Issue 4

Of/with: journal of immanent renditions

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A biannual journal of the arts occurring in March/September ISSN 2373-3292 Editor, Felino A. Soriano All rights to the works within this issue remain with the respective artists and writers.

Cover art courtesy of Duane Locke, 2016. of-with.com of.witheditor@gmail.com

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Table of Contents Editor’s Note……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………5 Marcia Arrieta………..………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………6 Diana C. Hoagland……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….11 Alison Ross…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….16 Dan Raphael………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….17 Gary Beck……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….18 Stephanie Williams……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………19 Clyde Kessler……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….20 Matt Olive………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………21 Clifford Brooks…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….22 Featured Writer: Eileen Tabios……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..23 Annette Plasencia……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….33 Daniel Y. Harris……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………35 Heller Levinson…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..55 H. Holt………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….….61 Katarina Boudreaux…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..62 Ricky Garni……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………63 Featured Artist: Allen Forrest…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………64 Irene Koronas………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………83 JD DeHart………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………89 Marianne Szlyk……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………90 Raymond Farr………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………96 John Grey………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………99 Matt Duggan………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………100 Duane Locke……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….101 Christopher Crew…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….109 Linda King…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….114 Andrea Moorhead…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….116 Mark Young………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….117 Alisa Velaj…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….127 Katerina Blackwood………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..128 Bill Wolak……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………129 3|Of/with issue 4

Darren C. Demaree………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….135 David Hogsett…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….136 Alex Duensing……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………137 Regina Walker…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..140 Biography Notes………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..146

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Editor’s Note: Welcome to issue 4 of Of/with. Again, I received many excellent submissions and I hope you enjoy this issue. Issue 4 is dedicated to the wonderful poet and Editor, Michelle Greenblatt, whom passed away in October, 2015. Michelle was a brilliant poet; she was extremely kind and encouraging to me and many, many others. Unlikely Stories, for whom Michelle was poetry editor, recently published an issue dedicated to her in its entirety, which can be read here.

Michelle is greatly missed.

Felino A. Soriano

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Marcia Arrieta angel lion bird blue yellow wings gossamer eyes shreds of rose petals handwritten paradoxes stitched oak leaves

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impulse departure or detachment pensive the process heart & wing the shadow will not overtake the moon there are reasons we do not remember obscure recedes suspended residence in upheaval

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(rebuilding the ruins) we search the water as if for calm the fish a dream the silence a noun in repose circles/stanzas/spirals the stones of machu picchu a reed/a sword/a flower (translating life)

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instinctually skim surface to mind gather alphabets the sunflowers awry primal observation language opens time

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excerpt: complex seam otherwise hem unraveled excerpt moments: flowers, sheet music old stamps hands folded in prayer

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Diana C. Hoagland Sun turned glass into a sign If motion always collided with a breath of desire, the character of a kiss would not resign to a simple state of worth.

Shame not the stars that recorded your name.

Can we knock out the pain of living a life regardless of those we hurt?

Certainty is the blessed face of a stranger who called you rose #1.

Your tilted head remarked on the outstanding bounce of a flavor that your soul invented.

My lips are yours said the lover, but your simple vision made the sun burn off your fear of rejection.

Don’t you see that your sunglasses hide your pain?

For how could a sign be read by the blind?

Yes, devoted lover, let your soul blend with my dream of you.

And your last words will surely be the beginning of another’s astonished claim to fame.

Only gifted by the sun who has waited desperately for you my friend in order to die and give birth to a world that is empowered by women and men combining today’s self with a scent of heaven’s gold dust that surely all are eyes will be enabled to see……

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The wild roar of uncertainty I am a butterfly lying underneath a generous bouquet of flowers.

The flutter of my wings is into the heart of the unknown.

Where art thou dear soul?

Do you wonder if the night thinks of love and dreams too?

Is the uncertainty of destiny a wondrous call or a fall into heavy burdens?

Can we talk to ourselves and realize what it means to be complete?

Will not the daring speak out loudly of injustice in the world in disarray?

Aren’t we supposed to be nocturnal witnesses to the war crimes against modern humanity?

Seeing all the innocents dying inside makes me curl up back into my cocoon only to be born again as a butterfly with the power to change the world.

At least that’s our hope when carrying inside, a guiding light of hope.

We so often as imperfect creatures forget that money and prestige isn’t everything.

Specifically, that the search for humane distinction must outlast the need for prosperity.

It isn’t the fault of the other to make things right.

We must fight for the rights of the meek, to cry their tears and wipe away their tears.

The butterfly knows this.

It lands on a flower and gently kisses its habitation.

As it flies away, we speak of the amazing transformation from solitude to belonging.

Will we continue to let politics and those in man’s authority tell us how to behave?

Or will we learn from the earth and heaven that all things are in a state of reformation?

We must search ourselves for our own bright star to lead the way into peaceful coexistence.

We can’t let skin color or different beliefs break us away from knowing that the same blue sky is there for all of us.

Humanity, read, seek, believe and question. Follow your heart my friends and let the butterfly teach you what it means to see things inside and out, while leaving the beauty of nature intact. Flutter and fly. Reach beyond your limits and discover the heart of an angel….

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This night we walk by the sea The years of wilderness we wandered blindly until the twilight of destiny opened up a new chapter in our lives.

Where silence is hereditary and emotion is lost to the wind.

There is holy devotion in these sands of time.

A wandering of two bound souls talking of the amazing sight of sea shells just waiting to be discovered and revealed to the world.

The memories of lovers’ quarrels are quickly dissolved in the elegance of twin swans passing by.

The strands of a lover’s hair speak of the ancient tales of original sin.

Waiting for atonement, his whiskers tell all of her secrets.

At once, they are surrounded by supernatural perfume and they enter together through the doors of deliverance.

A place where their bodies touch and in their nakedness they express language equal to a harp of opportunity.

Removing every trace of evil and spinning transparency over takes their new souls.

This night blends the art of making love with the covering of Heaven’s glory.

There limbs once broken by betrayal are replaced anew by a poet’s touch.

In their tender touches each caressing gesture is nourished by a wave that sets them free forever.

It takes into account that the body is a temporary temple that is depleted by time.

True lovers lose track of the body and lose themselves in the speaking of transcendence.

The letters of which are spelled infinitely legible on the heart.

It reads in between the beginning and the end there lie a chance to truly know the presence of poetic justice through the seeing of each other’s eyes.

It is here that the explosion of ideas and existence that resists temptation that allows true love to ignite a fire that can’t be put out…

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Unsung Hero Under twinkling stars, horses on chariots do not die.

Adaptable hands are a reception for knights in shining amour.

Trees reflect upside down to the plethora of women whom eat cinnamon sticks dipped in honey.

It is a pivotal notion to divide time between business and lustful pleasures.

On a mermaid’s tail we declare war on a love that only lasts when selfish needs are met.

We drink coffee to live a long and prosperous life and we still sacrifice in sacred rituals of peace for the greater good.

In order to blast off into space, we lay down on the friendly earth with our lover and count the birds making figure eights in the skies in and out of white fluffy clouds.

The conveyor belts enlist our souls to retrace regret as a way of entering into the vortex of contemplation.

A magical view of sense and sensibility knocking on wood for good luck while applying Vaseline to our wounds of so called love that always perished in the ashes of disgust.

In a kitchen we dine with fine food and great drink awaiting bedlam to reconstruct us and give voice to our every desire while remaining an unsung hero as a landmark of a life well lived‌

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Blood moon The mouth is the first to receive the mist of dew that holds belief that can be read in the dark.

Isn’t there love in a silent gesture when you look into my red eyes?

Medicine spins my organs especially my annotated left brain.

A map of the world all over my mind.

In seconds, I ask isn’t there a way to kiss under a mountain’s water fall?

Down here all we know is influenced by our rose colored glasses.

Appearing on our livid faces painted with a mirror image of my favorite moon.

That crimson red blood moon has guided me back to the eternal climax of freedom from my once dense weight on my shoulders.

Because I was destined to return to the land of my youth, I let bygones be bygones.

No more living a wild goose chase.

No more lovers who whispered false promises to my neck.

Now my heart renders itself to living a full life of love for everyone on an earth that took me back just the way I am….

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Alison Ross The infallibility of trees

Infinity's strange decorum: Lassoing ladders, and blanching time to equal measurements of nothing.

Death's pristine syllables, where black holes stutter, and myths reassemble into psychic air.

A tree's infallible silence: Static warnings. Ladders dismantle into psychic syllables, rearrange themselves into stuttering myths.

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Dan Raphael Let’s Get Lost this rain is not a lining thin ticipating the shiver through me sunny with 43 clouds knowing where its coming from i used to be an interconnected set of streams and lakes my fingers would never miss caverns of my shoulders the easiest bones to make a bow with skeletal realignment from umbrella to go cart filling a store with continents pumps of various magnitudes like a house wanting to escape itself from sub-flooring to acoustic weights, veritable translucence aknock in new rain mistaking ears for hands, assuming all claws are hollow capable of injecting, as the paw sees fit sampling my way to immunity as if each of us a city urban redevelopment. ethnic drift, where money leaks, where traffic clots and hungers a square block maze of invulnerable glass so alien the earth cant hold it each fingerprint a complex slicer when apartments migrate as regularly as oaks when the sun went away and no one knew why a topography no longer tolerant of right angles, 6 way stops, i hear a train approaching but see no tracks

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Gary Beck from Desperate Seeker

Fine Arts IV Contemporary artists learn techniques of the masters in college classrooms and academic studios providing materials included in tuition.

Students are exposed to art history, tantalizing them with success stories of artists at auction who sell for high prices, money the seal of approval for another trophy hung on the wall, unnoticed after a week.

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Stephanie Williams Of Fractured Love Your soul mirrors the catastrophe That I have woven; with thick Violet balm and naked sacrilege, Yearning for more enticement This enamel swells, reviles, Decays; haplessly toiled, forsaken, As we wash the urn with extinguish Of looks, longing sweetly for musk rose And luscious buds Oxlip dances around me, as we Whisper our obliged enchantments; Ethereal poetess of fractured Love, Cursing your heartbeat, as we die To these staving embers Thickets of contained enrapture, Parsed to glance dully upon the Nominal breath; ruptured bodice, Pleasures fading, as I write to you In rhythmic song, so holy and yet, Festered These words barge plaintive in The shade of exhumation; your Spirit, conclusively contrived, in such Cowslip butter burning; raining Lawless, as we heed Him

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Clyde Kessler AT THE HIROSHIMA PEACE MEMORIAL Ghosts are floating past Genbaku Dome.

I watch starlight flooding their eyes.

Their clothing is embroidered and burnt.

They carry blood roses, and strange lilacs that smell like perfumes, and shiver like flames.

I can’t pretend to see them now. My old face is not vaporized, not God-cradled. Its skin stays cold in November, and has nothing else to imagine. Maybe there’ll be an owl in the darkness.

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Matt Olive Midnight impressions Distant lens way my instrument mimics Back channels spent on bent maternal rent Clipped from nightly wings we recant To see in my reel not yours ourselves out there Where violins pitch tents & No one else is blamed for chest compressions: God I press clear moons into titles of our walks that ended hours upon sex & you left with little mint conditions in your pocket cause he might arrest your breath in cave paintings you tattoo to garbage bins lids up on puppet streets.

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Clifford Brooks Gaudi Hungry/devout/young man, eyes on a bizarre deity, your mess-of-a-final-temple brags a cast of comedic figures.

It stands like an insect’s chapel, a dying beehive.

Spires and serpent scales twist the mind to turn one way, then another; not feeling Christian prophesy, but a pagan affair.

Eating lettuce and bland nuts, you used nature to sculpt outrageous shapes.

Crosses and bejeweled windows singe the Spanish skyline.

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Featured Writer: Eileen Tabios

For a writer, reading is as important as actually writing. I’m glad to share with Of/With and its readers some poems that exist because I’m a reader. These include three poems from a forthcoming chap, The Gilded Age of Kickstarter, which are rooted from reading through the wide variety of fundraisers on Kickstarter; the doubling of a poem that reflects another poem I wrote from reading old work; and an “I Forgot…” poem where I paradoxically write what a persona wants to forget as that person read through 27 previously published poetry collections. These poems reflect how words have their own lives—the author need not intend to write something in particular; sometimes, the poet just needs to facilitate how words might create new lives, a process that depend on words’ linguistic natures versus an author’s conscious intent to share a particular narrative.

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From “The Gilded Age of Kickstarters” There Was An Illustrator in South Korea

1,709 backers $119,020 pledged of $10,000 goal 20 hours to go Love is illustrations.

Many people think I’m married, but I am not.

Nor do I own a large fortune.

My characters are based on myself and who I love.

Ideas for each episode are from my everydays like dropping my chopsticks while eating with my boyfriend.

The best thing about love is how it radiates in even the smallest things— Love encourages me to apply for funding to produce my art book.

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From “The Gilded Age of Kickstarters” There Were Mansplainers Three French Boot Designers

45 backers $7,551 pledged of $6,226 goal 35 hours to go These boots were not made just for walking— they have stories to tell!

No big factory for these boots but a small authentic workshop surrounded by cows and fields.

For (and by) design we brought delicate touches to create their character: a water-resistant lug sole that makes you want to conquer no less than the Himalayas!

Imagine this urban adventurer who’s experienced all kinds of dire situations and still exudes class! Well, it’s actually the boots he’s wearing—Yes Sir! Let us offer you the chance to engrave your initials!

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From “The Gilded Age of Kickstarters” There Were Two Bakers in Seattle

36 backers $5,435 pledged of $5,000 goal 43 hours to go We worked our tails off and scraped together just enough to open a booth at Terry Avenue Saturday Market as processors “Processor means we have to serve our baked goods cold & pre-packaged” Our dream is to realize our passion to its full potential— We are asking for your support to help us reach the next important step: “HOT, READY TO EAT FOOD!!”

HOT would turn us into “official Seattle caterers”!

Knowing we are in demand while cold imagine the possibilities of our temperature rising to ridiculously delicious heights!

Bacon nutella pretzel-bread-pudding Jalapeño Cheddar Pretzels Peanut Butter chocolate-chip banana bread Rosemary Parmesan loaves And much more!

A portable oven is crucial to experiencing us the way we are meant to be experienced: HOT! We are also gluten-free!

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As Seen by Donatello’s Profiles the fate of clay pigeons— freeze light into narrative by spreading lavender ink across thick cream paper— you lost all Alleluias— rain arrives aslant like memory— she never forgot her last bag of mushrooms—it was autumn, 1939, just before the outbreak of war— excluding fallen olives from those awaiting virgin pressings— no name, just image, for an old woman in a black tent dress cooking sweet chestnuts before pushing them through a sieve woven from hair— the perfume of fresh bread outside a panetteria, the vinegary tang floating from a wine shop, heaven as the scent of roasting coffee from a grocer, and the necessary reminder of those different from us through the stench of street drains— postcard of nuns cheerfully picking lemons in Southern California groves— opera emanating from a row of ashbins— scythes melting within the beam of mystics’ eyes— the punk who sang, The sublime always winks— adolescent eros sourcing radium for the Word— the abbess who gambled to house refugees— coal among olives, olive among coals—

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the crocheted lace of white dandelions— the startling velocity of tourists— climbing a distorted mountain for its summit of repose— the carcass of a small animal, enchanting behind blue glass— afterwards, she always lusted for a hotel lobby stuffed with crystal chandeliers— the noonday cannon scattering pigeons— grey men fading as they fell melting onto grey stones— down covered her thighs— cabs waiting as brandy cherries decomposed in sealed jars— kohl whispering stories without words—

those dolls—for a moment, their eyes had relaxed— virgins and children revealing their true nature by how they scratched themselves— a lady in Florence, violets in her hair, who avoided sunlight— minarets growing within muddy whirlpools— a poem writ on the milk bill— a breakfast of rain— the errors in pretty miscalculations: monotone transformed to moonstone— 28 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

essence of licorice— nurturing salvation’s seedlings— baby priests turning away to cast profiles forsworn to Donatello— the Carrara defiled until a nude woman emerged—magnificent breasts paling against the blank gaze of stone eyes— that piccola città replete with hyphens— that trembling seacoast city— memory transformed into a colander with generous holes—

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I Forgot Pushkin, My Beloved Pig and a Harpist When I Forgot Dementia I forgot how Poetry is unlike the poet: Poetry always knows.

I forgot whether the advantage of the page is a difficulty in translating stale breath.

I forgot experiencing wine and its cousins so I could address what I could not control. I forgot how, later, the same experience became a fabric my memory crafted into a shimmering silver ballgown because I accepted discipline.

I forgot I didn’t imagine the sharp edge slicing my flesh, the slide of a blood drop elongating across a knuckle, the taste of my inner self as I suckled a wound, the sense of invasion as a shard slipped from the external universe into the pink fronds of my tongue … and the ensuing feeling of power as I rejected swallowing its Trojan Horse.

I forgot the poet wins the poker game if the poet bets the entire pot and more, especially that not owned or known.

I forgot I was hijacked into Poetry but, from thereon, Poetry fed me—the most radical example of Stockholm Syndrome.

I forgot the trip wire leering as it hid in the shimmer of summer heat.

I forgot satire is the only literary genre the Romans considered their own.

I forgot silk: how the departing slide away from his skin was the only consolation even as it created what would need to be consoled.

I forgot true love is never chaste.

I forgot I was happy with your hand on my waist as you sought the scent hollowing my throat.

I forgot a pot of tomato soup simmered while I bemoaned poor Quintus Ennius who founded a movement through which he became replaced. I forgot the poet who refused to explain her references once Google invaded the world.

I forgot English because the universal language (for commerce) offers only one word for “lotus.”

I forgot kids painting their noses yellow to mimic, they said, “kittens with flue.”

I forgot stepping on pine cones and ensuring my smile never slipped.

I forgot I was happy in Alphabet City, buildings crumbling around my unending correspondences with the unknown.

I deliberately forgot how Lucan created Bellum Civile: using Vergile’s Aeneid as a “negative compositional model.”

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I forgot a neighbor stole my pet pig and ate the evidence. I forgot my pet pig was pink-skinned and bedded down on my old sweaters. I forgot the keen intelligence in its soft, brown eyes and the black, spiky lashes that protected them. There was a garden filled with too many stones but which we both loved for being the site of our togetherness. I forgot how my pet pig burrowed its nuzzle to snuffle into each of my footsteps as if I knew where I was going.

I forgot how, on all paths, branches wait without discrimination for someone’s misstep.

I forgot how love can calcify into the heightened ridge of a frozen back.

I forgot Tibullus whom Quintilian considered the best Roman poet. I forgot if I ever knew Tibullus to forget him.

I forgot red suede gleaming beneath mud as dusk introduced the weight of possibility.

I forgot 1995 when a battle that killed 300 women and children caused military strategists to nod agreeably over the wisdom of using the weak for the advancing front line.

I forgot I saw a city bleeding beyond the window and felt Manila’s infamously red sunset staining street children whose hopes concerned absolutely no one.

I forgot the excavation of Anonymous whose bones outlined a fetal position.

I forgot how delicately the afternoon sliced his face with the edge of a half-open curtain that revealed just enough of the sun’s passage and distaste.

I forgot cool breezes coiling milky skeins around pine trees. It was Baguio City before every inch of its hills became slathered with shanties.

I forgot the famous painter who whispered, “When you see the glass, you do not see its transparency.”

I forgot that, under his left eye, there lurked a scar people did not acknowledge but always culled from memory.

I forgot how tiny stones clattered from his tread as he strode down your garden path, mud falling from his riding boots.

I forgot how fire erupted like a poem.

I forgot a desecrated battleground as a condition precedent towards becoming an artist.

I forgot the gentle rain of Burgundy, its warmth washing the slate path towards Anne Gros’ winery.

I forgot how she crafted the wine, but deferred to her father.

I forgot Catullus due to his scurrilous invective.

I forgot there are keys to everything, even “safe houses.”

I forgot algebra can become orphaned.

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I forgot how you saw a mule and felt the incredible sadness only gods should feel because (1) they are omniscient, and (2) they might be seduced into mercy.

I forgot how you saw a tree and felt a rope.

I forgot how you saw a mountain and felt a stove fire.

I forgot how you saw a cloud, but felt a hammer.

I forgot how, instead of longing for me, you simply became confused with my absence.

I forgot how an orphanage faded into grey noise. I forgot how the universe can settle into a role of background.

I forgot Pushkin grieving specifically because Beauty exists.

I forgot a dream of a harpist in white taffeta, ignored in a hotel lobby as she strummed and crooned atop chilly marble.

I forgot the loss of translation when she uttered, “Sky is better than aspirin.”

I forgot the mother whose absence was a singe.

I forgot a bedroom designed as an egg. I forgot silk walls of the same pale lapis lazuli occasionally discerned staining Antarctic ice.

I forgot “rehabilitation” meant he could accompany her smile that slid mirrors away from her eyes of blue sapphires.

I forgot how, at the slightest hint of light, he closed like a purple mirabilis jalapa folding petals into a fist.

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Annette Plasencia

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Daniel Y. Harris Excerpts from The Rapture of Eddy Daemon Chiroptera 777 Vocal folds: tongue, palate, cheek, lips and muscle, striated smooth and mesodermal. Frank Yicksee is here to cop the yal for stored foraging of a later cut trance. The era of extermination was just mourned on West Morse for the desmodus rotundus. Themly were pros and cons, but they could disappear with the caped junk: too much line, too much of a line’s buis. Xalapas don’t. Stints in possession don’t care again. Quiver simplicity is the key, gut-huddled fix to hear a gymnopédie through rotted paint chips. A cry’s subdomain’s spread ear digits of a sonic blit: it’s a bat name Alastair. Not Aleist. Alast Jack with arms of stare at him. How gentle is acked nurture?

Enough to rate a fresh fish grotto? F.R. Yick cares.

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Limbic 53

Roperty, n-titled en masse, avec three, hits a muneras of climax. Our p-vic of zones are nomic: be up luxuria

in Bost, Massachusetts. Oper Oseas is awake, ignites fire: knot, wheel in the Museo del Commo. Cave Deus Videt, void of counsel and discipulo with these recent dendrochronologies of darker rites. Muses are mousai.

Eotia Edette wears an etiolated veil. Oper and Eotia are demons, not daemons, ogre-like, varied as Meta and Para: -philia, or agape and a pithet to cauterize the wound. Stop the trick roleplay, Madame Vestie, or (sic) anoia. Enteric neurons are gutless mobilite?

Here’s Sonora the Wizard. The fourth in the trinity.

Oper and Eotia, are our Romeo and Juliette. Who? Sonic the hedgehog. Ormic the avocado. Eddy eel?

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Lemma 232 ≈ 4×109 Coagulants of battery cells cocked in terra cotta.

Eddy’s obscurum, hive-spoiled, not consigned, is cauterized with tokens and garlands of ibids.

He’s on a trek of fell-sides alt-tabbin’ to deflect grit as the assclown of a thorny smear campaign.

His graffiti of alien hatred with red-ant queens and fuzzy tongues, pelts hailstones in a mesh of seed-ice and a gang cache of rusted bullets.

Eddy’s brain-bleaching again with acid splits.

Now what? Eddy’s tries to catch a chapqueef schlicking his chode. Brain-bleaching is fun, especially when cornbeefashtaging as canon with a cutting edge morphology like this one.

His privacy’s harsh. His accountability, zero.

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Beacon 417 Eddy rigs his hair and texts trichophilia to his use/me Am Persand. Eddy grooms like a bonobo. I want you to suck the thermal insulation of my scalp-vide cooling your soak hair—cue to repro, to adornment’s runaway—this Eddy andro of lust and trait. Select Eddy, he became a sexed nazarite: Samson by example or Gaelic Irish in a lobby.

Pick Eddy stiff in avenge for the ponytail, plait, or bun bonbon of the Merovingians. The scalp is the lower ugh of bulk and hip, chin level skirt swaying in beach wind.

The longest hair terminates the butt. Don’t trim a slender waist. Don’t worry the disheveled slick black shirt. You stopped talking to me. Eddy embarrassed you. Vine curls are as sexy as Saul of Tarsus becoming Paul. His anagen.

His terminal hair, hormonic, friggin tubare with a comb.

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La Plume 1868 Sum-zero gain equal to YHWH, INRI or INBI, be-to pumped by the equilibria of erro in requence or glove. Each kept node gropes its advent in La Plume, Transylvania. PX transliterater of iron sacrifice cuts Eddy as Chaimy ben Kristobal, augments a bucolic wedge sinker as “gentlemen hurler.” The Holy Grail is culmed in anthracite and burnt for sesquicentennial: severe, stable and sprayed with blue dye. How deperfect these players, how fracked clean with pressurized liquid. This is more Eddy than wellbore, more wildcatter than nonfession of self. Author, author—did we admit that onity was ampty? How about three individuals playing a normal game? Is trinitarian unity ampty?

Our enion is ampty. This is our valance payoff, our fadeaway.

Living of a recessed sriumph, picks only one devout Eunuch.

The reset is balk to toss out the control pow of tability gains.

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Designate L115A3 Put the sniper in place, camouflaged in a fieldcraft with an AWM 338, designated L115A3. Snipe birds, wading birds, more so a pin-tailed snipe, the small, stocky wader with its fizzing of a loud tcheka song.

Nineteenth century war-stile pieces follow quotes: his enemy is demoralized in order to avoid his eye fatigue and squad-level noises. When the doctrine is deployed, calibers are used. Eddy spots a wage.

His close-contact team pummels a hutted village.

Posttraumatic stress disorder swoons in these guts of smoothbore. Not as the real shakes, but as hype pumped numb reaction to tisk. Squeeze the trigger straight back—just the ball of the finger’s prone to a cheek, wrapped around Eddy’s weakest arm.

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Coulomb 1.602×10−19

Storge and vice versa, to have variants and symbioses,

self-emptying, being together against menaces, doubly impedes contrasted antonyms, coming with form: like or just as good as the fraternal love of two Prehispanic sculptures at the Museum of Anthropology in Xalapa.

Eddy boasts Huastec ancestry. He saunters unclothed, as if to court a late bond of clothing and blood trinities were to override splits of uncondition. Not paraphilia.

Please no erotomanias. Eddy isn’t patient as his ploy.

He lusts for neurons to keep his neck from bleeding.

Not an authentic coq au vin braised with a cube lard.

Eddy intimates intimacy’s few unusuals. A negative charge attracts some rare analogs: unlike him, feels a hunger to continue its arousal of shutdown’s rage.

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Manji 90 Swastikas and the Illuminati of unasked historicities: here, equal in salvation for the Rabbis of Didáskalos.

Copper Scrolls in eleven caves of Khirbet Qumran, speak of bones that do not die. Were his scribe only Matthew, when he pointed at a House of Beelzebub, reviled by the sign. Eddy hearts a role in the Petrine doctrine. He lacks sangreal and has no role: ex bello pax, but loves the antiquity of batayles. Eddy wars an open fist, battles open firsts of thumbless palms.

No one’s neighbor. No one’s complaint, quantized later than most dissidence. By fiat of consent, Eddy wills not to be forgotten. Genomes are genocide’s luck. Is Eddy lucky? Only if infinitely curved away from insufficient funds. He pleads to make a deposit.

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Foudre 12305 The bond duties of matrimony, defacto, null and void; spouse cohabit the sanction required of other, divided if affected to a base fault of divide. Eddy’s liable party breach. Eddy’s lift of the weight of burden. Ur-nuptial judges ratify squawks to avoid collision. Transponder code or wedding day? Eddy knocks for a decade, a gif of seconds explained in stills. Nothing settles but a raw loss of gain. How about the custody of emergence? No, not among tiny no-faults who grant just a mere hearting pass. Key factors buckle. The in-laws of puzzles break.

Break her, way center right to concession—the barest of suffice breaks the silence of proof. Eddy lifts from the married three to own Eddy. Uncontested U of one, finally neither sequential nor improved betread father.

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Job 1:6 Let him be wed with the dew of heaven, an iron band or brass knuckle to a platinum ring’s left ring finger: braided ring of reeds or gimmel ring worn for double ceremonies—consecrated Eddy by decree of watchers: Daniel’s watchers who misunderstood the Masoretic text. The egrḗgoroi fall from the fifth heaven where the fall is later unfallen and coupled with these Sons of God. The nephilim may still count in a few years, but it’s unlikely. Eddy’s gone drastic. Who’s Eddy’s titulary person? Only his sacred bride—his consort of Inanna’s fourth proximal digit, his weaker digitus quartus, heart-shaped when two left hands of she/he form the outline of a heart, less clasped by the thumb than a rigged jubilee, dismantling all divine threats.

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Golem 139:16 Po.mor/ph as gamli of an unshaped form, me the Hu of Ods, unfinished, uncultivated, dumb in pless, lunk goylems as a bundle of dish. How brainless is Clum?

How far can the poesis be stretched beyond the other?

The clumsy demand attention, the way dust demands to be kneaded into a shapeless husk. Mud is created by those close to divinity and unable to speak. Jests are neither sudden nor infinite. They nod in rows. He creates a man out of a thousand shems. Our foreheads mouth deactivation to re/m.ove the split. Pull out. Go when you’re sucked over. Reverse the law of creation.

Please sort our current before it mingles a mare-code.

Eddy loves the feed of speed. He tags his ancestry. He names no progeny, but the Holy Scar of the N>am<e.

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Ham 1602 Re.a/m the n.de/ad: re.a/am the F/lesh of Agic. Me.thod me your virus. Surgence. Surgent. Living the dead glow of a living dead—staple the art, staple glambi of/or ham.

Seize me da throne. Seize me Am./leth the Predec. Luv me or saxo./gram me the brain bits. First, or x.uck four quartos. Second, he palls for the plot device. S/.crutiny: rampart-nights muck the maxim—ronic, or for those/he loves, antic, but not solemnly, nor ultimately e.mpathic.

Eddy’s ghosts vanish in his beauty. No heart should be this power. Two/be, nor not./be/x.t.be/not. Enter a try.

Enter the Mute King of Play. Proof is so less than post.

Put the rival pour into a tuck of urgat. Make noise. She leaves the drag. She execut. Pick return, sisters. P./i.CK the cerbate. E is sorry. Genius is Bight. Frogile. Aternal.

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Alchemy 1606 Cameo by The Megisti, metal-pedaled, less flummoxed by his damaged noble copper and mercury, but still lit with spewed vitriol—conferred in longevity, prostrate, throbs gaily and takes Panacea Avenue to i.m>mo.r./t.

Gno ennobles the eso of exo. The Movement is A./foot.

Endangered Posters have been accused of charlatanism, prone to inciting photic seizures in the leisurely classes.

Eddy Megisti returns to strut a homey, post-human split, to give x-peri.verse the muscle of a future signal crowd from the po.dium. Histic’s agree: it’s Bolus of Mendes and tip Eddy Megisti. Both are deprogramming norms.

Both remix brines and aqueous solutions with caffeine.

The Periodic Tables shouldn’t sex a leather jacket. By whom, asks a listener? Any listener, or a feared optica?

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Offspring F1 E./d may yet be known as a brood, a chick shatched from a clutch of eggs, spring.s an off of mate. E.dd/s children are the f1 generation, in which gametes fuse and form prophets of offspring. He worships post/ed postures, pinched into off./exact duplicates: chin off the chest of an attitude of self. This history of a false name launches vessels. The starship “Linkage,” oves the prove. Father Eddy Meiosis at your service: let us hear the genes and remove the nucleus. Care for rare tungsten light? No. Libate the late Age of Extremes.

Libate the Late Age of Tipsy. Libate his teenybopper b-movie croon. Wearing promoters aren’t dangerous.

The public layer. The no./force lair. Pick either. We guild the lily. We sport bling fedoras. Weoffsprung.

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Kippur 5776 Eddy once gagged on the bane of kippur to skin the seal of verdict. Vid./ui hombre, to jerk a confession. How far back are we from the vein-laced head? Far. Unforgiven.

We hear your thiamine stink. How far will you s.o.A/r?

Redemption is degenerative. These Lords of Topspeed promised to afflict our soulsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the Shabbat of Sabbaths.

How strict is our day of rest? The five names of dread: soul, wind, spirit, living one and unique one, haunt E.d No eating. No leather. No showers. No aftershave. No sex. Cop an edenic e.xp/ul and stack polystyrene cups in the locked closet. Re.t.U/R.n E/.d to a pristine state.

It all resets in the force of the body. Sundown/nightfall, Icarus-eyed from a caffeinated two-day blackout. Fast.

Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t waiver. Cede. Be the arity of the arced E.>.v.>e.

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Battleaxe, You Bloodhammer 50 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

King Brackish Poofy 51 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Parzuf Me With Re.Pete Face 52 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Queen Maximilliane Pissante 53 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

When You Uplift The Transparent Eyeball, Make Sure To Bring Mascara

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Heller Levinson

Considering Forms of Madness in Rimbaud’s Le Bateau Ivre & Hieronymous Bosch’s Ship of Fools.

(Heller Levinson’s doctoral dissertation to satisfy requirements at the University of Lachrymose.) disorderly conduct mayhem botched poltroon delerial river juice redskin terrestrial tomahawk slide buster thigh slither drapery the constitution & Oklahoma . . . – overwhelm & the curiosity of significance.

Madness is dysfunctionality.

Dysfunctionality: the inability to adapt to the “necessary conditions.”

“Okay, you’re busy, . . . I’ll call back.”

“Lift off.”

“We think Hank will do well here . . . we’ve seen many like him.”

When riverbeds empty even the sludge needs rescue.

It gets so bad at times that bawling becomes a low-level response.

When all responses appear as “invalid.”

Maladaptation is a dress code.

The uproar is deafening, let alone the dissuasion.

Silence opens the thighs to exposure.

The antidote is both antipodal & redundant.

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“Look for men of principle,“ my guardian advised, . . . & I have.

The seas are wobbly but then, -- what isn’t?

hulls bile plunge scurvy eyelash dancer cataract/cataclysm palsied marionettes grope the grip-lock-overdrive-calcified cam-malfunction gunnel the surveyors no longer sound runnel or supported by reason treason is the high-water mark of infidelity infidels sleep mainly on the train

the bend impulses mend amendment command commandment

perplexity = clarity’s surplus

fasten to fascinate

the peculiar particulates peculiar as a speech form or a wheel-less vehicle preponderance peduncles carbuncle caruncle catch a ride let it rhyme platypuses longitude arbitration camel rides friendly skies carry hides stay courtly

to think: life is brief yet ‘boredom’ remains in usage

stay on the side Maximilian no no is not a proper response to the adjunct watch yr behavior clam up or clutter gutter ragamuffin keel rat gutter snipe bugger bum rug pus mind yr manners testimonials accrue 56 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

electroshock convulsive rock all the to-do keep in mind minds of kind kindred scrupulously absent

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Mont Sainte-Victoire, 25/09/15, 11:47a.m., for Paul

loom-lode bloom-plum solar-scout [how much of monument is the visible, .. how much visitation [quark sapphire backwater ferry glade quarry heave of settlement, rendition intestinal loaves splendored by a gang of loopy gnomes sinewy bicep thumb of the sower

S was given to outbursts. these could disturb or attract. or disturb by virtue of attraction. vast attraction attracts disturbance. alluvial arktos (b e a r

the drawn up draws up 58 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

the drawn upon sluice wardens sleight gravity hopscotch gestations default loom upon perspicacity this time of day

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no tension in the knuckles sloopworthy jawbone keel silk sinew relax the wrist paring sclerotic contagion stricken shuffle throes downward demise unspoken madrigals sweeten the pinions hand finger ball bearing lubricant oneiric current bone dream spell syrup aqueduct spill splurge urge limbs akimbo lawn loop lariat lassitude linger lunge lounge conti encour age

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H. Holt The South is in me: it is in my gait: in these feet, back roads kissed on endless evenings of porchlight blues where crickets cover Ray’s “on my mind.” it is in my soul: gospeled, gleaned, and granted glory by horizons whole, bursting into blue, and sunsets sighing in shades of red. it is in my heart: sisterly talk on porches whose wood keeps secrets, and spills of sweet tea, patiently waiting for a rain that blows in, sideways, to wash it all away.

I am the South.

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Katarina Boudreaux Primevera She stands near the window, undecorated, in a robe he bought for her when they danced furiously in the green of youth.

Every wall and corner is well articulated in bold colors and prints, leopard spots.

She recites the number of his marker and trails a finger across the funerary program on display in an Asian terrarium she found in the attic.

Today she waits until the sun is truly risen to leave the window, tomorrow she may wait longer.

Her hair is a revolving shade of pastels to attract whatever residual echo of him is out there, clinging to the bushes, the crepe myrtles, unable to come in.

She thought today it may be spring.

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Ricky Garni LEISURE I look for signs of madness in old photographs. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know if I really see it, or if I know that the madness will be coming, and I feel as though I can see it.

Sometimes I want to put my finger through the photographs and straighten their hair.

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Featured Artist: Allen Forrest

When working on a painting, I prefer to begin simply with the large shapes of the subject. I put this on canvas fairly quickly, then scrutinize it later for accuracy in its relationships of size and perspective to the model. There are usually some corrections to be made and that is what draws me into the process further. While making these corrections, I add more pieces to the composition, begin suggesting details, decide what to leave out and what to add in. This process usually takes a few days.

As I continue to adjust and correct the work, I keep adding more layers. The first layer covers the entire canvas, the subsequent ones are more lattice-like in nature. When painting, I like to work in 1-2 hour sessions and then leave the piece alone to look at later. Getting distance from your work is important, because you are so close to it, you frequently can't see what you've got right in front of you. After I feel I have captured the basic physicality of the model, then I shift the compositional work to color relationships. I begin pitting complimentary colors against one another, adjusting chroma and values of the hues until I feel a vibrant interaction. I call this interaction: emotion in paint.

My style uses a thick oil paint, an impasto texture, that helps me capture my emotions on the canvas. My inner feelings are part of the paint itself. When the viewer sees this colorful texture it resonates with their feelings.

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Abbey

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Albertâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Angle

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Blues Singers Billie Holliday

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CafĂŠ Society Singer 68 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

ECM Jazz 3 69 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

ECM Jazz 11 70 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

ECM Jazz 14 71 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

ECM Jazz 16

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ECM Jazz 18

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ECM Jazz 20

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Groove

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Jazzman Don Cherry 76 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Jazzman Eric Dolphy 77 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Norwegian Jazz Musician Bugge Wesseltoft

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Norwegian Jazz Musician Nils Petter Molvaer

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Norwegian Jazz Vocalist Sidsel Endresen

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Triptych Trio 1 of 3

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Triptych Trio 2 of 3

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Irene Koronas given then taken prometheus probably read a few poems he liked them he burnt them. money lenders lick their coins. over dead eyes mother's handkerchief his coffin tied to a rock. rock on roll over, swim for it. hold your arm straight. throw it away. feed feed need needy need...le held his arm he nails his vein hit yours and you and his hymnal sing and clang lids. turn fruit bowls, unchain melody. eat apple. not now, you say titan realized anything can be realized after a bagel and coffee, mocking bird nostalgia idles, apart women starve thirst

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how brave how brave I lay before your fingers across river lovers embrace dragged on well into spring i'm not talking symbolically which drags on well folded gestures her arms across her chest he kisses her most elegant sung I listen to him flower fall onto street. crocus broken aloud mounted police gallop maybe trot, trotsky and frida. me and blake. you and dante carry each numeral possession roman heaven. tell me again how much you love indistinguishable images your burst climb take off. sensuous be leaf momentary lost paradise. how brave I lay how brave your fingers remember everything. blink, rise, cluster beauty flames wind and petal. quiet flashes his smile kisses her, me, three times we bend, prepare olives in lemon juice. wine cut de cant. green crosses our legs

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every truth extends (8) about zipper philosophy in/clue objectivity hand signals braid entangle sensation.. no kidding. charley your pain kant you see that aristotle walks with cane with pardon me entrance irrational belief once logic sung reality really till young slightly better than cream cheese and jelly sandwich in upper rooms class extensions. harvard rejecs ascendancy, reference his promise to extend infinity. mis-chief tempts play with self, watch whiskey moon maple trees long sunset coming refrain. mystic no bleeding hard candy drops. violin someone. just get repetitive. eat earlier. philosophy really breathes or ever promises an echo an orb an bunjie jump an night an night an day how do he keep becoming tru public bratz

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Blue Collage Grid

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anti poem

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Grid 4

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JD DeHart People Big P Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t consider the individual so often as the whole population, not pointing to the sample, but the whole moving cluster A spread focus by preference, rather than the one unsettled example We can make a guess about them, whatever you wish, what they enjoy, what their dreams are, what exists behind their eyes Of course, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all thin-slice brief calculation, notoriously biased.

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Marianne Szlyk Waleje for Caroline I. Gone to seed, the onion flowers, purple globes erect in the wind that, cooling, promises rain soon, no more endless summer.

II. Banana and Louie bark, recalling Caroline to the tasks on her list: wake the twins dress them feed them get them into the car drive to the bank drive to the strip mall buy cigarettes liquor stamps drive to Lucky buy dog food people food kid food.

III. Women from her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day did not sweat. They glowed.

Her daughters will sweat, playing tennis to win, lunging for the ball.

Caroline does neither.

Standing, chilled behind the picture window, she lights a cigarette.

IV. Caroline imagines the inland empire.

There the fields of onion flowers extend in all directions to the two-lane highway to the forests to the mountains to the other coast thousands of miles away.

She dreams of striding through these fields.

V. Stabbing out her unsmoked cigarette, Caroline turns away from the road and towards the ocean.

She finger-combs her blonde hair, too short for babies to yank.

Then she moves as if she were already wading through saltwater.

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VI. Passing the photographs from Malibu, she wonders if, like the onions, she has gone to seed.

She sucks in her stomach beneath her baggy blouse and shorts.

The dogs follow her.

She praises them but quickens her pace.

VII. Walking down to the girlsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; room with its windows on the beach, she remembers wearing yellow blowing on dandelions gone to seed to bring on endless summer.

VIII. Onion flowers bear with them the tang of fall. She is now three years past twenty, two years a mother.

Come next spring, she promises to show her twin daughters dandelions.

IX. Wagging their tails, the dogs rush into her daughtersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; room.

The twins wake for their friends.

Next spring she and the girls will blow on dandelions gone to seed to bring on endless summer and the onion flowers of fall.

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Rock Creek Park Sirens weave a white web around the park, containing it, binding it to the city.

The rocks in this corner were rejected by the builders.

They are the mistakes, the misshapen.

Wet, neon-green moss slides down like boys’ piss or spray paint on the dull, marble blocks that did not make it to the blindingly white cathedral, and the luminous monuments downtown visited by tourists every day, even in winter. These rocks stunt the trees, even in summer when other trees shade streets near Georgetown. I expect poison ivy to twine the park’s witchy trees or to crawl onto the path. Without leaves of three, the vine hides.

I expect to see Chandra Levy’s skeleton shattered behind a stained stone, her hair like a bird’s nest matted with twigs, dirt, and gravel, her ghost warning all women, even young crones like me, to flee this winter landscape of scattered stones and trees, this park so distant from the city where women can run protected by sirens.

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Veterans Day *From 1971 to 1978, in the United States, Veterans Day was celebrated on the fourth Monday of October.

Driving across the border to the White Mountains, we saw the first flakes fall as if we had traveled further away from cities and their drizzle.

Among spruce, pine, and hemlock, it could have been November.

No oaks betrayed us. Chewing wintergreen gum, we watched more flurries fall from a white sky, dusting piles of pine needles but not road.

Calculating temperature in Celsius, our speed in kilometers, our distance from Canada, Mother drove us through a curtain of snow.

Somewhere soon, at the next town, the one with the old gas pump, we turned around, back to Veterans Day malls of drab jeans and half-price Halloween costumes, cemeteries with flags and flowers, and auntsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; neat backyards where dampness clung to all the oak leaves still on the trees.

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Meditation on the Animas River The golden river flows past the mountains.

Tiny leaves jangle in the sunlight.

Pine needles stiffen in the wind while kayakers paddle mustard-colored waters.

Watching them, I remember walking past the Nashua River on the days when the plant made yellow paper.

Today, on Coloradoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Animas River, young men scull through the spillage of long-closed mines.

The picture makes National Review.

Meanwhile the governor from the other party dares to drink this water.

I remember the sour, pulpy smell of the Nashua, water no one wanted to swallow, Republican or Democrat.

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Mt. Calvary on the Fourth of July After the thunderstorm, red, white, and blue silk flowers join with just-cut grass to honor the dead.

Oaks and cypress linger at the top of the hill where thunder has struck them.

Puffballs rise from the roots.

On the other side of the cemetery, across the road to the gas fields, a white cottage overlooks the oldest graves, the ones that have cracked in cold and dissolved in rain, the ones you can barely read.

From the woods behind the cottage where no one has lived for years, fawns emerge to a coupleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s delight.

Once the sun has burned through the mist, children appear, leaving the townhomes where they have waited out the storm.

They clamber over the jungle gym.

An ice cream truck circles the playground, its calliope overriding shrieks and birdsong.

Before the fireworks, red, white, and blue silk flowers and the sprouting grass will celebrate life.

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Raymond Farr The Pure, the Disconnected, the Pseudo I say poems are the myth of pure oxygen & sheep roam in the bottled up darkness of my words & like a widow eating the left boot of her own grief I keep you standing at this fence where property is defiled & where the breath of every dead bird in every sun-lit lung is lunacy The mind creates its own havoc revoking sublime intelligence Of a man trampling a scrupulous garden exhausted by music & all the stomachs in the village empty all at once & like ashes I come screaming something hollow into the cold airâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Talk rippling up like a nightmare in the half conscious dust of the floor boards & all winter boarded up between good & evil haystacks The animus of my ever-loving ever-loving-one flows up these Hillbilly penthouse walls & like a heifer in the high ceilinged loft Of the barn I yield, something of a frenzied cloud scraping The pure, the disconnected, the pseudoâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the seven White eyes of a distant hillock positioned strategically

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For the Ride Is Long They were afraid of death —Michael Palmer His eyelids breaking into flower A poet must freak out a little & then teach poetry to mindless gnats A poet is just The echo of an empty room under construction & even as a series of blacked-out windows Declares itself a sentence his syllables line up— The monster sorrow anatomy of a light snow falling & he’s running out along the early morning street The waterfront twisting back into view & because words are the geometry of something almost meaningful Rendered almost beautiful by the black swans of his silence & because the poet moves one minute into the future & listens The opposite of Time is weight says the poet—

But wait, says the poet—a slight face & out of focus There is a stormy narrative confusion about

The nature of existence the poet finds comic But sterile is what he meant to say & so he wins the contest & with a fork & a series of X-rays & not heavily—his last line Should just hang there

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Sometimes Something Pristine & to say goodbye Like this Is like having the answers Shoved in my face

Fresh snails, I cry. Oh yum!

& just like that I’m a teasing Girlish rain shower! & as a filtered light goes Flat on a surface there’s cigar ash On my easy chair A yellow torso singing In my head & you know how We love our own voices, chalk lines, etc & how they make us all wonder If something we do Is worthy of a poem & so we banquet on The isolation we feel & like the idea of a ghost This isn’t a statement We can ascertain The validity of While motoring

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John Grey REBECCA AT THE WINDOW Above, different distance: advance in stillness.

Air sits like a bird on the sill and through the mist, gods aspire to the heart of the high silence.

Awaiting the next time. before you, blossoms bend over border with butterflies, escape the grasping brick, circulate the soft pink, embroider clouds, extend your lips your eyes, but no further, fashion you for sky's raiment.

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Matt Duggan The Waterfront On Saturday I watched the echo in the river with fast rain, a slanted line of spears piercing the muddy red pinpricked surface while a changing sky controls light from blemish, Along the waterfront I walk; open windows - mulled wine and German markets screwed up betting slips piled in empty foamed glasses, cigarette stubs trail to boisterous plastic tables, a homeless man sales â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;The New Scientistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; beside a busker strumming on a waterproof guitar, day-walkers and afternoon drunks journey home before evening begins its quest.

The fat rain comes in short bursts as we huddle in shelter and shop entrance running for that space of dry and bare land, before the greyish colours turn to a midnight black.

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Duane Locke ECO ECHOES 269 A survey, a chronicle of our recent past—a vignette, A Vox populi: I see an old man who wears a Stetson Modesto wool ivy cap made in Germany, Stained with Grapefruit juice when he wore a platinum blonde woman’s wig And a simulated James Cagney thinking the old man was a girl pushed a grapefruit into His wrinkled face, the wrinkles hid under thick cosmetics.

His collar with the ring around was stained with appetites learned from Advertisement and Goldman band concerts in Prospect Park. The Pablum, A complete, complex sentence replete with monosyllables, his schoolmarm Spoke was tattooed decentered on his tongue. Instead of speaking, he Would stick out his tongue so the sentence could be read. Although He was trained to be an orator and sophists by the current education System, He never spoke a word. He would just stick out his tongue And let people read the tattooed sentence.

Steering wheels, instead of angels as in the late Botticelli painting, Flew around his heads. The flying steering wheels shadowed The purple lips quickly turning white of the dead angels that surrounded His wheel chair. His well-trained and highly educated grandson had killed The angel with his Christmas present, a double-barrel shotgun.

The now shotgunned dead angles had bald heads on their sublunary bodies When visiting this world, thus they wore scalps that Indians tomahawked From thieves who came to steal and write out deeds to themselves Of the Indian’s owned, homesteaded land. One of the scalps recently Sold for 37 million at an art auction. It was said to be in constant Oscillation, and if one slept on it, it would cure back aches.

The old man who leaned over in his wheelchair, and his forehead Touched his knees began to wet his pants without his tears.

I whispered to the bent-over old man to raise up his head And praise.

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ECO ECHOES 276 I just read a “love poem” of e.e. cummings.

Love poems have changed.

Once love poems had anatomies—awkward replicas of hearts and such.

Once love poems metaphorized love as being the bronze-gold Of globular sycamore tree seeds.

Now love is an asphalt shopping-center parking lot, With white lines, Well-marked, well- marked, well marked.

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ECO ECHOES 280 Cemeteries, Inner cemeteriesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we own places of the dead, and The deeds to their ownership Are archived inside our every body part.

These cemeteries are Crowded With the lives we wanted to live but never let live.

Many vital lives that wanted to live life as life, and not as something else That society provided. These lives stillborn, or aborted later on.

The corpses of these dead lives still breathe and sleepwalk inside The inner cemeteries that crowd our bodies.

Their bones have no tombstones, no sheep with paws extended forward, Or angels trying to flap wings they cannot flap. Flowers were never sat On their slabs, because the graves were unknown

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ECO ECHOES 2016-1 New Yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Day: Will it only be your becoming again The traffic on the streets. Will Awakening to a greyish-blue Light squeezing itself through The open thin ivory-enamel slats Only winnow out the worthless Parts of the tradition, repeat. Will the lower Spoken of as the higher power, The social realities, stay unmanageable.

Can the self become corrective When surrounded by so many mistakes, The false beliefs, the trivial amusements.

Can we survive, maybe flourish, In a society that is like a heroin addict Frantically needs a larger fix of lies and trivia.

We surmise that the new year That starts in Winter will have a Summer.

Perhaps, a Spring.

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ECO ECHOES 2016-3 The African hippopotamus fenced, pooled small, To be overt to the ticket-buying public Is not pachydermatous as he is interpreted By the quick gazes of his audience, but he In spite of a sparse supply of hose water With his toes writes poems on his sparse mud.

Woman is tight white dress considers his bulk Wonder if the sesquipedalian word,” hippopotamus” would serve As a metaphor in her antidisestablishmentarianistic poem About slave mentality life being isomorphic.

A boy leaning on a fence post shows His tattoo on his bicep of a hippopotamus To his two girlfriends. They show him Their above ankles tattoos of hippopotamuses Both their hippopotamuses are blue And have lotus flowers sketched on their blue sides.

As has the Egyptian sacred blue faience hippopotamus.

A white ibis lit on the hippopotamus’ back.

Spread out his long black-tipped white wings And went to sleep. A mother pointed to the event.

The child was too busy counting how many times He bounced his Christmas present, a basketball.

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Christopher Crew Moonbow, Ghost Ranch Alec runs red shirt into alfalfa field like poppies into Monet, trailing kites and retard and hands that brush mustard or flies from his mouth.

The moon sat straight up and looked full over waning mesas, caught the rain moving west, canastoga wagon in night canvas.

This frame shone.

Like whale bones in the fucking moonlight, and the marble of an eyelid, no, the tangerine of a hip in the darkness.

Alec we call and

wish he’d look this way say a name and cling to the waist of my swimsuit as I pull him fast around the pool.

This once he ran out of impression and kissed my cheek.

Here—all the proof I have of God.

As we stared, we began to see the whole arc—even, I swear, some color.

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To Save Paper, What I Couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Say Called Brainstorm: Cancer The dark side of

I Print Onto a Worksheet

might be different:

the present determined the future.

Behind the

love, Your engagement grace

where

determined

cancer cell. difference between in the space might be different.

was printed on and became

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If my dad dies while I'm watching Castle close another case I might remember it was the fashion magazine's second-in-command, pink ties and grey suits.

How the Executive Editor, exonerated, needed a model at the last minute and, surprise, our lithe heroine stepped up. If only there were a model human waiting to wade in to this no-brakes division of cells, to this unending refrigerated catwalk we pace and wait for word. Each episode moves past nothingness and chaos at speed.

But still, entropy creeps in, evil moss, film canister of deep space in the living room. Who wins this

opened

clash of nothingness vs. the three-cushion couch, the great lakes throw pillow? Science doesn’t worry, but I still can’t ask. There’s a hole in this new earth-like planet that each revolution might reveal.

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When I Watch City of Ember and Read Science Headlines I Remember Yarn crisscrosses Lena’s apartment, blind grandmother keeping everything in reach, back before printing presses to the rockwork unruined, ocean unraised.

The spinning sun lifts dust motes, carries ghostly DNA ribbons, grandma’s lifelines.

How do you move in an interconnected world?

Each pace breaks legacy polymers.

Or doesn’t break— if

we /are the ghost spiders, cloud-eyed grandmothers who clamber over the connections, switchboarding, tightening our knots. We pass along

traceries of earth, We know/

patterns more real than our clothes, collapsed in hampers:

sun, spindle long forgotten. /we don’t know what we are doing.

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Good Neighbors I read a death in the constellation of hallway furniture— how to clear the stairs for a stretcher.

We translate flared umbrellas drying, greetings shouldered on stairs, passing open the door.

A man speaks five languages with his hands.

Jackie may have died just above our living room— the quilted bed I saw just once, the four posters. That day, summer, locked out and oven on, I passed through 30 years of small polished rooms, the pride of rentership, swap meet finds and projects.

Now we can only guess: the Stravinsky that paints our midnight ceiling could be cancer. Laundry water that cascades down the walls, the first hint of remission.

Our want is the fourth definition, close.

near

but not Family

visits most every day, and we don’t even know if she is still alive. To be honest, I wouldn’t recognize death/Stravinsky, and we can’t ask, now, not in any of our languages.

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Linda King there are probable losses

you know the calculations every wordmeaning appears to model reality keep your eyes on the floor you have no recourse beyond fixation or concentric circles of now disclaimers are in the slow lane words hovering

beyond expectations stretched verbs sense of formal structure within a state of flux there are

probable losses

what was said of stillness cancels out the blind decay dislocated daily pulse 114 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

junk files in the absence of narrative

persuade yourself by reading the dictionary every version blaring burning brief songs liquid comments a homing like what the crows

remember

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Andrea Moorhead Phantom Nights for O.M.

dense and draining the night from your whitened vein pattern the sand resting again swiftless and calm the back of the wind eased against stone, your blunt red cataclysm a mantra dreaming in the iron wall around the soul burning where grass is never green and the tall forked light splits the rain

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Mark Young The coil, the curve Not having a microscope handy I do not know if this is a fractal out of which I will emerge even if into another fractal â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the same song over but / never over â&#x20AC;&#x201D; or whether this is the final spiral down which I corkscrew, ferns & Fibonacci cast aside. The slide.

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A / county judge / was fatally shot Blocked from building south of Harpers Ferry, the early pictographic system gradually became a mixed syllabary, a multipolar world associated with discrimination & genocide, at the mercy of numerous short-line railroads & the steep sided hill which bordered it.

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caramel Small acts of poverty beatify the saint. It is the small axe of poetry that beautifies the sinner.

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A line from Girolamo Savonarola The wetlands dries out.

Salinity & sulfidic soils soon become major issues. Mung bean powder is set into a jelly, ready to set your tongue ablaze. Follow the Air Force Research Institute on Twitter. Learn where your CDs are manufactured, how the trend of co-branding restaurants is spread by force, why beavers have been hunted out.

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The donkey driver's epiphany I've been transcribing random blue screens as well as portions of Handel's Water Music for some years now. It's the most cost-effective option to capture the budget end of the cable market. But this time the phone acted weird everytime it got a picture of a condenser fan. I stuck it in rice for three days because refrigeration couldn't kill the bacteria. I'm attached a screen dump of the error message.

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collective

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odyssey

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solstice

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the passage of the dancers

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trope

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Alisa Velaj IN SUCH FALL The thrown stick high-strung through the night stopped its ardor in forehead of the deer.

When sunset rolled up Shed tears even the walls.

In such fall like all the falls ...

Translated from Albanian Laureta Petoshati

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Katerina Blackwood Gaslighting The gaslight is burning Every evening In the twilight.

Flickering Morse code of the whispers of the kerosene.

My thesis is no more Outrageous than Your industrialized proposal With its list of regulations That could easily set ablaze.

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Bill Wolak

The Erotomagnetic Grip 129 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Ears Erased by a Tongue

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Embracing the Tide 131 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Shadows Smooth As Pearls 132 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

The Way Light Breathes

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Darren C. Demaree WHAT THE GUN EATS #1 There are little feet that peek out from under the pile that is hiding & cannot tell us if we are both or if we are neither the foam & the razor of life.

We leave pieces of each other on the ground.

We leave pieces of each other in the ground.

We throw wings of the dismembered into the air & are shocked that we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fly.

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David Hogsett Our Walls

Sometimes, when you jump the grout cracks.

And I can see the light inside.

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Alex Duensing Larger than Life In his dream, when she pulled the red from his sky, he slept soundly… until, walking along the shuteye-green field, he stumbled upon a familiar object: a small silver capsule.

This capsule--not much larger than a mailbox--was among his first inventions: his initial attempts to augment dream. He’s created many more, but this one has a place in his chest -- like his heart.

Now, as usual, he entered through a small rectangular door in the front--maybe a little more slowly than previously.

He guesses he’s grown, on himself mainly, but, the capsule remained a comfortable retreat.

Inside, its furnishings were sparse and overall the same as when he last went in : an empty vase, a couple of letters from a previous life, a book of interpretations -- essentially, enough things for him to count to three even if he couldn’t remember numbers. He knew that once he glanced at each of the items, he would return to the flow of his dream--which he did.

And, as anticipated, vase, life, interpretation... was all the time he needed to produce the vastness now arrayed before him.

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How a Thinker Loves a Woman “I will not think this thought came from me,” said the voice in the man’s head.

A moment later, a similar voice from the same locus uttered, “This thought is my own.”

He sensed that these alternations between claiming and disavowing the ego formed a binary code. He paused to concentrate, and he claimed his inner voice--twice, which made three. Now, he was prepared.

Claim, disavow, claim, disavow, disavow, disavow.

With this sequence, he constructed the 35th hexagram of the I Ching: Progress.

Framed within that contemplation, the sun sprung over earth, and conditions were bright and funny like...everything...even the sullenest shadows could not stop laughing.

Within that luminous moment, his identity slowly left its shed and danced in the open mind.

Frolicking, he felt his identity careen through vast circuits made of interlacing logic gates--until unexpectedly, he got a blue screen, and his vision crashed into another.

He imagined kissing the woman slowly at a picnic beside a lake on top of a green mountain.

Initially, he disavowed the thought; he didn’t think her his type. But, soon he realized…that effortlessly--he’d constructed the 31st hexagram: Wooing.

“I will ask her name and spell it with my being in Morse code.” He proclaimed.

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recline

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Regina Walker

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Biography Notes Marcia Arrieta’s recent work appears in Paper Nautilus, BlazeVOX, Otoliths, Wicked Alice, Eratio, Moss Trill, and Stoneboat. She has two books of poetry: archipelago counterpoint (BlazeVOX 2015) and triskelion, tiger moth, tangram, thyme (Otoliths 2011). She loves to travel, walk in the canyon, desert and by the sea, and can often be found tending her gardens. She edits and publishes Indefinite Space, a poetry/art journal.

Diana C. Hoagland was raised in Wyoming and Colorado. Started writing poetry and short stories at age 7 and each of those have been a lifelong source of inspiration and encouragement. She holds a B.A. in History and a M.S. in Interdisciplinary Telecommunications from University of Colorado Boulder. However, due to various factors including bouts of mental illness, she didn’t work in either discipline. Not to be let down, she spent several years using her writing skills in ventures such as grant writing for non-profit organizations, etc.

She is a proud mother of two beautiful daughters and three grandchildren, whom have also been a source of inspiration in her work. Diana has done a lot of traveling including spending ten years in Algeria. While there, she served as a volunteer teacher of English as a Second Language for three years. This position afforded her the experience of working with the U.S. Embassy on a project for M.E.P.I (Middle East Peace Initiative). She taught creative writing to High School students of which a few of them got scholarships to study in the USA. Today, she is in a recovery program in Illinois for surviving mental illness and hopes her writing will inspire and motivate others who battle the same or just struggle with their identity. Knowing by example that you can survive and thrive because it isn’t over yet. Her message, ‘Never give up’ and realize you always get a second chance.

Clockwise Cat publisher and editor Alison Ross has been published here, there, elsewhere and

nowhere. She experienced rave-levels of ecstasy when she found out she was shortlisted for the 2014 Erbacce Prize among 20 others, down from 5,000 entries. She was also giddily bemused when was nominated for the Best of the Net a few years back, though she lost out to savvier scribes.

Alison's chapbook, Clockwise Cats, released by the venerable Fowlpox Press, will subvert your dissonant dystopia into a euphonious utopia of Zen-Surrealist bliss.

Dan Raphael’s been active in the Northwest for a couple decades as poet, performer, publisher and reading host. Current poems appear in Caliban, Big Bridge, Peculiar Mormyrid, Cordite and Wilderness House. His most recent book is The State I’m In, from nine muses books.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing). Perceptions, Displays, Fault Lines and Tremors will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press).

Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing). His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City

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Stephanie Williams is a writer from Delaware who has a strong passion for the human condition, philosophy, knowledge, and spirituality. Her writing aims to intersect the schisms between light and dark, and to reconcile the dichotomy between transcendent and immanent realms of reality. In addition to being published with eLectio, she has also been published in a few poetry magazines such as Melted Wing,The Misty Review, and Virtual Artists Collective. She hopes to one day fulfill her dream of being both an evangelist and wordsmith. Her favorite color is blue and her favorite word is “crepuscule.”

Clyde Kessler lives in Radford, VA with his wife Kendall and their son Alan. They added an art studio to their house and named it Towhee Hill. Clyde is a founding member of Blue Ridge Discovery Center, an environmental education organization with programs in southwestern Virginia and western North Carolina.

Matt Olive lives outside of Nashville, TN and is near completing his undergrad degree in English. He has recently been published in Epigraph Magazine.

Clifford Brooks is a founder, poet, and teacher. He lives in North Georgia. His first volume, The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics, is on sale anywhere books can be found. www.southerncollectiveexperience.com Featured Writer: Eileen R. Tabios loves books and has released about 30 collections of poetry, fiction, essays, and experimental biographies from publishers in nine countries and cyberspace.

Her most recent are THE CONNOISSEUR OF ALLEYS (Marsh Hawk Press, 2016) and INVENT(ST)ORY: Selected Catalog Poems and New 1996-1915 (Dos Madres Press, 2015). With poems translated into seven languages, she also has edited, co-edited or conceptualized ten anthologies of poetry, fiction and essays in addition to serving as editor or guest editor for various literary journals.

She maintains a biblioliphic blog, “Eileen Verbs Books“; edits Galatea Resurrects, a popular poetry review; steers the literary and arts publisher Meritage Press; and frequently curates thematic online poetry projects including LinkedIn Poetry Recommendations (a recommended list of contemporary poetry books). More information is available at http://eileenrtabios.com Annette Plasencia is from Los Angeles. She holds an MFA from Mills College. She is the recipient of the Mary Merritt Henry Prize in Poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Otoliths, Chronopolis, Of/with and After the Pause.

Daniel Y. Harris is the author of The Underworld of Lesser Degrees (NYQ Books, 2015), Hyperlinks of Anxiety (Cervena Barva Press, 2013), The New Arcana (with John Amen, New York Quarterly Books, 2012), Paul Celan and the Messiah’s Broken Levered Tongue (with Adam Shechter, Cervena Barva Press, 2010; picked by The Jewish Forward as one of the 5 most important Jewish poetry books of 2010) and Unio Mystica (Cross-Cultural Communications, 2009). Some of his poetry, experimental writing, art, and essays have been published in BlazeVOX, Denver Quarterly, European Judaism,

Exquisite Corpse, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, In Posse Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine and Poetry Salzburg Review. He is the editor-in-chief of X-Peri.

Heller Levinson lives in New York where he studies animal behavior. He has published half a dozen books and his work has appeared in over a hundred journals. His publication, Smelling Mary (Howling Dog Press, 2008), was nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Black Widow Press published his from stone this running in 2012. Hinge Trio was published by La Alameda Press in 2012. Wrack Lariat is newly released from Black Widow Press. He is the originator of Hinge Theory.

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email: hingetheory@gmail.com web: www.hellerlevinson.com Since August of 2013, H. Holt has been published by various magazines and blogs. She has recently started Southern Muse Services, which is a business dedicated to artistic renderings, where she takes works from other poets and puts them to digital art. She lives in the luscious mountains of North Georgia, where she spends her time helping students achieve their dreams of higher education.

Katarina Boudreaux is a writer, musician, composer, tango dancer, and teacher -- a shaper of word, sound, and mind. She recently returned to New Orleans after circuitous travels. New work is forthcoming in Far Away Places, HARK, and YAY!LA. www.katarinaboudreaux.com Ricky Garni was born and raised in Miami and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day, and writes music by night. His work is widely available in print, on the Web and in a number of anthologies, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on six occasions.

Featured Artist: Graphic artist and painter Allen Forrest was born in Canada and bred in the U.S. He has created cover art and illustrations for literary publications and books. He is the winner of the Leslie Jacoby Honor for Art at San Jose State University's Reed Magazine and his Bel Red painting series is part of the Bellevue College Foundation's permanent art collection. Forrest's expressive drawing and painting style is a mix of avant-garde expressionism and post-Impressionist elements reminiscent of van Gogh, creating emotion on canvas.

Irene Koronas is the poetry editor for Wilderness House Literary Review. Her poetry has appeared in Clarion 13, Clarion 14, Lummox, Free Verse, Posey, Presa:S:Press, Counterexample Poetics and online zines, Divine Dirt, Spreadhead, Index poetry, Unblog, Haiku Hut, Lynx, Pop Art, Right Hand Pointing. Chapbooks; 'Zero Boundaries' Cervena Barva Press, 2008 and 'Emily Dickinson," Propaganda Press, 2010. Three full length books, 'Self Portrait Drawn From Many,â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Ibbetson Street Press, 2007, 'Pentakomo Cyprus' Cervena Barva Press' 2009. 'Turtle Grass' Muddy River Books 2014 JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon. He also publishes other poets' work on blogs like spinrockreader.blogspot.com.

Marianne Szlyk is the editor of The Song Is... , an associate poetry editor at Potomac Review, and a professor of English at Montgomery College. Her second chapbook, I Dream of Empathy, was published by Flutter Press. Her poems have appeared in a variety of online and print venues, including Silver Birch Press, Long Exposure, Contemporary American Voices, The Syzygy Poetry Journal, Cactifur, Of/with, bird's thumb, Yellow Chair Review, Snapping Twig, Eunoia Review, and Taj Mahal Review . Her first chapbook is available through Kind of a Hurricane Press. She hopes that you will consider sending work to her magazine. For more information about it, see this link: http://thesongis.blogspot.com/ Raymond Farr is author of Ecstatic/.of facts (Otoliths 2011), & Writing What For? across the Mourning Sky (Blue & Yellow Dog 2012), a chapbook, Eating the Word NOISE! (White Knuckle Chaps 2015) & a full length collection of poems Poetry in the Age of Zero Grav (Blue & Yellow Dog 2015). His chapbook, A Journey of Haphazard Miles, is slated for 2016 online publication by Alt Poetics. He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog, which is now archived at 146 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

http://blueyellowdog.weebly.com & publisher of a new poetry blog The Helios Mss at theheliosmss.blogspot.com John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.

About Matt Duggan: Born Bristol UK 1971 Winner of the erbacce prize for poetry 2015 Poems have appeared in Harbinger Asylum, OF/with, Fat Damsel, The Seventh Quarry, Lunar Poetry Magazine, Section 8, Carillon, The Bitchin' Kitsch, The Journal, A New Ulster, and many more.

Duane Locke lives hermetically alone in Tampa, Florida. Nearby are gallinules, herons, egrets, ibis, raccoons, and alligators. Has published 7,064 poems, 33 books Also a visual artist, SurPrints and nature photographer, 590 art works and nature photos published.For more information click his name on Google or see Marquis’ Whose Who in America.

Christopher Crew is a poet, educator and Captcha-confirmed human. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as The Sycamore Review, The Marlboro Review, Natural Bridge and Poplorish. He is immensely grateful for the wonderful teachers in his life, and apologizes that his gratitude sometimes looks like binge-watching network (not even premium!) television.

Linda King has been experimenting with words for a long time. She is the author of Dream Street Details and Reality Wayfarers both published by Shoe Music Press.

A third collection - No Dimes from the Dancing Gypsies - is forthcoming from BlazeVOX Books in early 2016. King lives and writes by the sea on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia.

Andrea Moorhead was born in Buffalo, New York, in 1947. Editor of Osiris and translator of contemporary Francophone poetry, Moorhead publishes in French and in English. Poems and translations have appeared in journals such as Abraxas, Great River Review, The Bitter Oleander, Autre Sud, Estuaire, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Metamorphoses. Poetry collections include From a Grove of Aspen (University of Salzburg Press), Présence de la terre (Écrits des Forges), De loin, and Géocide (Le Noroît). Translations include The Edges of Light (Hélène Dorion, Guernica Editions), Night Watch (Abderrahmane Djelfaoui, Red Dragonfly Press), and Dark Menagerie (Élise Turcotte, Guernica Editions, 2014).

Mark Young's most recent books are Bandicoot habitat & lithic typology, both from gradient books of Finland. An e-book, For the Witches of Romania, is due out from Beard of Bees.

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania in 1982. She has been shortlisted for the annual international erbacce-press poetry award in June 2014. She was also shortlisted for the Aquillrelle Publishing Contest 3 in January 2015 and was the first runner up in this contest. Velaj’s full length book of poetry “A Gospel of Light” is published by Aquillrellle in June 2015. Her works have appeared in many international magazines, including The Journal (UK), The Dallas Review (USA), The Linnet's Wings (UK), Phenomenal Literature (New Delhi, India), The Cannon’s Mouth (UK), FourWtwenty-five Anthology (Booranga Writers' Centre, Australia), Erbacce (UK), The Atherton Review (USA), Poetica (USA), Time of Singing (USA 2014 and 2015), The French Literary Review (UK), Angry Manifesto (UK).Knot Magazine (USA), Three And A Half Point 9 (UK), Cafe 147 | O f / w i t h i s s u e 4

Dissensus Everyday (USA) See Spot Run Magazine(USA), Eunoia Review(USA), The Creative Mind (Australia) etc. She also has poems to publish in the forthcoming issues of Harbinger Asylum and The Seventh Quarry.

Katerina Blackwood is a young college student working towards a degree in English. She began writing poetry and short fiction in 7th grade and writing has since been an ever-present part of her life. She draws much of her inspiration from classic poets, such as Edgar Allan Poe and Elinor Wylie, as well as from contemporary poetry. When she is not working on her next piece, one can find her playing video games, reading a good book, or watching an animation.

Bill Wolak is a poet, photographer, and collage artist. His collages have been published in The Annual, Peculiar Mormyrid, Danse Macabre, Dirty Chai, Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, Lost Coast Review, Yellow Chair Review, Otis Nebula, and Horror Sleaze Trash. He has just published his twelfth book of poetry entitled Love Opens the Hands with Nirala Press. Recently, he was a featured poet at The Mihai Eminescu International Poetry Festival in Craiova, Romania. Mr. Wolak teaches Creative Writing at William Paterson University in New Jersey.

Darren C. Demaree is the author of five poetry collections, most recently "The Nineteen Steps Between Us" (2016, After the Pause). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology. Currently, he is living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.

David Hogsett is a full time student from Chester County, Pennsylvania. He occupies his time with writing, tuba, and eating - lots of eating.

Alex Duensing lives in Grand Rapids with his wife and pets. Just a moment ago, he was looking through the window to see a red car and snow.

Regina Walker is a psychotherapist, photographer and writer in NYC. Her writing and artwork have appeared in numerous publications including Substance Abuse Newsletter, The Fix (regular contributing writer since 2014 http://www.thefix.com/content/regina-walker ), Honeysuckle Magazine, Cartier Street Review, The Bicycle Review, Hip Mama, Health and Wellness Magazine, Basement Magazine, Widdershins, Renew Magazine, Clockwise Cat, Forbes.com, The Philosophical Mother, and Spaces.

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