Degenerates: Voices for Peace 2015 Issue EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Weasel Copyright Š 2015 Weasel Press Front and Back Covers Š William S. Tribell All written and visual works remain the sole property of their creators. They are free to use their works however they see fit. Degenerates is an independent anthology, published by Weasel Press. If you would like a copy of the magazine you can order one from our website. Degenerates: Voices for Peace is a non-profit based magazine and runs solely off the support of its readers, authors, and artists. If you would like to be considered for our next issue, please visit our website to see when we open up again. http://www.weaselpress.com/degenerates http://www.facebook.com/weaselpress http://www.twitter.com/weaselpress
Table of Contents 1. What Remains by Jane Chance/4 2. The Gospel According to Abeytu by Dr. Ernest Williamson III/5 3. Common Sense by Vimeesh Maniyur/5 4. Atheist by Sonia Karen/6 5. Priority in Promise by Dustin Pickering/6 6. Oh Solomon by Michael Garrett Ashby II/8 7. A Water Can Sprays a Flowerbed City by John Gosslee/9 8. Self-Involved Thesis by John Gosslee/9 9. Physical Attributes Aside by David S. Pointer/10 10. Under His Thumb by Kai Neidhardt/10 11. Don’t Be A Stranger by Stephen McQuiggan/11 12. Gender Fluidity by Azreil Hayes/12 13. A Normal Afternoon by J.W. Mark/12 14. Miracle by Sonia Karen/13 15. Our Place by Nicole Deardorff/14 16. She Will Be Brave by Kristin Perkins/15 17. Dangerous Truth by Abigail Wyatt/16 18. Lavinia Roberts/17 19. Peace is Not the Absence of Conflict by Robin Wyatt Dunn/18 20. To Be At Peace by John Grey/19 21. Thy Neighbor’s Dinner by Sarah Henry/20 22. Don’t You Miss Bacon? by Martin Appleby/21 23. Convict Chains by Strider Marcus Jones/22 24. Crash by Jessica Therese/23 25. Litany to Our Lady of Headlines by Jane Chance/24 26. As I Look Through My Window by Strider Marcus Jones/25 27. A Boy in the Window by Jane Chance/26 28. “Not All Men” by Meggie Royer/27 29. Myself: Age 45 to Age 15 by Cathy Bryant/28 30. Holy Housework by Abigail Wyatt/29 31. Sheherazade by Meggie Royer/30 32. Lavinia Roberts/31 33. Adulterated Liaisons by Jane “The Rev” Wenninger/31 34. They Don’t Build Cathedrals Anymore by P.A. Levy/32 35. Dead Carpenters by Neil S. Reddy/33 36. The Rocket Man of Nordhausen by M.J. Duggan/34 37. Kaddish for Red Roofs by Richard King Perkins II/34 38. Air Vent in Hitler’s Bunker at Berchtesgaden by William S. Tribell/35 39. in a world of burning bridges by Kevin Heaton/36 40. Torn Sketch by Ce Jac/37 41. Tale of the Bluegone Boy by Bruce Boston/38 42. Cherry Red Silence by R.K. Gold 43. Scars & Empty Vases by Kevin Heaton/40 44. Stars My Rise to Hell and Back by Bruce Boston/40 45. Wash Away by Richard King Perkins II/41 46. Krackatoe by M.J. Duggan/41 47. Mayakovsky’s Map by Mathias Jansson/42 48. Trump Hand by Scott Thomas Outlar/43 49. Fear and Punishment by Sonia Karen/44 50. Nothing Quiet on the Western Front/44 51. Borders by Gary Beck/46 52. A Rose For Gaza by Lynn White/47 53. The Good Life by Michael Garrett Asby II/47 54. Honey-Fire Words by Nicole Deardorff/48 55. Lavinia Roberts/49
“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” —Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
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What Remains — Jane Chance
5 The Gospel According to Abeytu an ocean is a discursive shield Abeytu said, within the floundering mediation of trying trust, between and among the rests of young men; stretched into old experiences such as death. a concept imbued with understanding of which even leaders of great nations flounder into dusk; while leading with no red badge. Life is not a war for war's sake Or some leaf devoid of stoma for Abeytu told me, no man knows more than another man who claims to know more than himself. — Dr. Ernest Williamson III
Common Sense Revolution is sometimes all about losing our common sense. And common sense is all about switching off the revolution in us. The long standing clashing sound is may be from talk after a noon Shaw Chatting, fighting…. May be a long march Revolution is next to a word When they are ready to take back sense after a common word. — Vimeesh Maniyur
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Atheist — Sonia Karen Priority in Promise I talked with an odd young artist during the Artcrawl in Houston, Texas. She had purple hair, a beautiful smile, and gothic Christian crosses around her neck. Obsessed with stigmata, she painted wondrous portraits of Eve, and Lilith, the first feminist who wouldn’t bow before Man. In Houston, Texas I had heard that lawless Super Bowl fans bought sex slaves from shady merchants. Young girls, usually— from Latin America or Mexico. They were promised a better life in America but when they arrived with their escorts, they found themselves locked.
They were sold as young slaves for the pleasure of older males, Americans made of poinsettias and sunshine and lemonade… you know America, the promised land. The shameful scarlet letter is sown into this land’s breast, this city, these people. The scaffold could not avenge the sin. But my gothic artist friend couldn’t complain of her life. She embraced her art, although it rarely sold, for the love of creating. A serious artist will stoically engage an audience. I said, “Lilith of the darkness, why are Houstonians rejoicing for the sports team of their choice while backhand deals for kidnapped girls are happening under their noses? Lilith was the lady who refused, who committed only to herself, who lived in perfect freedom, and who gladly accepted exile. She wouldn’t be Adam’s whore. Why, painter of Lilith fair and calm, do you think young girls make better barters than art in Houston?” She couldn’t answer. Art doesn’t sell in metropolitan Texas— but we must continue to create, appreciating the grand scope of things: searching for hope in soda cans and highway trash— a hope unrequited, lost, a hope that sings in silence to the broken angels who lost their wings. —Dustin Pickering
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Oh Solomon Oh Solomon, come play with the padded walls and hide toys in the cracks of other soul mates. (cellmates?) You were so wise to eat tabs of liquid god while the others sat at home and dreamt, but did you ever wonder why they dream or why you wonder? or why our god had forsaken us after we finally learned what we had done? Oh Solomon, I saw you dance along the green with your half bled baby leaking over the blades. You were wise not to pick endless lovers or wealth. I would have picked endless lovers and wealth. I would have planned orgies in the treasury hall laughing in god’s good graces, and much like you I would be fair, sharing all I had, and all I would have, with lover after lover. Take my children! Devour my life! Oh Solomon, you’re a better man than I. I would have given the child to an adoption agency to find a mother who could hold onto her child, but you knew far better. So now you dance in the gardens of floral carpets, singing songs of the dandelion god and the sword held seed to prove it held her blood. Oh Solomon, now I finally know what we’ve done. — Michael Garrett Ashby II
A Water Can Sprays a Flowerbed City outside of the train station it rains like god is ringing out a towel the ticket holders bloom umbrellas drops of water splash into little corsages I inhale and float up as if a balloon mismatched flowers pivot on their stems to see as I ascend my empty boots fill with cold soup someone’s shoulder snickers against my wet right foot a woman yells, you can’t do that! she lunges to pluck me down and catches air —John Gosslee
Self-involved Thesis The door closes, the journals are in labeled bags, the fan chucks the air around the room without witnesses. Two bookshelves, rented apartment, a bookcase, a desk, a laptop, there’s an extension-chord to run the warmth of my inescapable breath. I’m trying to remember building a stair that wasn’t meant to make me higher, like giving a street musician three-hundred dollars on Broadway, because he’s burning on the sidewalk and it’s winter. —John Gosslee
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Physical Attributes Aside Earth’s magnetic field as multiple attacker others pummeling the future kid scientist shuffling from learning the lesson guilty group fist different education levels and life chances turn our now super-analyst into an alt-chem, PCB revenge specialist although award committees treat him, work as elite celebrity guest once a scrawny head scrape yowl riding after bookmobile assistance ever invisible under microscope incinerating midnight sun to ash, eviserating certain sectors finally claiming elusive title conquering highest school bully wars forever —David S. Pointer
Under His Thumb You are useless No, you are Worse than that You are Nothing Nobody No one You see this hand? This hand is Something Somebody Someone And it will strike You down Know your place You are lesser than me You are lesser than me You are lesser than me Less than me —Kai Neidhardt
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Don’t Be A Stranger The derelict eats ornamental flowers And sleeps in the bus shelter during showers, Invisible to all whose hearts are hardened Unless he camps out in their front garden. Slow of wit and mute from birth, Never deemed to be of worth, Begging with a silent hand Outstretched in ignored demand; Tries to please others just by smiling, They think him lazy and beguiling. A figure of fun most of the time, Unless there’s been some awful crime, Well it’s so much easier to blame A dirty stranger without a name, So when a child goes missing The parents get to hissing “He smells and I think he’s foreign, It must be him who took our Sharon.” Reminiscent of days of old The villagers all gather bold And form a mob to do what’s ‘Just’ For in the Law they place no trust, Yet they need no pitchfork or stave To deal with this alfresco knave, Just petrol, or some lighter fluid, A box of matches - that should do it; Using his ragged coat as tinder They burn the tramp to a cinder. No-one sees as they huddle round, Among them Sharon, safe and sound. —Stephen McQuiggan
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Gender Fluidity A people of many colors they are not just stutters of a phase, but abductors of their face. Not the face you are studying but the face they’re done covering, because you insist upon governing that fluidity can exist. They are not living confused They are not fluid due to abuse you can’t “fix” how they reproduced the problem isn’t their dicks. Or their lack of, for that matter. If you deny love you are no pastor A hater is far sadder than someone with 2 plus genders. —Azreil Hayes
A Normal Afternoon endurance dyes the evening stars emblazoned red and blue and yellow burned the morning swills a foggy soup sustained contaminants departed fall, the planet’s grime diffused a nail hangs a scribbled sign fresh lemonade a dime —J.W. Mark
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Miracle — Sonia Karen
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Our Place It's strange what the world decides to notice how often they'll turn a blind eye no one asks about the scars on my thighs, no one asks about the prescription bottle in my purse no one questions why I'm always tired It's amazing what people are willing to overlook when I show up with cut-up wrists none of my teachers blink an eye when I showed up with bruises on my face, only two let my safety trump their comfort zone It's remarkable how many people used to ask my parents if I had an eating disorderbut when people mention my weight to me, it's usually out of jealousy Ours is a nation which prefers to stay in the dark we don't want the responsibility of knowing it's up to us to make a change we're too afraid of failing to ever try or else we convince ourselves it's not our place —Nicole Deardorff
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She Will Be Brave I know you’ve spent far too long staring into toilet bowls watching your guilt disappear counter clockwise like ticking back the clock to when you were younger when you were small enough you could easily fit beneath the sink and peak out at your moms legs as she washed the dishes and hummed go back to when you felt less like the garbage disposal your mom would switch on after she had scraped the dishes clean and more like the tiny pine tree in the front yard it could have been a christmas tree you were sure it would be a christmas tree it has since been cut down longing to be more more whole and less “holy cow, did you see her?” less broken but more breakable brittle bird bones back to when you could see yourself in all those movies and books I know you’ve spent far too long searching for yourself through animated jungles and castles and oceans only to find yourself in the witches and the cooks I’ve seen your battle scars and I think you are brave and I think courage is sometimes action and sometimes it is lying still when you itch to stick your hands down your throat again that sometimes courage is lying there in bed finding faces in the popcorn on the ceiling maybe someday you will find someone who looks like you up there and she will be kind and good and smart like you are she will be brave like you are —Kristin Perkins
16 Dangerous Truth (for the Kabul women’s poetry club) 'both personal and political’ it always is poetry is personal everything is political even here, in the cosy west, they lie in wait for us ‘they’ would have us believe that the war is over they would have us put up our bright swords 'writing poetry is a sin' but once our mouths closed on it, once we had tasted its clear, sweet juice then we were lost to their authority now many of us write in secret ‘we talk to the paper’ we talk freely our hearts speak it is better than the silence that is death even so, like yours, our gains are fragile some of us have forgotten how we fought some of us were not born then it was a long time ago ‘it is our form of resistance’ also we honour your losses and your loves ‘when we recite our poems, we remove our pain’ we will not be got rid of —Abigail Wyatt
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Lavinia Roberts
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Peace is Not the Absence of Conflict I sing for you and me A history we wrote together last night! I sing for you and me, A blood and a music! I sing the dance and so we chant the symphony of chance and aching! The pain and the making of a sun! The claim that we were chosen! I sing for you and me, A cleaving and a wroth! A filtered broth we'll drink and cough To stem a whistling sickness we've been fearing and we've seen, We will outdream the stones of the Philistines! We will bear the load! I sing for you and me this starry history of bones and gnomes and tomes So we'll remember what it cost us, To own and to be owned, To grow old under the city in its creepiest of meanings, To shout into the earth our bloodiest of beatings, To write our name onto the wall. —Robin Wyatt Dunn
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To Be At Peace Sleep is more than willing. So is dawn, slowly sweeping away the dregs of night, unveiling the town, street by street. A quiet coffee and cereal in a second floor apartment is also aboard. As long as there’s a daily to do list that doesn’t involve dodging and weaving. Every baby is up to the task. They cry to be sure but selfishly, in the immediate. And nothing to do with soldiers and snipers, pain beyond the normal rolling dice of growing. Each face is up for it from the barber peering out his window for his first customer to the trash collector and the doctor, happy to treat the normal bumps and bruises of ordinary life, leave the bullet wounds to history. The workday may be busy on the outside but the calm at its core is eager to sign on. And night is enthusiastic now that its job is no longer soporific. Which brings us back to sleep, where we began, and dreams, also onside but haven’t they always been. —John Grey
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Thy Neighbor’s Dinner Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s turkey dinner. Forsake the poisonous fumes of boiling fat dripping in the pan. Weep for the beheaded, its beak ripped off without anesthetic! Bless, O bless the innocent foul as it scratches in a barnyard pen. Forget not the beneficent mercies of vegetable dishes and dense stuffing tucked inside the salted cavity. Feast joyfully on a cylinder of cranberry sauce. Come all ye men of faith to less hazardous tables! Partake of bean sprouts and pray for the damned souls of carnivores. —Sarah Henry
21 Don’t You Miss Bacon? Don’t you miss bacon? What do you eat then? What’s that, rabbit food? Don’t you miss bacon, though? I couldn’t eat a meal without meat It’s natural They’re bred to be eaten Without us they’d be extinct Don’t you miss bacon? You eat eggs, though? And dairy That’s basically the same Hypocrite Go and chew on some grass They’re bred to be eaten We’re born to eat them It’s normal Natural Oh no I wouldn’t eat a kitten or a puppy That’s horrible I’m not a savage How do you get the nourishment you need, anyway? You hippy Don’t you miss bacon? Just man up just eat it it’s what we do Hunters Gatherers Top of the food chain King of the fucking Castle It’s normal Natural Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss bacon? — Martin Appleby
22 Convict Chains rich man and peasant understand coins change hand, despite the Magna Carta we must all barter to liveonly communists give nothing something sometimessame crimes. so, when reason rains, i drag my convict chains to the barrow bog and cut peat in feral fog where motives meet. six feet down, sucked back five thousand years the old town settlement appears in full formation of chattel, cattle and battle still at station preserved to serve. around the round late night fires, power plays and lust desires hearth home homogenous in Mars and Venus making love in animal skins wearing the same sins. on the long walk home, some alone and those together, believe never can be changed and are called strange. —Strider Marcus Jones
23 Crash for MH-17 victims There were tiny scissors in your craft kit you had to throw into the plastic bin at customs. Over the speakers they explained how yellow oxygen masks would fall from the ceiling in an emergency. It was a strange feeling – the rumbling of the plane as it accelerated down the runway – a sudden lift and you were floating - only sky and more sky outside the rectangular window, backyard swimming pools like blue porcelain cups below. Your grandfather told you to swallow and yawn, your ears crackling and the world sounding clearer again. You could almost touch the clouds that hung like ornaments in the sky. You leaned a soft pillow against your brother’s shoulder and closed your eyes, drifting in and out of sleep. And then at 1.20 pm, the deadly impact of the 70 kg missile, your little body rendered unconscious from the explosion. I’m sorry you will never have your first kiss. I’m sorry you wont blow candles off ice-cream cake on your seventh birthday. Even though you weren’t alive to see it, I hope the sky was beautiful on the way down. —Jessica Therese
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Litany to Our Lady of Headlines muzzle wired shut dog tossed off a truck puppy hanged from a fence burned by boys young stag in a park teens behead for sport New Delhi girl on a night bus raped with an iron rod gay man barb-wired to a fence in the snow in New England villages church bells knell regret in big cities EMS vans shrill us over to other freeway lanes help on the way how soon how fast for souls armed with hearts like knives against the soft-eyed shy some love requires hurt this is what they know this is what they were given pray for mercy to listen —Jane Chance
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As I Look Through my Window in that other way the wind blows and seed shows, so Lothlorien knows kingdoms return to clay. evening rain splashes like beads of nectar on your uncovered lashes, glisten in pure light from the uncovered star in the bowl of my pipe. your eyes film me thinking metaphysically how all is displaced yet told it's placelost Lothlorien, is the last Ringdom, not a ruled, divided kingdom. you see, how i'm broken when my smoke drifts open and inhale me down deeply like before into paradise once more. every reason for what i do in every season is with you, as i look through my window and watch Lothlorien growsupping sunrise and sunset, moving through moonlight mist to reflecthow her silver tide, balances shapeless wisdom and pride, so young and old can decide, what stories should be told. —Strider Marcus Jones
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A Boy in the Window — Jane Chance
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"Not All Men” My grandmother cracks eggs the same way the man who invaded her house locked the bedroom door and wouldn’t let her leave until he was finished: fierce & loud, with purpose, as if whatever came spilling out of her body would be useful. With eggs, there is only yolk. With my grandmother, there was life. And I live in fear of dark alleyways and drinks filled with drugs that lead to blackout and some stranger’s fingers in my mouth because inside my twenty years of life there was once a bed, and a person in it, and a moment that happened beneath the covers in which my body was changed irreparablyless a moment really, than a timeline I will never be rid of. So you say not all men, not all men are werewolves dressed like sheep who howl at the moon even when the moon covers its ears and asks them to stop and they won’t, they won’t, because stop is not a word they bothered to add to their vocabulary, you say not all men, not all men, not all men. But here we are, my grandmother and I, countless other women who contain multitudes of bruises and memories like wounds filled with salt with skins that are afraid to occupy themselves after already being occupied by so many trespassers. And all you can do is stand there and say not all men, but let this poem spit in your face that we know, we know, we women are not stupid, we know not all men do what so many have already done to us, but this is the least helpful thing to say because the wrong that some men do makes us scared of all the others. This is not balm for our stitches; this is tearing them open. Say too many men instead. And there is some kind of progress. —Meggie Royer
28 Myself: Age 45 to Age 15 Hit your father back somewhere it shows and will embarass him. Tell him if he doesn't leave you alone and stop hitting all of you then you'll stab him while he sleeps. Tell him if he sends you to a shrink then you'll tell the shrink why you feel like this. Tell your father you must go to a school that he doesn't run. I know you don't want to be violent, but you are permitted self-defence. Tell your mother that ironing isn't as important as protecting your children; that obedience to a husband does not trump caring for your kids. Tell her to leave him and exactly why. When she decides not to believe you, tell her why she'll never see you again. None of all that crap was your fault. Things really will get better. There are other jobs than respectable ones in offices, other means of escape and sex than marriage. Don't wait 20 years to life-model and write. Submit your poems and stories and keep writing. Laugh at rejections and join a writers' group. Do not open your door to Simon, however he begs. No, wait - don't go out with him. Don't speak to him. Don't move in with him. Never interact with him. Buy an electric toothbrush and put a blob of lube on the back of the head. Masturbate with this until you reach orgasm. Never fake orgasm. No one deserves that. Your soulmate is called - no. You should experience that unfolding, the unrolling of acceptance and joy. Love will come. It is a skill that can be learned and developed, like most things. I promise you, dear one, it will come. Don't starve yourself. Keep reading and have faith in yourself. It will all come. —Cathy Bryant
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Holy Housework (in response to Father Piero Corsi who called on Italian women to engage in 'healthy self-criticism' over the issue of men murdering women') Today we must shake out our spotted sheets and bring our soiled linen to the light; we must fall on our knees confessing our faults and scour our kitchens for stains; and with what stern purpose we must seek those specks that infect our murky hearts, sweep them out and sluice them down, our starkest imperfections undone. And, today, too, we must lather and scrub till our sins are all rinsed clean; when our souls will shine like brand new pins where seraphim may dance if they will; and today we must launder the rags of our guilt, and lift and beat the carpets of our shame; bleach the great bowl of our wanton lust and not omit to scrub around the rim. We must roll up our sleeves and find His grace in the scalding and the starching of our hearts, our salvation in our cooking pots, our glory in the great gift of our days. All this we must do with a blessing on our lips and humility and patience in our hearts; but, Father, take heed, we are half of all there is and, in sisterhood, we sing and we shine. —Abigail Wyatt
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Scheherazade Scheherazade, Scheherazade, before my grandmother married the love of her life, she went through more men than graveyards go through ghosts. On the evenings when we spooned avocadoes straight from their shells and ate their creamy insides under the light of the open fridge, she would tell me tales of how each man left her with a string of black eyes and soreness all over the soft skin of her thighs, because they thought a body as beautiful as hers should not get away without being hurt. Scheherazade, you read over a thousand books of history and volunteered to spend the night with, and read to, a king who beheaded every woman before you. I wonder if my grandmother had read poems in bed to the men who used their fists and bodies against her, if they would become so engrossed in the stories that they would spare her the bruises too. Poems about undressing seasons, courting doves, warriors who live with bullets in their blood, poems about anything but leaving women for dead. And when you were done telling your tales, Scheherazade, the king fell in love with you and made you his queen. I only hope this is how my story will end too, that one night I will not be sitting in the kitchen with my own daughter spooning avocadoes out of their shells talking about all the men I went through before I found one that didn’t hurt me. —Meggie Royer
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Lavinia Roberts Adulterated Liaisons When I was a kid at church my friend from next door told me he was grossed out by watching his mother shag the cabbie – through its back window. Still, if my husband never gave me any he beat me and – whatever -and my priest told me to pray more for the grace to endure it Rocking the cab with the cabbie would seem pretty much like grace – until the backlash —Jane “The Rev” Wenninger
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They Don’t Build Cathedrals Anymore Out of town we are but strangers in a strange land with homeless dust drying in our mouths and disappointment etched like claw scars down our cheeks. Almost horror struck we stared from behind barbed wire fences as oxide red skeletons stretched up into the cod-scaled greyness. . Two cranes take to the dance floor performing a slow motion tango. The beat of blueprints synchronizes their movements; arms swing angular, all brute force and sweat. As wonderment pushed grit from our eyes we stood like corner shop natives waiting for that moment when the glass dome was to be set like a diamond. We gasped at the thought that automatic doors would welcome us inside to walk upon the marbled floors, and to listen to the chorus of cash tills singing: “Hallelujah” as they exchange all our prayed for dreams with credit card receipts; consumer redemption available 10 a.m. to 10 p.m., even on Sundays. For now we have seen the light, nine out of ten of us agree, you have to buy icons to obtain retail spirituality. —P.A. Levy
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Dead Carpenters Dead Carpenters Mad Mullahs Dodgy Politicians And Fat Buddhas, Who needs them? I’ve seen them, Mickey Mouse is something to believe in, I’m not buying, I’m just trying, To make my way in the world without people dying, Some believe in their Ying and Yang, Some believe in Uncle Sam, And some believe in their fellow man But there’s Jeffrey Dahmer, Mr Kissinger and Torquemada, So, We can’t all be the Dali Lama, But there’s plenty of Dead Carpenters Mad Mullahs Dodgy Politicians And Fat Buddhas I’ve seen them, Who needs them? Mickey is a louse and there’s nothing to believe in, I’ll make my way Doubting everything is freedom. —Neil S. Reddy
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The Rocket Man of Nordhausen Star of David is burning points melted like peeling husks, shield of six tips in lily white and ocean blue now a coating in reddened dust. Tight wire hung the curious mind human cutlets fed the blooded hound a man whose face you’d never see, in the Nordhausen underground. Crates of swinging silver discs poured into the ponds of drowning flesh in Dora – the skybound cylinders formed through the laboured dermis of starving entrails, Don’t slip on the human bark that spreads like the soil from ash of charcoal bones, You came in through these iron gates and you will leave through the chimney. His banality of evil could be easily misplaced shedding his Vellum for another flag, a figurehead for the upcoming space race. —M.J. Duggan
Kaddish for Red Roofs Après Chagall They gave you a few flowers hoping to make up for their weakness and still you bowed. The roofs are painted red with ocher and gore still drying from the last decade of blood storms. When they came looking for you, both as artist and Jew your little girl pulled you across an ocean to safety. But at night, secretly you would float back over the sea, praying for your lost city. You had given yourself the gift of flight and the delicate power to paint anything out of existence. — Richard King Perkins II
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Air Vent in Hitler’s Bunker at Berchtesgaden — William S. Tribell
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in a world of burning bridges i am at this moment— the only rock that is an island. my aura is its sole choreography of light, its glory, and the lifter of my head. i plight my troth to the opus of the ocean. and, since I am a condemned creek millstone mustered to a gathering river, i say this to your world of burning bridges: ‘don your sackcloth.’ ‘embrace your embers.’ ‘my entreaty is the harbinger that marks your undertow.’ i will not return to you, a watercress to grace your suffering. my reflection is but a silting fancy. my ripples: a staccato thrum of transitory tremolos— trilled psalms for your dead cache of tossed kittens. —Kevin Heaton
Torn Sketch line drawn images create visions of a lesser god in premium quality pencils of granite 2H and 2B range weapons others inspire inking on heavy drawing paper shouting thoughts in an emotional charcoal and gray world tail hairs supple and strong expertly fashion the next satire from hands of a talented few time, mind, hints of red intertwine with a world’s different views of itself hair tales of parodies with a red sable – brush -it cuts and stings before losing its spring it conspires to draw one last line …Je suis Charlie —Ce Jac
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Tale of the Bluegone Boy The gravely hordes of Sweverton swept down to meet the Arbiters. The Arbiters wore claws and wigs, a world replete with their own sun. “Listen!” cried the Bluegone Boy, his eyes like agates blazing high, “In the ruins and clines of Sweverton, dogs are barking as they run. “And strafed along Van Glower Lane where peacocks break their stride, the men and ladies, gentle both, have shored their specious pride. “Listen hard!” he cried in pain, his voice blown cat gut wild, “We can die in bed or die with spurs, but they’ll never let us ride.” They put the Bluegone Boy in chains, strapped him tight to Swever Gate, all through the bangs of dirty day and in the hollow point of night. Beneath the bruised black clouds he hung until his tongue lolled dry. The ravid hordes and their liken ilk knew Dread Time had arrived. So we strive in meant-to-be while blood flowers dark and light, and the chosen of the hemisphere consume their spacious rights. So we dream in ought-to-be with the craft of midden lies. The stench that dwells in Swever Square is nothing to our lives. —Bruce Boston
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Cherry Red Silence A cherry red smile painted on the front of a duct taped mouth guard. My mumbles are interpreted as pre-written thought bubbles painted next to my head for an urban audience to read like a teleprompter. I spend my day tripping on a concrete treadmill. The shattered glass of Joe’s abandoned convenient store laughs, at my empty grasps of air. Out of breath I barely make it to the second panel. By the end of the day, my teeth have nearly grinded themselves out of existence. Closing my eyes under tomorrow’s script. Barely able to cry as I see my death written in Times New Roman. Trying to open my mouth, just to ask for a bit more time, my murmurs are drowned by a pre-recorded audience. —R.K. Gold
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Scars & Empty Vases Van Gogh’s mad ear enflamed a field of purple irises—marring the face of a sleeping homeless man. Artists render people like pastels & watercolors. The wounded gather shopping carts & talk about Jesus, their smiles resemble burn scars. They tape magazine clippings to bedroom mirrors & blow cigarette smoke into perfect images hoping to see a heartbeat. Liars parse sermons like ravens, then genuflect at driftwood crosses & line their egos with Cardinal feathers—change sangria into green tea. Would that I were sickle & whetstone—a reaper of men, or palette & canvas—the turned cheek of Christ. —Kevin Heaton
Stars May Rise to Hell and Back Clouds are gray at Stinson Beach. Gray gulls give up their cries. And hunger has no mouth to sing beneath the pale of lowering skies. And hunger has no mouth to sing, no thought, no voice for sorrow. Wind is hard at Stinson Beach, cold again as cold tomorrow. Waves can break a rock to shore and never mean a bloody thing. Stars may rise to hell and back, and hunger has no mouth to sing. —Bruce Boston
41 Wash Away Where does it hurt when cardboard walls collapse in a sodden pile around you, snuffing the Sterno soaking a scrounged meal and your only change of rags? Where does it hurt when city rain is the cleanest thing that’s happened to you in seventeen months on the street and lovers on the sidewalk laugh, swinging arms together, catching droplets on their tongues while you cart your chosen scraps through blind alleyways seeking semi-permanent shelter? Why is someone’s relief always another person’s injury and some things so easily washed away while other diseases remain which the clearest effluence will never penetrate? —Richard King Perkins II
Krackatoe Our immortal sky being forgot to watch that day no angel of the sea swimming on turquoise waves, an idyllic isle close to the shores of Java where Mephistopheles red tail did once wade in warm oceans with swaying pebbles and drifting stone guava. —M.J. Duggan
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Mayakovsky’s Map — Mathias Jansson
Trump Hand How many bombs dropped from all of the war props poisonous and poised to hiss with a snake’s tongue venom on the fang drips needlepoint precision Shock and Awe proclamation A river of fire in a ring around the city Mercury enters the blood a kill shot to the mind Alzheimer’s and a loss of fight The hawks and vultures cry “Mission Accomplished” as they send the Eagle in to pick up the bloody pieces How many lives lost from all of the lies cast carelessly and callously with spiteful intentions malicious persuasion A thousand points of propaganda from the lips of cowards hiding behind a doomed and decadent Empire dilapidated and disintegrating toppling like a house of cards when a hand of five aces is laid down on the table by the collective force of a Renaissance Revolution How many souls will rise on the day that the truth takes flight lofty and laced with visions of a lit up nebula being born in the blink of a moment at the brink of a New Age sipping freely from the full well raining Love from the constellation with a song from the spheres about the cycles of time The wheels, they spin The gears, they turn The dust drifts away as the Phoenix flows out from the ash —Scott Thomas Outlar
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Fear and Punishment — Sonia Karen
Nothing Quiet on the Western Front The dusk of July marks the dawn of glory When all young men are sent to carve their story: “War has begun! Patriots, your duty calls! Let your names be sung in the royal halls As for King and Country you will march and fight!” …And in the break of death, all lies shall light… Death shrouds the godless trench Upon which starved crows perch. None can remember welcoming these obscene Forms of violence, gore, that adorn this scene Where actors weep their leaden tears, Conjoining to their sins and fears. There’s no King nor Country, but the silent night, Muffling the empty souls who refuse to fight. But alas, light arose, and the souls were sprung Nicely, like necrotic ballerinas flung Into the wicked dances, dioramas Of rearranged body parts, panoramas Of surrealistic art Inside the craters carved. Bunkers bear witness to bullet journeys interrupted By the walls of a spirit and cranium now both shattered. This young man has found his heart molested
By delusions and lies, now dissected By the shaking minds of a million men Plagued by death, dragged to the Devil’s den Where thick clogs of sulphurous mist Choke and burn everyone amidst This charring hell: Ypres which fell. What is the price of one mile When blood grows as thick as Nile? How many miles must Death traverse Ere this whole suffering’s dispersed? The birth of one man is all that’s needed… Christ! Their prayers, their suffering’s heeded A sweeping snow so beautiful and pure, This cold blanket’s spreading warmth to allure The same men by kingdoms separated Into the joy of Christmas united. For one day, silence broke the noise of strife And everyone learned to endear their life For this one day, there is no suffering, No youthfulness lost to a blood gurgling. Men of all nations now join together To rejoice at the breast of peace, hither Which they all longed, craved for this Heaven Absent of hatred and the lies heathen. Their hearts shine with silky love, The sky’s filled by flocks of dove And blissful repose’s appeared. But how long ere by tomorrow’s leered And all men are dragged back to the hell In which they all obliviously fell? —Szabo Eduard Dragomir
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46 Borders I crossed the Rio Grande late one night escorted by the coyote who wanted my body as much as my money. He raped me once we got to shore, my introduction to a harsh land. Instead of taking me to my cousin’s house, he abandoned me on the side of a road. I was weak, tired, thirsty alone in a strange land. Some Anglos in a truck stopped near me. They were big, loud and frightened me. They spoke tex-mex and I understood a little. They questioned me, then raped me and left me on the side of the road. I thought I was going to die but the Border Patrol came along. They gave me water, a blanket, asked my name and age, Alicia, 13, then they detained me. Weeks later a doctor examined me I had a sexually transmitted disease, was pregnant. They decided I was an undesirable alien and sent me back to Mexico, that now did not seem as bad as the United States. —Gary Beck
47 A Rose For Gaza Gaza is a garden full of roses. Stone roses. Rock roses. No petals to crush and bruise to release their fragrance. Only dust. Dust and the stench of death. No green space left. No sweet tranquility, peace or quiet. No escape. No garden of Eden here. No gateway to paradise. Rubble and rock roses. So I shall plant a rose for Gaza in my green space, in my tranquil garden. I won’t bruise it, just gently sniff it’s fragrance and hope that one day fragrant roses will bloom again in the garden of Gaza. What else can I do? —Lynn White
The Good Life They all know where to find you. You’ve been downing holy water in the city’s church, squeezing nuns like common whores. The gutter doors are open to all looking to avoid sanctuary. The tables been blurred by love in your blood stream. Cursing lords like beggars or sinners, these heavens are closed to you. Unless you’ve got last call’s charm. You kiss the devil’s cheek and force your tongue in his mouth. How much to bed? Not much at all. A last minute save and a hotel trip, You’re the man the devil called sick. — Michael Garrett Ashby II
48 Honey-Fire Words Your words drip off your chin she rushes to catch each drop Your words smooth over her, sink in like honey But, like honey, they leave a residue a sticky spot forms even as it soothes Even so, she ignores it overlooks the warning leave behind herself to be as much of You as she can by collecting honey-word-drops Now, Your words are fire exploding from Your soul They sear into her scorch her skin Peeling back the layers one by one until all that remains of her is a charred corpse —Nicole Deardorff
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Lavinia Roberts
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Biographies
Martin Appleby - Martin Appleby is editor of UK based literary zine PAPER AND INK which promotes good writing, presented on paper and printed in ink. He also writes fiction and poetry which has been published in the likes of Hand Job Zine and PUSH.
Michael Garrett Ashby II - Michael Garrett Ashby II is a poet and fiction author based in South Florida. His works have been published in magazines like Coastlines Literary Magazine, Digital Papercut and Spark Literary Anthology.
Gary Beck - Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer
when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks and 1 other accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing). Perceptions and Displays will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press). Flawed Connections has been accepted for publication (Black Rose Writing). His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City
Bruce Boston - Bruce Boston is the author of more than fifty books and chapbooks, including the dystopian sf novel The Guardener’s Tale and the psychedelic coming-of-age-novel Stained Glass Rain. His poetry has received the Bram Stoker Award, the Asimov’s Readers Award, the Gothic Readers Award, the Balticon Poetry Award, and the Rhysling and Grandmaster Awards of the Science Fiction Poetry Association. His fiction has received a Pushcart Prize, and twice been a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award (novel, short story). www.bruceboston.com
Cathy Bryant - Cathy Bryant worked as a life model, civil servant and childminder before her
illnesses and disabilities forced her to give up work – which gave her time to write. She has since won twelve writing competitions, including the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize, and her work has appeared in over 200 publications including The London Magazine, The Huffington Post and The Rialto. She co-edited Best of Manchester Poets vols. 1-3, and Cathy’s latest poetry collection, ‘Look at All the Women’, was published by Mother’s Milk Books in 2014. See more at www.cathybryant. co.uk , and see Cathy’s monthly listings for financially-challenged writers at www.compsandcalls. com
Jane Chance - Andrew W. Mellon Distinguished Professor Emerita at Rice University and recip-
ient of a D.Litt. from Purdue University in 2013 for her work on medieval literature, published her first book of poems, Only Begetter, in 2014 (White Violet Press). Her poems have appeared in many little magazines, including Antigonish Review, Ariel, Dalhousie Review, Icarus (Trinity College Dublin), Ilanot Review,Kansas Quarterly, Literary Review, Lyric, New America, Nimrod, Primavera, Quartet, Southern Humanities Review, Wascana Review, and the Anthology of Magazine Verse and Yearbook of American Poetry as well as anthologies for Poetry at Roundtop and Words& Art. Eight of her poems will appear in April in an anthology of Medievalist Poetry edited by Paul Hardwick for Stairwell Press, Ltd. She was a Juried Poet in 2014 at Houston Poetry Festival and a featured poet at Inprint Houston-First Fridays.
Nicole Deardorff - Nicole Deardorff is a 19-year-old queer actor, dancer, and writer. She began
writing poetry as a way to stay sane. She isn’t sure how well that has worked, but she is at least still
alive. Her writing has won multiple awards from Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, the most notable of which is a National Silver Metal in 2014. In 2013 she won the First Annual Mudsock Poetry Slam, and her poetry was recently featured on the online magazine Twenty-One Pearls and Germ Magazine. Check out more of her work at http://thewingedones.tumblr.com.
Szabo Eduard Dragomir - Szabo Eduard Dragomir is an aspiring and ambitious author of
lyrical and narrative works that hails from the folklore enriched and mysterious lands of Transylvania. His other publications include the book Ideological Pandemonium published under Weasel Press, Ranked Second in the June 2014 Chilling Tales for Dark Nights’ Horror Short Story Competition with the work The Eye of the Storm. Other than his literary endeavours, the author participated in several public speaking events, and he is part of a historical reenactment association called Terra Dacica Aeterna.
M.J. Duggan - Born 1971, Bristol, UK Poems published in Apogee Journal, The Cobalt Review, Trysts Of Fate, Seventh Quarry, Jawline Review, Sarasvati, The Dawntreader, Poetry Quarterly and many more.
Robin Wyatt Dunn - Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. You can find him online at www.robindunn.com, or email him at settdigger@gmail.com.
R.K. Gold - R.K. Gold is a poet and writer from Buffalo, NY. He has been published in numerous magazines, both domestic and international. Though his passion is writing, he is more than happy to spend the day drinking a fine glass of bourbon and playing fetch with his dog.
John Gosslee - Iconoclast, John Gosslee is the editor of Fjords Review, in over 1000 bookstores in the United States and Canada. His second little book and criticism for it is found at blitzkrieghq. com you can contact him at jgosslee@mediumless.net
John Grey - John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains
Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift, with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.
Azreil Hayes - Azreil Hayes is 17, she is inspired by various types of poetry and prose. Her fa-
vorite poets include George Noel Gordon Byron and Sara Kay. Azreil has written a variety of prose and poesies on topics that reflect current social injustices. You can learn more about her and read more of her poetry by visiting her blog: www.poe-sies.tumblr.com
Kevin Heaton - Kevin Heaton is originally from Kansas and Oklahoma, and now lives and
writes in South Carolina. His work has appeared in a number of publications including: Guernica, Rattle, Raleigh Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Adroit Journal, and The Monarch Review. He is a Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee.
Sarah Henry - I studied with two poet laureates at the University of Virginia in the seventies and later worked at a newspaper. This experience provided much material for my poems. I belong to a workshop where we learn from each other’s styles.
Ce Jac - Born in Kansas City, Mo. and raised in Mexico City, Ce Jac is a non-fiction, poetry writer and a teacher. She is a graduate of “The Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México” School of Medicine. She has been a featured guest poet at the Barnes & Noble Poetry Series and a constant
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participant in different literary events.
Mathias Jansson - Mathias Jansson is a Swedish art critic and poet. He has contributed with
visual poetry to magazines as Lex-ICON, Anatematiskpress, Quarter After #4 and Maintenant 8: A Journal of Contemporary Dada. He has also published a chapbook at this is visual poetry and contributed with erasure poetry to anthologies from Silver Birch Press. Homepage: http://wordshavenoeyes.blogspot.se/
Sonia Karen - Sonia Karen is Houston based photographer and collage artist whose can be contacted via facebook: sonia karen or flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/darkhairedgirl/
P.A. Levy - Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk,
P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk
Vimeesh Maniyur - Vimeesh Maniyur is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator
from kerala, in India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and dramas. He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment, Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.
Strider Marcus Jones - is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with
proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http//www.lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude. In 2014, his poetry has been published in A New Ulster/Anu Issue 27, The Screech Owl, Catweazle Issue 5, Calliope and The Gambler magazines; Degenerates Voices For Peace-Vagabonds: Anthology Of The Mad; Killer Whale Journal; Dagda Publishing; The Huffington Post USA; Writer’s Ezine; The Poets HavenVending Machine Poetry for Change Volume 5; Sonic Boom Journal and The Open Mouse. His poetry has also been accepted for publication in 2015 by mgv2 Publishing Anthology; Earl Of Plaid Literary Journal 3rd Edition; Subterranean Blue Poetry Magazine; Deep Water Literary Journal, 2015-Issue 1; Kool Kids Press Poetry Journal; Page-A-Day Poetry Anthology 2015; Eccolinguistics Issue 3.2 January 2015; The Collapsed Lexicon Poetry Anthology 2015 and Catweazle Magazine Issue 8; Life and Legends Magazine; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Amomancies Poetry Magazine; The Art Of Being Human Poetry Magazine; Cahaba River Literary Journal and East Coast Literary Review.
J.W. Mark - J.W. Mark is a poet living in Stow, Ohio. Publications to include his work include
The Ampersand Review, Eunoia Review, The Midwest Literary Magazine, flashquake, and The North Chicago Review. He is the author of a novel, entitled Artifice, as well as a book of poems entitled Patched Collective. He is also a critic of poetry and appears regularly at The Ampersand Review. He can be contacted at jwmarkmail@gmail.com or through his website jwmark.wordpress.com.
Stephen McQuiggan - Stephen McQuiggan is the pen name of a ghost who communicates his stories through a sightless orphan using a series of demonic threats, raps, and shrill whistles. Any mistakes in punctuation, grammar etc., blame the blind kid.
Kai Neidhardt - Kai was born and raised in California, where he became an activist and musi-
cian. He later traveled to Europe and spent his formative years there. At some point he returned to California and started to write poetry. He is inspired by the people he meets and the places he has seen. Weasel Press is his first foray into publication. Some of his influences are: Pablo Neruda, Raymond Carver, Charles Bukowski, Dan Fante, Bob Dylan, and John Keats. Feel free to check out his work at his blog. www.ireadbukowski.wordpress.com
Scott Thomas Outlar - Scott Thomas Outlar lives a simple life in the suburbs, spending the
days flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River, laughing at life’s existential nature, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation. His words have appeared in venues such as Dissident Voice, Dead Snakes, Siren, Section 8, Black Mirror, Helix Magazine, Mad Swirl, and Screech Owl. More of Scott’s work can be found at http://17numa.wordpress.com.
Kristin Perkins - Kristin Perkins is a theatre and gender studies university student graduating
next year. She has had a short story published in Inscape: A Journal of Literature and Art and has had many theatre reviews published through San Diego Theatre Scene and Front Row Reviewers Utah. Her short play The Encyclopedia Salesman was produced last year and another play, A Death in the Family, will be produced soon. Her visual art has been displayed in professional gallery spaces and she is currently working on a collaborative performance art piece. Meanwhile, she is working on a novel and performing original spoken-word poetry.
Richard King Perkins II - Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents
in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife Vickie and daughter Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in hundreds of publications including The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Two Thirds North, The Red Cedar Review and The William and Mary Review. He has poems forthcoming in the Roanoke Review, The Alembic and Milkfist. His poem “Distillery of the Sun” was awarded second place in the 2014 Bacopa Literary Review poetry contest.
Dustin Pickering - Dustin D. Pickering is founder of Transcendent Zero Press, a Houston-based poetry publisher. He has been published in Houston and Gnomadic Voices, the Muse for Women anthology, di-verse-city 2013, and many other journals. He will be published in Waiting, a publication dedicated to Lawrence Ferlinghetti for his 96th birthday. He was a feature for Public Poetry 2013, and a Special Guest Poet for Austin International Poetry Festival in the same year.
David S. Pointer - David S. Pointer was born in Kansas City, Missouri. David was the son
of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was 3 years old. Later David served in the United States Marine Corps military police. A Midwest Book reviewer called David’s poem Poverty Grant’s the Exclusive one of the greatest and most powerful poems in history. David serves on the advisory panel at “Writing for Peace.”
Neil S. Reddy - Author of Tales in Liquid Time published by Weasel Press; currently trying to pull together words that don’t like each other.
Lavinia Roberts - Lavinia Roberts is an activist, visual artist, and playwright. She has published over a dozen plays with Heuer Publishing, Meriwether Publishing, Brooklyn Publishers, One Act Play Depot, and others. Her work has been produced with the Subversive Theatre Collective in Buffalo, NY, Stone Soup Theatre in Seattle, Washington, the Los Angeles Women’s Theatre Project, and the Bloomington Playwrights Project, in Bloomington, Indiana, and others. Her full length play, Counting Skunks, won the 2011 Mario Fratti-Fred Newman Political Playwriting Award at the Castillo Theatre in New York City. She was a member of the 2012 Women’s Work Lab at the New
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Perspective Theatre. Her work has been featured in New York City, at Here Arts Center, Galapagos, Metropolitan Playhouse, the Brick, the Bushwick Starr, the Tank, Dixon Place, with the Sparrow Tree Theatre Company, the Manhattan Repertory Theatre, Theatre for the New City, Secret Theatre, in the Midtown International Theatre Festival, the Thespis Fringe Festival, and others.
Meggie Royer - Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently
majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poetry has been published in Harpoon Review, Words Dance Magazine, Winter Tangerine Review, and more. She also has two published poetry books, Survival Songs and Healing Old Wounds with New Stitches. Her work can be found at writingsforwinter.tumblr.com.
Jessica Therese - Jessica Therese is a twenty year old clarinet player and writer from Sydney,
Australia. She wants to visit Iceland. Her poems have been published in Thistle Magazine, Germ Magazine and Bull Magazine. You can read more of her writing at http://contramonte.tumblr.com
William S. Tribell - William S. Tribell is a multimedia artist. A Pushcart Prize nominated
poet, he has contributed to journals and magazines around the world. Many of his poems have been recorded spoken word and with instrumentation and can be found online. His favorite color is green and he thinks sushi is great.
Jane “The Rev” Wenninger - The Rev’s writing has appeared in over twenty publications
ranging from local to international. She and Ronald Wenninger have been married for more than half a century and have four children. As an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ, she wrote and preached over forty sermons a year and has done healing and other ministry in Presbyterian USA and other denominations and served as a hospital chaplain. She taught English and other skills to displaced homemakers at Quinsigamond Community College in Worcester Massachusetts. Her historical chapbook, Do Much Honour: The Story of Belmont Home, was published by The Belmont Home Community Association, and she self-published Haiti: Enjoy the People Help Them Thrive. She also won first place in the Kathleen Downey Short Fiction Contest. Publications which included her work are too numerous to mention here but they include Harbinger Asylum, From One Sphere to Another, Catholic Digest, Crafts ‘n Things, Disciples Journal, The Marlborough Enterprise, Sharing - a Journal of Christian Healing, Women Unlimited, Worcester Telegram, Scribes & Scribblers, Springfield Journal, Southbridge Evening News, The New Leader and about a dozen others. The Rev turned to poetry for the pleasure of mingling with poets and writers and enjoys the opportunities poetry brings to explore twists, turns, humor and the depth of being thoughtful, spiritual, feeling and funny human beings.
Lynn White - Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice
and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem A Rose For Gaza was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today competition in October 2014 and has since been published in the Poetry For Change Anthology by Vending Machine Press. Poems have also recently been included, or are forthcoming, in Harbinger Asylum’s A Moment To Live By anthology, Stacey Savage’s We Are Poetry an Anthology of Love poems, In The World Of Womyn’s ‘She Did It Anyway anthology, the launch issue of Anomalie and Callope and Phizzog among others.
Dr. Ernest Williamson III - Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 500 national and international online and print journals. Professor Williamson has published poetry in journals such as The Oklahoma Review, Review Americana:A Creative Writing Journal, and The Copperfield Review. Some of his visual artwork has appeared in journals such as The
Columbia Review, The GW Review, and The Tulane Review. Many of his works have been published in journals representing over 50 colleges and universities around the world. Dr. Williamson is an Assistant Professor of English at Allen University and his poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology.
Abigail Wyatt - Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction from her home near Redruth in
Cornwall. A Pushcart nominee in 2013 and the winner of the 2012 Lisa Thomas Poetry Competition, her writings have been widely anthologized most recently in Light as a Feather (Swimming With Elephants) and Wave Hub: New poetry from Cornwall (Boutle, 2014). She is the author of Old Bones and Other Stories (2012) and the co-editor of the online poetry journal Poetry24. http://abiwyatt.wix.com/abigail-wyatt#!home/c16cy
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