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EdgarAllan Poet


J ournal 201 3

Edgar Allan Poet #1 Journal – 2013

Edited by Apryl Skies

Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House 13547 Ventura Boulevard Sherman Oaks CA 91423 Apryl Skies Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House Copyright © 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this collection may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without expressed written permission or consent, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles of reviews.

ISBN: 978-0-9854715-9-0 Printed in the United States of America Editing, Arrangement & Cover design By Apryl Skies Cover Photography by JR Phillips

TABLE OF CONTENTS Cover photo courtesy of JR Phillips Introduction


Dissonance - Echoe Paul Sky-Bite Lunar Eclipse – Gloria Wimberley Ghosts – Susan Botich Dawn Noon Dusk – Samantha Ledger At a Scottish Tavern – Tim Buck Seasons – Rick Stepp-Bolling They Both Came to Breakfast with Me – Lois Michal Unger Reflecting Rilke’s Prose – Dan Capriotti The Soul’s Residence – EL Freifeld Adoration of Every Tragedy – David Mcintire Shades of Gray – Rick Stepp-Bolling With Love, I Welcome Her Surrender to a Vicious War – Jessica Ceballos Lovers Dark – Michael Wayne Holland Edge – Francesca Castaño Psychedelic Silhouette – Dom Gabrielli Those Mocha Eyes – Danny Baker Spindrift – Rich Follett The Wrybills – Thomas Kent Ruinous – Michael Wayne Holland Songs – Dan Capriotti Nun’s Thighs – William Crawford Blue Woman – Tim Buck Aurora – Rick Stepp-Bolling Laika – Marie Lecrivain Snow and Ash – Susan Botich Enemy Thine – Gloria Wimberley Requiem for Vital Adjective – Danny Baker Fall Soap – Niall Rasputin Why Always the Dread Comes – Susan Botich The Approach of Doom – Martin Willitts Jr. Cuprum 29 – Aunia Kahn Golden Wings – Niall Rasputin Santa Monica Pier – Cedric Drake The Nuns’ Regret – Neil McCarthy Jesus Christo and Santa Muerte, Sitting in a Tree – Marie Lecrivain God, Or Somebody, Bless Him – Jhon Baker Lies I Tell Myself – Michael Wayne Holland Dirt – Stephanie Bryant Anderson Loss – Martin Willitts Jr. It doesn’t take a professor. – William Crawford Poe – JR Phillips Bells (After Poe) – Tim Buck Raven's Hour – Greg Patrick Artless – E.L. Freifeld Be What You Need – David McIntire Silence Tombstone (Photo) – Dan Capriotti The Silence – Bill Friday Recycling – Barbara Moore My Wife Did Not Enter the Room Gracefully – Neil McCarthy

8 9 10 11 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 31 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 51 52 53 55 56 57 59 60 61 62 63 64

Staccato – Francesca Castaño Glamoure in France – Aunia Kahn And Good Night, Ma Chérie – Ian Lennart Surraville Between Dreams and Nightmares – Katie Bickell Chiaroscuro – Thomas Kent

65 66 67 68 69



“I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.” ~Edgar Allan Poe

Introduction Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House announces with considerable privilege and appreciation the first annual publication, Edgar Allan Poet Journal #1, in celebration of the press history and evolution as an online, international archive. It is the purpose of the editor to provide readers with inspiration of both voice and vision.

Many themes have arisen within this collective as it pertains to the exploration of the macabre, mysterious and ethereal realms presented in the work itself. Literature contained within presents patterns and reflection with lunarscapes, oceans and the mortal condition as muse. The common thread holding this cacophony of consciousness together is the gravity of shadow and the ability to captivate readers with the art of storytelling through images or texts, or the cohesive manifestation between these unique elements.

Sincere gratitude extended to the readers and all remarkable talents who contributed to this exceptional body of work.

Please visit the following website for more on these and other prolific writers and artists.



blinking aside galaxies born inside you
 owl that only sleeps at night does water hesitate to flow? little bird, attempting backwards flight
 tree whose rings grow inward 
 forged into chains of fright
 silent screams are what you utter
 sun, begging moon for light

Echoe Paul


SKY-BITE LUNAR ECLIPSE I met a moon-shaped dragon with the newness of a foal in the hue of sackcloth caked with red earth --this dragon's tail I'd like to control .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. In the halcyon days carefree silver light filled our sky-purse with coins aplenty Now I wish for a worshipful wind to blow the darkness away and clasp its ancient cloven hooves together with humankind and Mother Nature in soul-solidarity for us all: Such a blood moon is too heavy to hold

Gloria Wimberley


GHOSTS hang above, seated like stones. Black robed, tight mouthed. Gavels beating down on the tender skulls of dreamer children and suicidal adults who were dreamer children. Keeping the breath from moving naturally. Determined refusal of simple love. No need to be called by any name. They are the unnamed reasons for crying out on the page or stage or into the empty of night. Now the naked thespians, singers of stories, free-form dancers who move, turn the burning, fire to liquid notes, timbre and flow of limber body and voice— that powerful, vulnerable resounding, trust, sing the apparitions into the moon.

Susan Botich


I. DAWN. The negative inversion of light changes, charges. That face, unbearably frail, had once held fractiously reflected images of their former selves. Sense the sensation of fear, it precipitates in bone marrow; from limb to limb she ravages herself in cannibalistic rituals. Consuming the consumptive, it is the nature of inhumane dreams. She drank the elixir of his aged passion and found she gagged on the truth presented in her hallucinogenic state. A stench of diesel lingers in the caliginous air, the unelemental nature of their love burns behind her left eye, a sensation of electrocution. The executioner wears a red dress. If they were to be bookish and return to the first principle, the breath he had just taken was meaningless. It does not exist. Nor does hers. Therefore her veracity can take on a more violent nature. He took his aim, she was unarmed and guarded not the path to her heart. It is marked for his blade or arrow, or the slingshot so favoured in his infantile period. The grass around the edges of the lake is overgrown, time stood still only for her. Captured her long enough to leave her behind in the bending shards of light cascading from a mouth of a lover she did not take. Passed down, faulted eugenics with silver tongues, silent promises and leather. They bequeathed her something of flesh and bone to remember them by; it calls her name in the mimicking tone of her once sequestered voice. This is how it is. Raise her from the furrowed glebe, to revolute in the luminescence of dawn. Make her not ethereal inside the plasmatic constellation. Her night has retreated, she is conscious in the defiant birth of her own aurora borealis. II. NOON. They crossed the celestial meridian at dusk and then again at noon, as the light pitched down from the heavens with the calefaction of Satan. She knew it was the serpent from the taste on her lips, the fat pink thumb that brushed at the stain was not her own. Sex is good for the body, truth is good for the soul. So it is written on the leaves of the trees that shade the fortunate. Beneath their feet the voices of heathens sang out, each footprint leaving an indelible mark upon the skin of an unborn infant. The shins of weaker women split open, exposing bone shards to air. There is a folk tale, passed from mouth to mouth that tells tales of those that have walked in the midday sun. Mad dogs ran themselves ragged as he foamed at the mouth. If you drink freely from the fountain you will pay the consequence. They taught this at school before milk, she drank it down thirstily. She is the water bearer, but the elders have yet to realise the strength of character sequestered under her breast plate. A pain stabs in her middle finger having spent too long pouring over ancient texts in a language no longer spoken. Above her stand a figure carved of iron, bone, swathed in a blanket of flesh. He watches her decipher each syllable, kisses her full on the mouth in reward. Some punishments are metered out with love. Some only wear it as a disguise. In his calloused hands, black with soot from the bags long slung over his shoulder, he holds her heart. The kettle whistles early calling the workers too tea. Old women kneel in the grate of an open fire plying kindling with paraffin, lest the devil should forget to send a spark to burn out the sin. Every child’s flesh will burn if touched by the fingertips of evil, unless she has already tainted herself. Then her hair shall be knotted with violets and ivy ready for her marriage to her mother’s father. To return to the source is the only cure. Everyone knows this. Oral language is stronger than the mutterings of the church. The priest no longer knocks at their door. His teeth are missing as he smiles, takes her hands and walks her to the shade of dreamscapes. Opens her mouth to pour in the elixir from a dusty jar sat on the handmade bench. Reminds her again, that he built it with his own two hands, flexing the muscles in his arm. Not all threats are overt. Not all love is precious. In the distance reverberations of life mingle with one another in the torridity, coexisting, consuming one another until joined, a cacophony of silence clouds their bodies from view. God said he witnesses everything, but her God is not that of the parables told in Christ’s house. His teeth glisten white from inside the jar. Drink of his body, drink, drink, drink. Only Alice had the good fortune of growing in size. Down into the rabbit hole she falls, down into anatomical penitence.


III. DUSK. How did Noah know the rounded earth would flood? How can something circular swell until it bursts unless someone pricks it with a sharpened screw. People long believed the earth was flat, in which case, flooding would be impossible. Torrents of raging fluid would course towards the edges only to cascade into the cosmos. Lost. Forever. She was not Noah and did not know there was a flood to come. The burning animalistic craving of the day eased with the setting of the sun, the burning sensation of her flesh subsided less. The holy one retreated to the bottom of a bottle that did not contain a ship, sails unfurled, it held nothing. He too was empty, of regret, or guilt. A spent force waiting to again muster desire. She slunk into the shadows as she had seen other animals do. Unlatched the window with a broken finger and dropped bare footed onto the cooling ground. As her bare feet padded across the parched grass clouds of dust wafted around her. Earth to earth. You cannot know what you are not taught, innocence is heavy burden when a body has been heaved into the romanticism of others. Under the branches of a chestnut tree, leaves singed by the sun, she dug, until her fingers wore to the quick. Licking them, the metallic taste reminded her of a forgotten dream, relived to often to be erased wholly from memory. We fall back to what we know. In the trough she crouched, blackened knees under her chin. From across the meadows the sounds of slumber rolled like thunder. Stars pricked the sky, she waited for it to bleed a midnight blood. None was to come, not until morning.

Samantha Ledger


AT A SCOTTISH TAVERN The dead of Argyll are solemn tonight. They flow as does 'unspoken water' gathered secretly from under bridges, becoming their own rituals for healing a plague of time at grave-flowered twilight. The dead flow toward low tavern candles, where a poet is reading her whispered poems. To the north, quay waves approach to listen, and Caoniteach forsakes her endless washing, to shuffle with a bag of portents to the tavern. Strong drinks are on the tables of philosophers and melancholiacs. The moon faints behind great wings of black Boobrie perched on the roof. Brollachan postpones nightmare errands. Old Scots whispered of language's powers. The poet's lines console the sorrowed dead, pleasing them with her Gaelic echoes.... Evocations of ancient weathers that rolled in unsettling rumors. And how the sun would darken, eclipsed not by moons but infants laid too soon beneath grim stones. Ecstasies of accidents on oceans and the flailing of the drowned. Hymns to gods beyond all belief. Laments for lovers gone to Glasgow. The waning of flowers toward winter and delirium from the honeyed mead. All this she spoke in secret cadence. All this the gathered spirits drank. Across away on night-splashed rocks of the Hebrides, Loreiag draws from wind the traces of spoken poems. Threading them on her loom, she spins bleak beauties into warm shrouds for sunken and bone-strewn sailors.

Tim Buck


SEASONS When we first met you bull rushed me into the sand white-crested, proud, filled with the anticipation of youth And youthful exuberance You wasted no time washing me in baptismal salts Kelp-strewn seas, and scabs of tar. A spiritual journey between home and half home I tumbled like a newborn from womb to frothy shore Linking us forever in sacred lore. Later, I walked beside your limitless border abalone, limpets, periwinkles, and memories horded a well washed path I chose each footprint father followed each step disappearing like his images in the soft sand of yesterday. . . Then spending evenings against the blaze of bonfires and your tales of mariners lost in ocean lust, longing for a friendly tide or nautical guide to bring them home. Now, the songs of sirens and silence beckon me enticing me with their Venice madness while I see the broken glass the sad sagas of greatness dimmed the queen dethroned and oil silently slipping into roiled vermillion proclamations of royalty past of splendor trashed. We grow old our stories told like drunken sailors glory-bold until at last the final wave upon the shore has crashed. She dips her toe into the retreating foam wriggling against the cold Pacific giggling as only a child of early morning meeting her imaginary friend for the first time can.

Rick Stepp-Bolling


THEY BOTH CAME TO BREAKFAST WITH ME They both came to breakfast with me sat across the table from my coffee I couldn’t depend on either of them anymore See, I told you you were strong the dead one said.

Lois Michal Unger


REFLECTING RILKE’S PROSE First the old man says: Finding no rest in their beds The ghosts come out in the night To gaze wordlessly, agape At the silent, windless heavens And then the beardless youth goes on: Until, in the rising sun Figures of men can be seen Silhouetted against the flat distance Atop the ridges of the kurgans When a weary mother adds: Within the kurgans lay cold The fathers of forgotten fathers Buried deep in earthen mounds That ripple on the steppe like waves To which a strong man responds: Sometimes birds fly among the mounds And wild songs drop deep inside Where graves are the mountains And men are the abysses Now the child speaks his part: Even their houses can’t protect Them against the limitless steppe For the dusty windows admit The glaring light of eternity A young maiden has this answer: Only the icons succor them, as Mileposts on the road to God Glinting with flecks of gold they Show His lost children the way 1

Dan Capriotti 1

Based on a translation of Rilke's Stories of God by M. D. Herter Norton


THE SOUL’S RESIDENCE is the place it dwells deep or shallow as alternately follows on dwelt. the wind and flowers and all things specious drifts along after-hours boulevards, a stranded hooker dumped in the middle of nowhere and only doors that open in a whisper alone, one night in the darkness abandoned and no taxi in sight no, it blows relentlessly into a tornado flashing sequence in waves of insurmountable water breaking before birth, the child in her by all accounts simply a heart at a bus stop, sitting on a bench waiting to arrive there is that spirit of place longs for always, talks about walked about the fire the flood the family, and soul’s residence

E.L. Freifeld


ADORATION OF EVERY TRAGEDY i have cried for tears yet to come i have wasted my breath on prayer i still fear i still scream at the stars i have learned less than i need to and have become weak with anticipation i have listened to patti smith and felt my shadow lift through the sky like birdland i have felt the points of the stars press into the flesh in my back these are the misgivings that sound like three part harmony and if i can’t be famous let me please be complete let me find the whole in the hole let me true myself to this transient north to this serial brilliance that holds my gaze i stand in adoration of every tragedy that befalls our sordid efforts at genius i lie down amongst the guttural excretions the songbirds of compliance and i reject their admonitions i cast off this blanket of mediocrity that smothers our intentions and crawl through glitter filled sepsis there is always a way around committing to the moment we are all bad actors cracked along the same forgotten lines we cry for the years yet to come we waste our hearts on false loves we ache for some meaning when we have no idea what that means when we have no idea what color love is when we are weak with the lessons unlearned and glorious with the stars pressing into our backs

David McIntire



They filed in hobbling, shuffling whispering as though the dead might overhear conversations of the nearly deceased and found seats closest to the microphone their friends the coffee that wafted angelically into the Quaker room where they hoped to relive seventy years in three speeches and one poem a condensation worthy of soup cans and tombstones. The dogs strained on their leashes up the slopes of Shay sniffing the rain-moistened earth that exploded in smells like paragraphs of erotica. . . their tails a blur their noses mine sweeps on the trail. Our pants soaked from the dew sopped foxtails that sparkled like Christmas


in surrounding fields our boots collecting clay from the rich loam of May bringing us closer to a sky that threatened to baptize us with its wash of grays. He tilled the soil Before he found redemption in academia Three decades in a field So far removed from Oklahoma That it yielded only harvests of the mind and soul. Found god in a Mormon temple So the story goes Or was it the tumor that blossomed in his brain Does it matter? Soup and cookies were his last meals And we toasted the man we once knew Even though he stopped being Ted So many years before. A wild thatch of thistle Threatened to seal our passage Purple flowers atop thorny stems Guardians of nature’s chaotic nature Swirled like gators in a sea of yellow mustard Every step an adventure Poison oak leaves like sirens Tempted us astray Western fence lizards Egrets, deer and rattlers Graced our way Red-tails, crows, and vultures Commandeered the skies And rode the updrafts Reaching for the apex Before their youth expired. We did not bury Ted But covered him with words For when the lust of life departs Can the soul be far behind?

Rick Stepp-Bolling


WITH LOVE, I WELCOME HER SURRENDER TO A VICIOUS WAR And life can go on, if we so desire. After coming undone we begin anew; climbing to heights within view of collapse, becoming cartographers in the making. Lives built of maps to perfect, to find our way out of the salt-kissed waves that crash in and around, leaving life’s memories nested in polished seashells that we press our hearts close to in order to hear that familiar sound of ourselves. And she wanted to go on. She wanted to breathe through the tightness that became her skin. She wanted to breathe through the maze that was left of her organs. She wanted to go on to a life bound by the perfect complications of newfound love. Her desire to go on, driven by her fantasies of motherhood. To rise to the other side of those once unbearable heights, where the waves settle in their flow, filling the holes in the sand to make her earth complete. At thirty-five, the breaking apart came too soon. Her map unfinished lost became the road to her way out. And we soon discover that life can stop if we so desire. When the soft but firm sand - becomes tar, swallowing the view from atop the hill. The strength to resist the inevitable recedes, and unbearable is becoming, and reality is worse than that. And life can stop when love suffocates every last vicious cell. Agony defeated, her peace found in the last smile. Our memories of her - become our compass to build maps of peace and comfort. Jessica Ceballos


LOVERS DARK Languid nights adorn crevices in folds of skin, that lay dormant until I write poetry I wither in the dry sun admonish guilt-plied pride possessed by your shadow When I cast you to ebony crows I desired your riddance from abolished emotions spewed on stone walls in a haze of pebbled dust You fed betrayal's kiss slashed my tainted heart But I miss you like an old stuffed toy that perceives only molten kisses on sizzling skin that loves you in steadfast dawns in love-lost tulips in brandished seas until the river Babylon folds into creek beds and breeds life Breathe air into this tarnished soul I proclaim in pain hoping we can forgive forage new trails under a bamboo sky

Michael Wayne Holland


EDGE Poems are planets on the table lit with one lamp they break out you don't know how a beam in the mind A word in the mouth living inside a dream supposedly empty of rhetoric incessantly passed on forging the chest that covers the heart

Francesca Casta単o


PSYCHEDELIC SILHOUETTE hum grapes around my bed kitten eyes to my head snowy whispering sails amid the christmas gales you paint a rose upon my thigh you kiss epiphany on my hips how happy dreams can be i can eat your smile at will how idle senses flow gaily down my silver soul in moon shine i can send a poem now i can kiss a snow flake aloud i can fly heaven across the skies to meet you at will with a southern orange at your soft bedside i can send my mind to sail this sea forever we are preparing the sublime apocalypse

Dom Gabrielli


THOSE MOCHA EYES for kristen chocolate ovals wide as if to swallow the sky. exhale a thousand doves into crimson sunset. shimmering starlight off crystalline sands while moon shadow plants a rose and kiss on weary flame. serenade of arid mesa howls coyote revelries & rattlers syncopate scaled castanets. circling red hawk winks at brick clay. contemplation swirls myopic like vortex of a stream retained by breaching boulders. swaggering slow to vent-less lair as a languid gila slow climbing cooling buttes. fields of emerald grassland present as dreaming the impossible. quixotic romanticism which knows better still remains silent. just learned her name. but then the deepest print in trail of a thousand is said to be that of the first-born. hope is a terrible thing to taste. would bid adieux but resemble more a glutton for punishing retorts. thrice bitten tosses water but the bucket's dry & the embers burn. sailing with notes of cheerful starlings to soft stroke of gentle meanderings scented desert sweet. an intoxicating manner by which one can drift into the world where all is possible. even when it isn't. those mocha eyes however- indelibly imprinted so i can dream too & perhaps a dove will rest upon my shoulder even if her heart never beats on mine.

Danny Baker


SPINDRIFT in the stillness after our wild tide crests, in the wake of our breathtaking one-ness, i hold her close but cannot hold her long ‌ between surges, i am parched; barren; in her billows once more, i divine destiny eternity bathed in grace on the cradling bosom of each coupled swell. churning in rhythm, charting a course in this crescive ebb and flow, we cleave new shorelines naked, virginal crescent sextants with which we see all life and ages to come.

Rich Follett


THE WRYBILLS You stand above me on the sandy hill, your thin Cotton dress melded into your legs by the Abrasive wind Plants with Stiff, small, swollen, multitudinous Unhealthy pale green-purple leaves Are scrambling up the small gullies and fjords And encroaching over the top of the dunes - to get here We had to wade through A swathe of them on the other side, your Sandaled feet are scratched and grazed. Towards the ocean, desolate blue-grey mud-sand flats Stretch away, covered with an iridescent chemical sheen That reflects the hammered iron sky A lake of wrybills, a tumble of white dots Ripples with ceaseless shuffling motion Far off at the thin edge of the sea We were waiting for A finger dipped in crimson To smear bloodstains on the horizon But it only got darker. The sharp, cut-out silhouette Of a cormorant, shrugged its shoulders Then stretched out wings like shredded lungs The confusion of Troubled sea, jagged brown rocks and low, steaming cloud Made an argument that we could not follow 'Oh, let's go then', you said As the drooping sun Made one last line of flame, topped by Cinnabar streaks And we left a lone white egret Limned with the dying fire of the day Caught eternally in memory Between the black foreboding water And the bitter grey tones of the sky.

Thomas Kent


RUINOUS We dance as if pain would release her stronghold allow us to inhale sweet jasmine, but as faded love kisses pink cheeks we confess sentiments held hostage. Twilight scolds gentle sun wreaks turmoil, spoils fruit; in tethered darkness I clutch to you like a koala to eucalyptus, for you are my nourishment nectar that banishes thirst from cauterized lungs. We both deny the inevitable where sidewalks dismantle daylight’s wrath morph into lilac moonlight; our last tango in paradise a race against destiny full with unbridled passion. We go for broke pull out the stops skin to skin, love’s covenant fickle, but present as night feeds dawn’s hunger. Tomorrow may become a memory, love spilt from perilous pores jaded, indignant a distant recollection burned in hydrangea and crabapple trees; we are mere conversations among the ruins forgotten treasures dissolved in cheap merlots.

Michael Wayne Holland


SONGS #1 oh, this is gorgeous the metallic pulse of warm blood coursing like the forging of light like quicksilver quickened like blood-red lead poured over my skin, molten at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit you've unwrapped me you've explored my inland sea in a living, breathing ship with a crew made of memory #2 An elegy to sadness a song of love, of pleasure in the present and faith in uncertainty and yet you think of me I hear yips and howls and purrs of contentment and I’m happy, but she is at the window, watchful, waiting for headlights in the driveway Some of your words slither across the page like someone thinking about a python though he’s never seen one. Some carry the night’s burden, more than words should bear, For words only reflect our failure to imagine another way to whisper. Some sparkle in delight then flutter, then soften like the beating heart of the starling you found on your porch, dying. #3 I know that water has a skin that I can feel with my own but I often wonder how the water just below the surface feels


is it soft and pliant, is it spongy or tough, or as tough as water can be and is it quiet there, like a corner between the shimmer and the abyss the tempest comes on stealthily just rifling the surface of the water at first it’s shy and withdraws, but in gusts it grows, until it howls now the waves are grabbing at me and mayhem passion twists the sky I make myself one with the wind and lash my body to the waves the water is both wild and gulling it calls me and I slip right in shoves me, drowns me, and embraces til ebbing ardor leaves me breathless. as calm returns, I have no questions I slip unvoiced into the shallows rocking back and forth, I dream of gentle weightless waving grasses #4 I thought you were the one who knew me the one who saw me please tell me you are the one Tell me it was all a mistake... it was all a misunderstanding! I feel like someone’s whispered something terrible lies about me in your ear, and you believed them

Dan Capriotti


NUN’S THIGHS for Francesca Woodman She finds herself behind the hedgerow, in the shadow of this house she still haunts as a child. I find her there too. She spits towards a crow high up in the copse— says, look at Bruegel’s magpie on the gallows. She is naked without her camera. Her frame shivers and blurs until she stills herself into focus. A wild belt of heat unbuckles the threshold where sun and shade meet. A blister, a bustle, a hiss and a sigh. She misses the merge— the idea, not me. * * * * * * I remember the time she laid her body down on the hardwood floor of that leaning flat in the sleepless city. Boards paled by spilled flour. Wearing nothing but her skin as she rose slowly— an awkward angel-daughter, whose wings just wouldn’t unfold. She shrieked sharply at the shape of the dark twin she left behind, then laughed and skinned the wall again. Later…outside…up on the roof… she spoke of fragile interiors and their careless carriers— said to me, wear your skin inside out, like I do. Told me to:


think of the edge as an ocean’s lip. Whispered, it’s all in the letting go. Screamed, it’s all in the letting go! The very thought made my blood leap. She said, get in. * * * * * * Now, she wears a summer dress printed with plants to match the surrounding landscape. She nibbles on a succulent plum and speaks in dangling Italian as she returns to her habit. I look at her, she denies me her face. Shakes sunlight from her hair cascading down over her eyes— a blind familiar —suspended in the moment, sweeter than any wild summer plum, she loses herself beneath the falls.

William Crawford


BLUE WOMAN She has dreamed the blue dream on more than one peculiar night. But the days hold skies that fall through theater folds of curtains. Once she caught the sky's color like some catch colds or chameleons catch spirit of blue stones by water. A faintest hue stayed then deepened. As noon clocks die toward evening, swallows bring tales of shadows to wing slowly through her rooms. The ghost of Scriabin plays piano. She has dreamed the blue dream often. The plot is underwritten by a Romanian who knows how time will be bathetic. The plane of a door like the glance of a cat won't tell her in advance where she's going. That blue dream opens to murmuring voices. She moves as a child also a woman. The banquet hall turns in slow circles. A table holds wine poured as tears. Floating on air are skulls of the dead. Somewhere unseen angels are laughing. A blue jester swirls as a joke of nothing. Another door opens, someone approaches. His face the look of swallows and absurdity. Together they wander a veranda overlooking abysses of substance where fishes are crying. Her dream is deeper than silence and speaking. She wakes and the world unknowingly trembles.

Tim Buck


AURORA Viewed from a distance Say, a puff of nimbus, a craggy peak, Or an ivory tower And one sees consistency Seamless, seemingly so Remarkable in its serpentine paths A blackened stretch Seeking its own Like water ocean-bound It trickles, flows, rushes Profound in its endless desire for home. Closer, however, solidarity is a myth Cracks and fissures Fractures issue from edge to edge From where and how? Some say a natural occurrence The result of stress beneath the surface Small movements, slow shifts A simple rifting of the whole. . . While others claim Climate should be blamed Cold and heat Expansion and contraction Will take its toll. . . Still others see Satan’s hand, a nefarious plan To free his spirit from a netherworld domain And ingratiate himself to the life of man. That road we ride Will never be the same For who is left The builder, architect, or traveler To take the final blame.

Rick Stepp-Bolling


LAIKA Just a scrap of canine courage, you were chosen to be a symbol of man’s journey to the stars. The weary millions watched you on TV. Frozen by communist ennui, you healed the scars left behind by a double score of war and greed. For years, everyone was led to believe you came back to terra firma, a lie that gathered speed to wing its way into the collective mind, a flame of hope that burned bright for the next 50 years. What really happened? Well, some would say, What was unfortunate, and necessary. No tears were shed for you, Laika. an abandoned stray plucked from the streets, a chance hero in the plan to claim new worlds by the vicious hands of man.

Marie Lecrivain


SNOW AND ASH In the silence of March dusk, black clouds unburden, let go the weight too great. White-silver flake upon flake. The open clearing, new grass under pine, draws birds, squirrel and deer to dine. Quiet. Snow, falling. The neighbor has raked his long yard. Pine needles, cones, branches piled—a pyre for all his grievances with the land. The debris is lit. Flames, stifled under the weight of wetted discard, cough rough smoke, a cloak that clings to earth. Some sparks escape, rise up like glowflies, twist into ash, wind-lifted, to spiral down and, chameleon-like, disappear into the snow-settled tree limbs, scattered boulders, earth. Scent of snow and ash, wedded— like love and hate.

Susan Botich


ENEMY THINE Dearest Pili, A flowering fire in the grate warms macro-worlds with micro-wars: foolworthy fate Through the eye is pulled bloody thread --a needle not needed by the dead ...Voice of golden promises is viciously spun gilds, intertwines burns turns with the worm ...our corolla of amicitiae coils then shrivels in kind

Gloria Wimberley


REQUIEM FOR VITAL ADJECTIVE "I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion." -Kerouac Dangerously close to tethering my ball-gag to satirical insight into what's not abject madness though remove the adjective and I may just get my first degree. Lost on a lonesome path across Gila tracks seeming to have a ray of hope at their fruition. A monster in the mirror is a saint in the tip cup. Screeching to a halt at conventions I rarely enjoyed if even invited. The party's too big for agoraphobia. Nonexistent vapors rise off the tar in the distance beyond red boulder construction of time and wings fluttering over stovepipes. Secreting all I feel while feeling more than I'd like to let on in any setting more formal than a roadside circus. Implying nothing but garbled messages in a burning bush. First born that should have been tossed in the stream traveling about his own perplexity decrying the last twenty as twenty short of rest in peace of mind or anywhere else for that matter. Subjected to all I allowed is survivor's guilt or ennui in a Cobain sort of take on Descartes. Listless inertia is getting nowhere. A boxcar on a hill rattling as the coyotes howl revelries to freedom from the most oppressive as long as anonymity is maintained which seems to be the crux of the ambiguity. Of the argument in favor of running to destination unknown. Not missing a minefield by choice as adversity builds character in theory though nobody's checked in with me lately. In a roundabout way is a cul-de-sac with a square end concealing gilded twists of faith which diminishes all life plans towards spiritual enlightenment in an institutional manner if not compelled by a thorazine drip backed by lithium cocktail to wash it all down. Interloping on what isn't mine to trespass though receiving no condemnation finally has me in a comfort zone some miles from Area 51 though the cosmic alien dust could travel which would explain much but why waste my time when I could be rubbing my lucky charms which haven't picked a winner in at least a decade. Watching tumbleweed wink as it sails by in a tornado vortex- dry heat which beats the fuck out of humid freeze. I have a meeting planned with my philosophy somewhere near the dreadlocked Haight. Hoping to escape the hippies unscathed is simply foolish but life's a fool's game and stressing it won't help a damn thing. Of course I'll never take the easy road so I'll just wind the curves posting teardrops here on your eyes. 2

Danny Baker 2

Publishing forthcoming in Death of the Key of Life# by Oneiros Press


FALL SOAP it was autumn I was going to get clean swore I tongue-kissed lightning in the sinking House of Blues elevator believed for a viceroy moment that musical honey had drenched my treacherous guts had redeemed me then, her flashbulb smile shed light on storm drain eyes two bloated blue murder victims afloat on a limestone lake this formaldehyde-soaked begonia giggled at my slack expression this head trauma jolt temporarily exorcised my libido cried myself unconscious on the dead girl’s black cotton shoulder woke up in her filthy little crypt mountain of dirty laundry molehill of dirty needles red ant pile of dirty me rotting on a noonday motel windowsill devil-flower had slipped away to find more necrotic dew I'll wait for her seems my anxious redemption was just the iridescent angel worm hung on a rusty old devil hook Truckstop can’t remember when I started drinking but it was a great idea blackbirds of delirium are swarming the fiery treetops of my perception


beneath a neurotic sky of orange sherbet melting into black mud angel feathers and cinders fall like bits of a shattered Heaven dead bodies swing dance to minor chord Orphean tornados Eurydice wearing nothing but designer sandals of woven vipers hangs from a bleated satyr spell over the pit of Hades I told her not to let strangers buy her drinks but she insists danger is sexy blades of crashing news helicopters cut and toss chunks of earth and bone in all directions I stare back at the disappearing trail that led me to this broken place but my surefire breadcrumbs have been eaten by sewer rats the kind that wear expensive sunglasses with cheap smiles this is not my intended destination just another shithole truckstop on my epic journey to find, and detain God meanwhile I’m out of cigarettes and my trigger finger is twitching like an angry scorpion’s tail I've never been this hungry

Niall Rasputin


WHY ALWAYS THE DREAD COMES at night, I do not know. But it’s when the body relaxes, breath slows, that the demons sneak out from their hiding. “Catch her unawares,” the elder demon says, the younger nodding obediently. This instruction will be remembered long after the old one’s last many deaths have twisted him away. “And always when she’s alone,” he adds, his wisdom in knowing such things evident through eyes of blackest blood-red. “First, attack the gut and heart. Always eat those organs first.” He slips a talon into her breast with practiced ease. One quick slice. Her instant intake of breath. “What?” she asks the dark. Then the weeping. “Yes, the weeping.” The elder nods. “That’s always the best part. Now eat.” He hands his devotee the slice of human suffering. Young gnarled hands take the meat, suck blood before devouring. “It’s good, just as you said, Master.” The empty eyes blink, the swollen lips curl. “Now we sit,” the master’s euphoria bloating, “until she feels she will die of it. But beware!” His eyes cut the room. He hunches. “Once sun forces through the blinds, we must hurry. Hurry away before there is time for her to remember how we stole into her darkness.” The two devils sit themselves down; crush her feet, her chest, their sated bellies heavy. But then, just before morning light appears, a bird in the birch outside, unaware of the tryst, shatters the drowsing blood-black bodies into nothingness with a song.

Susan Botich 41

THE APPROACH OF DOOM Based on an etching by William Blake, 1788

You can feel it days before it arrives — disaster multiples. It begins with small warnings: a mistake of weather; an omen in the river; stale air. Frightened by imagination, darkening voices in clouds — what are we to do? Cursed, joints out of place — what carries us forward when the future is impaired? Warnings are everywhere — in the agony of statues; in the keystone arches of bridges; in the wasp nests; in the speckled boulders; in the ridges of tree trunks; the sleepless child. Tomorrow will be better — promises. I hold back the beckoning doom with blistered palms. I do my best to find the writings in the wallboards and cathedral facades and bushes shredding tears. Interpreting forewarnings is dangerous, intense work. There is a low voice in my ear. Do I listen? How do I know what to say when everything is breathless? Armies hoard weapons for intense undertakings where no one will discover until too late.

Martin Willitts Jr.


Cuprum 29 by Aunia Kahn


GOLDEN WINGS This place is toxic with the fumes of couples breaking up and shady business deals being made under the whiskey breath of creatures with bulging hungers and anemic souls. But, the Bananas Foster is brilliant and I refuse to stop having fun just because we are in the waiting room for the Seventh Circle of Hell. His expression is that of a man who has just eaten a rotten persimmon. He demands that I take the cucumber slices off of my face, and make fucking sense for once. I laugh, and tell him he needs to be happier. Near the door marked exit, there are two Armani-clad demons exchanging tiny packages they’ve tucked into their jacket sleeves. Could be drugs, nuclear codes or plans to demolish a neighborhood preschool. No real way of knowing, but, I am sure it isn’t those little candy valentine hearts with silly love sayings on them. I look at my serious friend. He is still speaking in a “this is very important” tone, but the words are like circus clowns stumble-dancing from a big red tunnel. I laugh again. Mostly annoyed, and tiring quickly of this odd game, I pull my black patent leather briefcase from beneath the table, pop it open and hand him the big ugly manila envelope therein. He opens it to find black and whites of the dead bodies of all the potential victims on his list. He simultaneously slides me a white envelope full of money. After the exchange, my right hand snakes to the small Glock 9mm tucked into my waistband. My left hand is under a white cloth napkin on the table so he’ll believe I already have the gun drawn and pointed. As he flips through the sickest little slide show in Texas, I tell him a joke about a priest, a donkey and shoe repair salesman who all happen to be swimming in the same public swimming pool. He smirks, but doesn’t laugh. He spouts some tired line about loose cannons and loose women. I’m thinking that I’d like to put pink bunny ears on him and chase him around the woods with a squirt gun full of ketchup. I’m not sure why. There’s another mental puzzle box for my therapist to play with. I can see his hitter, dressed in a navy blue Brooks Brothers number fresh from the deal rack. He’s at the bar, finishing up his Apple-tini. What kind of a hitman drinks Apple-tinis? As I'm wrapping the conversation with Mr. Serious, Hitter walks outside to get himself in an advantageous enough position to kill a pro killer. I make an offhand comment about the comfort of silk boxer shorts, and wonder to myself how long they’ve been planning this. We get up and begin our exit, and my heart starts beating like a punk rock drum solo on cocaine. Just as we hit the door, and step outside, I run a tidy blade across Mr. Serious’ throat and hit a button on a remote in my pocket that blows up my car which Hitter is hidden behind. Then, I do my best impression of Daffy Duck in one of his manic fits to my auxiliary vehicle, and take off to collect the real bounty. I have another hit list in my briefcase, in another ugly yellow manila folder, that only has two names scrawled on it. Right now, my life is as sexy as a naked underwear model lying in a Roman tub filled with crisp new hundreds. I am the Death Angel, and I am about to get new wings; golden wings.

Niall Rasputin


SANTA MONICA PIER Santa Monica brings together the connection of all worlds to the center of her body. Her heart collects families, speaking various languages, and following the sound of the herd as if was at a bed and breakfast overlooking Yorkshire’s countryside. Is it divinity wrapped in sanity? Well. Many people come to understand their own contemplations and the art of human existence, and finally realize the togetherness of life, the serenity in stillness, and comfort in faith.

Cedric Drake


THE NUNS’ REGRET After the third time we had made love in as many hours, I noticed as we lay in a trembling quiver of skin sweat beads clustered like pearls or morning dew drops on your back. The afternoon sun hounded the window like paparazzi some jealous jezebels set upon us, and despite the fact we were starving, we lay unmoved, a wet writhe here, another there. You told me about breakfast back home and the nuns that make oh my god fucking amazing pumpkin bread, and my stomach grumbled on cue. Our bodies coalesced like kneaded dough and the more you pushed back against my groin, the more exposed I felt and couldn’t help wonder if those nuns, hands full of flour, hearts full of God, ever had any regrets.

Neil McCarthy


JESUS CHRISTO AND SANTA MUERTE, SITTING IN A TREE “Santa Muerte” por tratarse de “un culto tenebroso, infernal y de negación”... - Cardinal Ravasi/ (dedicated - with humor - to Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi) The desperate act of the cult of a dying god is to strike out with an edict: She’s sinister and infernal, not to be worshiped. She’s a fraud, an impediment to those who minister the Word of the True Christ, our God, who rose from the dead, and defeated Her. What a load of nonsense! In truth, your gnostic carpenter chose to die on the cross, and, with Her help, took the road less traveled, to mastership ascended. What you refuse to grasp is that The Skinny Girl is the one your Messiah longed for; she’s a cut above The Grim Reaper. With a smile and whirl of her slender hand, all dogmas disappear. The end... is the beginning... that’s what you fear.

Marie Lecrivain


GOD, OR SOMEBODY, BLESS HIM I take the doctor’s pink and white pills and the blue/green one with water before bed and again when I wake up every day and, supposedly, they keep me sane and stable. it’s not pleasant to die on the cross or in back alleys and one way streets. when I’m sick I swallow vitamins and drink a lot of orange juice. it helps. and my hair doesn’t fall out any faster than the approaching middle age. I do not have cancer though I smoke a pack a day. It’s not charming to be awoken after dying without permissions from the dead. yesterday I spent an inordinate amount of time in bed for no reason and had a lot of dreams, none of which I remember now. life, is boring - Henry says and friends, I believe him

Jhon Baker


LIES I TELL MYSELF Morning light surges brushes against slate walls my head buried in toxic visions a funhouse devoid of humor tiled with marbled mirrors Today is new, yet old too, this malaise that seeps into pores of salted skin and floundering esteem Call the doctor! Send the shrink! Or just permit me one more pity party on the road to denial that intersects motivation, acceptance False starts are my expertise, as I sing the blues and grays harmonize with fate pulling up the down comforter Today I will not rise, but drift in and out of emotional Hell this hollow pocket in my soul; isn't it easier to blame problems on sticky fly paper puddles of wax for the dreary fact that I dwell in a kaleidoscope of sabotaged promises? The dilapidated television screeches an emergency bulletin that losers like me cry over spilt ice cream sundaes, preaches to the gods that my immortal soul imploded denied the chance to thrive i n cotton candy palaces the minute I understood the difference between boys and girls I could hope for tomorrow's winds to air out my cumbrous depression folded into cardboard boxes sealed with black electrical tape. I could soar to the moon like the fork and the spoon if I believed nursery rhymes could cure me of the yellows It's another day, but spear me with a serrated knife, slather me on moldy bread because I always manage to wind


up in a pickle; let me furrow my brow growl my disapproval, just another sorry excuse to not change my predicament and arrive like the belle of the ball. Besides, it's all about the fall.

Michael Wayne Holland


DIRT I planted the cat in the side yard, let vines and bluegrass grow into her little ears. A horse, two parakeets in a puzzle box, a family of rabbits, and a dog or two lay in the hill next to her. He took me to the side of the house, propped the shovel against the siding and kissed me. His mouth tasted like dirt. He had just buried another dead thing. I wanted to dig my way to China, dig my way out of his grip. He said once that I could do that, dig and come through on the other side like a beautiful flower. 3

Stephanie Bryant Anderson 3

Previously published by The Sow's Ear Poetry Review.


LOSS A wailing loss from the branches crosses valleys to distant villages. People are too busy, and do not hear the anguish. No one hears the keening wind. Where does this wind and lack of listening end? Certainly not at the unlatched garden gate.

Martin Willitts Jr.


It doesn’t take a professor. Aside from the obvious, what’s the difference between a living writer and a dead writer? The dead one cannot improve. 4

William Crawford 4

Originally published in Actual Tigers by William Crawford, 2012. Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House.


"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.” from Eleonora by Edgar Allan Poe


POE for Apryl Dipsomanic, delirious with reveries with a keen and curious critical eye... You made your presence known: those deep-set eyes, heavy-lidded, that protruding forehead, those wisps of curls above that prominent brow, that limp hanging mustache black as coal, those wafer-thin lips... You made your presence known in a world eager to escape its Puritan past. The French loved your poetry, we preferred the fiction. It would be years before you found favor with the tea-sipping parlor-puffed crowd. How could you know, Edgar, heart-broken, despondent with drink, penny-less yet proud, Longfellow, your arch-nemesis, celebrated among the Literary Elite, would all but be forgotten and you, Edgar, you and that infernal bird of yours would continue to haunt our history while you lie silent beneath the ground.

JR Phillips


BELLS (AFTER POE) This chant of bells in morning. Superstitious sound felt all over. A beautiful bronze doom implicit, gleaming its tones through a town. People go about their business -shops and banks and cafeterias bordering the courthouse square. Conversations will not betray haunting echoes of early bells. Everyone here believes in churches and the rituals happening inside time. How could there be no Master of angels, when all good souls sleep under guardians? But the bells...... Someone said we're always dreaming, even while awake in noontime daylight. The bells gleam tones through silence into uneasy realms of our unknowing, and through the earth to vibrate coffins where dreams of the withered chime.

Tim Buck


RAVEN’S HOUR “Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves” — James Joyce Like a breathless emissary of night, haggard after a long journey to bear tidings the dark poet faltered at last swaying like a pendulum tolling the hour, yet commenced his shuffling walk. Like a soloist by a solitary gas lamp’s apparitional spotlight packing his case for the profitless walk back home. It was as if the restless shadows were granted form and face to mingle with the passerby. The gaunt apparition that once commanded striking presence in the centre of candle lit readings with the mystique of a famed conjurer or illusionist now reduced to disheveled emaciation. He seemed strayed from the haunted pages of his stories. Raven hair maned a lion’s stare. A bard’s eyes like the lion’s vision transcending the dark. His enigmatic profile seemed to hold watch over the night, a guardian of shepherdless dream and holding sway over nightmares as shadows thronged him like an admiring public after the end of his story. He was Atlas when the day broke and Orion when the night cast it’s dark spell left to songs only the midnight scribe will dare tell . Huntsman’s return, bard’s sojourn, like a ghost march till dawn.His hand of the nightscribe likewise beckoned at the few stars yet visible through the city lights like a pilgrim asking for an enlightenment just beyond his reach, as if snatching at their vigil candles, claw-like, talon-like some falling raptor that could not seize the bright quarry in the water far below but could not stop his falling for it. Now hovering between worlds, like the voyage of a ghost vessel drifting between shores. Snow fell around him in ethereal splendour, like frozen tears or the hailing of a dark prince, a rightful heir of shadow returned, in a chrystaline tribute, the frost glistening in the dark mane of his hair, like an ethereal crown. He seemed like the apprentice of a sage or something wild pacing a night cage, one who revisits his master after being sent on a search for wisdom and was poised the question what have you learned then in your travels of wisdom or foolishness? The forbidding urban labyrinth with such evident squalour seemed an eerie dreamscape. The towering structures like misshapen sculptures glowered like dark idolatry. And to a sleepless brightness like the stars themselves and restless mind the stream of consciousness and words flowed like the night tides stirred by the moon. He seemed to glide rather than stride, with the air of a penniless prince humbled by circumstance, his ragged coat hems whispering on the stones like a flightless falcon crutching on broken wings though casting a shadow before him of a falcon soaring in slow motion as if guided by an elusive dream of restoration. Sleep walker though profoundly conscious of the restless dreamscapes of the heart. The squalor of the slums he roamed like the ruins of a lost city, were unnerving to behold. The Sunken-cheeked begged for alms in the shadow of the dilapidated soot-tarnished walls. It’s uncouth denizens that congregated in circles by the patches of lights now when night fell laughed in crude mirth as if to keep the dark and foreboding at bay as he passed them like a dark rumour whispered between them..a shadow of their own world passing them by. He staggered blinking into the beams of street lamps, through the intervals of spectral light and shadow like a dream transcending the chords of a dream catcher unhindered. The beams like moonlight filtering through the dark canopy of a petrified jungle. Like a spectre drifting through worlds and a succession of dark thresholds.A bewitchingly composed nocturne slipping through the harp strings. He seemed a dark tear of midnight wavering against the moon. It was the voids but the fulfillment that made him seek the solace of the night. Man and moon in two solitudes. Like the first hesitant note of a masterpiece by a sleepless composer so haunting in its tone so as to seem a flight of ravens drawn by a stage conjurer’s hand.


Every author leaves with a story untold and his soulful gaze like a dwindling candle flame seemed to delve the surrounding darkness for some image like listening to an endearment whispered to the night. Every poet had a muse and the rare huntsman of the art through the poorly-lit dreamscapes of the heart can seek the perfect words but to truly find poetry is in that elusive vision was at last Poe’s gift and curse. It seemed the end was written before a worthy beginning, it’s story ghost-written. He found her like a pilgrimage to beauty enshrined. The sleepless brightness of the midnight scribe began to be consumed by the darkness as if enveloped in raven’s wings. As if the shadow reclaimed its own. The embrace like a long-lost friend. “Nevermore”…His dark eyes and betrayed yearning sighs, brimming with stories yet untold welling with dark tears of an author who confronts what man secretly fears. Heir to shadow and successor to a lightless dawn.Soulful gaze like dwindling candle flame seemed to delve the surrounding darkness for some image like listening for a dark rumour whispered to the night. He raised his glass like a toast to the stars. Like a champion of darkness mortally wounded he seemed to stride for a final confrontation with the awaiting light and it seemed even with the sensation of falling in slow motion as the intoxicating bottle fell like an hour glass and he after it to the cold night’s bower. “Nevermore”… He crumpled like the page of a rejected manuscript by his own hand then cast aside…His words failed him as he failed her… He fell then as if in slow motion, silhouetted against the moon like a tear drop of midnight down the face of a stone angel watching over the night. Passerby hastened by him to escape the cold in phantasmal procession… none stopped for him.. The hansom carriages clattered by and still he lingered as the snow swept over him softly… The chill wind like a parting caress to his dwindling senses… The steeple bell tolled the hour … his hour… He seemed drawn down by skeletal hands….then … As the dark melody of the chill wind, like the parting caress of an underworld goddess through his hair took voice and form it seemed a tender hand soothed his cheek and only then he dared look up… He at last beheld her mirage to a nomad’s eyes as if she waited for him in the dusk… “Annabel Lee…”

Greg Patrick


ARTLESS my walk today is brief i'm sitting on my terrace to catch a breeze out of the hot sun i watch the blades of an old air-conditioner downstreet come dizzily to a halt i see her each morning fill a cup of water for the crows perched high on an old TV aerial legend has it they croak because they're always thirsty i wonder that they live in deserts and dry cities her flowers grow red and pink yesterday that crow flew by my window and stole a piece of bread a gray humming bird zipped by the vinkas paused above the banana tree out back and disappeared in the bougainvillea i wonder at the poem of this how a leaf knows how to pray to cradle the sun and make my trumpets grow and so shall i feel each ripple of unfolding day replenish the sun, until my seasons run dry i was not made to shine but in the shade it hurts my angels and puts ‘all prophets in a rage’ beauty loves to remember and memory hates to fade but was it only yesterday i saw 2 green-tail parrots raiding nests in that Cedar of Lebanon across the street, the hum of helicopter troop movements overhead and so shall i for these moments made to flourish and die, sipping morning coffee in the shade and to observe the right to be wrong so, am i not sitting on my terrace?

E.L. Freifeld


BE WHAT YOU NEED you don’t have to be my grave and i won’t be your steel sadness come with me now and we’ll jump off the edge of the world in a brass band embrace i am inside your pocket i am carrying the remains the words we use are second hand functional but dented your bankrupt epiphanies hold no colors the parochial echo chambers of your memories drip with needless regret go now into the world the one you don’t yet know brand yourself with iniquity and let no one’s ignorance stumble you down your melodies are far too real for that your disparity far too sincere you don’t need to be so grave and i won’t steal your gladness separate yourself from the chafing those ugly, arbitrary confines inflicted by the one lane thinking the swim or sinking the kool-aid drinking to whom it is invisible the sparkling glory of stepping out of line of letting your crayons wander all over the page go now be what you need be unexpected be uproarious be unwelcome even trust me it is glorious and oh so necessary

David McIntire


Silence Tombstone by Dan Capriotti Š 2013


THE SILENCE I sit by myself in the silence At the end of a day made longer By my non-confrontational choosing Looking for some form of control Past my circumstance Past my bedtime Past my past. There is no good in the silence Only less bad. I find no peace in the silence Where the only sound is the swallowing Of booze and deep fried food In a failed attempt to smother That pesky gnawing at the bones of my Wasted frame by the knowledge that The silence is a weapon made strong By one who is really only as weak As I am. I see no hope in the silence Used as punishment for sins I did not commit Like the wordless accusation Of a victim Against acts that did not exist Witnessed by one who wasn’t looking Asleep at the top of the stairs Away from the pain made real And from the smile that turns my stomach.

Bill Friday


RECYCLING He takes your little box of pretty-papered sadness and slits the sticky tape with razor’s edge, careful not to rip or tear what he can use again.

Barbara Moore


MY WIFE DID NOT ENTER THE ROOM GRACEFULLY she kicked the door in, blowing it clean out of its frame with force Chuck Norris would have raised an eyebrow to. It was her sheer gorgeousness that weakened it at the hinges, sent the wood splintering across the room at the moment of impact, the neighbours below us eye-balling one another as to whether this might be a case to call 911. This was a case to call 911. She was by no means finished, flicking her hair left and right and left again as she stepped through the debris, a few stray locks knocking the bedroom mirror off the wall. She growled, wildly wide-eyed in lust, knocking out the phone lines in the process; the neighbours below resorting to the shoe box in the top of the closet. My wife did not enter the room gracefully, nor did she excuse herself, nor apologise, nor neatly fold her torn clothes in a pile on the bedroom chair. She did not worry herself with the broken mirror and its fallacious implications, nor concern herself with shards and wood splinters as she dropped naked to her knees and began crawling felinely towards the bed. Gagged, I lay bound by my own worship, just about able to wipe my mouth and surmount the sudden hang up of not deserving this violence, this discipline inching twister-like into my path; unrepressed, we met each other head on, negligent as to whether or not we were alone in our rituals or if below, a gun was being pointed at the ceiling.

Neil McCarthy


STACCATO This morning I woke up to a dream: The clicking heels of a woman walking on a deserted street silent trees spring and blossom over her head full of words, somehow misplaced quietly falling to the ground, her lips shivering leaves.

Francesca Casta単o


GLAMOURE IN FRANCE The street heavy in water waded traffic Holding Bentley’s suitcase, she waved her Other hand with the broken wrist Whispering for the journey home-based Center line, and red light blinking mania Out of her head, she could not remove All the things he told her last evening Before the final departure from the lake Sadly not a case filled with pleasantries She must rid herself, and deal with the Content management of the closing sort Cities like these leave hidden marks on The psyche of the ones who visit often An archetype entranced by visions The ones that keep you company There was but a secret place we all keep inside The words they can’t find placement All but the old suitcase is left of the lies Impeccable timing, lost it in the sea

Aunia Kahn


AND GOOD NIGHT, MA CHERIE The Orion has journeyed to the west beyond the mountains now. Light travels, someone once told me, many light years to render its image in our vision. A residue of the past our entire life put together cannot even measure now lingers in the night sky. That’s how our night settles as usual. Perhaps what we have sought in the brightness of the day was as insufficient as the present never here to console our solitude. None commences our beginning; none laments our end. Our fear is constantly unjustified in this continuous circle of uncertainty that unveils at every breaking of a new dawn and at every setting of an old sun. Mais ce soir n'est pas encore fini. Un temps pour cette nuit de l'hiver est fini maintenant. Les étoiles ne brillera plus dans le ciel. C'est vrai. Mais ce n'est pas encore le temps pour nos fenêtres soient fermées. La nuit est trop craintifs pour habiter. Oui, oui, chérie. Mais jusqu'à quand?? Jusqu’au matin. Remember our morning, Dear, when all our lights have failed our visions to sustain our minds for any traceable thought. There might be an answer we have sought in all our tiring days until our feet have come to rest at this foothill. This winter’s journey, too, must come to its justifiable end when no dwelling place awaits us beyond that snow-capped peak. Quelle agitat9ion, quelle tristesse. Pour qui? Je ne sais pas, chérie. Je ne sais plus. Nul ne le sait. And there are no more stars to trace, to lure our night to sleep. And no more stories to remember our journey. A certain absence redeems silence from this solitude we no longer partake with our parched voices. Alors, bonne nuit, mon chéri. And good-night, my Dear.

Ian Lennart Surraville


BETWEEN DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES Sleepless, I pull at strings of thought in my mind. It is a foolish spider That unravels her home with her own hands. Each strand: a lie, or a truth. Each sparkle the same; each equally collect dew and dust. You would think the truth would be heavy, Weighted with purpose; hard, like a rock. It should tear this web. But it flows and tickles and sticks and catches, Just the same. All there is, is heartache. Confusion. Think Happy Thoughts. Don’t. Cry. Sleep.

Katie Bickell


CHIAROSCURO This is the end Beautiful friend That night the sunset spilled Pools of ink made from roses and The sap of apricots On a satin cloth above our heads Preposterous in ostentation, as so much of nature is At night, you told me, the stars have their own shadows... Theme: the tragedian anomalies that so defy the soul Today, by a fantasy that was born from another's hopes We search from some release some restoration (basing arts dear maybe): anger, pecunity, vice, sacrifice Answering a question on the meaning of pathos Pressing similar whirlwinds with magical deflayed teeth Using the charcoal we found at the bottom of nature's basket Arms out, we spin, one two three Touching but lost in our own dreams. Chances are iridescent, alluring But what we want is to marry the girl next door Because chances are evanescent They crumble like sandcastles when you Plunge your hands into them And we long for just that person Who makes us feel at home. Once you've written a million words, checked a million numbers Walked a million steps, a million is just a number Give or take a lie or two But you don't get a million chances The very lucky may get some The merely lucky, like you or me Get only one. The dark, peaceful night For all that it was invented By time Roaming among the chiaroscuro Darting from shade to shade And between the twin suns Stars strung on their black lattice Fathomless You joined me in wonder There were many opportunities However literal the sky. And there is no moon, no spinet anymore We put a light in the hall But nobody came The hollowness rang like a bell There was only empty space Jet as the inside of a pyramid


A dark silhouette Against the failed moonlight. Fa lala la la Life can be a dream And the stars only in my eyes No fucking surmises, no Dariens.

Thomas Kent


INDEX Aunia Kahn – Pages 43, 66 Aunia Kahn is a self-taught figurative artist, photographer, author, and curator. She combines many disciplines and invariably designs, builds, and executes characters, non-existent places, dreams, illusions, fears and fables into creation, which meld elements of classical and contemporary art. Aunia's work has constantly evolved; earlier works dealt more with her past, while her more recent creations delve into present emotional conflicts and inspirations. She currently resides in Illinois with her four German Shepherds and black cat in her secret closet.

Barbara Moore – Page 63 Barbara Moore from New York is a brilliant writer of unadulterated, heavy-hitting dynamics. Always stripped to the bone, her work lacks excess and fluff while embodying all that is essential with a sagacious, wise & witty slant. Her work is sensory, emotional and tangible leaving enough mystery and flavor to savor in the aftermath. Moore's work is multi-layered and memorable in its simplicity, giving the reader much to reflect upon. Poetry that evokes the desire to revisit is what she creates with her words and vision. With the tendency to unfold like an accordion of truth and precision, her poetry is impossible not to love.

Bill Friday – Page 62 Bill Friday began writing in earnest in 2007 for the citizen journal,, ending his run as the site's principal columnist in late 2011. In 2012, Bill became one of the founding members, of a new site, Expats Post. These days, besides keeping up with his own blog, It’s Always Friday, Bill is splitting time between projects... a screen story with the working title, “Between Love and Orgasms” (a comedy... with feelings... about men, women, and the internet), and a book of prose and shorter poems, in late 2012.

Cedric Drake – Page 45 Cedric Drake resides in Los Angeles, California. He began to thrill the world of literature and poetry with his Oscar Wilde, Herman Hesse style at Loyola Marymount University. While studying with Sarah MacClay (Poet/Editor), Michael Datcher (Author/Poet), and Evelyn McDonnell (Village Voice/L.A. Times), Mr. Drake carved out a name for himself. He became International Editor of The Truth About The Fact: International Literary Journal which publishes creative non-fiction, essays, and poetry from the Unites States to Western Europe, and throughout Asia.

Dan Capriotti – Pages 16, 29, 61 Dan Capriotti lives, works, and writes in New Jersey. His short fiction has been published in Barrelhouse Magazine, Storyglossia Magazine, and Ascent Aspirations Magazine; his poetry has appeared in Factory Poems Magazine. He is currently working on a non-fiction book related to the history of quarantine and immigration in New York City.


Danny Baker – Pages 25, 38 Danny Baker was raised in L.A. in a storm of turmoil that landed him right in the middle of the 80's punk rock scene as a wild teen in the streets. He would move to New York and transform himself into a successful mover and shaker on Wall Street. Years later he developed his talent for writing as a way to balance the intensity and duality of his existence. His first book of poems, Fractured, was coincidentally the first book released on Punk Hostage Press in 2012. David McIntire – Pages 18, 60 David McIntire loves his wife, Cat, animals, especially the ones living in his house and freedom. He is categorically opposed to stupidity. On a monthly basis he hosts, with his wife, Poetry Stew, an open mike in El Segundo, CA. He has been published with some frequency in various journals and anthologies including Men In The Company of Women and has four chapbooks to his name, the most recent of which is called Exit Wounds. As often as possible he improvises poetry with the band Bag Theory: An Improvisational Music Co. In his spare time he advocates loudly for the downfall of all hierarchical structures and in favor of mutual aid and selfsufficiency. Dom Gabrielli – Page 24 Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh, Paris and New York Universities. He has translated widely including published works by Bataille, Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing. Gabrielli has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man (2009), his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body (2010), which he recently translated into French (Corps Paralleles, 2012). He has also recently published his third book, A Strange Frenzy, a collection of poetry based on the writings of Rumi. Gabrielli travels extensively from his home in Salento, Italy, where he produces extra virgin olive oil.

E. L. Freifeld – Page 17, 59 E. L. Freifeld was born April 15, 1941 in Manhattan, of Jewish immigrants from Poland and Galicia, Elazar has been active for many years on the New York and Tel Aviv literary scenes. His poems and stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines, newspapers and anthologies throughout the world. Since first publishing in 1964, he has had 14 books published, including The Importance of Swimming, Television Analogs, Love Cycles, A Jew in the House of Harvard, Poet's Guide to the Holy Land and The World According to Animals. Back to Back: Two Poets Under One Roof, along with Lois Michal Unger is forthcoming by Edgar & Lenore's Publishing House. A Jew in the House of Harvard was awarded first prize by the Israel Federation of Writers for the year 1987. His two most recent stories are available at Storie Magazine, LeConte Publications, in Rome.

Echoe Paul – Page 8 Echoe Melody Paul was born near Helena, Montana. She attended Montana State University in Bozeman, where she earned a Bachelors of Science in Sociology; Justice Studies with minors in Spanish and Native American Studies. She was an army wife for eight years before moving with her husband and four children to Portland, Oregon. Her work has been published online in The Indian Diary and Full of Crow. Along with reading and writing poetry, she enjoys spending time outdoors with her family, gardening, painting, and experimenting in the culinary arts.


Francesca Castaño – Pages 23, 65 Francesca Castaño lives and works in Barcelona. She is a Spaniard who writes in English. Her Master’s thesis was published by the University of Barcelona, in February 2010. Her poems have appeared in; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Selected Poems by Francesca Castaño, December 2011. Unshod Quills Issue # 1. The Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, December 2011. Shot Glass Journal Issue #6. Thefirstcut #5. The Foliate Oak Literary Journal Annual Print Edition, 2012. Decades Review, July 2012. The Stolen Poem, August 2012. Mad Swirl, November 2012 and February 2013. The Odd Magazine # 6, January 2013.

Gloria Wimberley – Pages 9, 37 Pushcart Prize Nominee (2013) Gloria Wimberley, M.A., is an active poet, prose editor for Middle Island Press,and educator who teaches at Eastern Gateway Community College. She lives with her husband and children in the West Virginia--Greater Pittsburgh area. Her social media profiles appear on LinkedIn, Facebook, Goodreads, Amazon, Microcerpt, Viadeo, Xing, etc.

Greg Patrick – Page 57 A dual citizen of Ireland and the states, Greg Patrick is an Irish/Armenian traveler poet and the son of a Navy enlisted man. He is also a former Humanitarian aid worker who worked with great horses for years and loves the wilds of Connemara and Galway in the rain where's he written many stories. Greg spent his youth in the South Pacific and Europe and currently resides in Galway, Ireland.

Ian Lennart Surraville – Page 67 Ian Lennart Surraville is an American expatriate writer from New York in a self-imposed exile, wandering from Afghanistan's war-torn countryside to Turkey's remote mountains and seas, driven with one single line by W. B. Yeats: "A lonely impulse of delight." Memory plays a peculiar role in all his works. Studied literature and writing at Harvard and New School. He currently resides in Turkey.

Jessica Ceballos – Page 21 Jessica Ceballos is a writer, photo-taker, music-maker, volunteer and cultural wanderer. Third generation Southern-Californian, she's been recognized by the City of Los Angeles for her work bringing literary arts to the community. Her work has most recently appeared in Centre Review, Hinchas de Poesia, and the Haight Ashbury Journal, among others. She has featured at places such as La Palabra, The Paloma Room, Beyond Baroque, and at The Last Bookstore in downtown LA. She organizes and hosts two monthly readings, one at Avenue 50 Studios in Highland Park and the other at Beyond Baroque in Venice. She's currently working on a novella and several short stories. She's also working on her first book of

Jhon Baker – Page 48 Jhon Baker lives and breathes in Elgin, IL with his wife and son. While a classically trained musician and artist he spends most of his time secluded in a small room at the back of the house writing poetry that fists the gut on his 1983 IBM Selectric III, the Cadillac of typewriters. He is author of two books, ‘hands on the hips’ and ‘gypsy bars, back alleys and one way streets’.


JR Phillips – Page 55 A Mid-West native from Cleveland, Ohio, J.R. Phillips has spent the majority of his years in Los Angeles, California. His father was an immigrant from the U.K. & his mother was second generation Irish American. He attended university courses at University of Oregon, Cal Ploy San Luis Obispo and received his undergraduate degree from the Cal State University Northridge where he studied under the guidance of famed California poet Ann Stanford. He is currently enrolled in the Graduate Program at Antioch University. He has recently published two books of poetry from Red Luna Press— Living in Lotus Land and A Mirage of Suspended Gardens.

Katie Bickell – Page 68 Owner of the writing business, YMF Writing Services, editor of BeautyBliss Magazine, and winner of the 2011 writer’s award, The Voices of Motherhood, for her essay, “The Joy of Being Kicked,” Katie Bickell is also the author of the books, “Sunbeams,” “Hope is in Our Hands,” and the upcoming novel, The Last Ordinary Day. Originally from Slave Lake, AB, Katie lives in Sherwood Park, AB, with her daughters, Cailena and Chloe, her husband, Freddy, and a beagle named Tweak. Katie believes that arts should shine light on what is true, celebrate what is good, and offer hope to humanity, which is what she strives to accomplish with her work. You can read more of Katie’s published work on her webpage,

Lois Michal Unger – Page 15 Lois Michal Unger was born in New York City. She was an actress before becoming a poet and appeared in plays on and off Broadway including The Diary of Anne Frank, Things That Go Bump In The Night and The Red Shoes. She got married and the family moved to Vermont in 1970, grew food and lived without electricity for five years. In 1982, she moved to Israel with her husband and three children and now lives in Tel Aviv.

Marie Lecrivain – Pages 35, 47 Marie Lecrivain is the executive editor and publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles. She is also a Pushcart Prize nominee, and is a writer in residence at her apartment. Her prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including: Haibun Today, Heavy Hands Ink, The Los Angeles Review, The Poetry Salzburg Review, San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Spillway, Tree Killer Ink, and is forthcoming in Iodine Poetry Journal, and Visions and Voices: An Anthology of Ekphrastic Poetry (Exiles Press 2012). Marie's collection of short stories, Bitchess, (copyright 2011 Sybaritic Press), is available through, and

Martin Willitts Jr. – Pages 42, 52 Martin Willitts Jr. is a prolific poet and writer and visual artist of Victorian and Chinese paper cutouts. He was nominated for 5 Pushcart awards and 2 Best of the Net awards. He was invited to bring a portfolio to the Chicago Institute of Art in the 1960's and he was so intimidated by other students, he left before he could find out that he would be offered a full art scholarship. He ended up in Vietnam with the American Friends Service Committee as a medic (this was a form of pacifism).


Michael Wayne Holland – Pages 22, 28, 49 Michael Wayne Holland first began writing five years ago when he decided to create a blog. Under the guidance of a mentor, Chris DeLorenzo, he became part of a writing community called Laguna Writers. Since then, he’s had six pieces of work published. Michael holds the belief that everyone has a unique voice that is inherent. He began to write based on his personal experiences and found poetry rather than personal narrative. He further believes that every poem must have some kernel of emotional truth.

Niall Rasputin – Pages 39, 44 Niall Rasputin lives on a houseboat in SE Louisiana. He is in love with the swamp, but often has secret trysts with the stars. He believes that laughter and song are the finest of all opiates. He writes his madnesses and passions down as a form of daily exorcism. He will never understand his own species, but will die trying. He is never wrong, because he refuses to know anything. He is 245 in dog years. Niall’s work has been published, or accepted for future publication by Napalm & Novocain, Gutter Eloquence Magazine, The Clockwise Cat, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Shwibly.

Neil McCarthy – Page 46, 64 Neil McCarthy studied English Literature at the National University of Ireland in Galway and began writing poetry when he realised he was useless at playing the guitar. His first publications appeared in local magazines and after influences and experiences in South America, Australia, Central Asia and Scandinavia, his work has since regularly appeared in magazines and journals that include The New York Quarterly (USA), Magma (UK), The SHOp (Ireland), The Dalhousie Review (Canada), Popshot (UK), Poetry Salzburg Review (Austria), Pilvax (Hungary), Dream Catcher (UK) and Blue Dog (Australia) to name a few. His poems have also been translated and published in Serbian, Hungarian and Romanian. He has recited solo, played with musicians and charmed audiences at three consecutive Prague Fringe Festivals, performed in NY, Los Angeles, Denver, Dublin, Melbourne, Krakow, Vienna, Budapest; read at embassies, delivered lectures in foreign universities and various living rooms. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry, all of which are not available, but he hopes it won't be long until he has a full length book of poems available for purchase or barter. His debut album of spoken word 'Live in the Laden' recorded live in Vienna is now available from Preiser Records/Label08. He is a mean pool shark and pound for pound the best Boggle player in America. He currently lives in Los Angeles.

Rich Follett – Page 26 Rich Follett lives in the sacred and timeless Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he joyfully teaches English and Theatre Arts for high school students. His poems have appeared in numerous contemporary journals and ezines including BlazeVox, Paraphilia, Exercise Bowler, Calliope Nerve, Sugar Mule, Four Branches Press and Counterexample Poetics, for which he is a featured artist. He is the author of Silence, Inhabited - Poetic Reflections on Surviving Childhood Sexual Abuse and co-author of Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), both for NeoPoiesis Press.

Rick Stepp-Bolling – Pages 14, 19, 34 Rick Stepp-Bolling taught writing, study techniques and reading at Mt. San Antonio College for 33 years, and creative writing at Citrus College for ten years. In the last few years, he has been involved with Nuvein for the Arts projects which included a poets speaking tour of venues throughout San Gabriel Valley. Rick draws his themes from the world around him as he is generally inspired by what life has to offer and what it denies us.


Samantha Ledger – Page 11 Samantha Ledger is a poet and photographer currently living on the outskirts of London. She is the author of Everybody Else’s Girl, and her work has been featured in numerous publications including Up the Staircase, Heroin Love Songs, Osprey Journal, Luciole Press and ETC: A Review of General Semantics. Bells for Her is Ledger’s second collection of poetry.

Stephanie Bryant Anderson – Page 51 Stephanie Bryant Anderson is pursuing a BA in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry at Southern New Hampshire University. Besides editing Up the Staircase Quarterly, Stephanie also works as a Freelance Editor with Inkception Books, and in 2012, she served on the Editorial Board for The Manatee, SNHU's literary journal. She has recently been nominated for Best of the Net, storySouth Million Writers Award, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. A few of her publications include The Sow's Ear Poetry Review, Connotation Press, Full of Crow, Eclectica and THRUSH Poetry Journal. Stephanie is the mother of two boys, lives in Clarksville, Tennessee. You can follow her writing at

Susan Botich – Pages 10, 36, 41 Susan Botich enjoys experimenting with new forms as well as work within the perimeters of established verse forms. Her poetry is born from daily life where very experience brings forward a potential poem. Botich is the recipient of two Nevada Arts Council Artist Fellowship awards and one Nevada Arts Council Jackpot Grant for the furthering of her writing endeavors. She is been working as a freelance writer for regional and national magazines, news publications and businesses. Susan lives in beautiful Bend, Oregon. For a sampling of previously published poems, visit her website at

Thomas Kent –Pages 27, 69 Thomas Kent was born in New Zealand to a long long of British people who had absolutely no interest in literature even slightly in any way whatsoever. He has worked in the usual long list of occupations that writers follow because basically they are not terribly employable insert whichever you find most romantic. He is semiretired from the human rights and politics field for which many people are profoundly thankful. When not drinking too much, telling other people off for drinking too much, and chasing women one of whom he fears one day will turn out to be a lost daughter, he teaches Buddhism and meditation, and commits visual art, photography, videography, writing, and music under the name My Melbourne Down and with other bands. These are felonies in 526 countries and 37 American states.

Tim Buck – Pages 13, 33, 56 Tim Buck lives in Jonesboro, Arkansas. His essay "The Art of Conversation" appears in the anthology Vocabula Bound (Marion Street Press, 2004). His poem "Old Jaffa" was published by the online journal Calliope Nerve. He has published several ebooks of poems.


William Crawford – Page 31, 53 William Crawford has authored two poetry collections: Fire in the Marrow and Actual Tigers. His writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and People's Book Prize. His work has appeared globally in numerous magazines and anthologies. Currently, his poetry is being translated into Polish. William abides in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and is an animal rights activist.

To see more about these talented writers & artists including full extended bios, photos, poetry and more please visit our website: Sincere gratitude is extended to the talented contributors and dedicated readers of Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House.


More publications by Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House include: Polyphony: Be You & Accept Me Too An Award-Winning Film by Apryl Skies & Chris Miller A Song Beneath Silence by Apryl Skies Running On Fumes By Alicia Winski Skye the Troll & Other Fairy Tales for Children By Apryl Skies This Same Small Town In Each of Us By Wanda Morrow Clevenger In the Company of Women: An Anthology of Wit & Wisdom, Sass & Class Dialect of Dahlias By Gloria J. Wimberley Actual Tigers By William Crawford Men in the Company of Women: A Provocative Anthology of Praise & Persuasion Forthcoming collections include: Art is Always an Impression of What an Artist Sees By Martin Willitts Jr. Back to Back: Two Poets Under One Roof By E.L. Freifeld & Lois Michal Unger Elements & Angels This Obsidian H(owl) The Abnormal Alphabet By Apryl Skies For more information on this press please visit:

Edgar Allan Poet Journal #1 - 2013 Apryl Skies - Editor Editorial inquiries: Publications, publishing, art, design or editing opportunities 13547 Ventura boulevard, Sherman oaks ca 91423 818-383-0481 or 818-788-0777

ISBN: 978-0-9854715-9-0


dedicated to preserving the integrity of poetics in art, culture & community. Auni aKahn Bi llFri day


Cedri c Drake

DannyBaker Dom Gabri elli

Davi d McI nti re

E.L.Frei feld

FrancescaCasta単o Greg Patri ck

Dan Capri otti


Glori aWi mberley

I an LennartSurravi lle J hon Baker

Kati eBi ckell

J RPhi lli ps

Loi sMi chalUnger

Marti n Wi lli ttsJ r. Nei lMccarthy

Mari eLecri vai n

Mi chaelWayneHolland

Ni allRasputi n

Ri ck SteppBolli ng Stephani eBryantAnderson Ti m Buck

J essi caCeballos

Ri ch Follett

SamanthaLedger Susan Boti ch


Wi lli am Crawford

Edi ted by AprylSki es I SBN:9780985471 590

www. Edga r Al l a nPoe t . c om

Edgar Allan Poet Journal #1  

Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House announces with considerable privilege and appreciation the first annual journal, Edgar Allan Poet Journal...

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