Zoomoozophone Review - Issue 1 / April 2014

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All rights to the works included in this magazine remain with their respective authors. All rights to this issue’s cover art (“notebook drawing 9 1/4" x 7 1/2" mixed. 2010”) remain with the artist Ira Joel Haber. Zoomoozophone Review is an online literary magazine dedicated to publishing contemporary poetry. It is edited by Matt Margo. http://issuu.com/zoomoozophone_review http://facebook.com/zoomoozophonereview zoomoozophone@gmail.com

Our inaugural issue is dedicated to the memory of Derek Lessard, a talented poet and a compassionate friend.

Howie Good Homeopathy Zombies of the Stratosphere The Real in Funereal

9 10 11

Glen Armstrong Her Maiden Name Was Myth


Beach Sloth With Lime


Volodymyr Bilyk To turn the


Rhoda Penmarq seven plus or minus two #10 white socks

15 16

Chuck Leary penetration


Steve Klepetar Where Stars Grew


Josh Friedlander Van Gogh


Alexandra Naughton sad story # 2 sad story # 3

22 23

Wayne Mason Songs That Offer No Hope Served to Spill Improper Meaning

24 25 26

Patrick Trotti Missing Junior


Erik Moshe Tectonic Boy




Rachel Hyman and Justin Carter Albatross Poem Austin Islam gas station cheesecake “i’m at a stupid coffee shop looking at beautiful smart people, most of whom have taken a shower or bath today. i feel like an island”




Brooke Michelle Robison Webern Nono

36 37

Tamara Neufeld Capricorn Nameless

38 39

Caleb Bouchard Communion Infatuation

40 41

Arlo Brooks head stuck in a jar molasses

42 43

Colin James The Bitch Bitten Tendencies of Syncopation


Anca Mihaela Untitled


Penny Goring moremore manifesto


Kell Gallery kid gloves



49 50 51

Jeff Harrison Mules Few

52 54

John Pursch Automatic Sheen Supernormal Stim

56 58

Kushal Poddar Selfie


John Rogers Image Macro 30MAR STOCKHOLM - REYKJAVIK FI307

60 61

14:20 15:30

Alexander Limarev DEATH BLUES

62 63

Susan Sweetland Garay eating an orange Drought Transformation

64 66 67

Daniela Voicu Lonely Spring Vampires One Verse Dishonest Evil

68 70 71


72 73 74

John De Herrera Holiday Poem Eventually

75 76

Felino A. Soriano on stage in light ensuring peripheries encompass truthful exhibitions February 22, 2014 12:00 p.m. 84째

77 78 79

Nicholas Bon Tarp A Bird in the Hand

80 81

A. Razor The Day Ahead is a Fulcrum


Joe Bussiere Episodes[edit] (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Comfy_Couch#Episodes) How To Make Time For Yourself Haiku

83 88 89

Ali Znaidi Forgotton Territories Ctrl a steamy date w/ Sappho as a cosmogonist

90 91 92

Billy Bob Beamer POMEsht POME c19 POMEtien

93 94 95

C. Brannon Watts Our Hero


Paul Christian Plane Story


Krystal Sierra Letting Go


Francis Kou Sugita Do you remember?


Derek Lessard the triangle, the listener, the hearer




Your heart beats in waltz time, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, crystal meth swirling a geriatric magician, and to the question, Which state is the next Wisconsin?, answer with an inward stare, the kind that prevents winos and junkies from approaching for a handout, but if there are men in dark glasses in the shadows murmuring up their sleeves, you can start to weep in earnest and I can make a list of natural remedies in my head – plantain for colds, red clover for nerves, rose hips for heartache.

Hardly anyone ever says anything interesting anymore. The zombies of the stratosphere insist on simplified spelling – thru for through, tho for though, iland for island. Our building is tightly surrounded by their brittle tittle-tattle. I have been listening all night for the sound of flamethrowers or machine guns, but have heard only the plague bell ringing, the darkness like the motion of apple trees somehow still in bloom.

Bulldozers pushing bodies like dirt. And then a procession of pallbearers carrying empty coffins entered, creased, stained, stoop-shouldered, from out of the deepest blue green. So I became very dark, a kind of jigsaw puzzle, too in love with beauty to be morbid.

Seed text: http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/22/arts/design/jasper-johns-regrets-a-new-series-at-moma.html

Myth had been thrown a curve: she visualized her misplaced hairbrush. The fledgling lyric started to crown: she arrived in a chrome-colored raincoat. In between the naming of things, a leaky fountain pen made the pocket of my white shirt more interesting. Some baby-toothed version of time ticked on. We left some messes standing. Like any other natural nuisance, strangleweed thrived. The dusk approached. We feared that our clothing ran low on whatever juice clothing runs on. A concealer moth aimed its sliver of life at our window. Eternity’s digital camera took aim at its naked tarsus.

Nostalgia tends to make everything sadder in retrospect. Bud Light Lime is the official drink of depression. History is written by the winners but edited by the losers since the losers have student loans to pay off. Anxious to become better the losers try their hand at running only to discover running requires feet.

he woke up and put on a pair of clean white socks the idea sounded all right to me being a well-favored and intelligent girl in fact, it sounded like a great idea to me so i put on a pair of clean white socks too and then ran off to a gay bar so now i’m standing there on the platform trying to preserve a masklike solemnity being a well-favored and intelligent (not to mention privileged) girl i was remembering all the plans that didn’t work out and it made me miss the train! so now i’m still standing there on the platform and there is only one remedy for it because i can’t afford to miss the train again! i don’t want to miss all the fun at the gay bar professor grayling was profoundly influenced by asian culture “and, don’t forget, hated practical jokes with a passion” martha jones was always making cracks about the yellow peril and on her best nights kept the whole bar laughing i thought it was a good idea not to interrupt no one could accuse me of not being a well-favored girl in my best pair of clean white socks and a mood of half-bewildered fatalism sitting around making plans that didn’t work out he never dropped his mask of perforated solemnity but clung to the belief that he was the deadliest menace that ever threatened the human race in a mood of half-bewildered fatalism

*sources: an american tragedy, by theodore dresser; europa, by robert briffault; little caesar, by w r burnett; look homeward angel, by thomas wolfe; lost horizon, by james hilton; “a girl i knew,� by j d salinger; the caravan passes, by george tabori; what mad universe, by fredric brown; the blackboard jungle, by evan hunter; mutant, by henry kuttner; diary of a rapist, by evan s connell; chilly scenes of winter, by ann beattie

i’ve been alive for a billion years i’ve seen and done it all i’ve been a brontosaurus i’ve been an arctodus simus i’ve been a tick i’ve been a butterfly i’ve been a world renowned chef i’ve been a hostess who knew everyone in town i’ve been roasted with an apple in my mouth i’ve been a steak and cheese sub with a side of onion rings i’ve been born to be hanged and hanged to be born i’ve ridden through paris in a rolls royce and been cheered by adoring throngs i’ve sat on a throne of gold under blue skies and surveyed my empires i’ve been whipped through the mud with a 300 pound stone on my back to build pyramids i’ve been burnt at the stake and jumped out of a cake i’ve been a man i’ve been a woman i’ve been a faggot i’ve been a dyke i’ve sacrificed pythons to moloch i’ve jacked off in the back seat of trailways buses at four in the morning passing through elko wyoming i have one thing to say to you one word to say to you penetration women get penetrated no matter how many needles you get stuck in you no matter how many knives you get stuck in you no matter how many dicks you suck no matter how many dicks you take up the ass

only women get penetrated women get invaded by alien life forms women get possessed i know i’ve been there a million times i’ve seen and done it all i’ve been to the river and back and washed a billion diapers

Find the field where stars grew, scattered over grassy night pinpricks in a Chinese lantern hung on a slender branch of a wild yew tree. Hold out your hand and feel light, soft as rain on your open palm. If this were a dream you’d jolt awake, your world opening like a tear in the fabric of sky. We can no longer touch empty now, hollow fear, frozen again here in the mist of your body, hand upon hand a ladder of smoke delicate songs weave a silver braid.

awaken: the flea-rid bed bears your Grecian frame gaunt limbs hang over the side unwanted and unloved your face drawn and speckled with unshaven birdshit beard in the rank basement air, a corpse re-animates you have not paid your landlord and you must move you have not found the place that beckons there is filth, there is hate, there is misery on the streets with every brushstroke you will begin life anew long ago, on the pier Toulouse-Lautrec said “you are not for this world” he was drunk, and right each sky explodes in undulating blue and trees become soaring obelisks no, you insist, this is truly life soon, hating the burning flesh, incarcerated by the mind which refuses to see you will abscond to the elevated sanctuary and gaze at its light you failed at life, you failed at love, you sought God but He rejected you with eyes closed and brush in hand you will create a New Jerusalem a maelstrom, a symphony here, in the eyes of this peasant, the light on the flower – the roar subsides frantically, you seek to draw closer, the door lies open and the multitudes – there is no sadness and no pain for you are transcendent in the clear bright daylight you mutilated the flesh with ecstatic self-awareness as blood and cartilage soaked the pages of your (empty, cold) meditations you felt the ancient thrill of life afterwards they sent you to the sanitorium but they, were of this world you, needing its meagre substance no longer, would presently depart

it’s happening all over again the bridge looks like a dinosaur skeleton and I miss you two lovers in the dark who never met she says we can be platonic one day I’m colorblind drunk and writing to you and I want to lay down and bile out this is what happens when you fall chin first into a ghost they disappear one day and you can’t do anything because you don’t really know them you never really knew them but it hurts as much stinging your teeth

why why why why am I not so inquisitive always throwing myself at conclusions thirsty in the grill and just wanting it to stop even if a minute later I had just asked why why why but I’m shit so I just say you be right you be right you be right you be right

~ update ~ two months after his final breath and i have yet to let go. days turned to weeks then s l o w e d back down to individual moments of him and me, random fragments reminding me of how IMPORTANT he was. good news gets blemished, minimized because I can’t share it with him, wondering when it will be okay for me to laugh and smile again. his birthday came and went dad and i mourned, unable to celebrate just yet unwilling to commemorate him through happiness still serious and raw.

“Release your inner nerd!” said the tectonic boy, pointedly The science fair also featured lithosphere Ophelia and tornado gust Johnson Cardboard Wonderland sponsored by Zephyrhills Water Engineering Systems The blowing in the streets hints at Roaring Twenties trenchcoat smoke and shadow god parlors stenchcraft, or automobiles as they’re called push tire treads up spirit intersections at a brisk pace The light turns red after yellow because it becomes increasingly irritated The boy is somewhat a toddler geophysicists might agree his rock-plated foot soles and archipelago sized blood plasma donations differentiate him from most children his own age Warfare technology byproduct, his favorite class is Civics His report cards are written in the language of hollow earth theory planetary bark scroll, no, he doesn’t show his parents His teachers “Iron” and “Copper” have to be relocated from craterlands to semi-urban areas to get in touch with the boy Hard quarry sediment caked up at his quartz heels mandibles with dental braces, ghastly looking bifocals fingers supplanted in silt red enough to be liquid magma Assigning detention to tectonic boy is like sentencing the Pacific Ocean to an aqua curdling death dance - believe me, it’s been tried I was his guidance counselor at one point Homeland Security, in league with the Geologic Society asked the boy if he had any extraneous items to declare before they amputated some of his assets It appears tampering with his ligaments led the government to hit rock bottom - power politics and half-pipe hydroponics The end of an untelevised episode of Modern Marvels in lieu of nuclear winter’s adolescent pincers

WebMD > Dictionary of Medical Defects > Self-Help > Keyword Index > Pain Quotient > Middling Bodily Sort > Chronic > Pitched High > Psychosomatic Subset > Cranial > Head Obscured > Coldness > Ice > Fully Frozen > Rectangular > Unclean > Accretions of Dust & Dirt > Function > Camouflage: on hiding, on masking, pure savage states, false consciousness, pretending to be, what you are not, you become, what you are now, the head in the ice, could be anywhere, always turned back, all journeys in the head, sift through the past like sand, fossil sands of memory, those sand angels, find them shell-shocked, erect cities on the sandetritus, so many sandcastles, destroyed by waves, a block of solid ice, lower density, floats on the water, hope floats, hope springs eternal, spring is eternal, indian winter, summer fences, and still the block hardens, stays frozen, seasons held in suspension, always the dangling, of what we want most, the ice block, like a cave, like an echo chamber, really the numbness, bleached of color, leached of sentiment, erosion to be expected, even caves leak, you become deft at breathing underwater, filmy eyes, starry eyes, eulogized, apologized, like a drop in a bucket, the wobble and the haze, all ships scuttled, not waving but drowning, emergency states, curtains drawn, oh god, grabbing at fistfuls of sand, sand in the lungs, sand in the mouth, buried alive in sand, and only then; only then; the melting of the ice.

There is an explosion at the saw mill. Someone falls into a vat of wood shavings. We scrobble up the sides clutching knapsacks full of cornmeal cakes, snatching at dead stars. I ground myself in materiel de resistance. You find refuge in abstract art, in the sound & the light, in the flash of camera bulb. & when it fades, I will remember only a spectral deficiency, how when the sound of everything becomes silence, the only thing left to do is worm your way into the shreds of sunlight, wait for the clarion call of morning to pacify the skin.

there are things about certain aspects of something i’m not jazzed on a lot and while an extended series of starts and stops may appear to be like a desk, full of books started but never finished, it eventually forms a cohesive narrative merely by existing like one hundred honey nut cheerios equal a bowl of cereal i’m not sure what to do with each little section as the whole is incomprehensible a haze of maddening details hello. stoned, lost in it stopped at a street sign which directs any person who can see the whole thing to the place they see the thing ending the bottom of the bowl you told me i was insecure that’s sort of… should i be more assertive i mean i am, at other times and places should i make that happen for you starting now you asked ‘are newports good’ and i said ‘well, it depends… no, they’re terrible, maybe a little better than pall malls’ and you said ‘oh, okay’ and after another drag ‘wait, i like pall malls’ and i said ‘i can put myself there, in that place… so, yeah. newports are fine’ and i wanted to explain that everything, almost, feels like that to me. and i wanted you to get it it’s just… i thought since you are the way that you… love someone else can look like something that is in between two other things i thought you would instinctively… it could just be the years

mileage getting older is frustrating because this is the last year i’ll be this vital you, same we are vital, dude i call you dude we’re vital as fuck we’ll never be as shitty, vital as this, and fucking let’s fuck i won’t talk if you decide that you want to fuck i’ll change my ways deal just kidding it doesn’t work that way actually it sometimes does but nobody says it doesn’t work i have thought that i love you a little bit and then thought about my complete ineptitude and whether it is truly me to blame or my lack of information do with that what you will you’re asleep there’s gas station cheesecake in the fridge with my name on it so i know it’s real

the kid in my hotel lobby keeps saying things about his mohawk and his colored skinny jeans and how fucked up everything is in the state of maine he shows me some shit he bought at walmart including a tarp, a flask, and three xbox games he just said ‘i’m finally gonna do what i came here to do… shoot everyone haha just kidding’ while wearing a black and yellow ‘NRA’ cap if i had a dollar for every time i’ve heard a white guy parrot wayne lapierre’s zinger about bad guys / good guys with guns i could probably afford to bribe you to (never speak to me again) you posted a screenshot of a message or a text, i can’t tell, seven consecutive times in our secret shared blog, it says ‘we don’t have to be in love’ then something else about worrying about me and something about your lungs and i wish i were a bird flying over a mountain range in colorado instead of rotting on this couch i talk about this couch a lot, it’s the one in the lobby where i work and it came from the owner’s house and it was custom built for nine thousand dollars, i’m going to stop talking about this couch this couch will die in this poem is this a poem, does anyone else write things and not know if they are poems and not know if they will rot on an expensive couch for three years or be seen by a handful of people online the kid just said a thing he wrote ‘good things happen to bad people and good people happen upon bad things’ and he says his name is sage and i promise i am still in love with you, sort of, in my own um… definition of… whatever how long have you loved one thing in one place for one amount of time, was it a long time, did it change the um… did you… i want to kill myself sometimes haha i’m joking it’s a joke no, sorry, i’m sorry what’s that thing where the people take the thing that measures drugs in water and they do it to the public water supply, do they do that in my town, i hope i’m making it interesting i hope somebody thinks about my pee without knowing me i hope you feel good mixed in with the bad about me, when you’re alone i want you to know that i know that i changed your life like you told me i did in a text message and that you did the same for me at a time when i needed change, do you ever try to pay for something with exact change, is that a lost art like writing letters supposedly is

“so many questions about everything.” that would be a good t-shirt, i feel i feel like i embody the phrase ‘that would be a good t-shirt’ as in like ‘not a good human being but might be good as something else with a smaller dollar value’ at waffle house on tuesday night i told shannon “a thing i feel sometimes is the phrase ‘ayy lmao’” and she was laughing at the way i pronounced ‘lmao’, it made sense to me though she told me jack was like 15 and i suddenly felt like catelyn, i really felt like catelyn and also like the phrase ‘full circle’ and also like i hated the phrase ‘full circle’ for how accurate or prevalent or something it was that’s the title of a ben kweller song, once i went to greenville tx and it was really sad and spread out, i think that’s a good description of texas as a whole, you tell me on cnn there was a story about jose canseco’s #goattroubles and i sent you a text message via voxer that read ‘you are the jose canseco of me’

close the door to Westboro High Florida failed to fight for the founders and Kyoto knelt before the king my soul is filled with sharp coral monkeys long for rabbits and donut horses flee upon revelation can’t you hear the doorknob whisper “I can’t be your full time assistant”? tiptoe when Gloria is knitting cast aside your “bad girl” belt forego the rudimentary mathematics seminar and come live with me in Fresno

here come all of these freaks guests of Vincent Valeri the coriander candle king hurry to the fantasy feast green thumbed nun bum Gloria told me about you with a flick of the wrist my clipboard lost its dignity and now dwells in flat rate boxes do you hear the lawnmower? flag down the waitress if you see her and don’t forget to buy more safety pins frankly, Mrs. Atwood Felix just doesn’t have the aptitude for this kind of institution grating cheese calms the nerves I remember when we went to the DMV and Sammy showed all the paintballers her stepladder sniffing glue settles the stomach Gloria told me she told me about you

Our conversations are just things that I’ve sent to you Like see thru laces bras I want for my birthday and sexual experiences we just call sexual mistakes but to make a mistake with you wouldn’t be for me but might for you which Sucks I’m thinking of your lips and the wine you messaged me about and how you were drinking out the bottle Like no time to think just do And that’s your attitude And that’s it it might just do From me to you I want your body and to spend time with you as a hobby scratch skin off your back and step places with cold feet and regret I made my room comfortable and every time I lay down I wish you were beside me but I can never actually picture it because maybe it will never actually happen So should I give up and back down like all the other people that you let “dip away” But did you even let me inside to be able to dip out That’s what I might just say When I get tired of the non emotional Capricorn properties of a boy who makes my heart race and I want to tell him about it You have school tomorrow So I’d never send this to you tonight Because you will be up all night re reading and re reading and have to tell someone in spite while you’re tired walking class to class dripping heavier into what a meaning could be So don’t Just think of me by all means as a girl who could be something like all girls that could be something that you’ll never know what the thing of the something is I’m rambling and if I never send this to you and read it to my phone on my bed then I’ve failed at trying to make something right after everything was so wrong

My eyes change coming home at night When I keep looking I get scared and the music I play doesn’t get heard by the people beside me They talk over tv and fall in love with characters that say clever things I know I’ll never be like them And I’ll never forget how terribly ill and compulsive they are With alien silver bathing suits to offer And drinking with Pills that say don’t drink when taking pills that you drink and take for that reason Life is exciting and stressful to say the least I’m emotionally drained and sleep till 2 to forget where I live but still leave my room like it’s my job to feel pressured And voluntarily want to get emotionally abused I can’t take this house but I feel like I won’t be able to take yours either I want to be home at night to rest my head on the comfortable pillow if I wasn’t the way I was right now then how would I be treated somewhere else How could I involve myself in so much change

Last night I dreamt I went to church. A Catholic church. A lot of celebrities were around. I sat beside Greg Kinnear in the second row, and during communion we listened to Guns N’ Roses on his iPod. After taking communion, Steve Carell came over to me and Greg Kinnear and said, “Hey Greg, you got any Bob Dylan?” Greg said, “Oh shut the fuck up, Carell.”

An elderly man and woman are standing in the cul-de-sac. I’m standing by my front door, looking at them. They stand a good seven or eight feet from each other. Sometimes the woman moves her feet, walks around in a small circle. The man is tall, white-bearded, and stands firmly. A school bus goes by. They don’t move. A car passes them. They don’t seem to notice. They both look awfully familiar.

i got my head stuck in a jar finally my brother just smashed the fucking thing in & took out a few of my teeth i went to the hospital they sent me to the dentist the dentist saw a shit ton of rot too he didn’t wear a face mask during surgery several years later i created a giant glass mason jar in the night while my wife was asleep it took months of concealing & explaining but finally i took it over to my brother’s house he was passed out on the couch downstairs i rolled his sleeping bag into the jar sealed it up tight & rolled him down a hill

supplicate my pacing with molasses i’m drunkening many birds, and trees by pouring out gigigallons of beer for the homies i’m obfuscutterated don’t forget everything, self now, i can’t remember anything! what a wonder as my sensations pass by like a runaway train sputtering rocks and squarshing suicide victims on its merry way

The Rock-Camp resembled an old flattened down hard-on with dandruff osculating in hues. Musicians carried their equipment pushed or dragged on trolleys through the friendly labyrinths. Positive thinkers, assimilated generators framed the blood born blisters. Mothers, not Frank’s, everyone else’s, crescendoed for all it was worth. This valley was chosen for its remoteness and sand sucked the sun’s kisses. Booms had never seen this. Catered low carb dishes, paperless yet recycled into homeopathic Frisbees. Any lost prospector searching for the next Roman Ant Farm would be insatiably impressed.

You could not stand alone and find sense in Me… The iris bleeds that Beauty of You!… Dreaming of your Face creates too much space… And your Words play charades under my eyelids!

and we meet in a doorway at a party and we do flirting like we mean it cuz we do and u super drugg feel me and we are super drugg photoready in basic photoreal in my house in your alley in the tunnel under the bedroom with the zoo where fucking is the only viable activity where you have to think fast with both your other hands the hands of a suicidal fucker theatrical in corners smell of vomit in the hallway our joke bodies back n forth with the poxy poetry and we raise our own ghosts in our own ghost house semi-detached annexe in a lay-by cold shoulder cottage in the cotswolds pre-fab cow shed in the highlands this illness in me when it could be you decide then construct a scenario stuff words in it. i’m the tongue on roses. it’s like what it is. it’s an arsehole. tongue me face down from incisor to molar whispering your accent. swallow. you say: stuff. out your throat, 10 men. you a modernist housing scheme. in your lift it stinks of piss. hand to mouth and up. get out at 21st Century.

i smoke a ciggy, piss a puddle, turns into golden lake. yeah, cuz i is a garden city and you is a sink estate. outside on your balcony with them shitty pigeons you keep, i lean over the edge, lift my arms. i’m the figurehead of fucking. see the slow burning of south london. i’m begging now. your mouth. all the fingers. spread on stone. i’m a room with the lights out now. you be the shut front door.

as one would got more impressive wet concrete nothing increasingly acting like ‘slept on your sofa’ at least one jerkoff sun at least one glass of jokes an ingénue i guess i don’t know god stay giving signs bad stay bad news best stay d | b in a | bd | world bed stuy zzz for the zzz boy might as well be ggg ggg ggg ggg gggg ggggg for all we know good thing we ggg gg g and come to find out the breakfast of it all the breakfast of it all the day’s first meal of it all woke up on tuesday to fistfight saint monday hell no why wouldn’t you they named kid gloves after me

albino beneath a one-syllabled sea two cops always soiled blindly breasts that notion absurdly terrestrial nosebleed to the shoe remembers glass ironies groped on sensitive or blind its sweetness self-propelled strawberry lamb of lumps hears thick belly perch paradise or foreign on last curve there many lettered trampled leaves numbers so

mica crushed her popcorn the right drywall contractor consecutive three-minute cycles Hessian soldiers tired from the pumpkin smashing asbestos as the main component #cancer #vaccines #autism magic yellow Coronation Street animated shorts West Nursery Road Summer Love & Honey optional 3 ne ne radar boxes one anemone, Balmoral, kitchen

rabbit ice coffee knew only icy leave neither imagined crocuses erupt heart one woman anger nightmares yellow circle ashes try knocked ice translating even later invisible memory electric erupt all swimming town recalls imagine chase know

they must glissade, coding over, hers had been sable aliasing, sez Leona Africa, O, the quarantine I can auger I finalize muzzles, Helsinki Hayden, O, I finalize muzzles, Helsinki Hayden, are you coping with O’s psalms? empathy geyser, shrewdness!!!, enemy geysercritiques did diametrically down its coalesced dromedary she be dreamlike to hers she be dreamlife for hers, “O, the government’s bash how it does so dangle me!” dangling would howl, he has been mules, w/ Shakespearian excluding, goaded into calmness mules, mules, would he hound maneuver he may be a libertine to her or scalded ineligible - banishes have bells on this event

hydrophobia outfits your ambles, Prussian Doris, for motionless disrupts

lucky any day, sip, sip, stanzas backtalking that lost goodbye, stam mering it, am am poor of gh ost, sy ll ab les few, on a nobla des sea, windco mb

ed, who’s bo dy? ten der she in clouds

She tilts an ear and disappears through thermoplastic walls to stalling singing spansule-breathing lacquered peristalsis generation silt, staring at bare thigh fluid gravitating, farce bellows sucking fuel to her fairy owned recently delivered flesh of interplanetary offal. Whirled-wide satisfaction comes to Lola’s pleated trapdoor signature of newborn cataclysmic bardo manufacture by detrimental reportage, exiting stasis quorum wartime pyres of bone debris and charcoal penury for crooner pastures, sequential chop’s infrequent code rewarding casualties of Cannedcon mortar grounds. Nude Hellion hand-to-handy comeback kicks mow down cavitation plops off Very Bruised, filling Naked Agua’s keels with Campy Chia’s pompous crouton denizens and Pencilveinya’s injected mastiffs, Watchingstoned T.V. at munchie times the beagle’s inimitable mutation trash heap’s hagiographic threshold. It no longer mottles to her; weather shambles blearily by, is naughty issuance at blessed… Handily she finds her shelf dreaming opposite Kabuki Clem in freely falling reconcile of distant mortar clamor, ground-based transitory density now fading as they couple to Groin Zorro’s crowning statutory satiation prong in elongated prologue blush from bluish entryway release to relapse consequential motive grapevine enfilade of gusher catacomb belief, foreshadowing lost tributary missile parturition etudes in brutal marching border lice, swarming sleeveless gloss of pasteurized love in timeless sips of languid reunion, beyond cross-legged affinity for kinship trivialities and crucial bridal morph to cavern firewood knolls of cradled lifespan retrieval surge. Subsumed expository art implodes to train yard dusk and whistle wheels in hammer checks of growling stock in guarded ampules of human flux returning selfsame gliding porch afar to fielded whey font bliss instantiated whence again in n-gon governmental roles emerge in blackto-whitened corridors of Your Nuke concourse still intact aside of course from infamous Groin Zorro crater overload. Clem he pops encyclical factotum pith, spinning troubadour stop pestilence down millions of wading bardo illusionists, creasing bitten hooker flesh with instant age-line creamery detergent breath, slaking dreaded climbs to womb door catapults with lobot orbit alley coats, surviving needy oddly extant odometer feeders by the bullion. She squints at sunlit pulpit glass in steel compartment stacks of occupation farces, blending into floating causeway captive home diffusion transport syndrome’s ground wave foam. Solitary birds zip by above in shadow, caps fly off in windy zeal, wisps of hair gone stranded in station stalls of standing wave heuristics. Freely relapsed to twaddle of centuries groaning for byline stowage hits, she lounges in false identity’s curiously luxuriant malaise with thousands of fallow transit junkies, pent in cycling mental tubes flared beneath Your Nuke’s canned accretion policies, slowly flowing up Lung Island’s capillary sheaves, bound for Dipswitch, Montauk, and ports of lustrous instance. When by one they recombine and disembark to surface traffic turnstile brew, coddled black to isolated trolling personality incarceration’s manifestly dusty kneepad

burial, resuming temporal marginalia’s life stream welter, joining a stream of mobile bells, cooing doves, sedately whirring automatic sheen‌

“Supernormal Stim, you lying sackcloth steeple pile o’ cattle sheeple stopgap flurrying storm drain flooded deltoid placemat rhubarb-infected concubinal waistline-plopping fortified delusion belch mache!” wobbled MM-34 from luxury Madhatter crapper stall, sly above Maddening Avenews of floating transformational duress and buggered stupor wrist flops, destabilizing fluoride cantina screeds heard ‘round the microbial jangle of Dearth’s plumply compartmentalized ego stricture. Stim he bubble up to barely scooped death certificate, sears a blip of cash cow youth on stained meat karma blowfish leotard, and blurts retort: “Ewes chewed dock, pasty Queeg! Wad canned ewe, crating sedge hand empirically subverted delusion prow, hen-sized headway morphed to crank beautician’s flailing hexed termagant, hind blonde Whig poltroon ye stopper hup mine oast!” MM-34 she cackle wasteland baffle beauty disrespect, “Hat’s nod-off swarthy hefty heinie responsorial tonsure, ladder loan hummed sexpletives replete with sturgeon grab-ass Pollyanna rhododendron crustacean breasts,” flopping heresy’s sumptuous teats free-fall inspection, nod quaint hound expectantly. Eyes a-bugger, he canoe help but help him shelf to radio tuning exorcisms, wad with hung priest hounding solid beast, bold hods swirling now, shifting finely pruned pasties phlegm sidled schlong graze to treed orthographic impunity, spending MM-34 striated strewn dehooved. “Whale drat’s quietly aside fur shore thighs,” Stim reprobates, calmly unbottling hash fragmentary shallow jut, prepositioning hit fir fueling stocking duration’s consequential plugindolent, credulous hasp eaters mighty seam. “Hand hoe waddle seam hit isthmus…” she exhales in deer headlights, pried opinions fronting poi ponds frond yesteryear’s shimmied gack, hollow wheeze to Memphis (not Tannedoseizure, blunt Hegypped’em stylus, whey blackened thyme of Ramses’ nth canned figurines). Pesky cram Imogene, MM-34’s stopper is in pulled engage, loutish chesty frilly float of sliver drool phlegm moth and sagacity’s gaveled inanity, speckling fashionable juicy issuance drowned shagged musky teardrop spew in rhythmic birdsong afternoon to evening’s destitute predominating murky bounce, flossed beyond wad humankind’s plaintive prudence ever dozes to imagine, for guzzled bound attempts her oven streams off.

Awakened from one TV set hurling dream I make coffee, see The set still traveling As slow as light above Those buildings, towards You out for a stroll With your daughter, first time Since you went to her place And returned disturbed. Please, believe me, I Did not throw the thing At you, not this time. This time, I had me On the other end, Othello in my hand.

Today I was above the clouds. Today, I was in love with someone I’ve never met. There were almonds, sad and desiccated. There were your hands, somewhere. There were my bare feet, touching this carpet. Today I was above the clouds, and we flew over the Faroes. Today, I was in love with someone I have met. There was glittering, rhythmic sea, and my heart sang. There were your hands, somewhere. There was all of my skin. Today I was above the clouds, thinking about kissing you. I was in love with people I have and have not met. There were brown boots made of animal. There were your hands, somewhere. There were my eyes, full of tears from the sun. Today I was above the clouds in a purple shirt and blazer. I was in love with you and I felt sad. The tops of the clouds looked like snowy mountains. The snowy mountains looked like the tops of clouds. There were grey seats made of pleather. Today above the clouds and I drank apple juice. I was in love with all of your skin. There was codeine, caffeine, nicotine inside me. There was your metabolism, somewhere. There were my hands, not touching you.

I eat an orange and look at the rain fall outside my second story window onto the streets and sidewalks below as my body begins to reproduce the blood that the doctor has just taken from me. Sometimes, it seems, a body takes over. The mind becomes less important and precious thoughts are harder to formulate or care about. Needs are basic and primal and we learn to listen to the wisdom of our bodies. A bit of juice dribbles down my finger and as I lick it up I am reminded that we are all just animals full of instinct.

I close my eyes and feel the world begin to change its course according to the movements of my toes and the pads of my fingertips.

So many say that they fear the impending drought. They are so sure of its coming, so certain, but not me. I know that we are people of the pines and the rain will not forsake us. And so I am not surprised as the drops begin to fall.

An unusual chill has fallen on this place and is now clinging like a frightened child to its mother. I look out through the safety of windows, and see the brutal beauty of transformation. I work as pieces fall all around me and I try not to trip as I keep moving. Nothing and everything is perfect. This cold has brought us a good time for changes and plumping up.

Mists fade moist. Opaque rainstorms soil the shriveling clay —laughing bluntly, madly. The sun explores unhappily, and the stars answer about life. The gray cursing cellos fear rippling the pink apricot petals. Lonely spring. The loyal petal grins, illuminated faintly on the lithe and lofty ear. The hopeful snowstorm moves while mighty knives recur. My musk skin remembers songbird embraces and demons’ breasts who sleep clumsily. Scarecrows dream and conspire— all sordid and vain, and sluggish in pink while insulting the firstborn. And spring vampires laugh, remembering carousels, necromancers, and crying women, their proud rain jutting acid.

The bluebird is singing crazily, partaking lustfully in the addict-romping infinities that pinch and rise doggedly in flawless cold love.

I lick my juvenile wounds with the tongue of life. The angels hang from heaven with broken string harps. It disturbs me the white as infinity, between love and destiny. Unforgiving time climbs on a scale of values, which holds in hands good deed’s map. I take you by the hand, extending another hand to the sky. I cannot ask for anything… Unforgiving God looking at me; he argues with all. Love is not so simple, says He. It is like the life— only one verse, depends how you recite it.

My fearful brag raining on me dazzling lush with grains of rushing sand dimly disappointed by time. The mighty rush makes all the gazelles’ soul-rambling ills recover like seal pains. Legless and hypnotic my cold-hearted song sounds like rose blossom‌ An easy prey to the dishonest evil and keenly shrewd red that explores laborious stars until my inky odious necromancer ends on burned on paper. The snowstorm hovers ceaselessly with snow like pink apricot petals that panics nude and fearful wives. Spring is old without you...

All externalities are false. All internalizations are false. If, in an attempt at some kind of masochistic empathy, I become my own victim, I preclude cogent self-critique. If I preclude cogent self-critique, I let myself be convinced I mean nothing. If I let myself be convinced I mean nothing, I will convince myself nothing I do matters. If I convince myself nothing I do matters, I won’t care enough to improve myself. If I don’t care enough to improve myself, the extent to which my actions directly and indirectly harm others won’t reduce. If that extent won’t reduce, I continue to feel ashamed for being alive. If I continue to feel ashamed for being alive, then I abuse myself and become my own victim. Then the cycle starts again.

To be another of the ones who thinks everything is inside someone else’s head, like god (or not). To be another of the ones who says there can(not) be a grand unified theory of everything. To be another of the ones who says everything/nothing outside of a single consciousness can be proven to exist. To be another of the ones who says everything/nothing is one thing, a machine or cell where every part is playing its role, abject as it might be. To be another of the ones to whom being an object of inquiry is (not) a violence. To be another of the ones who swears they can(not) dream inside-out. To be another of the ones for whom the body is in the way, an encumbrance that produces ideas in the only possible way: direly. To be another of the ones for whom an idea is like a Mobius strip: you travel the length of it and end up back where you started, except you’re tired. Ideas are arbitrary limitations on what could be. Desire feels like a pathology. Which of these is true for me, at which polarity?

i want to be a gaping and ballooning god. i wrap my face in tinfoil and rushes of air and pinpricks of alertness. once in a while i can cull my inarticulateness into fake conceptualism. we would all like to die with our lips clasped. but i look up and the sky is blue and round, fuzzy. i put my glasses on and it is still fuzzy with the daisy of sunlight. then the rain and the sparring thunderheads. a thousand years in your gaze are like a day that has slipped just past the frame. day splashes into the rest of the water, hurling into an airy lace of unknowing. i work out then puke and moan. my words are written with light but it is not enough: the moon holds my sin in its roots.

It all comes down to the two emotions of love and fear, everything originates from there. And these two avenues we traverse between, running through the number of faiths that have haunted humanity, imply there’s some kind of impeccable dream: something inscrutable and meant to test the justness of a being: someone set within a universe never ceasing to transform. Where comets hurtle through the spiral of a galaxy, and the moon can appear as a crescent as we descend to the street, and walk out into the bustle, star players in the drama of potential.

I liked it how you said God sits on the tip of my tongue, and how God has always been seen as all the light and all the dark, joined; and how what came out of my mouth could nurture or kill, and the decision was no one’s but mine. And I liked it how you said following my heart was a lot like reading books you have to work to understand: how it’s tough at first, but in sticking with it, it gets easier to do; and how eventually—eventually— doing such sets your being on a course to becoming a star, a numinous orb blazing away in the galaxy of your choosing.

sing, though-in fear inside the introverted moment this wave emblem speaks and associates species with the matching embarrassment brand of genetic fruition

another atypical photograph handhand (mademade) hangs the vertical ridge is whimsical

<totality of touch, untainted>

variant, —or with silk as focal murmur its/the smooth connection hallway-view or symphony -heard reaction, ekphrasis module readying hand-eye jazz duo formality familiar and advancing accompanying diversion and succinct versions of heliocentric confessions

thorough rhythms


(convinced significance)

my belief in the weather’s morning stretch tactical tremor of cold or fear’s elongated stubbornness: which directional stutter will wind speak its presence will wind walk upon clarity of role as mentor/adopter/sycophant\ the paradoxical paradigm rewords its nuanced verbs and staccato maleficence multiplying within the winter of this cold’s truancy and absent cycle of typical demonstration

I spread a blue tarp over this field as a substitute for the sky I don’t remember why I get angry at the end of this poem

A flashlight and a hand grenade are all I’ve packed. When you open my journal, all the pages are blank except for one; it says “I love you, but I will destroy you.” I would have packed the lake, the clouds, the animals— but there is only so much room in this backpack. I traded the bird in my hand for the bird in yours, then I traded that one for the two in the bush; I’m making killer returns on my investment.

stay with the pack only if you are too wounded run off alone if the daybreak has left you healed from the injury that has now been put in the past behind you as you move off on your own stride, heading for the far off tree line that is unseasonably budding new leaf & blossom but, do not let your gaze linger too high for too long, the hunters have laid traps to keep you away from their winter stocks & the steel is not so well hidden as the marvels that might distract you into the last tragedy of an ice fingered winter that may lose its grip on what’s left of your broken soul

Season 1 – 1992 101 - Pie In The Sky- In the series premiere, Molly and Loonette discover heavy and light. 102 - Pinch To Grow An Inch- Molly’s mirthday is soon and Loonette has a party. 103 - All Aboard For Bed- Loonette tells about the time when she and Molly couldn’t get to sleep very well. 104 - Knit One Twirl Too- Molly catches a cold. Loonette makes a scarf for her. 105 - Upsey Downsey Day- Molly gets a balloon from Loonette but flies away. Major Bedhead, Granny, and Loonette play circus. 106 - Flippy Floppy Fun- Molly flops on the floor which makes Loonette in a floppy mood. 107 - Something’s Fishy Around Here- Loonette and Molly pretend to fish. Molly learns about patience. 108 - Scrub-A-Dub- There is a mess of toilet paper all over the couch. Major Bedhead, Granny, and Loonette make a fun clean up routine. 109 - Red Light, Green Light- Loonette and Molly learn about stop and go. Loonette pretends to drive a car. 110 - Gesundheit- Loonette sneezes a lot. Major Bedhead and Loonette fly a kite. 111 - Ping Pong Polka- Loonette is very energetic after doing a nice clock rug stretch, but unfortunately, she’s too energetic to read Molly a story. Loonette accidentally drops ping pong balls in Granny’s yard and has to pick them up. 112 - Funny Faces- Loonette and Molly learn about feelings. The gang watches a movie about Granny and herself in the old country. 113 - Snug As A Bug- Loonette and Molly discover nature by learning how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly. Loonette reads a story about a bee. This is the season 1 finale. Season 2 – 1993 (Miss Loonette’s Dance Academy set is redesigned with a door that opens forwards and all shows are announced by an unknown announcer, all 10 second tidies have the standard music cue, Snicklefritz also debuts in this season) 201 - Babs In Toyland- In the 2nd season premiere, Molly is jealous because Auntie Macassar sent in another doll named Babs. 202 - 1-2-3 Dizzy Dizzy Me- Loonette sings about counting and flying in her imaginary plane. However, Molly is dizzy from the plane. Loonette gets dizzy from watching a top spin. 203 - Wobbly- Loonette is angry and in a bad mood when she finds a wobbly toy duck. Wobbly the clown, who’s unable to fix it, comforts Loonette by telling her that you just have to accept things the way they are. 204 - Jump Start- Loonette is in a jumpy mood. A thunderstorm hits Clowntown and Major Bedhead is afraid of lightning. 205 - This Little Piggy- Loonette becomes greedy because she was amazed to find out how many coins were in her piggy bank. 206 - Juggling The Jitters- Loonette has the jitters. 207 - Hoopla- Loonette lost her ball. Loonette, Granny, and Major Bedhead play with a hula hoop from Auntie Macassar.

208 - Wrong Side Of The Couch- Loonette woke up on the wrong side of the couch making her in a bad mood also she screams in this episode. 209 - I Feel Good- Loonette and Molly learn about feeling good about themselves. The 2 play the “What if?” game. Loonette, Granny, and Major Bedhead exercise. Loonette reads a story about an ugly duck. 210 - Boomerang- Loonette is in a foolish mood and plays tricks on the others. 211 - Rude-I-Culous- Molly and Loonette make rude noises. But they learn that there is a time to be rude and a time to be nice. 212 - Make It Snappy- Loonette is in a total rush. Major Bedhead is dressed as a cowboy clown. (Molly does the clock rug stretch in this episode instead of Loonette) 213 - Feast Of Fools (Thanksgiving Special)- The gang has a huge dinner party. This is the season 2 finale. Season 3 – 1994 (The opening scene is redesigned, The clock rug is also redesigned with a slightly smaller clock face, a dark sky blue color scheme and bolder print numbers, also the cuckoo theme is no longer used in the clock rug stretches, Auntie Massacar now speaks in the postcards send to Loonette) 301 - Give Yer Head A Shake- In the 3rd season premiere, Loonette and Molly learn that no means no. 302 – It’s About Time- Everyone has a sleepover at Granny’s garden. Unfortunately for both Molly and Snicklefritz, they each have to have a time-out and a little lesson in controlling themselves. 303 - Clownus Interruptus - Loonette and Molly learn about patience and the importance of not interrupting when someone else is talking. 304 - Why?- Molly asks “Why?” all the time. 305 - Monkey See Monkey Do- Loonette copies everyone. Molly learns about echos and Loonette learns that being a copycat isn’t exactly a good idea. 306 - Sticks And Stones- Loonette thinks Molly is clumsy because she wasn’t good at Pick up Sticks. Major Bedhead and Loonette make up nicknames for everything in Granny’s garden, and they both learn the hard way that calling names isn’t really a good idea. 307 - Horsing Around- Today is National Horseplay Day and everyone is goofing around and laughing but Snicklefritz. 308 - All Over And Under- Loonette and Molly discover over and under as they explore their Big Comfy Couch. 309 - Pants on Fire- Loonette learns the importance of telling the truth and not to lie. 310 - All Fall Down- Loonette and Major Bedhead have fun falling down safely. Loonette reads the story of Humpty Dumpty to Molly. 311 - Traveling Papers- Loonette and Molly want to go to Clowntown; however, they are too young to go there. But Granny Garbanzo teaches them and Major Bedhead that you can explore and travel by using your imagination. 312 - Hiccups- Loonette and Molly have the hiccups. 313 - Full Of Life- Loonette and Molly learn about empty and full. Granny explains to Loonette the life of a caterpillar. This is the Season 3 finale. Season 4 – 1995 401 - Backwards!- In the 4th season premiere, it is National Backwards Day and everything is backwards! (Note: No ten second tidy was in this episode, just Loonette being silly) 402 - Picky Eaters- Molly learns about table manners and how to try new foods.

403 - 40 Winks- Molly refuses to take a nap. 404 - Swing-A-Ling- Loonette is in a swingy mood, she pretends to play tennis, baseball, and golf. Major Bedhead reflects about the time he was at the playground as a kid and he learned the importance of safety. 405 - Spare Some Change- Loonette is upset that her name doesn’t mean anything. 406 - Stuck In The Muck- Loonette and Molly make up rhymes and pictures. 407 - Gimme Gimme Never Gets- Loonette and Molly go on a treasure hunt in the couch and finds a gem. Molly is upset because she wants the gem; while Loonette learns about the importance of not grabbing things, but politely asking for them. 408 - One Step At A Time- Loonette and Molly learn about the importance of trying new things, such as climbing the stairs. 409 - Enough Already!- Molly knows that there are real dustbunnies under the couch, but Loonette doesn’t believe her. They both learn that there is a time to take a break from something, such as arguing about dustbunnies. 410 - Where Do Clowns Come From?- Today is Molly’s mirthday and Loonette reflects about the time they first met. 411 - Are You Ready For School?- Loonette and Molly play school. 412 - Hit Parade- Molly and Snicklefritz learn that hitting is not good to others. 413 - Comfy And Joy (Christmas Special)- The gang celebrates “The Longest Night of The Year” where they do activities in the snow, give presents to each other, and stay up late. This is the Season 4 finale. Season 5 – 1996 (A Faster version of the clock rug stretch theme is occasionally used) 501 - Bad Hair Day- In the 5th season premiere, Molly and Major Bedhead have a bad hair day. 502 - Clownvitations- Loonette feels like she’s left out. Granny visits Miss Loonette’s Dance Academy. 503 - Nothing To Do- Loonette is bored and can’t find anything to do. But she learns that keeping busy is the way to fight boredom. 504 - The Big Brain Drain- Loonette thinks of different things in her brain. 505 - 1 Potato 2 Potato- Loonette, Major Bedhead, and Snicklefritz play a game of keep away with a potato. Granny Garbanzo eventually teaches everyone about not blaming someone else for your own mistakes. 506 - Earth To Loonette - Loonette reads about Molly being a fisher doll, and they both learn about the importance of not daydreaming all the time. 507 - Lettuce, Turnip And Pea- Molly wets the Big Comfy Couch which makes Loonette very embarrassed. 508 - Time For Molly - Molly tries to get Loonette’s attention, but Loonette is too busy having a “me” parade. 509 - Gizmo Shmizmo - Loonette discovers all different kinds of gizmos. There is a whole mess of ping pong balls on the couch and Loonette uses a special vacuum cleaner to clean the mess up. 510 - Clothes Make The Clown - It is autumn and Molly and Major Bedhead try to keep warm. 511 - Don’t Tell- The gang tries not to reveal a surprise about Major Bedhead’s birthday, but Major Bedhead never stops asking what the secret is. Can they get over Major Bedhead’s annoying pleads until Auntie Macassar gets to the party? 512 - You’re A Gem! - Loonette thinks Molly is a real gem, but she also learns the importance that gems and jewelry are not as important as her doll.

513 - See Ya In My Dreams- Loonette pretends to be a roving reporter and interviews the others about dreams. This is the Season 5 finale. Season 6 – 2002 (The opening is redesigned again, The couch is also redesigned and Uncle Chester now sends the postcards to Loonette) 601 - Clowning In The Rain - In the 6th season premiere, it’s a rainy day in Clowntown. When the rain stops, a rainbow comes out. 602 - Lost And Clowned- Molly wants to go Clowntown, but she’s too young to do so. 603 - Button Up!- Today is “Best Foot Forward Day” and Loonette must find perfect shoes for Molly. 604 - Scaredy Cat!- Loonette wears a mask from “The Phantom of the Opera” which scares Molly. She learns from Loonette that there is nothing to be scared of. 605 - It’s The Thought That Counts- Loonette is searching for “Mcguffin” in the couch. Loonette and Major Bedhead attempt to help Granny to fix her roof. 606 - Growing Pains- Loonette wants to have a tea party with Molly but she worries about maturity. 607 - Donut Let It Get You Down- Loonette, Molly, Major Bedhead, and Snickelfritz compete in a field day competition; eventually Molly, the previous champion has to accept not winning again, which is hard for her to do. 608 - Fancy Dancer- Loonette is jealous that everyone dances better than her. Granny gives Loonette ballet lessons. 609 - The Big Bang Boom (Independence Day Special)- Today is “The Big Bang Boom” and everyone has a dinner and watches fireworks. Molly is afraid of fireworks, so she wears ear muffs; and Loonette learns to think of others and not only herself. 610 - Ain’t It Amazing, Gracie?- Molly finds a miner’s hat. Major Bedhead loses his mail bag but learns that he needs to retrace his steps to find things. 611 - Between the Covers- Loonette digs all over the couch for books. Uncle Chester reflects about the time he was at the library and discovered that reading is important yet fun. 612 - Going Up- Loonette believes she is not growing up properly. 613 - Cool It!- The clowns find ways to cool off on a very hot summer day. This is the Season 6 finale and Alyson Court’s final episode as Loonette. Ramona Gilmour-Darling replaced Court for the final season. Season 7 – 2006 (The clock is redesigned again with and even small clock face and even darker shade of blue) 701 - Apple Of My Eye- In the 7th season premiere, Loonette and Major Bedhead learn that healthy foods are important. At Granny’s Cooking School, Loonette, Molly, and Granny make Apple Muffins. 702 - Dat’s Da Law!- Loonette learns about the rules and laws, especially MYOF, make your own fun. At the Dojo, Major Bedhead and Granny do the tango, but Loonette wants to do it too. 703 - Fibberish Gibberish- Loonette tells a tall tale to Molly which angers her. Snicklefritz thinks he’s a dog. At Granny’s Cooking School, Loonette and Granny really “blend up” things by reminding themselves, you are what you eat. 704 - Slow Down, Clown!- Loonette is in a super hyper mood and is doing things quickly. At the Dojo, Major Bedhead teaches Loonette how to juggle and that it’s important to take things slowly at first.

705 - Floppy!- Loonette and Molly learn that too much junkies, such as donuts, is not good for you. At Granny’s Cooking School, Granny shows Major Bedhead and Loonette how to make a healthy snack and that healthy food is good for you. 706 - Clown With A Frown- Loonette is in a bad mood. It’s a rainy day in Clowntown then it clears up which makes Loonette feel better. She also learns that eating too many sweets, like donuts, can lead to a mood swing. (Note: there is no going to Clowntown in this episode) 707 - Rub-A-Dub- Loonette has trouble doing two things at the same time. Granny cleans up her garden. At the Dojo, Major Bedhead and Loonette do exercises. 708 - Upside Down Clown- Molly plays with an upside down doll. At Granny’s Cooking School, Loonette and Granny make a special dessert. 709 - The Clown Promise- Loonette promises to wiggle and giggle and make mirth on Earth. At the Dojo, Loonette, Major Bedhead, and Molly dance. 710 - Lost And Found Clowns- Molly tries to find her other doll Bloomette. At Granny’s Cooking School, Loonette and Granny make an Upside Down Clown Surprise. 711 - Phony Baloney- Loonette learns that telling the truth is the noble thing to do. At the Dojo, Loonette and Major Bedhead do relaxing and calm exercises. 712 - Ready, Steady, Go!- Uncle Chester brings Bon Bons over to the garden, and eventually teaches everyone that while candy is tasty, it’s important to have a good diet and include other foods like vegetables (such as carrots) in your diet. At the Dojo, Loonette balances on a balance beam. 713 - Happy Mirthday, Granny!- Molly and Loonette try to keep a secret for Granny’s mirthday. 714 - Popcorn-Y- Molly is in a popping mood and can’t stop popping. Popcorn flies all over Granny’s garden. At the Dojo, Loonette learns how to juggle by going pop pop pop. 715 - Peek-A-Boo!- It’s Molly’s first time at Clowndergarten and is shy of meeting all the other little clowns. 716 - Ouch!- Major Bedhead broke his foot by slipping on a banana peel and summarizes what happened at the Clowntown Hospital. He gets a wheelchair to sit in. At Clowndergarten, the little clowns play pin the tail on the donkey, play ball, have a snack, have Loonette read a story, and play hot and cold as they depart. 717 - Big Blow Hard- Loonette and Molly are on their boat they made known as “The Big Comfy Ship”and they are pretending to look for treasure. At Clowndergarden, the clowns play with bubbles. A huge wind storm known as the Big Blow Hard hits Clowntown. Everyone goes into Granny’s shed for shelter from the storm. 718 - Shh, Shh, Shh, Quiet!- Loonette learns to use inside and outside voices. At Clowndergarden, the clowns play the opposite game, pretend to have a baby in their hands to use quiet and loud, play follow the leader, dance, color, and have Loonette read a story. 719 - Freeze, Please!- Molly is in a wiggly mood and learns to stay put. At Clowndergarden, the clowns play the freeze game, listen nicely to Loonette reading a story, and have a puppet show. 720 - Clown In The Round- At Clowndergarden, Loonette and the clowns discover all about things that are round. The clowns also play with the clock rug parachute, play the beehive game, play dress up, do the clock rug stretch, and watch a puppet show. 721 - Molly’s Bellybutton- Molly's bellybutton is dangling down. At Clowndergarden, the clowns play “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes”, play with the clock rug parachute, play with hula hoops, and have a parade with costumes. 722 - Just Purrfect- In the series finale, Loonette pretends to be a cat. At Clowndergarden, the clowns play “kitty cat”.

How To Make Time For Yourself “random acts of kindness” on her birthday to celebrate her 38th birthday. I am watching you from the stars Don’t be scared The world is beautiful Amazing!! forever When I french kiss I’m suckin on thtt bottom lip you still keep cooking in The patchy aluminum alloy in simple moments does dmitriy hang out with hippies the crowd chants cheese cake I love the way the ocean kisses the shore i dont know whether to laugh or cry

every day’s the same I like the girl on facebook i like experimental poetry

No light is found in these lanterns. The radiant beams eventually become reflections of a wounded crow’s wings. The horror is that we are always pushed to ponder about the dimmed lights. Upward. The crow’s caw swings into a post-punk lullaby coming out from a black-lipsticked mouth of a foxy vixen. We are about correcting for reality. Every bit of it is a crow’s feather orbitting round the fig tree. Dreams eventually return to the tree. Now, the vixen is busy trying to write an encrypTED sms in this dark forgotton land.

W/ a greyhound the barks become intense, though there are no preys due to (intensive) CONTROL: Escape. A bird on the frying pan.

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I. A dime a douchebag; a dime, a douchebag. no matter the lost smile on his face - he’s helping correct your children’s behavior; never mind the fact that he could care less, and in his employee locker that smells like sweat and rust and old sandwiches turned into something dooming like the Great Horned Lake monster in a 60s green too tired to be awake at 3 but here I am movie, down in the sub-basementy slimy hell of that coffin shaped can there sits an old photo of him with his mom and dad, happy in sunshine against the hood of a bug-smeared car; down in that same hell with a loaded revolver because one day, well, fuck it. one day. how do I know? it’s the look on his face another smiling blank in a sea of smiling blanks, just questions here no answers but the smile. the smile that makes you - how do you not know? it’s more than fifty-fifty. read the news. but for now he’s happy go, happy hohoho lucky and thanks for the nine dollars an hour assholes and he flips the camera the bird in the break room after consuming his pathogen experiment of a snack; flips it the bird, though he isn’t sure what’s on the other side and would it make a difference if he knew it wasn’t connected had never been connected would never be connected. what happens if there is someone watching what then, is he pushing the same cart full of half-opened merch across the floor with a

roll of tape in hand so he doesn’t have to deal with Sheila the inventory slope, the wrecked and mean spirit of his future hulking in a corner like a fat spider, mandibles trembling because she can smell him, smell his fear and hate and justification; her slavering existence all tied up like a neat box, even the uniform looks like wrapping paper and she wonders sometimes what he tastes like, fresh meat right off the hoof. he gives it another glare and washes his hands an absent swipe across his red shirt to knock off the crumbs and he’s back out there in the too bright brightness the sterile mirror.

II. so what if it isn’t the real thing, the real thing hasn’t been real for some time now; facsimiles and satires and ironic commentary hell even 8th graders understand post ironic content - and no one older than that can agree what is post-ironic about post-ironic content: is it the fact that we can’t agree, or are we not asking the right people or is it all too smart, too achingly funny and smart that you get left behind in your four year old socks and a sweatshirt with a hole in the armpit, swearing at the bellyache and kind of enjoying the fact that it’s there because maybe then it’ll be some new sign that things can change, even if they’re for the worse just stuck, tasting your last-night beer and garlic the smoke still stuck to the roof of your mouth and, yeah. so what if it isn’t the real thing, some scathing apology that covers up what would in a real world with real people be an actual, honest to god or Microsoft, McDonald’s or

Porntube, care for and chagrin. have you seen these numbers? why do I know what that means? so what if it isn’t the real thing, sometimes the real thing isn’t so precious that it can’t be replaced - or it’s too precious, specious, and replacing it is like having open heart surgery without anaesthesia, because that’s how you are aggro and certain that you want to live life and feel even if feeling hurts like a motherfucker. that spray tanned bitch on television with his plastic hair in a can is so disconnected from the real that he is in effect a product. no longer a person. and it dawns on you, in your four year old socks and the hoodie with an armpit hole, that is what everyone wanted, and we’re here. we’re there. the utopia that makes the whole dream a collective one has been won, and we don’t have to do anything now. so moments awake are hurtful and moments subsumed are pleasant, if you like your pleasantries catatonic. maybe they taste like grape NeHi; maybe they taste like Thanksgiving cranberries. anything worthwhile takes time and effort, and that’s the problem. recognize my worth. recognize my worth. recognize my goddamned worth. fuckers.

III. one fine day in the Spring, the new Spring, the one that makes Winter simmer off into a haze of faulty memories, we wake up and shake off our bedclothes and laying next to us is someone we love and feel that we know better than we’ve ever known anyone else, and the sunlight coming cockeyed through the blinds hits her hair in just the right way and your heart begins to beat, bearing the gelid red of your passion for the world once more around the merry; one fine day in the Spring, the new Spring, the one where you are in love with the world, and in love with your kids your legacy your promise to the world, is in everything you have done and will do, everything you think of when you are looking at them and helping them get dressed. everything you feel that you cannot contain, which is a lot, gets spilled out into the world and

floats around on the air, occasionally spiraling into a drunken moment of sun and season that a random stranger might walk into and actually smile, a real smile because no one has time in the Spring for the fake stuff. you pack your bags and you ready your spirit. you pack your bags and you kiss your children and you clean the car and you hug your wife, who still smells like sunshine on dry, clean hay and wild strawberries - who has smelled that way since the day you first held her. you realize with all your inertia, all your desire for more life than what your bubble contains, your family, you realize that this is no different from what anyone else newly awake in the Spring feels, and you want to share it. sharing it makes everyone look at you like you’re crazy, but that’s ok. crazy is underrated. have you seen these numbers? why do I know what that means?

what happens.

Keanu Reeves yawns in a way that gives him a crick in his neck but stops before it happens all the way. The flight attendant hands him a ginger ale, but not a can of ginger ale. The flight is oversold. Keanu is flying economy. Keanu Reeves accepts the plastic cup after staring at the man’s hand for what feels like too long but it probably wasn’t too long. There is a napkin wrapped around the cup that is held there by the man and also stuck with a bit of spillage on the side of the cup. A map of the United States is on the napkin. The man is holding the cup from the top and his fingers cover Washington, Oregon, California, and most of the Midwest. Keanu Reeves’ home state is not on the napkin. He takes it and drinks it and finishes it and feels homeless. He is disappointed that there is so much ice but feels on some level that he deserves this. Before he got on the plane, Keanu Reeves’ stepmom gave him a humidifier because he was having nosebleeds in his sleep so bad he would wake up with blood in his throat. He placed it in the overhead bin. He doesn’t usually put things there. The humidifier is in a Macy’s bag. The person directly to Keanu Reeves’ left has his eyes closed and his arms folded. The man directly to that man’s left has a baby and is too preoccupied doing baby things like mashing a banana with a spoon to see what Keanu Reeves is doing. Keanu Reeves is only looking. The baby has picked up the safety card and, while he cannot read, touches it and looks at it with more care than anyone else on the flight. The man has gently taken the card from him and placed it in the seat pocket in front of him roughly 8 times in roughly 10 minutes. Keanu Reeves is glad the baby is so concerned for his safety and the safety of those around him. He imagines the baby opening the emergency door in an emergency and deploying the inflatable slide. The baby shows him how to put on an airplane seatbelt and an oxygen mask and even though he knows how to do both of these things, Keanu Reeves listens to every non-word and Keanu smiles. Keanu Reeves and the baby both put on their flotation vests and jump down the slide into a barren mountain valley. The plane banks and sun bounces off Keanu’s green t-shirt, making the wall of seatbacks green. He looks up two rows forward and a man is watching UFC on his phone. The footage slows as topless men swing at each other and miss each other. They draw their arms back after in a slow caress; almost loving, faces dripping. Keanu Reeves wants to be alone. Keanu wants to be alone but there are 36 rows of seats on this flight and every one of them is full. Every row seats six except one, which seats five. Keanu decides this is too much math and decides to go to the lavatory: a term he only uses on planes and large boats.

Keanu Reeves walks the aisle, afterward scrolling through artists in the music app on his phone so he does not make eye contact with anyone. After this plane, Keanu Reeves will get on another plane. Then a van. Then he will be in an apartment obscured by a flight attendant’s thumb and he will close the blinds and sleep. He didn’t sleep all of last night. Keanu Reeves both does and does not feel guilt about occupying half the lavatories on the flight but there was no one in line. The guilt makes him pull down his pants even though he doesn’t have to shit and he can see dried piss on the seat. Keanu Reeves’ pants are around his ankles. There is a mirror across from him which he feels is a bad design choice, though he is only tall enough to see the top of his hair shake slightly with the plane’s little bumps. Keanu Reeves is about 1/3 naked, 37,000 feet in the air, thinking, “Don’t forget the humidifier. Don’t forget the humidifier. Don’t forget the humidifier. Don’t forget.”

When you’re ten years old, the world starts to make sense. The habit your mother has of moving from one man to another, of you having one dad then another, is a rule. Another, pushing your stuff into 55-gallon garbage bags. Your little sister looks on as those small things you took for granted, say a Barbie shoe or a miniature cupcake, find themselves lost amongst the chaos erupting in that black bag. You had no place to keep them, no place to tuck them away to, no place from which to retrieve them later. Now, like then, you forget. People, places leave no trace. Your child, who is now the age your sister was then, bears witness to the unfolding of your wings, the moment at which you perch to fly. You can’t be blamed for the turns of a tornado’s wind. The question is whether you can go back to when you were packing in a hurry, go back and listen as your mother paces the floor in a room upstairs, go back and choose to put a shoe in your pocket.

You used to be so somber, a menacing look on your face always silent in reflection— I found comfort in that too. You used to hate me because I was a whirlwind, leaving your walkway littered and so you swept the dust with a broom. But rain fell, your quiet storm, the lightning in the distance, the thunder silent because no one was ever frightened— I thought you were merely overcast, so I was never adequate shelter. When we finally clashed by the stumble of my pirouette, you were laughing—your body loose like dangled curtains— and I was stiff like the mirror behind the stage, reflecting someone you never were. The gash on your knee, as if grazed by thorny bramble, bled, the blood trickling down your exposed leg and hardened at the base of your ankle. The darkness of closed eyes was no longer silent. The whirlwind and storm, cooling over like your wound doused in rubbing alcohol.

1. the triangle “Don’t worry about dad. He’s got me.” “But who do you have, mom?” “You.”

2. the listener and silence answers in its absent present, accepted as an answer taken in a voice’s pause, waiting suspended and sustained, where hands meet on a clockface. I’ll meet you halfway, meet you between, at armslength.

3. the hearer remember, there’s a place like this. won’t ever leave you. here always. if one thing, remember you never, ever have to go anywhere. you never have to leave. you never have to go anywhere, ever. as long as you are here.

A. Razor was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1963, but was brought to California at the age of 1. He was raised with a strong desire to read and write, but an even greater desire to survive his circumstances, which has aided his experience and longevity so far. He began writing and publishing around 1980 in various underground zines and publications, first in the Los Angeles area, then ever expanding outward from there as he was discovered by Drew Blood Press, Ltd. in 1984, where he published 11 chapbooks up to 1995. He has read his work at many readings and spoken word events over the years and been published in many types of publications, ranging from those that are considered reputable to those that are of ill repute. He has fought hard to live and express his art in many different ways and in many different places. He became a member of the Hollywood Institute of Poetics in Los Angeles, CA in 2009. He has participated recently in the Poets In Prison panel at Beyond Baroque and the 2011 ALOUD reading series held at the Downtown Los Angeles Public Library. In 2012 he teamed up with Iris Berry to launch Punk Hostage Press, on which they have released 5 titles of his own work and A. Razor has edited 9 more titles from as many writers: Danny Baker, Iris Berry, C.V. Auchterlonie, Carolyn SrygleyMoore, Rich Ferguson, Dennis Cruz, Frank Reardon, Alexandra Naughton, and SB Stokes. He collaborated on book cover designs with graphic artist Geoff Melville for many of these books. In 2013 the non-profit Words As Works was begun to expand the outreach work in prisons, homeless shelters, jails, and juvenile detention facilities. His writing has always explored the world that he has sought to be a part of and to rebel against at the same paradoxical moment. He has traveled extensively, seeking and enduring everything from homelessness and imprisonment to serenity and peace. Alexander Limarev is a freelance artist, mail art artist, and poet from Russia. His artworks are part of private and museum collections of 41 countries. His artworks as well as poetry have been featured in various online publications, including Time for a Vispo, Expoesia Visual Experimental, The New Post-Literate: A Gallery of Asemic Writing, BAA:BE:L, Nothing and Insight, FOFFOF, Spontaneous Combustion Language/Image Lab, Poezine, DEGU A Journal of Signs, exixtere, ffoOom, The White Raven, UndergroundBooks.org, ŎŎŏŏŏ, Boek861, Tip of the Knife, Bukowski on Wry, Kiosko (libera, skeptika, transkultura), Microlit, Metazen, Blackbird Anthology, etc. Alexandra Naughton runs a reading series, a literary zine, and a publishing house, all under the Be About It label. Her first collection of poetry, I Will Always Be Your Whore [love songs for Billy Corgan], was published by Punk Hostage Press in 2014. Ali Znaidi (b. 1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English. His work has appeared in Mad Swirl, Stride Magazine, Red Fez, BlazeVOX, Otoliths, streetcake, and elsewhere. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). From time to time he blogs at aliznaidi.blogspot.com and tweets at @AliZnaidi. Anca Mihaela is a 40-year-old Romanian life coach who lives in the United Arab Emirates and has a degree in arts and literature as well as an MBA.

Arlo Brooks is a poet & musician from stupid Southern California. He enjoys making weird noises & nonsense. Austin Islam has been known to tumbl thru watery wifi connections looking for auxiliary love / he has been pub’d in some places and that’s aight w him prolly / are you lost / are we all lost Beach Sloth blogs hard. Billy Bob Beamer (b. 1947) works in small formats to create compositions through the use of meditational and labor-intensive techniques. He has exhibited in over 60 solo, juried/curated, and invitational art shows throughout the USA and at the Ancient High House Museum, Staffordshire, UK. His art works can be found in numerous public and private collections, including the Virginia's Governor’s Mansion, the Virginia Fine Arts Center for the New River Valley, the estate of noted art/cultural historian, Roger Shattuck, and—most recently—the Avant Writing Collection at Ohio State University. Currently, in addition to his own drawing, Beamer teaches classes in “drawing as quiet active meditation” to relieve pain and stress. In January and February of 2011, Beamer exhibited with internationally known artists at Roanoke College in Salem, Virginia. The exhibit featured work done by those who use meditation as a primary vehicle for creating. Beamer says, “My best way to express incalculable enormity is to create its contrasting opposite. At this time, I am concentrating on drawing—that most basic mode of communication—and on arte povera-like constructions, both in a small format. To paraphrase Blake: ‘the universe lies in a grain of sand.’ When drawing and creating objects from and on ‘worthless’ materials, I am paying homage to the marginalized…” Beamer, a sociology graduate of the College of William and Mary, is a retiree from the Commonwealth of Virginia’s Department of Social Services and an award-winning trumpeter with a 40 year week-end career playing jazz, R&B, blues, and other types of music. He also explores experimental, experiential writing, often as another meditational tool, and has had several books of his POMES published by chalk editions and white sky books. Beamer (who has a married daughter, a psychologist) lives with his wife Kathy and their cats in Bedford County, Virginia. Brooke Michelle Robison is a cellist and music teacher living in Ashland, Oregon. C. Brannon Watts lives/teaches/writes in the Midwest, in a river town, among people who cannot get along for a bunch of reasons never clearly stated. He writes poetry that pretends to be prose and prose that pretends to love poetry, and he’s never quite sure why it comes out that way; in his head it all makes sense. His work is concerned with the moment and the moment between. His most recent publications include entries in Shadows of the Future: An Otherstream Anthology (MadHat Press), In Between Altered States, Thrice Fiction, Eratio, and other fine publications. Caleb Bouchard (calebbouchard.net) is the author of the poetry collections Seeing The Ghost of Someone Alive, New Poems In Georgia Font, and #Personal. Garry Shandling once called him a dipshit on Twitter: @imcalebbouchard Chuck Leary lives in the United States and loves everybody.

Colin James is the author of Dreams of the Really Annoying, a chapbook of poems available from Writing Knights Press. Daniela Voicu is a Romanian poet. Her poems have been published in more than 50 journals and magazines, including Cuget Liber, Agero Stuttgart, New York Magazine, Maintenant, Poetic Diversity, Pirene’s Fountain, Curentul Internaţional, Romanian Pages in New Zeeland, Pheonix Mission, and many more. Her work has appeared in various (30) anthologies, including Tears of Ink, The Poetry of War and Peace, Words on the Winds of Change, Just a Dream, and Reflections on a Blue Planet. Her poetry collections include Poems of Angels (2006), Blue in Vitro (2012), Surfing Silence (2012), Windows Without Dreams (2012), Sky Hands (2013), Vulnerable Breeze (2013), and Sunset and Love (2013). In 2009, she founded the international journal of culture and literature Cuib Nest Nido, and in 2011, she founded the international poetry festival of music and contemporary art The Art of Being Human and a poetry group with the same name. In 2013-2014, she edited 9 volumes of The Art of Being Human International Poetry Anthology in English and in Romanian. Since 2009, she has been a member of the Writers’ League of Romania. Derek Lessard (1987–2013) lived and worked in Washington, D.C. Although most of his poetry was self-published on his Facebook page, some of it also appeared in such publications as UP and The Georgetown Voice. Erik Moshe is a college student from Hollywood, FL who is currently working on a collection of poetry concerning the future of DARPA, transhumanism, and robotics. To check out more of his outlandish work, find him at his website: TheCentersphere.yolasite.com Felino A. Soriano is a member of The Southern Collective Experience. He is the founding editor of the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His writing finds foundation in created coöccurrences, predicated on his strong connection to various idioms of jazz music. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology and appears in various online and print publications, with recent poetry collections including watching what invents perception (WISH Publications, 2013), Of these voices (white sky ebooks, 2013), Pathos|particular invocation (Fowlpox Press, 2013), Extolment in the praising exhalation of jazz (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013), and Hinge Trio (La Alameda Press, 2012). He lives in California with his wife and family and is the director of supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. Links to his published and forthcoming poems, books, interviews, images, etc. can be found at www.felinoasoriano.info. Francis Kou Sugita is a young writer from Portland, Oregon. He was born in Sapporo, Japan. He is the editor of Randoseru Press and is a recipient of a Vachel Lindsay Poetry Prize. He also likes Karl Marx, a lot. Glen Armstrong’s recent work has appeared in Conduit, Digital Americana, and Cloudbank. He holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters.

Howie Good’s latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work. Hugh Tribbey’s poetry has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in experientialexperimental-literature, Cormac McCarthy’s Dead Typewriter, and Truck. He is the author of eight collections of poetry; the most recent is Wrinkle and Mechanism from white sky ebooks. Hugh holds a Ph.D. in English from Oklahoma State University and teaches literature and creative writing at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma. Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn. He is a sculptor, painter, book dealer, photographer, and teacher. His work has been seen in numerous group shows both in the USA and Europe and he has had 9 one man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. His work is in the collections of The Whitney Museum of American Art, New York University, The Guggenheim Museum, The Hirshhorn Museum, & The Albright-Knox Art Gallery. His paintings, drawings, photographs, and collages have been published in over 150 online and print magazines, including Rock Heals, Otoliths, Winamop, Melancholia’s Tremulous Dreadlocks, Barfing Frog, The Raving Dove, DeComp, Foliate Oak, Siren, Prose Toad, Triplopia, Thieves Jargon, Opium, Dirt, The Centrifugal Eye, The DMQ Review, Broadsided, Hotmetalpress, Double Dare Press, Events Quarterly, Unlikely Stories, Coupremine, Front Range, Cerebration, Chick Flicks, Softblow, Eclectica Magazine, Backwards City Review, Right Hand Pointing, Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Brew City Magazine, Superstition Review, Fiction Attic, Mastodon Dentist, Blue Print Review, Ellipsis, The Indelible Kitchen, Cricket, Entelechy, So To Speak, Taj Mahal Review, The Fifteen Project, The Externalist, Why Vandalism, Mungbeing Magazine, Lamination Colony, Paradigm, Lily, Literary Fever, Glassfire Magazine, The Houston Literary Review, Lilies and Cannonballs, Wheelhouse Magazine, Terra Incognita, Qarrtsiluni, The Tusculum Review, Multidementional, 34th Parallel, Wood Coin, Sacramento Poetry, Art & Music, Anti-Poetry, Divine Dirt Quarterly, The Mom Egg, Disenthralled, Etcetera, Sea Stories, Bicycle Review, Down In The Dirt, Psychic Meatloaf, Diverse Voices, Blue Lotus, Forge, The Front Porch Review, The Blotter, Breadcrumb Scabs, Guerilla Pamphlets, Imitation Fruit, Front Range, Convergence, Meat For Tea, Grey Sparrow Press, A Handful of Dust, Ink Filled Page, The Journal of Unlikely Entomology, Frequencies, Orion Headless, Missive, Lit n Image, Media Virus, Spudgun, Bare Hands, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Maintenant, Glass Coin, Off the Rocks, Sliver of Stone, Blue Five Notebook, Map Literary, Literary Ophans, Pinyon Review, Decades Review, Monongahela Review, Amethyst Arsenic, Tenement Block Review, Cleaver Magazine, The McNeese Review, Storm Cellar, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, Red Fez, New York Dreaming, Slippage Literary Magazine, Madhat Lit, Olentangy Review, The Writing Disorder, Symmetry Pebbles, Petrichor Review, Cigale Literary Magazine, Episodic Magazine, Four Ties Lit Review, Crack the Spine, Elohi Gadugi Journal, American Athenaeum, Fiction Fix, The Squalor Review, The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, The Open Road Review, The Meadowland Review, Thrice Fiction, Banango Street, Sassafras, The Germ, Synaesthesia Magazine, Santa Clara Review, inkblot, Vagabond City, Compose Journal, The Indian River Review, Ricohet, Oddball Magazine, Verse Junkies, Superstition Review, The Black Light Engine Room, Watershed Review, The Newer York, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Gravel, Wilde Magazine, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Blue Collection, Stanzamonkey, Bricolage Magazine, The Popcorn Farm, The Ilanot Review, Blotterature Literary Magazine, Paradise Review, Crescent Magazine, Paragraphiti, Iron Gall Press, & The Traveling Poet. He has received three National

Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, two Pollock-Krasner Grants, the Adolph Gottlieb Foundation Grant, and a grant from Artists’ Fellowship Inc. He currently teaches art to retired public school teachers at The United Federation of Teachers program in Brooklyn. Jeff Harrison has publications from Writers Forum, MAG Press, Persistencia Press, white sky books, and Furniture Press. He has e-books from BlazeVOX, xPress(ed), Argotist Ebooks, and chalk editions. His poetry has appeared in An Introduction to the Prose Poem (Firewheel Editions), The Hay(na)ku Anthology Vol. II (Meritage Press), The Chained Hay(na)ku Project (Meritage Press), Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, Otoliths, Xerography, Moria, Calibanonline, Dusie, unarmed, Big Bridge, Sugar Mule, experientialexperimental-literature, and elsewhere. Joe Bussiere: <3 (: / joebussiere.tumblr.com / @joe_bussiere John De Herrera is a writer/artist with a degree in Lit from UCSB. He lives and works in Santa Barbara, California. John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. An accomplished memorist, John recently recited the first 2,104 digits of pi from memory; check out his pi-related video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook. John Rogers is a writer, artist, and music person based in Reykjavík, Iceland. His first book, Real Life, is out now as a paperback & .pdf via Habitat. Josh Friedlander is a desk jockey and part-time writer from Cape Town, South Africa. His work has previously appeared in Metazen. He blogs intermittently at Anomie in Stasis. Justin Carter is an MFA candidate at Bowling Green State University and the co-editor of Banango Street. His chapbook Trill was published by Reality Hands in 2012. Kell Gallery is a heretofore unpublished poet from North America. They have a college degree, if that makes you feel any better. No, for the last god damn time, ‘Kell Gallery’ is not a museum. Krystal Sierra lives in Cleveland, Ohio with her son. She is a cat lady with no cats. View her current project here: http://cle20something.wordpress.com. A native of Kolkata, India, Kushal Poddar (b. 1977) writes poetry, scripts, and prose and is published worldwide. He is the author of All Our Fictional Dreams and has been published in several anthologies in Asia and in America. His forthcoming book is Kafka Dreamed of Paprika. Find more at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kushal-The-Poet/166552613396144. Manuel Arturo Abreu is a poet based in Portland and NYC. Read more of their work at twigtech.tumblr.com and @Deezius.

Nicholas Bon lives in an inconsequential town in the American Southeast, where he edits Epigraph Magazine. His work has appeared in West Wind Review, Internet Poetry, and experiential-experimental-literature. You can visit him online at www.nicholasbon.com. Patrick Trotti exists on the internet. What you've heard are mostly lies. www.patricktrotti.com. Paul Christian is an MFA candidate at CalArts. His work has appeared in Internet Poetry, Be About It, Apex Caliente, and horseghost. Sheryl Crowe’s music made Paul very unhappy and angry as a child. It still kind of does. nextdaygratification on tumblz. Penny Goring lives in London. She makes things. http://pjgoring.tumblr.com Rachel Hyman lives in Detroit, where she co-curates the Motor Signal reading series. She is the co-editor of Banango Street. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Illuminati Girl Gang, The Scrambler, and The Bakery. Rhoda Penmarq lives in the United States and blogs. Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press, 2013), and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (forthcoming from Kind of a Hurricane Press). Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Susan Sweetland Garay received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians, and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and 2 cats where she works in the vineyard industry. She will welcome her first child this spring. She spends her free time writing, growing plants, and making art. She enjoys finding beauty and meaning in the everyday. She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, online and in print. She is a founding editor of The Blue Hour Literary Magazine and Press and relishes the work that she does there. More of her work can be found at susansweetlandgaray.wordpress.com. Tamara Neufeld is an 18 year old Aquarius with ripped pantyhose who understands feelings and people. She is currently completing secondary education in the lower mainland of British Columbia. Volodymyr Bilyk is a Ukrainian writer and visual artist. His books include a book in the series This is Visual Poetry (thisisvisualpoetry.com/?p=1151), a book of asemic short stories Cimesa (white sky ebooks), Scobes (No Press), and Casio’s Pay-off Peyote (The Red Ceilings Press). His works have been published in such magazines as 3am, Altered Scale, The New Post-Literate, and many others. His works have been exhibited on Bright Stupid Confetti’s asemic show, Yoko Ono Fan Club, and Venti Leggeri in Bologna. Wayne Mason is a writer and sound artist from Central Florida. His words have appeared across the small press in magazines both print and online. He is the author of six chapbooks and is the

former poetry editor for Side of Grits and The Tampa Bay Muse. Wayne Mason has also been active in experimental music for nearly twenty years. He records ambient, experimental, and noise sounds, both solo and as one half of the electronic project Blk/Mas.

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