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The Vein

Veinthology 2011


© The Vein 2012

Compiled by Jami Kali, Vein Editrix Cover Art © Jami Kali 2012 Illustrations on pages 3, 6, 25 by Jami Kali Illustrations on pages 21, 26, 32 by Sharon Lee

All works contained herein remain the intellectual property of the authors and artists. Clouds in “Dumbasses” originally by (and used with permission of) Philip R. Banks.

The Vein Press Wilkes Barre, PA 18702 www.theveinzine.blogspot.com


Contents 11

the painted lady

Jack T. Marlowe

12

Beethoven’s Third

Ysmay

13

Days of Air Travel: a time gone by

Joseph Reich

16

Paper Palace

Jami Kali

17

Italian Express

Will Schmitz

18

groping for heaven

Jack T. Marlowe

19

Dumbasses

Colt Collis

20

Class Warfare

David Scott Pointer

21

The Old Women

Will Schmitz

22

Nutshell

Mark Wohl

22

Eye Bending

Denny E. Marshall

23

National Junkie Day in Hartford

Will Schmitz

24

Compartment

Erin Lindsay Dragan

25

Eating Grass in the Dawn

William Doresky

26

Mad Girl of Seagulls

Ray Succre

27

on the whole

Kahlotus Lind

27 Wake Chris Wilhelm 28

Memorandum

George Freek

29

we are all little boys and little girls

Meghan Blalock

32

Here and There: perplexed, unglued

arrangement of timed agreement

Mark Wohl

33 Fable Howie Good 34

A Tale

Bryan C. Henry

34 Totems Chris Wilhelm 35

Seatide

Scott T. Starbuck

36

Sonnets to the Warm Pull of Gravity

J.R. Pearson

37

The Bearing of a White Raven

Serge Mikel

39

Contributor Biographies

43

Submission Guidelines


the painted lady Jack T. Marlowe this city wants to  hold you with her arms of concrete and steel, her painted promise and polished wiles, so tempting    with her cancer tan, her boardroom eyes, her novocaine lips, her welltrafficked freeway curves, the  delicate scent of ozone smoulder a hint, an   invitation to her poisoned womb, her tarnished heart, her

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Beethoven’s Third

Ysmay

staggering ego, now see her backward dance, her downward glance, as our lady of the unwashed ass crack bends over and clamors for a kiss

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{Days Of Air Travel: a time gone by} from Vacations Joseph Reich

i don’t know don’t it seem our culture our country these days simply boils down to riding on one of those big little model airplanes with drippy messy glue we made as delinquents sulking, scowling from the windows with a whole sarcastic snickering crew of flight attendants who don’t give a damn or give the impression they don’t even want to be there moody, humorless, overwhelmed and resentful, literally throwing the food at you in the air dazed and distant as you respond with feeling down in the dumps damned if you do damned if you don’t dissed and deserted put on the defensive

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by the very offensive like some abused kid like what did i do to deserve this? everyone short with each other disgusted passiveaggressive without a clue charm class or manners or a modicum or baseline of etiquette i mean where the hell did it all go wrong? how did this all happen? don’t you think everyone’s asking the same damned question or sadly enough not asking this question at all as we all feel

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the gratuitous obligation to clap aloud like the end of some dumb daredevil air show like some smallminded mediocre audience and crowd for some cliched clown or poor comedian when the pilot or flight attendant throws out his predictable punchline and makes the announcement upon arrival and give some faux gratutious pre-manufactured round of applause relieved and contented when the plane has landed just to reach our destination without any other sort of drama or confrontation having lost all interest and imagination conflicted confused through model glue dripping windows as you don’t really give a damn about the weather or views remember when your mom used to dress you up in a suit?

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Paper Palace Jami Kali

Maybe today would be fun if instead of fighting we fuck or walk under waterfalls with heavy hearts and whisper in each others ears about eyes and Oms and odds and fall forever into a faster failing plan involving paper palaces and play money. Maybe today would be fun if we call ourselves seeds and count flowers in the forest instead of earth’s faults and find common ground from which we’ve both sprung and lower onto leaves in surrender to the Sun.

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Italian Express Will Schmitz

On this strike-stopped Italian express The tourists scramble To close the windows. The train has been halted By a steel factory and a Quadrillion flakes Of steel dust glitter Through the sunlit air. None of the workers in the yard Has a mask on. The conductor Is trying to close a window for A very complaining Viennese lady Who is holding a handkerchief over A pert little mouth. The perspiration Collects on the conductor’s moustache While he sweats explanations of the delay To those unfamiliar with the Italian system. We watch two workers shift a heavy wheelbarrow Across the yard in the sustaining fall Confident that we will soon again be moving through the many black tunnels that make up This line.

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groping for heaven Jack T. Marlowe i’ve never taken god to a cheap motel, but   i’ve often heard his name cried out in the dark, the sounds of fleeting lovers fugitive saints testing each other’s faith in the mad and soulless night groping for heaven  among dirty sheets become  straitjackets of desire each of us paying

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the high price of cheap thrills spent hearts and empty bottles a pauper’s charity in this the holiest of gutters

Dumbasses Colt Collis

19


Class Warfare

David Scott Pointer The empty walletologists understand class warfare as-all-you-can-eat-employee or unemployed running around like interplanetary transients needing tissue paper in the homeless camp until December when the offending classes clean their consciences’ by giving Christmas gifts to the children of the people they have helped to economically exploit all the past lean year long

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The Old Women

after Baudelaire Will Schmitz you will not see many of them walking the city streets anymore. they seem to have been taken away. but they have removed themselves voluntarily. Packing possessions and memories of dead husbands, they tally up their bankbooks and leave for a place in the country. these cranky souls, rattling their teeth and pillboxes still have eyes which can drill surrounding space like pools of water shining in the night. In remembrance, they are little girls who laugh at clumsy first dates and getting treated for the first time on the inside. could the grim city hold up its hand and seem graceful without their presences? it would only drop little shopgirls and shopboys with their masters into the void. young and older crimeless nothings. Crooked freaks, they still know they were women. They know the metamorphosis, the drinking in bars, building of estates and dissolution of properties. They have felt their flesh rotting and have made plans to survive the disappearance of their beauty, the power of their smile. where has it all gone? they ask in millions of ways. where is so and so now? the devil deposits calcium in their bones and pushes their bodies down flights of stairs. if you could find one of these phantoms, track it through its swarming babel of brick, concrete and steps, back to where it emanates from— see it reach for mercy and be a thousand times denied.

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Nutshell

Mark Wohl

Eye Bending Denny E. Marshall

Isawbenstillerwithamulletanda badattitudedrivinglikeabatoutof hellinabearmobilemaulingmydear                 mother.

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National Junkie Day in Hartford Will Schmitz

Carmello has been fantasizing at his saw all week. He thinks he can live off the street, buy a hunk of smack, Cut it up, take his need and still get his front money back. This afternoon, our friendly fence is bringing by the piece Carmello is going to use for his protection. If he wins The lottery today (the Puerto Rican, not the state’s) He can set it up. The numbers roll around and he loses. Willy, our other sawyer, comes back from lunch Loaded on a half pint of rum & Cuts the top of his thumb off. A crisis has been inaugurated (Willy dashed like a chicken across the floor of the shop Spurting blood until he got to the loading dock and fainted.) And Carmello is squeezed back Into worrying about how to keep on feeding himself And his family.

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Compartment

Erin Lindsay Dragan legislation is a cradle a cradle contains cooing little secrets up high/the sky or cold ocean waves open unlike a box my body under

soaring like songs

which is a compartment, like

and your labels, blooming like flowers

fingertips finding foolishness sweet as saccharine songs in sweaters unbeknownst to gender gentrification grinding down the town documented in movies streamed out of boxes for the minds of millions, and the minds are compartments, too.

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Eating Grass in the Dawn William Doreski

Up eating grass in the dawn I’m biblical, every pore open to supernatural vigor and wit. Robins and phoebes split the air with their sexual declarations. Already Mayflies permeate the chilled but pliable light. I wish I shared their blood-thirst, but on all fours in the garden I’m nibbling ornamental grass not to nourish but to mock the body and its urge to assume godlike postures intended to prove superior pedigree. Crawling around on hands and knees beneath a cloudless sky exposes the science of evolution as well as the myth of creation to self-ridicule sufficient to laugh our whole species extinct. Do I really wish this? A tremor of airliner six miles up shivers me. In the windless glare a dead branch crashes from a pine, trembling the forest edge. I swat Mayflies and topple face-down into a bed of chamomile just coming into flower. The scent enriches my senses and I rise on my knees like a woodchuck and look around at a landscape I could re-invent every day.

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Mad Girl of Seagulls Ray Succre

Come to the rocks, madness— they feebly yell the flowers down; even quaint murmurs break a stem’s small bones. Come to my feet, braided in stinking smoke. These gulls are a poultice to the air, these stiffly wavered, storming windrakes. Mad girl who rides them over low foam to the deadly mass of this coastal bowel-surf, madness, come to the rocks at my feet and breathe your ugly shrieks beneath them. My booted feet lift the sand to your mouth. My gloved hands pour the dirt from your uterus. Set down your bread bits and whiles for your gulls, but settle the rest, to this dreadful man of me, atop his rocks with a scummy stature, and whose eyes have never reflected the sky. Come to the grass we can cut with a cough.

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on the whole Kahlotus Lind

she strolls laughing through desperate ghettos               pointing out the colorful flowers on weeds                                 that grow between blocks of crumbling foundations— of big pictures she sees little.

Wake Chris Wilhelm 27


Memorandum George Freek

Banking is a sullen art. I make more bones than money, and then I make more poems. And the day is a string, unraveling at its ends, and the moon’s a conventional thought, diffusing as it descends.  The sum of what I know is nothing. The sum and total of my days is less than something.  And here is what I see: ancient philosophers at a Grecian fountain, drinking. They know not who they are—  Or what they’re even thinking. 

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we are all little boys and little girls Meghan Blalock

1. I had a discussion with a friend over monitors about Freemasons, who is one and who isn’t. I said I didn’t know what the big deal was. People always say artists sold their souls to the devil at a crossroads to get the talent they have, whatever talent might be. He said, who knows. Instead, maybe they sold their souls to God in the back alleys of their minds. Because eventually the road ends, and it’s either death or nothing. People start to believe things they said they’d never believe. People curl into themselves under sweat-soaked bedsheets. People tousle the clouds under their feet as they walk upon high, on rooftops so gilded, they strip soles of humanity. People smoke cigarettes and flick ash into the fire. 2. I have measured out my life with IM boxes. I have cried onto my keyboard, drawing myself into a cube with tears running a river through Qs, Rs and Ts. I have confused names and old faces and I have forgotten who I am. I have imagined defenestration and masturbation and a different nation, one run entirely by machines, leaving people like me to capacitate and then undo their demons, all while in their pajamas or maybe never getting dressed at all.

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3. I am a Freemason. You are a Freemason And you and you and him and his yellow dog too. It’s one of those things we can never disprove so it may as well be true. God is a Freemason. 4. The fall is nearly as thrilling as the high, and it’s a cheek turned to God. Because eventually the road ends. All the parts you thought made you shut off at once. The grinding halt reverberates off slick bricks, the rooftop blown off. You’re left barefoot and childless. Loveless neon signs vibrate through whiskey glasses, wooden stools steal your shirts, people tell you things but you can’t remember. You remember when you used to hope, but the feeling is distant like a city you read about in a book but never visited. 5. I think you’re crazy maybe, but worse yet I think you’re dead. Every day is a memory of the next. I have seen you beg for your soul, stirring it around in a bucket of shit, over and over to the tune of a harp that’s strung with the hairs of the people you loved who didn’t love you back. 6. At the end of the road, there’s a sign. It is the same in all languages, at all times, and it reads: What do you live for? What do you live for? What do you live for?

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7. I live for a newspaper pressed into seedy cement on the street in Harlem. I live for nights spent with strangers on SoHo benches. I live for my mother, who said you can always come home! I live for saltwater seeping into my skin as I step onto the floor of silent seas. I live for must, and do, and will, but never should. I live for the guiding light of glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceilings of our skulls. I live for muzzles butting mirrors and stretching to their ends. I live for a saxophone in a subway station squealing syncopated sadness. I live for reflections in rocking cars, breath beating upon bombs planted in our bellies. I live for my disembodied spine dancing in the dark to an invisible drum. I live for church organs and choirs and stained glass thrown across my chest, broken. I live for visions and revisions and reversing my decisions. I live for the smell of your incense, your insensitive hands throwing me against the wall. I live for the fucking Freemasons. And I live for myself, The only person who will never leave me, Because I won’t let her. The law of their God is in their hearts.

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Here and There: perplexed, unglued arrangement of timed agreement…-Traveled uponMark Wohl

In a dream I met a man who taught me to fly. We spoke briefly with the content of conversation not being the subject. His words and my words tangled—a conduit of inconceivable. A man of white with dulled silver streaks and weathered wear. Suddenly I’m in flight. His name was not Gary. Gary was an in and out San Franciscan with a temporary stay that’s left permanent. Coffee and cigarettes in a home open 7 days a week—with concern being the reverberated predicate. Floating like a feather—drifting in waves of wind’s currents. Without a doubt I’m in complete control. Sailing with the smoothness of a locked in magnetic sharing of words. A man painted by an untouched realm of consciousness and the other a painter (of homes).

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Fable

Howie Good A messenger arrived from a country colonized by magpies. I have two sons, he said, one whose name means wolf and one whose name means laughter. It felt like rain, what’s called a baby’s ear moon, false angel wing. They hanged him in a cornfield. The world is made of tiny struggling things.

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A Tale

Bryan C. Henry Perched atop the granite stalks      sits a moment, alone       among a million faces.   Trading favors with the clouds,       the moment lingers       to usher in a circumstance.   Circumstance is beyond control,       and tears the moment       into a million pieces       of a million faces       beyond control.   And so a tale unfolds,       or so the story goes.    Time is but a dream. It won’t be long       before the clouds give in.

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Totems


Chris Wilhelm

Sea Tide

Scott T. Starbuck When our middle-aged sun grows old and Congress is boxing names, documents, photos like children trying to protect sandcastles from the inevitable tide, when cold poor people and unwanted pets huddle beneath crackling fluorescent tubes and even the most devout begin to accept that words on a page won’t save them, and all nations realize money spent through human history on wars and bombs and public relations campaigns could have been used in unison to get us off this rock, who will be grateful for the grand adventure that began in the Fertile Crescent, and sun-lit tide pools before then, and the sky itself before then? as the entire planet like an ancient hiker lost in winter woods grows delirious with hypothermia, wet eyes behold warmth of stars from across the vast distances.

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Sonnets to the Warm Pull of Gravity from 8 Equations J.R. Pearson

There are things beyond rationality & the warm pull of gravity. Scale models of pyramids that keep steel razors sharp for centuries. How an owl’s wings silent as yellow smoke in a valley of wormwood drift weight-gone over your sleeping eye. How every civilization finds people in the sky. Hard to believe the face on a nickel. Believe flash-drunk blindness & a homeless man’s need for possession. Believe retractable fangs coiled & sun-spent in heat’s best swing of the hips. Believe eyes full of sweat-stained shade on the sheet’s underside & blister resin left white until it fills with starlight. Believe flesh waltzing the fine line between live-wired to spinning wattage & cold-spit dead ends. Let’s unrehearse the facts. We’ve all slept in beds made before we’re born, headboard names & dates, predictable “plate-glass sheets” & dreams of a miracle that slit your throat. Truth is they carry sniper rifles & plant your prints on murder weapons. Pose as witnesses. Said I heard it all. Said it was suicide. Toe fingering the trigger. Said you never listened. There was something out there, salvation with your name on it. Another second chance. Last minute misplacement of I. O. U.’s. Truth is every morning we dig fingernails into flesh under running water to get clean. Again. Try to leave behind thoughts we thought were buried deep enough to forget. The sight of our faces, throttled splayed to the earth. Finally a toast: here’s to symmetry! Here’s to falling face first into wet cement. Here’s not to death per se just a rational failure to exhale

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The Bearing of a White Raven

Serge Mikel

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Contributors Meghan Blalock is a writer living in New York City. Her comparative piece for Gaga Stigmata on Lady Gaga’s Grammy performance and Alvin Ailey’s Revelations was recently cited in The Atlantic. She writes for Gotham magazine, and has also written pieces for the music blog Sound System NYC, The Rumpus, Southern Living, Woman’s Day, and other publications. Her poetry has also been published in amphibi.us. Her work is viewable at meghanblalock.carbonmade.com and blackberriestoapples.blogspot.com. William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. His most recent collection of poetry is Waiting for the Angel (2009). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, and Natural Bridge. Erin Lindsay Dragan is a Brooklyn-based singer, songwriter, guitarist, and sometimes poet. She is a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, and received her BA in Religious Studies, English, and Women’s Studies from the University of Pittsburgh. When not supporting herself by busking around New York City, she enjoys yoga, road and urban cycling, microbrews and scotch, hiking in Arizona, and traveling to Pittsburgh to see her parents and Italian Greyhounds. George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Belvidere, IL. His recent poems have appeared in Angelic Dynamo, The Whispering Fire, Talon Magazine, Toucan Magazine, and Jones Ave. His short play HERE COMES GODOT was recently published in Freight Train Magazine. Other plays have lately been produced by The Laurel Mill Playhouse (MD), Theatre Unleashed (LA), The Auburn (NY) Community Players, Somerset College (KY), and The Fells Point Corner Theatre (MD). Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks and a fulllength collection, Lovesick, published by Press Americana. Bryan C. Henry - dreamer born on the California bay, child of Earth, student

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in debt to N.Y.U., English speaker with an English major, literature seeker, jungle walker, urban hiker, imagination enthusiast, globetrotter, storyteller, true believer, aimless wanderer with sights on adventure. This one time, Jami Kali sat on a roadside mountain cliff. She was higher than a colossal blanket of rolling clouds that shaded the valley below. Like waves of an ocean (in slow motion) particles whisked and whirled through the trees. She watched until finally, this monstrous sea of the sky swallowed the setting sun. Sometimes, Jami dreams of electric South Dakota skies and eventually wakes in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. She’s rarely bored but when she is, she trims her bangs. Find her work online at JamiKali.com and listen to her voice at Mocksun.net. Who, what, when, and how hold hordes hostage in Hell’s habitual halls. Kahlotus Lind wonders where why went. Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, Texas. A writer of poetry and fiction, he is also a veteran of the open mic. His work has appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, Tree Killer Ink, The Medulla Review, Red Fez, Camroc Press Review and many other zines. Jack is also the editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine (www.guttereloquence.com). Denny E. Marshall lives in the Midwest and has had art and poetry recently published. Serge Mikel is a New York City artist, abstract and figurative. Combines grafite and oil. Paper and big format woodboards. Delivers his own empirical project to whoever identifies with it. He doesn’t belong to any circle of artists but relates to society as an equal in terms of expression. He sells his art in Soho, on Prince St. and Mercer St. Coming from an Italian-German background, Serge has lived in South America and Europe (France-Paris). He also grew up in Manhattan and Brooklyn. That itself offers a look into who he is right now and goals he wants to achieve. Only explore what he is all about through his art. J.R. Pearson played “Jonny B. Goode” in 1st grade with an audience of 15 people. Once, I seen him eat a whole case of Elmer’s Glue. He was terrible at

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finger painting but he’s proud of these poems. Read his stuff in A Capella Zoo, Word Riot, Ghoti, Weave, Boxcar Review, & Tipton. He recently was included in an anthology: Burning Gorgeous: Seven 21st Century Poets. David Scott Pointer was the son of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was 3 years old. David later served in the Marine military police. He has been publishing political poetry for 21 years. He lives with his two daughters in Murfreesboro, TN. Joseph Reich is a social worker who works out in the state of Massachusetts: A displaced New Yorker who sincerely does miss diss-place, most of all the Thai food, Shanghai Joe’s in Chinatown, the fresh smoothies on Houston Street, and bagels and bialy’s of The Lower East Side. He has a wife and handsome little boy with a nice mop of dirty-blonde hair, and when they all get a bit older, hope to take them back to play, to pray, and contemplate in the parks and playgrounds of New York City. Joseph claims to still be on the loose, on the run, and at large, and hopes one day to own a second home out on Prince Edward Island, Sicily, or preferably, a Winter home in Brooklyn, while spending Summers in The Bronx. He is also a strong advocate of bringing back the guillotine and conducting public hangings (claiming “this would be real reality”) for our fine corrupt politicians and CEO’s of great big corporations; Would also like to consider this option as well for the whole cast of certain reality shows and obnoxious and spoiled athletes who I don’t know, were supposed to be brought up on the old ideal and ethic of hard work and being modest and humble. He has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals both here and abroad and his most recent books include, “A Different Sort Of Distance” (Skive Magazine Press), “If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge” (Flutter Press), “Escaping Shangrila” (Punkin House Press), “Obscure Aphorisms On A Fine Overcast Day” (Lummox Press), “The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians” (Poet Works Press), and “Drugstore Sushi” (Thunderclap Press). Will Schmitz attended the University of Hawaii from 1968-1972 and the University of Iowa Writers Workshop from 1976-1978. He teaches high school English at a Catholic school in Montebello, CA. and just finished part two of a detective novel trilogy. Other novels and short stories are available on Amazon.

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Scott T. Starbuck’s chapbook, The Warrior Poems, was one of six finalists of over 500 entries at the 2009 Pudding House Chapbook Contest, featuring protest poems about human rights, animal rights, media distortions, Iraq War, sour economy, and the G.W. Bush presidency. It is available at jen@puddinghouse.com You can hear him read two poems at Fogged Clarity (http://foggedclarity.com/2010/01/january-2010/) or read his “Moon and Money Poem” at http://www.pemmicanpress.com/thePoems. html. He is a Creative Writing Coordinator at San Diego Mesa College. Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press. Pacific Northwest Artist, Chris Wilhelm is involved in a myriad of creative art projects and is heavily involved in visual art. This would include paintings and murals. His work can be viewed in restaurants, hotels, galleries, and many private homes. Mark Wohl loves sound. He doesn’t masturbate his time away. For a second helping (or thirds or fourths) visit www.wideeyedgroove.com, www. mocksun.net, and www.reverbnation.com/opiuslilt. Ysmay’s first experience in the art world was an exhibit at Alfred University when she was three years old entitled “Snow Fences” where she used her fingers to experience colour. Clearly, Alfred University will show work by anyone, but nonetheless she was complimented on her use of negative space and her family knew it was only a matter of time before it was taken seriously. After experimenting with a variety of media, Ysmay finally returned to fingers and paint at the beginning of 2011. Following the death of a loved one, she realized that life is entirely too short to exist with pretence, and her work since then has been stripped down to the bare essentials: paint and her body. Her work has been transformed into vibrant, real, provocative, and gritty

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expressions of life as a creative woman. Ysmay has made her home in gloomy and rural New York, sunny and crowded California, but her heart will always belong to enchanting and vibrant New Mexico.

Submission Guidelines

The Vein wants your fiction, poetry, and art: Anything gritty, (sur)real, pretty, horrid, dazzling or (dis)honest with a dash of exploration into the existential, social, political, and/or spiritual issues surrounding and attributing to the human condition. Submissions can be sent to Editor.The.Vein@gmail.com with “Submission” in the subject line. Including the word “submission” lowers the probability that your work will drown in a sea of spam e-mails about sperm and Russian mail-order brides. Include a short biography with your submission. Acceptance into The Vein depends upon various factors, including (but not limited to): quality of work, topic(s) of creative reflection, the time of season, the editor’s current drug of choice (or lack of) while reviewing submissions, and whether or not the editor is undergoing a period of sexual/mental/emotional frustration. In other words, it’s all written somewhere in the stars.

Looking forward to sifting through your soul fibers, Jami Kali

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2011 Veinthology  

In this debut print release of The Vein, toes finger triggers while tiny struggling things trade favors with the clouds. Crooked freaks and...

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