in order to get a point. 

The correct answers are: 

# 1- b 

# 2- Matching a city with its state, province or country- 

New York City with New York 

Oklahoma City with Oklahoma 

Jersey City with New Jersey 

Indianapolis with Indiana 

Iowa City with Iowa 

Kansas City with Kansas 

Mexico City with Mexico 

Quebec City with Quebec 

Virginia Beach with Virginia 

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# 3- d 

# 4- d 

# 5- d 

# 6- c 

# 7- c 

# 8- b 

# 9- g 

# 10- e 

GRADING YOUR ANSWERS & CAREER PLANNING 

10/10 Find something to do so that someone can nominate you for a 

MacArthur “Genius Award.” 

9/10 Great score, but forget about going to Harvard. Try one of 

those on-line colleges. 

8/10 You’re way too smart for MacDonald’s or Burger King. Think- 

Olive Garden. 

7/10 No local hardware store for you. Head over to Lowe’s or Home 

Depot. 

6/10 Pick up and cash in deposit returnable cans and bottles. 

5/10 Give plasma as often as you can and make sure you get paid. 

4/10 Volunteer someplace that gives you a free meal and a place to 

sleep. 

3/10 Find out if your old school will let you back into grade one. 

2/10 Go to prison so you can learn to make something. 

1/10 Commit yourself at your local psychiatric hospital. 

0/10 See your doctor to make sure your brain is functioning. 

Author bio: After spending years in New York City, John Alexander has temporarily 

relocated to the hamlet of Getzville, New York. He lives and writes there in the company 

of his two favorite pets, “Bunny” and “Roma.” Most recently, John has appeared in 

Danse Macabre du Jour, Clockwise Cat (3), Straightjackets Literary Magazine, 

Hackwriters: The International Writers Magazine (U.K). He also co-authored the online 

novel, entitled, “A Vow of Silence.” It can be found at www.avowofsilence.net 

10

Satan’s Diabolical 10-Step 

Plan for President Trump 

By Moira Lynch 

Hello Donald, 

I read with great interest your proposal to help me defeat America and destroy the world. I must 

say, I admire your drive. This, combined by your bullying self-aggrandizement and total moral 

decay have proven to me that you are, indeed, the right man for the job. Congratulations. 

That said, we have our work cut out for us. President Obama has chosen to ignore my bidding, 

bribes and threats. Despite all this (and the fact that he’s black!) he has proven to be a strong 

adversary. In fact, sources tell me he will be remembered as one of the most admired presidents 

in US history. But no matter, we will triumph in the end. Hope and Change are nothing compared 

to our hatred and divisiveness. For while the world may love and respect Barack Obama, they 

will come to fear and cower before us!—!and as you know, Donald, that is the measure true power. 

America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it 

will be because we destroyed ourselves. 

-Abraham Lincoln 

Below, I have outlined a plan for our success which was inspired by good old “Honest Abe” 

himself. (If I can’t make that freedom-loving bullshit artist burn in hell, he’ll at least rue his 

words.) If deployed correctly, you shall soon see the evil fruits of our labor. The genius of my 

plan lies in its pure audacity and irony. For we will use the most American of institutions to turn 

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America against itself. Through freedom of speech and freedom of the press we will use lies to 

deceive voters and sensationalism and spectacle to keep them coming back for more. Because, as 

we both know, America so loves a scandal! 

Here are the initial broad strokes of my diabolical plan, but feel free to improvise with your own 

special brand of magnetic megalomania. 

1. Stir up fear, racism and sexism in white American men who feel their privilege and power 

slipping away. Launch your entry into politics by promoting a meritless rumor about the validity 

of Obama’s birth certificate. The Tea Party will love this as it gives racism an almost patriotic 

patina! 

2. Get the backing of Evangelical Christians. Despite their alleged allegiance to you know Who, 

they are a powerful and purposeful group. Best of all, we have a tremendous opportunity to use 

their beliefs for our own agenda. They believe the Second Coming is at hand and have a vested 

interest in promoting the end of the world. Who better than you, Donald, in the position of the 

most powerful man in the world to make that happen? You’re welcome. 

3. Alienate sane, sensible and morally responsible Republican party members with divisive and 

bullying rhetoric. The party can be ripped apart at its roots by appealing to its most aggrieved 

party members with unabashed fear and hatred. 

4. Parade your made-for-reality-TV family before the public to attest to your viability as a father, 

leader and worthy human being. A note here: I encourage you to say out loud all the inappropriate 

thoughts you have about your oldest daughter, Ivanka. The benefits are two-fold: 1.) It affirms 

your own attractiveness (because, really, could an ugly, ogre of a man father a woman so 

fuckable?) and 2.) a whiff of incest always appeals to America’s prurient nature and will get you 

even more media attention. Do you see the pattern here, my friend? Moral outrage gets attention 

and ultimately, votes. 

5. Use “America First” as a way to allay domestic fears of globalization and sow international 

fears of colonization. Employ terrorist threats to demonize and dehumanize refugees and 

immigrants seeking peaceful refuge in America. Back this up with threatening and insinuating 

promises to neighboring countries and allies. Oh, and I’ll give you extra credit for warming up to 

Vladimir Putin. He’s already on my team and I think you’ll work well together. Terrifichuman 

being. 

6. On the domestic front, let’s talk about dog-whistle policies like “Law and Order” to stoke the 

escalating tensions between police officers and communities of color. The greater the distrust we 

can create between the people and law enforcement, the better chance we can transform civil 

disobedience into civil war. Yet another example of my evil genius!—!and one I’m particularly 

proud of. 

7. The media will make us or break us. As luck would have it, these days most people are getting 

their political information from social media platforms so we can easily create fake news, 

manipulate the truth and create a more angry and confused electorate. When questioned by 

detractors and/or the mainstream media, simply deny any responsibility or culpability for your 

words then distract them with another shocking lie. 

8. Show the world you will take shit from no one. Use Twitter to promote useful fabrications and 

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silence or shame any who would dare express distrust or disagreement with you. And on that 

note: retweet the racist and xenophobic ideologies of hate groups as much as possible. You will 

see they are very faithful and dedicated followers who will promote the Trump brand with gleeful 

zeal. 

9. Loudly label opponents, immigrants and others as criminals to gain support and distract from 

the fact that you have thousands of pending lawsuits ranging from fraud to sexual assault. While I 

commend you for your dirty deeds, they could be your Achilles heel. Play the offensive and you 

won’t have to play the defensive. 

10. Once elected, surround yourself with aids, advisors and Cabinet members as dedicated to 

destruction as you. I have some people in mind already (Steve Bannon is as relentless as they 

get). Oh, and if you can get a climate skeptic to head the EPA, you would be doing me a huge 

favor. Fuck those tree-hugging communists. I won’t be satisfied until every polar bear has 

drowned from exhaustion in tepid bathwate 

That’s all for now. Once you are in office, I will be contacting you with the next steps of my 

unholy plan. I look forward to your election and ascension to the highest seat of human power. 

Together we will destroy the world by reminding people to Make America Hate Again. 

Sincerely psyched for total destruction, 

Satan 

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TWO SATIRICAL ADS 

BY JON WESICK 

CRITICAL THINKING PROGRAM AT LESSER FALLS BIBLE COLLEGE 

Everybody’s enrolling in the critical thinking program at Lesser Falls Bible College. 

Shouldn’t you too? Business leaders say the number one qualification they look for in 

new hires is a degree in critical thinking, but don’t take their word for it. Take the word 

of one of our graduates, Julio Maldacena, who got a twenty-percent raise after graduating 

with a master’s degree in critical thinking. Lesser Falls Bible College has earned praise 

from movie stars like Jim Carey and Jenny McCarthy. This isn’t your father’s critical 

thinking program. Our program is the newest in the tri-state area. 

The critical thinking program at Lesser Falls Bible College excels at academic rigor. 

Professor Gil Borodino designed our program using the knowledge he gained from 

completing his Ph.D. in critical thinking right here at Lesser Falls Bible College. With 

tuition costing $50,000 a year, you know it has to be good. 

Some people like the Better Business Bureau, college accreditation board, and attorney 

general think you shouldn’t be allowed to learn critical thinking at Lesser Falls Bible 

College, but who would believe a bunch of busybodies with halitosis, anyway? And 

besides, no one has proved that a master’s degree in critical thinking from Lesser Falls 

Bible College doesn’t lead to a fifty-percent salary increase. 

You have two choices. Either you get a critical thinking degree from Lesser Falls Bible 

College or you die broke, homeless, and alone. 

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NUKE BRIGHT TOOTHPASTE 

Unlike those other radioactive toothpastes, Nuke Bright contains only the 

freshest strontium-90 shipped directly from Fukushima, Japan. Strontium is 

chemically similar to calcium so once inside your body it concentrates in 

your tooth enamel giving you that glow-in-the-dark smile. That’s Nuke 

Bright Toothpaste in drugstores everywhere. 

Author bio: Author of the poetry collection Words of Power Dances of 

Freedom, host of the Gelato Poetry Series, and an editor of the San Diego 

Poetry Annual, Jon Wesick has published more almost a hundred short 

stories in journals such as The Berkeley Fiction Review, Clockwise 

Cat, Space and Time, Zahir, Tales of the Talisman. One was nominated for a 

Pushcart Prize. Jon has a Ph.D. in physics and is a longtime student of 

Buddhism and the martial arts. 

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SAY IT AIN’T SO, JOE! 

By Virs Rana 

It appears we currently live in a time of significant transition. Socio-political, 

scientific, and spiritual strongholds are continuously confronted by interrogatory assaults 

and disruptions. While status quo dynamics are struggling to hold their ground, 

skepticism abounds: What are the facts? How are they derived? And for what purpose 

are they promulgated? The first question deals with truth, the second with process, and 

the third with motive. One cannot know the answer to the first, unless both process and 

motive are understood. 

For millennia past, the only one of these questions extensively solicited with answers 

was the first, which was disseminated in the forms of dictates, laws, and commandments, 

with little or no verification by ruling authorities. But traditions have slowly been eroded 

by false gods and false prophets, posing as heads of state, religion, and science. The 

masses, the rabble, the people, the common human, the collateral damage have become 

too educated and too informed to continue to be sheeple. The deterioration and decay of 

facades are revealing the many guises of corruption. And no matter the trappings and 

glitter of image, the excrementalism of incompetence and deception are exposed not as 

‘mistaken’ and ‘misspoken’, but as betrayal and lie. 

Beware of words that are granted meanings to suit the situation. Legalese and doublespeak 

are forms of forgery to excuse and diminish the severity and unlawfulness of 

crimes. Somewhere, sometime it became unmannered to press authorities for answers. 

Their position must be respected and protected at all costs, because in pressing them, we 

would have to press ourselves, which would be too awkward and too painful a reckoning 

for any formalized politeness. This hypocrisy is acceptable, as a buffer against truth and 

duty; two words that have been given such latitudes of meaning that accountability has 

been reduced to relativity in all situations, in order to dismiss those responsible for their 

transgressions against the very principles they have sworn to uphold, further reducing the 

word principle to quaint antiquity. 

Questions are not enough. We have been taught for too many generations that we are 

civilized, that we must speak and act toward one another with a modicum of respect, 

which should be accorded all who participate in this perverse deception. Why? The socalled 

authorities are the very corruptors of these principles of freedom. And they are 

everywhere; they are pervasive. They are members of our city councils, our county 

supervisors, our state representatives, our United States Congress. They are from the 

executive, legislative, and judicial branches, our President of the United States. They are 

our teachers, our priests, our imams, our rabbis, our pastors, our scientists. They live off 

our labor, and our money, and they pass laws to prevent us from taking legal action 

16

against them. They are shown favoritism and shielded against any consequences of their 

illegal actions, where you, a simple member of the masses would be vilified and 

incarcerated. 

But the authorities are merely figureheads, privileged in name and legal tender only, 

due to a diluted and polluted system. In most cases, they are less intelligent than those 

whom they refer to as the masses, and the rabble. Some may be glib and ingratiating to 

evoke sympathy and respect, which they often get, but, in truth, they are pawns of their 

own insecurity and denial. They even betray each other to sustain their untenable status. 

They make you the same promises, over and over, on the same issues, the issues that 

never change, because the promises are empty; but we forget, and forgive them, because 

we make empty promises to ourselves, and we will not stand and deliver. 

No, questions are not enough. We must raise our standards of responsibility to 

ourselves and to one another. We must cultivate our self-respect and our freedom in 

relationship to principles that those before us have called virtues, not in reactions to fear 

and anger, which in turn, motivate the masses toward alienation and apathy: that fear and 

anger used to manipulate others by force, through the threat of war and scarcity, that fear 

and anger so corrosive to community and good will, only temporarily suspended in times 

of tragedy, that fear and anger that have been the dominant emotional states on this planet, 

far too long, which lead many to believe it’s human nature, a bit premature, since we are 

still in the process of discovering what that nature is. 

But we are preoccupied. So we fail to address and to sustain community action, 

relinquishing this power to the maintenance of individual image and status. What you 

think of you is predicated on what others think of you, within this grand deception. Those 

in true service are noted for having a special calling and a special compassion that we 

would like to emulate, but just don’t have the time for. After all, who are you without 

participating in those worshipped values, and achieving success against all odds? Did you 

ever think why there are so many odds? Are they real? Who or what creates them? 

No, questions are not enough. Answers can be projected, but never understood, until 

they are first lived: A revolution within? A realization that production is not about things 

or statistics, but about what we need to understand, not to live life in false comfort and 

security, but in the process of seeing, beyond what we’ve allowed ourselves to become 

programmed to see? Mirrors often present a shadow image. What do we see, when we are 

reflected in the eyes of others? 

We know, but we choose not to act on that knowledge, for it would jeopardize all that 

we fought to believe in that made us a believer, a self-worshipper of gods created to be 

idolized, rather than in service to the Truth we refuse to acknowledge, in the birdsong, 

behind the mask of our deception… 

…Must give us pause…That last phrase, although poetically fit, may sound a little too 

froo-froo for the more sober and fiercely linear thinkers, because oblique metaphors have 

no meaning in their reality: You’re born; you (pretend to) live; then you die. Thusly, any 

patronizing concern for the welfare of others ain’t worth spit, no matter your bull-chitchat 

perseverating. 

Author bio: Orphaned at birth, Virs Rana was raised by Chrysalisian Monks in the 

Carpathian Mountains, where he studied ancient languages. Since leaving the monastery, 

he began writing a journal and decided to share his experiences in stories. He holds a 

degree as a MOG (Master of Organic Geometry) 

17

The Donald DOLLAR by Matt Kolbet 

As you surely remember from elementary school history class, George Washington, besides 

harboring a loathing for cherry trees, served as the first president of the United States, thus 

securing his position on the one-dollar bill. Such staid currency remains in constant use for 

mocking tips to bigoted waiters (you spent all your pennies sardonically last summer at the 

neighbor’s alt. right garage sale/fruit punch stand), charity to Salvation Army bell ringers, and 

desperately scribbling your phone number in lumberjack-themed strip clubs. That founding father 

would be most proud when Aspen told you she’d call and sort-of meant it, though she forgot later 

after someone threw up their pancakes on her. Or was it Bambi? Either way, General Washington 

knows something about fallen wood. 

The final president of our country, Donald Trump, deserves his own currency. The revolution he 

spearheaded was less about creating a new country or good governance, and he may never have 

held a blade more sizable than a knife, but he cut into bookmaker’s margins, and giving people 

the axe inspired his reality show before we were forced to join in. Washington spent the 

Christmas of 1776 crossing the Delaware to fight the Hessians in Trenton. When Trump went to 

New Jersey in 2016 he helped defeat Chris Christie. Rather than a single (which would be 

incongruous with Trump’s style in marriages or bankruptcies) the Donald Dollar will actually 

represent negative money, an additional debt (more in line with the current direction of the 

country). When spending it, customers will demonstrate their loyalty and willingness to sacrifice 

to make American something else again—you can’t be sure what, and you’re uncertain you want 

to know because it would force you to reevaluate not only your relationships, but career choices, 

pets (axolotls seemed cooler when the guy on the side of the road talked about them), and even 

the crush you had on your elementary school history teacher, Mrs. Forrest. 

Example: The Walmart you frequent most often sells a 36 pack of Coors Banquet for 24.99. The 

yellow cans have become your go-to beverage now that you can’t find Schlitz there. Not 

coincidentally, you triangulated the store’s prime location based on proximity to your parole 

officer, divorce lawyer and favorite strip joint. When you stop in Friday night, for every Donald 

Dollar you spend, you increase tidy corporate profits, which inevitably trickle down to or from 

CEOs. It also gives sufficient suds so you have a good time sitting at home watching your 

aquarium. 

Best of all, for a limited time the new administration is giving out Donald Dollars for free. This is 

in lieu of blood offerings, and we should be grateful. Collecting them will give you something to 

do while you re-read Julio Cortázar, waiting for the axolotl to trade places with you and take over 

your Twitter account to call out other salamanders from Mexico. Or perhaps kill you. Though 

you won’t undergo a metamorphosis, think of it as regeneration. Find Mrs. Forrest again. Ask 

her if she’s ever thought of becoming somebody’s second wife. 

Author bio: Matt Kolbet teaches and writes in Oregon 

18

DRONE DRAMA: Music for the Dead 

By Cecelia Chapman, Sean Derrick, and Jeff Crouch 

Description: “Drone Drama: Music for the Dead” is a video that addresses 

being human in the age of the drone. The eleven chapter, seventeen minute 

video, from the album by Berlin based, American composer Sean Derrick 

Cooper Marquardt was filmed in 2016, and a chapter edited and submitted to an 

online site each month. Chapter 11. 'If you were born without wings, do 

nothing to prevent them from growing,’ submitted to Clockwise Cat, considers 

change in consciousness as the path to social and cultural change. It was filmed 

at the NODAPL Berkeley Indigenous Day 2016. 

FULL VIDEO: https://youtu.be/yl3_PP-hXj8 

CHAPTER 11: https://youtu.be/ftUz8JimfCc 

CHATPER STILLS 

AND TEXT:https://www.facebook.com/ChapmanMarquardt/ 

“Drone Drama” was filmed on the San Francisco Peninsula, with all the 

contradictions inherent in a hyper-evolving, militaristic society: income disparity, 

environmental catastrophe, epic cultural upheaval. Notorious for being the evermorphing 

home to military defense contracting corporations, the San Francisco 

Peninsula bio-tech industry is known as Silicon Valley. Previously it was the 

Vietnam War industry home base, and before that, the greatest World War II 

shipbuilding industry in the world. 

I used Sean’s titles and his subtle drone tracks to direct the video. Each chapter is 

filmed in a specifically selected site, from orchid farm, to prison, to underneath the 

dystopic San Francisco freeways, to Oracle headquarters. 

Sean and I have never met in person but we collaborated on two earlier videos. I 

also conferred with my ten year collaborator, Jeff Crouch in Texas, about 

philosophy. I have never met Jeff in person either, so this video is very much a 

collaboration across space and time. My other ten year collaborator, performer 

Christa Hunter, is in Chapter 1. 

“Drone Drama” just had its premiere in Cologne, Germany, and was selected for 

the Italian Magmart Video Festival 10. 

19

DRONE DRAMA 

Artist bios: Sean Derrick Cooper Marquardt is the Berlin-based American sound artist and 

composer of “Drone Drama.” Sean performs throughout Europe in risk-taking performances. He 

is co-founder of Hortus Conclusus Records and can be found 

at https://www.facebook.com/seandcmarquardt/. Cecelia Chapman filmed and edited “Drone 

Drama” and is an American visual artist living in California. She has more than eighty short new 

media videos that examine how we live and think: ceceliachapman.com Her collaborators include 

performers, sound artists and artists she meets online or draws from her personal life. She has 

collaborated for eleven years with Jeff Crouch, a Texas internet artist, who continues to provide 

philosophic and logistic inspiration and advice on scores of projects. Google him. 

20

Nineteen Ways GLOBALLY INTEGRATED 

CAPITALISM HAS FATALLY FAILED America 

By Edwin L. Young, PhD 

1. Democracy, especially US democracy, is a sham and a criminalist, political, 

governing system as, in fact, about a dozen of the earth’s richest and most 

powerful humans ultimately control who runs for offices, how campaigns are 

conducted, who gets elected,, and what agendas get enforced. This globally 

controlling group sets the agendas for all nations while their rulership remains 

hidden, undisputed, and omnipotent. 

2. Massive movement of the earth’s human populations toward complete 

urbanization for the sake of becoming capitalist corporation’s exploited slave class 

while those who have been forced to come to live in huge urban areas find them 

turning into huge crime, poverty, and disease causing ghettos, or virtual, huge 

prisons of slave encampments. 

3. Justice System: Corporation Illegality Is Exempt from Prosecution 

4. Business ventures fail (or die) if they do not make a profit. On the other hand, 

if they persist in making a profit, many other forms of life will become diseased 

and die. On the whole, if most of these businesses succeed in making profits, all 

life on the planet will gradually become extinct. 

5. Food Production and Delivery Systems Attract Customers to Disease Inducing 

Foods Worldwide while US Health Care workers prescribe unnecessary big 

corporate pharmaceutical medications and treatments that prevent the body's use 

of its natural ability to fight disease and to self-heal and healthy diets are not 

promoted among the poor and unwary 

6. Consumer Protection laws are ineffective in combating Honest Advertising 

Systems that would attack the overwhelmingly effective Major TV channels that 

sell the populace on health destructive foods and practices. Illnesses related to 

these corporate owned TV channels’ programs are booming in the US. 

7. Water Sources Are Being Polluted and Water Delivery Systems Polluted and 

Are Unavailable in Remote Regions of the World 

8. Natural Resources Protection Ineffective in Stopping Exploitation of Backward 

Peoples and Is Not Guarding Against Their Dwindling Supply 

9. Environment Protection Is Ineffective in Guarding Against Deadly Chemicals 

21

Polluting Earth, Air, Water, and Large Water Bodies 

10. Transportation Industries Refusing to Allow Environment Friendly Alternative 

Fuels while Oil, Natural Gas, and Coal are Polluting and Despoiling and centrally 

and universally causing the eventual extinction of all life on earth. 

11. Animal and Plant Species Protection Agencies Are Ineffective in Preventing 

Extinctions and Human Unfriendly GMOs Taking Over by Huge Food Related 

Corporations Who are also Running Small Organic Farmers out of Business 

12. Employment Compensation to laid off workers is now becoming unavailable 

to many of them. At the same time, there is a massive increase in Part-time 

Workers who receive no unemployment compensation or benefits when they are 

forced out of work by modernized Automation and Mechanization. 

13. Public Education is controlled by State Officials and Local Wealthy Board 

Members, all of whom enforce Corporate Friendly and Populace Unfriendly 

Teaching Materials and Content and construct untold numbers of Public Education 

Buildings and Systems while Elitist Offspring have Elitist Controlled and Elitist 

Favoring Curricula. The under classes of the populace as a whole continue with 

their Preschools, First through Twelve, College, Graduate, and Professional 

Schools that Corporations Tailor for Mass Teaching Systems that will result in 

humanity becoming divided into one superior and several inferior dominated, 

exploited, and unwitting levels of tracks of slave classes. 

14. Banking and Finance Systems and Zero Interest on Loans to Huge 

Corporations while huge Corporations send nontaxable trillions to overseas safehavens 

15. Major TV Channels provide childish, odd, and horrific Programs to US and 

World Masses that Perpetuate their Infantalization (and their ignorance of US 

destructive imperialistic programs) of Adults in the US and in foreign nations as 

well. 

16. The Internet could and does provide alternative news and information 

programs. Nevertheless, the Populace is Hooked into major TV Channels that 

provide misinformation, avoid corporate unfriendly information, blackout news 

about US imperialistic programs that foment civil wars in underdeveloped nations, 

and independently reported stories about US arms industries selling weapons to 

both sides in these fomented civil wars, US privately funds ignorant foreign troops 

and US mercenary troops assassinate foreign heads of state unfriendly to or 

disobedient to the US 

22

17. During World War II, some major industrialist sent money and war related 

machines to aid Hitler’s war efforts, Henry Ford was one of them. Toward the end 

of World War II, the US brought renowned German scientists and engineers to the 

US to work on the US space and missile programs- Werner Von Braun was 

principal among them. 

18. The many religions of the world keep the unknowing and ignorant of the world 

pacified and preoccupied with their superstitious rituals and their other worldly 

belief systems that are irrelevant to how they are being exploited and 

enslaved. These religions keep the ignorant masses from becoming aware of the 

coming crisis to the earth with its impending global life extinction. All the while 

the elites of earth are designing and planning their escape to another, safe planet 

somewhere else in our vast universe. 

19. As all of these interconnected aspects and processes of our world silently and 

irrevocably continue to succeed, that is to say make profits in a world where there 

is no force capable of either stopping them altogether or of fundamentally altering 

their essentially, globally, undetectably, and cumulatively eventuality of producing 

an extinction of all life on our planet. 

! 

23

"#$!%&'(&')*$!%&+(!,$-*'&./01!2+'!34#&&5-!6)-!7/0)55.! 

%&8$!7&'!2+'!9&:$'08$0*! 

By Steven Singer 

First they came for people of color and I said nothing. Because I am not a person of 

color. Then they came for the poor and I said nothing. For I am not poor. Then they came 

for our public schools and I said nothing. Because I do not send my children to public 

schools. Now they’ve come for our government and who is left to speak for me? 

This is a paraphrase of Martin Niemöller’s famous lines about the cowardice of German 

intellectuals during Hitler’s rise to power. The fascists purged group after group while 

those who could have stood against them did nothing – until it was too late. 

That’s very nearly the position we find ourselves in today in relation to the Trump 

administration. The neoliberal and neofascist façade has fallen away. And the naked 

greed of our runaway capitalist system has been exposed for what it is. 

Just this week, Trump unveiled a new government office with sweeping authority to 

overhaul federal bureaucracy on the business model. 

Led by the president’s son-in-law and senior advisor, Jared Kushner, The White House 

Office of American Innovation will be an autonomous entity enforcing the president’s 

will. Described as an internal “SWAT team” of strategic consultants, and staffed with 

former business executives, the office will cut down democratic rule in favor of top-down 

authoritarianism. 

And the excuse is the same one used to deny equity for minorities, the same one used to 

dismantle protections for the poor and the same one used to unfairly label and close our 

public schools – we need to run government like a business. 

But government is not a business.The goal of a business is profit for the few. The goal of 

government is service to the many. 

24

In a private business only the owner or the board of directors reaps the benefits. But our 

government is not supposed to be set up that way. It’s not supposed to benefit merely all 

the president’s men. It’s supposed to benefit all of us – the citizens, the taxpayers, the 

voters. This is exactly the model that has been used against our public schools. 

We have shifted our concern away from students and parents to investors and 

corporations. For almost two decades, our education policies have increasingly been to 

reduce local control – especially at schools serving the poor and minorities – and give 

that control to private charter school operators. We have removed the duly-elected school 

boards and replaced them with appointed boards of directors. We have removed or 

diminished democratic rule and replaced it with an autocracy. And all the while the 

middle class has cheered. 

It was a coup in plain site, and no one but parents, students, teachers and intellectuals 

spoke up. Our voices were undercut or ignored. When we demanded equal treatment for 

our children, we were labeled welfare queens wanting something for nothing. When we 

demanded fair treatment, a safe work environment and resources for our students, we 

were labeled union thugs standing in the way of progress. At every turn we were tone 

policed into silence and passed over for the voices of self-proclaimed experts who knew 

nothing but what they were paid to espouse. 

We were told that the only measure of academic success was a standardized test score. 

But no mention of the white, middle class standard our non-white, impoverished students 

were being held to. 

When our schools were increasingly segregated by race, class and income, we were told 

that it was only fair. After all, it was based on choice – the choice of the invisible hand of 

the free market. When our schools were starved of resources, we were told to do more 

with less. And when our students struggled to survive malnutrition, increased violence 

and the indentured servitude of their parents to an economic system that barely allowed 

them to sustain themselves, we blamed them. And their teachers, because how dare 

anyone actually try to help these untouchables! 

We allowed this – all of it – perpetrated by Democrats and Republicans, Conservatives 

and Liberals, because they’re all really just different dogs to the same masters. We 

justified it all in the name of the market, in the name of economics, in the name of 

business. Why should we care? It rarely affected us directly. 

White, middle class folks could get by. It wasn’t OUR schools being given away to 

private equity firms. It wasn’t OUR children being educated by temporary employees on 

the model of the peace corps with little training and no experience. 

Those were just someone else’s children. We weren’t even sure they were human. They 

certainly didn’t share the same portion of humanity as we did. They were unwashed and 

unfed. Even if you washed them, many of them would still have brown skin. We were 

25

happy to have them as an underclass, as a cushion to stop us from falling further down 

the social ladder. 

Our kids went to either well resourced public schools with fully elected school boards 

and shiny new facilities or else we sent our children to pristine private schools that 

offered the best of everything for a price. 

But now the chickens have come home to roost. Because this same model is being 

applied to our government. 

Now it is we who will lose our voices. It will be our services that are stripped away as an 

unnecessary cost savings. We will lose our healthcare. We will lose our environment. It 

will be our democracy suspended to make way for the more efficient means of 

government – fascism and autocracy. 

Who has time to listen to the people? Much easier to just decide what should be done. 

And we can justify it with our business model. No more voters and representatives. Now 

we will be businessmen and consumers. Nothing will stand in the way of the corporate 

class enriching themselves at public expense. They will be merely providing the rest of us 

with the goods and services of government, the bits that trickle down on our heads like 

rain or urine. 

That is what Trump is attempting. He is turning the United States into a banana republic 

– even installing his relatives and children in top leadership positions. Our government 

now resembles the corridors of power in Baghdad under Saddam Hussein with henchmen 

Uday and Qusay in tow. 

The question is this: will we allow it? Will we continue to allow it? 

Will we stand for it as the administration installs Trump loyalty officers in every federal 

office? Will we say nothing as nepotism and greed become the most prized attributes of 

governance? Will we remain silent as our public schools continue to be raided, sacked 

and burned? Because the answer to those questions is the answer to so much more. Are 

we on the cusp of revolution or is history merely repeating itself? 

Editor’s note: This essay is reprinted with permission from gadflyonthewall.com 

26


VERSE 

28

FEATURED FEMME: 

Chani Zwibel 

Author bio: Chani Zwibel is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, a poet, wife and dogmom 

who was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, 

Georgia. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming. Recent 

Publications include Sage Woman Worlds of Faerie Issue 91(April 2017), W.I.S.H 

(Walking Is Still Honest) Press March 10, 2017, Dissident Voice Feb 12, 2017, Provoke 

Journal, January 2017, Mused Bella Online Literary Review Winter 2016 Vol 10 Issue 4, 

Catwise Clock (Clockwise Cat) Issue 35 Winter 2016, Sage Woman Roots and Wings 

Issue 89 (April 2016) 

Author’s statement: I let my imagination wander, in silence, in nature, and go wherever 

it takes me. So many portals to other worlds exist. They hide in the knot-holes of old 

trees and whisper from dusty shelves of old libraries. Dreaming is all-important, whether 

in waking or in sleep. I keep a notebook with me at all times, because inspiration often 

strikes unbidden, tiny worlds shimmer in the dew drops on moss, and beckon me with 

secrets to be revealed. 

Editor’s note: As we told Chani Zwibel, our Issue 37 Featured Femme, these pieces 

below contain “some lovely phrasing, some edgy humor, some jolting imagery.” We 

were thrilled when she submitted poems to us for consideration, and immediately seized 

on the opportunity to feature her. The first few pieces we enjoy for their witty glimpse 

into some sort of surrealist suburbia, while the rest of the poems summon our attention 

with their nuanced commentary on this, our own sordid world, as well as with their 

unusual perspective on nature and enticing elements of fantasy. 

WEST 

Dear Sir, 

on behalf of my client, it is my sad duty to inform you: 

Seeking a way out, 

the wayfarer flees wedlock. 

A hex strikes a blow: 

wench becomes werewolf. 

It’s wet on the whaleboat 

and wet on the wharf. 

Sinking into despair, 

29

she wears welts 

as small ornaments, 

bits of baleen cracking 

as she breaks her corset, 

crazy intoxicated 

by benign tumor 

of glowing moon. 

Respectfully, 

The Law Offices of Weasele, Foxe, and Wolfe 

BEST 

Attention Residents of Blue-Green Streams Neighborhood: 

Thank you, 

Without revealing names, it should be noted 

Last week during a wedding reception in the park, 

The chief attendant of the groom and the chief attendant of the bride 

behaved unseemly, got besotted, sullied their honor, 

and were found in a bestial state of frenzy behind Beta Shelter. 

They couldn’t stay modest, 

but snuck berry wine 

behind park benches, 

wearing Bermuda shorts and giggling. 

We implore the community to do better. 

We cannot take a besom broom to clear away such sins. 

We ask you keep your revels between yourselves 

and try not to be revealed in public, 

or we will have to ban beverages at all events. 

Between betrothals and barbeques, beware. 

Twice a year we bid goodbye to charms. 

The Neighborhood Committee for Highest Quality 

LEST 

You libertines forget: 

Leviathan seeks levitation, laurel crowns are reserved for victors, and an 

offense against your sovereign burns like lesions. Learn lavender can perfume a 

30

laywoman. A leak in leather leftover lends credibility to a legislature run amuck. 

Do the legwork. Apply the lesson. Avoid another level of disappointment. 

WEASELS 

I will not write to warn you again, 

A Concerned Citizen 

weasels are underground, waiting. 

they want skin. 

weasels are snorting cocaine, underground, waiting. 

they want skin; they want hair. 

weasels are fucking, underground, waiting. 

they want skin; they want hair; they want blood. 

weasels are performing satanic initiation rites underground, waiting. 

they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle. 

weasels are embezzling millions from top Fortune 500 companies, underground, waiting. 

they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone. 

weasels are keeping toddlers in cages, underground, waiting. 

they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they 

want marrow. 

weasels are snapping babies’ spines, underground, waiting. 

they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they 

want marrow; they want gristle. 

weasels are underground, waiting. 

TUMBLED MACHINE 

Mother of vultures 

shrieks in my nightmares. 

She’s like a machine with intentions. 

Whether unusual or suspicious, 

all logical connections are 

behavior resolving contradictions. 

Final conscience transported 

is integrated with other sign systems. 

Made, ruled, drilled, 

maintains High Standards. 

Talc can be scratched with your fingernails 

as anticipated. 

Even with significant success, 

emergency or safety, 

still too much sun, 

hours of sleep, 

31

dreams of that wicked man 

who stole my pot of herbs. 

Fine, or even too coarse-grained, 

microcrystalline, 

but breaks across grains, 

is death of fathers, 

and who still hath cried. 

Must I remember pebbles 

cleaved from rocks? 

My Other Mother Xanax will take the edge off. 

BABY 

crying is mechanized. 

brain cells electric pods with silver seeds. 

It drinks Zinc and misses most talking and laughing 

buttons when in sleep-mode. 

Manufacturing me made meaner 

By giving me a name 

Cast in metal 

Enter the cooker 

1/3 of a human hair 

Tricked 

Art wars with business in my rubber-tube-guts, 

Entertainment sold to a mass audience 

A financial transaction, economic ties 

The project paid-for 

Sugar-plastic stream 

Art cutters 

Off-putting, clumsy language of theory 

Illusion Pulsating light 

Continuous beam Gauge 

HEALTHFOOD STORE/DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME 

Dark at six o’clock and the store is full 

of people trying to stave off death with kale. 

It won’t save them. 

No organic vegetable Christ 

will rise from the compost heap, 

restoring animal-cruelty free peace 

upon a perfect earth; 

No way to bribe the reaper 

with vegan cheese. 

For those of us in the know: 

32

Night settles 

in the six pm of eternity, 

no daylight savings 

for the damned. 

AFTER A RAIN 

Tell me again 

how candlelight, 

dusk dark rooms, 

guardian dog, 

heavy door, 

and brass door knob 

collect the sound 

and feel of 

hollow wet throb 

inside down spouts. 

Blue shutters 

cloak windows 

looking out to 

wet slick stone stairs, 

wet pebble path, 

wet water garden bridge, 

bent nail submerged. 

Raindrops gloss 

luminescent green ivy. 

In the pond 

two fish 

are parallel bars of gold. 

Sting of thirsty mosquitoes 

on my bare arm 

as I walk and hear 

a single bird call. 

33

Artwork by Marcia Arrieta 

Artist bio: Marcia Arrieta’s work appears in Fourteen Hills, Of/with, Wicked Alice, Moss 

Trill, Eratio, Posit, Catch & Release, Melusine, Web Conjunctions, and Great Weather 

for Media, among others. The author of two poetry books: archipelago 

counterpoint (BlazeVOX 2015) and triskelion, tiger moth, tangram, thyme (Otoliths 

2011), she edits and publishes Indefinite Space, a poetry/art journal. 

126

The Saga of FACES and VASES 

By Tracy Thomas 

There’s voices in the mandolin, some sort of chatter down in the f-holes. 

Now there’s a campfire and horrible mundane songs that matter to everyone 

but the soup stones, the antiphonies, the pariahs outside the firelight, those 

reprobates shivering in the woods with pink toadstools. Their bones have left 

them. Their bones are off to see the world. Their bones are drunk in Buenos 

Aires. They’re hiding in the jimson weed, crazy in the scent of moonflowers. 

Their bones are playing dominoes under the ponderosas. They’re sleeping on 

one leg with flamingos. The voices are telling a story they’ve chopped into 

pieces. They’re rasping at the grue. There’s a trunk with my father’s broken 

mandolin. I’m having a garage sale but it’s tricky getting rid of darkness. I 

got this dinner triangle of bones. I got the pulcher eye. I got Latinate 

adjectives, nonsensical objectives. I learned a dance in the lich gate. I’ll 

bring your turtle back to life, your wishing star heartbreak turtle in the hurdy 

gurdy of your head. The voices chopped the story into pieces now they’re 

black dove treble clef. Now they’re Ascension Day rain. They’re the sobs of 

smoldering wound. There’s voices hacked in pieces. They’re playing 

mandolin. 

It’s all about stories, if you can keep them from going into pieces; 

keep them from seducing the neighbor’s daughter in the tree house. Then the 

stories are looking for some sort of revenge for their mutilation. They want 

the quemada, the conflagrande, the auto-da-fe freeway. Maybe eat some 

folks, got them turning on a spit or they’ve got their heads together inventing 

something like a song, a chant, a groan, whatever to give voice to the 

nonsense or they’re getting on your nerves stirring up the goat herd, waking 

you from your pastoral idyll, send you sprawling from your dithyramb, no 

shoes, head on fire, burning fennel stalks waving at whoever’ll listen. I’m 

sick with that voice. Now I’m butchering some stories, hacking them into 

dusk persimmon calligraphy, flowered owls of smoke, fax machine abraxas. 

See how deep they’ll sink. Maybe they’ll send signs back from the depths. 

I’m going to slaughter some stories, stare into their entrails hanging from my 

hands for a message. Maybe hang them from the rearview mirror like lucky 

dice. The stories can be messy if they’re no more than bits of yourself, just 

bits of you chopped into the language of the birds, bits of you hacked into 

voces mysticae. Then you realize what you really have is potsherds and 

nettles. 

34

The stories are gouging a hole in your face, gouging a hole in that 

place the voice comes from. The stories gnaw on my father’s mandolin; 

gnaw on my finger’s searching for Fur Elise, searching for the origin of 

madrigals, origin of Mardi gras, of nightingales. Now the stories want a 

voice of their own, so they’re cooking up a voice, stewing up a voice in the 

retort, in the crucible. But what comes out isn’t right. It’s not like other 

voices. It’s bathing in tongues. It’s stealing from the dead. It’s playing 

bassoon on a dark beach. It’s the homunculus. It’s always looking for what’s 

behind the light, maybe for where light comes from. The homunculus voice 

attempts to sing but all that comes out is apotropaica, all that comes out is 

bits of maenads and Heraclitus, an orchard of blue olives, all that comes out 

is the Jack the Ripper small talk, the semper vivum of breath, all that comes 

out is the silence of a broken mandolin. They let Prince Albert out the can 

and he can really use a smoke. 

Now I’m watering the lawn. When I’m done I’ll need to build an ark 

or at least a chair for deep sea fishing. Then I can play mandolin while the 

trout jump just to see their own smile before flopping into the mirror of the 

lake. Beautiful Apotropaica is smiling at me from the terrace above and then 

I skip off into the happiness of the dream. That’s one side of the story. The 

one damaged in transport, the one the ants like, the one the lunatic ate with 

the secret message to the gods, the one that died from cholera, the one lazing 

under the black fig tree, the one delivering the shibboleth mystery-gram. 

You can open it with the decoder ring you found in the bramble hedge of 

lacerating death. Alas it’s just poetry on shards of pottery about the beauty, 

the truth of a piece of pottery. This mandolin will tell its story one more time 

by god or I’ll never make your eyes roll back into your head to the sloppy 

sounds of heaven on earth. 

Author bio: Tracy Thomas has lived his entire life in the vastness of the 

American West; Colorado, Wyoming, California and finally Arizona, 

basically a non-stop Frederic Remington painting. His poems have appeared 

in The Southern Review, The Journal and Bombay Gin. Since his plans for 

graduate school have fallen through he’s currently searching for a cave in 

the Sonoran Desert where he’s hoping to begin experiencing St. Anthonystyle 

visions. 

35

Unshed 

By Sheikha A. 

I have been swallowing landays, 

their echoing screeching refracting 

macabre. And then I chewed upon 

the black waters of justice; 

clandestine writings – as if it wasn’t 

enough to drown under excessive 

layers of humility, that the written 

word needed to suffer the veil – 

but the veil is no vice. Nor is it 

cumbersome. Poetry has always been 

the secrets of a mad mind; psychobabble 

clothed in obsequiousness. 

But landays do not abash. Once 

the word is released, there is no fleeing – 

only incarceration. But, there is glory 

in the tinkering of society’s empaths – 

they defend them landays with quills 

made from the same trees that died 

suffering their weaponry – unshed 

unshelled unconfessed democracy. 

Author bio: Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her 

work appears in over 90 literary venues, both print and online, including 

several anthologies by different presses. More about her can be accessed on 

her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com 

36

Temple 

By David Mac 

this temple warm air 

writing amorous words 

on the back of 

a fish 

(swim) 

writing on shadows and ghosts 

(fade) 

who believes in 

life is a 

UFO 

(zoom) 

but when will I be 

loved? 

ask that and know 

that you really are 

dying 

37

The Life 

By Ann Huang 

You had a life 

for bringing in the silver lake 

of a forgotten way . . . 

(Water 

light and thinned and white 

as the drain of poppy seeds . . . 

castles 

let alone in saffron banks . . . 

sky 

translucent as a gay whale . . . 

and the urgent moon 

splurging silver 

under New Zealand, gin-pure, merging into the sea . . . ) 

And the night is many upside bowls 

or its moon a glory of black lures 

glued in acute-blue sky 

when could you own your life? 

Author bio: Ann Huang is a seasoned marketer with more than fifteen years 

of experience working with the spoken and written word. As an MFA 

recipient in Poetry from the Vermont College of Fine Arts, Huang’s poetry 

has appeared online and in print extensively. Her recent poem, 

“Night Lullaby,” was a Ruth Stone Poetry Prize finalist. Huang's new poetry 

collection, Delicious and Alien, is due out in 2017. Her poems follow the 

surrealistic gestures that weave reality into divergent realms of perspectives 

and perceptions. Visit AnnHuang.com for more poems and press releases. 

38

[Then of forest paths diverge 

and keepdiverging] 

by Aaron Bauer 

Then of forest paths diverge and keep diverging. 

There is a brief moment in everyone's life when he or she is free from strife. 

When 

there is not one word apt to describe where 

these fragments dig under our skin. What 

they burrow themselves into is flesh like sprouts grow out of fields. Why 

they were forced to cut in we don't know, nor do we know how. 

Think but this is a nothing moment, that 

this beauty is a mole on your mother's breast, that 

this grizzly death is the one awaiting you, that 

this land is only itself when bathed in moonlight. 

This man is man, and he is you. 

This palpable tension . . . 

This zealous lover . . . 

Thou art how great . . . 

Thou lucky mistresses . . . 

Though a good deal warped, we will build our homes with these boards, and 

through the floorboards worms will slither, and 

through the house, sunlight will glimmer, and 

through the walls, wind will eat your skin. It will be time 

to admit the air has power over you. 

Author bio: Aaron Bauer is a Pushcart-nominated poet and educator living 

in Colorado. He received his MFA from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. 

His work has appeared in Prism Review, Poemeleon and others. His 

chapbook Colloquy of Sparrows was published Blue Lyre Press. His website 

is aaronmbauer.wordpress.com. 

39

Two Poems BY ALAN BRITT 

DREAMING THE BRIAR PATCH 

Like Seinfeld's Kramer 

hugging 42 nd Street subway tiles 

in my whitey tidies. 

Suddenly, a vireo, of all saints, 

whistles from a nearby pine. 

As I plummet 

onto a bed of copper 

needles in my underwear, 

I'm reminded 

I'm allowed 

to miss church 

next six months 

so long as I read a 

healthy helping of Baudelaire. 

Ah, once again, 

loving the briar patch! 

WALKING ACROSS THE ROOM 

(For Sabine Pascarelli) 

Another poem in quicksand. 

But poems have magic 

up their sleeves: soaking verbs 

in olive oil & boiling nouns 

in the pantry of a late 16th century 

French cottage below the Italian border. 

I'm a mouse in the pantry of that cottage. 

I'm the rattle of tins 

filled with local basil, 

rosemary, thyme, & parsley, 

Italian, of course. 

40

I'm the sickening edges 

of a chocolate bar 

left on the counter overnight, 

& despite premonitions to the contrary 

I volunteered for that bivouac, 

dangerous, 

it seemed to me, 

so, I offered a chocolate bar instead. 

Good thing, 

since I didn't have an edge 

to give & soaking wet 

from Autumn cornfields. 

A detective, who looked a lot like Poe, 

in fact, I'm sure it was him lurking 

beneath a Charlie Chan fedora, 

behind purple azaleas, 

as the Queen's procession 

of silver horses 

decorated with saffron bells, bells, 

& bells made from skulls 

& crucifixes, 

plus red roses 

in the side yard, 

bleeding, bleeding, 

bleeding. 

Author bio: In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture 

Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of the first cultural exchange of poets 

between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit, he participated in venues all 

across the country including the international literary conference sponsored by La 

hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo, Ecuador. In 2013 he served as judge for 

the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The 

Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. 

His latest books include Violin Smoke (Translated into Hungarian by Paul Sohar and 

published in Romania & Hungary (2015); Lost Among the Hours: 2015; Parabola 

Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013; and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He 

teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University. 

41

The Night Sky Reminds Me of a 

Chalkboard 

By James Babbs 

for some reason 

the night sky reminds me of the old chalkboards 

the teachers used when I was in school 

the chalkboards were usually black 

and took up most of the wall at the front of the classroom 

but I do vaguely recall 

seeing some green ones somewhere 

anyway 

the teachers wrote on the chalkboards 

using pieces of chalk of course 

and they used big felt erasers 

to wipe away what had been written 

at the end of the school day 

one prized pupil got the honorable job 

of cleaning the erasers 

which was usually accomplished 

by hitting them together 

or smacking the erasers against the metal rail 

which ran along the bottom of the chalkboard 

where the pieces of chalk were kept 

and you kept banging the erasers 

until no more or most of the dust 

stopped emanating from them 

and it seems funny to me now 

and I wonder how much chalk dust 

us youngsters must have breathed into our lungs 

in those lost and innocent days 

all those years ago 

anyway 

the night sky reminds me of a chalkboard 

dotted with chalk-made stars 

and what about the moon 

I don’t see the moon 

I guess someone must have erased it 

before it could be found 

Author bio: James Babbs is a writer, a dreamer, a three-time loser and an all-around nice 

guy who just wants to be left alone. James is the author of Disturbing The Light (2013) 

& The Weight of Invisible Things (2013) and has hundreds of poems and a few short 

stories scattered all over the internet. 

42

43

The sound of strangers singing 

By Paul Grant 

Tonight 

All of history 

Suddenly 

Bubbles up beneath me 

All the long dead, 

Gods 

Friends 

Lovers 

Knock at the long hours 

Demand attention 

To be more than 

Memory 

I don't know 

What to do with this 

It is too big, 

Comes on 

Too fast 

My skin feels rebel 

Tingles like a fresh kill, 

The blood here is not mine 

It flows in new ways 

Towards unexplored parts 

I pace on the carpet 

Try and walk it off 

I want to scream 

Punch holes 

In the walls 

Dance like silent amphetamines 

But its 3am 

And what would the neighbours think 

44

So I pace some more 

And reason 

That somewhere 

There must be someone else 

Pacing the carpet 

In the long hours 

Thinking its too big 

It's all too big, 

The heartbeat of an ocean 

Sailing upon a small ship. 

45

!"#$%&#'$$ 

By Simon Perchik 

And this stone turns its back 

the way streams even in snow 

crush you under the descent 

smelling from moonlight 

and toward each other 

though there's still some rain inside 

all night flowing beneath your feet 

as gravel and whispers 

–with one sharp stone 

you open your mouth as if she 

is more thirsty than the others 

and every path glows with ice 

is singing that old love song 

carried in your arms 

clearing the way to her lips 

and one by one each night 

heavier, reaches up 

for the darkness and go. 

Author bio: Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan 

Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent 

collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more 

information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other 

Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com. 

46

Dark and Stormy 

By Katy Lasell 

Past the graveyard on my run 

I visit mother just for fun 

Lie down for I am ill at ease 

And fall asleep beneath the trees 

Awaken in the cream moonlight creatures all around me tight their eyeless wagging clean 

and clacking heavy legs in dirt are dragging drinking chatting noiseless laughing help me 

mother why is father here beneath the starry altar serving drinks to all the headless 

armless sapped of power something’s wrong the end is near I smell it read the stones are 

clear and lichen tossed the scruffy gravel sounds the pounding of the gavel tastes the 

flavor of the pomegranate sweet and final earless but the tones are spinal ask me if I’d 

like a sip or father if he’d like to sit and take a load off for awhile if they had mouths 

they’d surely smile if they had teeth they’d surely chew awake me from this ghost-fed 

stew you cannot I am all alone and you are sick suburban home and sixty and you haven’t 

asked what it feels like lying in the grass, to know. 

Oh Father it was terrible. But the cocktails the ghouls were serving really hit the spot. Is 

it time for another Oxycontin now? 

Author bio: Katy Lasell is a fiction writer and poet based in New York. 

47

Kelly 2 

By R. Bremner 

In the psychedelic sea, Alice Long is still my favorite girlfriend, so I’m 

going to wave at 200 South La Brea, where you take me for rides. The 

girl with the Joey Ramone tattoo may have pretty little angel eyes, but 

she dreams of dark darkness and breaks the news that is so fine to the 

“in” crowd who don’t call my name when I’m feeling rubber biscuits. 

When will I be your man? When you’re no good and wear swinging 

blue jeans and have no action on mocking bird hill. You make me feel 

like that’s not the way to Bogart me on my best days in the fraternity of 

man. Mission bells rang on tomorrow’s yesterday for the wild Irish roses 

who were fanatics waving their freak flag and driving Cadillacs into 

Southern culture on the skids. The bullet proof lovers ate some grass 

roots and bad seeds which gave them self-defeating blues and Juliette 

seizures. The tremor dolls went to crown court to tell the frogman he 

ain’t got no home. Vanity found that every night brings a new surprise, 

so she decided that she’d better run on moving sidewalks to the 

reverberations. 

(Bill Kelly is a disc jockey at radio Station WFMU.) 

Author bio: R. Bremner has evolved through metrical, Beat, surrealism, 

universalism, and metrical again to his current obsession with 

absurdism. 

48

what happens follows logically 

by Tara Roder 

to be honest it’s the kind of place where moth wings beat fervently against your face. 

where you call me sugar and i recoil. 

judge judy is deus ex machina, dropping accusations of indolence like they’re going out 

of style. 

there are synonyms for usually. also wasps’ nests. a strange predilection for 50s 

crooners. 

this lady said her sister was a female doogie howser but we didn’t really believe 

her. (someone somewhere is thinking about my frame, my wrists.) 

by the river i contemplate water rats and solemnly summon melanie klein to interpret the 

color of cars. then the florist’s nephew arrives with a delivery—a box of hilariously 

unintended consequences. 

Author bio: Tara Roeder is the author of two chapbooks, Maritime and (all the things 

you're not). Her work has appeared in venues including The Bombay Gin, Hobart, 

Otoliths, DOGZPLOT, and MonkeyBicycle. She's an Associate Professor of Writing 

Studies in New York City. 

49

Two Poems By George Held 

Author bio: George Held keeps a low profile in NYC, though his poems, stories, and 

book reviews appear fairly often in print and online. 

What Difference? 

(After Robert Frost) 

Three roads in a wood converged 

and I took the one least trod. 

Now I wonder, has that 

made any fucking difference? 

While Waiting 

In the plastic customers’ lounge 

at my car dealer’s, the TV blares 

The Price Is Right while the sporty 

woman across from me reads 

a book by Donald Trump, 

Xmas lights blink “Welcome,” 

and refugees wait endlessly for 

permission to enter the promised land. 

50

TWO POEMS by R. Riekki 

Author bio: Riekki has been a finalist for several screenplay competitions; an 

abbreviated list includes the Beverly Hills Screenplay Contest, Crimson Screen Horror 

Film Fest, Fantasmagorical Film Festival, The International Horror Hotel Film Festival, 

Marquee Lights Competition, Terror Film Festival, Cannes Screenplay Contest, and 

many more. 

The Pledge of Allegiant 

(Starring Shailene Woodley) 

I Pledge Allegiance to my rag and the Banana Republic for 

which we stand, one inflation, divisible, with Liberty University 

and Justice: Tween Clothing & Fashion for Girls for all. 

At a signal from the Dictator, the cleaners, in odored rank, hands 

on mops, deface the floor. Another signal is given: every cleaner 

gives the rag a paramilitary salute of right arm straightened and 

inclined upwards with the hand open and palm down. Standing 

thus, all repeat together, auf Deutsch, slowly, Trumpily, “I 

Pledge allegiance to my rag and the Banana Republic for which 

we stand, one inflation, divisible, with Liberty University and 

Justice: Tween Clothing & Fashion for Girls for all.” At the 

words “to my rag,” the right hand goes to the floor, gracefully, 

palm palming Palmolive with the rag and remains in this gesture 

‘till the end of suffrage, whereupon all hands with Allstate 

immediately drop to their suicide. 

51

I Look White Even Though I’m Not White But You Will 

Make Me White But I’m Not 100% White Because No One 

is 100% White Around Here But We Pretend That the 

Quarters in Us that are Indigenous Can Be Turned into 

Dollars for Silence 

ears 

going blind 

head like wax 

kid in class saying, “if you only knew what science has done to me” 

the mercy of ravens 

I’ve been colonized so deeply that I can feel it in my colon 

once upon a midnight false binary 

I overheard the conversation where the woman was saying “the liberals made Trump by 

not including poor whites, as if they’re bathed in white privilege and not bathed in 

suffocation” 

the hymns of shadows 

the hers in shadows 

the stagnant stag 

I striped to get my way through the striped collage where I found out that college meant 

nothing 

but stripping me of any chance to be free of debt 

the uber-Christian girl tells me she will always love Jesus more than me 

the rent is eating my bones 

the landlord knows he is Lord, knows he is Land (Land = Lord, Lord = Land) 

the landlord knows he is Lord, knows he is Land (people - money, people - freedom) 

52

the rent is eating my bones 

the Christian pastor tells me I am a little boy 

I stopped to bleed and ended up in the blood jobs with my blood wages and I’ve gotten 

home several times to find blood on my clothes (non-fiction) 

Nancy is pregnant—we call her preg-nancy—she says she can’t keep it—she says she 

can’t lose it. 

the hours of violence 

the hims of violence 

I underheard any conversations where in the end everything you ever owned would be 

sold for the medical bills, bulls, kills 

once upon a midday dreary we realized we were eating our lunch in our cubicles because 

they were firing anyone who tried to breathe 

I’ve been colonized so deeply that I can’t even type a ; without feeling sick to my guts 

the mercy of ravens 

kid in class saying “they would have killed us a hundred years ago” 

heart like an ax 

going deaf 

eyes 

53

TWO COLLAGES By BOB HEMAN 

56

57

Little Desert Flower 

By Michael Lee Johnson 

Out of this poem 

grows a little desert flower. 

it is blue sorrow 

it waits for your return. 

You escape so you must from me 

refuge, folded, wrapped in cool spring rain leavesavoiding 

July, August heat. 

South wind hell-fire burns memories within you, 

branded I tattoo you, leave my mark, 

in rose barren fields fueled with burned and desert stubble. 

Yet I wait here, a loyal believer throat raw in thirst. 

I wrest thunder gods gathering ritual-prayer rain. 

It is lonely here grit, tears rub my eyes without relief. 

Yet I catch myself loafing away in the wind waiting fate 

to whisper those tiny messages 

writer of this storm welded wings, 

I go unnoticed but the burned eyes of red-tailed hawk 

pinch of hope, sheltered by the doves. 

I tip a toast to quench your thirst, 

one shot of Tequila my little, purple, desert flower. 

Author bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the 

Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, 

publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in 

Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 915 small press 

magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. His website is: 

http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost 

American: From Exile to Freedom, several chapbooks of poetry, 

including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and 

Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 101 poetry videos on YouTube 

as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos . Michael 

Lee Johnson was nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 & 

Best of the Net 2016. He is also the editor/publisher of anthology, 

Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow. 

54

Went Over To Poe’s Place 

By Frank Grigonis 

He was tipping one back 

as usual, one of his tooyoung 

cousins, I mean. So 

in the moment he didn’t 

hear me ask if he wanted a 

beer. Then this singular 

squeak assailed my ears, 

which turned out to be a 

skinny black cat pushing 

open the chamber door. 

“Can’t you see that I am 

presently engaged?” 

implored Poe, his eyes 

rolling into the black 

caverns of tragical affection. 

But by now the black cat 

was rubbing his knobby 

spine against my shivering 

shin, so I didn’t say a 

thing but instead watched 

with horror as Poe’s 

cousin transformed into a 

250 pound Wal-Mart 

shopper fairly covered 

with raven tattoos. “What 

can it mean!?” I screamed 

to Edvard Munch who was 

busy painting something on 

the sanguine’s shopper’s 

ever-widening thigh. “Never 

mind that!” shrieked the cat 

with eyes wide like empty 

saucers, “Just get me to a 

shelter before he kills me 

with one of those sordid 

stories!” 

Author bio: Frank Grigonis writes poetry and fiction. He likes Rimbaud and cats, 

not in that order. He can be reached at fehu9@netzero.net. 

55

Americon! 

By John Pursch 

She lives in triplicate, necessitated by inculcated confessorial profession of fratricide, 

flint lock philanthropy, and hyperbolic wherewithal, backed by sullied fracas paramours 

in silly focus ferry flares. Sapped guys capsize clear-cut blueblood chorus lines in 

limping lineage of post-Gallic searchlight comeuppance. Interrupted suppository rooks 

name culled cockadoodle yank-off bleep-cheeky felt-up haddock after goopy clock-drip 

bra lines. Oodles of concupiscent candy keep it up, up, and a sway bar, seeping sandy 

band saw, suppurating myopian referees from scanty panty parity to soaking sigh in 

vanity, a dove, a fluted pane. 

“My queen, my dome, my pineal Glock, my hock in spiel in spigot Gott in bitter pull of 

jerky water travesty above imputed claims! In surgery, my purging blahs, clods spat their 

big fat ugly putrescent fateful eyes on fleas of measly old identity on precious little 

specious me!” our Lady of Liposuction slobbers incontinent, buttocks in sawmill 

hammock from Static Sighland to the Jerky Spore to Madhatter, Lung Island, Scuppered 

Your Nuke, Conned Ectoplasmic Electorate, soaking handball planetoid to bugged 

elusive shame. 

“Americon! Americon! Cod fished out of Noflounderland and Nan Stuckitinher Sound 

till the geriatric cherubim canoe wobble wiggle wigwam wax within that wirehair 

wigging way-way Willhe Wonkher with a winking one-eyed Tyrannosaurus Regulated 

Sextant scorecard seminarian?” she conch ludes, awning ankh and honoring some 

beautifully titular honey-haired honky slunk café denizen. 

Only her chair or dresser drawers on floorboard footman foppish watch fob figurine of 

fulminating foxtrot folksy flip-phone clones are sure for surety forlorn forgone forsooth 

forelocks foreknowledge fornicating for nothing in the shaven haven of our disheveled 

craving yardarm. 

Now she has resettled on ball-peen paltry pantry starch in commodious promissory 

quotes, remonstrated penetration, dung a dimpled sum of addenda, pudenda, appendages, 

crapped intensity, influenza, humped tea clumpy flimsy flocked flop pharmaceutical 

philately, smooches swollen to dimly dozen dozer doubt, depilatory doughboy snowball 

numb nuts bumblebees, brand-news futile ipso noumena. 

Author bio: John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, 

his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is 

available in paperback at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. His pi-related 

experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s 

@johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook. 

58

THE DAY DAVID BOWIE DIED 

By Kurt Kline 

Gone long gone 

in the tall corn like a smart rooster 

a visitor out of time & that’s 

the name of that tune. Nobody’s 

gonna make a deal up on Hippy Hill 

this afternoon & the whirlwind heaves 

a heavy sigh as reaching into its bag of tricks 

pulls out a mask of a mask 

forming SUPERCALIFRAGILISTIC 

combing through yr hair 

o haven’t we played this rubber before? 

I saw them all assembling there 

m o l e c u l a r p l a s t i c i t y 

forming contiguous pocket of gravity 

this feverish pituitary gland 

optic nerve of the imagination 

at 12:34 AM Friday the day 

the oscilloscope started to writhe 

wasn‘t ALL THAT EXPIALIDOCIOUS 

on a Saturday night. Moonage daydream 

in a parking lot. When you agreed 

Christmas could’ve fallen within 

any 24 hour period no calling 

at %:00 AM which used to be 

the valor we shared: “LOOK OUT 

YOU ROCK’N’ROLLERS!” 

I guess this is a different California 

from the one in which Zorro flourished 

lazy midsummer night fanning butterfly wings 

to cool the smoke of moonrattles 

intrinsic luminosity in the time it takes to blink 

12:58 EVEN accounting 

daylight saving’s time 

international dateline 

It’s still Christmas 

WHERE YOU Are ISN’T’T? 

1::00 AM now I guess the past never 

happened.,.. & there’ll never be 

Another midsummer night’s dream 

Anyway anymore than can be believed! 

59

Because i NEVER WRITE FROM MEMORY 

But only FROM ACTUALITY 

The world of hearing 

sounds in one’s mind 

1:34 A.M. & I love you 

but you are the furthest thing from 

going out of my mind. There are spots 

before my eyes Time ghosts 

mixed with heavier liqueur— 

grillage of flame up down directionless 

a future you’d rather not forget 

drops you somewhere on the side 

of the motorway No need for long 

farewells. Meet you by the turnstyle 

Jean Genie never say goodbye. 

You’ll be coming back 

in a little while— 

or that’s not a meteorite I see tonight 

zigzagging stardust across the sky. 

Author bio: Kurt Cline is Associate Professor of English and World Comparative 

Literature, National Taipei University of Technology. His full-length book of poetry, 

Voyage to the Sun, was published by Boston Poet Press in 2008. Five 2 One Magazine 

named him National Poetry Month Poet of the day, April 26, 2016. Poems and stories 

have appeared in BlazeVOX; Danse Macabre; Mission at 10th; Wilderness House 

Literary Review; HuesoLoco; Apocrypha and Abstractions; Black Scat; and Clockwise 

Cat. Scholarly articles have appeared in Glimpse; Anthropology of Consciousness; 

Concentric; Beatdom Literary Journal; and Comparative Civilizations and Cultures. Cline 

is also a performance artist, theatrical magician and singer-songwriter. His album Alien 

Shoe was produced by 12 Studio in 2013. 

60

Two Poems 

By Patrick Hurley 

61

Author bio: Patrick Hurley wasted several years in grad school … now he’s a bartender. 

He once wrote a book on Thomas Pynchon. For one year, he tricked a local paper into 

reimbursing him for drinks by writing a cocktail column for them. Mostly he reads and 

writes and tries to figure out how to survive without working a stupid job. 

62

Two Poems 

By Marie C Lecrivain 

Author bio: Marie C Lecrivain is the executive editor/publisher of poeticdiversity: the 

litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and a writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her 

prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including: 

Edgar Allen Poetry Journal, The Los Angeles Review, Nonbinary Review, The Poetry 

Salzburg Review, Red Fez, Spillway, Orbis, A New Ulster, and others. She's the author of 

several volumes of poetry and fiction, including Philemon's Gambit (© 2016 

International Word Bank Press), which is available on Amazon.com. 

Nigredo 2017-2020 

Go, into the shadow. We’re all headed 

down the dark path now, with eyes wide open 

and hands emptied of promise. The dreaded 

monsters may - or may not - deem to drop in 

on your dreams, the last glimmers of a time 

when all was possible, and arrogance 

wore a sneering smile. In the black grime 

is where we will claim the inheritance 

of our true selves, through battle and harsh 

truths we must embrace, along with the fact 

that each of us is mired in the marsh 

of shame for eschewing our kin. To act 

otherwise brings about insanity. 

Use this time to unite humanity. 

To the Women of America 

I. 

I would love to say 

when the smoke has cleared 

and the tears have washed 

the ashes from my eyes 

that it will be okay. 

We can begin again 

and the reward is worth 

the commitment to the long game. 

63

But I have to look at the corpse 

of my ego, dashed upon the rocks 

of what is now life as we know it. 

I have to ask, “Where the fuck was I 

and why didn't I listen 

to the voice in the silence 

that whispered the warning, 

‘Change is the landlord 

of this corner you occupy 

in the universe. 

Payment is due - 

and you’re arrears’.” 

Where do I go 

when I have nothing left 

when my hopes and dreams 

were undercut by my hubris? 

And who the fuck 

am I now? 

!!. 

This morning, I spoke to a young woman 

who’s first words were. “I feel sad…” 

And with a response caught 

in my throat, and with management 

listening in for quality assurance 

I laughed and said 

“I put on my big girl pants, 

so I know how you feel, “ 

and turned the conversation 

to other matters, knowing now, 

for the first time ever 

I have an inkling of how she feels; 

a muslim woman, 

and 

a gnostic woman, 

64

two second class citizens 

not part of the inner circle. 

But I can’t let her know that 

as I’m on the clock 

and I’ve got to keep going. 

III 

Every woman I talk to 

has the same tense tone 

engendered by vocal cords 

paralysed by that atavistic fear 

of knowing that something 

or someone is after you, 

that someone might grab you 

and give you a beatdown 

like a cow getting poleaxed 

before the slaughter. 

And none of us will commit; 

to congregate is unseemly, 

to mention empowerment 

a crime. My despair grows 

by the hour, as words I used 

to take pride in are now 

crushed in the silence. 

By 3 pm I wish - O.. 

I wish, for a brief second, 

I’d been born a man. 

IV 

What does it mean 

to be a woman in America? 

What has it ever meant 

to try to be equal 

In the land of opportunity 

and greed, oppression 

65

and pain, distraction 

and commerce? 


to be a young girl 

watching a sea of red hats 

on television, while her 

mother cries for her future? 


to be a woman 

who knows nothing 

except to be defined 

by her ties to a man, 

and who is afraid of women 

who don’t willingly wear 

the shackles she’s embraced? 


for the helpers, and the doers, 

the CEOS and CNAs? 

What will we do 

now that a long shadow 

has been cast over our light? 

V. 

I wish I could say 

everything will be okay, 

but I don’t have a line 

on the future. 

I no longer believe 

in tomorrow… 

at least, 

not yet. 

66

King of Batons 

By Adam Scharf 

Fireworks are office buildings exploding before male clerk gets to first desk. 

Burning alive, save the Picasso over the child. 

You are an animal playing a role. 

You don’t know when the ending is, or how cold you are, 

who gave the first horse to man. 

They have removed seats from airplanes, replaced them with department stores. 

We shop while complaining about children who cry, 

relieved because it's easier having sex in fitting rooms. 

Who tamed the first horse? 

Sold the first ticket. 

Piled everyone into theme parks convincing us we prefer to be entertained by mice. 

Pilgrims arrived from foreign countries, even from Greece where there have always been 

ugly gods. 

Towers crashed by planes, tragedy on commemorative plates, we know how to make a 

fortune. 

Before she opened the box Pandora was created to punish man, men were happy before 

women. 

America was happy before Bikini Atoll, before Eve ate a fucking apple. 

The ending is when she no longer needs to be kissed on the cheek, 

when the doctor steals your organs out right, when you aren't given a receipt. 

Women end up being what saves us. 

Eve is a hero who justified America for you to sleep at night. 

I can hardly wait to watch children grow up and get divorced and watch game shows, 

to delegate killing so they can eat a hamburger, to wear clothes made by poor people. 

Being sick is profitable because someone needs a yacht from Grandpa’s disease, this rain. 

All this rain. 

The flood that is happening we only buy bigger boats. 

No one swimming downward searching for a drain. 

Most drown, float on debris, the lifeboats are taken. Hard to build in all this water. 

We hear you from the crow's nest yelling, “Drowning people are lazy!” 

Aren’t they? Swimming to your boat as we speak, calling for shipwreck. 

You are expecting us to tear holes at the bottom, only we’ve set fire at the top. Trickles 

down. 

This flood is what saves you from burning, makes you a swimmer, come up for air. 

You save the Picasso as a flotation device, I call you lazy. 

You yell for drain to be pulled, an orchestra playing in rain. We’d rather drown. 

Author bio: Adam Scharf was born and raised in utica NY. He now lives in orlando 

Florida as a writer and professional improviser. He's at work on his first novel. 

67

69

Tripsis By Timothy Adams 

Fire lame like tirerubber that yearns for the moon to fall and the darkness of the night to 

cover with cotton warmth the empty street patterns – pristine diodes that breath are 

behind the bricks, and sculptures turn on circles beside them as he appeared 

- 

i collect wicks, 

moments of wicking my hair 

with sticky lemon balms, 

‘mildew’ and ‘Methuselah’, 

confused ancient writings, 

like Cicero ingesting magic mushrooms and watching the surf off of Thessaloniki, 

or early recorded masonic rites, these thousand-year ceremonies on a fuzzy metal plate, 

spinning and spinning in my closet – 

like the old tire marks on my walls, 

and beer cans stuck to the ceilings, 

every year of u.s. army playing cards in crooked stacks, 

existential philosophy books partially burned in a haphazard lawn fire 

– 

crazed madcap, a diamond in the rough rust ring ringing, wrung and scraped tongue 

rashly raw against muscly asphalt, the sanguine carpet of flesh looked a ghostly shell of 

itself, so rouge and pastel-vibrant but no whole 

with simultaneous scripts reading out themselves, out the scenes beams ballet-dance, 

conquerer of limb, he ballet-flexes his way through the structures, until the wind soaks 

his hair, and the waves go to cloud-dust 

Author bio: Timothy is a playwright, poet & performer living and working in New 

Orleans. He is interested in what can be gleamed from many different objects their 

patterns - patterns but also discord and chaos and how all those concepts intersect. He 

wonders sometimes if flying is pleasant birds and other winged creatures or is it 

considered a chore? Investigations of this and other varieties can be found on 

Nationtimesyndrome.com. 

68

Heart Architecture 

By Jordan A. Y. Smith 

this is heart architecture 

lines suggesting gestures 

of dyspeptic jesters 

[Chorus of heartitects] 


 

heart architecture 

 


 

defective perfection 

 

[shinz" no k"ji = heart construction] 

[bimb" no M"shi = impov’rished Mencius] 

[jink" no r"shi = artificial old priest] 

[minp" no d"ki = civil code palpitation] 

[verse of conception through dance commands] 

since the moment conceived 

I was raised to believe 

that peace meant keeping nothing 

up your sleeve but the breeze 

indebted to the ease with which 

I waltz through the world 

pausing between dips 

and serendipitous twirls 

Entered the world Eurocentric 

cause what else could I be? 

blind to some destiny 

of ph.d. degree 

but by the Mirror Stage 

a new me had spawned 

without me cracking any covers 

of Ponty or Lacan 

like a bomb, I rocked on 

just as calm as the king 

don’t give a damn if Fanon 

bangs Manon of the Spring 

so I’m not going to walk 

70

down the streets and preach 

about migrants like a 

national security breach 

about priests or police 

as the scapegoat sorority 

about the ceding of hegemony 

to citizen minorities 

more to me than meets the eye 

I’m robots in the sky 

and when Run says “dance” 

I. do. not. die. 



 


 


 


 





[verse of ignorance through hellfire] 

with astounding powers of ignorance 

stay blind to the metaphysics 

exquisite exchanges 

amorous little visits 

is it a need for apology 

that keeps me in line at this clinic? 

or craftsman finish in the 

Foucauldian molding of limits? 

(anyway) I crave these little runarounds, 

keep a notebook on hand 

so while you’re wasting my life 

I stay in tune with the plan 

What plan?? 

the plan man follows best in the sun 

to divest us of the impetus 

for the vest and the gun 

soon as vespers is done 

then the matins begins with 

that fat I spat in Latin 

71

lapsed back into English 

 

 

 

 

 

but I mean that’s just my opinion 

a handful of dust 

with fairy godfather blessings 

shavings of rust 

been saving this crush 

for just such a flood 

gate eruption gush suction 

out corruption via the bucking 

buckaroo booyeah 

kama sutra hoopla 

holy trinity whistling 

some trippy zippity doodah 

alluded to caskets 

baskets full of fire 

and pitchforks 

for my cherubic little choir 



 


 


 


 





[verse of corpus through cosmos] 

body hermeneutics: 

verbs curve, eyes fail 

but fingers trace trails 

across corporeal braille 

not sorry, your grail 

so holy I’m guacamole 

your hips can play ships 

I’m a boy with toys only 

no land lubbers, rubbers 

72

of the rabbit foot charms 

a feminine so enveloping 

I have to put arms 

round your skeleton dressing 

it’s a labor of love 

for the Gods up above 

when the push is for shove 

governor, ditchdigger, 

thinker, teacher between 

lady earth spinning and 

we’re keeping her green 

with an octave coupler 

favelas on Babylon 

beach blanket bingo 

a la Funicello and Avalon 

Gravitron, smashed 

great excuse to get close 

On a subatomic comet 

overdosing with hope 

[Chorus of Heartitects] 


 


 


 


 





With the Credits: 

Why should I let these people into my heart, 

And take ‘em around for a tour? 

So they can sit around sipping their syrupy gossip 

And bitch about the décor? 

Sure! 

Author bio: Jordan A. Y. Smith is a poet/translator/professor resident in Tokyo. His 

poetic works have been published in Tokyo Poetry Journal, Genre, Random Agenda, and 

elsewhere, and his translations of Japanese poetry have appeared in Poetry Review, 

Connotations Press, Poetry Kanto, Tokyo Poetry Journal, etc., and in anthologies 

published by New Directions and Josai University Press. 

73

A Prayer in Jocularities 

by A.S. Coomer 

Hiccup, tick tock, lip locked, zipper’s stuck. 

Best get the matches, the fuse’s busted. 

Quick fix, get blitzed, common sense. 

Ain’t a candle left in this rattrap sloth track. 

Turned milk, guilt trip, auto-drip, medicinal spit cherry pits. 

Flashlight’s cracked, batteries corroded decades ago. 

Dust mounds, loud mouths, storm clouds. 

It ain’t been this dark in years. 

Foregone, bygone, rust-dusted, trash-crusted forgotten lawn, 

without the slightest sight of an end to the goddamn dawn. 

Fuck it, kick the bucket, lose the locket, quit the sprocket, 

let’s go on to bed. 

Author bio: A.S. Coomer is a native Kentuckian serving out a 

purgatorial existence somewhere in the Midwest. His work has 

appeared in over thirty publications. He’s got a handful of novels 

that need good homes. You can find him at 

www.ascoomer.wordpress.com. He also runs a “record label” for 

poetry: www.lostlonggoneforgottenrecords.wordpress.com. 

74

Cheshire 

By Zara Hanif 

I would like a boyfriend 

I’m not sure where you find one 

Can I go to a superstore? You know, the ones 

Where you can get cheap clothes and everyday groceries 

I’ll go up to the customer service clerk and ask 

“I’d like a boyfriend please; can you tell me which aisle?” 

The clerk will wrinkle her tiny nose and say 

“You need to be more specific.” 

I will purse my lips and tap my cheek 

Let me think, what kind, it’s so hard 

Like picking the right ice cream 

Too many good flavors 

I’ll say, “Well, 

I’d like someone who is proficiently sane, 

You see, I found most of my marbles, I swear, I’m just 

Missing maybe three, four, sixteen,” I’ll smile at my joke, and 

Her eyes will narrow with impatience, while she gestures for me to hurry. 

“Basically, he needs to carry the sanity of our relationship.” 

She’ll stare at me for a bit, then say 

“You need to be specific, like what will he look like?” 

Looks, ah yes, society sanctioned, superficial judging and degradation 

I’d like Jeff Goldblum, Daniel Radcliff, and Alan Rickman all chopped up, 

And served to me in a frappe with a cherry on top, but I can’t say that ‘cause 

I have no idea what that would look like, and I don’t want my decision based on 

looks 

So I say 

“A tall/short, thin/fat, male, oh but if it turns out to be a girl, 

And if I’ve already fallen in love, I’ll probably keep her. Oh and fill- 

-In-the-blank race, and bright/dark eyes, oh he must, has got to be, 

Semi attractive.” 

She’ll stare again, and frown, 

“I need something to go on here.” 

I’ll smile wide, my best Cheshire cat imitation (my stripes are on the inside), 

“The thing that is of the upmost importance is most certainly, 

His personality.” 

75

“Which is?” She’ll sound impatient, but I’ll 

Know that she is really enjoying my eccentricity 

“He needs half of my mine, you see, he cannot be 

Too much like me, if I had too much of me I’d kill myself 

But he can’t be too different, I’d lose interest immediately. 

He needs the good half, the part of me I love, and I will 

Have the parts of him he loves, so that together we are, 

Something never lonely, but instead content.” 

For the first the time in our conversation 

The clerk has warm, Mediterranean blue eyes 

She begins pressing buttons, and the register gets 

Smokey, I hear static, and see electrical sparks flash and surge 

Finally, though, the receipt shoots high into the air, and flutters 

Into my hands, and the magical wisdom of the universe reads 

“There’s an animal shelter down the road, so go get a cat. Get two.” 

I tip my imaginary hat 

To the shocked clerk trying to fix 

The unraveling machine, as I stroll out 

Deciding to name them ‘Cheshire’ and ‘Jeff Goldblum.’ 

Author bio: Zara Hanif is an Engish/Creative Writing major at Rhode Island College. 

She has been published in her College's lit mag Shoreline this year as well. She is 

currently dating a short/tall, thin/fat male, with dark/light skin, and is very content. 

76

The Ghost of Plato By Greg Wallace 

Artist bio: Gregory Autry Wallace is a poet, painter and collagist living in San Francisco. He 

studied English, World and Comparative Literature, and Creative Writing at San Francisco State 

University. His poetry and collages have appeared in Athena Incognito, Black Scat Review, 

BlazeVox, Danse Macabre,Clockwise Cat and Five 2 One. His paintings, collages and 

assemblages have appeared in juried art shows. 

27

The Party 

By Thom Young 

the party 

started with guns in their 

mouths 

and a nice baby's breath 

arrangement 

that seemed to play off her 

dress 

the vows said 

heard by those with knives 

in their eyes and a one way 

ticket 

when the part came to kiss 

the bride 

the Mothership 

arrived with a light 

they'd never known or seen 

there's no love in Roswell 

there's no love 

in her eyes anymore. 

Author bio: Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His last poetry 

collection A Little Black Dress Called Madness hit #1 Poetry in 

Germany. He is a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee and his work 

appears in over a hundred literary journals. 

77

Two POEMS 

By Marcia Arrieta 

hardly 

it was the day she decided to sleep in (9 am ) & crashed into the dictionary 

instead 

where other people’s lives became fractions she needed to assemble into a 

whole 

but the rain came & the boxes almost emptied needed to be broken down 

while others still needed to be filled 

arc light synchronicity 

hat pins & fishing poles a pink star insulate isolate the book has gotten lost 

dreams 

of houses with many rooms shape shift eagles bears we board the train outer 

hebrides inner stoic salvage renovation revelation the angel’s wings the 

bullet holes on main street we seek shelter 

Author bio: Marcia Arrieta work appears in Fourteen 

Hills, Of/with, Wicked Alice, Moss Trill, Eratio, Posit, Catch & Release, 

Melusine, Web Conjunctions, and Great Weather for Media, among 

others. The author of two poetry books: archipelago 

counterpoint (BlazeVOX 2015) and triskelion, tiger moth, tangram, 

thyme (Otoliths 2011), she edits and publishes Indefinite Space, a poetry/art 

journal. 

78

jesus love me 

by Jenean Gilstrap 

wednesday’s child 

is full of woe 

or so it’s said 

‘n that’s been 

my cross to bear 

but sometimes it seem 

like i got me a twin 

jesus loves me 

you know them twins 

the ones what live inside 

the you of you 

‘n this’un live 

deep down inside 

the me of me 

like she even wear my own skin 

this i know 

‘n she do all them 

terrible thangs 

goin’ to them bars 

for a dance ‘n a drink 

then i git the blame 

‘n that’s a downright dirty shame 

cause i ain’t neva’ even had no sloe gin 

for the bible 

‘n she go outside ‘n play 

in the back seat’a them cadillacs 

but she ain’t doin’ nothin’ 

them men ain’t doin’ 

havin’ a little fun 

lookin’ for love 

in all them wrong places 

tells me so 

sometime i can’t even tell 

where she begin ‘n i end 

79

or i end ‘n she begin 

this twin’a mine 

but come daylight 

it come to be crystal clear 

i be her and she be me 

little ones to him belong 

now i’ll tell you ‘bout me 

i been scooped up 

throwed down 

rolled over 

‘n started all over agin 

can’t keep up for keepin’ down 

in the devil’s den 

they are weak 

so i’m tryin’ to rid myself 

of all them sins ‘n my evil twin 

‘n i went on down 

to the first baptist church 

holy bible in my hand 

but they told me go 

‘n be born agin 

but he is strong 

now i didn’t wanna be borned 

another single time 

cause they ain’t no tellin’ 

what i might find 

deep down inside 

the me of me this time 

why they might be two more twins 

yes jesus loves me 

so i set myself down 

‘n had a little talk 

just me ‘n my evil twin 

‘n it seem that ole 

path of the straight ‘n narrow 

just ain’t our cuppa tea 

so we gonna’ party till i don’t know when 

80

yes jesus loves me 

gonna go on down to the corner bar 

have a little drink ‘n a dance or two 

then a little backseat romance 

‘n when i git done 

jest like always 

jesus’ll be right there 

cause he love us 

no matter what we done 

or where we done been 

the bible tells me so 

jesus? 

jesus? 

jesus! jesus! 

where you at? 

just come on back 

‘n i’ll be born agin 

jesus jesus 

you know what i done 

‘n you know where i done been 

don’t leave me now 

in this devil’s den 

jesus? 

jesus! 

where you at? 

Author bio: Jenean Gilstrap is the author of two books of poetry, Gypsy Woman Words 

[2014] and Words Unspoken [2013], and is a featured poet/artist at Yareah Magazine and 

at Plum Tree Books. Her poetry has been widely published in numerous literary journals 

and she has been invited to read her work at several international poetry festivals. A 

number of her poems have been narrated, as well as lyrically arranged and recorded by 

the accomplished Aindre’ Reece-Sheerin, vocalist/musician. She resides in Shreveport, 

Louisiana, but divides her time between there and the East coast as she completes her 

third book of poetry, Willful Word She and her work may be found at: 

https://www.facebook.com/jenean.gilstrap, http://www.yareah.com/author/jenean-cgilstrap/,https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9WQqmfDDKNkAR5A8nt9_ZA, 

https://www.linkedin.com/profile/edit?trk=nav_responsive_sub_nav_edit_profile, 

http://thegypsyonwordsunspoken.blogspot.com/. 

81

Rummult Stars 

By Jay Jurisich 

typhoid anemia jaundice carpel tunnels 

busted vacant bronze busts rusted tunics 

gold endive lost greek diving box 

relics in satchels delivered by dogs 

a fresh piece of cod 

dragged over coals of lonely grease 

tansy asphodel sounds good what is it 

ricochet off the fortunate floor 

the general indigestion of harsh stoppages 

whistling freefaith lost times etcetera 

rains grace our old tunnels of grease 

but dont give a fig to the pineknob 

smallish things smelt and smited 

ribald color in all its raving gravity 

a fine local analgesic your sagebrush halls 

little or no chance or minimal chances of 

a dog or a bird or a birddog 

just sayin' 

the hostess' handyman 

went to town but there is no town 

the captain sent a belated postcard to the world 

humu post hamu bossd rimu poxo rummult 

waded in jeans and tossed to the sea 

she peeled her parsnip with care 

hot coals darkness knifeminds 

a bright lake of voices 

appropriately exhausted I dropped into floppery 

underjoyed nightshade mythdusted stars 

I thought they fought well their causes losing 

suburban american family room 1975 

all that remains of the remains 

up into skirts among boxes of old loneliness 

he denies all suspicions to the contrary 

sugarbelly in clown formation whispering 

but I can't make out the words being made 

Author bio: Jay Jurisich is a Berkeley, California based artist whose artwork and poetry explores 

the visual identity and conceptual nature of language. He is interested in whether language can be 

"used" in a way that is not conventionally communication, poetry, or logical, but inhabits or 

inspires a physical presence. W: http://www.jurisich.com/ 

82

Ginsberg 

By Amelia Leff 

Ginsberg I’ve given you nothing and now I’m all. 

Ginsberg one thousand two hundred and fifty dollar credit line February 27, 2016. 

I can’t lie to my own mind. 

Ginsberg when will you let your hair down? 

Go fuck yourself with your bald spot. 

I do feel good though don’t worry. 

I’ll write this poem till I’m in my wrong mind. 

Ginsberg when will you be demonic? 

When will you put on your pilfered halo? 

When will you break through the cold soil? 

When will you be worth the price of admission? 

Ginsberg why is your bank empty of eggs? 

Ginsberg when will you send Krishna to the Bronx? 

I’m salved by your reasoned reassurances. 

When can I go into the bookstore and take what I want with my B.A.? 

Ginsberg it’s you and I who are filled with tectonic faults not the next guy over. 

Your sutras are too little for me. 

You made me want to be a tax attorney. 

There must be some audit that can settle this arbitration. 

Everyone’s in Bushwick I don’t think they’ll leave it’s gentrifying. 

Are you being funny or is this some form of serious demonstration? 

I’m trying to jump off the cliff. 

I refuse to give up flying. 

Ginsberg stop smoking I don’t know what I’m doing. 

Ginsberg the oil barrels are falling. 

I haven’t touched a screen for seconds, everyday somebody fails to go on trial for murder. 

Ginsberg my loins buzz whenever I dream about the NRA. 

Ginsberg I used to be a shotgun son when I was an adult and I’m sorry. 

I smoke Bubba Kush every chance I get. 

I pace in my room for evenings to no end and search for the caves of the unknown. 

When I go to Times Square I get picked but never get pocked. 

My mind is scattered there’s going to be peace. 

You should have seen me shooting the breeze. 

My cat thinks I’m on the brink of self-discovery. 

I won’t read the Federalist Papers. 

I have personal dignitaries and blasé regrets. 

Ginsberg I still haven’t told you what you did to Reagan after he blew up that Russian in 

the closet. 

I’m addressing your third eye. 

Are you going to let your sexual life be run by The New Yorker? 

I masturbate to The New Yorker. 

83

I do it every week. 

Its cover scoffs at me every time I take back my tortoise-shelled sexuality. 

I masturbate to it in the attic of Robert F. Wagner Middle School. 

It’s always telling me about Syria and 8-bit steakhouses. Politicians are jokes. Painters 

are jokes. Everybody’s a joke 

but me. 

It occurs to me that I am Ginsberg. 

I'm gazing in the mirror again. 

America is falling from me. 

I haven’t got a turban’s chance. 

I’d better consider my identity politics. 

My identity politics consist of two left feet millions of take-backs an inexhaustible 

social network that goes 1400 

miles an hour and twenty-five-thousand charitable foundations. 

I say everything about my neo-Fate and the trillions of iotas living in my proposed 

policies that stop one stamp short 

of the front door. 

I have raised the desperate institution of overpriced education, pop political collectives 

are next to come. 

My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a straight rich white male. 

Ginsberg how can I sow the seeds in your infertile fields? 

I will continue like the Clintons my pantsuits are as fitting as Hillary’s more so they’re all 

different colors. 

Ginsberg I will buy your saxophones 10 pantsuits apiece a blue dress down on your 

rusted instrument. 

Ginsberg free Marshall Applewhite. 

Ginsberg save The Branch Davidians. 

Ginsberg Simon & Garfunkel must not die. 

Ginsberg I am the Anita Hill girl. 

Ginsberg when I was seven momma dragged me to the island paradise of Key Largo they 

sold us parrots an 

armful per feather a feather costs a seashell and the red tide was free everyone was sandstrewn 

and Buffett-ed about the whole experience it was all so privileged you have no 

idea how familial the vacation was in 1999 Humphrey Bogart was a real unashamed 

Democrat a grand lib-hard Lauren Bacall made me hard I once saw Bertie Higgins 

naked. 

Everybody must have been a high-profile lawyer. 

Ginsberg you don’t really want to help out. 

Ginsberg it’s them bad Blacks. 

Them Blacks them Blacks and them Muslims. And them Blacks. 

The Black wants to eat us alive. The Black’s power mad. He wants to take our women 

from out our kitchens. 

84

His wants to grab Manhattan. His needs a White Washington Post. His wants our Apple 

factories in China. 

His grassroots movements running our conscience. 

That too bad. Ugh. She makes Mexicans learn speak. She need cheap work Cholos. Hah. 

His make us feel 

like second-class natives. Help. 

Ginsberg this is such a joke. 

Ginsberg this is the impression I get from looking at the internet. 

Ginsberg isn’t this wrong? 

I just want to be myself. 

It’s true we say they have value yet treat them like Jim Crow Negros, I’m white and 

dissatisfied and want to 

do something about it. 

Ginsberg I’m putting my pale pen to the court house steps. 

Author bio: Amelia Leff has work published in Sediments Literary-Arts Journal and The 

Birch Gang Review. She graduated from Ohio Northern University in 2016 with a B.A. in 

creative writing. 

85

Three Photomanipulations 

By Erica Olson 

Artist bio: In addition to creating photo manipulation art, Erica Olson writes poetry and 

prose. Her work has been featured in Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senryu, 

haikuniverse, and The Voices Project (forthcoming). Erica lives in rural Montana. 

86

87

Ants 

By Judith Huang 

The first thing you notice about this place is the ants. Ants on the walls. Ants on the floor. 

Ants on the ceiling, between the crack between the lights. Ants in the kitchen, ants in the 

living room, ants in the bedroom. Ants on the flowers you pick. Ants on the cup you put 

down. Ants on the soles of your slippers. Ants, reddish brown, tiny as a fullstop with 

tinier feelers. Ants, in a line, bringing reinforcements. Ants. Ants. Ants. Ants. The everpresent 

soldiers of rot, of decay, of furor, of the ever-looming ever-present near-ubiquity 

of death. 

The death of an evening, the death of a week, the death of a year of Mondays through 

Sundays. The death of you, the death of me, the death of the forest, the death of the city. 

Ants, hailing the fact that everything’s rotting, quickly so quickly, in the fulsome decay 

of the tropical sun. 

Bury your grandma, and within a minute she’s a feast, of her eyes, her ears, her nose, her 

hair. Ants at her neck, ants at her throat, ants on her tongue, ants in her vagina, ants 

knocking at the unlockable door of her teeth. 

Ants move in and build a nest. They knock down and they build up. They are building 

museums one day, and catacombs the next. They are building MRT lines, they are 

building library skyscrapers, they are building roads that lead nowhere and everywhere at 

once. They are building shopping mall after shopping mall after shopping mall. They are 

building hipster coffee shops, they are building sky gardens, they are building infinity 

pools, they are building simulated high-tech break-neck metropolises, they are building 

luxury villas for the billionaires of the world to unite in the carefully constructed tax 

havens of the cove. Nothing stays, not the condos, not the semi-Ds, not the bungalows, 

not the HDBs, everything is one fecund, rotting, shifting, collapsing thing. 

Ants, everywhere ants, they are knocking down schools, they are tunneling through 

libraries, they are demolishing skyscrapers to make room for even higher towers of glass 

bridged by bridges of glass, they are unearthing your ancestors to build high-rises on the 

wounded exhumed lands of the dead. Oh restless land, heaving with the absolute biomass 

of ants, building your carefully commissioned babies new cribs in the sky, building a sky 

high fantasy eye to eye your sky wheeling by. 

Ants, putting together the labels on museums, the programs for concert pianists, legato in 

this era and staccato the next, determining which species of trees we will grow on the 

sides of the roads in robust and cacophonous harmony. 

Ants - laboring to the rhythm of the silent obese queen, issuing orders through pneumatic 

pipelines. Ants on my bed, feeding the gifted with royal jelly, keeping the drones in their 

amniotic sacs even as poets emerge in full chorus, on cue, in your third generation. 

Ah, ants, you have crawled over my crevices, you have exhumed my graves, you have 

stalked up my banana ghosts, wafting like frangipani hosts in the middle of a wet petal. 

Ah, ants, what have 

88

you done with my grandma, all you’ve left of her sweet old face is the brittle bone, the 

hole 

where her nose used to be, the hole where her lips used to be, the hole where the head of 

my father first emerged into this world, obliterating all love of and knowledge of history 

with the hard forgetting light of life. 

Ah yes, ants, tap dancing on the way to infinity on a closed loop with no possible 

feedback, ants, in the musical of the life of our founder, the founder of the colony, the 

founder of the party, the founder of every last drip and drop of our nether end, ants, 

saying nothing original, only a soup of letters to feed as pap to the embryos that hatch 

every year into batches of prepaid preconceived dots joined to dots joined to dots that are 

our offspring, that are our past and our present and our future, ants after ants after ants. 

Ah yes, we are ants, flying in pairs on the wings of love to an inevitable descent by the 

moon of the fluorescent light, waiting for our chance to replenish the genetic stock of the 

colony. We are ants, sniffing out the trail of opportunity, the chemical trail left by ants of 

yore. We are ants, never resting, questing continually on our equatorial island, stretching 

its form to the limits, building to the very edge of space. And when we have flown 

beyond even that, a satellite fixing its gaze upon the pinpoint of our origin, may we look 

back and gasp, and see on the swarming dot of our land the heaving mass of ants, ants, 

ants. 

Author bio: Judith Huang is a Singaporean writer, translator and editor currently living 

in China. A recipient of the Foyle Young Poet of the Year Award in 2001, 2003 and 2004, 

her writing has been published in journals and anthologies at home and abroad, including 

Prairie Schooner, Asia Literary Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Loreli 

China, Ceriph, LONTAR, Spittoon Magazine, Stylus and the Harvard Advocate. She 

graduated from Harvard University in 2010, and is a member of the Signet Society of 

Arts and Letters. Her online portfolio can be found at www.judithhuang.com. 

89

Two Poems 

By Bob Heman 

from THE SERPENT VARIATIONS: 

WHEN THE CARETAKER told them a joke they didn’t laugh. It was a 

side of her they had never seen before. When they first saw the serpent 

they thought it was just another one of her jests. They smiled when they 

took the fruit. It wasn’t until after a bite or two that they understood the 

joke was on them. 

IN THE GARDEN ALL THE ANIMALS wore the same face. In the 

garden the trees were all the same height. Each step they took left them in 

the same place. The word they spoke was the same word, over and over 

again. When the serpent arrived it had no head. Each of their heads in 

turn became the serpent’s head. None of them fit correctly until he wore 

the head of the woman. It was then she offered the other the fruit. 

Author bio: Bob Heman’s collages, cut-outs and drawings have been shown in a 

small two-man show at The Brooklyn Museum, in a one-man retrospective of his cutouts 

[participatory cut-out multiples on paper] at BACA’s Downtown Cultural 

Center, and in group shows in Toronto, Los Angeles and New York. His poems and 

prose poems have appeared in such diverse publications as Sentence, The Prose 

Poem, Caliban, Otoliths, Kayak, Hanging Loose, Center, and Artful Dodge, and are 

upcoming in New American Writing and Reaedr. 

90

Two Poems 

by Susan Cossette 

When Men Got Their Period 

When the male race awoke 

From unsettling testosterone dreams 

They all were menstruating, 

In confused unison. 

An army of hulking, hairy, clueless 

Menstruating men, 

Lacking hitherto unknown feminine supplies. 

Suddenly, that pronoun no longer applies— 

Tampons and sanitary pads 

Became valued commodities 

Traded on the free market. 

Midol exchanges sprang up 

On street corners, under scarlet tents. 

Riots and stampedes ensued. 

Male bodies consumed with cramps 

They founded foundations— 

To fund the latest scientific discoveries 

To stop the pain, the clotting, and the bloating. 

There were galas and telethons. 

They found empathy, 

In the hot pains of childbirth— 

Large feet suspended in cold stirrups, 

Naked, vulnerable from the waist down— 

Fish on a sterile butcher blocks, 

No longer thinking with their cocks. 

A new world order of clarity emerged 

Uncharted and myriad— 

And it all began when men got their period. 

91

Postmodern Times Square 

Lurking behind black tempered glass 

And cold steel beams that force their way, 

To an indifferent metallic sky— 

The faceless plead for their humanity, 

Not the execution of their dreams 

Or the strangling of fragile individuality. 

Trespassing the collective bond, 

The circuitry and computer screens 

Hijack their will. 

Binary code is the lexicon. 

No language, 

Just a forced, lethal stream 

Of zeroes and ones 

And hollow screams. 

The grey robot princess 

Waltzes numbly 

On the cracked, steaming asphault— 

Electrodes still affixed to her temples, 

Gossamer gown undone. 

Do not judge her. 

She is you. 

She is all of us. 

Editor’s Note: This poem originally appeared in Peggy Sue Messed Up . . . and 

other poems 

Author bio: Susan Cossette is the author of Peggy Sue Messed Up. . . and other 

poems. By day, she is Communications Director for Voices of September 11 th , a 

nonprofit that provides social work support services and programming for those 

impacted by terrorism and mass violence. By night, she prowls in search of the 

perfect open mic and cold glass of pinot grigio while wearing a tiara. More of her 

work may be found on her website: musepalace.wordpress.com. 

92

omgommgg omgg love 

by Anna Keeler 

When I talk about her my psychedelic vocabulary shrinks into minimalism, 

and I find that my tongue forgets its want for warp. It tumbles and savors 

those gasps between a mis-step and free fall. 

I take that time to find my footing in coherence. 

Because she is healthy and alive but with a polychromatic mind, the home of 

harvest moons and a heart full as starfruit skin. 

I sit by as she finds the hidden lupine of a jaded rainbow quartz and she 

holds onto each synonym I toss her way. Threading my words onto a soft 

string, she turns the most gargantuan terms into the most pure, unvarnished 

lotus. 

And I see that she’s as holographic as she is lovely, fighting through my 

polarity to keep a smile on her face. 

She’s a good person. And she’s teaching me how to do that. 

I let her bury my thesaurus in her back pocket. 

93

Looking toward the continuation of breath: 

X confrontations of what prophecy 

comprehends 

By Felino A. Soriano 

!if I choose to align my thinking with statistical data, and even with the language of my 

physicians’ overwhelming prognosis, I will not be alive within five years 

my choice is to alter the future of what grim expectations represent! 

breathe is 

what we do 

as in the ambulation coming 

later within a life of varied 

shades of vernacular’s 

unlimited interpretations 

Obstacles are meant to instill fear/ 

combinations of needing ongoing 

embraces from those that 

breathe warmth into our 

interaction. 

Numbers numb. South of 

devotion exists plans to 

persuade the mind 

to undergo physiological 

alterations. 

teaching isn’t necessary 

anxiety 

I’ve been here now for several days. 

Here 

as in a promise to die. Death is to Cancer’s hands as 

the pastel exterior to my fading home’s 

calefacient disposition. I breathe to survive near my 

daughter’s 

profound daddy, I want you to stay here forever. How/why, then, and thus, would 

I lie down 

near where the coldest section of my personal earth 

spins toward an anti-sun: unknowing what is needed to 

remain retain life in the language of fatherly 

devotion and 

articulation of 

my life’s enigmatic purpose? 

94

Purpose cannot be planned 

or renamed into 

a symptom of an event’s processed 

When death 

is a memory 

I now stack its syllables 

into 

a variant of totality’s 

configuration to predict 

what is already 

approaching. 

I know now what matters: 

seeing the age of my daughter multiply! 

forthcoming. 

approaching annual reminders of my marriage’s 

celebratory season! 

I will engage with elation 

whenever the body begins to continue, 

uninterrupted 

I remove myself 

now 

from a 

possible 

future. Self. Self 

disease meant to multiply 

and 

/or 

the bad 

into a suffocating 

role of making memory 

move toward 

a regretful insinuation. 

This is not a role I’ve 

fully shown my reflection! 

instead the rule of 

fractions finding 

peace within knowing solace 

in partial indication 

95

applies. 

To the song hearing me! 

thank you. For the piano that 

solos in the name of 

my own 

I will devote these 

words 

to parallel the spatial 

monologue 

maneuvering from the 

devoted and 

sacred identity attaching all art, and hands! 

all meaning of 

internal infatuation 

Hear me 

whomever allows 

language of grief 

to unravel into 

sounds of eventual 

healing, !I will 

become what my daughter 

needs: her accompaniment 

among the aisle awaiting 

the moment her name 

and attachment to my 

hand will change 

a form of a 

futurity self 

I! 

will not attempt to 

acclimate to the function my 

illness 

represents. 

Each clock shows their histories, 

their 

accurate 

futures needn’t unwind yet or 

in a 

time worth 

less when sleep is inattentive! 

In place 

I am the, or, 

I plan to listen 

or invent a jazz of breathing 

96

CUT-OUT 

By Nelly Sanchez 

Artist bio: For around ten years, Nelly Sanchez has been making cut-outs. She has been 

published in journals such as Sonic Boom, Sein und Werden, Le Pan des Muses. She has also 

participed in exhibitions : in 2012, at Paris -"Femmes/Hommes. Stéréotypes à l'oeuvre", galerie 

ABB (Belleville, Paris)-, in 2014 at Mestre (Italia) - "Quand saro più grande", La Casa della 

Renna- and Dieppe (Seine-Maritime, France) and in 2016 at Paris "Notre part de rêve". She 

also illustrated writings like La Falaise était nue (Bernard Baritaud), Venus in fur (Sader- 

Masoch). Her artwork: www.nellysanchez.fr/ 

EN ATTENDANT MIEUX 

127

a rhythm of healing conversations 

Demonstrations outside 

with 

wind 

waiting 

within cracks of sound 

and any surface needing to 

release what the eye 

cannot notice until a phase 

or object identifies its 

particular presence. 

Here, I am healing. 

Here is what 

breathing is and 

what it 

does is 

more so a reflection 

of my hand’s 

moving forward 

Crows, I 

cry their 

songs, 

songs ignite purpose within what my body 

is no longer steering toward 

the way each 

trumpet is a soul 

working within contextual affirmation 

each breath from which direction takes conception, 

my motive is to engulf each moment with 

a dialogical performance to intrigue each 

shadow or smile awaiting the presence 

of how beginning will never cease to discover 

I wander 

back 

from what has occurred, 

back 

beyond youth and the expatriation toward my current motivation. 

What’s 

noticed amid these daily fears I’ve 

97

grown from hand and cellular expansion 

!movement from what is weak 

loses its focus now 

as I attempt to dislocate the present from what tomorrow is supposed to portend 

Movement misleads me 

or 

within a certain light its 

angular 

language mirrors 

each of my tongues’ versions of speaking into an open mouth of screaming 

disillusion 

Sedentary Fathoms 

|section forty-five| 

Eyes of my child# 

their 

softened 

shapes 

shape what shares my 

devotion to her building language 

into 

each symmetry of 

onward living. 

When meeting (formal, familial introduction) 

my eyes 

dove toward a meaning 

I did 

not 

know or interpret 

with breathing# 

each subsequent meander of 

hold speak understand 

always leads to 

the connection of father/daughter 

devotion and 

reflexive 

protection# 


|section forty-six| 

98

My mood is 

more of itself each 

morning 

when 

a 

conference of crows 

collaborate on 

awakening 

in the flesh 

tone 

of each 

moment’s 

allegorical becoming# 

music I silence 

when the piano solos without intent 

as with an 

indecisive 

not 

contour of 

stone 

ending whole 

in the shallow portion 

of Monday’s early 

morning 


|section forty-seven| 

Violin me. 

Eviscerate the nausea 

water 

99

from each vein# 

proclaim dissipation in reverberating praise. 

Hiding 

isn’t the 

option 

I can hold within my 

colder hands. 

Night is chills 

is vomiting 

the airway is too stubborn and 

breath 

broken 

comprehend. My pulse 

to 

taps tabletops 

in rhythm-breaths mirroring 

light speaking 

of dialogical broken 

onto layers 

glass 


|section forty-eight| 

This daytime light 

is more so a focus 

on finding dead 

voices than hearing 

the dragonfly draw 

its alphabet of 

escape underneath 

the virtue of 

combined silence 

and introspective 

miracles 


|section forty-nine| 

Elongate in the 

name of 

100

paradigm 

elation. 

Music is a 

now 

one of 

momentary 

proof 

prose 

when the tongue is of 

works 

pure 

confession 

momentum of 

toward 

the sacred 

architectural 

communication# 

Author bio: Felino A. Soriano’s poetry appears in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, 

The National Poetry Review, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere. His books of poetry 

include Between these Rhythms: Bone & Ash (2016), Vocal Apparitions: New & Selected 

Poems: 2012 – 2016 (2016), sparse anatomies of single antecedents (2015), Of isolated 

limning (2014), Pathos|particular invocation (2013), Of language|s| the rain 

speaks (2012), Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (2011), In Praise of Absolute 

Interpretation (2010), Construed Implications (2009), and Among the 

Interrogated (2008). His collaborative collection Quintet Dialogues: translating 

introspection, which features visual art from David Allen Reed is forthcoming from 

Howling Dog Press. Visit Of the poetry this jazz portends for more information. 

101

Two Poems 

By Sheila Murphy 

Country Western Fest 

Gravity was shatterproof 

until I memorized my fate, 

a mirror image of your roan, 

rumored to comprise the perfect ride. 

Someone was giving out passes 

for hydration at seventy a pop, 

to ready for continuance 

the morning after. 

I pocketed the viola clef 

then joined the middle tier 

here in the outdoor butterscotch 

of caucuses where recitation vetoes 

handbills, handouts, hand cut handsome 

in favor of a finishing school 

of nimbledons that just swam past 

like rough riders for keeps. 

UNTITLED 

Pixels are my lean-to in the feather morning 

Commas outlast sleep 

Our weather simplifies anticipated steps to tea 

Olfactory cues revive the sage perimeter of earth 

Author bio: Sheila E. Murphy composes poetry both in tranquility and fever with equal 

fervor. She resides in the desert Southwest, where she writes, draws, crafts keynote 

addresses about doing business with power and grace for conferences and conventions. 

She is a business author and teacher, as well. She blogs at blog.worktransformed.com 

Her literary and artistic information can be found at 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheila_Murphy 

102

Photos by David J. Thompson 

103


REVIEWS 

104

The Zombies of Bigotry: "Get Out" Slashes 

Through White Supremacy (Film Review) 

By Alison Ross 

There are no good white people in director Jordan Peele's social thriller "Get Out." 

And that's just the way it should be. 

Of course, there will be the legions of deep-in-denial detractors, those who brand the movie as 

benightedly bigoted against Caucasian culture. But I ask: Is it bigoted to portray reality? I think 

not. 

Sure, the white people in the movie are sinister. Does this mean that the aim of the movie is to 

suggest that all white people are sinister? 

Or could it be that the movie is a take-down of white supremacist culture? 

That, I believe, is a distinction that should be heavily mused upon. After all, white supremacy can 

be reinforced by anyone of any racial or ethnic group (Ben Carson, anyone?). Not all white 

people are evil, to be sure, but the white supremacist ethos that guides political policy and societal 

behavior is malevolent to the core. 

"Get Out" is a devastating and savvy satirical indictment of the prevailing pathological white 

supremacy that pervades all corners of society. The movie's bold metaphorical mockery of white 

appropriation of black culture is so painfully pointed as to be brutally depressing. I barely found 

any entertainment value in the movie, even as I could recognize objectively that it has 

entertaining elements. What the movie did exceptionally well is dredge up my not-so-latent white 

guilt complex and bring it to the forefront. I suspect it did this with many conscientious 

Caucasians. 

I suppose it's redundant to reiterate how ingenious it was for director Peele to select the vehicle of 

a horror/thriller to transport racially existential themes. In hindsight, it's an obvious, intuitive 

105

genre to use. But it turns out that Peele had the foresight to pinpoint the horrors of white 

supremacy and elaborate on them in a stylized cinematic way. 

Genre gimmicks abound in “Get Out” - zombified characters, caricatured archetypes, suspenseful 

plot points, carefully calculated missteps, violent crescendo, trick ending. There is a Hitchcockian 

sense of suspense and tension throughout the movie, but also nods and allusions to B movies, 

slasher films, 80s teen horror flicks – and yet the movie never seems cheap or derivative. Rather, 

it’s an elevated and cerebral psychological horror on par with Poe. It takes the thriller genre to a 

new zenith by infusing a plausible plot and refusing to showcase gratuitous gore. Rather, 

aggressive actions arise organically and are legitimized by context. 

All elements germane to the genre work in service to propel the plot of “Get Out” in an 

imaginative, if terrifying way. 

For what we are dealing with in "Get Out" is an evocation of modern-day slavery via hypnosis 

and a vicious eugenics. Peele is urging us to see how all we are all subtly but forcefully 

mesmerized by white supremacy and its myriad connotations and reverberations. He is laying 

bare all of our preposterous "post-racial" claims and turning them inside out to reveal a seedy, 

sleazy underside. 

I have long wrangled with the dilemma of how American society can disentangle itself from the 

dastardly web it's spun itself into regarding racial relations. And Jordan Peele's movie seems to 

reinforce my fears - that we are so deeply enmeshed in the maze of racial dysfunctions that we're 

better off just cutting loose from the labyrinth and starting over completely. 

But how do we dismantle white supremacy? By eradicating Caucasians? Obviously that's not 

possible or desirable. By further segregating the races? That’s already happening. We’ve been 

regressing for quite some time, as neighborhoods and schools self-segregate along racial lines. It 

would almost be justifiable if the situation did not always result in further suffering by people of 

color. 

The situation is urgent. Jordan Peele's movie is a clarion call (a cacophonous clarion call, at that) 

to action. His movie suggests that we should be more aware of our own deep-seeded prejudices 

and the actions we and others take that might be loaded with sinister intention, even if 

superficially we think we are acting from an impetus of self-awareness and benevolence. 

For example, we might think that the justice system will ultimately "rehabilitate" the staggering 

number of black men caught up in it, without realizing that it's the system itself that caters to a 

white supremacist philosophy that deliberately thwarts black ascendancy. 

Lynching is no longer necessary when you have prison cages that will stifle the soul. The KKK’s 

fashion apparel is rendered anachronistic because the enforcers of Anglo authoritarianism now 

wear plain clothes and operate in the light of day. Burning crosses in lawns, setting fire to 

churches, devising nooses, using whips and chains– these tools of repression have been replaced 

by laws that perpetuate poverty and injustice. And a society hypnotized by the system that 

stymies are the unwitting servants of such putrid policies. 

American society needs to "get out" of its lethal Euro-centric ideology and fight the zombies of 

hateful hegemony. 

106

107

TENEBRAED TO HELLER: MR. LEVINSON’S HINGE 

THEORY 

EXPANDS AND COMPLEXIFIES 

Book Review By Alison Ross 

Heller Levinson's philosophy of poetics is something that can only be described as 

"accessibly elusive." Or is that "elusively accessible"? Either way, this paradox 

encapsulates Heller's approach, which on the surface seems overly cerebral but in 

actuality is intuitively ascertainable. His is a paragon of experimental verse, aloof and 

excessively premised on the tenets of logos ... and yet, at its core, his Hinge Theory and 

the execution thereof (via his verse) have a playful pathos. Heller may or may not agree 

with this interpretation, but the way I read his poetry, there is a palpable sense of fierce 

ebullience, of good old fashioned frenzied FUN. 

Heller's Hinge Theory is both rigid and unhinged. Words "hinge" on other words, but 

then the associations they spawn lead to an unhinged spewing of ideas, that nonetheless 

circle back to the original idea. Sometimes the associations are overtly obvious ("bellyfull. 

belly-ache") and sometimes they are much less explicit. As I said, you can intuitively 

grasp his process, but try to lucidly explicate it - good luck. 

In his latest collection, Tenebraed, Heller takes the Latin word, "tenebrae," signifying 

darkness, and mutates it into a verb, then welds it to a noun or concept in order to invert 

that idea's connotations and turn the entire enterprise inside out. Or something like that. 

(As I said, his poetry and philosophy are accessible yet elusive, meaning that I get it, but 

then I don't. As soon as I think I have it, I have to backtrack. For in order to truly know 

something, you have to be able to capably explain it. In this case, it remains to be seen 

whether I have done so.) 

108

Tenebrae, in Heller's poetic universe, is the opposite of darkness, despite its original 

meaning. Or, rather, it is a probing of the facets of darkness in order to irradiate: 

"...exploring underbellies, hidden contours, liberating the undisclosed..." (page 13). 

In Heller's conception of the world, what merits illumination most are the obscure, the 

arcane, the veiled, the shadow-dwelling... 

How this latest articulation of Hinge Theory works goes something like this: Words are 

"imported" from other contexts, where they have already established their own legitimacy, 

and they serve to embellish their new contexts. The words themselves are infused with 

novel dimensions (they "Bloom from their Immersions in Additional Communities" 

(page 15) ), and the new context benefits and thrives, as well. Exports, too, exist - those 

are the words that "vault" from one territory to another, and become the "Subject 

Scrutinized" (page 16). Mining is the final component of this multi-tiered theory, and 

yet...shouldn't it be the first? Mining is what occurs when one context/application is 

"consulted to enrich" the context "currently being investigated." (page 16). 

This whole theory is an exercise in slyly subverting linguistic stagnation: "The 

lexiconically Static is a Logos Abuser," Heller proclaims. Lexicons are intrinsically 

dynamic, and lexiconic vigor relies on savvy manipulation of diction and syntax, which 

in turn affects semantics. Hence, Hinge Theory. 

(Honestly, I find the whole theory adorably brilliant - somewhat Dickinsonian in its 

quaint but stern intellectuality, and somewhat Seussian in its whimsical erudition. It may 

be a reflection of my own poetic ethos that I locate a tenor of humor in it, but I do think 

deep down, Heller is also an astute scholar of the absurd.) 

The poems themselves can be overwhelming for a first-time reader, situated as they are at 

the far end of the experimental spectrum, with all the implications thereof of coldly cubist, 

robustly rational but soullessly mechanical. But, as I have already made clear, a patient 

reader will see beyond that deceptive surface, and come to bask in the wonderful 

wilderness of the Levinson Vernacular. These are not mere modern hieroglyphics. This is 

language re-imagined - deconstructed, re-constructed, re-deconstructed, and so forth. 

But now, alas, the poems. How does one even choose which poems to zoom in on? From 

one perspective, they are a big beautiful tangled mass, in need of careful unraveling. But 

that's for mathematical minds. My mind is fueled more by intuition and instinct, so I will 

focus on five poems that I believe are emblematic of my own (dubious?) discernment of 

Hinge Theory's logos-pathos dichotomy. I won't exactly explicate them, because that's a 

daunting exercise if there ever was one - and finally, an unnecessary one, a violation of 

their integrity. 

We start on page 20: "tenebraed to a Faded Aristocracy." The first part of the poem is a 

paragraph that stutters in succinct spurts : "louche carom. souse soliloquy. gongs. curtains. 

109

unravel ... blanche. bastion. bulldog." The second part of the poem, however, begins to 

flow down the page, though it keeps true to its laconic core: 

"fraught 

fought 

smatter 

the finger 

smithereens" 

The humor harbored within this poem occurs in the way the lines in the first part are 

minimalistic and sharply punctuated, and how they contrast on the page with the free 

falling words that are also jolting for their terseness. The vacillation between abstract 

language and more concrete imagery, too, creates a tense tango between the 

reason/emotion polarities. 

Moving right along to page 27, we encounter "tenebraed to an Enameled Latency," in 

which we have a compact capture of Hinge Theory in action. Here, "collapsed 

vernaculars" exist in hives, and are recklessly "wracked." Indeed, one could say that this 

piece of verse is Hinge Theory in poetic code. The "mantis of jeopardy," upon kissing an 

oblong (of course), "trawls pearls of 

dismissal across confiscated skies." Perhaps these pearls are the fruits of the 

mining/importing/exporting process, and the skies are the origins - the territories mined - 

of the pearls? The mind giddily celebrates the possible permutations and infinite 

interpretations offered up in a Heller omni-verse. 

"tenebraed to black," on page 38, is the ying to the previous poem's yang. Not only is it 

four and a half pages long, but it furiously hurls forth, paying homage to the color black 

('black is color's barometer"), with manic meditations on this misunderstood hue, 

interspersing quotations from Rimbaud, Wittgenstein, Klee, wildly weaving in italicized 

quasi-narratives, and splattering a stream of subconscious associations across the page 

like Pollack paint, becoming just as layered and dense: "mournful melancholic cape 

swaggering juju broth admissible annihilative churly warren-breasted perfume..." Black 

is "infinity's gangplank," it turns out, whose "smoke cinder ash" lead to "geometric 

meltdown." 

After recovering from this frenzied romp, we retreat to the poem on page 44, which, it 

must be said, offers only slight respite from the madman rantings on page 38. Here, 

"tenebraed to nothing" is a trippy tribute to emptiness, "to the not that is not." It is 

110

"cancellation's triumph," and, sadly, "it was being void of wind to wind up with." Of 

course, "being and nothingness" is referenced, as it features the "ineptitude of 

exactitude." Heller wonders: "does nothing have color," as if to allude back to the 

previous poem scrutinized. The rest of the poem seems to ponder the substance of 

nothing, oxymoronically. 

(This poem was perhaps my favorite to scrutinize, as I literally laughed out loud during 

certain moments, solidifying my suspicion that Heller is an astute student of the seriously 

silly and the sillily serious) 

Finally, we arrive toward the end of the collection, where we happen upon "Tenebraed to 

encroach," which honors the variegated ways of trespassing ("succor seduce invoke 

inroad penetrate insert"), ending up, ironically, in an area of "dialectic omission." 

In this collection, where contexts are mined for import material which, as it become 

exported, enriches new contexts, Heller Levinson has managed to embed pathos inside of 

logos, twining concepts considered by dulled minds to be dualistic in nature, when in fact, 

they are clearly like Russian dolls, situated inside of each other. 

Someone once called Heller's verse "post poetry." I am not sure I agree with this 

assessment, but I am not sure I disagree with it either. Is Heller's Hinge Theory one that 

advances modern poetics, or is it a tool in transcending it? Time will tell, but one thing is 

for sure right now: Heller Levinson writes compelling pieces - that is, they are tenebraed 

to compel. 

111

Guarding the Small Light 

Collage by Bob Heman 

128

I'm Not A Plastic Bag 

by Rachel Hope Allison 

Hardcover $19.95 

Archaia Entertainment 2016 

ISBN: 978-1-936393-54-1 

Reviewed by John Yohe 

In I'm Not A Plastic Bag, Rachel Hope Allison imagines the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, 

“an accumulated concentration of floating trash between Hawaii and the California 

coastline,” (!) as a living thing, a monster, hungry for more garbage, and birds, seals and 

turtles. This makes for a somewhat sublime book, since the monster (and the actual 

Garbage Patch) is horrifying, yet the artwork is beautiful, including pencil sketches with 

watercolors. 

I'm Not A Plastic Bag rides the line between graphic novel and children's book (the 

biggest difference, I sometimes feel, being that the former uses word balloons and the 

latter doesn't). I think the audience for this book is all ages—certainly the message is for 

everybody—though there's a cuteness factor that makes me think it's more geared to 

children. Or anyway, I'm going to give this book to my nieces. There is almost no text, no 

dialogue, except for the creepy advertising excerpts that appear in the mouth of the 

Garbage Patch monster, with which is tries to lure in seagulls. 

I'm not really clear what happens after that, and I still don't understand the title. Like, 

who is the 'I'? The monster? Meaning it's not 'just' a bag, but a whole bunch of bags? And 

the story, as if it wasn't already surreal, gets more so, with (spoiler alert) a flock of 

seagulls (not the band) somehow lifting the (apparently grateful?) Garbage Patch monster 

up and sending it into space. So, happy ending, I guess. 

Unfortunately, in the Real World, the real Garbage Patch still exists, and at the end of the 

book we are offered some text, and info, about the North Pacific Garbage Patch, or The 

North Pacific Subtropical Gyre, as I learned it's also called, along with other 

Gyres/Garbage Patches in other oceans (again: !) Also, for example, the Top Ten Items 

Found in Ocean Debris: 

112

1. Cigarettes 32% 

2. Food Wrappers/Containers 9% 

3. Caps, Lids 8% 

4. Cups, Plates, Forks, Knives, Spoons 6% 

5. Beverage Bottles (plastic) 6% 

6. Bags (plastic) 5% 

7. Beverage Bottles (glass) 4% 

8. Beverage Cans 4% 

9. Straws/Stirrers 4% 

10.Rope 2% 

Who'd've thought cigarettes would be up there? How do they get way in the ocean? And 

fish and turtles and whales are eating all this stuff. And dying. 

I Am Not A Plastic Bag also offers a 'Things You Can Do' section after the bag news, the 

contents of which most of us could probably guess. Yet do we do them? Nah. But if you 

did want to do something, consider volunteering for the International Coastal Cleanup 

organized by the Ocean Conservancy. 

Hard not to be cynically sarcastic, to create an ironic distance so as not to be too 

horrified. Hard for people to care about something going on out in the ocean when we've 

got plenty o' things on land to worry about, like fracking, and lead-infested city water 

supplies, and a two-party system that hampers democracy, I know, but that's why a book 

like this is good, is needed. All these problems are systemic, but a dead ocean means a 

dead humankind, eventually. 

I'm Not A Plastic Bag was created with help from the Ocean Conservancy and 

JeffCorwinConnect, the company of Jeff Corwin, host of the tv show Ocean Mysteries on 

ABC, and it's good to see a concerted effort, in all types of medias, to get the word out 

about the ravaging of the oceans (btw: I volunteered for the Sea Shepard Conservation 

Society for a while, so I'm not just writing this from the safety of a non-involved life) 

Editor’s Note: For more info, especially about the International Coastal Cleanup, check 

out the Ocean Conservancy website: www.keepthecoastclear.org. Rachel Hope Allison's 

website: www.rachelhopeallison.com And if you're new to the Great Pacific Garbage 

Patch, check out the Wikipedia page. 

Author bio: Born in Puerto Rico, John Yohe grew up in Michigan and lives in Oregon. 

He has worked as a wildland firefighter, deckhand/oiler, runner/busboy, bike messenger, 

wilderness ranger, fire lookout, as well as a teacher of writing. www.johnyohe.com 

113

Paterson in Paterson 

(Film Review) By Alison Ross 

I am ashamed to admit that up until recently, I have had scant contact with 

the poetry of Williams Carlos Williams. Other than the famous "plum 

poem," as I call it (whose real title is "This is Just to Say"), I have barely 

known Williams' verse. But since seeing the movie "Paterson," that has 

changed. I have become enamored of his imagistic, plain-spoken style. Just 

as Williams' poetry focuses on common people and quotidian activities, and 

is rife with imagery that soulfully saturates the senses, so too does 

"Paterson" celebrate the mundane elements of the average person's life, and 

revels in landscapes, colors and textures to provide sensory stimulation. And, 

of course, "Paterson" equally commemorates the written word, with its 

protagonist, also bearing the name Paterson, driving buses to make a living 

but writing poetry to live passionately. 

The poems, naturally, are in the vein of Williams' verse: Suffused with 

imagery and laced with colloquial language. Given that Paterson, NJ was the 

homebase of Williams, and given that Paterson lives in Paterson and writes 

poetry about his everyday existence as a blue collar worker, and given that 

the movie looks and feels like a Williams poem rendered cinematically ... 

well, you see the concentric layers of coincidence here. And naturally it's not 

coincidence at all, but a deliberate stab at verisimilitude by veteran director 

Jim Jarmusch, whose "Paterson" is perhaps the most refreshing film he's 

ever done. 

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Music Mini-Reviews By Alison Ross 

Let's face it: The Shins are the second coming of The Cure wrapped in 

The Beach Boy's sandy towel. This is not contradictory at all, either, for 

while The Cure is primarily known for its schizophrenic sonic template 

featuring solemn anthems and buoyant rhythms, the merrier elements of The 

Cure collage recall the falsetto giddiness of a Beach Boys song. So too, do 

the Shins mine their dark-happy dichotomy, reveling in sunny pop but also 

stewing in more brooding climates. On their latest, The Shins are positively 

peppy and New Wavey, and the result is a far more engaging effort than the 

previous album, "Port of Morrow," which in my view symbolized stagnation. 

"Heartworms" in many ways mimics early-era Shins while simultaneously 

propelling the band toward new heights. 

A Tribe Called Quest was at the forefront of hip hop's Golden Era in the 

1990s, eschewing the crude codes of gangsta rap yet still managing to steep 

their albums in blunt eros and savvy social consciousness, all while crafting 

115

astute sounds and rad rhymes. On its latest effort, billed as their last and as 

an homage to the late Phife Dawg, and arriving on the cosmic doorstep a 

mere 20 years after the previous release, Tribe sounds as fresh as ever. 

Highlights on "We Got it From Here" include "Space Program" and "Ego," 

not to mention a wickedly whimsical duet with Andre 3000 on "Kids" (one 

of many collaborations). But perhaps the standout song is one that 

incorporates an actual hook, a rare occurrence in purely hip hop songs: "We 

The People" features a catchy chorus that is also devastatingly relevant: “All 

you Black folks, you must go/All you Mexicans, you must go/And all you 

poor folks, you must go/Muslims and gays, boy we hate your ways/So all 

you bad folk, you must go” 

The members of British band The xx make very sexxy music. Even 

though with each release the band palpably strays further from their postpunk 

roots, they still manage to maintain a mentality grounded in the ideals 

of post-punk: Spacious soundscapes that rely on spare instrumentation. But 

there have always been two distinct elements to The xx, which they swirl 

seamlessly like a yin/yang symbol. This means that on The xx's recent 

release, the Rhythm and Beyonce persona that they embody is played up 

much more than ever, while the post-punk is more nuanced. This makes for 

an album that is sonically somewhat cluttered and a bit less idiosyncratically 

intriguing than previous efforts, especially the debut album. That said, the 

sexxy side of The xx is not only intact, but this latest album is downright 

slithering with sensuality. Oliver's and Romy's whisper-croons are sleek with 

eros, and Jamie xx's club dub effects throb with booty-shaking verve. 

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Atlanta's own outsider artist Lonnie Holley may be pure enigma, but then he is 

also enigmatically pure. By that I mean that his purity of being is so striking that it 

defies fathom by mere mortals who must exist in his towering shadow. He is 

complicated, to be sure, but also authentic at the most basic level. He embodies 

what all great artists do: A contradiction of clean and complex. It's this duality that 

compels. His sculptures, comprised of organic and synthetic items culled from the 

environment, are tangled totems of primitive ideals and modern mythologies, 

political manifestos that stun for their simplicity and astound for their astute 

intuitive arrangement. Lonnie's music reflects his improvisational artistic approach: 

Heartfelt and grounded in this world, and yet existing beyond this plane, an 

otherworldly opera summoning aliens and angels. On this album, he is joined by 

Atlanta indie rockers Deerhunter as well as Animal Collective, both of whose own 

cosmic compositions complement Lonnie Holley's gorgeous anti-aesthetic. 

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The Zen of 

Innocence (Book Review) 

By Alison Ross 

In her quietly fierce poetry collection, Innocence, Patricia Carragon has mastered the art 

of eviscerating withering emotions with creative defiance. Or maybe she is simply a 

master of manipulating moods so that the reader is always waiting for the trick ending, 

the twist that packs a punchline that socks you in the gut. Of course, these poems are 

confessional musings and rantings, with the author's soul laid bare for the vultures to pick 

at if they wish. 

As such, her verse provides wrenching glimpses into a once-stifled life, one that has 

bravely blasted through the barriers constructed by lesser minds. But the poems’ 

symbolic import is what softens the hard edges with magical hues. Take, for example, 

"The Green Crayon," where a girl's coloring tool ignites her imagination, and becomes an 

emblem of artistic anarchy: "Her imagination immediately left the classroom." Or "Small 

Dreams," which is layered in nautical metaphor about the menace of time, which cruelly 

devours dreams: "Fog plays tag with hindsight, clouds part for reality to settle in." 

Other poems are existential riddles, such as "When I Die," which extols the virtues of 

oblivion ("will the truth vaporize when oxygen leaves my brain?"), and the exceptional 

"The Room," wherein the titular protagonist is personified as speaking an arcane idiom 

and where silence is translator. Even though Patricia Carragon is certain she is no 

"Dickinson, Keruoac, Basho" ("Mr. Lipson"), by the end we can discern the influence of 

these authors who have steadily guided her to prize strong symbolism and a feisty Zenlike 

approach to the travails of life. 

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Three IMAGES By Daniel Y. Harris 

Artist bio: Daniel Y. Harris is the author of 11 collections of poetry and collaborative 

writing including The Rapture of Eddy Daemon (BlazeVOX, 2016), heshe egregore (with 

Irene Koronas, Éditions du Cygne, 2016), The Underworld of Lesser Degrees (NYQ 

Books, 2015), Esophagus Writ (with Rupert M. Loydell, The Knives Forks and Spoons 

Press, 2014), Hyperlinks of Anxiety ($ervená Barva Press, 2013) and The New Arcana 

(with John Amen, NYQ Books, 2012). Some of his poetry, experimental writing, art, and 

essays have been published in BlazeVOX, The Café Irreal, E·ratio, Exquisite Corpse, The 

New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine, 

Ygdrasil and Zeek. He is the Editor-in-Chief of X-Peri, http://x-peri.blogspot.com/. 

She Faces of Lair 

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Homage to Kurt Schwitters 

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!"#$%&'()%'*+,(-.&' 

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Imagine Not Drowning 

by Kelli Allen 

C&R Press 

Reviewed by Jeff Santosuosso 

From its first piece to its last, Kelli Allen’s second and newest full-length collection, 

Imagine Not Drowning, takes flight through love and sex, death and life, through things 

neatly paired via juxtapositions that create wide-open spaces. She collects images 

simultaneously and parses linearity from space and dispersion. 

The beauty of the work is that there’s ample room for free association, inference, spiritual 

roaming. Allen embraces, rather than resists the whirl. These are rich, dense, complex 

poems filled with shades of words, connotations, innuendoes which venture quite far to 

the edges of meaning. Imagine Not Drowning is not for the casual reader or the casual 

read. 

Allen presents a mystical excerpt from Machado describing the incongruity yet final 

redemption of man’s unpreparedness for the awesome power of the sea. Reader 

precaution: You have tools, finally insufficient, inappropriate, or useless to quell your 

sense of awe in the natural world. Yet like the quotation, the poems, motifs, and 

undercurrents exalt the striving, extol the humanity. It’s worth the physical and spiritual 

effort, nearly self-redemptive, like the verses and observations. 

These are poems of implication, sometimes of induction. We’re liberated to wander along, 

taking things as they come, sometimes with attribution, correlation, even cause and effect. 

But alongside familiar and linear narrative, Allen weaves the perceptual fabric with the 

cryptic, the near-non sequitur. The effect is of duality and relationships, tangible and 

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intangible, physical and metaphysical. This is a collection of environment and response 

with plenty of choice and alternative. 

We enter and exit on the wings of a bird, starting with Slavic mythology and ending with 

a heron “nodding past the bay,” an oblique reference to take us over the horizon, on a lilt 

of pleasure as the speaker feels her partner’s “teeth scrape my back.” 

The rhythms and cadences are non-linear, full of pauses, pivot, and redirection. Early on, 

Allen tweaks the edges of association with “Feeding Birds, or, rather, Some Magic.” 

Untethered title. Staccato, full-stop title. Then she ushers in love and eroticism: 

“Yours/is the association of warm under the down.” This structure compels a slowing, 

aligning nicely with Allen’s deftness at subtlety. Likewise, the images sometimes appear 

out of thin air, with little setting. “Eventually, we go inside” describes the sadness and 

regret of missed opportunity, of unrequited desire. Somehow, a man and a woman appear 

in a building. How did they get there? What type of building is it? Why were they 

together? Literally, unanswered, but alongside implication, with plenty of room for 

inference. 

The path is byzantine, full of sleight of language and imagery. That the opening poem is 

entitled “Becoming a Woman of the Brook, Shade, and Moss” is no accident. Much of 

the poetry revolves around the speaker’s identity as a woman, both female in many forms, 

companion, lover, wife, and adult many forms, daughter, mother, teacher, spiritual guide. 

She opens mixing the physical moment and fantasy, of losing oneself and yielding, wish 

and promise, love and trust. And onward for over 70 turns of the kaleidoscope. “Edging 

Our Wall, Untying,” another syntactical pregnant pause, presents twists in speech that 

form new connections from an unfamiliar, yet pleasing assembly. 

Even the titles caution, beware those who enter. Not for menace, but for disorientation 

and reorientation. Before crossing the threshold into the poems themselves, the titles 

create darkness and light, obscurity and revelation. “How Much Tenderness, When We 

Consider How to Leave” gives us 2 shining examples. Allen offers, 

I say between us, but there was only me, if we count 

presence as more than breath and completely still hands in a lap. 

A rich opportunity for pondering, for the speaker, her companion and ourselves. She adds, 

“We can never blanket enough dirt/to hide what is missing.” Presence by absence, the 

mind awhirl in puzzles, delicate, evocative, and revelatory ones. 

As the speaker settles on the death of her father, touching poems such as “Aphasia” and 

“When He Leaves” agonize: 

The stamp on the back of her hand has faded 

the same way a favorite tree stump stays 

against some remembrance of childhood 

we no longer attempt to name. 

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The last line is the collection’s poster child: meaning via absence and disappearance. 

Allen dwells on the transient, that which is without mass. In some pieces, death and loss 

face us directly, while in others, the fragility of relationships brushes us more softly. In 

“When We Argue About Unraveling Glass,” she juxtaposes the tardigrade, nature’s 

ultimate survivor, with implications of an argument threatening peace. 

“North Fork” alerts us that “the sign warns of undercurrent.” Flush with visible and 

invisible forces and a sweeping away, rife with stilting syntax, stops and starts, nested 

logic and circles of continuity, the poem tells of a day’s journey, past and present, danger 

and innocence, all in familiar images that are freshly voiced. Allen loves these dualities, 

these yin-yang associations and adjacencies that inhabit the natural world and the mind of 

the poet. 

Allen intertwines the real with the imaginary, often within poems, sometimes within 

images or lines. “We, As Other People,” urges us onto the path of make-believe: “We’ve 

been very happy in the small open area/we named alter.” In fact, the words “let’s pretend” 

appear five times, all in the latter half of the work. 

“You Say Disappear And I Say Not Yet,” brings it all together. The pair is playing a 

game, teasing, challenging, among totems, ready to “pretend we are just/ wrong enough,” 

recognizing that “This is the closest thing we get/to surrender,” Allen’s riff on desire and 

the natural world. 

Allen prefers open air and empty spaces, which fill her work with possibility. Churches, 

rivers, meadows and fields, and plenty of birds populate the imagery. Motifs relate to 

sleeping, waking, changes in consciousness. 

These are poems a woman would share with a companion, often a lover. (In fact, nearly 

every poem includes at least 2 people.) “What Can We Do to Be Away from the World?” 

“Riding the Borrowed Car Back Home,” and “When this is not about sentiment” depict 

love and erotica. She verges on the surreal at times: 

to see if the other 

is awake, is still a shining fish, 

in a dream where scales 

leave darks pits in the mud 

“This Is How You Ask Me to Pray,” a reverence and small miracles, followed by 

“Invitations Toward Autumn,” depicting transition, anticipation, expectation. Allen 

muses about, “letting the first storms come in, rounding/our shoulders, this suddenness.” 

In the title poem, Allen’s overriding affirmation rises clear. “Kiss/your own fingers,” she 

congratulates. “…you have carried yourself home.” Speaking to companions of all types, 

Allen opens the myriad experiences and sensations that each of us is capable of feeling, 

sharing, interpreting, all the while leaving plenty of space for those companions and the 

124

eader to discover his or her own wonder, to feel the subtleties and nuances of this human 

experience. 

She sees and expresses her role as poet most clearly and directly in the joyful “There Are 

Ships Closer If You Let Them,” as she resolves, “one morning, soon, I will take/ you to 

the lighthouse you have painted” then reaches higher, “upward where light rotates 

between fog/and whatever is left to love, to promise.” 

Author bios: 

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and 

internationally. She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has won awards for her 

poetry, prose, and scholarly work. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge, is 

the current Poetry Editor for The Lindenwood Review, and holds an MFA from the 

University of Missouri St. Louis. She is the director of the River Styx Hungry Young 

Poets Series and founded the Graduate Writers Reading Series for UMSL. She is 

currently a Professor of Humanities and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University and 

teaches for The Pierre Laclede Honors College at UMSL. Her chapbook, Some Animals, 

won the 2016 Etchings Press Prize. Her chapbook, How We Disappear, won the 2016 

Damfino Press chapbook award. Her newest full-length, Imagine Not Drowning, will be 

released from C&R Press January, 2017. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, 

Soft White Ash, arrived from John Gosslee Books in 2012 and was nominated for the 

Pulitzer Prize. /react-text www.kelli-allen.com 

Jeff Santosuosso is a business consultant and poet living in Pensacola, FL. A member of 

the Florida State Poets Society, he is Editor-in-Chief of panoplyzine.com, an online 

journal dedicated to poetry and short prose. His work has been nominated for the 

Pushcart Prize and has appeared in San Pedro River Review, The Lake Poetry (UK), Red 

Fez, Illya’s Honey, Red River Review, Texas Poetry Calendar (2012, 2014), Avocet, 

Alalit, First Literary Review – East, and other online and print publications. He writes 

book reviews on request. 

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