Of/with: journal of immanent renditions

Of/with:

journal of immanent renditions

Issue 1 1 | Of/with Issue 1

Of/with:

journal of immanent renditions ISSN 2373-3292 Editor, Felino A. Soriano All rights to the works within this issue remain with the respective artists.

Cover art courtesy of Duane Locke, 2014. of-with.com of.witheditor@gmail.com

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Table of Contents Editor’s note……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………6 Linda Lynch…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….7 Heller Levinson……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………12 Angie Reed Garner………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………17 Eileen R. Tabios…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..20 Silvia Scheibli……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….21 Matt Margo……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………26 Vernon Frazer……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..28 Marcia Arrieta………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………32 Kristi Beisecker……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………36 Sheila E. Murphy…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………37 Ric Carfagna………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….42 Alison Ross……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………54 Alan Britt………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..55 Regina Walker…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….60 Mark Fleury………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….66 Clifford Brooks…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….67 JBMulligan……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..72 Naomi Buck Palagi………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………75 bruno neiva………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….76 Joseph Milford…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….79 Featured Artist: Duane Locke………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..81 Travis A Sharp……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..98 A.J. Huffman…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………99 3 | Of/with Issue 1

Table of Contents continued Peter Ganick……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...100 Matina Stamatakis……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………102 David McLean……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………104 Mark Young………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..105 Neil Ellman………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….107 J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………108 Alisha White………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………109 Marianne Szlyk…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..110 Laura LeHew……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….115 Ernest Williamson III……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….116 H. Holt………..…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………120 Pd Lietz & Rich Follett.…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….121 Michelle Greenblatt…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………124 Elizabeth Ashe……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………129 Tremaine L. Loadholt………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………133 Richard Schemmerer………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………134 Ezra Letra……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..135 Christopher Mulrooney………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….137 Yasmina Saadoun & Al-Logaha Hand……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….138 Yasmina Saadoun…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….140 Biography Notes………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..144

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Of/with:

journal of immanent renditions

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Editor’s note Welcome to issue 1 of Of/with: journal of immanent renditions. As the name communicates, the purpose of this journal is to italicize artistry that finds emboldened existence through communicative desires predicated on each artists’ subjective role in creating from cravings sometimes indescribable, —except through the functionality of the artistic endeavor. We promote artistic devotion and the freedoms involved in the practice. In gathering the work for this issue, I found great pleasure in viewing submissions from artists whose work I’ve admired for many years, in addition to finding work that previously was unfamiliar to me. In juxtaposing the aspectual angles of discovering the work showcased here, I am pleased to present the inaugural issue of this burgeoning journal. Thank you for taking the time to view its contents.

Felino A. Soriano, Publisher September, 2014

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Linda Lynch

Grass Drawing

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Rain Grass

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Third Grass Drawing

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Grass Being, I

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Grass Being, II

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Heller Levinson polymerizing alphabets on irregular incline

clump gravy bowdlerized glue blue delirial ochre to vermilion snapshots half the battle compromised over stateliness institutes issue coin convenience key ↔ note speakers hardly identify as sorely sure secure Lucifer to luster fine polish buff poise stroke surrender multi-gender satellite cacophonous tender merry-go-rounds go round organization overrated profits from disorderly conduct

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espying gefilte in the benthic brasserie

bark knavery

Palladium murmur

chancellors uneasy roaching streams of mackeral breath gadflies lolling the arborage indentify obscurity as a tantrum impediment

prolonged tensility testifies to a knowledge of rudiments

rocks ://: chassis

surreptition points of view

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of if as in pertaining to persuasion conviction convincing conniving creating consensus (assemble gather bundle congregate) the urge to avalanche to bring to fore (fruition fructification frequencies flocking) the flocking impulse – purpose → the establishment of

attaining to

purpose is viscera is the human stuff what nations warfare & peace negotiations are & poetry & science & billabongs to be purposful in action fusillage & forethought preambling foreskin to attain given or achieve such the warp of contradiction pursuit here education such a ruse the misfit in the assembly the rust in the machine packets of annihilation designed to render highways of truculence bitterroot whangdoodle whippy when angling for purpose persuade yourself

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of if as in pertaining to equidistance Pythagoras hilarity come holy come hole wholly come 1 2 3 if you will wont want font subterfuge trilling trillion on a trolley collar on a dollar disparity contrareity bespoke holy smoke far away another day come early come quick go licketysplit guard the wick pick up stick(s) wish I might with I will fuse to lonesome whippoorwill song flight alight measure less

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Corner of Ponder & Brood consid

er

a tion(s)

sequential retard the omnivores beastly & malpracticed lout corpuscle regal cogitation

in leasing the perturbation the shield no longer adequate p r o b e breed-roaming partials multiplicitous, forensic, tip to a crude classicism, to revolutions appropriated by meander

gestation pensive like fish glued to a malevolent tide

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Angie Reed Garner

chairs 17 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

horrorwriterboggle 18 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

thinking of lost cities 19 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Eileen R. Tabios TWICE, I FORGOT (4) I forgot why lovers destroy children to parse the philosophy of separation— I forgot my bones became hollow, flutes made from reeds— TWICE, I FORGOT (5) I forgot discovering the limited utility of calm seas— I forgot a man revealing a pristine white cuff as he raised his wrist to check a steel Movado watch— THRICE, I FORGOT (4) I forgot how dusk enhanced conversations— I forgot the seams caused by bindings— I forgot the perfume of fresh bread as we passed a panetteria, the vinegary tang floating out of a wine shop, heaven as the scent of roasting coffee from a grocer, and the necessary reminder of those different from us through the stench of street drains— THRICE, I FORGOT (5) I forgot the conundrums of evacuating mornings— I forgot Clementina stuffing Rosa with candied chestnuts in a brandy syrup, perfectly grilled sardines, and the most tender, marinated octopus— I forgot a girl singing as if Heaven was a mere breath away— THRICE, I FORGOT (6) I forgot that, under his left eye, there lurked a scar people did not acknowledge but always culled from memory— (I swiftly forgot “the 40 shades of grey” because before its utterance ended it was already a cliché.)

I forgot the dwarf Toulouse-Lautrec defining paradise as “a world of female odors and nerve endings”—

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Silvia Scheibli ‘Ubuntu’ - I am me because of you.

When cottonwood snow sticks to the bottom of my shoes near the river bank When distant thermals reach for gray hawks When turkey vultures on telephone poles transform their bodies into bluish Chinese fans When black-chinned hummingbirds conduct an elderberry whistling chorus with giant riparian arcs I am ubuntu I do not recognize myself.

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At Dusk He floated through mesquites like a ghost like a ghost at dusk - evasively.

I lost sight of him then spotted him sauntering.

He and the dark spot at the tip of his coyote tail, calling my name.

At dusk in mesquites like a ghost calling me quietly to follow.

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En Banamichi We stood on the dirt road watching giant silver-backs race across the evening ridge.

We waited watching light become lost in deep shadows.

We waited for one moment to give us something more than eternity.

Then we hung our chapas on the clothesline, went inside and poured a Bacanora.

Quietly we climbed on the shoulders of silver-backs spinning our voices into natural raw silk.

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Sometimes I have the words Sometimes words are like stones begging to be part of a sculpture.

Other times the sky folds all the words like t-shirts in an invisible drawer and denies their existence.

Sometimes I have some of the words but they are mainly colors so that the words lack bodies.

I have the words ‘parrot green,’ but do not see the parrot, only feel how the green vibrates like when a song ends and the last note lingers on the fingers of a guitar string

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Sphinx Moth Creamy & brown stripes, sphinx moth with the same secret as the violet-crowned hummingbird pulls an iridescent string of light behind her.

A secret passion carries each to the most vivid crimson flowers.

I too am obsessed.

Obsessed with flashing neon violet caressing monsoons.

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Matt Margo

owwowlowblow

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The Actual Gravel of Our Menstrual Detectives

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Vernon Frazer Changing Season

autumnal differential flakes imbue the deadline scenario with a certainty undefined or filed demure leafcake rebuttals burn chronic settings more scenic than sonic to the pantry dividers impelled to spirit their rebuke with color wheel roulette Past intonations convey the purity of empty transport (serial deportment in denial) a fluid transit buttons a tension grid before the lurid lexicon pivots terms of acclamation swivel to endearment when plying attitudes undead undying

or

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as the definition surrounds platitudinal surveys splint an epidermal page reactor The colloquial rampage pattern shatters its diction frost enabler when foreground smears enlarge saturation embargoes caustic as the nightly edge flayed against the middling

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Pained Renovation

steam-caked intimidation factors stiletto feels lugubrious saturation points toward pinnacle a game rendering

deer frozen headlights

superfluous necessities at the squidbilly roundup telecast high heels knifing runway sharks actors gilled fresh roundup cards the flash of a pen changing the arc of its sweep breaking the line before the lenses fog a carcinoma blessing over a nitrate arousal worn through a cinema wig while hatters madden the screen to pitch

vérité isomers

that curve against the trolley under a bender’s yield slow motion innuendo soufflé bargains the scuttle to crossing lampoon trajectories isolate their frolic days to end scamper search 30 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

before the replay virus settles in refinished comfort sheltering a pristine animus

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Marcia Arrieta dissolving sentences because we could because it didn’t matter self-portraits of waves & sand & mountains we fragment pretend * i think i saw a poem i wrote a long time ago but maybe it was a bee locked in a room or a pair of shoes on the railroad tracks * there are no judgments

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for survival * lone bear in a complex wood * sunlight peeling paint an open window * the poem is a labyrinth the poem is the moon * stars triangles spirals * three blue fish one dragonfly * an ancient puzzle within the globe to be solved

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significance otherwise the numbers the maps artistically placed flatware or notes flowers escape the field we buy books—exiles of the mind handkerchiefs compelled to benevolence only an experiment in distance or maybe time stray lines approximations of lattices or sudden regards humble exchange the portraits are drawn in stages or maybe indecipherable fiction

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faraway embroider the sadness the grandeur the tiles of time designed like a lake or hammock suspended between two pines the woman is thinking too much these days— lighthouses, meadows, squares on canvas, Miro’s studio, Monet’s garden at Giverny the language of art unwritten uncontained silent footsteps outside the rooms unlocked

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Kristi Beisecker

fern 36 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Sheila E. Murphy Practice Room Intervals haunt.

I am drawn into crevices between the keys.

Birch trees along the lake shift thirst.

All winter I inhabit solitude.

I write; measures of rest return.

Shared silence mimeos intended breath, windows from here.

Invention yet unheard revives what prompts song, be it shale or grass or thread. Composition forms caesurae.

White amounts to sensitive young gray. Points east of here inhabit northern motion. Tremors take the life of wind.

A color lost to glass.

A mood, elapsed.

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The Eavesdropping on unspoken Latitude and longitude, Am riveted by channeled Text of cottonwood And reasoned lake vested At night we breathe Good-natured raindrops Settled moon and spherical Interpretations of no sounds Except the pleats in Leafage and a tiff Of wind not quite A language even Half conveyed as though Absorption means a shift Of natural order

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Then Her eyesight hurts With all their looking down From where she can’t Recover Never good enough The urge to change what will not Husband is one way To break free into slavery She sees her options History decides Her constancy A home she is ashamed Her people back away The others if they care at all She hurts with being Less than feeling Nothing else

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Just I knew him as a theory Introduced by others who took oaths as I took over legacy, oil drums, carapace and painted sugar vessels when he spoke my name did not come up He talked in lists of seraphim and jousted oligarchic wheat along the cylinders DOA as I retired my cook top staves and buttered the brioche that symbolized the emblems sailfish as you please.

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[untitled] In a little less than an hour, it will be now.

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Ric Carfagna Symphony X (sequence of finalities)

VII Pollack denies the accident a spatial design portended in the shattered atom’s apparent collapse an ocular instance of chaos defined resonating a verity sentient yet veiled as an unopened eye

“and we choose our own dungeon” of perception and unreality making peace with the ontological ground clutter storms internalized and the molecule’s primordial decay raging in the veins …

“and maybe there is” another world one seen from a window 42 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

where a span of life is measured as grains of sand blown across a dimensional threshold and a breath hollowed of sound passing through the dragonfly’s wing …

“and maybe it is not” a world that can be understood or a depth that can be fathomed or an answer to the anonymous hieroglyph’s dark-hour insanity scribed on an asylum’s wall …

“and maybe we choose” our own accident of existence our own nomadic identity reflecting a mute portrait hanging in a stairwell void our own answer to the indecipherable 43 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

image

interred

behind the blind crow’s lifeless eye

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XXIX Vague identities retuned to zero on vast city landscapes of faces creating their own impenetrable carapace of steel creating their own blast-furnace progeny vague identities in the walking dead of Kline’s angry black prescience and in the mute ghosts of Hopper’s isolated souls hanging on stairwell walls … and it is a canvas unfurled stretched into a mathematical infinity a hypothetical distance from the internal atoms of blood to the spiral galaxy’s outer limb facets and fractal scraps in a mosaic-like singularity blemishes of scar and sun desert of straw and ocean of dust an effigy reflecting the mirror’s glare and years evolving the hollow husk which is life and death 45 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

burnt to smoking ember waste

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XXXV Comes to this and this and this and this each a variable in an equation …

“or maybe Shakespeare’s dream within a dream” where you were a shadow a trail of petroleum staining the pavement maybe a grain of sand blown through a droning jet engine or an unassailable essence buried in the disintegrating comet’s tail …

“some form of life imperceptibly other” where life appears an analogy a precise shade of gray remembered from youth …

“or a mountain promontory in the depth of a sea” or a garden of statues fecund in its emptiness bearing the weight of the many years 47 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

of the gravity of stone hearts ground down by the tyrannical hand of apocalyptic faith

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LII A line of sight discernible only in sleep where clouds have returned to blanket the earth travailing beneath the weight of white picket fences and iron gated cathedrals the weight of steel and glass citadels and of the little row of grey houses along flowered avenues where many tears have fallen and many faces wait in intimate disarray watching their words dissolve to dust flowing through holes in walls and windows and doors where sunlight flees through keyholes 49 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

to a rutted ground of cold concrete to a sterile desert’s nameless expanse

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XCIII

“I think of you” as angular and abstruse surrounded by a walled citadel and shrouded by mountains rising from the depths of a primeval sea …

“I think of you” as an outcrop of nomadic flesh a hungered wolf wandering through the isolated dream-meadows of death a desert stream fed by masochistic gods propitiated only by a novitiate’s heart torn apart by ravens at dawn …

“I think of you” as a blood-red orchid growing from the annular crack on an asphalt street a partially abstract bas-relief depicting hollow-soul penitents burning with unquenchable passion staring blindly from the gilded wall of a cathedral’s nave … and it seems that even the passing of time down not vanquish the insatiable dragon which lives within 51 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

your viscerally cloistered world … it is a void of compassion-loss a paradox which tears a hole in the transcendent membrane of the physical universe … it is as if a subterranean realm has ascended from the bowels of an Iliadic underworld eviscerating the intrinsic radiance bursting forth at the hour of dawn and it is here …

“I think of you” as an ocular illusion projecting the gangly-faced distortions of madness a distended torso of impermeable ice shrouding the brittle tendril blossoms in spring …

“I think of you” as a faceless waif with eyes staring through shattered glass their black onyx ellipses reflected in a pooling acrid moon glow …

“and I think of you” as a river flowing within a half-life of nucleated decay as a sinewy husk of dried marrow 52 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

and molding coagulated blood and as a grizzled heart inebriated by the breath of a disembodied humanity where there is no consciousness left to fill this terrestrial realm and where no soul remains to rise above this cosmically-sutured cyclonic oblivion

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Alison Ross Feline and Nothingness I am using smashed crayons from the eighth dimension to scribble an invisible dissertation for my imaginary PhD in Extinct Nuances. My disappearing dissertation is tentatively titled, Feline and Nothingness: The Zen-Nihilism of Deconstructed Cats. I am deconstructing my cat, who only exists in her own suppressed subconscious, to see if I can determine her subliminal worth. She resists deconstruction, however, because she says she is a retrogressive constructivist. So I ring up Picasso and he rearranges her psyche to resemble a Cubist's Rube. My Cubist Cat pukes up a painting by Braque and calls it "Existential Hairball." She claims it comes from the void of her own tortured soul, but I know better: She's been eating too many metaphysical cockroaches again. So I e-mail Kafka and he suggests sequestering her in a nightmare created by glass spiders. But David Bowie texts me and says I cannot use copyrighted material. So I text him back my entire dissertation, but it gets lost in space, which causes the cosmos to expand. Then the universe contracts and reincarnates into a Crayola picture of a non-existent cat, smeared across the subtleties of her own invented dementia.

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Alan Britt HOBGOBLINS Hobgoblins are the product of a disturbed mind, as if the babysitter hadn't warned you.

Anyway, tamarinds crackle in a crisp white Cuban foam off the coast of forever, off the coast that surrounds the coast that engulfs the coast of forever— angels sag from Big Tops, disguised as Rotarians, Knights of Columbus & Catholics busy as ants roaming our tablecloths littered with bread, olives, sacrificial wine.

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RED (For Chezia Thompson-Strand) Red could be a feather, a father, a lover, a diver for black pearls, or nothing at all.

But she, she standing on my eyelids spins & spins dazzling as she vaporizes a single ash into ribbons of smoke.

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CONCRETE ISN'T WHAT IT IS? Flour cannot lament, cannot consecrate rhinoceros beetles bulldozing their way to a higher form (whatever that is or isn't) higher form of existence. ♥ ♦ Ψ

☻ ☮ ☯

Incense permeates the palace with nipples of myrrh, or well cloned frankincense, not to mention gold when the joy of foreign wars depends upon it, black gold, the standard for Sunday Night at the Movies, shuffling us like Monopoly® scrunched, tin shoes, pre-electric irons & thimbles stranded on elite 17 Families Avenue, utilities overdue & mortgages on the brink.

Flour began walking in crocs gleaming NYC sunlight through tourist sunglasses the size of sunflowers & confused onto 42nd & whatever crosses it challenging a Green Card cabbie raising right hand to signal relocation, anywhere, Charlie said, so long as it's off this god-forsaken planet. Sadly, Charlie's earth, both quantum & infinite, flashes her fertile tail but once a species.

Too bad for us.

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SECURE NIGHT’S SLEEP Imagine the Coral Sea as she appears to be, wild asteroids orbiting her humble definition of love.

Love is the question.

So, what is love in an evolved universe, anyway?

I’m reminded of what the leopard said to the cook, or was it the tyger addressing a nervous baker preparing his fragile dreams for a secure night’s sleep?

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QUAD SQUAD Freight train beetle nose sniffs firefly tracks from Reisterstown through Glyndon dodging tractor trailers & latest Honda innovations off Route 30. One hand on the throttle, garden-gloved, fueled by faith. Just my luck, my generation believes in fate or faith.

Light the scented candle, fashion your astral bones into a saxophone, submerge your hips into a dream that's fed by wolves, bears, bobcats & scraggly wolverine imposters such as he who anointed himself prince of 2012↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔billboards & casinos flashing ☺ orthodontists gambling away your crowns, bridges & veneers for success.

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Regina Walker Muse My psychic landscape Sprinkled with landmines Around which I dart, narrowly avoiding exploding.

The demon lives beside the common man.

An intricate balance but not truly a balance at all.

Emotions are like waves that ebb and flow, Taking and leaving something with each receding.

On a stormy night, stranded on the bridge linking death to immortality, I grew wings.

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Dancing Shadows 61 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Mask 62 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

NYC Windowbox 63 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

The Dance 64 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

The Red and the Black 65 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Mark Fleury Each Side of the Moon Each side of the moon Is a wing, dark and light Switching sides with each flap.

The blue winter sky is heavy Enough to hold it up, carried on The back of Winter Solstice. I saw it Through the window-cross: stars Different colored Lights in the space shaped sun That’s your mind: they’re strung around The universe-sized syllable With loving hands as She sends a sentence, Time-beam of sound, down; It’s Mistress Muse making sense Out of this fourth dimension: I can only see the edge of The syllable that’s outside The sentence, with multicolored stars Hanging down, flowing softly. I can see them With my heart, that I share with strangers.

None of the fourth dimension fits In my exhale-echo of the Devil-sound Within that’s the sentient sentence.

Beyond that language ends.

It takes a third eye to see it.

My living room at night becomes a forest.

Animals from the underworld hide in the shadows Of trees. The Devil is naked there, standing, Glistening in the silver moonlight.

Feet on the dirt, he’s all three dimensions And can’t leave language.

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Clifford Brooks One Word

Sacrifice.

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Fate of a Dream Keeper

for me at 17

At thirty-seven, I stumbled upon a wistful fairy wilting in the sun.

Her sapphires, her pearls, her buttons worn out and come undone.

That’s it! That does it!

She twisted up her face,

My heart has turned to ash, and I loathe this awful place!

She went on,

The world doesn’t care.

Little girls stopped wishing.

This witless youth never go outside.

The wild boys all went missing.

I understood completely.

We shared the same, prophetic sight.

I agreed today’s innocents came jaded, the need for fancy long taken flight.

A shame her velvet dress was shaken free of magic.

Such a mess from so much sorrow, sobbing more than tragic.

I held her to my heart, wrapped safely in my palm.

I whispered to the precious orphan,

Hush now, dear. Be calm.

I loved her, choked her, in the coarseness of my hand.

She welcomed it, she acquiesced into a crypt of glass and sand.

The fairy, to this very day, is safe within a locket.

She’s with a grocery list and car keys, nestled in my pocket.

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seeds of (un)becoming, furious roots meticulously fashioned from fuchsias and puccini, she pulls me roots and all into a fury. we are dualities, the shadows and sun of the other, struggling to decide how to let this die. we are precious stones flown on broad wings, preoccupying the recesses of happiness. it’s unfortunate the nagging suspicion she snuck in leaves me saying:

go. you should fly with another, younger flock.

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Lucky Enough to Hear You Sing In our only sanctuary I pretend to sleep so as not to break this rarity.

You are singing.

Your voice has a vivacious vibrato that flutters in the right places.

Due to you my chaos is lost like rain on the wings of a wren.

I know you don’t believe me.

Why be frail?

It’s lunacy to think you might fail.

Please, Sing!

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A Glimpse of God’s Watchers One chameleon takes tentative steps from a potted plant. Hummingbirds glint like blades.

Opossums adore trash. Last night they squalled and hissed over apple cores. A bear arrived.

The bandits avoided each other.

In the early hours, mountains pour out bearded vandals. Before work begins, they regroup and vanish.

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JBMulligan offering field of snow worn in places torn blanket with fraying edges the earth shouldering behind trees and snow rocks and power lines hoist skyward thawlifted river ribboning behind trees widens and vanishes a place as small as I am though wider cupped hands offering me to the sky

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theography breathword bonedream what is what is needed the same perhaps what is mother of the unborn seed roots fit the earthweb that maps them pattern accepting world as water nourishes the way the waterthought feeds the idea of a tree the mistake of saying mirrors the error of breath of dream is the bone of how we are thirst for water beyond the wet beyond the formulae of wave is a desert in the swirlbatter sea drowning a kind of dryness we turn away as we try to look or lie to the eye breathe inout as if we were exchange as we are must be perhaps in the fallingshort prayer

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boulders like raindrops babelspeak shatters on sky same stones rubbleplucked same tatters of faded blueprint straight lines lancing the torn edges where words fell off the worldend no new languedge petals repeated as winds as earth as skies are repeated returningburning risen from a new horizon all maps rectangular and wrong how to find the way away from maps unmapped pathings are clear but eyes close again for blinding light as if that were a holy torchlit path

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Naomi Buck Palagi rain il pleut debonaire, down the page appollinaire, the air dark and green, I want you green the night we all got shot and died our hair still vining up the trellis wherefore are thou, trellis? art thou, treadmill art thou, wheat. down to a pulp pounded into loaves all the fishes jumping upstream bears the bears are biting, big sur leaving us lonely and all high on the cliff’s edge, dashed despite the golden apple, despite desire high in the belly, running for no more than the motion, apple trees passing, blurring, dead men walking little church and two girls singing, possessed we open our mouths and the snake comes out sliding to the air on up to heaven our bellies filling thrill of the mountaintop no god nor vision but our hammer and chisel and spelling. the loaves which did not rise. galaxies, starstruck, lift the curtain of the skies and stare into all that blackness. parking lot and lot of water no little boat to ferry us across only ducks swimming diving, recovering the sunken if ever I would leave you, it wouldn’t be in rain, knowing how in rain you pack my bag and come with me. come with me the rain, il pleut, a willow weeping for me, water a lot of water the lady in a boat drowned for love of rain her tresses travelling up the banks, travelling up trunks and down branches tangling again as a bridge lovers bridge they bring locks locks and locks of love the key as always in the belly of the green fish.

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bruno neiva

decorte 76 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Figures and Tape (5) 77 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

quase texto 0.1

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Joseph Milford from Tattered Scrolls and Postulates/The Blizzasterisk 16. when you throw a sharp object into the air, those who do not run are historians. others, soldiers.

Augustine claimed that the stars were signifiers, a language--not causes, not predictors. i gaze up. the fingerprints on the pine shovel handle make wheels that augers have lost the arts to read. i swallowed an octopus to make a wheel around my heart but bad voodoo made me bait caught. it has been a long time in this parish of churches that anyone has met a true cleric. birds wait too. no great ship or great galleon could could ever sail the creek of my imagination in that backyard. ending my days as a Baptist, they tar and feather me with locusts and honey. a honeycomb deity. i learned that plagiarism was history before the 7th century. before that too. give me Happy Meal. bract and catkin, node and rhizome, floret and tuber--we take our baskets out in the swollen.

Ray Bradbury's books litter the shag carpet; I worry about the fate of Mars within wood paneling.

17. i decided to devour. you wait for hours for your hero. i decide to eat a century. wipe my lips. every elevator is a minefield--don't ask people which floor--they will spray blood everywhere. stolid millennia, styrofoam will meet you--don't worry--those packing peanuts are in the crib. walked out of my house to find the entire neighborhood covered in cellophane then back in. we broke free from our Amsterdam fantasies to fall through glass walls under desks. when you kill the Big Boss you get to advance to the next level when you kill the Big Boss you get to advance to the next level; you must traverse the black snow until it is white as flour. shot through hamster tubes pneumatic trachea to zigzag towards the manhole out onto the street. i'll never forget that time I conquered Carthage--that was one hell of a riot-strewn weekend. the thing about that ancient apartment--the windows would never open--succubi hovered.

18. i almost died one morning making the bread apron string caught in mixer-arm semolina flying. stagger in concentric circles a three-legged dog in a traffic frenzy make it to the alley, meander. exercise of pathos on paper keeps less Beelzebub out of the cabinets and dressers cabin-wide. he took his cowboy hat off and universal studios catalog of films all played at once. Mesmerizing. every dollar is a key to something. all the doors of the greatest buildings. they wait for bills. i saw a kid flip a swingset once. kept slinging himself into broken arms. after that, i is cautious. the black mouse at my hand now distorts the timespan of the scarab pushing its dungball. by the magnolia i asked him how he did that morning he said nothing buck too young to hit. the Freemasons across the highway meet on Tuesdays—i notice and drink Pabst Blue Ribbon. every night i'd come home stinkoed to that spooky portrait of that ancient matron by the stairs.

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19. i found it ironic that the blood drive van was outside of the voting booths with its orange juice. there are no more ice cream trucks in our neighborhood and cameras mount the telephone poles. i remember bagging groceries at twelve at the Sav-U-Foods which became the Piggly Wiggly. he was cursed to find every stoplight on the way home his face lit red as he cursed his moments. how can i vibrate with intensity in this poor model how can i realize my potential as a blip? while i glorified human cruelty, in all of my decisions, i always preferred the wooden splinter. the inch thick rot grubs like angry fingers writhed from the Augean Stables and the foul vomit. i bounce checks across several counties for cheap beer and baby food. pay fees. write much more. we studied the Iliad while the horses were sick and our mothers slept in the crawlspaces. orpiment can be cut by a knife, a fool's dust. goes to hot springs but knows it disintegrates fast.

20. no pandas are allowed in these poems. only koalas. no imperialism. no oriental. only koalas. go south to find the bark of the chinchona tree to kill the fever and pox. i recommend it highly. the shylocks reap a harvest of foreclosures down these two-lane highways the for sale signs.

Harpocrates waves his hands across the dark Georgia night silencing the crickets in the eaves. procrustean fields, procrustean hours, procrustean phrases--cutting and pasting--excruciating.

Dan McGrew and Stagolee hang out at the Tin Roof drinking rye and cleaning their guns. the actions of a wolf can be predicted by a full moon upon a copper sundial in a pine clearing. make a wild sarsaparilla wash to cleanse your shingles--you can make a poultice. chew roots. "the hard, energetic, horse-trading man type of man was remorsely indicated for survival." her bra on the hardwood kitchen floor and the plastic dolphin toy as the 20-month old snores.

21.

On the Explanation that the Body of the World cannot Possibly be Infinite . On Mirrors that Burn. and so i live in Erewhon looking fo more educated Yahoos. waiting centuries for them. sombre. there are better Whitmans in the 21st century. look to me. i might be the best singer of selves. my first word was scone. orphanage, i suppose. my next word was window. it all makes sense. before my first haircut, my hair was bluegrass. after that, i think vines grew like Charlie Daniels. whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. we colleagues pick our brains. i can't stand old whore vultures with their medallions and fake tits and words at readings. fauvists knew that the argue was over color which was over the color you see while you die. fishing with bamboo rod. silk line. hook made from bone. made to needle. fried rice as bait. i love my hoodie hung on random nail because the ghost of D.A. Levy is coming over tonight.

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Featured Artist:

Duane Locke

Sur-photography Poetry Images of The Sacred

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TERRESRIAL ILLUMINATION (2014) NO. 37O I watched driftwood bonfires on beaches color Bare arms crimson, Mingling with the moon’s silver.

As I looked, the crimson shifted and slid into a ruby color, Or the deep purple of velvet tacked with gold on a king’s chair.

But I felt we were no longer together al fresco, salt had left the air.

But I was in a room, a cell, a solitary confinement, Looking through a barred window at you.

You were segmented, you were a trinity of personas.

Each persona a mask, woven by a parent, a professor, Of the mechanical skill of a puppet priest.

As I watched your silver and crimson arm, I wondered where you were, where you had gone.

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TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATION (2014) NO. 306 Early lightning weak Parallel streaks broken into boomerangs Revealed a misty green dress Misty silver sandal straps Later lightning stronger Bleached green silver to oblivion The space now whiteness A tabula rasa Thunder lighting downpour ceased Found green cloth fragment silver sandal strap The found perplexed Before lightning grass and a tossed away lottery ticket Went to apartment to put raincoat in closet On floor not there before a doll with a torn green dress And a silver sandal strapped on one foot The other gutta-percha foot bare flashed

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TERRESTRAIL ILLUMINATION (2014) NO. 328 This Sunday sparked with red flashes, Cardinal flying low, close to my glass doors.

The sun leapt from its wing flutters, Became a red liquid Stone Mountain version, Its atmospheric shape shaped like desert rock cliffs.

The green weeds became a green orchestra, played A subadequous music as if an anchorite Debussy.

I travelled where I would never rationally go, Everywhere, Kantian time and space revealed as Myths. No human measurements existed to confine.

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TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATION (2014) NO. 356 Only upon minimunalizaton of the microscoptive moment Is maximalization born into the corporeality.

Mathematics must be anesthetized, and physics’ drugs Washed out of our blood and flesh.

Our current language that describes with correspondence And coherence of the earth with its inexactness and incompleteness That our visible world is indirect and illusory and openness To the earth is closed has already been refuted by Cezanne and Paul Klee.

The eye when poetized opens the windows of the body that Slave mentality opinion closed, and being constantly hammered Shut by parents, priests, and professors. Education is financed To keep the learners blind by training eyes to believe reality is invisible.

Most of our poets are not authentic poets at all, for they are slaves Of language and popular opinion. These fake poets cannot make the visible visible.

So we live in an age of stillborn poetry, except for the rare few poets Who can make the visible visible, and show the invisible to be a myth.

Whenever it is perceived that the prelinguistic is visible and a new Use of language can present this visibility and it becomes tangible in existence, Then we will be everything and everywhere at once.

At present we are nothing, only poseurs and spreaders of lies.

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TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATION (2014) N0. 358 A face Arises out of folds, Pink.

Cowl curled Under chin, Sackcloth auroral.

Pink Repinked By neon pink Above— A lifted leg Of a neon girl.

Appears mosaic From an olden time, Byzantine.

The pink winks At the ascetic Frowns at black gown.

Ascetic amplified In Cuban barrio, Disputed by green sparrows.

The scene in our secular That machined Away beauty Feels the need Of what is anathema, Rime.

Merging sound with sense To accompany a lute Or Pan’s pagan flute.

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To be A red feather and fly.

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Travis A Sharp A Reductive Syntax Constituted in language I can’t speak in images I can’t see in sound no one can hear me in language glossolalic in nature in images no sound in glossolalia no sense in poetry no one can read me in bright lights I am getting brighter in self this I C in relation to

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A.J. Huffman Of Vagrancy perceived hopelessness degradation fear avoidance pity politics labeling insanity sloth turned sideways understandable enviable freedom

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Peter Ganick from 'the silence sequence--book three' part fifty-seven. firmc hotelel nsaid affirmative lo-cust blitz moerise palliative la-borite seize modus graffiti presume stunned venom hre-visault iterate lemur bleat veisse environs noesi tartan sides nvlis pemmican forgone effulgence paaepen sass nitya onrush paral-lax demode vif avian in trees eoffer saltpestle migrate oceanside thensome coatlique mirageous de-liberations eliander foible ramifi-cation elves denounciative pursuit fascinate oblique tuse asleep gra-dientce moap beget musicalizes deterrents acclimate notoneithere sequencial probity onsite cellwise determinist vincible incorporeal indelibility connote connectived tissue diapaison mercy collapsible riffled avid focus delinquent coun-tenance. magic ovolacto enlist genant iseult presumptions lessee gamete vak vak vak thesaurus denies engulf presumption list nimbus calliope deliberating oversight overshot ipseity calindrome preamabel tookken chargeling earlier sandeesh nascent presumptionla snare delubriate massive news de-lay engulf paradox veissel cake vak vak vak gondola preabmble ruddy vif genouge one kefn afnaoj enfnojenfie lo toern animate grape caging lefthandedness.

part fifty-eight. oooooozoozozo-oososooszooososozoszoosoososossosossosoososososossososooosososoososososooooososoososooososssoooooosososooosoosososoooosooosososoososoosososossoos-sososososososossossossoososossososossososoooooos. the reminiscence of terrycloth in-frequently parnassus while mean-dering solo painting slalom derivativve aleatoric missquotaa eggnosis threes periodically doormat dormant node anisette vak vak vak spiral genius felici-tously legume brio damperpsongh enaisablers could the reolden palc drivier soapbox multiple agonist niscean frequent regranded sal-low. sequin outs genitive arena reread collarbone equus dalliance focus debonaire stylism vanguarded mistletoe gnit haroum devote si-lence sequns. generate lasizz lorgnette anasta-sian neeot snap gouache dormito-ry nsaid collarbreded snistrate if and if only thrill bane collared immensely proclivity ncoasoee erasure bloss unformularist vnoecno.

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part fifty-nine. idididiidiidiididididddididiidid-iiididiiidiifiddidididididididididididiiiidiiididiiiiiiiiiiiiiiddiddiddidiiddiididid-idddidididiiididiidiididiididdiidididididididiiddiidiidddidiiddiididiidididiididiidiiidiidiididdi-idididdididididididididididididididddidiiiididdidiiiiddiiddidididiidiidi. wwwwwwwwwww-wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. cloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclolcoclocloclocolcloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclocloclolccloccoocclcl. maimaimaimaimaim-aimaimaimaimaim-aimaimaimaimaimaima-imaimaimaimaimaimaimaimaimaimaimaimaimaimai. ecruectuectuectuectuoecutec-tuectuecuecruecuroe-cvuowcvuoevuoevuoevuoevuoevueovueovueovueoqv. iehiehiehiehiehiehiehiehieh-giheigihegiheiheihgieiheiheigh-eiheiheihiehgieiheihihiehihiehiheihieheihgiehihih-giehihiheiheihgiheihiehgeieheihi-heighiehir. fsisfisifsifsifsifsisfisfisfsi-fsisfisfsifsfifsfisifsfsfisfsfisisfiiifii-fifsififiisfififisfisifisifsifsisfisfisfisfsiisfsifisifisfisifisfisi-ifsifisifsfisifisfisifisifis. ei-eeieheiheeieheiheeiheeieheieheiheihiehiehieheheiheiheieiehi-eeieeihieiheieieiheiieiieieiheiiheiehiheihiheiehiehieihihieiehiehiehieihhihieiheehiiehehihiehi-iheihehiiheheieehieiiheihehiehiheiheieheiheihiehiehiheiehiheihi-heii.

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Matina Stamatakis Apertures at Dusk & with their black rooms of moon-frame or fretwork of cells sun falls into stomach nightjars veined vines from a tortured pear─ a window gnawed-at too soon

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The Disappearing that begins & breathes anonymity of late summer as a terminal cancer ─ the flow of bone out of skin ─ how it is countered: nothing with more nothing where will is written as the coming of undone

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David McLean will to art art is anxious for flux and going/ to establish lines and order, be a lion on a rock forever in a child's dream/ meaningless or it is happy passage & the placid passing/ nostalgia for death & vanishing// cold process/ but no things

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Mark Young

Kolkota 105 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

reKline 106 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Neil Ellman And All Manner of Frightful Creatures Arise

(after the lithograph by Odilon Redon) I From their silent place in a silent corner of the universe more silent than the bones of saints and darker than creation’s cave arise the faceless creatures of the afterworld at war with men and gods.

II Impossible creatures sing Improbable songs hallucinate their wings to fly imaginary skies frightful even to themselves they dance on dubious feet and almost undulate like snakes.

III Whatever they and we wish they were the children of a proximate god rise from the fires of inner earth as if they were the future— now they are.

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J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden the draggers’ conflict collaboration we ask for our not I that there is you of your a single its put into state but what they see should their world only part after fears have most follow return life would day expanded then those when desires become wicked remind light

fear

stand firm

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Alisha White

Dis/closure Mask 2.2: Do robots make mistakes?

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Marianne Szlyk Summer Solstice on U Street Let’s pretend that it’s midnight as saxophonist Gary Bartz steps onto the stage.

The room darkens; candles on the table flicker.

Shadows hide the thickset men at the wall.

The ceiling lowers; tiny lights strung above stand in for stars.

Imagine moonlight rippling on salt water.

The scent of mango dusted with chili powder and cinnamon trickles in with the piano and drums.

We taste fruits we don’t know the names of.

Tap your toes, for sure, or sway, following the pianist’s lead, but when the horn starts in again, carry yourself a little straighter.

Cameras flash. Wedged in, we are all caught in the glare.

All too soon imagine the empty streets above.

Playing the last song, Bartz retreats into the early morning’s shadows, the color of his long-tailed jacket, and climbs the back stairs to his refuge above the club.

When we leave by the front stairs, it’s still daylight on U Street.

We can no longer pretend.

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The Blooms of Fall The sunburst’s orange, rust and brown burn into a turquoise door.

The last of the day lilies blanch beneath this clash of color.

Hard green and white shields armor the street tree.

The moss named British soldiers musters in the bark below.

Tendrils cling to live oak, the ghost of Walt Whitman, lingering where young men at the college sprawl, play ball, loiter, or loaf.

Other gray strands, the ghost of Li Bo, dangle from a silver tree to the west.

In its shade, the red-haired scholar memorizes poetry in Chinese.

A whole world in red, green, gray, and orange blooms on pieces of bark from trees fallen in silence, on rocks made from the beginning of time.

In fall, in miniature, in moss and lichen, another whole world is still blooming.

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The Music of Her Life Julie London quit her day job today.

No more half-sunny, half-smoggy mornings standing around the set, holding a clipboard, sipping coffee from a vending machine, nursing a sore throat, fighting with the brass.

No more smoking in the break room with Bobby.

Back in their high-rise apartment, with the view of rush hour, she shucks off her nurse’s cap; her white lace-up shoes; her matching uniform, that knee-length, zip up carapace; her powder-white opaque hose; all onto the white shag carpet.

She keeps on her pink girdle.

Tonight she will sing “Cry Me a River” once more on stage.

She will wear black sequins again.

She will glitter while Bobby leads the band.

The audience’s drinks will sparkle back to her the colors of her eyes and hair.

Tonight she will sing the music of her life.

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At the Water’s Edge

after Cezanne, “At the Water’s Edge” (c. 1890) Resisting the hot wind, this house at the water’s edge retreats beneath the whir of trees.

Their dry brushstrokes are blue like water or sky and green as the end of spring.

But mostly they are the colors of canvas, earth, and parched leaves.

The sky is a haze of brushstrokes, a wash of turpentine, smoke to the water’s edge.

Hills loom behind the house; they are mirages made of thinned paint.

More buildings appear, shimmers in the haze, reflections in the water.

No swimmer, no boat breaks the surface, more mirror for land and sky than home for fish and weeds.

But the house’s heart is dark and sweet with sage and lavender, with the scent of grass and lake protecting its guests from the hot wind, the drought, and the smoke to the water’s edge.

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Walking The Former Orange Line Wendy walks the spine of the city made of burnt umber brick from tenements torn down after fire, after renewal.

She walks beneath the canopy of unnamed trees and sees people who look like her. Two shaven-headed men play tennis. Sweat glistens on dark faces and white chests.

A woman, her head covered in orange, blue, and brown cloth, pushes her baby stroller past a couple walking their dogs.

Wendy reminds herself that this is just a path from one place to the next, from cafÊ to street fair from school to home, for those who were not even born when this path was an elevated subway, a scar running down the city’s face.

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Laura LeHew DON’T} loose the dogs swirling above April [desiccated] magnolia petals crushed and brown [eclipse (&/or) apocalypse] luscious blood moon if the world doesn’t <end> I am unsettled—

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Ernest Williamson III The Burning Fig Trees pregnant figs lacerated with tyrannical whims; you know a fruit in season. bloomed but directly staid, in the labia of my own. directives are shoe strings. jellied by the dirt; red clay earth we sometimes call it; but what is a rant with no nonsense? where is the justice in chaotic observations? figs plump and demure to me, yet to my son they are wombats conversing about dinner plans on planet Make Believe. the children they always believe, lest adults fray from the reality of their shadows trees bare strong yet waiting to bear

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After the Ballet 117 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Parade in the Rain 118 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Seeing Double 119 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

H. Holt cartwheel tasted a cartwheel on a summer whose once-ticked gold sold to honeyed porch lights dousing masses of green morph[in]ed [out] by blooms whose scant, vegetal lungs perform a scent-driven waltz while kaleidoscope of reality reflected in pigtails, down; night-dewed sneakers, up the moon is easier to swallow

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Pd Lietz & Rich Follett

vine cataracts creep, weatherbeaten window nods new vistas beckon

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sunlit synapses arterial infusion tree cerebrum hums

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primordial bog; cetacean ghost ribs cant leviathan copse

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Michelle Greenblatt Exsanguination.

Over the summer, weeds thicken; they cling to my legs when I walk from my house to yours. I stroll past the buffer of water that borders the west end of our yards; I wear nothing / but the nude colored dress you bought me on my 18th birthday. I carry within me a molten image of need. These ancient stones crack open in the deadly heat. Hunting me, you despoil even my shallowest breaths and sculpt them into a prison of hypnosis to cage me. You decreate all space; straining against your imposed stillness, it bleeds out. For the life / in me, I cannot look away.

Afterdusk shimmer, last brilliant glimmer, sky tearing open into emptiness

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Almost liquid.

To explore the nature of dis/trust. To scrub stones and drain the ancient lakes. To search for my likeness in a handful of dust. To add serpent-venom to wine—all part of our agreement. You are multiplying the silence that seeps ever-inward, scoring my insides. Tonight, I stack distance, balance time, hide away our memories: you will stop by to check on my progress. I’m almost liquid / with fear.

Transitive relocation centre; filmy façade; you take my last traces, bury them

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Against the grey.

With subcyaneous eyes, she stares out the attic window into the last pale sliver of shivering sky. Her words peel off the page, ink rising into the singed air. Hands trembling, she struggles to light the final match: one last chance to fend off the approaching void. She rips at the shadows; the shadows rip back. Once the candle is lit, its paltry light stretches and breaks against the grey, revealing the fissures in the ceiling as they open into emptiness.

Extended pauses, stammering transformations; no breathing in this / endlessness

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Where you will find us.

It’s where the wooden bridge collapses and meets the water, where we are prone to landslides and their bruise-colored natures. It’s where the skyflow is slow and leaks into containers we brought from our old home back when we were crazy winged things, and it’s where the willows only grow around the abyssal edges. Form takes life and life takes form. Seaweed tangles around our ankles; unsteady apparitions grab our hands and guide us to safer places. We dive over deserts and barren cliffs; we don’t speak a word until we must…and then no word is spared.

Sutured symphony, querulous euphony, simple sounds uttered in speculative tones

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Struggle and flight.

for Kyle, the perfect mirror Staring into the treacherous liquid-silver of your mirror, its depths slippery and shifting, I fall through the lightning-cracked blue of my eyes and plummet into the past. Tripping down the long, empty halls of memory, I recall being a child, before Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d learned to hate my face. Now mirrors seem the epitome of black magic to me. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d imagine vats of molten glass, poured in layers of viscous argentate cooling into sheets of thick, reflective lacquer. I gaze into the high gloss of the gleaming looking-glass until my vision blurs. Upon its final trick of transformation, I am made / to crawl through a dilatedblack portal, passing through an odyssey of smashed windowglass that displays the shatterpieces of my sharded face. I burn / a hole through time with my kiss, festoon my memories to your lips. To escape your darkling kingdom, I must travel only the most arduous paths. I trudge through the black waters of the contraband river, carrying years of secrets in my clenched fists. One day, I will wake to an aureate world, foreknown to warmth.

Stimulus mounds; slit-open clouds; the clocks on the rooftops tick, time is telling

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Elizabeth Ashe Every time I moved I hoped again. ...

Space does not exist, it is just a metaphor for the structure of our existences.

Louise Bourgeois House and space are not merely two juxtaposed elements of space. In the reign of the imagination, they awaken daydreams in each other, they are opposed. ...

If a house is a living value, it must integrate an element of unreality.

Gaston Bachelard The Poetics of Space I say Mother. And my thoughts are of you, oh House.

House of the lovely dark summers of my childhood.

Czeslaw Milosz Melancholy How to be Restless I’m not here to teach you poetry.

I’m here to teach you to hold onto the restless.

To move: v. [moov] 1- Pass from one place to another. 2- To sell, to advance, be sold.

3- Change of residence. 4- New influence impresses itself to cause a change.

5- To have a closet full of suitcases and boxes, floor to ceiling, ready. 6- Active.

The story could spark from a bedroom scene, an ax smashing a TV.

Turns out, the demise of a television is an implosion, a bomb.

A recreation 25 years later is unwise. I bought an ax, though, and a TV. The story could start from a marriage.

There is no duty, in marriage. Only threat, measured risks, steam, a child.

There is leaving. Paperwork. A dog.

The story could catch on, with security and surveillance. A home should feel safe, right?

Four walls, a lock on the front door, private property with city taxes.

Surveillance shuns any sense of security. To hear a click every three seconds, when on the phone and to know the click is foreign.

The first thing friends ask me, is “Where are you?” – not “how”.

“How” is always the same fundamental of ‘good, making art, swamped, traveling.’

“Where” changes – Baltimore, Chicago, Provence, Dublin, NYC, Tacoma, Santa Fe, driving with a broken odometer; surrounded by semi-trucks and no radio reception.

Ask me what it’s like, to move.

To move house is a glass of water.

A male canary’s song suspended in a Victorian cage.

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Perceived, necessary, repetitive.

There is a crux involved – letting go of something you swore to it, or yourself, that it mattered enough to always keep, because it fills a void perfectly. The canary died.

Why I collect – to create a here.

Why jars and labels, boxes and tissue paper, this is what concludes as “safe.”

Some would call these attachments excessive. Life was lived, with these items. Labor traded to exchange for them, create them. They should maintain a suit, clear or dark; make them a microverse. Even placed in a rushed pile against others, they will be okay.

That isn’t excessive, but accepting.

What’s it like, to flip a house and do it a dozen times? More than a dozen?

It’s cosmetic. See the flaws, fix them.

It’s – Don’t get attached. Don’t stage tea parties with your cats or friends or myriad of stuffed animals. It’s a home phone number less constant than Mom’s work number, noticing we always move to a 3 or a 5 address. It’s learning the basics are salad, scrambled eggs, a roast, pancakes, spaghetti, tacos, and not expect anything else, because the other pans are packed.

When aware, behavior is the discursive of holy.

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Muddled Memory 5' x 18'

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#1-30

40" x 70"

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Tremaine L. Loadholt a tale of a girl and her dreams there is a bird, he is perched upon a ledge nearest her sister’s window and she watches him flail his wings; searching for strength to lift his poundless body and take flight, he struggles. she studies him as he whirls back and forth, speed at his back, battling a breeze that is uncooperative. she fingers a hole in the screen of her sister’s window, pressing her hand forward in an effort to push the fearful creature along. but, he is not interested. sun moves over their heads, introduces himself, and sets the roof ablaze. she wiggles her hand back into a space that began with her finger, closes the window, & prays for his soul. just then, the bird’s confidence boosts and he flails his tired wings once more, slowly lifting into air. she smiles at his success and follows him with a stern look on her nosy face. “there goes an amazing thing, sweet bird,” she says. and, the thrill of the evening for her has ended. “what will I do tomorrow?” the curious girl ready for adventure, falls into bed for an evening nap. she dreams of three legged cats and smelly widows, and soon after, the sweet little bird.

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Richard Schemmerer MEN

TAL

multi lingual symphonies unraveled drama fabricated recalls from past lives secret weapons of memories reaching past mental divides

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Ezra Letra The Reincarnation of Tear Gas Containers Biâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;lin war fossils serve as temples for alkaline soils in their afterlife.

Tear gas containers aligned like militias from Middle Earth, reincarnate as garden cells.

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Elley 136 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

Christopher Mulrooney the towers of Ferrara nine and twelve high stories each and fifteen some and others equally out of reach disused and abandoned lapsed and fallen concrete dust or never built but taken as it were on trust

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Yasmina Saadoun & Al-Logaha Hand

Preserved Friendship Knocking on the keys of desire I sweat I run on my fragile limbs to see her eyes To hold onto whims and stick my tongue out at those would claim I am alone It is not poetic justice for her to land homeless To be without the caretakers of the insane She whispers The keys to the kingdom are hers for the taking Should she land into prosperity?

Her friendship is like a scorpion sting It walks up beside you scary yet powerfully inviting in its intrinsic nature But it kills 138 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

It drives you to things you wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t normally do The crimson rose hears Walks ever closely to a frugal Queen Wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t she stand still in the mountains and give herself Till love dies I cry For your extinguished smile ignites me into infinity making my bones break and my heart ache Till tomorrow we mourn her loss when she signed the papers of divorce, the divorce of the soul from the shattered images of suffering rancorous novelty So we ask in infinity-let freedom ring

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Yasmina Saadoun

Preserved Silence

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Preserved Integrity

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Preserved Passion

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Preserved Woman â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a profile

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Biography Notes Linda Lynch lives and works in southern New Mexico on the US/Mexico border. She is a native of far west Texas from a ranching family long established in the solitude of the high Chihuahuan desert.

She has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in drawing and printmaking from the San Francisco Art Institute and has spent many years in New York City and abroad in Africa. Her work is in numerous private and public collections including the Museum of Modern Art, New York, the Brooklyn Museum, Harvard University Art Museums, Yale University Art Gallery, the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, the University of California at Los Angeles Hammer Museum, and the Menil Collection, Houston. www.lindalynchstudio.net Heller Levinson lives in New York where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines. His publication, Smelling Mary (Howling Dog Press, 2008), was nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Black Widow Press published his from stone this running in 2012. Hinge Trio was published by La Alameda Press in 2012. Forthcoming is Heller’s Wrack Lariat slated for publication by Black Widow Press, Fall 2014. Additionally, he is the originator of Hinge Theory.

Heller Levinson: email: hingetheory@gmail.com web: www.hellerlevinson.com Angie Reed Garner is a second-generation narrative painter living between Louisville KY and Abu Dhabi, UAE. Eileen R. Tabios has released over 20 print, three electronic and 1 CD poetry collections; an art essay collection; a “collected novels” book; a poetry essay/interview anthology; a short story collection; and an experimental biography. Her most recent release is the multi-genre collection SUN STIGMATA (Marsh Hawk Press, New York, 2014). She blogs at http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com; edits Galatea Resurrects, a popular poetry review journal at http://galatearesurrects.blogspot.com; and curates a number of online projects such as Link In To Poetry, a list of recommended contemporary poetry publications at http://linkedinpoetry.blogspot.com.

New website: eileenrtabios.com Silvia Scheibli, Immanentist, lives in Arizona’s Borderlands surrounded by cougars, coatimundis, coyotes, and javelinas on a migratory fly-way. She is an avid birder and recently fulfilled her life’s goal of spotting a Citreoline Trogon in San Blas, Jalisco. Her books, Under The Loquat Tree and Parabola Dreams, co-authored with Alan Britt, are available from amazon.com.

Matt Margo is the author of the book-length poem When Empurpled: An Elegy (Pteron Press, 2013) and the poetry collection Child of Tree (white sky ebooks, 2012), among other works. He edits the online poetry magazine Zoomoozophone Review and the literary blog experiential-experimentalliterature.

Vernon Frazer: Marcia Arrieta is a poet, artist, teacher. Her recent work can be found in The Milo Review, Eratio, BlazeVOX, Otoliths, Catch & Release, inkscrawl, Melusine, & The Blue Hour. She edits & publishes Indefinite Space, a poetry/art journal.

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Kristi Beisecker: In the Spring of 2012 I took a class in Alternative Photography as part of my degree in Graphic and Interactive Design. I am also into spirituality and as part of this interest I discovered Kirlian Photography or as I like to term it - Electrography. Kirlian Photography is made using high voltage electricity to expose objects on photo sensitive paper. In the realm of spirituality this photo process is said to capture the life force energy of organic materials, thus using it as a scientific process.

Those who use the process look at it in a scientific mind frame and just photograph one object. Seeing its' potential as an art form, I took the process and reinvigorated it to be compatible with traditional darkroom processing. As this process was originally developed to use Polaroid film - which is expensive now - my college only had darkroom processing so I used the materials that were available to me. In the creation process, I applied my design skills of composition, relationships to elements on the page and how to arrange objects on a page where the energy flowed through the design. To me these photographs aren't just photograms but a cultivation of my entire knowledge as an artist.

According to John M. Bennett, "Sheila E. Murphy is a widely published innovative and experimental poet, who has lived for many years in Phoenix, Arizona. An autobiography detailing her life and work was published in 1997 in the Contemporary Authors Autobiography series, vol. 185 (revised series).

This collection documents Murphy's development into one of the United States' most widely-read and interesting innovative poets." Murphy is a poet, visual poet, and artist, whose initial training was as a flautist. She has earned her living as a corporate executive, a university and college professor and administrator, and consultant. She is an avid walker, who likes to experience each step of many miles in the desert sunlight on a daily basis.

Ric Carfagna was born and educated in Boston Massachusetts.

He is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Symphonies Nos. 5, & 9 published by White Sky Books-

https://archive.org/details/SymphonyNo.5_175 http://www.lulu.com/us/en/shop/ric-carfagna/symphony-no-9/paperback/product21128532.html His poetry has evolved from the early radical experiments of his first two books, Confluential Trajectories and Porchcat Nadir, to the unsettling existential mosaics of his multi-book project

Notes On NonExistence.

Ric lives in rural central Massachusetts with his wife, cellist Mary Carfagna and daughters, Emilia and Aria.

Clockwise Cat publisher and editor Alison Ross has been published here, there, elsewhere and nowhere. She felt a euphoric thrill when she found out she was shortlisted for the 2014 Erbacce Prize among 20 others, down from 5,000 entries. She was also giddily bemused when was nominated for the Best of the Net a few years back, though she lost out to savvier scribes. Alison's chapbook, Clockwise Cats, recently released from the venerable Fowlpox Press, will subvert your dissonant dystopia into a euphonious utopia of Zen-Surrealist bliss.

Alan Britt read poetry and presented the “Modern Trends in U.S. Poetry” at the VII International Writers’ Festival in Val-David, Canada, May 2013 (http://www.flaviacosma.com/Val_David.html). His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem (http://www.loc.gov/poetry/media/avfiles/poet-poem-alan-britt.mp3) aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. His interviews with Published-to-be: The Forum of Aspiring Writers and Minnesota Review are up at http://publishedtobe.com/2013/08/31/interview-with-writing-coach-and145 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

instructor-alan-britt/ and http://minnesotareview.wordpress.com/blog/page/5/. He read poems at the historic Maysles Cinema in Harlem/NYC, February 2013, and the World Trade Center/Tribute WTC Visitor Center in Manhattan/NYC, April 2012. His latest books are Alone with the Terrible Universe (2011), Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). Selected by Crack the Spine Literary Magazine for Best of the Net Anthology 2014 for Sundress Publications: http://www.crackthespine.com/p/blog-page.html. He is Poetry Editor for the We Are You Project International (www.weareyouproject.org) and Book Review Editor for Ragazine (http://ragazine.cc/).

He teaches Creative Writing at Towson University.

Links: Ragazine: The Wiki Literary Underground: http://theliteraryunderground.org/wiki/index.php?title=Alan_Britt; http://ragazine.cc/2012/08/sohar-on-brittreview/ and http://ragazine.cc/2012/08/1wtc/ Regina Walker is a writer, photographer and psychotherapist in NYC. Both her writing and photography have appeared in various publications and her photos have been on display in a number of galleries in NYC, Florida, NJ, Los Angeles, CA and Woodstock, NY. Regina Walker is the Senior Writer for Revolution Magazine USA and can be reached at Reginaannwalker@gmail.com.

Her website is: www.outandaboutinnyc.com Mark Fleury lives in St. Paul Minnesota. He has recently had poems published in Vext Magazine, Altered Scale, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, Medulla Review, ditch, UFO Gigolo, The Original Van Gogh's Ear Anthology, and others. Mark has a new 2014 book of poetry entitled The Precious Surreal Doorway Opened, published by the Medulla Review Publishing.

Clifford Brooks, a native of Athens, Georgia, grew up running wild among trees and open air all over his home state. A Huck Finn in his early years, by far not a fan of public school (or being indoors for that matter), he began to write as an escape. His passion for letters grew over time into short stories and humorous non-fiction he became known for in smaller literary circles. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until 2003 that he took up poetry as his sole muse. A few years later, with the help of an agent, editor(s), and publisher, The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics became a means of introduction to a much wider audience of readers.

Before turning teaching and creative writing into a means of financial survival, Clifford worked as a bookseller, juvenile probation officer, and social worker. In 1999 he received a Bachelors of Science in History/Political Science from Shorter College in Rome, Georgia.

Today his book, The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics, has been nominated for 2 Pushcarts, a Pulitzer in Poetry, and Georgia Author of the Year. With the attention his literary career has garnered, he has since started The Southern Collective Experience and invited into The Last Ancients. Both of these groups have given Clifford new energy and inspiration to complete his next book, Athena Departs. You can learn more about Clifford at: www.cliffbrooks.com.

JBMulligan has had poems and stories in several hundred magazines over the past 35 years, has had two chapbooks published: The Stations of the Cross and THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, and an e-book, The City Of Now And Then. He has appeared in several anthologies, including Inside/Out: A Gathering Of Poets; The Irreal Reader (Cafe Irreal); and multiple volumes of Reflections on a Blue Planet.

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Naomi Buck Palagi grew up in the woods of Kentucky. She works and lives in NW Indiana with her husband and two lively little kids, and reads and writes poetry in among the rest of life. She has work published in journals such as Spoon River Review, Otoliths, Moria, Eleven Eleven, Blue Fifth Review and Requited. Additionally, she has two chapbooks, Silver Roof Tantrum (dancing girl press, 2010), and Darkness in the Tent (Dusie Kollectiv 5, 2011). bruno neiva is a Portuguese text artist, poet and writer.

He's recently published "averbaldraftsone&otherstories" (Knives Forks and Spoons Press) and "dough" (erbacce press).

More of his work can be found elsewhere in magazines and anthologies worldwide.

He's currently working on Servant Drone, a cut-up poetry joint project with poet Paul Hawkins: http://servantdrone.tumblr.com/ Blogs at: http://umaestruturaassimsempudor.tumblr.com/ Joseph Milford is a warehouse worker and teacher of English in south Atlanta fumigated by the myriad vapors of its sprawling airport. He sometimes hosts The Joe Milford Poetry show. His first book, CRACKED ALTIMETER, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He has a collection of poems forthcoming from Hydeout Press in 2014. He hates Sasquatch hunter shows and generally fears he is dying from his liver.

Duane Locke lives hermetically in Tampa, Florida near Anhinga, Herons, Gallinules, Alligators and other sacred things. Has had 6,909 different poems published, 32 books. Also, a photographer of nature (The Sacred) and Surphotos. His latest book THE FIRST DECADE, 1968-1978â&#x20AC;&#x201D;contains his first 11 books. Published by Bitter Oleander Press. Can also be ordered from Amazon.

Travis A Sharp is a poet, cross-genre writer, and book artist. He is an MFA student in Creative Writing and Poetics at the University of Washington Bothell. He is co-founder/co-editor of Small Po[r]tions and Letter [r] Press and is co-curator of the interactive and collaborative book project Blood of an Author Box. A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She also has a full-length poetry collection scheduled for release in June 2015, titled, A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com Peter Ganick: Matina L. Stamatakis currently resides in upstate New York. Some of her works have been published in Free Verse, Dusie, The Volta, Milk, Coconut, and many more. She is the author of EoS (Oystercatcher Press), Metempsychose (Ypolita Press) and co-author of The ChongDong Misfits (Avantexte Press).

David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with his dog, Oscar, and his computers. In addition to various chapbooks, McLean is the author of six full-length poetry 147 | O f / w i t h I s s u e 1

collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010), NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO HEAVEN BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO DIE (Oneiros Books, June 2013), THINGS THE DEAD SAY (Oneiros Books, Feb 2014), OF DESIRE AND THE LESION THAT IS THE EGO (Oneiros Books 2014).

Mark Young's most recent books are the e-book Asemic Colon from The Red Ceilings Press, The Codicils, a 600-page selection of poems written between 2009 & 2012, out from Otoliths, & the eclectic world from gradient books of Finland. He lives in North Queensland in Australia.

Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and the Rhysling Award. Almost 1,000 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden co-edits Cricket Online Review. He lives in Iowa.

Dr. Alisha M. White is an a/r/tist, teacher educator, and assistant professor at Western Illinois University. Her work revolves around disrupting constructions of ability, integrating arts into her research and teaching, specifically with students with learning dis/abilities, and teaching future teachers the potential for using the arts in teaching English and language arts. This piece explores the concept of dis/closure and what it means to reveal or hide labels of “disability.”

Marianne Szlyk is an associate professor of English at Montgomery College, an associate poetry editor at Potomac Review, and the editor of The Song Is..., a site for poems inspired by music at http://thesongis.blogspot.com/. Her own poems have appeared in print and online, most recently in Poppy Road Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Poetry Pacific, The Blue Hour Literary Magazine, churches children and daddies, and Storm Cycle 2013: The Best of Kind of a Hurricane Press . Other publications, including her first chapbook, are forthcoming.

Laura LeHew is the author of a full-length book of poems, two chapbooks, numerous articles and with poems in Anobium, Counterexample Poetics, Eleven Eleven, filling station Magazine, Ghost Town, The Inflectionist Review and PANK among others. Laura received her MFA from the California College of Arts. She knows nothing of gardens or gardening but is well versed in the cultivation of cats. Laura is the editor of Uttered Chaos www.utteredchaos.org, www.lauralehew.com Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 450 national and international online and print journals. Some of Dr. Williamson’s visual art and/or poetry has been published in journals representing over 50 colleges and universities around the world. Dr. Williamson is an Assistant Professor of English at Allen University, self-taught pianist, editor, poet, singer, composer, social scientist, private tutor, and a self-taught painter. His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology. The poems which were nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology were as follows: “The Jazz of Old Wine”, “The Symbol of Abiotic Needs”, & “The Misfortune of Shallow Sight”. He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis and the PhD in Higher Education Leadership from Seton Hall University.

H. Holt started her publication quest August of 2013, and has proven successful on various accounts.

She is a member of The Southern Collective Experience, which is an organization of Southern Arts.

In her spare time, she helps others achieve their dreams of higher education.

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Paula Dawn Lietz ( Pd Lietz ) is an accomplished multi-genre artist, photographer and poet.

She has garnered an impressive range of credits working with various publishers and authors, reveling in the creative energy generated within the artist and literary community. Her poet's heart shines through her visual interpretations of the world she sees around her. http://www.pdlietzphotography.com Rich Follett is a High School English, Theatre, and Mythology teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than 35 years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and Counterexample Poetics, for which he is a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human & c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com). He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia (USA), where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, singer/songwriter, playwright and director.

Michelle Greenblatt is the poetry editor for Unlikely Stories. A two-time Pushcart-Prize nominee, Greenblatt’s third book, Ghazals, was co-authored with Sheila Murphy. The poems in this issue are from her fourth book, ASHES AND SEEDS, a collection of prose poetry, free verse poems, and postmodern haibuns that combine Greenblatt’s love of surrealist imagery with story-telling through avant-garde explorations into loss, isolation, insanity, and redemption. ASHES AND SEEDS is forthcoming from Unlikely Stories. You can find more of Greenblatt’s work in Free Verse, Bird Dog, Word For/ Word, Counterexample Poetics, Dusie, Clockwise Cat, Altered Scale, eratio, Sawbuck, Sugar Mule, Moria, Shampoo, Coconut Poetry, Big Bridge, BlazeVOX, Xerolage, Blackbox, Otoliths, Fire, The Spidertangle Anthology of Visual Poetry and many others. Michelle can be reached at Michelle@UnlikelyStories.org.

Elizabeth Ashe is a visual artist, poet and travelholic, who earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University and a second MFA in Multidisciplinary Art from the Maryland Institute College of Art. She was as Associate Editor for Fourth River and Host of a Dinner Party & Reading Series in Pittsburgh. Between graduate programs, she was Director of Mavi Contemporary Art and started working on a couple patents. Her poetry has appeared in Sundress Press' “Best of the Net – 2012,” Flycatcher: A Journal of Native Imagination, “Haiku for Lovers” by Buttontapper Press, Vagabondage Press, The Legendary, The Battered Suitcase, Glass: A Literary Journal and Bird's Eye reView, among others. Ashe lives in Washington, D.C., where she works as a vintage furniture restorer and runs a bakery booth at her neighborhood farmer's market.

Tremaine L. Loadholt currently resides in Winston-Salem, NC where she works as an Insurance and Patient Accounts Representative. She is the proud owner of a bubbly, excitedly luring dog named Jernee and an avid reader and writer of all things life, love, learning, and listening. She has had several break-aways from writing consistently, but has not once lost her passion or love for the craft. She has began creating again which has caused her to want to get her name back into the writing world.

She has had several pieces published in anthologies and magazines and is the author of two poetry books: Pinwheels and Hula Hoops: Poems that tell Stories; Stories that are Poems & Dusting for Fingerprints.

Richard Schemmerer is an artist and writer currently residing in Portland OR. He is the author of the inspirational book “Reconnection with the power of Love”. He is the curator of the art blog www.PDXART.blogspot.com and the literary zine Nonlinear.

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Ezra Letra is a man with many muses: rapper, photographer, writer, director, graphic designer, producer, proud father. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in University of Arizona Press, Red River Review, Literary Orphans, Out of the Gutter, Sugar Mule Press, and Gutter Books LLC. Born in Queens, NY and residing in Phoenix, AZ, Ezra holds a B.A in English and Creative Writing from The University of Arizona. His debut poetry chapbook When La Migra Stopped Coming is published by Nostrovia Poetry. He is currently touring the U.S. Southwest to promote his latest musical venture: The Nobody EP. For more on Ezra, visit www.ezraletra.com.

Christopher Mulrooney is the author of symphony (The Moon Publishing & Printing), flotilla (Ood Press), and viceroy (Kind of a Hurricane Press).

Yasmina Saadoun grew up in Skikda, Khroub and Constantine, Algeria. Semi-figurative native Algerian Painter that works on the edges of various traditional Algerian art forms and specializes in the issues and feelings of the Algerian woman.

Al-Logaha Hand is an American poet living in Algeria with her family She studied Middle East History and Telecommunications in Colorado and loves everything francophone, although only fluent in the love of French culture. Her work is centered on the sublime whether Ekphrastic, Surrealist, Dadaist or just plain philosophically experimental. In addition, her work seeks to show a lifelong poetic vein and to bleed through the pages a sense of love for the intrinsic beauty of art itself. She is hereby a dedicated life-long learner, former ESL teacher and into coding and decoding life, hence, the use of her name anagrammed for artistic temperance. Overall, she seeks to commune with other artists and hopes her work is a tribute to those she hopes to honor.

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