from east to west: bicoastal verse

Table of Contents: p. 3 p. 11 p. 18 p. 35 p. 41 p. 49

beginning of the wheel – poetry, Peter Ciccariello, & art, Laurie Proctor-Lefebvre flimflam man –poetry, John Bennett & art, Jim Fuess found and cut-up – various poets & poetry art by Jessy Kendall voyeured paranoia – Vernon Frazer nocturne of wind – poetry, Brion Berkshire & art, Nancy Buckley Contributors

poetry, Peter Ciccariello, & art, Laurie Proctor-Lefebvre We had a predilection for flying At least this moment, for at least this moment We had a predilection for flying, Sitting far back in seats 146b or 175c Next to the window, the back of the plane And if sometimes, passing over the marble steps of the palace or the hidden interior of our own secrecy or sometimes after barely clipping our abyss Of reluctant assimilation to reveal the mournful solitude of our dreaming We would wake again drunk with the wind and everything that was flying with us Over this dense black mirror of ocean everything that was supposed to be guarding us and Our practiced stumbling our flight out of the tunnel our reeling into The blinding light that we surged past now as if we were unaware again As if we had just thrown ourselves up into the air and reached our hands out to fly

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre It is snowing effervescence It is snowing effervescence Slinking under the folds and staples We are all effervescence, remember? This is as much your destiny as knowing Your way home in the dark. It is snowing Effervescence and there is not a whole lot we can relinquish The luminous glow of your meniscus is the only sign That you have gotten over our madness Witness - miraculous snow simultaneously powerful and unfathomable And even your footsteps disappear along the side of the driveway Your corporeality evaporates at the end of the road Where we are all waiting for the storm to pass, the bubbles To disappear, or the earth to swallow us up, Whichever comes first. This snowing remains unattainable. This is not annihilation, you have generated this, And with all due respect, you may now overcome.

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre She gone She gone her skirts burned at the beginning of the wheel one wheel the dull stairs, the ones where the fields are stretching past the rectangle of the window Before she knows her time is out now--you must silence the stiffening step and she gone, her skirts at the wheel This is the sound you know, have come to know, The look over the shoulder the just beginning

She gone 2 (Before she is the small curve of time from the beginning) I am already gone sanctified one wheel has cracked the remedy is broken the rutted road is no longer passable In the distance I can see the fields breathing into the ocean See how the Phragmites dance in the wind From here there is only a small curve of time between the beginning and the end She's gone my lively laughter lifting onto your table herself the one wheel only --you must be silenced with the terrified of her This is her shoulder her skirts stepped over, useless She's at the end again lively and very wanting to know She ends horrified before you can come to her This is the time: Before she becomes all that remains Before she is the small curve of time from the beginning 5

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre Someone else lives in this house Someone else lives in this house Up the stairs in the eaves on the north side behind the far bedroom I think I know because I have begun finding things Odd things, out of place during the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day, in the autumn of the year, When the clouds hang so oppressively low in the heavens. There was the night the eviscerated fawn screamed like a murdered child The night the wind formed echoes of other people's voices down in the hollow I often passed alone, through a singularly dreary splash of country, Looking out upon this dream, knowing that someone else lives in this house up the stairs behind the bedroom wall I have looked closely at these other lives And have begun to sense the urgency of this place I think in the eaves on the north side I know because I have begun finding things, certain things In and around the soundless evenings with the constant drawing of the voice this view from the other side, this finding of things And others, out of place and even others, Someone else, through the entire length of day found when the clouds are in the heavens, multiplying this melancholy with the sternest of supernatural images within the desolation of a dull, dark, and distant shade, I singularly perceived that dreary and terrible reverie, Up in the north far bedroom Low out beyond the passing tract of country; upon the scene itself, as the stairs rise behind the eaves one year, the knowing then that I am not in this house alone

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre Poem of twelve nouns Prayer arrow anger mountain plenty record climate apparatus share speed stone distance

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre I love the purring of knowing them I love the purring of knowing them, So I will be moving the useless telephone Of my monstrous self to the ubiquitous ringtone That has been disrupting everyone's sleep When is a heaven such a useless tell? The letters and burning envelopes Resting so soft and full on the edge of your bedside table Are the only existing explanations of our archeology. Listening to the warm purring of the flames against the laid paper Reminds one how unpredictably disaster follows reticulation These all should arrive in your post next week, the edges of the burning, the purring, and the love. Asking you only to tell them that I am gone, lover, That we found all the evidence lover, and went ahead anyway, with full knowledge of our actions. I scratched all this conveniently in the mahogany On your side of the bed

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre

Twelve proofs that we are alive Twelve proofs that we are alive Evidence1: 1. the immeasurable effervescence on the unexposed underside 2. that I can speak to you through contradiction 3. the sound of things as they are 4. the brittle sandpaper of your twilight 5. the ring of dread that follows a participle 6. unanswered electromagnetism 7. those tiny electrical fires in your somnolence 8. finding unrecognizable objects in proximity to your expectations 9. answering unasked questions too quickly 10. unbearable heat under the mask as it swiftly peels away 11. the folly of disguised clockworks 12. the ache of the unexplained being the most difficult religion to denounce

Ciccariello, Proctor-Lefebvre This disappeared winter of the poet Seven years and bones that guard the house Go past the airports, go past the books, the recorded age Slough off this disappeared winter of the poet, Disambiguate the snow, this absolutely pale, white, Shimmering snow, now disfiguring the black mirror of the sea You and your guards in your stumbling, in your flight out of the tunnel, Drowning inside this house that refuses to agree to daylight, A house bereft of the instruments of seconds, hours and days Until this day, this recorded age the frozen newspapers, bones that agree Drowning this poet, this falling time leaving newspapers, cemeteries Joyfully enlisted bird crews shaking this winter of a man Free almost as a promise of redemption The man that statues the disfigured bachelor Living his winter out in a house of drowning poetry We agreed to shut down the pages, the words, anything That could be that precise This is how we survive, dark, cold and dying

poetry, John Bennett, & art, Jim Fuess The Boy with the Blue Mohawk A jar of pickled ears. A delicacy in some parts of the world, mostly in war zones. Pain is just a feeling. It's what we think about it that makes us suffer. Witness a boy with a blue Mohawk and 200 piercings, seven through his genitals, the blank look in his eyes, a way to rise above his childhood. From here we could go in many directions at once, like a heretic being drawn and quartered. Noel, noel, Christ was born on Christmas Day, and he dared to differ. The boy with the Mohawk differs in a different way, but he suffers the same. His father came back from an exotic war with a jar of pickled ears, and the two of them got drunk one night and ate each and every one in a vain attempt at bonding, at healing invisible wounds. It didn't work, and then came the piercings. We draw and quarter our children and they retaliate with mutilation.

Bennett, Fuess One with the Rose The gene pool of memory. The jellyfish of the mind, draped over the breast stroke of experience, stinging it senseless. A sharp cry & then the slow sink into deepest oblivion, your hair trailing behind you, waving goodbye to sunlight. Life is but a dream, but what is it we dream of? Could it be fusion, the obliteration of boundaries, the melting down into everything? It's not easy to set yourself on fire & retain your composure.

Bennett, Fuess Focus, Philanthropy, Tom-Foolery & the Flimflam Man Silence of the lambs. Lost hope on a spit. Greek Easter on Chicago's South Side. The ethnic way we try to explain ourselves to the police when we're caught with out pants down. They don't care, they just want us to blow in the breatherlizer. Talk about devious behavior. What are they really after? I made a secret vow not too far back down the line and then I swore outloud to uphold it. This caused some confusion. They stuck a breatherlizer in my mouth and a male nurse emptied my bed pan. My heart skipped a beat and my eyes danced like spiders. I longed to set things right again but deep down I knew things would only get worse. Before the crab trap, lobsters lived a hundred years and weighed in at thirty pounds. Turtles, even today, if they make it to the water after hatching before the gulls swoop down, live longer still. I don't digress so much as see odd possibilities. I'm prepared to read stone tablets right to left if someone sticks them under my nose. "Shazam!" I'll say, and burst the sad chains that bind me.

Bennett, Fuess

Gun Shy of Specifics A grain of sand. A nugget of truth. The oyster makes the pearl, but what makes the oyster? How open should we be here? How gun shy? Specifics are the dead weight of longing. Glide like an echo. Place your bet on the ricochet. Never stop to ask for directions. Eternity spins out of motion, whirlpools of commotion spiral down into silence, eruptions of color give birth to vision. See how simple? Swim with dolphins until someone wakes you with a tap on the shoulder.

Bennett, Fuess Circus There comes a point where each thought that comes to mind gets its head bit off like a chicken in a geek tent before it can manifest itself through my hissing lips or take shape on paper as a doodle proclamation poem or lament, each thought terminated before it grows legs or soft blue eyes, and is this punishment? Are there root causes beyond our control? Does every word Joseph Conrad ever put to paper boil down to "The horror, the horror"? Did Rilke sum it up with "Kein Mensch kennt den andern, jeder steht allein?" Am I defying gravity, the odds, the Dark Princess by pushing through whiteout and lashing words onto paper like a suicide note? Is it true what Henry Miller said, that all any writer needs is one good reader? Not from where I stand, waist-deep in decapitation on a wasteland where birds are frozen in flight and the thin man weeps for the fat lady. From where I stand, constantly clearing my throat with a finger raised in the air, I need every ear in the universe to be listening. Why is it all those who say I need help wear white smocks and hold a loaded hypodermic behind their backs? For your penance say three Hail Marys, said the Father Confessor, and I ran into the woods and jacked off.

Bennett, Fuess Epiphanies Walking down the sidewalk at dawn, smoking a cigarette, a tree suddenly explodes in robins, swirling into the air, their bright breasts gleaming in the blazing new sun. I throw my arms up like a symphony conductor, one hand still holding the cigarette, & let loose a wild burst of exclamations & laughter.

Bennett, Fuess And Then There's This... Outrage and indignation. The pin drops and the bomb goes off. Women draped in black shawls wearing black veils trill their shrill tongues in something a far cry from language. Well-informed people make assessments based on current events. This is what it's come to, they say, when this is how it's always been. Men in seersucker suits are taken for seers--CEOs, folk singers and star athletes. Human nature is not defined by our actions, human nature spawns our actions and is rooted in a dark place beyond words. There is nothing new under the sun, it's just a matter of how it's configured. Sorrow would be a truer reaction. We were fucked long before we hunkered down in a chat room. Stand still like the hummingbird and a stray beam of sunlight might coil around you and lift you away to a place free of rancor.

various poets with poetry art by Jessy Kendall Poets Is Chock poets is chock poets is exceptionally free of obscurity poets is a derogatory comment poets is by no means a contribution poets is how well most of it works poets is a work of a rarer species still poets is now history poets is a medley of folk poets is as meaningless as any other pursuit poets is fully equipped with music poets is a part of the poet's porch poets is a spin poets is still pretty much intact poets is to keep ajar the door poets is quite amazing poets is anchored by their words ~Jeff Harrison

various poets, Jessy Kendall Glove Pattern No: 1-04633698 Glove, Classic knit The hands, the hands go flying across the patterns following the seamless effort Fabric: five point four Oh Zee Vat dyed pique knit Blend: five zero per cent combed cotton five zero per cent poly ester The love the love goes flying across the patterns following the seamless effort Hand

Soft Soil Release Closure Three cross stitched matching appliquĂŠs Lined clean finish inset Hemmed with lining collar Single-lock knit fashion cuff.

A new hand A new love A new hand a new love go flying following the seamless effort Oversize functional fit Stabilized shrinkage Color Maintenance Colors work Black, Burgundy, Jade Hunter Green Light Gray Navy. Small

An old hand An old love An old hand an old love returns to following the seamless effort Sizes: X X Large X Large Large Medium ~ Christopher Hildebrand 19

various poets, Jessy Kendall Sick Transit's Glorious Monday Be considerate Speak softly Please keep Feet off seats Next station SECACUS Be considerate, speak Softly, please keep Feet off seats Next station NEWARK/BROAD STREET Be considerate speak Softly please keep feet Off seats next station WATSESSING AVENUE Be considerate, speak softly Please keep feet off seats Next station BLOOMFIELD Be considerate! Speak softly! Please keep feet off seats! Next station! GLEN RIDGE Next station Speak softly station keep Feet Next station Feet off seats Next station Feet off seats Be considerate Speak softly Speak softly Please keep BAY STREET Be considerate speak softly please keep feet off seats next station WALNUT STREET

various poets, Jessy Kendall Be Considerate Speak Softly Please Keep Feet Off Seats Next Station WATCHUNG AVENUE ~ Ben Nardolilli

various poets, Jessy Kendall The Untangled Vine Becomes: 11 Homophonic Translations from the Japanese 1 Before the dreaded taking leave you wrapped in a white sheet dim the lights The room becomes a cave of recollection a woman's laughter falling water 2 It is difficult to say the man who in the moon's pale glow approached with slow and careful steps is he who as dawn crowned the evergreens in gold darted from my bed 3 In this irrational season we knell for no one If rage unfurls a road too narrow for our feet each step we fail to take will leave us tolling for the birds and rocks

various poets, Jessy Kendall 4 Walking east I call to mind another time when done

with walking east I turned the other way and walked alone because it was the other way 5 Watching mist rise from distant hills I am reminded of a time when after stealing through the woods I hurried home and saw a strange man leaning on our gate laughing with my mother 6 we are as are you now know how you know the untangled vine becomes 7 When Eve was run from Eden she came upon and then pursued a deer which in its coyness lured her further and further into a forest of tombs 23

various poets, Jessy Kendall 8 A man rapped at my gate for bread I handed him an urn of ash which he would later knead to bake a loaf of darkened bone 9 The bow bends the rake gathers The first born has been left to die beneath a sky so blue the birds there soar then sink like small black ships 10 There are no secrets in this river A minnow brushes by my knees On another shore a man has finished the last of his wine and whispered from the bottle before he sent it floating on the water 11 I am not the mirror's me but you knew that having made a he of me when I reach to touch his face you're already there ~ Tony Leuzzi

various poets, Jessy Kendall Where's My Stuff? Mister leaser, sail House----Dear Fren, I got a pumpwitch i by from you alrite, but why for gods sake you doan send me no handel? I loose to me my customer, sure thing, you doan treet me rite. I wate 10 days, and my customer he holler for water like hell, for the pump.You know he is summer now and the win he no blo the wheel, the pump she got no handel so what the hell i guan to do? You doan send me no handel pretty quick i send her back and goan order some pump from Krain companne. Good by Your fren Antonie Dutra. P.S. Since I rite I find dam handel in the box excuse to me. ~ Gary Lehmann

various poets, Jessy Kendall

Maine The Land of Nod, Atlantic Canaan: Promised Land of Old Town, Old HarborMoody, Gray, and GreenBrightwater and Dark Cove, Long Beach of Surfside Sunset. Eden and Mars Hill: High Pasture Lookout over Elm and Maple Grove, Pine Hill and Spruce Shores. Steep Falls and Flat Landing, Hale and Hardy Winter Harbor or Summer HavenCaribou, Moosehorn, and Muskrat Hollow. Big Island, Big Lake, Cozy Corner and Cold Brook. White Rock, Blackstone, Blue Hill, and Red Beach. From China to California, From Mexico to Poland, a Strong Union of Hope, Liberty, and Freedom. The Kingdom of Norumbega. ~ Christina Lovin

various poets, Jessy Kendall Found Poem From a Paper Textbook: A Manifesto there are many ways of applying ink to paper; the wreckage of obsolete forms must involve deconstruction. choose your finish carefully (matt laminates tend to show dirt glossy laminates show fingerprints). use abbreviations. become fluid. sensitive observers reflect raw material ironic quotations of glory and splendor: crude devices and loud noise. (if simple to read complexity is concealed). respond aggressively, ironically. remove all abandon all ~ Kirsty Logan

various poets, Jessy Kendall Stolen Verse 1 Dropped sandbags, wrinkled Half stuffed with gold; snagged, Stopped, blocked The rim that sleeps all day. Stolen Verse 2 The smoke Maroon, blunt, Loose cotton, In the cavern of The shrouded city The tenebrous, Saprophytic city, Prickling The hallow, hollow dark. The layered landscape Masked by pale defraction Of The spaceless preserve. Like a great maze Unlearnable-Stolen Verse 3 Time, The right and left testicles of God Heavy with tomorrow Today Ouroboros A little hole In which the future hissed through To the past. ~ Keith Perkins

various poets, Jessy Kendall Nearly Laughing @ the rods & combs in his eyes Nina sits in a slip of fullness her passion tender & florescent hooded (they are an absolute space waltz of sometimes door-pressed lip slams) please turn down your robot music only if you turn off your hypo static noise & keep your commentary fingers mummified with clear could you put on your scant hair blow ok but only because you are the shuttling ocean cut over the part I love you and am more over your time ~Tasha Klein

various poets, Jessy Kendall Van der Waals Potential Feeling alive that’s what it’s about. 40 degree waves We have improved an atom interferometer experiment to measure phase shifts due to Van der Waals atom-surface interactions with enough precision to detect an unusual velocity dependence. And my breath caught being everything that I am. I kick it when it’s overcast We predict how the atom-surface interaction potentials should depend on light frequency, intensity, and polarization. This is not a relationship it is simply bringing one common existence back together from whence it came. The external cavity consists of a- you see me- I might not exist here. And feed forward laser current control system is simple and you know I’m trouble, But you see that color that is everywherewith lithium vapor It’s been so long since I’ve written about the sunset. We report spectra Violet mountains and it depends so imperatively on me blue shifted by Rotational band simulations show that the moments of inertia- when you grip my hairthrow me against there - the same vibronic fine structure. Feeling silent beauty- The fluorescence lifetime- Gripped tight- knuckles white implying substantial inhibition. Spinning round in my mind - Unlike for many larger aromatic molecules, suffocating in reality We report high precision measurements of the Van der Waals potentialto report fucking and feel sexy but really feeling love- feeling something that doesn’t have to go away- We discuss how these measurements can set limits. So you’ll just hold my core electrons and edge effects. ~ Amber Troy

various poets, Jessy Kendall Remembering Hayden Carruth: An Act of Love writing was the family racket: serenity, language and rural vigor a touchstone for other Vermont writers his hardscrabble life eked out in piecemeal work a poet, writer and editor who wrote effortlessly across the literary landscape meeting the sprawl of human emotions in imaginative empathy a gloomster who suffered mightily: agoraphobia, alcoholism, the miserloos* yet he made sorrow dance and woe sing and understood life's pleasures in "Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey" he feared death all his life, suffered strokes yet he had the easiest death with his cat curled at his feet, friends around his bed reading poetry, held in his wife's arms she felt his last breaths die away like falling wind he was gone *(his coined word to merge life's miseries and losses) ~ Barbara B. Feehrer

various poets, Jessy Kendall When it Finally ..hits hard like a winter drink ..faces demons with tomatoes ..sinks into the crying soup ..starts bucking in the garage ..reloads when it hurts ..launches a wad of film into the night ..sneezes back at a hog ..breaks the news like glass ..muckles a crush behind a shrub ..warms to the touch of a lighter ..selects disorders from an action pack ..grips a nation by the pontiac

With a Mallet Play the nation mind. Tap lightly on the fixator at first, then a nose to the face for life, hiding under a motor home, or a splint across a finger sets your protocol with bowing. Puckered netal bumped back shifting worlds on posters, or chisel kissing stone beneath a foghorn in a silent cloud. ~ Jim Knowles

various poets, Jessy Kendall

Uncaught exception: object already exists ~ Lynne Shapiro

various poets, Jessy Kendall Eight Foreign Years Are Equivalent to Four Chinese I is another. -- Arthur Rimbaud I affix my name that is not my name, you affix your name to I, swallow I, my head knocking my, queue tied to your queue, firearms, no one heeded our, single day becomes a year, I sail from myself, when quitting Macaw, to sea, to shut in bamboo gongs and firecrackers gongs and firecrackers gongs and firecrackers gongs and firecrackers struckwiththickropewaterdropofribsspittingfootironsswallowopiumintogongs andbrokenrattanrodsclothingremovedonedollaracupironpostsfloggedthreemenfirecrackers gongs and firecrackers gongs and firecrackers gongs and firecrackers gongs and cages. Three unripe bananas. Dog bites. A single day becomes a year.

In the men-market, I hired out my arms. Not by choice. My legs. I strike me on the head. I hound pursue two of my fingers cut off and running away from me. I am a bad grass. Surgeon struck all complain of sickness tied up I whiplash muscle of oxen dried in sun. I decoy. Is this what I desire? In the men-market, I cut my throat.

I swallow opium hung on trees.

A writer breaks his pen while writing his dispatch â&#x20AC;&#x201C; O the poor labourer! - and returns to his hotel apartment, utters to the maid to rescue his papers from burning. I jump into the sugar cauldron. ~ Ching-In Chen

Vernon Frazier

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poetry, Brion Berkshire & art, Nancy Buckley harvesting the self I have shaken my roots off onto the yellow face of the old newspaper, freed the odd tendrils I tenuously sent out into the good dark of the earth that surrounded me. I've pulled myself out of the wet dirt and raised myself up in the clear air in my own roughened hands. I've held myself beneath the steady stream of water. I've taken the paring knife to my discolored parts: I've peeled and stripped away what isn't delicious or protecting me. Now, I steady the pan onto the blue heat of the stove. I chop myself into smaller and smaller pieces. What's left of my brilliant flesh throbs. Into the pot I go. Once I've boiled for twenty minutes I shall be ready. I'll eat alone and know there will never be enough of me.

Berkshire, Buckley a true heartpiece you say I used to say beautiful things to you and I say I used to write beautiful poems, too. But I don't now. Why is that? It's as if all this were being scribbled by some priest who long ago gave up the trappings of faith but still holds on to the rituals as his only known source of eternal income. And perhaps I am a madman pretending to be perfectly sane and genteel or not, or I am just so tired and worn out by this life of epic disappointments that no vestment fits me anymore. Maybe, maybe my sweet parishioners have long since abandoned this church and I am preaching my homily of old snow and house sparrows to the stained glass of an empty shell. Maybe I have become mean and small as an ugly child who wants with his hands but cannot reach the lovely joys that drop so easily to the others. Late at night, when the recently defrocked priest lays his body into the grave of his bed, and all the weight of this life just floats out of him, what is he left, there in the shadowy world of his restless existence, where nothing is, and the silences are so high pitched and terrible that they cannot be heard, and the moon falls through the window heavy as a headstone.

Berkshire, Buckley how I learned to yelp after the impossible like a dog will who sees a shadow move through the night-grass and announces rabbit! rabbit! to the eternal pack that exists only in the subterranean dim-lit world of the instinctual canine memory. And yes, I would chase recklessly through the immense dark against the cold nocturne of wind, sniffing for its maddening presence on every upturned blade, through heavy pasture and unlit back alley to find the secret hole in the ground where it lives and breeds. And there to dig with an untoward fierceness and an unquenchable hunger to hold its delicate, breakable neck in the vise of my terrible jaws, and then to let it go so I would have something delicious to tear after again through the closing night, my damp nose full of rich blood-scent, my unchained dog-heart whelping in original joy, the drive of the ancient pursuit to capture what is missing, the force that makes me howl.

Berkshire, Buckley beneath the scape of sound you are beautiful for a moment the way some faces are beautiful in mid-morning light but later turn ugly towards early afternoon its the same as asymmetry is and the rule of thirds to some or how a black squirrel ribboning across a gray highway becomes more than a lucid memory you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite let go of, and you stop for awhile to reflect upon nothing really which stretches out its impossibly long arms to hold you, and you understand, finally, what it means to have earned the uneven pitfalls of your naked face, somewhere between the aural magnificence of language and the moral ambivalence of silence.

Berkshire, Buckley vacationing in your vastness all I want is to write myself a bridge, from the broken planks of despair and loneliness, large enough so I can drive the big Buick Roadmaster of my mind's body, over packed with suitcases and star atlases, into the verdant suburbs of you. And there to find all the quaint shops and antique stores just opening up for a brisk Saturday's business, each itinerant merchant carefully laying out treasures in the early morning sunshine. And my senses, all touristy and alert, taking each of your trinkets in hand and fondling them, feeling what it is to know them, and saying things like ah, isn't this lovely? or how beautiful this would look on my mantle piece-before buying what I love and driving on deeper into the bustling cityscape that is your bright and populated body.

Berkshire, Buckley soul in space Jackson says the quicksilver corner, who correctly reads the wary minnows of the qb's eyes and picks his safe dump off in the flat and takes it back to the house untouched slicker than a handful of oily water escaping a three-year old's laughing grasp, has good hips, good as if their relative value were virtually virtuous. Perhaps they are like the blessed hips of the mother of our savior, spreading the O of eternity's mouth to the absolute limit, beyond the point of credulity, making an opening large enough for the safe passage of godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ungodly round head, his massive shoulders, and the quick pop of the rest of him, the small bulge of his stomach, his uncircumcised penis, his sad, papery testicles, his own lithe hips, those spindly legs and perfect specimens of his miniature feet and hands which years later will be turned into the velvety blooms of roses of ultimate forgiveness. Griese points out the sprinting split end who has cleared out the zone behind the backpedaling backers and then curled in front of the dropping safeties, was uncovered and, had the harried qb found him, is very dangerous in open space. Anyway, the whole play ran in slo mo reveals the tackle's hold on the lumbering tight end which negated the apparent td the jauntily gyrating corner is still celebrating, the ubiquitous yellow flag lying on the ground

Berkshire, Buckley

as if it had been dropped there by a passing maiden of yesteryear, in the nave hope her intended might notice it, and her, and stop, and pick them both up, and thus begin the unending living cycle of plays, the intricate, formal formations, the interminable planning and re-planning, the halftime adjustments to be mulled and blandly analyzed over and over, etcetera by our inveterate crew until the final gun sounds and we can all go to bed and lie hip to hip, again filling in the other's open spaces.

Berkshire, Buckley a satyr in dotage He used to hang out in lounges and piss his life away in alleys. But, man, could he dance with such abandon he was beautiful if for no other reason than his complete, undying belief that he was. Everyone grew more free in his presence, flew about more wildly in the dark anonymity of bars, both women and men frenzied alone and each other into untold crazed ecstasies because they had witnessed his unrepentant joy. Now, he lay motionless beneath the terrible ghosts of sheets, his still shapely legs and hooves pinned against the white as if they were stuck butterfly wings as he watched the deliciously formed female attendants fly about the immaculate room with that incorrigible rumba rhythm that always spindled and thrilled his feral being. And now it was here, frozen as he was out of the world where he had loved so much and freely, that he understood the last thing to leave the body is a small fire, the last kiss of the insatiable god of want.

featured poets John Bennett has been writing in a certain vein that he calls "Shard writing" with a ferocious non-stop prolific energy since the mid-90s. He doesn't know where it's coming from and it's not like he hadn't written a considerable amount before窶馬ovels, stories, conventional poems, etc. John is 70 years old and supposed to be writing his memoirs, but is caught up in a frenzy of creative energy that makes the activity of his youth look tame. His books include Tire Grabbers, a novel, Fire Storm, a new book of shards published by Pudding House Press, and Cobras and Butterflies, winner of Mystery Island's "Poetry Idol" competition. Brion Berkshire will be 51 in about three weeks. He has four boys, a wife, a dog, a

house, sundry articles of nothingness and debts, like everyone else (he supposes). He has had poems appear in various places including From East to West (of course), Belatrix Blue, Poetry Superhighway, Autumn Sky Poetry, and Salamander magazine among others. He was co-editor of the short-lived and deeply disturbed Beside the White Chickens. He was a featured contributor on The Next Word radio program out of Sarasota, Florida. He currently has a book of poems entitled Refuge of the Shallow available on Lulu. It's selling like really obscure, overdone hotcakes (minus the buttery butter and syrupy syrup). Apparently, dryness is an acquired taste.

Peter Ciccariello creates

visual poetic experiments that are a pastiche of language and text in 3-D digital environments. His work has been exhibited most recently at the 3rd Language Creation Conference, Brown University, in Providence, RI., Harvard University, Boston, MA, and the University of Arizona Poetry Center, Tucson, AZ. Ciccariello believes that poetry can be found anywhere, and most often is. He also believes that poetry has escaped and will never, under any circumstances, be taken prisoner again. Recent work has appeared both in print & online in, amongst other places, Poetry Magazine, Sous Rature, Angel House Press, Fogged Clarity, MOCA The Museum of Computer Art, and Otoliths. His book Uncommon Vision is available at uncommon-vision.blogspot.com.

Vernon Frazer has published eight books of poetry, including the longpoem IMPROVISATIONS, and three books of fiction. His work has appeared in Aught, Big Bridge, Drunken Boat, First Intensity, Golden Handcuffs Review, Jack Magazine, Lost and Found Times, Moria, Otoliths and many other literary magazines. His most recent books of poetry are Bodied Tone and Holiday Idylling, His web site is vernonfrazer.com. Frazer is married and lives in South Florida.

featured artists

Nancy Buckley resides in Freedom, Maine with husband Michael J. Buckley and two college aged sons. She attended school at Gould Academy, Bethel, ME, Skidmore College, Saratoga Springs, NY, Marietta College, Marietta, OH where she majored in art and the Butera School of Art in Boston, MA. In her artist statement, she says, “"Imperfection in nature is, to me, inherently beautiful and intriguing. I take great care selecting the organic materials I use in my artwork, looking for the blemished and less than perfect. To counterbalance the raw, natural aspects of my pieces, I incorporate various graphic elements. I rely heavily on the use of negative or open space to achieve a clean, uncomplicated design style. I make a conscious effort to not overwork my pieces. My aim is to visually evoke a feeling of solace and tranquility.” Visit her website at www.openspaceartwork.com. Jim Fuess works with liquid acrylic paint on canvas.

Most of his work is abstract, but there are recognizable forms and faces in a number of the paintings. He is striving for grace and fluidity, movement and balance. He likes color and believes that beauty can be an artistic goal. There is whimsy, fear, energy, movement, fun and dread in his paintings. A lot of his work is anthropomorphic. The shapes seem familiar. The faces are real. The gestures and movements recognizable. More of his work, both in color and black and white, may be seen at www.jimfuessart.com.

Jessy Kendall ,

born in Lewiston Maine, lives there again after growing up in the Woodstock wilds and spending 10 years in Portland. He likes artsy things, open mics, pot lucks, dancing. He does a zine called Letter Founder, which has been going strong for 59 months. He’s 32, friendly and queer and chubby a little and mostly happy and wants to meditate more. He works at a homeless teen drop-in center and does artsy things there, like open mic nights, mosaics, zines and photo projects.

Laurie Proctor-Lefebvre is a

single parent of three, professional artist and social worker. When painting, she utilizes all mediums, depending on the subject matter and her mood. Painting is a wonderful way of expression without words. She also enjoys writing poetry and short stories. She has a Masters degree in social work and incorporates art into treatment as it helps in understanding and promoting change. She teaches art through Freshwater Arts in Waterville, Maine. She is the president of the Waterville Area Art Society, and a member of Up Country artists, Kennebec Valley Art Association, and Boothbay Regional Art Foundation. Her work is in various private collections throughout New England and has won a number of awards.

“found and cut-up” poets

Ching-In Chen’s novel in poems, The Heart's Traffic, is forthcoming from Red Hen Press in 2009. Her writing has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Water~Stone Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and OCHO. She is an MFA student at the University of California at Riverside, as well as an Asian American Kundiman Fellow. Her poem, “Eight Foreign Years Are Equivalent to Four Chinese,” is based on testimonies of based on testimonies of Chinese coolies of the 1876 “Cuba Commission Report.” Barbara B. Feehrer is a retired elementary school teacher living in Bedford, MA. and has been writing poetry for over 20 years. She is a member of the Concord Poetry Center, and has had work published in Women Outdoors, the Boston Globe and several other local outlets. A resident of New England for much of her life, she finds joy and inspiration in the changing seasons of the natural world. Her poem, “Remembering Hayden Carruth: An Act of Love” is a ‘found’ poem from an obituary of Hayden Carruth, written by Bryan Marquard and printed in the Boston Globe, October 2008 Jeff Harrison has publications from Writers Forum, MAG Press, Persistencia Press, and Furniture Press. He has two e-books at xPress(ed), and one at Blazevox. His poetry has appeared in The Hay(na)ku Anthology Vol. II, Sentence: a Journal of Prose Poetics, Xerography, Moria, NOON: journal of the short poem, Dusie, MiPOesias, and elsewhere. His found text, "Poets Is Chock," was derived by typing "poets" into Googlism. Christopher Hildebrand teaches English at Murray State University in Murray, Kentucky and is also a student there in the MFA program. Much to the distress of loved ones, he has recently come out of the poetry closet. However, they are slowly coming to accept the fact that their son, brother, husband, is going to write poetry out in the open. His poem “Glove Pattern NO: 1-04633698” was born from an old invoice for a shipment of gloves. Tasha Klein is the founder of the on-line poetry board Salty Dreams found at saltydreamsbook2.yuku.com. She lives in Dekalb, Illinois and is inspired by the poetry of Anne Sexton, Jim Morrison & e.e. cummings. Jim Knowles lives in Massachusetts and is into the arts and cooking up things. He

keeps his bios short when dazed with the flu. His poems in this issue are riffs on themes and words in the abstracts that come up in Google searches.

“found and cut-up” poets

Gary Lehmann’s essays, poetry and short stories are widely published and have been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Books include The Span I will Cross [Process Press, 2004] and Public Lives and Private Secrets [Foothills Publishing, 2005]. His most recent book is American Sponsored Torture [FootHills Publishing, 2007]. He is the curator of the Valentown Museum in Victor, New York where he works one day a week winter and summer cataloguing the paper collection which numbers to about 40,000 pieces of historic papers mostly dating from 1879 to 1929. One day he came across a 3x5 card whose contents you see in this issue as “Where’s My Stuff?” Visit his website at www.garylehmann.blogspot.com. Tony Leuzzi is a writer and teacher in Rochester, NY. His poems and prose have

been published or are forthcoming in a wide range of journals and magazines, including Pinyon, SLANT, Rhino, Arts and Letter, and The National Poetry Review. His first book of poems, Tongue-Tied and Singing, was published by Foothills in 2004.

Kirsty Logan is an MLitt student in Creative Writing at Glasgow University. Her

writing is in print or upcoming in Word Riot, Polluto, Neon, Pank, Moondance, and others.

Christina Lovin is the author of What We Burned for Warmth and Little Fires. A twotime Pushcart nominee, her writing has appeared in Harvard Summer Review, Triplopia, Diner, Hunger Mountain, Poet Lore, The Lyric, and many other journals and anthologies. The Southern Women Writers’ Conference awarded Lovin the 2007 Emerging Poet Award. Her poetry has been named finalist for the 2006, 2007, and 2008 Rita Dove Poetry Award and the 7th Juried Reading at the Poetry Center of Chicago. She has received the Judson Jerome Scholarship from Antioch Writers’ Workshop, the Baron Wormser Scholarship for the Stone Coast Writers’ Conference, and, most recently, was awarded the 2008 AWP WC&C Poetry Scholarship. Lovin has served as Writer-in-Residence at Devil’s Tower National Monument and the H.J. Andrews Experimental Forest in Central Oregon. She has been a resident fellow at Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, and Footpaths House in the Azores. Her work has been generously supported on several occasions with grants from the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Kentucky Foundation for Women and the Kentucky Arts Council, including the 2007 Al Smith Fellowship. Her poem, “Maine,” was written using only place names listed in the Maine Atlas and Gazetteer published by De Lorme.

“found and cut-up” poets

Ben Nardolilli is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Heroin Love Songs, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Literary Fever, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com. His poem, “Sick Transit's Glorious Monday,” was found while riding the New Jersey Transit. Keith Perkins is a native Mainer who lives in Bucksport, Me.

He is an artist who dabbles in poetry. His “Stolen Verses” are cut-up poems taken from Samuel R Delany's Dhalgren.

Lynne Shapiro is a teacher and writer; her work has appeared in Myslexia, Hiss Quarterly, Qarttsiluni, Switchback, Umbrella, and Ragged Sky Press’ Eating Her Wedding Dress: a Collection of Clothing Poems. Later this year, her poems will be included in Lost Horse Press’ Decomposition: An Anthology of Fungi Poetry. She lives in Hoboken, New Jersey with her husband, teenage son, and recently acquired 1893 tabletop press. Amber Troy

is finding it strange to speak about herself in third person—she is pursuing a degree in linguistics at the University of Arizona and enjoys studying Latin, Shakespeare, and contemporary poetry. She also dances—ballet and swing dancing: East Coast, Charleston, and Lindy Hop. She is an anachronistic who is 22 now, but won’t be for long. Her poem, “Van der Waals Potential,” borrows from the abstracts of a physicist who is also her boyfriend.

Your Precious Memory XII (Peter Ciccariello) 53

from east to west: bicoastal verse - summer '09