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Lung Issue 01 September, 05, 2009 Editor: Alveraz Ricardez

Copyright Š 2009 Lung Poetry Journal

TOC 04 Olivia Tandon 05 Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz 06 Nina Romano 08 Gabriel Ramos-Rocchio 09 Cyril Wong 11 Alex Galper 13 Sandy Benitez 14 Christopher Mulrooney 15 Aleathia Drehmer 17 Rei Thompson 20 J. Bradley 21 M.J. Hamada 25 Christopher Woods 26 Nina Ki 27 J. Michael Wahlgren 28 Janann Dawkins 30 Steve Meador 31 Derek Richards 33 David McIntire 35 Editor’s Note

Olivia Tandon Untitled A Girl We never understand a word of it. When called upon to answer one of her questions, we mutter and accept a wrapping on the knuckles. Someday, we are told, she will be a doctor or lawyer or philosopher of renown. We will count ourselves lucky to have known her. For now, we count the silent seconds before the bell. A Boy The game is all but over. We accept the insults hurled our way, along with fastballs we can barely follow with our eyes. Someday, we are told, his face will be on every TV screen in every bar. We will drown our sorry lives in pints of his good cheer. For now, we pull the brims of our caps, and swing and miss. A Wedding Somehow we are all invited. The invitations are frilly. They begin with a quote by Socrates and end with one by Ted Williams. We tell each other we won’t go, but then we do. We eat cake and listen to the band; some of us say we enjoy ourselves. After the reception, we go home to our own stories.

___________________________________________________________ Olivia Tandon is a recent graduate of Columbia University's Undergraduate Writing Program. She finds it difficult to restrict herself to one genre, preferring to keep tentacles in prose poetry, short and long fiction, lyric essay and even some screenwriting.

Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz Things we didn't talk about The boy found hanging on the golf course. The boy with the bruises, who'd arrive coatless to school in the middle of winter. The man with the red face and the thick stutter who cleaned up our vomit in grade school. The veteran who spoke to the seventh grade, confessed how scared he'd been and wept. The cousin who disappeared completely after she refused to eat anything but green olives. The mother who was a drunk. The father who told us all he was an undercover cop and that's why he had the gun. The boy who got shot. The boy who got cancer in both legs, his angry dad, his frail sisters. Why we never got responses to our get well soon cards, the mute teachers continuing their lessons plans. What happened to that hungry black dog who’d bolt through the school yard, the one that refused to stay leashed.

________________________________________________________________ Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz has been published or is forthcoming in McSweeney's Internet Tendancies, Rattle, Pank, Barrelhouse, Monkeybicycle and decomP, among others. Her latest book, "Words in Your Face: A Guided Tour Through Twenty Years of the New York City Poetry Slam," was published last year by Soft Skull Press. A new collection of poetry, "Everything is Everything," will be forthcoming on Write Bloody Press in 2010.

Nina Romano Collective Origins The mimetic theory revolves around the art work itself, yet also reflects nature.

What’s in a whorl? A curl? Can a swirl of hair, a tendril, denote temperament? Does the spiral volution,

of a mollusk designate in a single turn the denseness of the inner seafood’s flesh?

The whorls of fingertips imitate tree rings, the whorls of the ear mimic a trumpet flower’s

four reproductive whorls: the outside calyx, the corolla inside,

that enfolds the stamens, and at the center the pistil, reminiscent penis, the circular head

so sensitive to the touch of fingers, whose whorls whirl, a world of sensory, sensuous bliss— cont.

The aureole of breasts become erect, men’s fascination with the circle painted by Leonardo,

the aureola, radiant cloud encircling the head of Saint Agatha, whose breasts, endearing fancy on men’s psyche,

were severed. Had she not been a virgin martyr, but a mother, the aureole, after birth, hyper-pigments, whirling whorls

of aphotic clouds in a palate of blue, where from aerial overhead, saints spy the world as it swivels and twirls, an insignificant orb,

a sphere, an unraveling disk of oval design morphing other loops, rings, and globes unseen in unknown universes

_______________________________________________________________ Nina Romano’s debut poetry collection, Cooking Lessons, was published in June, 2007 by Rock Press, and submitted for a Pulitzer Prize. Her new collection, Coffeehouse Meditations, is forthcoming from Kitsune Books.

Gabriel Ramos-Rocchio Apiary I keep all of the women who were victims of war. After a breakfast of bitter honey, it is my job to bathe each woman in a lake of clover and eucalyptus. After sewing a pair of onionskin wings to their shoulder blades they fly back to earth, reincarnated as newborns. Once, I snuck into one of my malefic creatures. She neither writhed nor screamed allowing my trespass; motion slow as growth. I relived the details of her death—feeling the bullet that entered her skull—as my mouth filled with salt. I return, cured of myself, to my kneeled position, helping another woman into the fragrant mere. I look at the queue of ravaged bodies and see there is no end. As fall approaches I think of the drone, soon to be forced out of the hive and left to die alone.

________________________________________________________________ Gabriel Ramos-Rocchio recently returned from Spain where he finished his first book. He now spends his days looking for jobs that won't cripple his creativity .

Cyril Wong Tourism Something about being this far away gets to me. I touch myself in places that you insist belong to you. In a place where nobody speaks English, I take another look at “alone.” I wonder if its meaning changes, or if it is “I” that has changed. Mani and I discuss the difficulty of discarding desire. Twist as I might, no sorrow is in sight. Joy hides inside your arms back home, a slow and rising tide. The bill stays curled up in a cup, waiting to be paid

Disorder The things we do: coasters to be placed under the wineglasses of bemused guests, endless sheets of plastic on our furniture, plates and hands that we wash twice, three times; more than we should. Not obsessive enough to call the good doctor, but peculiar enough to slow us in midwash, in the midst of reupholstering, as we marvel at what we have become. We pat wallets in backpockets one last time, after emerging from the alley in which we nearly lost ourselves, in spite of best efforts, so relieved that we must shut our eyes and struggle against everything not to weep.

________________________________________________________________ Cyril Wong is the author of Tilting Our Plates To Catch The Light (Firstfruits 2007), his last poetry collection, as well as Let Me Tell You Something About That Night (Transit Lounge 2009), his first collection of stories. He resides in Singapore.

Alex Galper Jose and Teresa Jose in a bomber's cap! My brain melts as I watch you pilot the AN with your "stuff" through the spring sky of '86 Kiev; radiation from Chernobyl inflates the price of your junk proportionally to the goddamn absurdity of dosimeter measurements. That awful, damned spring I'd marched to the half-empty school and had listened to you lie about Lorca in Spanish, miring his death in the fate of a Russian drunk. Jose, dressed in a worn white shirt and soccer shorts, holds his balls in the out line, --however, Maradona passes the ball to Pele Pele redirects it by his head And the head of journalist Gongadze(1) Flies right into Ukrainian president Kuchma but here you are in a sombrero. You read the Koran. In a hopper jet you nip the tops of the WTC and pale white dust spreads through New York. Jose - a clearcoat toreador; you enter the rink with the bulls but we've heard it all before : paranoid Putin already jailed a skinny Jewish liberal, Khodorkovskiy, on this same stage; he's got blood and oil dripping from under the podiums. Jose - mining a path in Venezuela and Chechnya, next to Che Guevara and bearded Chechens in an hour Chavez and Bush should pass. cont.

Here. Here I came to. "Teresa! Water!" Feeling my way through to the bedroom I dreamed of salvation through Teresa's primal fire. "Teresa, do whatever you want with me, you curly goddess! Mother Teresa, you wild cunt! Take me!" But it's hard to spot a dark skinned woman in a dark room, especially if she's already dressed and left and you are high on insanity. "God damn Teresa! Come back here!" Of course, my miserable 3 inches put the fair skinned race to shame, my pathetic 3 inches of guilt, shame, innuendos... my 3 inches of Auschwitz, Disneyland and Brighton Beach.

*Georgiy Gongadze – Ukrainian opposition journalist who was kidnapped and beheaded under alleged order by president Kuchma. Translated from Russian by Misha Delibash.

________________________________________________________________ Alex Galper arrived in America at the age of 19 and graduated from Brooklyn College, majoring in Creative Writing in 1996. However, he writes mostly in Russian. Translations of his poems and short stories have been published in numerous Small Press magazines.

Sandy Benitez Grey Pearl She was born with Thai chilies coursing through her veins. Spicy blood. Dark, almond eyes the color of burnt rice. Her mama smiled at the little girl with a sense of awe and confusion. What to make of the porcelain skin, brown hair, and nose flat as a button mushroom. White nurses huddled around her, studying every nuance, every limb, birthmark, fingers and toes, like mad geneticists attempting to decipher the DNA of some rare creature. Meanwhile, her daddy stood near the edge of the bed snapping photos. Vanilla fingers trembling in excitement as he tried to steady the camera. The first few photos were blurry. Inkblots. Mama and the nurses agreed. But he disagreed. Saw her quite clearly. There, behind the black and white--a soft grey pearl.

_______________________________________________________________ Sandy Benitez has appeared in over 95 print and online poetry journals such as Contemporary American Voices, Falling Star Magazine, The Clearfield Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Orange Room Review, Elimae, Lily, and Loch Raven Review. Sandy currently resides in Wyoming with her husband, 2 children, and 2 chocolate labs.

Christopher Mulrooney from the top all the police patrols counted off in their bell jar hats and took the Black Maria to the beach for a cookout of jellyfish and squid

scoop the system was a good one mountain feud generations along the way of ridgerunners like the breeder of horses fine animals down several lines he won each time and sold the shit to farmers

________________________________________________________________ Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in Caesura, Read This, The Broadkill Review, Drunken Boat, Moloch, and The Delinquent.

Aleathia Drehmer This is a holy spectacle We bake our bodies in Missoura night heat; five hours holding up the word at our fingertips, sitting in pews sweating in the name of our lord, laying hands on outlaw bibles and underground books of the apostles. This is a holy spectacle. And when the preacher finds us redeemed, he stands at the pulpit until it grows dark, closing the good book and ushering us into the thickness of the south, into realms of plain faced hookers and gay bars and low-slung rides creeping slow under golden arches. This is a holy spectacle. Standing there, all I can think about are sloth, gluttony and greed. My sins coveting the isolation of a cheap hotel room with air conditioning that lulls me to sleep, filtering out the migratory death on the streets. I want to be transported from how aged I feel.


This is a holy spectacle. Linwood is empty now after one a.m. and we jay walk without looking, rebel drips of molasses down the side of a jar, and casually listen to ambulances chase down the night under a bone white moon under oppression under heat under the belt of having to remember it all in the morning. My thoughts keep rushing back to the angry blisters on the souls of my feet, heels clicking prayers on the concrete that each step will get me closer to my destination. This, is a holy spectacle.

________________________________________________________________ Aleathia Drehmer is the poetry editor for Full of Crow and co-editor of special editions for Zygote in my Coffee. She is also the editor of a micro-zine called MUST. Her chap “Circles” is available from Kendra Steiner Editions and will share a 69 Flip Book from Tainted Coffee Press called “Empty Spaces/A Quiet Learning Curve” with Dan Provost.

Rei Thompson I have a scar that’s further down than yours I have a scar that’s further down than yours. It doesn’t lie next my temple lobe where that man tried to cut your brow, leaving a long thick line of the red, red blood spattered on the pavement. No, my scar is a little further down than yours past your belly, where I had lain for three days brushing the lashes of your closed eyes, dreaming of god-knows-what. My scar lies further down than yours. It’s deeper than this calloused chest of hardened, rubbery skin that splays across a sunken chest from which I struggled long to breathe after, for what felt like days and days on end. But no, not even that serves as my scar. My scar lies as a 6-inch laceration across the hip of bone where the baby did lay. So no, I do not mean to size up my scar to yours but it is only because my scar serves to remind that what once lied beneath was from both of us.

Female Preacher inspired by Titus 2:3-5 (see passage below) I resolve to teach within the domain assigned, of women, of babes, and no further. It is out of place to find company in the dregs of a fiend, a silent sister to whom all is plastic: snorting up the blues, the jazz into a space for those no longer screaming, filling the void of concerns like, what kind of woman am I? There was only time, to release the young, locked in dark, dry wombs. No love, for tombs undiscovered that I’m not ashamed to admit how broken I am. Do I dare to teach them? The men, lost without words from me, standing before the mirror breathing heavy, thrusting the impossible onto crackling pyres. Perhaps it’s just lack of clarification that no one told me to give back the robes,


the pulpit and the key. There really can’t be room for me, on the pulpit, a place to call forth, to deliver what’s behind door number two, gimmicks unruly. Here, I cleared my throat, marred by digs into teaching in their world of the abandoned, the fruitless, and impotent. Might all of them have merit too? Titus 2:3-5 “3Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live, not to be slanderers or addicted to much wine, but to teach what is good. 4Then they can train the younger women to love their husbands and children, 5to be selfcontrolled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.”

________________________________________________________________ Rei Thompson is a current grad student at Syracuse University. In June 2009, Rei graduated from Princeton University with a undergraduate major in Sociology. In her spare time, she enjoys hanging out with friends, listening to new music, and writing poetry.

J. Bradley There's No Us In Planetarium He fucks me like a dartboard where he pins the meaning of self-esteem, throws pennies instead of darts; he's afraid of his wants coming true. My phone number is a counterfeit Munch bleeding lust and turpentine. He wants to hang me in his mouth but abandon the aftertaste like a spare key. I'm not easy. I'm a broken screen door, a rotted window frame. My back is a warped glass pane. My shoulders struggle to point north against his decaying magnetic field. I wish he would treat me like atmosphere, risk the meteoroid of his body gnawed into dust to show I am more than a gravity well, the focal point of evolution.

________________________________________________________________ J. Bradley invented revenge in the year 103 CE. He loves like an empty wallet on a first date. His first collection of poetry, Dodging Traffic, comes out Fall 2009 through Ampersand Books.

M.J. Hamada Home * What do we call home, and where are we headed? And if home is back there, then where are we headed? Do we find it on a farm of green fruit? This photograph, ragged-edged, all that remains of my youth, with Mama and me on the cloth spread over the cucumber beds, Dad in the background, leaning on the produce-truck loaded high with the harvest, shows that we did: home, on a farm of green fruit. What do we call home, and where are we headed? And if home is back there, then where are we headed? Or where the earth is covered in red, from a distance, as a sea of blood? I remember eighty acres of ripening strawberries, larger than my hand, plumped with sweet and meaning, a thousand dappled hearts. And I remember your eyes, kanai, as you sat with a strawberry bowl, hashi holding a half-eaten fruit to your lips, how an autumn breeze loosed over us the harvest scent. And while I would not say then, I knew what I had found: home, where the earth is covered in red.


What do we call home, and where are we headed? And if home is back there, then where are we headed? But in a foreign land, far removed from the fields of our youth and the names of the streets: Walnut, Willow, California, American? That last, and its irony, we now pass, faces pressed to the glass of this street-car urging us to some Godforsaken end. There passes the park where tree limbs, like intertwined fingers, gave us good shade, and the market there, where I as a boy sold our green fruit— deserted now, as are we: without home, in a foreign land, far removed. What do we call home, and where are we headed? And if home is back there, then where are we headed?

* On my grandparents, pulled from their home and carted off to an internment camp in Nowhere, Arizona.

Hot Rod Rats For Peyri Remember Dad’s old hot rod, primer gray, With the hole where the sander pushed through, Tires flat, canvas top torn and wet, Bucket seats slashed, their stuffing exposed? It sat in the garage, with the black widow webs And the fleas that peppered our legs in the summer. Eleven years young, I led with a big voice, And you, at seven, followed along, hair in pigtails. We’d wander down to the park with Carlos, Barefoot, crunching leaves, fishing for crawdads, And, on the way, stop at the duck pond, Mallards and White Chinese hungry for our stale bread. One day, getting a bucket from the garage, Cement floor cool on our feet, we heard a squeak. You flung back the tarp and shrieked: baby rats, Abandoned in the hot rod’s back seat— Eyes blind, teeth bared, pink bodies Writhing like sinners against the light. A dozen pink dumplings, I thought, a plan hatching. I scooped up the kittens and carried the bucket; You carried the loaves Mom gave us. As we rounded the Felicita bend, a few ducks Quacked their hellos from the green-brown water. Soon, the whole gang met us at the barbed-wire fence.


You tossed in crumbs; I gave the bucket a pump. The rats flipped through the air, landed with the bread. Together, the ducks tilted their heads in duck wonder. A goose honked Go! and they pecked, prodded, Tore the tender flesh, then returned to the water, Uninterested in the mess they’d left on land. Twenty years later, I tell the story, and you cringe, Half-wanting to hear how horrible we were. The duck pond’s now a muck pond, shriveled and dead, The hot rod, just pieces, more alive in memory. And you’re a vegetarian, with ducks waddling through your garden, While I’m here fixing broiled rat for supper.

________________________________________________________________ M.J. Hamada is a writer, teacher and editor. His poems often play with language and memory. M.J. is a California native, currently living in Santa Monica.

Christopher Woods the bishop leaves san antonio maybe he was going to the new parish, or maybe to be with his dying mother. and then there was the old girlfriend he held on those long rectory nights. however it was, he was making no stops until he arrived. no one at the retirement home had seen him leave, at dinner, when there was chaos in the halls, walkers clanking and wheelchairs rolling everyone to turkey and peas and jello, conveyer belt to eternity. all that behind him now, the dying years. he threw it off like a cassock and collar. now he was free, and a young man again. he would drive until he ran out of gas, then buy more, and drive on. he wasn’t sure of direction. he had even forgotten his name. he didn’t mind the police car lights when they found him in Ozona, two hundred miles from home. the lights were like the carnival that came to town every year when he was young, losing his cherry on a ferris wheel with yolanda martinez. everything comes back to you if you live long enough. everything.

________________________________________________________________ Christopher Woods has published a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. He is a also a playwright and photographer. He lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas.

Nina Ki Untitled love, you know, is blind. so i pushed her ass down the stairs and took her purse and her groceries. she'll never know it was me.

________________________________________________________________ Nina Ki is a graduate of New York University, and has a B.F.A. in Dramatic Writing. Her poems have been published in queer Literary Magazine, Getting Bi: Voices of Bisexuals All Over the World, and Relationships and Other Stuff.

J. Michael Wahlgren Technicolor Alphabets rearrange as Ladders lower their steps; I come into you as a ghost does, A spinning V Forms A clock. Time will tell How we depart Amidst Only honest crimes; A hue hinges on your first Words.

________________________________________________________________ J Michael Wahlgren is author of Silent Actor (Bewrite, 2008) & an editor for Gold Wake Press.

Janann Dawkins Driven The sunset marbled the mountains, the road maintained its stripe. She rolled though the weatherman said to stay home. Stream along the road she thought. Run across the rubble. Tumbleweeds all. The trouble and rumble in the clouds were miles ahead. Would the desert open up and take her car whole? Crack like the apocalypse? She sucked her Coke, tightened her teeth, smoked a Chesterfield, and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Some vacation. Some getaway. Let's poke around the vast skyline of Nevada, get shitfaced and gamble like newlyweds. Ice cubes, candle wax, the whole kinky caboodle. Sure. What fool does such a thing? Ditch work, skip town, latch themselves in a hotel room for days? How cool the air conditioning. She'd laze in bed while he tossed dice downstairs, or sat on aces.


At night, room service, the whip, the bonds. The hours bled. In her mind this would go on until the savings ran out. They'd make things real, visit an Elvis, then swing West til nothing but ocean, the waves, the mist. But here she was, headed facefirst into a storm, gassed up, near penniless. The sun hovered mauve in the rearview. She'd sleep in the rain, hair blue from pollution, before checking into another room. Let her fingers shrivel to rotten blooms. Not again. The road was her wedding bed. She married speed.

________________________________________________________________ Janann Dawkins has been featured or is upcoming in Literary House Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, LiteraryMary, Poesia, At-Large, Alba, Taj Mahal Review, MiPOesias, Existere, Anastomoo, decomP, and The Ambassador Poetry Project, among others. Her chapbook, Micropleasure, was published by Leadfoot Press in 2008. She resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Steve Meador Impression While Passing Through Cairo, Ohio, is corn and beans, a stone's throw from Columbus Grove and just up the road from Delphos. It is ivy, trains and weather-worn bricks. When fields are pocks of stubble and ice, a man has time to dream of a fertile delta--a place to warm his face and busy his idle hands. A woman imagines ironweed swelling with color so dense that petals fall onto her palm as bits of amethyst.

________________________________________________________________ Steve Meador’s book, Throwing Percy from the Cherry Tree, released by D-N Publishing in 2008, was nominated for a National Book Award and a Pulitzer. His poetry is widely published. Recent work appears in Prism Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, Quicksilver, and many other places. He has several Pushcart nominations.

Derek Richards one telephone call all i can tell you, honey mama bree ain't got a chance in hell with no chicken blood war dance voodoo shit they got me in a white room with white boys who could give a fuck i'm white too this is serious i need a lawyer they got thomas i'm sure he's scared lit up spillin' like a fucking artery i should'a popped that bastard too anyway, honey tell mama bree to turn off her three-bone soup and come up with some quick cash don't need no remedies i need a lawyer you they allison got picked up tuesday had half the prize in her purse all our names even johnnies revolver spit-shined and still smokin' stupid bitch she wouldn't listen, you know? came out of the quick-mart and they was waiting my goddamn heads swimming, honey i need a lawyer


so now listen mama bree gonna go for her stones revenge and all that hoodoo thinking she can break me out with some black-eyed spell what you gotta tell her mama bree this is serious shit they talkin' ten-to-twenty she knows the big shots down along saint charles, knows 'em well, she gotta poke around, honey i can't use no hocu pocus i need a lawyer

________________________________________________________________ Derek Richards has been a working poet/musician for almost twenty-five years, performing mostly around the Boston area. He expects his best poetry to be a punch in the gut rather than a tourist in the brain. Recently, his intentions are aimed more towards publishing than performing

David McIntire What the working class talk about OR Men are just completely fucking disgusting Excerpt of a real conversation that took place with real working men in a real manufacturing facility “I love a bitch who loves to suck dick. I mean, I love a bitch who loves to suck dick the way a little kid loves to lick an ice cream cone.” “Yeah.” “No doubt.” “Ya know, if I was a chick, I would totally be a straight out, full-on lesbian.” “Oh yeah.” “I love to eat pussy and if I was a chick I would so totally be a hot lipstick lesbian eating pussy all day long, man.” “Man, if I was a chick, I would suck everyone’s dick all the time.” “What the fuck!!??” “No, I mean…” “Man, I can’t believe that you just said what you just said.”


“No, listen, I mean right now I love eating pussy and if I was a chick I would love sucking dick.” “Not me you homo, I would totally be a dyke if I was a chick.” “You know Sandra? Carlos says that she can suck a golf ball through a garden hose, man.” “Well, he would know wouldn’t he?” “Did he tap that ass?” “Fuckin’ A, man. Didn’t you see the picture he brought in?” “No, what picture?” “Oh man, he brought in this picture and starts showin’ it to Fred, right? It’s a picture of Sandra totally suckin’ this guys dick, right? And Fred goes, whoa, who’s the guy? and Carlos goes that’s me right? and Fred is totally like, Fuck man! Take that away! Man, I don’t wanna look at your dick! What the fuck is wrong with you? It was fuckin’ hilarious!” “Sandra let him take a picture of her suckin’ his dick??” “Fuckin’ A!” “Man she could suck my dick anytime.” “Man, she’d suck anybody’s dick!” “Then how come she won’t suck yours, you homo!”

________________________________________________________________ David McIntire has never taken a creative writing course. Growing up on the mean streets of L.A.'s West Valley he learned the hard lessons of life in the suburbs. He has had his poetry published. With his friend Greg Segal he created a CD of his poems and Greg's music called Wonder, Doubt & Curiosity. He makes his rent by working as a printer and lives in Gardena with his wife, Cat, and their four-legged children who also have never taken a creative writing course.

A note from the editor: Thank you for reading the inaugural release of LUNG. Be sure to visit us every month for a new issue at Our second issue should be up in the latter half of October. Please take a moment to post your thoughts on this issue at our blog: Be sure to bookmark us as well. As always, Lung is 100% free for our readers. Help us keep it that way by donating a small contribution via the Paypal link, also located on the main website. Regards, Alveraz Ricardez Editor: Lung Poetry Journal

Lung Issue 01  

Lung, Innaugural Issue

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