APIARY Summer/Fall 2010
Letter from the Editors We started as a nameless writing group, meeting bimonthly over coffee or pizza to share and critique our work. We became the Apiary Corporation because we wanted to move from this insular model to an outward-looking, outwardlistening organization. We chose the name because bees take whatever flowers are around them and make honey, and they live and sing together while they do it. We wanted to create a space (APIARY, which you now hold in your hands, along with our website, theapiarycorp.com) for writers all along the spectrum of their craft, from the established to the emerging to those who have just discovered the power of committing one’s words to paper. We believe that the raw, un-smoothed voice can have as much power as the one that has been trained and refined. We want to bring together the work of writers of different ages, races, religions, working in different literary traditions. We believe that writing is not just the solitary act, but the community that forms when writing is shared. We believe that writing is about communication and understanding one another, not about competitions and prizes. We want to capture the liveliness we experience in our city in our time. We want to have fun. We want you to have fun. We hope you enjoy the magazine. And we want to hear from you: submissions@theapiarycorp.com
Michelle E. Crouch Lillian Dunn Nick Forrest Tamara Oakman Tiana Pyer-Pereira
Angel Hogan Greg Bem Autumn McClintock Eve Maxon Charles S. Carr Andy Woodward George Cruz Nate Pritts Paul Siegell Sam Allingham Benjamin Winkler Rachel Cualedare Ghazan Khan Eugene Zebinski CAConrad Jaz Matthew Jakubowski Bonnie MacAllister Phyllis Mass Miracle Brown Jacob Russell Rachael Aviella Eboni McKnight Sarah Heady Laura Spagnoli Sojouner Ahebee Leonard Gontarek Anthony M. Mace Abdur Rahman Saaba Eboni McKnight Mauricio Sandoval Ryan Eckes George McDermott Jane Cassady Stephanie Morris Qadir Mason Matthew Landis Kayla Hill Michelle Crouch
Blind Foal written for staci Whiskey, So Far Memoir (excerpt) I Saw Wallace Stevens at a Phillies Game Hazy Giant Great Adventure Poem Your Own Werewolf Face Outside Psych White Bird Deluvian; Sighted Cotton-white Weather in the Sea Eastern Celebs The Book of Frank (3 excerpts) The Wood Swells with Wails The Wild Jesus Compound Ceremonies Passover Table Caution Do the Right Thing In This We Trust The Moon This Trip Marquee How Mamy Wata Made Her Way Back Home Hitler at the Movies; Paradise Peeping Tom Same Story May 6, 2010 Mauricio news in brief Atropos in Hollywood Twilight Meals Food for Thought My Thanksgiving Limerick Glossolalia (II) Untitled Arrogant Gospel
Italics denote Apiary Youth Authors, Philadelphia-area writers between the ages of 8 and 18
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Blind Foal
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Sweet Jesus, grant me the power to delve deeper, deeper still: cracking it all up, unsheathing, splitting everything then leaving it out in the sun, exposed. Give me some bitterness and irony like the blind foal born when I was ten, pushed out slick and steaming, tearing his mother with urgent hooves– then shot in mercy a day later. (The mare stood, her tender parts swollen and stitched, missing the colt’s nubby mouth nudging her belly. All that work for what?) Don’t listen, if at some future date, I beg for release, pray for numbness. I may say different, but this is what I really want. Really– to scream at the difficult moments, say the awkward things. Let my flustered lovers leave me, let heartache leave me brave. To remember and shudder; let some pain drive me into corners collecting the God almighty ashes and dust, making my own.
Angel Hogan
written for staci
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i thought that love like this the stupid kind of love the love that feels heavy like that heavy love feeling i thought that it didn’t happen after high school but i was wrong and thanks to staci i can’t imagine anything but her going to hong kong and bringing back exactly what i want and more, and then i can feel her on top of me even though she is not, no, not really at all
Greg Bem
Whiskey, So Far
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What whiskey gold breath like a hot iron. Confession: bourbon over scotch. So fuck me American after all: the buildings falling down or baseball or Zion National Park or The Cosby Show. Mark up your scoresheets, boys and girls, the new third baseman likes it too. Because I asked him, that’s how. And doesn’t mind tequila. Lime and garlic and cherry pie. Let’s give him an ovation, maybe sitting. Maybe watching The Cosby Show or reading a map or mapping a palm or palming an ass, as though you’ve never touched. Some kind of relentlessness, no restlessness in the knuckles where rings get stuck. Lift up the mighty: Mr. Cosby in a purple-triangle sweater and that little dance with the elbows. Remember? Is it warm in here? Real whiskey drinkers take it with a splash of water. Real drinky whiskers splash and suck it off their thumbs. Tonight, oh Bill Cosby now of gray hair, oh Jello doesn’t want you anymore. Oh Bill of Rights, rite of passage, yield to the right or just yield. How can we make up for you? Cheers.
Autumn McClintock
Memoir
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(excerpts)
Pre-K/Kindergarten Mystery Student: Teacher Janet was leading the class to assembly. In the opposite direction high school students were walking past us. Before I knew it, I was in one of their arms. Teacher Janet told them to put me down and we continued to assembly. I remained startled for a few minutes afterward. Lower School Susie Camel: She worked somewhere in the office. But the main memory I have of her is when she yelled at some of my classmates to stop running between buildings. For a while I thought her job was to make sure people didn’t run between buildings, but later I found out she was the principal. Middle School Ari Yarnell: Our woodshop teacher always wore the same tan leather apron. It was worn from so much use. There were two big pouches on the front and she kept pencils and a tape measure in there. Her hands were really rough from all the woodwork. I worried that my hands would become rough like 80 grit sandpaper.
Eve Maxon
I Saw Wallace Stevens at a Phillies Game For certain, Wallace Stevens. in the catbird seat behind the Phil’s dugout, shelling peanuts like fortune cookies, in reality, fingering through a glossy program of stars and stats as a chord from the organ presented eachour titans stenciled in colorings blood stripes dipped in cream, contrasting the other teams’ elephant gray with a cardinal perched on the fat of a bat. In the mid summer brilliance, I watched him lift his hat wipe the sweat from his brow, then filling out a scorecard, after each batter darkening the edges of the diamonds. I thought, Wallace Stevens what a comforting order this must be. A pair of aces twirling that day, bodies whirling, whipping pitches that disappeared in the black holes of the strike zone. Yes, Wallace Stevensan inhabitant of the quiet normal life, caught up in the fury of one syllable inflections: Hit it! He’s out! Tag him! Strike three, you’re out! Ball four! You must be blind! Run, run! It’s a home run! (I thought of Wallace Stevens, the surety insurance man, scrutinizing the averages and the odds here. I asked myself: does a lifetime average of .300 really suffice?) And after a brush back pitch of our star
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our poet stood, an ominous glare cast on the Cardinals pitcher, he joined the chorus of boo-birds in the taunting. I clasped my hands like a proud mother, I watched his foot tapping with the rhythm of the organ (hidden in a place behind the sun) egging on the home team. The seventh inning stretch: Take me out to the Ballgame: I don’t care if I ever get back, Stevens singing, picture that. Indulging in the bawdy teases of the Philly Fanatic prancing on top of the dugout. It was the bottom of the ninth. Two outs, two on. Phils down by one. Our slugger was up. I turned to look for WallaceI saw him scurrying down the exit ramp disappearing in the shadows. Come back here this poem is not over yet, we still have a chance!
Charles S. Carr
Hazy Giant:
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If I were a giant I would see hazily– Be here but not here There and nowhere
I would be able to think BIG thoughts, But I wouldn’t think very much.
Anything I could imagine would be true,
But I wouldn’t imagine very much.
I could have epic pillow fights
with the clouds.
I’d gather a great gaggle of geese
a fluffy cushion
as they migrated to Africa.
I’d have elephants and giraffes as tiny pets
Hail lazy thunderbolts with friendly Zeus
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from the clouds.
Some winters I’d stay North Snow blankets covering my giant body–
a part of the landscape
I could have an epic slumber
buried in clouds –
Andy Woodward
Great Adventure Poem
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I’d like to skydive in the ocean Then swim back to Africa Hunt tigers for the Africans I see a poison dart frog I get it and take it to the Doctor I board a plane to China I like flying through a cloud Then I like to eat sushi I float to an island I survive the hail, snow, rain, and sleet I float on a raft back to Pennsylvania And Philadelphia And Southwest Boulevard And I bring home some coconuts.
George Cruz
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Roo Vandegrift
Your Own Werewolf Face One night there were too many stars to count twirling overhead & the spreadsheet built to hold your life’s dull reckoning couldn’t speak numbers so vast. There was something unreachable so you reached. There was something uncharted so you told her to wait while you found your way. One morning, birds crowded an empty field & the racket shone through the cavern in your chest fearfully, was vivid to the edges of an unglowing dormancy. You might have wanted a way out. That night the sky was blotted blue with stars not shining & your teeth tore at ravenous air & you knew what you wanted was to flicker & catch. It wasn’t just a gasp of air before deep water plunge. It wasn’t a hue to let fade like a never-voiced name. You knew what was happening but you let it happen. You damned yourself to a calendar of tears. Remember not recognizing your name written in another’s hand. Remember a voice rising above the clang to whisper “Surprise,” to say you were forlorn & lost no longer. You looked into her eyes when you could have looked away. You were turning into yourself - in spite of sun illuminating the collateral, vested in tangle, that tame skin you’d composed to keep safe the harrowing terror. That landscape you call a groundedness? I’m afraid it’s been razed while your newly fangled maw gaped to devour any last bit of rangy comfort from old bones.
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Her eyes at night & you don’t care what it means for the daytime you. The villagers have always wanted you dead but, finally, you wanted you alive.
Nate Pritts
Outside Psych
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man throws up his Styrofoam wants to see if there’s anything amazing
playing catch with himself
CITY Grow ing po etry in a Petri DISH yet unable to make the grab Avenue of the Have Nots
as his cup comes down
catching eyes fumbles to the sidewalk
does it over and over
tell me this does not belong as he makes his way from here to heights up the block
Paul Siegell
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Pat Aulisio
White Bird
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The couple who lived on the first floor owned a white bird. All day and night it said things that were audible through the floorboards. It argued with itself. “You crazy,” it said. “You crazy in the coconut.” It had an accent like a bad comedian. The bird made it seem as if the couple downstairs were fighting, but they weren’t. They sat on the porch most afternoons, holding hands. They were an odd couple – an older man with a Middle Eastern accent and a much younger woman. The younger woman had no accent. Most of the time she was the one who talked, holding his gnarled hand. The man with the accent listened to her peacefully. Everyone in the building could see they were in love. They had sex frequently, and it was easy to hear them throughout the building. She was the only one you could hear at first - a soft whisper, rising slowly. Then his voice joined hers, in a rough way that was almost pained, like someone pulling at a door and hoping it would give. Afterwards they were quiet. The bird was quiet, too. Sometimes, when the couple was away, the bird would say strange things. “Don’t go, Wally,” the bird would say. “I’m lonely.” “Listen up,” the bird would say. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.” Sometimes the bird would say ruder things, things that the people in the other apartments would have preferred not to hear. Once a month, the woman who lived on the top floor received letters from her estranged husband. Before reading these letters she would sit on the front porch, staring at the return address. You could see her do this from the second floor window. Once, while she was doing this, the couple on the first floor began having sex. You could hear it clearly through the floorboards. The woman from the third floor froze, staring at their window, with the envelope in her hand. She looked as if she wanted to flee, but the sound of the couple rooted her to the spot, and she didn’t move until they were done. The woman from the third floor began to hate the couple with the white bird. You could hear her, in the middle of the night, through the heating duct. It’s too much, she said, in a high, strained voice. “Don’t go, Wally,” the bird called. “I’m lonely.” Something in the bird’s voice sounded mocking, even cruel. Sometimes it would say these sorts of things and then bray in laughter. Naturally, the two things weren’t connected – the bird wasn’t human, after all – but the proximity of the two sounds made the first sentence seem even crueler. Eventually it became too much for the woman on the third floor. Probably there were other factors, too, that made her want to change her life. One day a moving van came for her things, and she disappeared. The couple in the back apartment watched a lot of television. The man was older, a schoolteacher in a school with a reputation for violence and truancy. The woman was an artist. You could hear her sometimes, muttering over her canvasses, throwing
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paintbrushes. Once they had been in the habit of having sex after work, nearly as loud as the couple with the white bird, but now all you heard was the television. Now, when the couple in front began having sex, it was possible to hear the couple in the back apartment fighting, because the sounds rang in the vents. They fought about how they used to be, and why they weren’t that way anymore, because the couple in front bore a close resemblance to their younger selves. And the bird, of course, would talk at all hours of the night. It never seemed to sleep. It would wake people up sometimes, calling: “Listen up! I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.” One day the couple from the back room disappeared. The man left first, and then the woman, leaving her art behind – old nude portraits of her lover that she didn’t know what to do with anymore. They left a lot of their things on the curb, and the couple with the white bird – who were friendly, and puzzled that their neighbors kept leaving – came out and took a few things: some nice pots and pans, some stationary, some paintings of flowers and garden scenes. As for me, I lived on the second floor. Once I had a fiancee, but by that point I was living alone. I watched the woman on the top floor and the couple in the back leave the building, but I stayed behind, although the sound of the couple and their bird made me lonely. Sometimes, when you’re lonely, the lives of other people can work on you like a kind of gravity. You find yourself sitting in your room at night, looking at the windows of the people across the street, and feeling as if the composition of all those other lives is constructed to make you feel like an outsider – that they put on their entertainment for you on the other side of some kind of screen, and you watch it, even if you don’t want to. The couple on the first floor was like that. The sound of their love kept me in that second floor apartment like a balloon held in someone’s hand. One afternoon, I was standing in the window of my apartment when I saw a black coat travel past the frame, just as the woman and the man downstairs were starting to have sex. This time the bird joined in. “You crazy,” it said. “You crazy in the coconut.” The woman laughed. “Don’t go Wally,” the bird said. “I’m lonely.” The man moaned, and the thump of the bedsprings increased in tempo. “I’m mad as hell,” the bird said, “and I don’t have to take it anymore.”
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I watched the coat drifted away, like a person walking away from a job, or a marriage: something they no longer had to endure. I watched it until it passed out of my vision, and for the whole day long I wondered who it belonged to, and where it had gone. That day I made all the arrangements. I called a friend who needed an apartment, I disappointed my boss, I put my plants outside where the rain would find them. I bought my ticket on a one-way bus out of town. I took my suitcase and walked down to the river, where the gulls were scavenging. They were greedy little bastards. They stole bread out of the hands of children and used it to fuel their acrobatic maneuvers. “Look at those birds,” a mother said. “Aren’t they the most disgusting things?” She moved her children away from the water. The white birds fanned out over the river. They looked serene and untouchable in their happiness. I stood there for a while and watched them, after they had driven everyone else away. I might have watched them until the night came and my bus left without me, but in the end, I tore myself away. I boarded the bus for Washington.
Sam Allingham
Deluvian wake pass stigm a dare hints trail
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storm lowed old bull switchstick prod a wire no toehold still enough left maybe worse once heard tell touch if there lie faint outline edgegrass brass cocolaglass stubend cigarettes left nake breast mudtrack highnote
hit she scoured swept skirt pass slip break fast cake black leather bare back buckle burn palm his red injun past drydirt white knuckle under told ears rung thwack warn what gets all wanted rest was dawn worn prescience latchlock slip pass doorframe two nail gape etch height date trundle pass kresson postfence down spitcreek bank breach soak bone lures though lost skip stone on stone linen wrap we left intended cower back front pocket wrungwet denim two zuzim rustface could wait time cast or place
Benjamin Winkler
Sighted
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nor assertion nor denial semrural postbox leant over laided down crode iron ricture rutted road half feral boxcar counted vernal tract wagged open mouth scuttlebrush drygrass beat time palm bared thigh cocolaglass hid brought bloodtongues by baptist same laying hands stood back fought last day winterwind prime numbered bent as snowdrift walk cross cross again spit fore ground gloveless hood down glass fog beneath all known rest back town five dime clink station pump ocular dull house board warnews pare cover hinge left
Benjamin Winkler
Cotton White
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Cotton-white skin of blooms of weight adequate to bow the black filament arms of branches tenacious of the flowers’ origins in green joints, for now. Long tongue petals, like white streamers at the entrance of a mountain temple I saw long ago, across an ocean. I want to cry. Today— last year— a dance observed and felt in the bones suspended; sustenant; abstract.
Rachel Cualedare
Weather in the Sea
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The weather in the sea is the same all the time. It sucks. You could get eaten by a fish. All you do is sleep, eat and drink. My life is boring and dangerous. ghklhbh
Ghazan Khan
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Dale Feeling Guilty, Steven Teare
Eastern Celebs
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O! Those Eastern starlets With stupored skin and pale, slavic thigh. Bound and bruised raw, twitter them a druggish two-step goosebumps, prickled and cold. Cold as goosesteps around Grozny jackbooted into the ice of ‘44 Bulbous, bursting with Sarajevo nerves swollen to Olympic proportions of ‘84. As they pace a dizzying course Westward in a thousand boxy diesel vans, with rusted rims and swarthy-suited entourages. O! How they live, to serve a public urge Little, glamorous, caged birds Paparazzo! Paparazzo!
Eugene Zebinski
3 from The Book of Frank Father was drunk and yelling “...AND RULE #9, EVERYBODY DIES!” upon hearing Rule #9 Frank suddenly forgot all other rules ... “this young bird is trying her wings she’s going to defy gravity any second now” Frank said flapping “I can figure it out with her I can figure it out with her I CAN FIGURE IT OUT WITH HER!” … “oh the burden of nouns no verb can budge” Frank said “like what?” his sister asked
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“corpse” he said “TOSS THE CORPSE! LET’S PLAY TOSS THE CORPSE!” she yelled “oh you got the corpse moving” he said “when will you learn Frank there is no noun a verb can’t cure”
CA Conrad
The Wood Swells With Wails Heat scorched our souls as we prayed for a freedom that never came Eternal screams heard long past the angry moon splintered our already bloodied feet Bruised cause no body should be that close No vacation card sunsets wait for us just the putrid salt from the ocean mixed with death The air drunk off the sounds of breaking bones The air feverish with delirium The air sagging with sadism And my brother leaning on me is already with the angels Inhumanity was our daily bread if us lasted that long We sent our dreams through the chains to the open skies We kept hoping the waves would grant mercy and wash us away The heaviness was unbearable And so our spirits cracked open ancestral moans spilled out to catch and cradle our tearsour last shred of manhood sinking into the sea Why you treat us this way? Why our value get to be defecated on? And even though you crumpled us up
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and threw us awayin your mind shadows our undying eyes will forever haunt your soul as ships go groaning into the night.
Jaz
The Wild Jesus
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This story was caused by insomnia during a heat wave in April 2001. It was late at night and the smell of matches was coming from an apartment across the way. I sat up on the side of my bed. My mind kept trying to chew on memories from the late 1980’s when my family lived in Berlin, where my father was stationed as an Army officer. We left Germany in June 1989, then moved to Australia. I was in Philadelphia now. I stood and walked around my apartment in the dark sweating until this story came out like a sneeze. I wrote it naked in the heat, then went back to bed where I fell asleep very easily. My father is in the woods far from our house. He is hunting Jesus. Jesus stalks the woods in his antlers. He is chasing Ronald Reagan. That’s when my Dad shoots Jesus. Jesus runs off, bleeding in five places from one bullet. Nice shot! My Dad waits. He lets Jesus bleed out as he runs away. When my Dad gets down from his tree he follows the blood. He follows it into the corn field next door. Then he stops. He cannot go any further. There is a Berlin Wall. The blood trail goes over the Wall. My Dad will not. He can smell the blood and the smell of matches on the other side. Dad makes us all leave our house and live in a camp by the Berlin Wall. It’s so far away I have to ride a kangaroo to get to my high school. My friends have me over to their nice houses and ask why we live way out by the Berlin Wall now. I tell them because my Dad shot Jesus when Jesus was chasing Ronald Reagan and it’s my Dad’s job to wait and finish off the wounded Jesus. But he has to respect the line represented by the Berlin Wall. He cannot cross it. He has to wait until wounded Jesus crawls back. “What if Jesus dies on the other side of the Berlin Wall, though?” asks one of my friends. “Then he will never get Ronald Reagan,” I tell him. “And Jesus would never die before he gets Ronald Reagan. That would mean the end of the world for him. Jesus has to get Reagan or Reagan will never be able to destroy evil.” My friends say nothing, and look at me with pity. I ride my kangaroo back out into the woods to my Dad and my mother and two sisters by the Berlin Wall, a thing which I have started to grow to hate. One morning I go to the Berlin Wall to wash off Jesus’ blood from the day my Dad shot Jesus once and gave him five wounds. I scrub and scrub the Wall until there are no more traces of the blood, which the rain could not erase for all the years my family has lived in misery waiting for Jesus. As I clean the Wall, I curse the years we have lost living so far away from everyone else. “Haven’t you seen Ronald Reagan, Jesus? We see him every day in the woods over here. He’s running around all the time! He’s right here! Haven’t you recovered from your wounds yet?” I end my complaint to Jesus by calling him a coward for not coming over to find Ronald Reagan just because my father is such a great hunter. I put my face close to the Berlin Wall and imagine Jesus is on the other side listening to me. I tell him I will go to the tent where my father keeps his guns and I will remove all the bullets and all the extra ammunition. I tell Jesus I will do this for him, to protect him from my father, so Jesus can come back over the Berlin Wall and safely pursue Ronald Reagan and finish the chase he started so many years ago. So I do this. And I throw my father’s bullets over the Berlin Wall. My father sees what I have done. “Whose side are you on?” he screams. My mother tells me to run, that no man can be expected to hold his temper after something like this, even a great hunter like my father. “You’ve ruined the hunt your father
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has waited to have his entire life!” I run. I hide in the woods. I look for Ronald Reagan. Then I look for other bullets to give my father, to replace what I stole, so he can be happy again, and my mother and sisters can be happy again, too. I run to the windows of my friends’ houses at night, but get too afraid to wake them up. A light goes on. “It’s the crazy boy whose father forced his family to sleep in the woods! Pity him! No, shoot him!” I hear gunshots and run all night until I am no longer breathing in and out but up and down and left and right with lungs that expand but cannot contract, they just balloon inside me until I collapse somewhere in the dirt and darkness far from the lights of all the houses in town, beyond the cornfield, beyond the woods that hide the wild Jesus and Ronald Reagan, miles from the Berlin Wall that snakes through everything. The next day I can breathe again and I go find Ronald Reagan in the woods. “I have done it,” he tells me. “What?” I say. He comes closer and asks me, “Have you not heard the good news?” Coming even closer to me I smell burning matches and see that he has been shot through the head. Sunlight pierces the wound. “I have been found,” Reagan says. I run back to my family’s camp, prepared to face my father’s anger, prepared to die if need be. The Berlin Wall is no longer there. “Welcome home!” my family shouts. They all look much older than I remember.
Matthew Jakubowski
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Basketry, Bonnie MacAllister
Compound Ceremonies For Greg
I saw your death in the hills, One rose like the Martiniquaise Diamont. Loomed above, struck like a monolith, A headline for your obituary. Today’s manuscripts were forged in 30 kg. of gold, Etched in recurring forms, No artist would admit to these letters. My lover phoned, non-caffeinated. I stared at panoramas pre-biblical in origin. Few syllables seemed magnified by the tchat, Lidded by this strange narcolepsy. Now I’d walk, crank a lantern, Don borrowed gloves, Climb alongside crutches, Ox horns poised to gore. Slurp soup from a chicken I’d passed roadside On the arm of a boy who had petted it Like a kitten or a pigeon. Scrolling cracked eyes, unexpected limbs, A polio survivor who wore four shoes to support his hands, Frail old women who feverishly kiss the steps of St. Mary’s church, Miracles in the film on their lips, Every day a pilgrimage six hours ahead. More nervous here than in Dire Dawa, “City of Thieves,” When solicited for crosses and camels, I try to pronounce the Amharic for husband. This sounds something like bahl.
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I’ll leave clothes for baskets, Buy necklaces in threes, String instruments in blankets, Celebrate thirty-three among Ethiopia eyes, Smelling your funeral in incense and campfire.
Bonnie MacAllister
Passover Table Mother needs her cashmere coat for next winter’s snow. She’s brittle-chilled. Can’t forgive her for leaving it and taking daffadowndillies of laughter. Auntie wants a white noise machine to muffle train sounds. It’s her quiet time that’s noisy. Can FedEx deliver? Sister gorges on chocolate cherries under grandma’s mile-high. She flosses and pollinates the air with ambrosia. Father can’t live without a heel- hunk of seedless rye and the New York Times. He bathes in moonlight with the lonesome wind and butterflies of kindness Grandma gifts recipes in flat porcelain pans heavy with wisdom. To quench her salty pinch of goodness, overflowing bloodwine in a goblet of despair.
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They’d rather surf in Costa Rica, recline in the anthills of the ancients - the grands. Would it be so terrible if they invited us? Don’t buy matzoh, can’t spend eight breadless cardboard-eating days. This from a person who eats gefilte fish hot! How can they not hear the whispers, swimming in our dreams, keeping us close, feeding us, breaking us in half.
Phyllis Mass
Caution
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Blackened by the facade at this place we call house Not a home, because the walls are built with no substance Suffocated by the daydreams of nonsense Many roofless conversations feed Unconscious of the brutal beating your words deliver You devour my flesh and still despise thy own eye I forget not the many of dawns I’ve cried for your embrace Never was it the right time or the right place In remembrance of all the times your jagged stares Caused me to lose insight as to why I am still in this race Control is your oxygen and your blood spills pain These walls pour such gloom over your shoulders Taking out bodies leaving time lifeless Leaving pedestrians bamboozled Confused as to why There is a storm of clouds over this house when the day has nothing to offer but sunshine Not a tree in sight but all this house ever gets is shade I warn caution when you speak
Miracle Brown
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Lillian Cotton
Do the Right Thing
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The Right Thing is a white chicken Hatched from the egg of the Power to Do From an Egg That is not there No Chicken comes To Refrain from doing is no Good and may be worse To do no evil act complete the verse fulfill the call Behold! Chicken, Egg Red wheelbarrow, rain and all!
Jacob Russell
In This We Trust
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These are the things I thought about today: Bird Strikes
Air Strikes
Lt. Michael who is
picking up books for soldiers tomorrow. And you reaching for the heel of my hand, swollen With desire
And Religion
For even atheists call
God when they come: Oh my God, Oh my God. Meeting you in the tabernacle tonight The Torah
the possibility
Breaking up while
I begged you for more soup And other women I have touched, I sometimes go away Strikes against me
Numbing
Even I call
God when I cry: the answer a Koan, a murmur of faith The plane made a safe landing: everyone got free Bird Strikes
Air Strikes
Lt Michael likes my
blog about bellies and self acceptance while his comrades call God.
Rachael Aviella
The Moon
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The moon is like a bouncy ball That bounced all the way to the sky And never came back
Eboni McKnight
This Trip
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Every time we ride, you and I, we bear witness to tectonic shift. I tell you time slips away, and you seem to notice. Far beyond the place I let my pointer finger fall we end rambling, playing guessing games in the warm dark. Our darkness can seem infinite in a loving, holding-me-holding-you way, or in a get-me-out-of-here way. Each method stars you as the driver. I awaken to the wheel when you want me to, or when I feel the swerve of your hands on the yellow line, the limpness of your wrists as we nudge the shoulder. I can give you all the ketchup packets you desire and scatter the extras to the east winds. You rub chicken finger grease on the dash, stow frustrations in the garbage compartment on your door. I create piles of coffee-stained paper, disposable routes, unwanted attractions on the passenger side floor. I see you changed your oil seven months ago, and I thank you for that. You are strangely silent, taking so long to answer my riddle that I begin to worry you took a neuron-detour from which you will never return to the highway. We get there. We get here and sugar one another, get one another, get high. Holy hell rub your hands together before you touch me. Simply the hand dryer is not enough. I sit complacently, taking the breeze, shooting you glances and smoking the road away. I collect your empty packs and smell them for my health, hearkening back to your early lungs, erasing the residue for you, dove. Now that we are away, we determine exactly what is needed to be away, per se. A certain color of tree, a scent of dirt, crimeless living. The feeling you’re not being followed. Hopefully you cease to recognize place names and chuckle at the silly ones, totally wrecked on pity for the natives, the surrender of your city-self, the rural you identifying somehow but never quite enough. Is it the way we speak? Blow city kisses across the Formica booth top?
Sarah Heady
Marquee
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for the PECO building in Philadelphia We are 40-foot LED words, digital dolls, rainbow colorized. We are local time and temperature. It’s World Breastfeeding Week! We are Civil War robot re-enactors. We welcome you, Anger Management. We welcome you, Wicker Goods. Every baby welcomes a breast. We are local time and temperature, America’s night against crime. If it isn’t one thing, it’s cancer. Do you know what your breasts are doing tonight? Happy Birthday, America! We are local time and temperature. We safely provide the community Amish cheese and a smiling face. We are in-line skates. Strap in. Wear your helmet. Check your breasts. We welcome you. It’s your life! Get help.
Laura Spagnoli
How Mamy Wata Made Her Way Back Home
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Long, long ago along the Coast of Ivory, there were villages filled with people who were happy and content with their lives. People like Bintou and Adoua, who were young girls who swam the sea in search of seashells and lost treasure. People like Parfait, a well-to-do fisherman, who with the aid of his handmade pirogue and fellow villagers, rode the ocean’s waves way out to the horizon to catch the best fruit of the sea. There were people like Fanta, who turned these catches into tasty dishes or sold them to buy wisdom for her children. There were boys like Adama and Yao who use the ocean to prove their bravery and strength and then dry themselves under the shade of coconut trees. But the ocean could be mean and temperamental and that was why these villagers felt themselves blessed to have the protection of Mamy Wata to aid them on their ocean adventures. Mamy Wata , the most mystical mermaid ever, could always be seen riding the waves like a rollercoaster, her black and gold braided hair swishing through the ocean, giving it the color of wealth. She road through the ocean as if on patrol, always looking to help and play with these villagers. As I said, these were times of happiness and contentment and then came the time of great sorrow and a parting of ways between Mamy Wata and the villagers. One early morning Parfait had gone fishing alone, just for pleasure. A big wave the size of ten palms tree standing on top of each other dropped over him. He was surprised that Mamy Wata had not been there to shield him. He was shocked that he had survived such a wave. When he had got himself together, he could see in the distance the back of Mamy Wata and she was talking to a big ship, a kind that Parfait had not seen before. He felt slighted. How dare Mamy Wata ignore him because his pirogue was small and give her attention to another. He rode back to the shore in great anger and told the other villagers what had happened. They tried to calm Parfait and told him to remember all of the many good things Mamy Wata had done for them. They encouraged him to be patient and wait for an explanation from her. After drinking some palm wine to calm his anger and nerves, Parfait went to sleep in a grove far from his house and he awoke to a nightmare. The big ship that Mamy Wata had been talking to had anchored near Parfait’s village and men the color of the sea’s foam had descended. They descended prepared, knowing where to go and who to call my name. To make a long and ugly story short, these foam-colored men took almost the whole village, against its will and in chains, aboard this ship. It was discovered later they were taken further down to Elmina, a slave factory. Those who were able to escape into the forest joined up with Parfait, who told them that it was Mamy Wata who had collaborated with these evil people, these ghosts with smoking sticks, these thieves of happy and contented people. Deep in the forest, these survivors drew from a greater strength than Mamy Wata, those of their ancestors, and they banished Mamy Wata to the side of the ocean where these body snatchers came. Unfortunately, the ancestors’ strength was no match for the evil that was about to eat their villages for 400 years. And this is how Mamy Wata ended up on this side of the ocean, exiled and out of water, living for centuries in other people’s bodies. Mamy Wata had lived many lives in the New World, but she was never happy. She could sneak into the ocean and become a mermaid again, but her time in the ocean had lost its magic. Whenever she attempted to go in the direction of the Coast of Ivory, the bodies thrown overboard or those bodies who jumped over on their own during the Middle Passage, would stand tall
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on the bottom of the ocean floor and block her passage. Her last station in the New World was West Philadelphia. She spent a few centuries in the South America and a few in the Caribbean. She arrived here with ghost of a man, who was also once the king of the sea and who had been banished for similar reasons like Mamy Wata. He was called Neptune and he worked as a swimming instructor at the University of Pennsylvania and she was called just called Mamy. Neptune was quite naughty as wandering ghosts are inclined to be. He made an extra copy of keys to the pool and he and Mamy often went swimming for whole nights, becoming again what they once were -- magnificent! One Saturday, Mamy Wata went to have her car cleaned. She normally cleaned her own car, but her body was beginning to tell its age and she could feel this. While she was waiting as the men cleaned the inside of her car, she heard from them familiar words, the language of the villagers she use to swim with and protect hundreds of years ago. She began to cry, uncontrollably, and as she did, she transformed slowly into Mamy Wata the Mermaid. The men who had been cleaning her car, recognized her immediately from stories they had been told about her as children and they knew of her banishment to the New World. They, Boubacar and Kouame, quickly took her to a shed in the back of the carwash. They, too, were a little shaken by this event of seeing the real Mamy Wata in West Philadelphia. She spoke to them in both of their languages which was music to her ears. She asked why Boubacar and Kouame would leave their beautiful homes across the ocean to be here -- lost like her. They told her, yes, they had been fishermen, but now the fish are gone and nothing is left to live on. Big ships from Europe and Asia come near their fishing areas and use the latest technology to sweep the ocean of its fish. Nothing is left for them. They shared with Maya Wata how badly she was missed over on the other side of the ocean, on the Coast of Ivory. Many people, they said, felt she was harshly judged before she had a chance to explain her relationship with the white ghosts in the big ships. They asked her did she know she could return home, if she did just one great deed for children. This could clean her record and she could return home, no questions asked, to help battle those big ships which were eating the fish all along the coast and far out into the seas. She was shocked to learn that her return home could be so easy. She thanked Boubacar and Kouame and promised to rescue their villages, but first she must do her good deed for children. Mamy Wata slowly transformed back into her human form and left in her car. Once home, she shared her news with Neptune and asked what might she do to help children. Neptune wanted to know first, if she would leave him alone in this new and lonely world. She smiled and said they would always travel this world, old or new, together. Neptune, then, said he had the good deed for her. He had just learned that all of the public swimming pools in Philadelphia would be closed for the summer and many children would not have other opportunities to cool off or learn to swim. Mamy Wata listened and thought and smiled. She had the plan to bring happiness and contentment to children and get her chance to return home. She and Neptune could not only change back and forth into sea creatures, but they could also transform the size and shape of their bodies. The next day, Mamy Wata ran an ad in all the papers and on all the billboards in the city telling the community that the Mamy Wata/ Neptune Ark on wheels would be traveling each day, to each neighborhood to pick up parents and their children and ride
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them to the ocean for a day of fun and for building memories. The response was overwhelming. Each day, for the whole summer, Mamy Wata and Neptune morphed into one huge ship on wheels and took thousands of children to the ocean. For many, it was the first time at the sea and they were thrilled. Their happiness and contentment traveled across the ocean to the ancestors who opened their hearts and called Mamy Wata back home to do battle with those fish-eating ships.
Sojouner Ahebee
Hitler At The Movies
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Smoke overflows from his cola. Fistful of red candy. Casablanca in the dark that comes.
Leonard Gontarek
Paradise
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I’m a fluffer for lesbian porn. I’m pushing a shopping cart filled with violet plantings through a warehouse big as night.
Leonard Gontarek
Peeping Tom
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The Owl: The sun was just setting when the car, making its way down the dirt road, was in my keen-sight I watched it pull up to the old cabin ever so slowly, like the leaves blowing across the ground in these cool autumn winds. it stopped. There was little movement for a moment then the driver’s door opened and the heel of a lone black boot with shiny chains of silver decorating it cut into the earth . He raised himself up ‘til he was able to lay the matching boot a step behind him, he paused to steady himself . And with that done, there he stood a towering man, brown like the eathers in my wings; his expression was firm like the great rock the setting sun hides behind. He then shut his door and looked over the cabin and the surrounding area. And I can only assume like me he sensed nothing strange. He began to walk to the other side of the car; his steps were long strong strides and once there, with a pleasant smile on his firm face, he opened the door to reveal a creamy brown woman hugged in a silky red; men would crown her beautiful. He then shut the door and together they walked to the cabin, almost gliding across the cabin grounds and up the stairs. As he began to open the door he paused to caress her lovely face and look deep into her eyes then opened the door to let her enter and after doing the same closed the door behind him. The Mouse: I ran and hid behind the leg of the table when I heard the keys in the door, when I looked to see who was entering, I saw her. She was absolutely gorgeous; her walk was musical and she had an innocent, yet mischievous smile on her face. She stopped in the center of the room and, like the rays of the sun, her beauty laid on everything in her reach.
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As I looked beyond her I saw him closing the door. Him I’ve seen before, he was here earlier, to bring things to prepare, and from the way she smiled as she eyed the room it was clear that he had done a wonderful job. And in the middle of her admiration, I looked to see him lean over the small table by the door and from it he picked up a small black object and pointed it to her. NO! Pass her and instantly the cabin was filled with heavenly sounds that not even the blessed songbirds of the morning could not duplicate. She then wrapped her arms around herself and walked over to the table I was hiding under “ummm� my nose picked up the flavor of her perfume; it was lovely. The flowers must have been jealous. And as she stood there gazing upon those flowers that he had placed there earlier, I looked to see him walking up behind her in slow heavy steps. When he reached his point of destination, he passionately kissed her on the shoulder and she pulled that shoulder to her face and smiled with enjoyment. Though they had been here a good while they had yet to utter a single word. I guess words were not necessary for these two lovers. Then she turned to embrace him now with her arms gently around his neck she pulled him ever so close. And as his hands glided down the sides of her back to her hips they began to turn and turn slowly about the floor to the enchanting rhythm in the air. She let her hand caress his neck as she escaped into his eyes, eyes that seemed to be undeniably warm; she must have felt so safe, so loved. I could tell that nothing else mattered to the two of them at that moment but each other, the world was far, far away, they were in paradise. They proved me right when their lips met and the keys to the door were used, and the door of passion was unlocked setting them free to make love. He led her to the lovely satincomforters he lay in front of the fireplace. I knew that the two would become one and the love made would be an experience treasured and cherished forever and a day. Before I took my leave to give privacy to the two stole the plessure of one last kiss that was only the start of their felicity. From the book To Exit and Re-Engage
Anthony M. Mace
Same Story
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My name is Abdur Rahman, it means the servant of the most merciful. My dad named me. I like my name because it stands out and is different. I’m the only one in my school with my name. My name tells people my religion. But often I tell people my name is Abdul or Abdur because it’s easier to come off the tongue. If my name was a color it would be sky color because its calm and laid-back. If I could see it would be a thunder storm because when you read my name it hurts to pronounce it.
Abdur Rahman Saaba
May 6, 2010
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Dear black, You are my name you are my friend you are the one I LOVE you are on my note book you are Crayola black can you be my name you are so cute you are on the trees this is my story I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!! LOVE , Eboni {black}
Eboni McKnight
Mauricio
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My name is MEXICO Because I eat Mexican beef Because the buildings there are awesome Because of keyboards con letras switched My name is cookies con marshmallows My name is carne, spageti, rojo, morado
Mauricio Sandoval
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All Thumbs, Bonnie MacAllister
news in brief
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The Evening Bulletin, Thursday, May 3, 1923: Push Hunt For Davidson Missing Man Suffered Loss of Memory, is Belief the former postmaster remained a mystery today mr. davidson left his home several days ago saying he was going for a walk he wandered off in the direction of a woodland and has not been seen since police and friends continued the search dragging raccoon lake and a lake near the creek friends and relatives scout the theory that he has ended his life “he was in good spirits and had nothing to worry him,” said his nephew
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Sioux Sue for $700,000,000 Ask Damages from U.S. for Lands from Custer’s Time the sioux indian tribe of the dakotas, nebraska and montana seeks to recover damages aggregating practically three-quarters of a billion dollars for lands and property taken by the white man many years ago the suit will hark back to the days of the gold rush into the black hills and of custer
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Parrot Laughs at Firemen Four Fall into Pit While Fighting Blaze; Chickens Rescued plunged into a deep pit the firemen were extricated with difficulty guffaws at their plight were heard emanating from a shed these were from a parrot the parrot’s rude chatter was stifled by a douche from the nozzle of a firehose
Ryan Eckes
Atropos in Hollywood
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The cutter sits alone in the darkened room her sharp eyes reflecting flickering images that stop move again stop rewind to identical moments from alternate angles choosing perspective choosing focus finding the rhythm of word and gesture altering sequence to bring order and meaning to fragmented moments from fragmentary lives The stories have no beginnings no ends only incoherent middles until the cutter marks the cutter cuts the cutter strings it in order all together the walking shadow puppet players speaking lines that signify nothing is finished nothing is real nothing makes sense until the cutter cuts
George McDermott
Twilight Meals 1. The frustrated brilliant boy throws his backpack into the corner, his eyes blank, his body forgetful with rage, narrowly misses the braided pinnacle of a young lady’s head. They are like a clock. 2. They shouldn’t be called at-risk children. They have more than their circumstances to offer. They are dissecting their twilight meals, unwrapping their sandwiches and asking “Who wants the cheese?” holding it in bread-flecked fingers. Two of the children have collected the paper bags, torn off the wet spots from juice-condensation and ham-points and are folding them back to their creases for the recycle bin. Some of the bags will become puppets. One by one we villagers gather the children into lines that sway like a boat trip. Forgotten cheese melts onto a hot pipe. The front child carries the paper bags. 3. Each meal comes with a napkin wrapped in plastic, a plastic fork and spoon. They are for anyone who cares
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to stay after school. Thank you for spending the evening with me, twilight meals, as the color on the brick buildings outside the gridded windows changes from gold to more gold to bright blue to dusk, digest our praise. Braid friendship bracelets from yarn taped to tables. Spill checkers out from the bottom of Connect Four. With Huey P. Newton, with cake-wrapper flowers for our free-breakfast ancestors, we whisper, cafeteria. We are fed, even as we sometimes pick off the sesame seeds. Under the watchful vegetable murals, this blessing, the changing of day into night.
Jane Cassady
Food for Thought
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Thoughts swirl like a cacophony of fudge layered chocolate And minty green leaves. Words form, I reach for my spoon. Sentences guide my senses; I overindulge in this highly caloric, Deeply euphoric delicious bowl of chaotic verses With deep rooted meaning. Gluttonous as I want seconds, Thirds--Better yet Just give me the whole damn box! Guilt ridden my will power prevails Here‌ Want some?
Stephanie Morris
Thanksgiving Limerick
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On Thanksgiving I love cranberry sauce. Too bad my grandmother is the Thanksgiving boss. I love deviled eggs. I crave turkey legs. If there is no cranberry sauce, Thanksgiving is a loss. Once there was a hungry family of four. They were chasing a turkey through a house door. His house was a mad house. Each turkey inside scurried like a mouse. And after all that The turkeys were no more.
Qadir Mason
Glossolalia (II)
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Parchment folded on my tongue the abscess, rolling over teeth my eyes are playing tricks on me. The Isther has along tradition as an important part of the canon. It is
“It is a self–interfering pattern.” “La virtu is the potency, the efficient property of a substance or person. Thus modern science shows us radium with a noble virtue of energy.” “To have gathered from the air a live tradition or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame. This is not vanity;”
“Things are only the terminal points or rather the meetingpoints of actions, cross–sections, cut through actions, snapshots.”
Place keepsakes in between the pages, petals of withered roses and forget–me–nots. Approximately 81 degrees. Bake until crisp. Place keepsakes in between petals of the pages withered and forget–me– nots. Increased humidity means isolated thunderstorms are possible. Let stand for 1 minute before eating. Place keepsakes of withered roses and pages in between forget– me–nots. Perfect weather for the coming insurrection. Sprinkle powdered sugar over the auto–da– fe. Place forget–me–nots of withered roses and keepsakes in between petals.
Matthew Landis
Untitled
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I am a lightning bolt, a flash and smile dancing in the backyard, I am an old notebook. I am page after page. My long nimble fingers can hold a pen and create, or grab it and destroy. I am a pair of eyes behind a dark face, the girl with stories to tell but no lips to speak. I am a tree. A nurturing thing, overshadowing and I am a leaf soaking up the world. The world would want me to be a broom, large bristles to clean up the mistakes. The world would want me to be a cloud, there but never appreciated. And the world could make me into a window, clear showing them the future and not their past but I am me, and I am the inkwell that makes the mess, and thunder that booms during a storm. I am stains on the glass, colors other than white.
Kayla Hill
Arrogant Gospel
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At that time a new religion was sweeping the city, one of bicycles. Like any religion there were zealots and prophets, converts and half-hearted followers. There were sects: fixed-gear, ten-speed, mountain bike. There were people who’d been part of the movement so long that they didn’t know or care that it was a movement at all. Old time religious music was experiencing a revival as well. It was a strange sight sometimes, these young lean people on their bicycles, riding to porches and parks where they’d sing in aetheist choirs, There ain’t no grave gonna hold my body down, ain’t no gra-ave gonna hold my body down. Some threatened death to all non-believers and stitched patches to their jackets to proclaim it. There were curses volleyed between cyclists and drivers, between cyclists and pedestrians. Some were agnostic about the whole enterprise, or maybe polytheistic is the right term, taking the bus when it suited them and driving when it was too far or there was too much to carry and biking only when the weather was at its finest and there weren’t any hills between here and there. Many of the women said it made them feel safe; easier to protect one’s virtue at high speeds. You could feel the wind billow up your skirt and be down the block before anyone could say anything to you. The men said it made them feel like the city was theirs. And then a girl was snatched off a bike and raped and strangled and killed. It happened on the border between the nice neighborhood where she worked and the less-nice neighborhood where she lived with her mother and stepfather. People from each neighborhood said it happened in the other. Everyone felt like they’d seen it even if they never knew her. First came the pictures of her: petite, stylish, a waitress at a restaurant frequented by nightlife luminaries. First the news reports said she was 21. Then a few days later they began to say she was 20. The bike had not even been hers. She had left a friend’s house at 2:50am and asked to borrow it. Soon some security camera footage showed up on the local news, from a bank or train station or something. The likely killer had been on a bicycle too. She coursed by in the grainy footage. Then the man rolled in to view, heading the opposite direction, until he slowed, circled, and pedaled after her. For a moment it seemed that something would change. The bikes might be abandoned, or the faith might reach some new fervor. The End Times, which had been stretching on and on, might get that much closer to ending. But the only difference was that some pedaled faster. Activist collectives greased the gears and fixed brakes pro bono for the neighborhood kids just the same. People absorbed the fear and then forgot that safe is only something you can feel, not something you can be. And they still sang. “There Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down” was a popular tune. There was another one that went like this:
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Who’s that writing? John the Revelator. What’s John writing? Ask the revelator: A Book of the Seven Seals. But people had been singing that for years and they couldn’t make the Judgment come.
Michelle Crouch
Bios Sam Allingham fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in One Story, AnOther magazine, and Epoch. He has received a Special Mention for the Pushcart Prize. Rachael Aviella finds pleasure in words and comfort in close connections with the clever wordsmiths in her life. A psychotherapist and a student of language, Rachael insists on living, and helping others live, a life full of question and surprise. Life experienced via the senses with a good helping of intellect is Rachael’s passion. Greg Bern recently spent a two-year-long vibratory stint in Philadelphia serving as a mentor to youth and a member of the poetic community. Having grown up in southern Maine, living the college bohemian life in Rhode Island, and enduring most recently in Philly, he has moved to Seattle where he write and strives each new day by day. He is an idiot of the spoken word. Miracle Brown. Intoxicated with the desire to learn, I refuse to be another statistic. The struggles that I faced growing up in North Philadelphia have given me inspiration and courage to tell my story. I am living proof that there is good that comes from the darker side of life. With effort and consistency, I can only hope my writing uplifts someone’s heart and mind. Charles Carr is a native Philadelphian. He attended LaSalle and Bryn Mawr Colleges, graduating with a Masters degree in American History. Charles has been a child advocate for over 35 years. Charles is active in missionary work in Haiti and advocates for justice on behalf of the people of Haiti. Charles is married. He has one son. Published in Mad Poets Review, he is the winner of First Prize in the 2008 Mad Poets Contest and his book of poems paradise, pennsylvania published by Cradle Press, was published in 2009. Charles’ next book of poems titled Haitian Mud Pies is scheduled for publication at the end of 2010. Jane Cassady recently ended two years of AmeriCorps service in Philadelphia public schools and enjoyed a brief lacuna before returning to her preferred life as full-time poet and teaching artist. She is the Slam Mistress of the Philadelphia Poetry Slam. She has appeared in The November 3rd Club, The Comstock Review, Valley of the Contemporary Poets, and other journals. She’s performed at such venues as LouderArts in New York City, Valley Contemporary Poets in Los Angeles, and The Encyclopedia Show in Chicago. CAConrad is the recipient of The Gil Ott Book Award for The Book of Frank (Chax Press, 2009). He is also the author of Advanced Elvis Course (Soft Skull Press, 2009), (Soma)tic Midge (Faux Press, 2008), Deviant Propulsion (Soft Skull Press, 2006), and a collaboration with poet Frank Sherlock titled The City Real & Imagined (Factory School, 2010). The son of white trash asphyxiation, his childhood included selling cut flowers along the highway for his mother and helping her shoplift. Rachel Cualedare lives in the Latin Quarter of Philadelphia.
Ryan Eckes was born in Northeast Philadelphia and now he writes poems and teaches writing at Temple University and other places. You can find some of his writing on his blog, Old News (ryaneckes.blogspot.com) and in his chapbook when i come here (Plan B Press, 2007). Leonard Gontarek is the author of four books of poems, including, Zen For Beginners, and Déjà Vu Diner. His poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Fence, Field, Pool, Verse and The Best American Poetry. He conducts poetry workshops at the Moonstone Arts Center, the University City Arts League, and in the Philadelphia Arts in Education Partnership. www.leafscape.org/LeonardGontarek Kayla Hill is a sophomore at Bodine High School and an aspiring fiction writer who hopes to one day publish her own fiction novel. She also dreams of studying abroad in London to become a Medical Examiner. Transplanted from a rural horse farm to downtown Philadelphia in her teens, much of Angel Hogan’s writing is fueled by her non-traditional upbringing, which she describes as “a heap of multicultural embarrassments.” After studying Literary Theory at Bucknell University, Angel traveled cross country with a Chow-pit puppy in a diaper, and spent time at her Mom’s home in the Yucatan. As a toddler, her favorite foods were coffee and pan-fried liver. Angel currently works at the University of Pennsylvania and lives in West Philly with her cat Mamacita, and Sauce! the dog. See more at: www.angelhogan.com Matthew Jakubowski has two novels in manuscript. His short fiction has appeared in glossolalia and Keep Going. This story is chapter one of a quasi-memoir-fable-in-progress. He lives in West Philly with his wife, whose laughter and wisdom kept The Wild Jesus alive. His literary journalism is forthcoming in Bookforum and The Cleveland Plain Dealer. Matthew Landis is a poet, musician, and songwriter from the Philadelphia area. He is a graduate of U Penn’s MLA program, where his capstone was a collection of poems and as well as an experimental essay on poetics and cultural theory. He participated in Danny Snelson’s EDIT Series with Tan Lin and worked as an editor on the collection entitled Selected Essays About a Bibliography. Matthew’s poems & essays have appeared or will be appearing in places such as Critiphoria, Try, and Literary Kicks. He has been playing music locally for over a decade and has toured as a keyboardist for Brooklyn cabaret-circuspunk band The World/Inferno Friendship Society. Matthew is finishing up work at Turtle Studios in Philadelphia on his first full-length record which features drummer Brian Viglione (of Dresden Dolls, Nine Inch Nails, & World/Inferno Friendship Society). It will be out this fall. Bonnie MacAllister is a 2009 Fulbright-Hays awardee to Ethiopia, a 2007 Pushcart Prize Nominee and five time slam poetry champion in the United States and France. Her international publication credits include Black Robert Journal, Paper Tiger Media, Dead Drunk Dublin and Other Imaginal Spaces, and nth Position. Bonnie has recently exhibited at the Utopian Library in Viareggio, Italy and in la Galería del MEC, Montevideo, Uruguay. She is an officer of the Young Women’s Caucus and an active member of the Philadelphia and DC chapters of the Women’s Caucus for Art through whom she has exhibited in United Nations sponsored shows, partnered with Rubia to create a collaborative project quilt with Afghan women that toured the United States, and shown work in such venues as the Philip Ratner Museum, Tacoma Park Municipal Building,
Wilmington’s Louis L. Redding City/County Building, International House, Holy Family University, High Wire Gallery, Penn State, and the Plastic Club. Qadir Mason is an 11 year old 6th grader at Delcroft Elementary school in Delaware County Pennsylvania, and the oldest son of Stephanie Morris. Qadir is a member of the Folcroft Boy’s Club and participates in their various sports programs including intramural basketball. He enjoys writing poetry, drawing and being a big brother to his two younger siblings. Phyllis Mass is a writer and editor who facilitates private writing workshops, Write Now! and teaches a writing course for adults at Temple University. She is also co facilitator of a mixed genre writer’s workshop at Kelly Writers House. Autumn McClintock’s poems have previously appeared in The Comstock Review, Potomac Review, 2River View, and juked, to name a few. I live and work in Philadelphia where I’m afforded the opportunity to participate in some of my favorite things: eating local food and watching the Phillies. George McDermott’s poems have appeared in such journals as Pivot, Poetry Continuum, Philadelphia Stories, and Fox Chase Review. A recovering screen-, speech-, and copywriter who is currently doing penance as a high school English teacher in center city Philadelphia, he is also a poetry editor of Philadelphia Stories. Stephanie Morris received her BA in Business Management from Temple University in Philadelphia, PA and her MBA in Business Management from Regis University in Denver, CO. Stephanie is a substitute teacher for the William Penn School District. She enjoys all types of poetry including Edgar Allen Poe and Maya Angelou to name a few. Stephanie currently resides in Delaware County, PA, enjoys spending time with her three boys and traveling. Nate Pritts is the author of four full-length books of poems, most recently The Wonderfull Yeare (Cooper Dillon) & Big Bright Sun (BlazeVOX). He is the founder & principal editor of H_NGM_N & H_NGM_N BKS. Find him online at www.natepritts.com Jacob Russell carries a Spirit Stick and writes the best damned literary blog on the 1300 block of Morris St (along with much poetry and prose). Find him at http://jacobrussellsbarkingdog.blogspot.com Paul Siegell is the author of three books of poetry: wild life rifle fire (Otoliths Books, 2010), jambandbootleg (A-Head Publishing, 2009) and Poemergency Room (Otoliths Books, 2008). He is an editor at Painted Bride Quarterly, and has contributed to The American Poetry Review, Coconut, NOÖ, Rattle, SIR! and many other fine journals. He has also been featured in two national music and culture magazines, Paste and Relix, as well as elsewhere exciting. Kindly find more of Paul’s work (poems, poemics, reviews) at paulsiegell.blogspot.com Laura Spagnoli’s poems have appeared in New Millennium Writings and Philadelphia Stories and on the poetry-video site ONandOnScreen. She teaches French at Temple University, where she founded In Other Words, a literary magazine for world languages.
Benjamin Winkler currently lives in the Philadelphia area. His poems have recently appearedin The Monongahela Review and In Process, among other journals. In January 2010, his chapbook, Whereupon, was released by Splitleaves Press. The poems featured in APIARY are meant to be part of a larger series, focused on the inner-workings of a young protagonist’s mind, while utilizing the natural language and subconscious workings of that mind. This poem is from Andy Woodward’s self-published book, nonsense, the bestsense, a carefully crafted collection of poetry. Unfortunately, Andy died of an undiagnosed heart condition in January. He always strove for maximum absurdity, after all. He authored several other books, including a a humorously accessible re-telling of Chuang Tzu, for which his friends are seeking publication. He was the bassist and song-writer for the jazz fusion group Viben Oodle, and has left us a legacy of music unparalleled in the modern world. Eugene Zebinski is a Philadelphia-based writer and this is his first published work of poetry.