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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 [“190216 den bosch (38),” 2016] remain with the artist Sean Burn. 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 tenth issue features prose poetry only and is dedicated to the memory of Francis Ponge, whose proèmes continue to inspire.


Dana Venerable Church Bus NJ Transit Bus No. 317: Philly to Lakewood, NJ. 8.12.13

6 8

Tom Snarsky Three Proofs for the Existence of God

9

billy bob beamer Excerpt from DEAD IN ETHYL (2013) prosePOME fr pocketsleep 2009

10 11

Sean Burn ‘- something a little strange.’ (opening of manuel puig - kiss of the spider woman.) moth & rust (after engels) ur’s for kurt (schwitters)

12 13 14

Mike Busam huron pier

15

Daniel Y. Harris and Irene Koronas grave and crypt lollipop and swirl

16 17

Stephen Nelson Songs of the Scarf 1 Songs of the Scarf 2

18 19

Clara B. Jones Transmigration It’s Hard to Find Good Help

20 21

Jennifer MacBain-Stephens Robot #11 (metal melts at 2500 degrees F) Robot #14 (panel discussion)

22 23

Howie Good Sorry, Something Went Wrong

24

Raymond Farr Collapse of the Hidden Errors Folded in Light

25

John Pursch Happy Automatica Cubist Daddy-O!

26 28

Jeff Harrison Hyacinthe Maglanowich

30


DC DeMarse Untitled

31

Sheila E. Murphy Untitled Untitled

32 33

Heller Levinson S liked alcohol S had trouble making friends S concluded she preferred

34 35 36

Roger W. Hecht the role of impatience in pornography

37

Joseph Randolph Dunkirk

38

Texas Fontanella 27 March 2016 1:21pm

39

Mark Young Available on Netflix We have learned a lot, Siddhartha

40 41

Sam Campbell Call to action Day of reckoning

42 43

Miriam Sagan The Explorers Alpine Motel, Hot Springs, Arkansas

44 45

Michael Wayne Hampton Teenage Pin-Up

46

Kristina England Dissolution

47

Contributors

48


I wait on Girard and 17th, walking back and forth, deciding that yes I do want to stand in the wind and get carried away from my purpose as a human on earth, like the orange leaf in autumn with no purpose on the tree, not even for the hungriest of ants. I decide against it [not my time yet], and stand in the little bus-waiting-shelter provided for those who want to take the Green Line 15 Girard trolley – the land submarine. I stand; satisfied I escaped the wind, but unsatisfied with winter still being a thing. I have a white plastic bag filled with an elderflower & rose drink, a box of cereal, a box of sweetened biscuit sticks, a chocolate bar, and a used copy of La Mettrie’s Man A Machine and Man A Plant. I check my phone to see that I have five minutes left to enjoy this particular part of the Earth before the land submarine arrives. I hear outside of the shelter two older women discussing cable packages. One woman says: “The advertisement said $19.99…” The other woman interrupts: “Are you sure it didn’t say $29.99?” “Yes I’m sure. I don’t like how you sign up and then realize it’s actually $73.00 after installation and all of that…” I stand there wondering: what difference would asking if the package cost ten more dollars make if the total was 73? And what difference does having a cable package make at all. I think about how much older people are obsessed with television. It terrifies me. The baby boomers love television and other brainwashy stuff, yet they openly criticize behavior like traveling, unemployment, wanting to have lots of sex, wanting to have no sex, substance experimentation, vegetarianism, veganism, and not watching television. I think my parents are surprised that I took parts of their advice and now read books. This March Sunday is nice, I think, as the trolley arrives. I wait behind one of the two women, as the other says “Take care” and walks in the other direction. I wait for her to slowly get on the trolley. I step on and swipe my transpass, saying hello to the trolley driver. I look the trolley driver right in the eyes, something I always try to do. I don’t really know why. Maybe to brighten their day. Maybe to create suspense for the ride. I don’t know. She asks me how I’m doing. “Good” I say, and I ask the same. “Pretty good.” I find my seat, thinking, “this woman’s life is infinitely better than mine,” next to a woman with a curly golden brown weave drinking an Arizona Mucho Mango drink. She looks at me, waiting. I look like about 75% of myself: my hair is tied in a tight bun on the top of my head, I am wearing my green jacket with all of the pockets and a plaid detachable hood, and my black boots. My eyes match my coat. The only problem with hazel eyes is that they don’t express mood. The other 25% of myself would involve my hair being out and I want my eyes to express my disappointment at not meeting this person at 100%. I look at her drink mid swallow and smile and say: “That is my favorite drink, I love it.” I make eye contact. She laughs in approval. She finishes the drink. I look away. Maybe I should have said hello first. Maybe hello is bullshit. No. I’m perfectly fine with my choice of engagement. I look to an older woman who is talking to a man across the aisle. The man is invested in her eyes and mannerisms. He nods at times, usually at pauses. They look like they are coming from church. Maybe this was church. I look around thinking “this is church. Church bus.” All you need is a hat being passed around to collect change, but in Philly there are plenty of people


playing the roles of donation hats. The woman says, “You can’t control her. Let her be and do what she wants. You can’t control her or try to change her. She has a right to be the way that she is. Accept it. Accept her…” Freedom to be. I use my peripheral vision to notice the woman next to me is also watching the woman while waiting for a phone call. I focus my attention back on the churchwoman saying: “I love what God is doing for my life. More people need to love and accept what God is doing…etc. etc.” My body fills up with feelings, in the order of curiosity, disinterest and then dread. I eavesdrop to the phone call taking place next to me. The Mucho Mango woman is saying, “but every time I’m in Philly I want to spend time in the park. I laid down and spent two hours in the park! I just need to spend time in the parks…no no, the park.” The trolley rides across a bridge to the Philadelphia Zoo and I look out at the beginning of Fairmount Park. It is just roads and trees, but mostly roads. The trolley passes the High School For The Future. I think about Philly students in neighborhood public schools having their time wasted. I hate and love this one school of the future. I want to break into it and peel off the insides and re-stick them into all of the high schools. Post-it schools. Preferably recyclable. The trolley arrives at 41st and Girard. I walk up to the front door of the green trolley, say thank you and have a good one, and walk to Parkside Ave. toward my apartment. I breathe in and out and realize it’s alright to feel. It’s alright to feel. It’s alright to be unapologetic every day. I take out my elderflower & rose drink and take a sip. It says on the label “100% good.” “Maybe it is,” I think. I finish the drink and throw the glass bottle in a trash can instead of a recycling bin a couple of blocks up the road and wonder if I made the right decision and if people in Philly just empty all the recycling bins into the trash cans.


A reality show roller-coaster ride through the Arctic, where the drunken lady from Mt. Holly elbows your mother in the head while trying to open a bag of Fritos. You may develop a teeth chattering problem and begin to wonder if “Flav” is an actual flavor. Your chills may multiply. Camden. You’ll experience a feeling similar to having pennies in your sneakers. There are one thousand local stops and no one gets off until the end (except, of course, the drunken lady from Mt. Holly). Every single road bump comes out of hiding. The sounds of breaking and sliding cell phones fill your ears as cold air blows all over your body, even there. Snores. Either the seat in front of you will crush your knees, or your seat will go so far back that you have to stare at the person behind you, who happens to be banging their head against the window. Someone is always preaching that there is a God.


I. Their throat is an open grave? More like a theme park where the joy of waiting in line has not yet been forgotten. Stretch your hands up to the languid sky. Your ribs are not safe.

II. Suppose there is a flame, taller than the air, narrower than a feeding tube. The Glanz of a silversmith working her jaw into the earth, or the incompressible flow of a compressible fluid. It’s an approximation, but what isn’t? Time in its soporific glory days? Your mother festooned with her bright harness, “a set of straps and fittings by which” the moon can show her the way? Her eye was elsewhere. Glossy and bent into tongues without enough iron. She is speaking the sufficiency of red with her whimsical detachment. The medicament will see her now.

III. I’m preaching the sort of noose that I cannot just stand by and love. To be brief, the embarrassment was total. I know the full shame that borrows threads from the beloved, comatose like a wet wind. They help me breathe, the waves. Aristotle might’ve been brave enough to see it all through. Until then, my murder is going belly up with the rest of the wind chimes. Clattery, but not dangerous. I will remain a miniaturist, creating cereal boxes out of matchbooks and otherwise playing with scale. The chromatic as a register between enflamed and dead. Your present participle isn’t going anywhere. Stretched between singing and lying, which is almost the same as the one before. These number among the least fashionable occasions for death. She cries with me in the shallow heart where all the nebulas live. I’ve got a doctrine I’d like to show you. It rhymes. I hope that’s okay.


name is derived from the Ae ther, the first-born Greek elemental god of air, and ‘hyle,’ referring to “stuff.” In memory of emma for whom I spoke the following aloud

dead in ethyl glo a penny sinner so packet itchm ewell experienced in a grouchyharem hemplip service if want to do godlesslyhot summer daymix all poking outfuel sources setto odd saltshoulders cherishedhallucinationsA liar liar shockingeels bloated and shecreeping nighlife goals come staggeringmajor arcana inexceptionalpungent marigoldnot being nice wilde cactusblackheads wholeabdominal cavityself insertion characterssweet momma wounded animalleft wing had beenruined waterbecome policeliterally mosiedanything anyone at timesbirth horizonfinish up chemicalinfinite coils shadowsguided by buddingpoking out stone hallwayweedinfinite whackerguided by budding defining bordersdefining bordersangel’s eggs under bones with that timeluvial peatsmoot orclashes herethis mouthinnebriatedblink roundwardfall trumpy timesas tute nessnessoverstep bursedaystampfroth fair emostfooting buttsdeath anticipatedscra pheaped watercloth plantsewn raininghe art perhaps gettingstoned either wilde harharse years bachelor contentment field flanking foords look foppy toon goof gadget heaven burse downfall eager dear thus final operation duffle nose rope foal sop roon gopreyuncover domini can missile folong playwrite dopple fleign marsh garedenfender inlaid stoic hair good in stoic mashed pool roadbed cherished hall cina ma liar liarten shuckin geels bloated and sheepcreeping nightlife here this mouthin neb ria tiedblank goadhot sunner moma jinnies big wilde foal soup roan sinner so pacrak etime wellwell sat on itethylglo dead penny innerloungewonk unproph ecybent skeleton beadpans trumpyfogbutts drinkdeal sexdeath horrorscreedwriting wit no s kill sod u giteternityreally brokenhearted shapes shocked yes alial province truth tell not contop contempgit rid of pain rid of art art artcold air trmbling snowdead in ethylglo whore pic screaminhg primal cuddlemunch paints tars angelic childrenthinnedout beauty final postpopdopple snarkcritics fleahpatties regretting ears lake tree skieshouses sundecks dieto no elegant softseconds rugged cliffnefferti notes paying mascular dejection quick ligt dimple signknock out outtt rock blowup sensat sert diettry allovercompo sit iconic this wringwriting first from oceans allin mo tilly cocktail propirinted ordinary instant con verationon faceshopper can cancer cancancon up amomo coppletdimjeers for kews boro tributetoemails clippingcarpet fogharemdeal herethis mouthinnebriatedblink roundwardfall deemsteelscrewsexscenedoneoveralloverlasting impress ion shadowsguided by buddingpoking orclashes herethis bartersangels eggsalvosalvationpoodguppyfin engl ishtar forestdome dinkynutslostthere cherishedhallu hallow hollowedfrownground round free tipplegates dishgaush bless ropesmile rif lecan terpul lies seeyesthen everyoneleavesfall home dearthglop spreading like flooding tile homedroned sand stank suitor filling host fileunknownno sound flopping fishfaker foal sip moonoon gopreyundercover cove roadfling bask wounded animalleft wing interruptions adness tode athther tipoleum lip budding defining bordersdefining secrets acti vites heart attackalone vegaswords burned hospitalboro tribute daymix all poking outfueling drugsin shotsup ply cancan certain battle mourning buttrow minzies matters salt on planet scam ... ... blink


asurt aoczoum. al jincee k f.gum u chlat x ebo

1. sway fah ris noes,knows splee hopped id toArthr it &would be heardoom ter, she hung bulshtbellson. iplet.fall this is bisons. lo et us ware aboual mon murmured. eynard is lian t’alps. hist is pal mestryamelry, this city; business, whowherever the godblam ed crawl, a boot on(signs erite had no thair that is the ‘mujakal’ chocolate box, owl ona brot, and chcknhas withineth innish poroand dung nobil oroman cl ass r oom desk odour criesrev i ew of the old band ycox, auld max montrum peteny. lipoleums is the chillired cheeks dished up on this summit of gritgold with th cobwebscrusted 2tall means), mehush and nung and weeappy, expand a brown of pilpe. fictionurl ed bane of speed: felt kidory flight blue molarsfour supee rayhexlacroy ghal raxarosa craxacrucia (ian) variety fireweaverlouver reblurted secondbest pub’ns (an eagle to the primary and with the bluddle fifth) beter half i resipicy saw pattiejackmartinis aboot like allyblock manure works on high that’s h el lowmuny of artsdealuce of the improbububleep has it with peewee and wizounning knowldgble clarprofundus . execution with …


dreamin this dream i had i have. puigs-spiderwoman kiss-nails all-hand-gladly his(s)unmistakeable up-down-a/cross & recrossin - land/s / borders / over all. however still they creep, they mission-creepin scratched-missives genst ov all deepin those self-same. insignia-deep their bandin fell puig to second deaths. only folk alls-where & every-stripe up-fall & all-write - our queernesses now - they boxed in rainb(l)owin so many kiss (from) us spiderwomen


walking out to nature & no-one & nothing else. water baring blade, tree strips down, ma heart/h ripped. our water long-stolen, leaves-lung cripp/led, heart-blue/s steeled ma frosty fire within. return to engels and conditions ov english working class/es: treasures which are ov no lasting use... which in the end moth & rust (i.e. the bourgeoisie) get possession ov. oh - its no longer just the sky crying but marx & angels, moths & rust, f/lights and fighting. alls bared beat, a rare, bare beat, ma attacked-heart skip-skip-skipping


reclaim / re-clam / clam-fish / clam-up /clam-shell-cd casins / ur - ur - ur - all us roots ov language - languagin - language-sing, aye roots, routs, groutin. mind skips back to laughin heads off this weird-wonderful wall before sky fall in - all ghosts ov stone, plaster, paint - faint curves and righteous angles - reds, yellows, blues - primarys then so much more. toons hatton gallery till attendants fume me noise (early sound poems, no?) find us head-cock and silent-pointins, proper admirer ov art see, wz only six. turns this is kurt schwitters last survivin merz - ill and fleein nazis twice-over - and we - we imprison him 17 month, speed up his un-englander death. his torn, his tear, his tearin, rearin, rarin, tearyin, merz torn from commerz, ever torn from never, light torn from darks, his life-long dada sparkin. so heres some ur for yu kurt gave-give-given (me / us) so much meanin - our wor(l)d from grave/s & beyond. end his what is madness? 'politics stand at the soft core of our time. may that core soon soften further and may it leave our time free space for being free.' reclaim / re-clam, aye / but never clam up


uh;myaperchu blatter of gulls is this one on me ? water’n my ears are me heare ing this ‘crectly ? HAH!hahah k eke ! kek ee k ! . . . and renew our sighs , makes these tinny facets re fleckt all factses : thy rusted razored edged metal scraps stringy green mucklewashed darksandlickeds edges dribbles bubbles – shpittle shpittle stshrackshhhhshhhahhh shhhhhhshhh ! lakeerielakeerielakeeire her human stink of fish of flopping fish like man & woman embodied libidinaleave loves wrackings on waves of clotted cloth white mouths moth obeisance abreast of stars light sigh in sigh out klugghh kluhhjj so many little deathsssminnows in a bubble tub bluuuuu bluuuuu bluuuuubbbb ox ox ygen oxygen oxyeny oxyeny oxyn oxy ox ox oxen silver scale flesh and flash ( how much a dozen ? ( take two . eye lands on somahhone sweet and firmah meant for you to pluck from haze ? not in a midge’s life , not in a billion of ‘em . inhale breathlyness herie heaven scent alheaves here and so tenderedness eludes usmes heave and hold cleave water’s tendernesses undress our bones yesss shorely yesss l’heave them scattered with sheephead skulls and lucky stones in wrack and suck of seiche yesss


crypta chamber beneath in the apse of saint germain beneath chancel naves and transepts the ritual rooms of conceal and hide the body must be burned for the soul to survive shallow scraping to removal of topsoil placed into a chariot burials concrete box and will burial istone coffin itself djemila in algeria built over mithraea past tht tomb and exit the burial vault grave mound kurgan long barrow for backfilling the body in a wide range of positions retrieval remains transfer an ossuary cut following found beneath mausolea chapels personal coffin estates the bone rank wiff of rank bodies of dozens of former royalty blocked up symbols carved on the headstone encompasses cenotaphs dead afterlife celebrate life tumulus avoided funeral monuments thermoluminescence ditch and drain cup and ring marks weeping angel stained with red ochre mandible of a wild boar in the arms of skeletons to return from the grave to terrorize the living runic and betrayed by the master menhir french middle breton gravestone was the stone slab that was laid over a grave not float in a flood at chlef and decapitation burning removal of the heart natural process of corpse decomposition obvious radiocarbon dating and dendrochronology with aptrgangr reveals to be immune soucouyant dominica illfated choice to get married megaliths in brittany anthropomorphic stelae inhabited earth before biblical flood rissuing handiwork satan beaten black and blue by this vagrant monster laid bare the corpse turgid and suffused with blood spurred on by wrath the senseless carcass taken for a leech filled with blood body consigned to flames crushed her by the insupportable weight of his body age of burning burnt their dead king serious nuisance problem was solved by the bishop fields of the village sickness within three days voodoo inspired rationale undead slaves rather than gestures of ceremony arrayed in rows stretching across four kilometres perdas fittas vishap masseba axumites


available fruit flavors with numerous shapes often given away free at banks and barbershops sweet tooth swirls twist into circle at room temperament one can ice confection on a stick ice cream called bubble gum chews unusual meal worm larvae embedded in candy and other novelty flash bitter sweet attach motorized devices make the entire spin around her smack sour although effective is untested anecdotal loss may be due to the power of suggestion ingesting without fuss ingredients with fast action can be used as military weapons to make palatable candy simple and probably invented or reinvented by suck time appears to have been a distort speculation during war some believe a version had been around since early claims the modern style trademarks her man by braiding his pubic hairs as treats after a popular race horse initially referred to soft rather than hard candy may tongue and often slap context references to ancient toffee apples closely resemble middle fingers boiled with handles still a mystery for extraordinary chronicle on how large amounts record the lexicographers are defined by the presence of sweeteners such as common home cooking hermetical hydrolysis sucrose gives mixture the commercial ingredient final variety of syrups obtained by starch all types of corn syrup scheme revisions classify chocolate and caramels cachous nougats and fondant preserve peels lozenges pastilles that match the code splits sugar across purchases baker use to offer guests a celebration or travel indulgence in rich foods seen as special resorts transportable purchase excessive consumption has been associated with increased incident consignment of high levels with lead restriction there is no specific maximum colorants particularly yellow quinoline have many striations around the world tartrazine for example can cause allergic and asthmatic recons an entire phase out see also peppermint use for cardboard rolls which were not very successful as wrappers to keep fresh noble savers next to cash registers


Little plump bird in the beams above the door of the supermarket, praising, shamanising; fruit, meat, dairy produce. I caught a bird once, an abused bird; a little girl, timid and shaken, with the eyes of a beaten puppy, and I shamanised for her. She screamed into the sky and was healed and the birds in her head were loosed. Who loosed them? Who shamanised? She returned as a bird above the beams, sat at the entrance to the supermarket, whistling, shamanising; love of fruit, meat, dairy produce. Her song was a song of oneness, a thin pipe organ song from Creator. But I had to leave quickly, and carry groceries home, ships and angels sailing in the dome of the sky above me; pink clouds, like cough drops from Creator, wheezing. The little girl is free, singing for shoppers at the door. I carry birds in every atom, singing, and I shamanise for abused children.


You can dream of spacecraft and meteorites falling, and then you can wake and pray, and people float by your window. I meditate for a lady who is lame, and I enter space for her, internal blue space, lifting her into limitless imagination, spinning her, shamanising blue, making her an astronaut who floats and dreams her own colours. In the same space, I sing for Jumping Girl. Jump. Hop. Jump. I sing and soar for Jumping Girl, become a bird for her, huge and soaring, lifting her on my back and swooping through new realities, inner panoramas; which are her, which are Jumping Girl, who wears hoods, who wears sneakers in the rain. I pass men who wear Jedi t-shirts, collector’s items sewn by Bangladeshi kids. I sing Hollywood sci-fi theme tunes. And whatever, whatever, the eagle and the astronaut are one, and Jesus was a shaman with Tourette’s, dancing on the water for Jumping Girl, spinning broken bodies like satellites.


She reinvents life like Tupac rapping Stop, Stop, Stop to staccato heartbeats a child unable to smooth her exoskeleton rough as shards of shale or Loxodonta skin gray as cloud forest mist over Monteverde miles from the rim of Arenal and La Pacifica’s tapirs (Tapirus) bearing bulbous bodies from forest to farmland grazing on mangoes felled from trees by monkeys (Alouatta) fighting for the ripest fruit she might have used for making empanadas served after siesta con cafÊ black as negroes sorting cotton or as delta loam waiting for farmers’ seeds a fertile canon of memories re-purposed like mended clothing shared with her brother hoping for his own skirts and ribbons and for a red leather coat with pearl buttons carried from Gope to Windhoek where every hunter-gatherer knows that beauty is power and poetry is fiction like a math model describing the world with only a few coordinates taking her home to the Kalahari.


I wore a pair of combat boots to an A.A. meeting and the speaker asked me if I was stationed at Fort Bragg and I said No but I would like to be♂ The speaker said his father forced him to shoot his dog who killed chickens so his mother was forced to make dumplings and gravy every day and fried chicken on Sundays♂ I asked him to meet me at Bojangles® but he said he needed a drink so we had lunch at Applebees® where I told him about my plan to build an amusement park in Fayetteville a replica of the base including a hangar housing carnival rides designed like jets♂ He said staying sober was as much as he could handle but his brother might be interested in part-time work though he has P.T.S.D. and gets spooked by loud noises♂ I took the vet’s number and paid the check before signing on to OK Cupid® where a message from “Amber” said Hi, handsome, let’s hook up and I thought about it for a minute before searching for a vacant lot on Craigslist®♂


How many years must we go on like this, our dirty little secret? Slow down your text book directives, now pick up the woo pace. The soles worn down to almost nothing, rub my heels. Do you feel how the skin meets the bone? How it feels like there is almost no cushion there at all? Or is that just the norm for a man of your metal? Are you a hybrid like a Prius? A go-cart? At least you are smooth. Maybe I like it a little rough, a little stubble. Be there to weather the rain. Let the right gear rotate. Shift a body. Shield me. I just want to wrap around all of you. I don’t care about the temperature. No that’s not true. The sun burns me every day. It hurts to be safe, as is the way with hiking mountains.


The panel discussion contains all robots and one human moderator. They discuss how to imprint human brains (brians) onto the circuit boards. How to really feel all the feels. How to use tear ducts like a self - cleaning oven. There is no laughter, however. The robots like to tell jokes but they haven’t figured out laughter yet. No one knows who is laughing because the laughter is all the same. It’s an awkward HAHA HA. Just the three “HA’s.” at the same decibel level. The humans do not laugh because they are scared. Notes from the brochure: Witty commentary comes when one is relaxed. This is another concept that is hard to translate to robots. Wit is a distinctive characteristic – sarcasm is not always witty or even humorous. And each human does not always find another human to be witty. Guest speaker, Data, will take questions at 2pm.


The Navy SEAL team has stayed up past 2 a.m. sifting through the 8,615 search results for beef jerky on Amazon. A faceless stranger appears at their door, smiling to the extent that he can. “Shush,” he says, “shush, shush.” I would love to know the outcome, but I must leave before the winos who drank poison liquor turn the most garish rainbow hues. Every definition degenerates sooner or later into an illusion. Want a for-instance? Although he invented the Heimlich maneuver, Dr. Heimlich was never once called on to use it.

Mexican wind god


The men here have heads like a machine inside a lion. & so we smoke, we have wars. & eating a fly is eating a fly is eating a fly off Gertrude Stein. & each step is a flightless bird along the path we walk. & the buildings along Silver Springs Boulevard grow fainter with our drunkenness— the white streets poised with their tinkling leaves dying. & the bread of each tree tastes like suicide to us. & there is a craning blue heron watching the sky, the water—one tongue of a thousand hounds licking it; one muted simultaneity standing there like hardship, like magic. & there is always this rubric of a plan in the works, of things dying down in the sense that they smolder. & caught in a web of solid white air, we paint cars for a living & step out of a Wendy’s. & orange is a mood of small dense fast moving particles—the other half of what daylight calls meaning. & somehow Jack Benny goes here on this line. & the sky is a flourish of nine glass flamingos—a sentence even longer than meaning allows!


Paternal rumble racetrack moth regards a ceiling canister with soft imploding eyewash sock roulette, discursive amity of positivism held in backdoor pocket spool of cauldron angst, fledgling antipodal tank trip troglodytes skipping through Paleolithic brouhahas in sensorial slapstick. Merging with the hollow swirling copulation core of minions of stolen plaudits, Chief Amoeba drinks in stereographic memories of teary-eyed couples, cacophonies interred along fallow senescence of upbraided spoof mechanics, flogged to dizzy sight goulash. Steeped in the hardened eclectic sarongs of logged electrolytic parasites, cobweb stars spin wildly from packing meat lot starting fun to womb predation gnome decorum, stashing honorary floozy stumps in knife deposit cots. Burlap sheets intone staid ovens of lying atavistic bicamerality, crushing salty combs in sputtered stairwell runaways. Homing halters feed criteria beneath subliminal inanity at quite a regal skillet’s hoi polloi of ballast weaving taro-jointed shelter policy in tandem mist of oxygen eradication. Slowly Chief released his outlined bodily shack finger shards, vast memory of cooking grease gun fumble keepsake wash to moats in smitten sagebrush eons blond and purple skies to downhill craze to pallid ancillary stone ejection spate. Swans demote his killing surge, then fly bylaw morsel codex symptom freeze to neither junta spurt of Gaelic garlic breast of chic entendre, swigging protoplasmic fender blades of turbaned eyesore dignity into reductive missionary posit. Chief thinks to speak and wonders how mangy eons can pass in uncharted silence here beneath the drainage switchboard ghost of straw Myopian backstreet Sally’s coffin coroner. He is off course, of course, by half a planetary spin, having been assimilated in Nerd Americon. Was it Pi-or-e-uh or She’s Cargo? No, it was downtown Terran Hoax! Yes, even the snowballed creator of the simulation forgets from dime store time machine to omnipresent candy skein of rebirth snap-off stoolie partnerships in qualified adjudication ceremonies. Swelling bedroll or knocking kneed scowling curtsey? Only her spare caresser glows in shoreline crates of soggy bold auxiliaries. Even mired amassing sleeves, the pseudorandom wind has browned the solar screen to dusty pirouettes of cluttered monorail intake, flopping medulla soporific Anglo-Waxen submachine colonic cleft of gloved and fancy fleecy eight-ball spanking kilts clean to spurts ungowned in scalar pachydermal doctrine.


Meanwhile, page boys breeze by, bailiwicks burning to detuned scandal operas, aerated lotharios lugubrious and sloshed in lusty cascade conch opinion, scolding glassine pool boys. Poor Chief; this was only his first day in purgatory or the bridgehead bardo or the pride’s Shetland poverty revisited, reborn again again as all ossified permanence addicts must somehow be, a countable infinity of hullabaloo hotel check-ups or should I say check-downs to portly flounders with cheesecake scrimmages? Sin deed, the images in overwhelm, a glut of born orthography all but derailed the good Chief, but ciliated pairs of amusing easy seizures, provided by infrared stricture bearers, kept him glowing, rolling ever onward. Yes, he will habitually grease the red light spatial at the awesome sands of She-Womb Jimmy Cracked the Scone of Séance or Sighing Pain or Tin Again or Guacamole Canal or the Score I’ll See or Stalling Grads or the Spittle of the Bilge or Antseat’em or Betty’s Gurglin’ or Happy Automatica or the Geese of Painted Seedy Birds or Not Another Sake or Eight Teen Elves or the Cattle of Sally Forth of Gold Car Door or Sickened Men’s Asses or any ova toucans scare us into menschen ink.


From the Hot Blue City Desk, dateline indeterminate and slightly irrelevant, a pressure cooker plastic mouthpiece of a timed transport face reward rarely spun in wholesome forgotten hindquarters of neural detritus, floating gelatinous memories resolve to swollen ashcans packed to denim overload of disheveled functionary mayhem. Planets come in loutish and unmentionably clarified by stalled statistically inevitable global crush to cruise line menace project wastrel spreading youth in disconnected lifeform bucks across imploding sky. Come out radioactive children, wheezing hyperactive bread machine in burbled colloquy of tangled paralytic reasoners on sabbatical from mellifluous repeater junket sty known universally as multivariate octopi. Ports fill to overwhelming glacial antidote with flesh waiter crouton knobs of jobbies floating cranked and incandescent down to coral gravy yardarm lookalike intestines, smudged to copper comity by soggy alpine eulogy for Peduncle Sham wonton you to turnabout fair ploy fer cubists daddy-o! Always wading for the punk chew activation wad never came to quiet doorway instep of the urban shallows, petrified to hollow redwood tease could drive a mental stockholder right through the eyes of any old titrated guitar vine cooling hour. Slipped clean away to momentary giblets, lineal tines unknowably recanted by top-shore booby pratfall tarpaulin selves what mustard bean copped to twenty dirty facts about bite plane followers of sheet-encrusted stony paths to hapless solvent involution queens. Pawn show versions contraindicate exclusive value fall from craving attitude in slow gravitic bones surprising slackened consonance within a punctuated alley. Cashew scary axe in crablike sidereal expulsion teamwork cue ball cuddles clip ecliptic carvings south of solid marble mayday into sloped garage blend succubi, giving pause to slowing caissons in March of idle hatters. Measured olive obliquity obtrudes all oblong into bubbled heaven bongo sniff of emulated deeply oxygenated slam, festering at a meanly pasted marionette’s pejorative thistle. Lusty transportation eludes a sonic assonance inspector, coughing chemical pros in convict shin transplant, stilted by stultifyingly perpendicular poplars lining grainy Shallow Blam of dazed against fast particulates. Fallen sudden leaves resect a rocket’s christened treetop pulse, wristing heady hourglass handiwork across the Crepe Video Stripe of potted lines and percolating perfidy what humbly sires the difficult. Clipped circumference circumstance inspects your peristyle for pavement, plumping unborn keystroke combinations up to downy reenactment mercenaries paid in obviously obviated obsolete and altogether ungainly funk, summed kinda slinky scripted periscope claws might’ve enslaved yer war-torn bauble of a bodily enterprise in subtle lure of civil wartime. Purpose of hardened copy discotheque is pure androgynous shambles shackled total spaceport livery unlimbering limburger pizza prize fight alimony, sought in boldly warehouse Congo agitation mumps of scanned eclairs.


“Helm won’t cancer, Cancan Skirt!” “Shallow head to third base partisans, mustard!” “Aim stewin’ the bestial can, Keep Tin!” “Raw gerontology data. Key swap electric peel. Instead he asks she goes.” “Sigh sign, Cancan.” Ding ding. Ding ding.


Who’ll breeze a residential buzz-cut in the lower hours of liberty? Her tomb’ll bring him no profit - God forbid she should fall ill! The most famous surgeons are quite the reverse of picturesque. Few have the sufficient ego strength to withstand the candies in her mouth. A clean escape saved her for my poignant effusions. Few choices will be honored if many ask for ONE. Her tomb’ll bring him no profit - God forbid she should fall ill! Few have the sufficient ego strength to withstand the candies in her mouth. It’s a pity these painful deaths can’t put together a single verse. A clean escape saved her for my poignant effusions. Few have the sufficient ego strength to withstand the candies in her mouth. Tell me why Hyacinthe Maglanowich says it’s a pity to suggest you are the best judge of residential buzz-cuts. Come twilight police receive four inkblots unpeopled by parched articulations. The most famous surgeons are quite the reverse of picturesque. Few choices will be honored if many ask for ONE. It’s a pity these painful deaths can’t put together a single verse. Her tomb’ll bring him no profit - God forbid she should fall ill! Few have the sufficient ego strength to withstand the candies in her mouth. A clean escape saved her for my poignant effusions. Come twilight police receive four inkblots unpeopled by parched articulations. Tell me why Hyacinthe Maglanowich says it’s a pity to suggest you are the best judge of residential buzz-cuts. Who’ll breeze a residential buzz-cut in the lower hours of liberty?


Come close. I’m not here but I try to be. If I were anything more than what you could make possible then I were a thing too riled by the compression of what I have spent so much time attempting to unfold and thus disintegrate. You are what has come in and out; you are the lengthy pallor I drive over significance to keep it up. So you could talk about how what was understood was not realized nor what was talked about very significant. I try to be here. I try to be here next to your logic. I inhabit all and everything that that statement before the confession to connect, yes, to connect to you, who reads this, all this, compressed into, highlighted and signified, without a knowledge of what might just or just not be united, verily, verily, some intimacy similarly understood, realized, what have you, by something outside of what it affects. I am outside of what I affect but only in that I refuse to have that be me, at least now.


Routine blemishes unsavory diversion. When I blanch, the slingshot of my dowry branches its elastic against brazen markets. Machismo plants itself squarely before a level best reportage. Now and at the oratorio of first-come last revved. Silence obfuscates this pasture, his and hers. The dark dividing line rings true until the stop sign winters in nostalgia. Why not configure grades the way I think? Toss a mood into the tall chest, then hear the ocean swelling forward/back. Scratched surface of the beach is mine. Reserve is mine, revisions, thine. Repairs we share. I think it's time to overtake the minions of a moon at rest. To relax incipience the lineation trashes vestments. Father so-and-so is dead. And Sister Yes. The modest umbrage. St. John's Dance overdoes initiation theory. Cleansing as a poor excuse.


Ecstatic exes leave the premises buoyed up by the boycott of a feast of brethren. Stamina just stupefies onlookers. Swaying to the breeze of commanders who would call upon regression to the mean girl apparatus. Nobody is crimson anymore. The youth just say. And politics means everyone wants everything and no one wants to pay. The play-through factor frames the stuck horizon. Now we know who plays the role of screen gem and reversion rainbow. Plaid bespeaks invasive line drives toward Mars. Give me your integers to pay back foster plaudits partially revived by dross. The spindle where I left my handprint frosts environmental audits. Let us stray.


but did not like depression so when the meds prescribed for her depression forbade her from enjoying alcohol she had 2 likes in collision. She had to gauge whether she would dislike giving up alcohol more or less than she would dislike having her depression go unabated. S fretted over this conflict for days then weeks. It drove her to drink.


but that never really bothered her because she wasn’t really looking to make friends. It could be said, then, that she had trouble making friends because she had no interest in making friends. Would this mean that S had a deeper interest in Disinterest than in Friendlessness? Certainly S was not Troubled.


life as a blur. Her prescription for corrective lenses was never initiated. contours references signs led to coagulation to an imagined order. fluidic impalpable feckless fripperies skirting perimeters outlandish exuberant slide scramble preamble truncheon trellis rods brilliantineshimmeryslay aquiline summertime swallow overtime lay low fly high time nigh in season treachery treason sling slow undertow undercover overthrow blow merchants tug the bait never late even the tardy underscored overall forestall foretell forever figurine filigree figuring flattery make much of that only the lonely the brave call of the cold showers turpentine small talk.


that’s not it, that’s not it anymore: that’s it, but then again, that’s not it: but if that’s it, what was that: not it, or not the it i thought it was: when i look over there i feel there’s something and maybe that’s it: but that isn’t the it i thought, and the feeling is not so pure: that’s it and that’s pure, that feeling that i think is somehow tied to it: and so i look until i am sure that feeling is the feeling i’ve been after: i can feel it and the feeling is too fast so i back off: but when i look again i think that’s not it because i’ve seen it before: i’ve seen it before: that feeling isn’t the feeling i thought i was after: the feeling that i thought i felt i was i: but i wasn’t it and it wasn’t the feeling anymore: i’ve seen it: i’ll see it again, but i hope it will be something else, something more close to that feeling i had: i lost it: i don’t know if i’ll have the feeling again: i remember that feeling, or i remember that i had a feeling: but that’s not it anymore: that’s not a feeling: that’s it, that’s it, i’m sure of it: i can tell by the angle of a head, the legs arrange in a way i hadn’t quite noticed was possible, or durable, or endurable before: before i forget the feeling: before i think i forgot, the feeling i had: i had it then it went away: i looked: i looked away, and that wasn’t it anymore.


(for Kathy Kurinsky) There is a cousin in a swillway sobbing in the driver’s seat. Marriage defiles youthful love. Bleary-headed I was in Dunkirk on pharmacopoeia you gave me as a sacrament for my exhaustion with life. There is a beautiful woman in blue velvet who cries your tears as I drift in and out of consciousness. The sister is nowhere to be found. The family is a tailor’s receptacle. My apprehension stretches the length of angstrom. And I return to Dunkirk, where I fall asleep on your shoulder at a bar. There is a professor husband masturbating in his mother’s basement at thirty-four. His phallus swells with blood as he watches Sasha Grey bound and gagged. Caught! Any morsel of maternal affection dissolves PDQ. Howard sits on a crate outside Wendy’s. I give him a cigarette and we speak for some time. When we part he tells me with opal eyes free of dissimulation that I never lie. The masturbator will learn he has lost a good wife. Computers turned the colonizer into a robot of mechanistic volition. Calculation is a farce. Math is idle chatter. There is only poesy, song and verse and 90 minutes. A fact. Impregnable and bulletproof. He swung from the rope and jumped on his neck. There is a cousin who takes me and my love to metropolitan pastures and woodland to remind me where I first cut my teeth my hair my fingernails. There is a mother who waxes gratitude and another ingratitude for the bread I didn’t ask for. Blank space to fill on the pollen’s travel plan. My eyes encrusted. And there is a sunlit chain hanging tonight about my heart as we depart. “Joseph, stand up!” I return again from Dunkirk and proudly we proclaim our visions of living: “The purposeless ease of western decadence must be destroyed!” And you: “I just want to live a happy life.”


Because yesterday _______ started shouting at me to recant a statement I made when in hospital as soon as he and Mum returned home (and note that that’s after leaving at precisely the time they expected me to call and recant) I, once again, don’t feel comfortable being in the same room - well, house, even - as him (we’ve a long history of altercations, he having been abusive to the whole household) and so have strategically stuck myself in my room like a teenager again. What am I meant to do? I want zero to do with him, and think he should have zero to do with my siblings, and have a bulletproof psychological rationale for why, but Mum still lets him come over and has, for all intents and purposes, stopped trying to get rid of him at all over the last few years, despite the thousands of offers I’ve made to, despite substantial travel time, supplant him in the role of getting my siblings to school and the house’s groceries home, thinking freedom from an instigator of trauma preferable to the inconvenience of a long walk and a then-hour-long train trip. My statement (the one I’m meant to recant) pertained, originally, to an incident I felt Mum never adequately clarified, in which it was alleged he had acted inappropriately towards my sister. After I’d contacted the authorities, Mum informed me that the incident had been reported priorly to the very same authorities, which I thought was weird because other times I’d pressured her for further information, she’d just sweep it under the carpet, and it was certainly the first I’d heard of the incident having been reported to anyone other than myself. Anyway, I also expressed concerns about my brother’s behaviour in relation to my sister. For those that don’t know, my brother has severe autism. He is entirely non-verbal and sometimes violent, smashing holes in walls and destroying furniture. Over the last three or four years, he’s become wont to masturbate, much more frequently than I believe is considered normal and in inappropriate places, at inappropriate times. My argument was that in any other situation/context, such frequent exposure to another’s genitalia would, no questions asked, constitute sexual harassment. So. After Mum called the social workers to find out the go, she started downplaying the extent to which, historically, _______’s doing this has been a problem, claiming it’s almost always done in private, skipping over the many problems engendered by his partaking in such onanistic pursuits in places like the lounge room or my sister’s room. Understandably, perhaps, my Mum feels betrayed by my call’s shaking up of the family status quo. Now, admittedly, he has been doing it less for the last 6 months or so, which is good because frankly it makes me uncomfortable too to see such a thing so frequently. Her argument (not quite to this point; none of this is, obviously, verbatim) was that I’m ableist for making this claim because, with any other individual, one would simply close the door and pretend they never saw said happenings. Suffice to say, I’m not satisfied by this claim, especially considering he doesn’t clean up after himself after the act. I’d avoid the irony of her accusing me of ableism whilst asking me to recant my statement as delusory/the simple product of an alleged psychotic break, but don’t know how. And since the whole situation/dynamic is making it even more difficult to live here, I thought I’d take the issue to Facebook. So Facebook, what do you think? Was I right to make the call? Do you think such behaviour will have a long-term negative effect on my sister, or, indeed, any? (Note: the privacy of this post is such that Mum can’t see it, nor can any mutual friends who sprung to mind, included in which is my former mother-in-law - or, as we’d then dubbed her, mother outlaw, under whose advice I opted to make the call at all. Please keep it that way.)


After a breathless journey filled with continuous loops of snuff porn, the two powerhouses of Spanish football meet again at the Twisted Spoke Saloon. Excess calcium has bound to the low maintenance vinyl cladding that encases the building, creating a subsonic barrier & so preventing any free communication of ideas. Seems as if the marketplace of the ideolog has become, like so many other markets, an oligopoly. The American public has actually ended up more polarized. My great-great-great grandfather wasn’t a Jinks at all.


It’s very important for Mommy to smell wealthy. That may be weird but it makes me happy. It’s like going fishing without a net. Divide the colonists into three groups. German music, lively locals. The lingering scent of the store’s cologne. All the makings of a bad TV movie. How deep down the rabbit hole have we gone? His trousers fit him like a glove. This is an example of a page. Find GIFs with the latest and newest hashtags! There is still much to learn.


CRASHING, Dreams — cracking like concrete when the bills are due. The last egg out of the fridge snaps and bleeds to me, “Which cloud do the isms come from — the filing cabinets that massacre the earth generations at a time? Or are they sprouting, reaching for some sky? Do they burrow their heads in flesh and manifest bulbed bodies of crisis?” Fry this sucker like a credit card. Defer a rate rattling overhead, a cloud bursting like a yoke. This gooey cheddar, sharp and melting, is how I pay my debts. Envelopes of fluffy egg meat, salt, pepper, and cheese fresh off the skillet greased and sizzling. The toast pressed and buttered. Crunchy with a savory drip in the middle. The collectors will bite, sigh, and think, “Why won’t this last forever?”


SULLEN, Lumber — Creaking companionship through insomnia settles in a home. A foundation ticks. There is no certain hour when the thoughts tilt downhill. An axis like an eyeball vein. Fury can fracture, pickets like a fence washing rain. The carpet clouds judgment if stared at directly. Windows bleak back at a skull. What’s running this generator? Utilities potentially pulsating like a nap in wartime while a walk to work and back miscalculates the question. Save it. And it all starts falling. A globe shedding like an elevator stuck between floors. Panic shatters the front door when the goons need their money. Rotten crank kills synopses and what used to be a fireworks display is just an empty refrigerator and a waistline choking through the sky. Crawl across the ceiling. Unlock the door from above. Remain a stain of mold festering, a coat holding the room together until daybreak recites resuscitation. Among belongings strewn, a harmony hits the hours in which this room soaks sunlight. The floorboards wobble, stretch their bellies. It is always storming with bouts of scattered calm skies.


Small white shells surprised me in the sandy bank of the river. It wasn’t the sea, but bivavular creatures grew inside their ridged ecto-skeletons. Also, a beetle with emerald wings. A replica of Lewis and Clark’s wooden keelboat. The ship you sailed on—the ship of your past—is now in dry dock, on a flatbed trailer, on land. From British Columbia to Iceland there are little museums of wooden boats—all the beauty and terror and ambition of a voyage preserved or emptied—a milkweed pod with the seeds flown or a tiny clam shell. What was alive is gone. What remains, a husk, the carapace of a cicada, the paper wasp’s nest, is beautiful as a relic, or experience’s souvenir. But what you lived, what you craved, how you indulged or reprimanded yourself or others, is gone. Honeysuckle makes the present moment—possible—possible in all its rawness and the terror of hanging suspended in the instant.


Dream. It’s 1920. Three Mexican women—mother, mother’s sister, daughter—killed in an accident. They don’t quite realize what being dead is, and continue to try and live their stories. In a ruined bathhouse, with grottos, moss, trickling streams, arches, alcoves, niches, and domes. They are relieved to all be together, and feel sorry for the loneliness of the bereaved they’ve left behind. Gradually, they realize the ruin—the world—is full of ghosts. If you are quiet and focus, you can hear them, glimpse them. Each spirit has a story. But eventually it fades. The older ghosts are returning to being part of rock, mountain, tuff, spring, fern, soil. Only their very distant voices remain. The three women decide to go on with their “lives.” They all send the ingénue to Paris, to come out in the society of spirits, wear fashionable clothes, and find a suitable husband among the dead. We’re halfway to Little Rock before I realize I’ve seen the triple goddess.


North side bowling alley blue neon Limp Lucky Strike slump wishing a beer Whiskey shots don’t answer but they serve Like the families, crashing pins falling like a wave down, down, down Quarter songs spinning round, leave a candle in the window calling from a payphone wired Pitching ideas to myself Don’t buy sell rate Trouble is eager, common, milling around the undertow The world is my barstool Wash your face and don’t make a statement Speed is just posturing and it hurts Bend me like a matchbook cover Confess the dull rhythm of another life Girls, girls, girl Poolrooms smoking away their souls No place exits, exists, leaves a pillow case note This is certain, fluid What’s on your mind in those jeans Written on the back of your hand I loved the dress you know I like to study, appreciate, curl into you We’re all so tired anymore And the world is tired too So sway sway sway to the baseball game no one is watching Gone away to the wayside All of it You never met, we never met, I never met Or bothered to live more than this Here, now, and soon forgotten Big Bad Wolf standing like an orphan And you burned up so young Teenage Pin-up standing underneath the sign Queen of Hearts tattooed inside Cherry, cherry, cherry So cherry and fading I hassle to smoke and know better This all passes in parking lots Losing another night Notepad inkstains in your back pocket Everything left to cinders Beasts against the block walls Trains move through the tree lines And we are left to dance As a flag waves on the television Calling out to an empty room


The window is swarming with igloos today. I saw one in the shape of a rocket. Really, a rocket, not a firework. One of those ones that fly to the moon, but rather it was permanently grounded to the panes. I cried and the igloo melted. It seemed to end the way so many dreams do. No grand exit. Just dried up. That was it.


billy bob beamer continues his experimental music, writing, small drawings, installations, and digital asemia/visual poetry. Last summer, 2015, he exhibited selected works at the Fine Arts Center for the New River Valley in Virginia. His current digital images can be seen in Jim Leftwich’s online collection at https://www.flickr.com/photos/textimagepoetry/collections (“pansemic playhouse 2014-3”). Recent graphite drawings can be viewed at The Nevica Project Gallery in Chicago (thenevicaproject.com). Clara B. Jones is a retired scientist, currently practicing poetry in Asheville, NC, USA. As a woman of color, she writes about the “performance” of identity and power and conducts research on experimental poetry. Clara is author of two chapbooks, and her poems, reviews, essays, and interviews have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous venues. Dana Venerable is a writer from New Jersey, more specifically the Jersey Shore (lol). She studied English Literature at Dartmouth and will continue her studies at SUNY Buffalo Graduate School in the fall, focusing on afrofuturism, dance, and poetics. Dana likes to tap dance, sing, and attempt to make music via DAWs in her spare time. She created her own vault, like Prince, to make sure no one hears any music until she is dead. Daniel Y. Harris is the author of The Underworld of Lesser Degrees (NYQ Books, 2015), Esophagus Writ (with Rupert M. Loydell, The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2014), Hyperlinks of Anxiety (Červená Barva Press, 2013), The New Arcana (with John Amen, New York Quarterly Books, 2012), Paul Celan and the Messiah’s Broken Levered Tongue (with Adam Shechter, Červená Barva Press, 2010; picked by The Jewish Forward as one of the 5 most important Jewish poetry books of 2010), and Unio Mystica (Cross-Cultural Communications, 2009). Some of his poetry, experimental writing, art, and essays have been published in BlazeVOX, Denver Quarterly, E·ratio, European Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, In Posse Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Stride. He is the Editor-in-Chief of X-Peri: http://xperi.blogspot.com. DC DeMarse was born and raised in New York City and attended boarding school at Millbrook in upstate New York. He lives there still, spending most of his time experiencing, writing, and reading new things. Heller Levinson lives in New York where he studies animal behavior. He has published half a dozen books and his work has appeared in over a hundred journals. His publication Smelling Mary (Howling Dog Press, 2008) was nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Black Widow Press published his from stone this running in 2012. Hinge Trio was published by La Alameda Press in 2012. Wrack Lariat is newly released from Black Widow Press. He is the originator of Hinge Theory. Howie Good is the recipient of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry for his latest collection, Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements.


Irene Koronas is the author of Turtle Grass (Muddy River Books, 2014), Emily Dickinson (Propaganda Press, 2010), Pentakomo Cyprus (Červená Barva Press, 2009), Zero Boundaries (Červená Barva Press, 2008), and Self Portrait Drawn from Many (Ibbetson Street Press, 2007). Some of her poetry, experimental writing, and visual art has been published in Clarion, Counterexample Poetics, Divine Dirt, E·ratio, Free Verse, Haiku Hut, Index Poetry, Lynx, Lummox, Pop Art, Posey, Right Hand Pointing, Presa, Spreadhead, Stride, and Unblog. She has exhibited her visual art at the Tokyo Art Museum Japan, the Henri IV Gallery, the Ponce Art Gallery, the Gallery at Bentley College, and the M & M Gallery. She is the Managing Editor at X-Peri: http://x-peri.blogspot.com. Jeff Harrison has publications from Writers Forum, MAG Press, Persistencia Press, white sky books, and Furniture Press. He has ebooks 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. Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and now lives in the DC area. She is the author of two full-length poetry collections (forthcoming). Her chapbook Clown Machine is forthcoming from Grey Book Press this summer. Recent work can be seen or is forthcoming at Jet Fuel Review, FreezeRay, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Inter/rupture, Poor Claudia, and decomP. Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com. John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available in paperback at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. His pi-related experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook. Joseph Randolph lives, works, and writes in Philadelphia, PA. You can find more material at https://thearchivesdepartment.bandcamp.com. Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in several magazines, including Gargoyle, Pure Slush, Silver Birch Press, and Yellow Mama. She can be followed on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kristinadengland. Mark Young’s most recent books are Bandicoot habitat and lithic typology, both from gradient books of Finland. An ebook, The Holy Sonnets unDonne, has just come out from The Red Ceilings Press, and another ebook, For the Witches of Romania, is due out from Beard of Bees. Mike Busam grew up in Erie County, Ohio and lives today in Butler County with his wife Nancy Schaffer and daughters Rose and Grace Schaffer. He works for the Lane Library Bookmobile and Outreach Services Department in Hamilton, Ohio.


Miriam Sagan is the author of 30 published books, including the novel Black Rainbow (Sherman Asher, 2015) and Geographic: A Memoir of Time and Space (Casa de Snapdragon, 2016). She founded and heads the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College. Her blog Miriam’s Well (http://miriamswell.wordpress.com) has a thousand daily readers. She is at work on a utopian feminist novella and a disability memoir. She has been a writer in residence in two national parks, at Yaddo, MacDowell, Colorado Art Ranch, Andrew’s Experimental Forest, Center for Land Use Interpretation, Iceland’s Gullkistan Residency for Creative People, and another dozen or so remote and unique places. Her awards include the Santa Fe Mayor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, the Poetry Gratitude Award from New Mexico Literary Arts, and a Lannan Foundation residency in Marfa. Raymond Farr is author of Ecstatic/.of facts (Otoliths, 2011), & Writing What For? across the Mourning Sky (Blue & Yellow Dog, 2012), sic transit—“g” (Blue & Yellow Dog, 2012/2016), Poetry in the Age of Zero Grav (Blue & Yellow Dog, 2015), and 2 e-chapbooks, Eating the Word NOISE! (White Knuckle Chaps, 2015) and A Journey of Haphazard Miles (ALT POETICS, 2016). Raymond is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog, now archived at blueyellowdog.weebly.com, and publisher/editor of a new poetry blog, The Helios Mss, at theheliosmss.blogspot.com. Roger W. Hecht’s work has been published widely in such journals as Prick of the Spindle, The Otter, Diagram, elimae, and Denver Quarterly. His poetry collection, Talking Pictures, was published by Červená Barva Press. He teaches creative writing and literature at SUNY Oneonta. Sam Campbell was once a professional football player in Germany. Originally from the suburbs of Chicago, Sam told a group of people he landed a backflip; he’s never actually tried. His poetry is forthcoming from Poetry City, USA and has appeared in Clockwise Cat, Bareback Lit, Misfits Miscellany, Breadcrumb Scabs, Full of Crow, Yes, Poetry, Kerouac’s Dog, Blinking Cursor, Negative Suck, and others. He is an MFA candidate at Boise State University. This spring Sean Burn was Jessie Kesson 2016 Literary Fellow at Moniack Mhor - Scotland’s Creative Writing Centre and created a wide body of work in response. Sheila E. Murphy’s Wikipedia page can be accessed here. Her life continues to include writing, art, and business. She blogs here. Murphy has lived in Phoenix, Arizona throughout her adult life and originally hails from South Bend, Indiana. Stephen Nelson is the author of Lunar Poems for New Religions (KFS Press) and Thorn Corners (erbacce-press). He has recently been published in BlazeVOX, Otoliths, Big Bridge, and The Curly Mind. His latest book is a Xerolage of visual poetry called Arcturian Punctuation, published by Xexoxial Editions. He is a contributor to The Last Vispo Anthology, has published and exhibited vispo around the world, and was once a featured poet in The Sunday Times. You might find him in the astral realms, or alternatively at www.afterlights-vispo.tumblr.com.


Texas Fontanella is a student at USYD. Their work has previously appeared or is forthcoming at Otoliths, Uut, The Helios Mss, experiential-experimental-literature, The New Post-Literate, InBetweenHangovers, Futures Trading, PoetryWTF, Beakful, Rasvada, H&, Moss Trill, Truck, Tip of the Knife, and Zoomoozophone Review. A pamphlet, 7, was released last year by Pete Spence’s Donnithorne St Press. Tom Snarsky is a Robert Noyce and KSTF Teaching Fellow at Tufts University in Medford, MA. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in H_NGM_N, minor literature[s], aglimpseof, Fur-Lined Ghettos, The Helios Mss, and elsewhere. He lives in Braintree, MA.


Zoomoozophone Review - Issue 10 / July 2016  

Contributors: billy bob beamer, Clara B. Jones, Dana Venerable, Daniel Y. Harris, DC DeMarse, Heller Levinson, Howie Good, Irene Koronas, Je...

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