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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 (“Structured View,” 2017) remain with the artist Kristina England. Zoomoozophone Review is an online literary magazine dedicated to publishing contemporary poetry. It is edited by Matt Margo.

Our thirteenth issue is dedicated to the memory of Pauline Oliveros, champion of deep listening.

Penelope Jeanne Brannen the trans women who pee in the woods the story of the inside of God’s mouth tulips

6 7 8

Nooks Krannie the purple on your cheek No one missed me in 2016 No one missed me in 2016

9 10 11

Cand Torrance Paradigm Lost Untitled

12 13

Juanita Rey Hungry Regarding the Package

14 15

Alexander Limarev I Write Just Like I Breathe - Asemic Manifesto (part 1) I Write Just Like I Breathe - Asemic Manifesto (part 2) I Write Just Like I Breathe - Asemic Manifesto (part 3)

16 17 18

Russell Jaffe 19 Howie Good Goodbye to the Merry-Go-World Neither Sun nor Death

20 21

Shane Moritz Signs of the Life


Mark Young Heading into the velodrome


Jonathan Penton The Man from Room V Addresses El Dorado


Sanjeev Sethi Hormonal Harmony


John Pursch Shiloh The Beanbag Hypothesis

26 27

Nathan Stapleton Untitled Untitled

28 29

billy bob beamer Untitled1100word dust grappleage garbalagePOME unttld1010worddust_sowhatPOME

30 31

billy bob beamer and Jim Leftwich fulon soonl dol lil top in cro cos smiling wg ws ws


Hugh Tribbey Fiasco Feldspar Assorted Flutter Dog Jack Abramoff #1

33 34 35

Sean Burn this just aired (for friends european & further afield/s) freefall lovd gobscure

36 38

Texas Fontanella Email to Sean Burn 3rd April


Michael Chin Five-Three


Kyle Flak Things to Throw Your Burrito At Bubble Gum O’ Death!

41 42

Darrell Herbert and Suzanne Richardson Permission




they told us to stay out of the ladies’ room

and so we went into the woods

we squatted under oaks and beside ferns and over moss and we peed in the woods we took trees as our wives and raised mushrooms

as our children

we covered ourselves in earth and grew roots and spread pollen and we blossomed at night the moon sang to us and the wind made songs

for our dances

we turned into wolves and chased deer and drank the rivers and we were free


when i die

when they kill me when i am no longer alive

i want to be chopped up into pieces and buried in a vacant lot because next time i want to be flowers tulips pressing through the dirt defiantly to spread themselves red every year yellow pouring out purple fat and round poison lumps sitting in the womb of the earth

when i kill myself

the purple on your cheek reminds me of a torn sweater/ the purple on your cheek is mine/ is a butterfly deathbed/ i forgot to wipe a chain knitted in moth balls/on your cheek/ on your cheek in butterflies/you mistook them for her/her rope was tighter than your sweater/ & her eyes were million butterflies in smoke/ puffing cigarettes in mistaken songs/ mistaken bruises on cheeks and yeah kind of stuff/ it swells up in mountains but that’s just a lie/ mountains are triangle/ & moth balls are nowhere near as safe as your sweat/your grass beads in a pink desert/ your torn sweater is purple/ but i think it’s copyrighted by jimi hendrix/ in threads / and beads / in threads of rose water.

I saw a jellybean swallow a pizza whole once, (in whole foods/maybe) The minus points were due to the gluten in the freezer section. Anyway, don’t you have stuffs in your face, on/in? The spinach is more than a vegetable that can’t choose its own disaster, I mean it’s still a disaster right? Without a rising hole, in multiple holes, in Whole Foods, yeah even cheese gets punched about, like what’s the deal with all the syringes like pokemon in and around yeast. I feel.

Cake was a miss in January ‘cause of the lack of sniffing. Cake was a recurrent theme in snow gear without wrists. (february.) Blades and cough drops are like a jam by some big strawberry killer in puffy smoke. Cake drips in mouth even in existential circumstances, strawberry jam licks inwards. I felt cake and multiple cakes form dubious alibis just to reject throat exercises. Cake in my mouth/ Cake is my mouth/ Cake my mouth on Youtube but I like cliches.

I am the patron saint of cognitive dissonance. I’m weary of most things. I indulge in all of them.

I think the sun will rise and set when you tell it to, but only in a couple of instances. God only exists in isolated pockets. In miracles but not in tragedies. When you’re finding your sense of self. When you’re describing your bigger purpose. The sky looks like an ad for Cymbalta when I realize there is nothing synthetic about it. It looks too authentic for me to be allowed to see it from the window of this coach bus and I’m bitter about it. I’m travelling ten hours to see you and I’m not even sure if you like me. I hope I start to like myself in these ten hours.

She lies in bed on a Monday morning, rocking the baby in her arms. Her boyfriend is up, making noise in the kitchen. The rattle of coffee cups doesn’t bother her. Nor do the couple next door, talking loud as if they’re a mile apart. The neighborhood’s clanging into being. But a jackhammer may as well be a butterfly. The city’s getting on with being business and bustle, and yet there are still these places where a woman can be perfectly still, as if the action, the activity, is for others. But then the baby begins to cry. It’s hungry. One child in need of a teat, the rest of the world already succored.

It’s wrapped neatly in brown paper and is postmarked Santo Domingo. Would you believe that the postage stamps bring tears to my eyes? But then I wonder – is it a care package? Do those back home believe I am not capable of fending for myself? Or is it merely a gift, a package of love from across the miles? Or could it be a reminder, an enticement, of all that I am missing by living in a small apartment in a cold place far from family? I am deathly afraid to unwrap it. I am a poet. I open up myself with less inhibition.

Dust of the world and When it did, it did

I was surprised. I wondered how anyone could let that happen to himself. He must have really wanted to see Jesus. One bullet hit him in the chin. You were the guy in a leather jacket, and when you wore that, nothing bad could happen to you. If it were now, you would have gone to the police, but there were no laws then. You pointed your camera without thinking about the act and effects of appropriation. We were asked to leave. Oh well. Descendants of Marcel Duchamp sold snowballs on the street.

They are beating the cars with metal bats. I think, “Am I supposed to be here?” That thing is on fire in a big way. I don’t get outside as much anymore. A receipt from an electronics store in Phoenix has disappeared into the archive, to be handled by only people who wear white cotton gloves. I’m left to just cry. You need to be careful in interpreting that. Every day I confront the same choice: stay inside or perish. Someone grabs Suzanne’s hair and twists her neck. We make eye contact. I know tulips aren’t spelled two lips.

Tell the girl to tell the guy that the sky has grown. Phone rings. You describe yourself as physically large and as an honest person. Meanwhile I sit upstairs pulling hairs out of my nostrils. Emotions are approximate wavelengths in response to the experiences in your life that match the vibration of the thoughts you hold right now. Remember when an aspiring artist wanted nothing more than a ratty chomp of a cheese? She slowly rose possibly to make a pot of white tea.

Gift wrapping regulates fluid & circulation of the blood. I drank a lot of gatorade—the rash was almost gone this morning. Then there was a sweet spot, covered by some hard rock band as a bonus track on their latest album, I was a waitress & was on my feet a lot. We need to be pragmatic. The hard position is all or nothing. Harvest losses have a significant impact. Smaller blocks should be combined, where possible.

I am told that you are whatever your occupant wishes you to be, so long as they are willing to wish themselves alone. I am told that desire burns more purely than thought. I am told that you listen only to the subconscious, thus I expected to find you void, as empty of artifice as my sleep. You have shown me that I misunderstood myself, and my every breath will show my gratitude. My senses are scrambled. What use are my eyes, to measure such ziggurats? Your clocks, your intersections, your endless elevators make ludicrous that which I knew as time. I know purpose; some say it wears my face. I know truth, and some call it my weapon; a belt of bladed wisdoms ending those who seek to harm me. Without you, I thought I could not know beauty. But you have shown me mountains within temples, prisms of polished phosphorii, geothermal history in a burnished band. You have shown me that for my species to advance, we need nothing but for truth and beauty to merge. And scattered in your superluminal self, you have given me all of the tools I need. I have made only slight rearrangements. That which is precious might melt; that which might melt can be persuaded to explode. I am ready to fall within you and into you. Though you are more than tungsten and diamond, my love will make you burn.

The set-to of our splicing never rolled into ructions. Haunted by hullabaloo of another kind we were resolute in culling the pacifist course for containing riptides. Desire can never be crushed only rechanneled. The meter of mating isn’t just deasil. We sought pedways to dodge chokeholds of authoritarian pulsations. No hounds of hate can occlude undertows of urge. Veritas of the withershins must co-occur.

There is the distant remedy of falling leaves, pocketful of earplugs, apocryphal donuts on a phantom limb, southpaw of the feline persuasion, Pathetic Swaybar lookalike contestant in the final paroxysms of asphalt fixation, and all the candid oil drums of yesteryear’s misbegotten wartorn summer dreams, the pageantry in slumber-filled daze gone slyly into an oncoming hailstorm, detrital and damnably dental. Of teething ringside sheaths, meted outer lamination hovering in steam of cold winter presence, oven waves of golden biscuit breakfasts, blackened toast in untimed ecstasy of falsified flagstone polling spume, oceanic turtledoves, foreign placement trysts, double-timed impediments on beachhead Beauregard from Bitten Purple Landing all the unexpected rainy day retreat to Cored Enthusiastic Courthouse, flooding Missed Itchy Hippy with chili lips and illegitimacies of crafty suffragettes in lime tape, played on burnished marbled hambone splits, clear from U. S. Groin’s tearful nightfall in steady downpour wade for reinforcements. Steamships would arrive, no doubt, quietly on schedule, up past three or four AM, well behind the lobbing cannonade that kept the poor Conned Fetter Apes awake all night in soggy foxholes, pending sunrise drip to ghost to gone again to puddled boots, lost horses, occasionally dry powder. Whiz of Mini ball, the splintered branch, a fallen limb, evaluated hammock, hogshead tourniquet for naval exigency flung south along a muddy lane, gullies, creeks of swollen feet repeat in hundred thousand empty cries to shout of missing steeples, frozen people, shot to victory in numinous onset. Misunderstood? Bah! All too well in apprehensive obviation, flying headlong eruptive fury, realized explosive rage, doomed tumescent cavalcade of surgeon’s seafood demitasse, crawling back to railroad junction salivation, salutary points of honored map release in grimy sweaty handlebar moustache, loosely shoveled gravy yardage won and lost and only then in valued sod. Caught the shuttle by and blinded by the bilious basal balls of blasting bifurcating bellicose betrayal, blighted benefactors of actual recording glyphs, stripping bark from dogwood deep in furrowed brow-line baggage trains of mad panic, chaotic fireside chatter into radial war. Hot, took over sweltering cheaply seated dungeon dwelling duplicity done dragging dredged dichotomies, dialed to diatomaceous earth, dilatory dead man’s diatribe, doppelgangers dallying daily, draining diurnal ditches, dollops dipped in doughboys donning dime store dumplings, doubled damping docks, dowsing doorway dolls, dipstick depth charge dipsomania. Shimmying rush of roulette wheedle picked his pockmarked pumpkin piebald parameters pretty as you please, plunked upside eternal ignominy, scuttled bucket paddleboat and cranked the quadrophonic gramophone in dimes of tessellated tassels, premonitory pasties, stained inquisitive faces, sighs emerging patient in facetious fumigation fish, frocked for fully fourteen filthy frothy fulminating foxes.

Of course, perforce and penultimate to the perturbations of any crawling insect (be it ant or rotating penumbral unicorn), we can demonstrate the existence of virtually any antsy governing body (e.g., certain municipal bondage shops, blond borrowing bots, straw-colored lube jobbers, jojoba-infested rituals, sauntering saute pans, settee wobblers, affluent floozies, floating rhododendron menders, mendacious assiduity stamen, and the likelihood of ascertained acerbic wasteland captains) by simple recourse to werewolves of an unexpectedly foppish blue elbow, or to sagging desktop tarantulas, or even to nose cone spin rates that some analysts deem indispensable in closed-form solutions to the most highly regarded equations of ballistics, ballet wallet conundrums, brushing roulette wheels, snotty canoe capsizers, kayak cardiacs, electroencephalographic grammars, tweakage twiddlers, winking-eye frogs, fulminating souffles of suffering ageists, gag rule sorters, portably infinite gumbo, Gumby maids pent to crab leg pointillism, otters on oracular optical omniscience orgies, or orbs of orphic octagonal osteopaths, urging uxorious ululation until ushers usurp unusually ugly igloo inhabitants in illicit ipso interactions, if and only if we can somehow prove the following lemma. Lemma. Let L be the number of lemmings in migratory halitosis at time t. Given S, the disturbance function of all continuous eyesores in some arbitrarily slipshod turpentine container T, the totalitarian amplitude of simian repulsion R on some topological space Q of sampled exigency, yellowed paginated undertow, and xenophobic xylophonic zeal; then sweltering blue ballast bristles will tend to all outstanding crepe fruit issues, provided the Axiom of Joy chooses to vacate the battlefield on or near the flirtation quotient of a jeweler’s ribald tumbleweed. Proof. Suppose an infinite tower of babbling brooding bifurcations B exists over a field hand’s new bride N. Let the domicile in distant redress go to sinful incineration with any hip-length elucidation of Kumquat’s Theorem. Then Polled Wirehair Straw’s Penultimate Corollary to the Annular Rodeo Conjecture implies that swerving anemometer vanes will always tumble idiosyncratically through an open door, oscillating at the speed of mimed spelling bee donations. Further, we get for free that the Fermented Gas Planet Theorem, if ever proven, will resolve the Rodeo Conjecture in its most general form, leaving the Beanbag Hypothesis trembling in gullible quicksand. QED.

sparkling stam buckets panic panic frugh Whitman druost enoums seepan buetcaks cane fir eat wood par titi eons spasm wresrway bridge bridge in t’les in doo vocabulary vocabulary frostocks lenpath poets bald hats pie pie water water mer stammer ho all can thungrain moot rem picture der whales thunder symper earlier prestoms symptoms shall earliiq wear passage ben ent present was dawn when pidg’n tunnel night deci kintiming outer outerdes decides oon heun artkin pelt pelt nice one said whenonheartkn street urin in d flows flis fro owm from fresh invev mooter sion in win arc sky wud sion wo messages messages dering heaep eall hearth lettu background back toction come freoth-inspesh gro trucker heve theundart wa sur re room wave nders surrenders shall bre nik ce a sling ue park head bleather wher eding we come coe e rgot atmoten singulargular unsurs awtill poay pain pain holology frost’s poro duty psycus porous nut nut ated grain ce lete dentucial quip at from founcertain dimestore after on onion bang spoke spoke onion is is in it sword de or horbeach beach holly sh blue all to thee ru pyre shha--ring candlelight candlelight cows smiling in crows soon impala best ugly aban soon pala doned wanim ing expting exing everye where verywhere shierimenop must be nailed sig bund dhas ed - buddhas haped happen pened distan alperi mentiphabet alphabet believe facts hoard hand hand unconscious haun conus irs seduscio ctive jammed the the body’s bodull doll topce Byron the shield y’sifsix six their their g from lind charcoal charcoal stam en linden mer infernal stic

Fiasco feldspar assorted Scab breed scarlet covenant layered Emphatic collide Skin crackle carrousel foreplay Donate pulverize dust clenched night float thorax black spinal glare Covenant suspect fiasco voluptuous burning layered cavorts Skin tactical Smite carrousel vascular night dust

Flutter dog mirror carrousel peripheral buzzsaws Aberration rubber hire crackle feldspar fakir cavorts mirror Attack maintain hone Glue steep inner Fakir joke Captive spill whoop silver emphatic glue dust silver maintain suffuse claw

Jim America maintain America senators Koch Country oil addictive treasonous Kind Interstate next GOP

Accusation sleeper kidding Brilliant explained steals track Rolling American thrown Agency race thrown Million away simply total Operations why list Found illegal Secretary Harris Florida official ways law

wood thickens, lights drowse crow rooking & crooking genst new-dream green-unpleasantries who’s rioting? who’s feathering ups-tart? crow’ll rend yu encore / sugar on thru s/he more politician than - better musician / physician than crooooooooooooooooooooooow sung sweetingly sweats at ()man, swears dog g/listen most folks are (or) will further afield & ov field holder ov most secret/s wanting exit before-dinner drown / drowse us-beginners folds with & for bare(ly) papered stuff/ed rent beg gin’s lame & the rapier fat with yield those rape-thick fields howe gelb says yu’v county music here times-fool bloods / fuels mud / falls bud maze grounds the further grassy-knell meanwhile th’lunacy governs pale pale pale next war(r)e/d paranoia off-colour & of-colour ten-to-a-bed & rates higher / much c-row rejects such modellings bend bars & in blue-cryings dont fallow me dont swallow me dont in hunger we’ve washed the european landbridge awa’ again bill hicks swelling : meet me at evolutions bell-curve - dead wo/men tell no?

croak&dagger downings drink us arthritic, import airs - this crow(n)ing how time quickens sho(r)ts


rook & crook this green these unpleasantries who riots?

till the now

& all that (there) is

jes who profits-sing? crooooow song-wings g / listen ice aired

no settling jes th’one multiversing/s?

aye, sorry to hear. I’d be wondering why the quiet. trying to erase more and more, but bogged down in everything. risking exclusion from my degree atm, hoping to get it sorted today. behind at uni but what else is new? i can’t deal with people, get to classes i just always freak and bail got a loose as fuck idea for an essay but ,fingers crossed it all works out (tho everything else has of late generally in a sort of miraculous, unexpected style) i just hate uni so much, teachers, students, etc - i don’t see the point, like, yeah, get me thousands of dollars in debt so i can be another liberal propagandist while we tell the workers we’re really trying otherwise i’ve found being queer like being into drugs - where does one start? and ciara dogged then blocked me because she couldn’t handle her shit one night, one more poseur down yeah too many friends with a petti bourgeoise worldview enshrined can’t see the forest for the fact that they’re why fascism’s writhing

Muggsy Bogues stood five-foot-three and that’s all most of us remember him for. He played in a league with an average height of six feet, with seven-foot giants roaming the paint like T-Rexes in a clearing. But what of a legacy of being short? Of not belonging? A source of inspiration to us kids growing up in those years of his prime. That, yes, child, work hard enough and you do anything, be anything. That’s a good story. So that’s the story we tell. David in the land of Goliaths. No championship glory to claim, but a fifteen-year career at the highest level. A player. Short. Sweet.

1. that hungry brodude in that tan van goin’ 45mph on chuckwagon boulevard street road avenue driveway fungus ballet comb 2. why throw? eat, eat. you’re a lobster with locker room problems in middle school where only burritos will help. eya! i don’t care (i care) 3. maybe the emailed meaning of life is watchin’ television in the 1980’s with a weird cousin you don’t even know and there’s always plenty of microwaved popsicles to go around so no don’t you worry please don’t cry my space travel is always limited to many of reno’s greatest imaginary salad swamps located inside of gloomy automatically hidden church steeples where your gnarly work related memos actually won’t work (sorry, little broken boner machine!) 4. summer fun in a tracksuit yeah! bees in trees, leaves near yellow rotting wallaby husks where all the really real trouble is always is in our town---(prolly oxford comma related) ahhhhhh! barry buttercomb really swatched my walletcomb before my arrogant beach buddy could pee on my radical new orchard buddy from church (we really do pray a lot. helps with dandruff + protein absorption) 5. marty likes to party. his socks are so pretty. like a mule living inside the moving of all things. or dice games on a wild skateboarding ramp. yeah tht’s tru. grl u kno itz tru thts y i luv ur bdy all the wy from reno, yeah! 6. there is no burrito. i was only joking. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

i can’t believe that i’m really really maybe going to possibly meet up with the love of my life tonight (!!!!!!!!!) it’s like one of those 1960’s bubble gum pop songs with lots of strange echoey reverb splashed all over it i mean all the songs on my favorite A.M. oldies radio station sound like they are being sung by creepy underwater ghosts who are still bleeding to death from various pirate battle wounds & a whole tragic lifetime worth of regret and a lot of times that really is actually the truth! look, i don’t know if what this morning is trying to tell me is actually something important or not but still it keeps saying over and over again something that seems to sound like, “yo, dude, what if this day was your last day on earth????”

well, i guess i’d probably just go ahead and probably kiss her

a small innocent solid gold oldies kind of kiss

right on her mouth

the place where all my lousy dreams begin

I did not give you permission to dream about my snail, and now you’ve gone and upset the crows again it’s your fault, they are screaming torn rags in the sky Sometimes when we are in the same room desire stands up and splits my tongue, and speaking of desire, my students have killed off all their characters in the end of their stories, especially the ones who wanted something. I want to tell them they’re right. Kill off the very person who wanted something. What’s worse is recently, you’re some kind of bound animal in my bed, and I want you there. If this were a dream, the moon would be full. If this were a dream we would have been caught. If this were a dream we would have found a lava pit, a body. It’s not a dream, so we find that we’re never going to make each other happy.

Alexander Limarev is a freelance artist, mail art artist, poet, visual poet, and curator from Russia. He has participated in more than 500 international projects and exhibitions. His artworks are part of private and museum collections of 55 countries. His artworks as well as poetry have been featured in various online publications including Expoesia Visual Experimental, UndergroundBooks, Boek861, Tip of the Knife, Bukowski Erasure Poetry Anthology (Silver Birch Press), M58, Briller Magazine, Brave New Word Magazine, Simulacro, Zoomoozophone Review, Iconic Lit, Caravel Literary Arts Journal, Metazen, Maintenant, The Broken Plate, The Gambler Mag, La Volpe, Degenerate Literature, Tuck Magazine, Ekphrastic Review, Sonic Boom Journal, Mush/Mum Mag, Utsanga, Bateau Ivre, Killer Whale Journal, etc. billy bob beamer continues his experimental music, writing, small drawings, installations, and digital asemia/visual poetry. In 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 (“pansemic playhouse 2014-3”). Recent graphite drawings can be viewed at The Nevica Project Gallery in Chicago ( Cand Torrance intermittently writes poems and is based in Toronto, Canada. She no longer personally archives her work online, but it can be found at Electric Cereal and Issue 5 of Zoomoozophone Review. She is working to publish more work in the future, to directly contradict her prior disengagement from writing poetry. Darrell Herbert is a recipient of a national silver medal and gold key, presented by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards of 2014. He is also a recipient of the 2016 Scythe Prize and the 2017 Scythe Prize. He was one of the winners in the second North Street Book Prize competition. His short story has appeared in the Utica College Ampersand. His poetry has been featured in the likes of the Best Teen Writing of 2014 by Hannah Jones, NotMyPresident Anthology, Writers-Black Artists Connected Blog, A Shared Format 4 Poets, Yellow Chair Review, Poetic Treasures Magazine, Section 8 Magazine, Blacktopia: Black Utopia Society Blog, Works in Progress newspaper, Woman of P.O.W.E.R. blog, Media Blast Press, Madness Muse Magazine, cocktailmolly, New York Rising Blog,, Supastars Magazine,, Beat Yard Magazine, All Black Entertainment Magazine, Southeast Hip-Hop Magazine, Poets & Writers Magazine, UC English Corner, Utica College Ampersand, Children’s Screams are Whispers, Tuck Magazine, Wild Sound Festival Review, Dwartonline, as well as HangTime Magazine and The Lemonade Stand Magazine. Howie Good is the author of The Loser’s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize from ThoughtCrime Press, and Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry.

Hugh Tribbey’s experimental verse has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in Jazz Cigarette, Futures Trading, Malpais Review, experiential-experimental-literature, and Truck. He is the author of eight collections of poetry. His most recent is Wrinkle and Mechanism, published by white sky ebooks. Tribbey holds a Ph.D. in English from Oklahoma State University and teaches literature and creative writing at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma. Jim Leftwich is a poet and networker who lives in Roanoke, VA. He is the author of Doubt, Spirit Writing, Death Text, and Six Months Aint No Sentence. Collaborative works include Sound Dirt with John M. Bennett, Book of Numbers with Márton Koppány, Acts with John Crouse, and deer rug with John M. Bennett and Jukka-Pekka Kervinen. Since 2010 he has been editor and publisher of the micro-micropress TLPress, specializing in tacky little pamphlets, broadsides, PDF ebooks, and related ephemera. 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 His pi-related experimental lit-rap video is at He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook. Jonathan Penton founded the electronic magazine in 1998. Since then, he has lent editorial and management assistance to a number of literary and artistic ventures, such as MadHat, Inc., 100 Thousand Poets for Change, and Big Bridge. He has organized literary performances, and performed himself, in places like Arkansas, California, Chihuahua, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Louisiana, Massachusetts, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Texas, and Washington, state and DC. His current poetry book is Standards of Sadiddy (Lit Fest Press, 2016); his previous chapbooks are Last Chap (Vergin’ Press, 2004), Blood and Salsa/Painting Rust (Unlikely Books, 2006), and Prosthetic Gods (New Sins Press/Winged City Chapbooks, 2008). He lives in New Orleans. Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Harbinger Asylum, Petrichor Machine, and Madcap Poets. Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing and photography have been published in several journals, including Foliate Oak, Gargoyle, and Topology. Kyle Flak wanders creepy bowling alleys, collecting lime green woolly mammoth tears. His newest book is: I am Sorry for Everything in the Whole Entire Universe (Gold Wake Press). Mark Young’s most recent books are Mineral Terpsichore and Ley Lines, both from gradient books of Finland, and The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago. A new collection, some more strange meteorites, came out from Meritage & i.e. Press, California / New York, in early 2017.

Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and is an alum of Oregon State’s MFA Program. He won Bayou Magazine’s Jim Knudsen Editor’s Prize for fiction and has work published or forthcoming in journals including The Normal School, Passages North, Iron Horse, Front Porch, and Bellevue Literary Review. He works as a contributing editor for Moss and blogs about professional wrestling and a cappella music on the side. Find him online at or follow him on Twitter @miketchin. Nathan Stapleton (b. 1991, Dayton, Ohio) is an American visual poet, filmmaker, and socialite. Nooks Krannie is a girl and poet. She is half Persian/half Palestinian and full human. Her first chapbook, I have hard feelings & I wish I could quit chocolate, was published by Moloko House Press, and her second chapbook, candied pussy, is forthcoming. She tumbls at and instagrams @nookskrannie. Penelope Jeanne Brannen is a transsexual lesbian cyborg from the future. She is a poet in the NEOMFA through Cleveland State University. In her spare time she posts w4w missed connections on Craigslist based on her dreams. Russell Jaffe is the editor of TL;DR magazine ( He is the author of 4 poetry collections, most recently La Croix Water (Damask, ‘16) and Civil Coping Mechanisms (Civil Coping Mechanisms, forthcoming ‘17). He is a real dad doing real things. Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: The Tower Journal, Peacock Journal, Boston Accent Lit, Red Fez, One Sentence Poems, Cavalcade of Stars, The Greensilk Journal, The Bond Street Review,, Ink Sweat & Tears, 3:AM Magazine, Morphrog 14, Poetry Pacific, Transnational Literature, Meniscus, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India. Sean Burn’s currently writing joey s/he with Tyneside’s Greyscale Theatre - spanning 1981 (hard-right government, race-hate, savage cuts but punk) thru to 2041. Shane Moritz was born in Oregon, educated in southern Oregon and northern Arizona. He spent his formative years in Australia. He got his MFA from Georgia College & State University in Milledgeville. He is the recipient of the 2016 Frankye Davis Mayes Prize sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. He lives in Baltimore. Suzanne Richardson’s poetry has appeared in Blood Orange Review, The Smoking Poet, and PANK Magazine. Her fiction has appeared in Front Porch, MAYDAY Magazine, High Desert Journal, and Southern Humanities Review. Her nonfiction has appeared in New Ohio Review and New Haven Review, and she was named the winner of The Journal’s 2012 Creative Nonfiction contest. Suzanne was editor-in-chief of Blue Mesa Review from 2010 to 2012. Don’t mess with Texas Fontanella.

Zoomoozophone Review - Issue 13 / April 2017  

Contributors: Alexander Limarev, billy bob beamer, Cand Torrance, Darrell Herbert, Howie Good, Hugh Tribbey, Jim Leftwich, John Pursch, Jona...

Zoomoozophone Review - Issue 13 / April 2017  

Contributors: Alexander Limarev, billy bob beamer, Cand Torrance, Darrell Herbert, Howie Good, Hugh Tribbey, Jim Leftwich, John Pursch, Jona...