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October 2011

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Tent 2: Blackbeard’s Beard Mary Ruefle Bob Hicok Greg Santos Chad Sweeney Traci Brimhall Matt Hart Di Suess Gary McDowell

B lack T ongue R eview

M. Koh Clayton Eshleman Sara Stratton Jennifer K. Sweeney Cameron Decker Nate Pritts Jake Skarbek

Featured artist : Martin Wittfooth

Special Thank’s to: Marshall Maurer Heather Stratton Carla Munn Dave Martin Greg Santos Cameron Decker Tom Williams Minda Martin Kelly Skarbek Amy Newday Sara Stratton







Chad Sweeney Seven Horses Were seven horses in the clover five reds and two blacks but three of them were white and four were glass and six iron and two away but one stood north and twelve of sound and none of rain and all the horses when the horses faced inside themselves and their disappearance was everywhere.


© Jonathan Ducruix


Bob Hicok Which is to Say, Thinking of You In the little time we have, I’d like to dance with your coat along the edge of moonlight, if you are in it, all the better, if you are out to sea, we will wave, your sleeve and I, if other contingencies intercede, let them wear carnations in the lapels of their worries, though I wonder now, do carnations have any real excitement to their perfume, and wouldn’t it be sexier to elope with your slip, which sounds so like lips against your skin, as you move closer and closer to the bed where this poem ostensibly is being written, though looking back, my entire body was a verb for which there is no breath, all the words for erection are silly or scientific, boner, tumescence, I suggest I love you and that we call the state of being you lead me to aware.

Red Mask, Š Jose Roosevelt

Creation There were so many green fields in the valley I picked one and took it to Canada and brought their weird French back and planted it where the green field had thrived, something will come of this, like when you look at stars for a hundred years one night, and the first woman you see after, you kiss her and wed and have three children, one of whom runs out of red paint at the worst time, while painting fire, which lead to the style of yellow fire that year, everyone thinking she was so bold, except the guy who ran out of blue paint and was painting wheat-colored sky upon wheat-colored sky, naturally they wed and had children who ran out of things, we’re what, a few generations into this poem and no one has eaten lunch or any meal, for that matter, how does art keep going on an empty stomach, or slept in the poem on the edge of the sea, suckled by the sound of waves, who are born by the millions every second, and mature, and lead full lives of tumbling in almost the same instant they die, I am riding a horse now away from this sadness, make it a gazelle on second thought in your brain, which is where I’ve lived the past minute or so, that’s a beautiful rug and I love what you’ve done with your cerebellum, by the way

Bob Hicok

Julie Heffernan

Not a Remedy but a Method But if you pound an iron rod into the ground every day, wherever you are when you wake, even on a train, the ground of a thought will do, the ground of a promise to a dying fly to write a poem about it, into water if water is your lover right then, they will find you or evidence of you, or if a rod is too phallic, pound an envelope into the ground, pound a kiss, they will follow the trail of rods, envelopes, kisses, they will notice the shadows of these things, and their noticing will become a dream that occupies their bodies, and you will live inside their noticing, though you are dead by then, I fear I have distracted you from your medicine, your window, from braiding your hair into a rope, from writing your will on the mirror after you shower: I leave my smoke to the rain, my brevity to dawn, my cauldron, my cistern, I leave my genuflection to the universe, to use for parts or mock, my atoms, you are free, go speak your structures to other ears

Bob Hicok

Š Samuli Heimonen

Gary McDowell All The Tough Parts Everyone agreed that the bride shouldn’t wear white. I’ve always wanted to swan-dive, tie a villain to the tracks, make footprints on the seafloor, speak up rather than forever hold my peace. Freud once said…. Just how smart is the snake? Everyone likes to be alone sometimes. Our father, our raincoats: lightning is a prayer for silence, and only silence perfects silence.

Š Pascal Tessier

Jennifer K. Sweeney Previously Believed to be a Human Phenomenon Trapped inside a ring of fire, the scorpion knew death was imminent, scavenged for an opening where flame unclasped but the walls rose in a gold and scarlet hiss. Hard to say, faced with this certainty, if you would also choose against helplessness— plunging the stinger deep into your own flesh, your body collapsed before heat engulfed the center.

Š Richard Moore III


The Rehearsal Every month I tried to make of my body a home. I was an hourglass made of shell, made of bone. I lay under the Perseids and let the stars hold up the night. There was me and the idea of you. I saw for both of us— tule elk silent among ferns, sunset lying pink over a field of Dakota corn. In the museum, I walked through a hall of Buddhas. Felt the cool lotus curve in the half-dark. Granite, terra cotta, bronze. If I could have made you like that— I would have held the hammer, I would have opened the stone.

Jennifer K. Sweeney

Š Anders Lazaret




Jesus waits patiently for the faucet to get cold before lowering his head to drink. Upon standing back up, he realizes he has flooded a whole city. This is necessary. My Mother scolds me when I don’t use a cup.


Buddha is up on a mountain somewhere putting wheat in a vase, when in a great shutup, the almond in his mouth finally becomes an almond and that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

© Maura Holden

Clayton Eshleman Posthumous Mask This mask is in motion, acrawl with web building, an eight-legged mandala, with mile stain, dread locked in its refusal to disclose synthesis. Caryl holds a black umbrella over, exciting bat sonorities, together we walk the Crocodile of the Earth, noticing Her birth hole, out of which deer are streaming. Spider is our red transformer, Her nets are gilded with rabbits and peccaries. By stingray we are pressed to owl, by owl we are intact in ceiba. My heart grail softens to become the very bonework of poetry: image capable of providing an inlet for the infinite, at grasp with the mystery of the fetal curl, a persona of living shadows, Yorunomado’s mind. Chrysalis and rectitude of a life at rail with the hammerhead knitted behind time, with flattened boa surf, and the oncoming locomaelstrom of my own chaos. This mask is my true face: my destiny’s spored, diasporic double.

© Mary Heebner

For Connie Culp

Reface me. Deliver me from this shot gun blast mess.

A hole where the middle of her face had been.

22 hours, for new blood vessels, hollow white arteries, hair dense stitches starting to pulse.

Will her soul reject her mask?

Donor face. Anna Kasper mask. Xipe. The eyes of the living seen through the face of one dead.

“You’ll leave like a breeze,” warned one tremble-anchored bush.

To smell, and to live with, the sag of the mask, to appear Other. Not to be Other but to radiate Other as the deadliving density of livingdying. A godscape? Face stadium in which Anna Kasper ghosts flit.

Miracle of Connie Culp being able to walk down the street without being taunted.

What was the first mask? The eyes of someone dead peering through a waterfall?

Clayton Eshleman

ŠHeather Stratton

Mary Ruefle GREETINGS MY DEAR GHOST One thing life has taught me is that even dolls have bad days, days when the wind presents its challenges, you open your mouth, it gets full of grit, cars are mangled, people are injured, the Four Noble Truths sealed in a capsule and sent into space, snowballs hurled over a few daffodils startle the piano keys out of their sleep. Morning, I have just come from there, they throw big pieces of it down with a smash. When my doll refuses to speak I say Go, go where the high, blinding stately magnificence of reality is being taught, but not even a wandering little drift of unidentified sound comes from her mouth, her face is haunted and blood-curdling, but that is her way, her way of saying How Sweetly Human, the April Air: I should not keep it hid.

Collateral Damage, Š Mikel Glass



“While it may look dire, through people talking about it, wether its by means of art or writing, it can potentially rally people to recognize these problems and move towards something more beautiful and hopeful.”

H aving a conversation with Martin is similar to viewing his

work. He speaks with the same extravagent tone as his paintings, changing color and tone drastically. With an overwhelming desire to portray the message of an entire species from the inside out, Wittfooth could be called “the artist at the end of the world,” requiring his audience to reenter waking life, just before reaching the finale of a plummeting dream.

There has been a great deal of research on the topic of the role the unconscious plays during the creative process. How much planning goes into your work before it begins to evolve, if any?

I tend to have odd moments when I’m not consciously thinking about having to do another painting surrounding any part of an idea. Ideas tend to come to me in flashes, but they can be instantaneous. Thinking about the theme i want the piece to fall into, I start to look at my surroundings for something I can take out to put into my next painting. Rather than have my work be an exercise of the unconscious and subconscious, its more a matter of really taking a more concrete idea such as environmental destruction and playing off that in a more symbolic way rather than having a subconscious reaction as if i was putting together dream imagery. If i come up with a mighty struggle, I want to have an animal to struggle against. I would think of something that comes into our mind as mighty, something associated with strength, and somehow play that element into whatever piece will deal with that theme. Many of your pieces seem to con- visual For this next series, I have a piece about that. It has a lot to do vey a great deal of posthumous with self sacrifice and struggle. When i was formulating the ideology, such as “red soil,” in idea, the first image that came to mind was a bull tied to a tree, which something fresh emerges pulling itself away. It is futile because he is in an unstoppable from the devastation of life. Can battle against his own captivity. you explain the themes behind these images (are they religious/ By the use of animal symbolism and morphology, how do following that of reincarnation)? you feel your work differs in comparison to other contemporary pieces? I pull ideas from antiquity (Rennaissance and 19th century There is the idea of organic flora painting). In regards to where main line art was taken, in the growing out of dead matter, but its not coming out of any religious 20th century, it was going as far away from representational idea. This series plays off the idea work. In a way that’s where i’m getting a lot of my style and forced out of nature. Nature has to conceptual stuff, coming from artists of the past. I have been co-exist, it doesn’t have to become looking at what is happening now as far as ideas, but i’m also applying antique sensibility to my work. perverted. It has to force its way through concrete and other barriers we have set up, at the same time What does the use of animals allow you to accomplish i suppose a lot of my work is based in your work, that you would not be able to emphasize around the idea. I want to play off through the use of human figures? the tension of having both destruction and death, but also hope. I feel In setting up this world in which my art takes place, there is that there are a lot of things we are always presence of human influence but the human figure facing that we have yet to in such itself is never present. What I’m trying to do is set up stages capacity in the past as a collecset by human hands but with animal characters playing out tive species dealing with the world the scenes. if we see a human figure in work, its easy to see around us. Im not without hope for what we are destined, but with other human being portrayed as someone cast to play our part this destructive element, i want to instead of us. Removing us and having elements of humantrigger people to think about these ity influencing what’s happening, makes us impartial observers, without being able to affect the outcome. in doing that, its things. not an ape posed man world. I’d rather have us view these as things we are collectively responsible for and view how it plays out when we don’t actively participate in them.

Greg Santos Reader Beware The speaker in the poem starts off somewhere ordinary. Let’s say at the kitchen table drinking Earl Grey tea. You think you know where they are but then suddenly you end up alone on a luminous moonscape. Where has the speaker gone? You’ve made a quantum leap, switching places with them and don’t know how you got there. The atoms on the page have shifted and you’ve traveled space and time from the comfort of your favourite reading nook. To the untrained eye, your outward appearance hasn’t changed but the energy inside you is fundamentally different. There is magic sprinkled within. Look around you; all has changed. The air is thinner and the landscape bumpier. You experience some kind of emotion and it is inexplicably sad. No. Sad is the wrong word. It is a feeling that goes deeper than that.

Š Gilbert Moya

Traci Brimhall Dear Thanatos You caught me by the wrists in the art museum. I wanted to desecrate that godforsaken row of disfigured saints with their fondness for the sky and their wounds opening like small doors to heaven. If I’d had spray paint, I would’ve used it. If there’d been a wasp dizzily circling the messiah, I would have crushed its humming body into the Lord’s forehead, stinger and all. I sang to the museum guard until he let me babysit the lion. I pulled out all my teeth so it knew I would not fight back. I was tired of surviving. My heart had outgrown me. It wanted too much love, too much sadness, too many arrows and glasses of wine. But the truth is that the lion died as it ate my arm, and I could not unhinge its jaws. That thumping you hear is not my pulse leaping but bones knocking on the city streets as I drag the lion home.

Š Lina Kusaite

Dear Thanatos Your tricks are too easy these days— the head of John the Baptist bloodying the bed, the child in the gypsy’s arms that fell when I tossed coins into her hat, and rolled onto the train platform, plastic, blue eyed and blinking, exposed as a sin. The ticket to the mine bought me more silver than I could carry on my back across the salt flats. I am still owned by my past and the balcony I tried to jump from. I always assumed there was a poet waiting to catch me and call me a gift, and if not a poet, the words he meant to say, and if not the words, the book made of moonlight where the words are written, and if not the book, then the darkness that birthed the book and the words that could call me back, call me home.

Traci Brimhall

© Lina©Kusaite Lina Kusaite

Di Suess My H a i r is the Color of Bugs

under rocks, of mice when you flash a light on them in the dark and they’re holding a kernal of corn in their hands. The hair on my legs is the color of spider eggs and the fur under my arms is the color of what crawls out of those eggs and the pelt between my legs is the color of what’s caught and dies in their webs. I’m at my best when I’m filmy

Lorem Ipsum 123 Ever y where Avenue City, St 00000

as a pink dress washed one hundred times hanging on the clothesline in moonlight. I found a pile of Playboy’s in a tree fort and studied them which is how I learned that naked too can be smokescreen. You’ve stripped me, cleared away a layer of my hide, you’ve seen my tawny little nipples and peered into my bellybutton but the only way to see me is to see through me.

© Antonio Motta

I’ve Invented a New Kind of Snowglobe Instead of artificial snow, real petals rain down on the tableau. If you tip it upside down

and carefully unscrew the base, being sure not to spill water from the glass globe, you can modify the elements of the tableau: corporate executives, or sheep copulating under a full moon. At some point, I will erase the tableau entirely and let the petals fall, when I feel like expending the energy to shake it, onto an empty landscape. No , that will not be enlightenment. Enlightenment will be when I remove the petals and someone replaces them with my own lamb-gray ashes.

Di Suess

© Helena Pallarés

If You’ve Not Seen A Dead Baby then you don’t know what a wild aster looks like after frost. If you’ve not washed an old chain smoker down there you can’t imagine the gray Queen Anne’s Lace scorched by cold. Is your heart as empty as a bird’s nest ditched in the crook of a cherry tree? Love hollow as the moon’s udder? Hooked your finger inside a dead man’s mouth, pulled out a blood clot, sprayed his naked body with a hose to get him clean? Then you’ve seen the shriveled red cones of the sumac in cold rain. We’re down to thistle now and that’s a lot. Di Suess

Self Portrait as Dirty Princess with Tail , Š Julie Heffernan

Michael Koh HANDS One and two: a man without a sense of history is not a man three and four: you can’t teach a dog history because it is a dog five and six: just because it is in the trash doesn’t mean someone else can’t read it seven and eight: tragedies are remembered best Take my eight to your two grasp the dead tightly, the river Lethe runs deep.

Š Richard Moore III

Personal Poem

Nate Pritts

Perhaps I’m simply exhausted because I never learned to have one clear thought & see it all the way through. Maybe I left the coffee on too long. But how can anyone be unhappy when there is still no snow? How come I think I have to write about

real things that are really happening? If I say that I see a preponderance of trees that would be authentic. My worry is nobody cares about what any small voice says unless something in it is familiar so I keep rushing through the dictionary in search of the one word you are already thinking so I can say it to you.

Š Camilla Engman

I Had to Decide Which Words to Practice All this creation together feels tremendous but the rug under my feet just abides, silent like a goon, collecting every bit of my doubt, playing on every fear & scaring me with its logic which it shapes into a gun to knock me clean out of your life. My worries are made out of the memories you’re helping me forget. Each window has a candle & each burn has some wick that leads straight to the heart where every bad thing about me festers & won’t go away. The present is present & wants more & wants more. It stays calm, turns to hunger all over the table on Cortelyou in the morning. A word feels timid until you blow it up with calligraphy, until you snip it

Nate Pritts

© Sun Yunfan

Jake Skarbek Error 404: Page Not Found Blue lines border all the lines never written in invisible ink, portraits of future gravity and sound waves chewed. Sole red line, marginalized, Steel Curtain, Great Wall, in the sand, crown to unclipped nail of plane, field, bus station, dreams. Crumpled and torn, in a robin nest, in the River Rouge Plant, in the hands of a construction worker on 94, in the hands of a child shoemaker, in the hands of harmony plucked by place. In the hands of a ghost having read salt lake memory of a machine born in 1962

Š Samuli Heimonen

The Michigan Planetary Spa It is forbidden to play the flute at night. Power lines hum instead, and a garden weeps for ironwood. I can’t play the flute. During August evenings, Earth rests in a fountain when the air smells like gas or honey and the ice cream lady sells popsicles for a quarter. Only the cherry ones. Only when Earth isn’t looking.

Jake Skarbek

Fountain, Š Martin Wittfooth

Sara Stratton Drowning Without Water There’s something about working through sunset tonight, the heft in the air and the way the wind has turned pale undersides of the hardwood leaves left standing on West Michigan Avenue— makes me want to let loose the spring-loaded mop-bucket, down the flight of stairs just to watch the water rush and the plastic bucket shatter against the windowless cinderblock hallway and quit this fucking job that doesn’t even pay minimum wage tonight, not even $4.50 an hour, including tips. A couple of tornadoes denied and a hushed oil spill will do that to a local casino-smoking-ban-economy-fucked waitress. More storms today. The news declared straight-line winds again in places viewing area-close enough to hear about. All at once I thirst for home, finger on the pulse of all that matters, feeling its rhythm and settling in its cycle with fragility and brevity like sunset— oh how it would piss off Adrienne Rich, Helene Cixous or Simone de Beauvoir— bare feet, dishpan hands, spread ready for my husband when he comes home— luxury, like being able to watch the setting sun.

Š Claudia Cohen

Matt Hart Blasted in the soft azure mountains of Beer, I walk to the ship shape on the horizon, where I find a Mayflower blue replica of a pilgrim. In its pocket is a key to the garage door I’ve been trying to open ever since the fountain mist rusted the lock and knocked me back against myself where I found you this Pacific pearl

Blasted in the Soft

Azure of Mountains

Š Camilla Engman

Black Bear The lover Was woven At last Like the bird The gay gentle Wig-maker Then I said, Beauty is The ground Running I inhaled Pine-cones Full of light

Matt Hart

Š Samuli Heimonen

Dabble, pogamoggan, agelast, jentacular, knismesis, ginglyform, gambrinous, nelipot, interfenestation, krukolibidinous, misodoctakleidist, interfenestration M^IcheAl KOH` = GR(rr) e g / SanTOS v. n. sub. B—ob H`ic-ok v. Author M(ichael) Koh: Me(Mint Julep-Chef/Knee-driver, of This Clumsy Living teorSocial-Media-Butterfly) (University of Pittsurgh ite. SEE The Emperors Sofa (DC Press, 2007), Insomnia N# A t/e PriTTs> Books, 2010). Editor: Pax AmeriDiary ( Pitt, 2004), Anin. Nate Pritts is cana mal Soul (Invisible Citthe author of five J-A-K-E...SkaRbeK Ninja. V. ies Press, 2001), Plus books of poems, Blackbelt Honey Badger Shipping (BOA, 1998) most recently Sweet JenNiFer K. SwEEney ABC. &................ Nothing. He is the author of How to Live on Bread Recipient of 3 Pushcart founder & principal and Music (2009 James Laughlin prizes, 2 NEA Fellowships, editor of H_NGM_N, Award winner) and Salt Memory. & a Guggenheim (in a an online journal & Her poems have been translated pear tree). small press. into Turkish and published widely cAM`er-O`n--Decker n. SARA StraTto`N in literary journals including master STORIEnv. American Poetry Review, Poetry TELLR TRac-i Br)imhall Daily and the 2009 Pushcart Prize chAd SWee**neY sub. sub. anthology. teaches poetry in the MFA MaRy Ruefle v. n. adj. program at California BLACK TONGUEState University, San Ber- BOOKS include Selected Poems 1. News of the Uni(Wave Books, 2010); A Little White nardino. His next book is verse residing withShadow (2006), an art book of Wolf Milk, from Forklift in passing ghosts. “erasures,” a variation on found Books. His son is named 2. The Very edge of a poetry; Tristimania (CarnegieLiam. cliff, from which the Mellon University Press, 2003), cLA`YTon ESHLEman bottom can be seen Among the Musk Ox People n.` 3. Launching (2002); Apparition Hill (2001); author of The Complete pad of Apollo Cold Pluto (2001); Post MeridPoetry of Cesar Vallejo 1029485725D ian (2000); Cold Pluto (1996); (University of California 4. prophet of Greece The Adamant (1989), winner of Press, 2007) and The 5. Of the constellathe 1988 Iowa Poetry Prize; Life Grindstone of Rapport / A tion Hercules, the Without Speaking (1987); and Clayton Eshleman Readleft eyebrow Memling’s Veil (1982). AWARDS: er (Black Widow Press, American Academy of Arts and 2008). A new collection Letters, Guggenheim fellowship, of his poetry and prose, National Endowment for the Arts The Price of Experience, will be published by Black fellowship, Whiting Award. MATT HART(!) B is for BoWidow Press in 2012. rneo. co-founder and Editor-inD*I >< SueSS v. Books 1. Chief of Forklift, Ohio and the It Blows You Hollow (New Issues, 1998) 2. Wolf Lake, author of Who’s Who Vivid (Slope White Gown Blown Open, Ediwinner of Juniper Prize tions, in Poetry (University of 2006) Massechusetts Press, and 2009). three G%ary McD0W3ll article. chapGary L. McDowell is the books: author of American RevelatAmen (Dream Horse ed (HolPress, 2010) and co-editor lyridge of The Rose Metal Press Press, Field Guide to Prose Po2005), etry (Rose Metal Press, Sonnet 2009). He’s an assistant (H_ professor of English and NGM_N Books) and Simply Rocket Creative Writing at Bel(Lame House Press, 2007). mont University in Nashville, TN. ABOVE: Artwork © ALEX KUNO Poets

BELOW: Artwork © ALEX KUNO abi, amjo, daifingua, drelg, dwirby, erfz, fizana, febbets, fimque, gredlin, gibdubber, itevik, larpni, kyiro, mnonign, myrga, rubid, smeb, sneed,tsu, umnoa, uda And8rS LAZARet;;; Illustrator of FRANCE!! n. AntonIO MOTTA-- n. FROM ITALY,LIVES IN LONDON SINCE 2007                             :- photos/61846884@N07/                                                   omenetti   C`AmIllA `EngmanCamilla Engman, born 1966 in Trollhättan, Sweden. Lives and works in Gothenburg G~~~IlBerT MoYa.,., photographer at WitGele Kruis van Antwerpen Studied Bellas Artes at University of Castile-La Mancha, Lives in Antwerp, Belgium. HEATher straTtOn).MFA candidate at Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore. She is a multimedia artist whose work has been shown internationally. Her work explores themes of the memory ghost and formulaic myths derived from eprsonal experiences. Helena P`aLLERESLives in Zargoza, Spain, studied BBAA at Academy Vytarnich Umeni JonaTHaN DuCruixof Lyon, France. “Jonathan Ducruix is my name, but i’d like to call myself Me&Edward when it’s about my work. All my work is about identity(ies), and the way that one person is viewed by others. Human body and its transformations is also one of my favorite subject.”

Jos`e` ROOSEVELT:::;- s. v. José Roosevelt, painter, illustrator and author of graphic novels, is born in Rio de Janeiro (Brazil), in 1958. In the helvetic land, the artist practise essentialy oil painting and drawings. Many galleries and other exhibition rooms over Switzerland welcome his pictures, mainly in the cities of Yverdon, Fribourg, Basel, Bern, Lausanne, Geneva, Nyon. JULIE HEFFERNAN-n-v. Heffernan was raised in Northern California and lives in Brooklyn, New York. She received a B.F.A., at the University of California, Santa Cruz and an M.F.A. in painting at the Yale School of Art.[2] Heffernan is an Associate Professor of fine arts at Montclair State University in Upper Montclair, New Jersey.[3] She is married to Jonathan Kalb, chair of the Theater Department at Hunter College and theater critic for The New York Times. Heffernan is the mother of two sons: Oliver, the eldest, and Sam.[4] LINA K>USAITE- s. prd. Lina Kusaite has a strong background in such diverse art disciplines as: sculpture, graphics, ceramics, drawing and painting. Her interest and experience stretches from 2d drawing to interactive space design and realization - as well as fashion design and fabrication. MArtIn Wittfooth: M/W/ V. SEE Ft. ARTIST MAry Heebner- v. n. Mary Heebner is an abstract painter and book artist whose work is collected by institutions that include J.P. Getty Research Center, The Library of Congress, The National Gallery of Art, The New York Public Library, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, and Santa Barbara Museum of Art. Heebner uses a variety of media to make work that bespeak the connection between human and earth forms, and explore the way we perceive and 


explore the way we perceive and  create realities through a piecing together of fragments- and to this end, many of her drawings, photo-based collages and paintings utilizes a grid format.  Her studio is in Santa Barbara, CA    www. MaURa Holden-Nebulously Devout Visionary Contemplative MiKel Glass- v. http:// PAscal Tessier- Pascal is an illustrator based in Amiens, near Paris, France. RiCHard Moore III- “My primary focus has always been sculpture, but lately I have become more fascinated with the 2 dimensional world. A little graphite can say so much.” SaMULI Heimonen- sub. Samuli Heimonen was born in 1975 in Saarijävi, Finland. He graduated as Master of Arts 2002 from the University of Art and Design in Helsinki. He currently lives and works in Kangasniemi, Finland.

Sun YunFAN- Born in Shaanxi, China, Sun Yunfan received her BFA from SVA in 2008 and MFA from Pratt Institute in 2010.

Š Last issues featured artist: Toshiaki Uchida

Black Tongue Review  

Featuring poetry by Chad Sweeney, Matt Hart, Nate Pritts, Di Suess, Mary Ruefle, Bob Hicok and more! Featured artist Martin Wittfooth

Black Tongue Review  

Featuring poetry by Chad Sweeney, Matt Hart, Nate Pritts, Di Suess, Mary Ruefle, Bob Hicok and more! Featured artist Martin Wittfooth