Friday, April 27, 2018

April VOGON Arsenal

FRIENDS:

Here are your April Vogons. I know April’s not over but I’ll be too busy the next few days to write, so unless there’s some kind of divine disturbance, this will have to be my sublime contribution to poetry month.

Speaking of sublime contributions, I must give a heartfelt thanks to all the contributors to the 4th edition of The Octopus Review. It really was a great one! 

My Kindergarten teacher told my mom that I would grow up to be an author & illustrator. Unfortunately, my mom did not impart this information to me until after I’d dropped out of college (because I didn’t know what I wanted to do), after I’d been in an almost-successful rock band, and while I was considering going to mortuary school. I didn’t really know you could “learn” to be an author. I thought you just “were” one. And I still operate on that premise. I’ve been writing & writing, and drawing & drawing all these years, no matter what career-label I was wearing. I’m so thrilled to get to meet & talk to people who are “authoring” & “illustrating” through their dayjobs or whatever life-shit is bombarding them. Until there was an internet, I had no idea what was happening in art/poetry, and now I feel like I’m participating in a scene that spans the globe, pretty much.

So thank you!

*******
Hermetic Tarot


We all want to punch God in His bearded head
But only poets brave enough to say it [& certain rappers
Who will (not) be pres(id)ent
On(e) (day)time (television)]

I understand you want to hurt me too?
Have I hurt you
In a way you’ve been hurt before?
And now’s your chance
To do what you should’ve
The first time around?

I’ll try to empathize.
I’ll try not to be a fencepost.
I’ll try to love the rooster’s
Puffed up strut &
Accept the computerized warble
That passes for a lark

It’s a world I never saw coming even though I did

It’s a slow metamorphic horrorshow
Not a red wedding jizzfest

It gives me time to learn the steps
It gives me a moment to sweat

0402:0100p

****

Bathroom minutes:

None. My sympathetic tunnel vision
Has hardened into a blindfold

If my nose could talk 
It would compare thee to 
The one metropolitan curb
Puked on by whiskey dicks all night

If my stomach could prosecute
It would
Tiny little cuffs for your guilty cock 

Two dusty footprints in the mirage
All day collecting samples
From the vast minority—men

Always the rusty flow valve 
In my heart slaps its walls
Before the plumbing is revealed

A rorschach of gluten intolerance
On the porcelain? 
Or an aggressive mirror that barks
“Get out”

Basking in the dungeon glow
When I find out I’m alone

Done answering booty calls
From the suite next door

0402:0825p

*****

The Aces


I’m too busy being mystical to be funny anymore…

Not only that
But the yardful of chickens
Is now a rooster in the driveway
Shouting “Look @ Edward!!”
Every time I ride by on my bike

6 p.m.
8 a.m. …Really,
who’s ever heard it say “Cockle doo-da-doo?”

That ‘k’ won’t work its way
Through the beak

The Bill of Flames

The plumage from the sky/box/window
Clinking glass
Champagne sprinkler
Counter cultured

Not just broken on 
Taxpayers’ watch
But never crafted w/ precision instruments
Tiny krab pincers
Deftly calibrating Gregorian gears

Hot mic!
You’re liable.

Your big fat effigy 
Hung by Banksy on the gold bevel
Of your hi-rise dog kennel

Where masters are kept on
Secret Service leashes & run through
Lie detectors after a day’s work in
The sky’s trenches

90th Floor gallery
yeah that high up, not just
Suffering for art
But dying for it, losing sleep over it,
Bursting an eardrum

If we’re not very wary of ISIS
Wearing the sky on their tightly aligned
Insect backs… 

…the untuned world orchestra
Could flesh out atonal flash mobs

Ear wars
That make us cry for water
Drops, boric acids, Steely Dan

While a big garish phantasm
That pisses solar flares
Might look like The Devil™
It’s a blessed angel
Coaxed from the womb by a cannula

Kept in formaldehyde,
Some scientist’s cunt-print 
Marking the jar

My red blood cells are cinnamon imperials 
Left in the sun
Stuck in a perpetual network of throats
I have far too many of them
Scorching my tender membranes
So I’ve scheduled a phlebotomy
For Thursday

I’ve scheduled a phlebotomy for Thursday
& now this is a villanelle
A blood vessel made from a straw
A straw pumping blood
Through an orange
(cringe) 

0409:0900p

****

Soylent germination
Subliminal dropkicks
Sanguine circle jerk

 The head of your 
Bird is overthinking
     Flight

Swift swallow. 
Adobe photoshop. Peyote.

Be ready to put
Your entire guitar collection
Through the paper shredder
& don’t forget 
To call Desiree
The crematory operatee

0409:0925p

[Desiree was a “bright” word that night. A woman named Desiree won the Boston marathon on 4/16/18]

********

I like to make some of the more discouraging cards  really pretty so it's no so discouraging to find them in your read. 7 & 8 of Cups; 3 & 9 of Swords


To the east:

All the evidence in shreds
All the dignity coating the lint roller
A distraction in the lobby
Blood leaking through walls
Where fatherly hearts are interred
We could have a haunted House

To the west:

Still waiting for the first plastic state
To come floating into the Union
That island of trash is trying to pass as a mermaid
Liar, liar fishtail’s on fire
& your sirens sing bioluminescent
Prison chanteys on top o’ cop cars

To the south:

One more summer of black blood
(Which is red) in the news &
We’ll finally board up the matter
Like the future is one
Continuous hurricane season &
The rain is made of lead

To the north:

O’ hammerhead neighbor
Red riding hood through a wood
That pulses with jaguar sex
Our own ceiling covered in spiders,
Not rosettes

0416:0725p

*****

SHUT UP!!!

The dragonfly’s wing
      Beats
          Testify
The airplane objects

      Overruled

The gavelsmash
Rezones the whole runway
There’ll be no take-off,
No landing behind bars

Take off the fire hazard neck tie
Pardon the shoelaces
Take off the tanning goggles
Remove Ken doll hands & replace w/ lobster claws

Grab the pussy
By the scruff of the burning
Labia majora

House party! Demonocracy!

I’ll bring the angel eggs
If you bring the turkey baster

0416:0850p

***

Sun & Moon


I should be more honest about how bad I feel
God & His divine facial hair love to watch
My graceful dance across the sandspurs
After I pray for an aloe oasis

Maybe I should quit pretending I can handle it all

Admit my feet won’t be moved by prayer alone

I feel like a lobster
Smashed by a hammer
Shat into the septic catacombs
Of Atlantis

0416:0875p

****************

It was revealed
The man next door
Was [censored]

It was announced
The suicide bomber
Was a mentally [censored] girl

In Rome
name drop: Pope Francis
   broke bacon w/
            me.

Investigative cavorting.

That’s what we’re doing here.

Tonight’s bright word is
[censored]

0420:0350a

*****

NEON!! Wheel of Fortune, 10 of Wands, 9 of Disks, The Aeon


They put a monkey in space
& it lived/died?

They found gold in space
From a cremated star

They performed a head transplant
In Italy

Or was it a body transplant?
I love needles more & more

To lop my head from this unwanted body?
Well, I’m not that labrat yet.

I was a cauldron, now I’m a beaker
Scientific witch crap—

Our cozy egg consoles 
Have been cracked by hackers

Alternative fact: God is scowling at the thought you just had

It’s become a headline in abortionland

Pull my finger, He says &
Rome falls,
Explodes,
Exposing the pasty [censoreds]
Under their robes, rising
From the unholy triangle

Death rolls the boulder up the hill
Where it’ll never sit still

Picking clover
The ghost felt my cheek [facial]
But the priest fondled my ass
[cheek]

The world 
Is a giant wheel of [censure]
Or more like a bicycle tire—opportunists
In a centrifuge,
Spoken spooky

The most secret thing on Earth was once
Our hatred of each other
But we’ve smoked that 
Out of its enclave

& we’re handling it w/ ultra-violet
Kid gloves

0420:0400a

*****

Two of my favorites—3 of Cups and 6 of Swords


Too slow!
This is supposed to be automatic
Your elbows need bumpstocks
A cat’s head nudging the pen

Making chemtrails of ink on your page
The efforts of the great weather machine—
aka snowflake oven—

We really will be
One shimmering puddle of consciousness!

As below: sole
So above: bullet hole

Speaking of conspiracy theories,
Don’t forget “9/11

was an inside job” is not on 
the Ridiculist

The blue gloves controlling the media
Are retyping history
Faster than I can backtrack
Out loud

0420:0400a

*****

Blood disease

Has the Pope ever jacked off?

How does one do it, decide
To marry God?

Barbara Bush had 6 or 8 children
One of them died
Before she could…whistle
Or witness
The blow of aviation’s air kiss

Car kiss
Honked horn
Still we sit

At the roller coaster’s divine apex
A centipede riding a boulder

0420:0425a

*****

Bad access>>>
Kern Invalid Address
   eeeeeeeee!!!
Corpse notify

Kernel deliberation

The poetry of malware, Captain!
It pops up every once,
Every twice,
Every 3x in awhile

So when *did* an officer
Become just a gun?
Summer ’14?
Summer ’15?
Summer six, seventeen?

Naw…I’ll guess it depends
On whose son you are

On whose daughter is a
Whistleblower

Because cops have been guns and/or sons,
Or triggered daughters
Pulling
Dragging (indigo)
Hanging (the ghost cherry)
A really long time

& sometimes rope was a
Weapon before the gun
Could be hired or fired

0424:0650p

*****

Can I write a scathing review of my mind?

It can’t function w/out oxygen
But I’m a carbon dioxide hoarder
Refusing to exhale
It can’t function in silence,
Or w/ too much noise

When did it become such a princess?
Is there a pea-sized tumor? An aneurysm?

Is it the medication
Severing those angelic bonds
Between hemispheres—hellish & heavenly

You bet I believe
Earth is a big skull full of
Feathers & ash

0424:0675p

*****

Today was sucky.
I need to remember to sing more
I used to sing everywhere—
car, shower, garage, porch—

It was my religion
To breathe & vocalize my
Monsters away

Till they (the monsters) looked
Like the man next door

Then I went silent
And finally learned to cry

I promise to pull that box out &
Dump its contents on your bed,
The bed inside your head

The ear mattress all notes bounce upon

0424:0675p 

*****

Why do we love sound? Be my close personal triangle.  My circle of friends includes a drum. Early. Yearly. Nosely. Mouthly. English is stupid. Hooked on crypto. But no way to know where to go—to zuy or zell? Bzzzz. Always include the bees in your national poetry. There are plenty of bees in my sunflower’s bonnet. Exactly one. Exactly moon. You don’t know the full story. You’re not seeing the whole picture. Let it lie & it’ll eventually decide it’s truth. Just be chill about it. Truth always knows when it’s being handled. Go handle the tigers in the garden, go weed your lingerie drawer. Silky Dan steely hangover periwinkle boozeflower—under where? Finger your ear w/ a rabbit’s foot—charm the pants onto language. May I take your coat, though? You’re awfully red. You’re astoundingly loyal. You’re airportishly sphenoid. The wings, the neck, the leaf, the strap. This noise is an articulate bitemark.

0427:1050a

**************

64/78 cards complete


ART NOTE:  I decided I had to color my Hermetic Tarot deck. The deck is in black & white, and since color is so important to tarot, and because my eyesight is seriously on the wane, I hardly ever use these cards. Which seems like a shame. Cards shouldn’t be neglected. So…after experimenting with a few mediums (color pencil, gel pens, paints) and realizing that the cards were so shellacked, they were like a dry erase board. Any wet medium just slid right off.

I found Bic Precision pens , WriteDude gel pens and metallic markers were the only things that would stick. Leaving the cards out for several days, or a week if possible, allows these inks to dry out & set on the cards.

Then I brushed a light coat of Sally Hansen 101 “Clear For Take-off” polish. The polish does not leave the cards stiff or sticky. (go ahead & make a dick joke I’ll wait). Anyway… it’s like you didn’t even put nail polish on your tarot cards at all. 


I really love the Hermetic Tarot because it’s based off the Thoth, and the illustrations are really intricate & lovely. They were just a little bland in their colorless state.

Friday, April 6, 2018

The Octopus Review #4 is Here!

Friends—

I’m pretty excited about the new issue of The Octopus Review because it marks a whole year of doing something I wasn’t sure would even happen the first time. Now there are 4 issues, one for each season, and I look forward to continuing as long as people will send me their work.

I think you’ll enjoy the stellar words & images here, so dig in to THE OCTOPUS REVIEW #4

—————————

******************************************************************Steve Brightman

That Ancient Maneuver

Coming up Dodge Street
on trash night and someone
must have been moving out
or must have taken advantage of
the Memorial Day mattress sale
last weekend because a giant white mattress
was on the curb. Even though
we are knee-deep in the 21st century,
fading sunlight made this mattress
look like a trojan horse knocked sideways.
And I was less surprised that
the trojan horse mattress was upended
than I was that someone
would have tried that ancient maneuver
on the sons and daughters of Akron.
Our fathers told us long ago.
Our mothers taught us long ago
to love, but to confirm.
Trust the heart, our mothers sang to us.
Don’t trust anything that comes
from the belly, not even
your own blood as it spills
into a parking lot on South Hawkins.
The belly is a liar and
it always has been.

"SMASHING ABSTRACT" Oil pastel by Jay Mora-Shihadeh

Ninety-Seven Of Anything

Seventeen days,
through an odd

and unexpected
blessing via phone,

became ninety-seven
and ninety-seven

of anything 
- especially days -

is more than a man
can carry home.

Steve Brightman lives in Akron OH with his wife and their parrot. He firmly believes that there are only two seasons: winter and baseball.

***********

"CONSCIOUSNESS" Acrylic/canvas by Maggie Davenport


******************************************************************William Taylor Jr.

Ridiculous People Expecting Me to Help Them

In the dark and quiet hours the loneliness of the world is there
like a gas station bathroom in Yellow Springs Ohio. 
The night full of other peoples' loneliness
and not much to be done for it. 
My laptop sits open on the floor,
windows flashing messages 
from lonely people wanting to chat.
The loneliness of the world is a telephone 
ringing at 4 a.m. or someone on a bus
dragging you into useless conversation
when you only want to gaze out the window
at the buildings and signposts, and now 
people on the internet are telling me
that Denis Johnson is dead.
I'm hoping it's a mistake,
but more and more it's looking to be true.
There's a pile of books before me,
his among them, 
as I was searching for a poem 
to show a friend.
Mr. Johnson, he knew
some things about the dark
and the people lost within it,
people like myself,
sitting here with drink
and reading old poems
by the long and newly dead,
chat windows flashing like sirens.
Outside it's 4 a.m. and broken hearts 
litter sidewalks like butt ends 
and beer bottles, but no one's 
coming round in the morning 
to sweep them up.

"MISTI" Acrylic/canvas by William Taylor Jr


*******

Haight Street, the Summer of Love, Fifty Years On

It's a Tuesday afternoon and I'm drinking 
at Murio's Trophy Room. 
It's a mellow vibe, a handful of people 
chat up the bartender and sip their beers.
There's quiet laughter and two  
yellow dogs lounging beneath the stools.
There's an old guy looking like Henry Miller
as he sits by the window with a Pabst Tall Boy
nodding his head and tapping the bar 
to the ska on the jukebox,
and I think how I would like to live 
long enough to be him one day,
and then I think about how 50 years ago 
Richard Brautigan stood on the corner 
right outside this joint
handing out his little books 
of poesy to passersby;
a useless and beautiful gesture;
and I think how everything that's worth 
much of anything is a useless 
and beautiful gesture,
as outside the runaway kids still sit in doorways
and wander the streets in search of drugs and  free love 
and answers they'll never find
to questions they've already lost interest in,
and I think of how it still feels like San Francisco
even now, in spite of everything,
as one of the yellow dogs
stretches and yawns and the old guy 
gets up and waves and says
“live well” as he steps out
into it all.

The Hatred of the Universe

The universe hates me, she tells me over drinks.
She moved to San Francisco just a year ago
and she's since lost four jobs,
made three visits to the emergency room,
spent two stints in the psych ward,
and suffered a nasty breakup 
with the woman who brought her here.
Earlier this afternoon her mother called 
to tell her her father is dying, 
and she's booked a red eye flight to New York 
with the hope for a chance to say goodbye.
For now I sit across from her drinking gin and thinking
how the universe doesn't much care for her 
one way or another;
the stones and thunderbolts are cast 
haphazardly but find our hearts eventually.
More often than not whatever it is that's left of us
survives to enjoy the sometimes decent spaces 
in-between the onslaughts until the next 
one arrives. She is pretty in her sorrow,
and I tell her the universe thinks she's just fine.
There's time enough for one more round
and we drink awhile in silence as everything 
goes on until it doesn't.

William Taylor Jr. lives and writes in the Tenderloin neighborhood of San Francisco.  He is the author of numerous books of poetry, and a volume of fiction. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and was a recipient of the 2013 Kathy Acker Award. He recently edited "Cockymoon: Selected Poems of Jack Micheline," published by Zeitgeist Press in 2017.  "From the Essential Handbook on Making It to the Next Whatever" is his latest collection of poetry.

*************

"BIN" by Keith Winkle


*********************************************************************Matt Borczon

Marcel Marceau

learned mime
from a
teacher who
performed
totally nude
this was
after his
time fighting
in the
French resistance
this was
after the
war taught
him to
keep his
mouth shut
after the
war locked
him in
that glass
box he
never figured
out how
to get
out of.

COLLAGE by Matt Borczon


Everybody knows

you shoot
the horse
that breaks
its leg
you kneel
before you
pray you
dot the I’s
and cross
the T’s

everybody knows
that tombstones
are always
cold and
death is
a warm
meal you
shouldn’t eat
that Saints
weep wine
politicians lie
husbands cheat
the universe
expands and
stars explode

everybody knows
the world
is covered
in water
that monsters
live miles
under the
ocean that
meth will
make you
sell your
kids and
love fits
in your
pocket
like condoms
or cigarettes

everybody knows
that grace
fits on
the head
of a
pin that
art eats
its children
and science
makes robots
smart enough
to write
this poem.

Matthew Borczon is a poet and navy sailor from Erie, PA. He publishes widely in the small press. He has published 6 books of poetry, the most recent The Smallest Coffins Are the Heaviest was released through Epic Rites Press this year. He is the father of 4 kids and he works way too many hours to survive.

COLLAGE by Matt Borczon


********************************************************************Lois Betterton

Luck had nothing to do with it…I have finally found a home.

I always played fair, always enjoyed the game,
And, shining brightly now is my reward.
Just like a play the acts unwind
and spin their threads into a worthy tale,
woven into color stories studied all my life.
Enough to know that secrets seldom leave a trail,
as words hold secrets and reveal
the hidden truths that
can be reworked like supple clay,
and glazed and decorated by fire,
hardened into immortal stone one day,
interpreted by what we always say.

Learn just enough to work the words
successfully in truth and even just for fun.
Remember to forget enough to make it through
The reality of being unwittingly alone.

It wasn’t easy to be an adventurer.
There was never a question when the compass sent me South.

The music really caught me by surprise
and art as I ran into the sea,
all calculated risks for sure, I danced and spun
with laughter and still hold
onto the joys of love in all its goodness now
within my heart’s deepest delight 
appearing right in front of me.

I smile today when glimpses suddenly appear,
especially when a tune catches my ear.
As various shades of blue and sailboats drift right there
before my eyes that daily just appear
before my very own eyes, often a surprise, inspiring me to work
these words with friendly face within this place right here.
Us, you and me, face-to face, this cannot be replaced, 
this moment that we share in this small theater here.

I can honestly say that luck played no part in any of it.

I do believe I’ve been lucky, seemingly by accident at times,
sometimes with dreams of impossibilities deliberately coming into play.
And I’m convinced there’s always been a plan,
when words worked their way into the plot.
So, I’m convinced there’s always been a plan
whether we're prepared or not.

Play with the words and make ‘em work.
Deeply listen and they’ll tell you what to say.
Work your words with caution in your mind
and use them in your own specific way.

Taste them on your palate first.
Yes, listen first and then digest their power.
Taste and smell them, toss them in the air
and weightlessly reach out into each eager ear.
And know the moment must be right,
Yes, even when the outcome’s out of sight.

Work all your words with style, finesse, and care
for all concerned and mostly for yourself.
Their shapes and sounds will directly lead
You to the very place you need to go.

Lois Betterton is a poet who grew up in Yonkers, New York and has resided in Sarasota, Florida since 1998. She began writing poetry as a young child and has embraced the written word all her life.  She founded and hosts The Word Show in Sarasota with other local free range, organic poets. 

***********

"TINA" Watercolor by William Taylor Jr


********************************************************************Tim Anderson

Carrion
  
Shithawks.
Squawking wing flapping
nasty ass creatures
feeding on god knows what.
There's no traffic.
The desert is as dead
as the carcass
thats being 
shredded.
I walk past the
funeral,
a few birds hop and hiss,
I whisper
"no thanks, I've had lunch."

I haven't seen a
car
pass in hours.
Just a few semis roll by,
ignoring my thumb.
Wonder if they saw my finger.
Southern Arizona is a bitch.

With feet straddling
the highway stripe,
I squint my eyes
and piss for distance,
fooling myself
that I am making it rain
on the mountains
in the blue horizon
over a hundred miles away.

More cars pass.
No one looks
at my eyes.
I dream as I trudge along.
I dream a car stops,
a woman gets out.
I see the need
on her face.
She seems frantic.
She shoves me down
on my back
without saying a word.
She's hungry.
She pulls my cock out,
straddles me
and guides it in.
She’s wet,
very wet.
Her hands rest on my chest
she arches her back..

A car lays on the horn.
An angry blast,
spining me around
as it roars by.
"Get out of the road you fucking idiot."
I look down and see
I have an erection.
I actually have a hard on
walking
alone
down a dead highway
in a hollow wasteland.

The dot gets larger
and larger
till it takes the
shape
of salvation.
At the end of my arm
the sign of needing a
ride
appears.
They stop.

The portal of doors beckon. 
I toss my pack in back
and slide in next to it.
Two shithawks with
17 teeth between them
swivel their boney necks around
and ask
"how far?"

The warmth of the 38,
blue steel 
nestled
in my
cowboy boot
answered back.
"as far as your going."

Tim Anderson originally from Memphis TN, spent a great deal of his youth with his back-pack on traveling the States. Having a penchant for honky-tonks, free spirit women and roadside taverns there are many of these States where his welcome was worn out.

*********

"DIVINITY" Acrylic/canvas by Maggie Davenport


*********************************************************Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The Hittites Doing Jell-O Shots
off the Naked Bellies of the Egyptians 
Between Wars

some semblance 
has to materialize 

that is what the Enlightenment promised,
but the Enlightenment is goners

baked into a cake 
and forgotten 

so I crack another Vodka mini 

imagine the Hittites doing Jell-O shots
off the naked bellies of the Egyptians 
between wars

that strange way best friends can be mortal enemies
when a girl is involved 

running hair behind my ears 
and saving it for later 

knowing the banks will always open 
before the minds do

staggering home 
through a green 
Peruvian mist 

hoping Rembrandt’s Night Watch 
has the evening 
off.


YOU CAN DO IT IF NARCAN DO IT!

the mind numbing agent is a double spy
Botticelli full of cavities and painting nimrods
into the hen house   

Portrait of a Young Man (1514)
not at all like Magritte’s 

sorry Raphael, bring her in for 
questioning

the right people want to know
and the wrong people 
have all the methods 

extraction yes, amateur dentistry,
Peter the Great was more than a pace car

my bathhouse 
is not your bathhouse 
and neither of us has gone 
cold Turkey 

you can do it if Narcan do it,
I’m a positive Polly 

just kick the damn tire 
and listen for 
air.

"FLEZBEVRIN" by Keith Winkle


Dashing Prince Frivolous 

Today is a glittery day,
I put on old Andrews Sisters records 
and prance about my room 

a real debutant

back from the ball 
and lost to love letters that leave out 
all the sweat and thrusting 

chipped enamel from a frequented cup 
finding a home under unclipped nails 

a slim volume of Cocteau translated in coffee grinds
and fixed addresses

archeology should never be of the living breathing mind
that is where Picasso got it wrong with all his women,
but when the results are good, who’s to question?
Hardly the artist.  His brake pads have been faulty 
since inception

Is it you then?  Dare we say, the censor?
Dada never answered anything because it never
acknowledged the questions.

Verlaine with all his decadence 
and not a single head of hair

Orphée
La Voix humaine –
Dashing Prince Frivolous:
Je reste avec vous 
Edith Piaf  

this $7 sunhat across my forehead
thwarting away distant brown 
melanomas  

and the way I see it
Africa is rich in history 
and poor in circumstance 
which is a very academic way of saying
the poor are on their own 

as I skip across this room,
gallivanting really

knowing each of King Arthur’s Knights 
by name and sexual preference 

Malory’s lazy eye in the sky 
like Capote from the nosebleeds
of 20th Century America

the way his wavering coin slot voice always 
tried to make you disbelieve him

as you went from page to page 
wondering when the truth would make 
an appearance 

and ruin it 
all.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Octopus Review, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

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"UNTITLED" by Keith Winkle


************************************************************************Tony Egler

Let's see...

On the day I was born my eyes opened, but I would see two of everything.
When I was seven my eyes were cut with a scalpel and sown with cat gut.

I remember waking to bandaged darkness that made me forget what light was.
When the bandages came off my eyes they were born a new and light bathed them in singular forgiveness.

Now, alone, I sit in a cardinal world with only one of everything, wondering what the double of this or that was doing.
When I realize seeing double was not the problem, but the not knowing which was the mirror image.

Tony Egler is an avid Science and Science Fiction enthusiast who for many years has engaged his muse as a spectator, but has longed to be an adept. He has practiced his craft with the development of screen plays, manuscripts and short fiction. He lives in Sarasota Florida with his partner and co-conspirator. His work has appeared in AntiMatter magazine.



"FIRE & WATER" Acrylic/canvas by Maggie Davenport



*****************************************ARTISTS********************************

Jay Mora-Shihadeh was born in Philadelphia where he attended The University of the Arts, receiving a BFA in painting and drawing and a certificate in Art Therapy in 1992. 

Jay’s artwork has evolved from experimenting with representational to abstract expressionism. He employs bold color that is both direct and expressive. Physical, sometimes brutal uses of line shape and gesture are the hallmarks of his work. He strives to grasp the unknown, the subconscious.  As an artist, spontaneity and process are as important to him as the end result. 

Currently he resides in Sarasota, FL where the sunny, colorful landscape imbues itself into his work. His art can be seen on Facebook and Instagram. 



William Taylor Jr. is an artist and poet living in the Tenderloin district of SF. See his poet bio above for more info.


Matt Borczon holds a degree in fine arts from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. See his poet bio above for more info.


Keith Winkle: Visionary? Yes. Artist? Hell no. But I love art and I try to create when I feel the pull. I was born in Ohio but raised on the offshoots of Jupiter. I graduated from Ms. Elkis’s art class, Riverview High School.
[ed. — artist? hell yes. I should know, I graduated from Ms. Elkis’s class too.]



Maggie Davenport graduated with a BFA in painting from Ringling College of Art and Design in 1999. She currently lives and works in Sarasota, FL. Much of the imagery in her work depicts her experiences of finding connection to a higher state of vibration or “being in the flow.” This is the state she works from when painting. A place of being open and connected. There is no thinking, just painting.