June VOGON Jibberish

FRIENDS!!!

How did you like the Octopus Review #5? Pretty spectacular! And if that weren’t enough, here are some June *Vogons* for your July reading pleasure.

[*Vogon poems* are not real poems or writing. They are just me tuning into the world like a little trans-brother radio.]

[Also, I’ve been too busy to do any new art, sorry.]

**************************VOGONZA***************************

If the air is dead

Can it be buried

?

My need to live in a constant state of culmination

Is a hard need to meet

I’m on my knees

Half the year, such a people pleaser now,

The other half a protester

On a banged up bandwagon

Indoctrinated with compassion & 

Sporty masculine boundaries

A gender-solid impasse

I forgot the taste of fried ice cream

South of the Amerikan equator

I recall a humble stroganoff

3.14 snow leopards minced

And simmering to perfection

But those leaks from the grill

Left a rude stain; dog licks

From the patio

I remember taste

Being the sense i was willing to lose

Loss of others disabling 

Patterns on the bias

Cutting into my tongue’s radius

0601:0125p

********

INSANE in the MEMBRANE

Now that’s not a funny song

About someone else

It’s a sad song about me

All my neuroplasticity 

Lives in my knees ,

Builds fish entirely out of

Ocean

No breadcrumbs lead

To shore

No lemon spritz between

Your fin(ger)s

0601:0125

********

Rosewater Mister

Clairaudience

Is a firefly—how would it sound

If it spoke aloud?

Like bright hypergraphia

On a frostbitten tongue!

So you mean like a really cold kiss?

Hmm, more like a frozen flagpole

Between you & the fireworks in July

I feel our brotherhood

W/ the brain inside my chest

Your heart?

It’s always been this way. A bloodstorm blows in

From the north & it’s like all the phosphor left your lamp

The optics on that are not good

There’s nothing to see here.

Let’s give them 

Something to see!

            Keep they’re eyes

                 Keep there eyes

                    Keep thaigher eyes

                              Averted!

A jar full of green flickers will do the trick

If 98% of Amicara is 

7 years old.

The Other 2% will clatter down

Fire escapes that match their spines

Step by goat-footed step

0605:1075p

******

We’ve been on this journey together

A long time

This is the start of a dreadful love poem

Isn’t it?

No it’s what the fireflies told me —

Have the confidence you had in the last

Millennium

Before this one supposited you,

A gerbil whose catnip perfume wore off

Where were you on Jun 5 1999?

You suggested strip darts

And I was so sure of myself, I accepted

And I removed my jacket & one shoe

While you were plenilunar

In the County Prosecutor’s binoculars

(he was a better neighbor than most)

0605:1075p

*********

Retinal Lexicon!

When you see something you can’t describe

And you know your friend would really love it

Try the retinal lexicon!

A contact lens that connects to your tongue

Texting anyone else in your network

Wireless, hands-free, sensual

Perceive each other’s otherness

The optics here are good

But the underlying trauma is…a

Devastating lava

So long, self

So long

0605:1100p

********

Your blue blood cells

In their padded strictures

Thump 

Their anemic wrists in legal bangles

Now trending at the bottom of the ocean

Anchor charms

Lost from your distal bracelet

In the junior concentration camp

Your grandmother wore you

So proudly but now

She’s lost like virginity in junior lowbrow high school

                                                                hard school

                                                                blood blow

                                                                clot knock

                                                                dam burst

This neck of the woods twisted

By a garotte 

Hands that took the scenic route

Water that died in the hydrant

Four miniature corpses

Dried tomatoes on the border

0615:0900p

********

Better Red Than Dead

             or

Better Dead Than Red

?

It was the townspeople

Who eventually ripped

A mass suicide from the pages of their HolyBook

It was all they could do

To rapture back on Flight Xyz

Before the homeland sleeps…

Home land?

India.

Heart land?

Indiana.

Cowboy?

Indian.

Racist!

All around misanthrope.

Antelope, OR

the center of the universe

Where the men are silent -n- the women

Control the media w/ their telepathy

And salmonella

(what about The Optics?)

Promise you’re not a spy?

Promise you’re not a leaky pipe?

0615:0950p

********

You are so spatial

Now that you’re more than

Archetypal stick figures!

I must park my car one centimeter

At a time with tunnel vision

Concealing my safe space radius

It renders you alone,

Or very low volume

On a hilltop, a guru Dog

Chased by an astronaut’s echo

That sounds so cool, but what

Does it mean, poethead?

It means my dog

Ran up that hill like

Kate Bush on special optics

And howled w/ love at the moon

Earth’s own moon!!!

I’m too old to be very special

87% of Humanitor are VISUAL-thinkers

13%  are   AUDITORY ; 

98% of Humanitor is SPACE-oriented 

2%   is    TIME-oriented

Which piece do you want  (what form will you take)?

And do you want whipped cream w/ that

(what substance will fill you)?

0616:0800p

*********

When needles are the only guns

Imagine how scared all the public speakers

Will be

How the spiders will roll up their webs

And death will carry a yellow lollipop

Sharpened by unborn teenage tongues

Shakespeare & Shelley afraid to

Bear arms, or hold hands

Furtive litbros wormed

On their gothic tryst behind

The language arts building

Then shriveled in the Oxford sun (none)

  ****

Bright baggage in the claim

Carousel of eye colors

Portal to haunted head space

Iris calls home

Something wet touches your hand

You hope it isn’t bliss.

0616:0825p

*********

But My Mind Has A Mind Of Its Own

The statue of liberty replaced 

By a scarab beetle

Holding up its middle human finger

Emerald enamel 

                 coats each wing

Hiding tightly coiled fat-cat feet

          The secret is the leather bound leap of

                            Faith

                              off

                                a

                   Stack of dossiers

Modeling portfolios!

  A quilt of photos

Depicting all angles 

                     of Guilt,

even that tiny cleft between earlobe & jawline

Is a dossier waiting to flutter open

A fan who saw you on the runway

Now follows you through the airport

What sells?

The rustiest tools

Back to spitting in tubes

For another round of eugenics?

0617:0900p

*********

She’s not the first lady

To act passive-aggressive

Remember when Babs Bush pushed past you

To play her records on the jukebox?

(her wedding ring cutting your non-dairy nipples?)

When Nancy Reagan tattoo’d 

What Would DKNY Do

On her four-five-sixhead

When Hillary played her country

Music albums backward, hearing

Monica Lewinsky’s footnote

In history sung in T. Swift’s

Virginal vibrato —

    the time machine’s tuner set to frequency modules

                     20 years down the road?

Mrs. O planted Indica in tiered garden boxes

Will Melania make a difference w/ spraypaint @ the wall?

0621:0900p

*********

Will she??

You’re the witch, you tell us.

Of course she will.

Your tender urchins

Tucked into bed-like boxes

Growing sushi in your garden

it spoils but you still turn a profit

Silver soil under those wire resorts

Aluminum links razor cuffs

   Fish on a leash

Your master promises

   The tiny spikes

     broken off

A mother’s/father’s hip

        Collar

       Wallet ,  loosened

       Rat feces

      Urchin cries…

Missing girls found on non-stop flights

Playing Donnie Darko in 1st class

They have bad new wisdom

0621:0950p

**********

OYSTAR

Give me urchins 

Over avatars

Mean girls over

  Duplicitous trolls

Give me now

Over yesterday

But please don’t cut

Yesterday away

Like a cat’s whiskers

0621:0950p

*********

Parenting the world 

Thru poetry

It’s how I talk you out of suicide

When that post-solstice let-down

Kicks in

And there are so many blueberries to pick

So many ice cubes to suck

So many ways for a body to leak

0622:0900p

********

There would be a tariff 

On the male hygiene supply

If it existed outside Canada

There would be sonic warfare

Between the states

If our guns were revoked

If anyone cared

There would be civil uprising Now!

(& I can see how you’re starting to care)

0622:0900p

********

I curl around you

Blueberry-lover

Your pulp memoir includes

The warpage of hi-beams

In alien toddlers’ eyes

Mud you should be called

Not ice

You’re dysentery

You infect wounds

But you’re a contagion of laws

0622:0925p

********

Ashes to ashes

      Mint to mint

         Try to reduce your cartoon footprint…[??]

********

CLOCK BLOKE

Why do you always see the NEG?

Why can’t you focus on the POS?

Because they’re inextricably woven—

   remember those optical illusions

      that were all the rage in ’94?

            Magic Eye

Jacksonian Pollack-snarls

    that suddenly lifted into

      cohesive lines & shapes

If you stared long enough…

If you’d just relax….

I could never get the lines & shapes

Undressed w/ my eyes

No matter how I relaxed or squinted or smized or drank

I couldn’t coax the positive-rational-beautiful

From the negative-chaotic-frightening

You’re surprised!

Space is the ‘what’

Time is the ‘when-where-how-why’

I’m not so concerned about WHAT

I’m doing

As WHEN I do it

That is timing (everything)

To the color-deaf

           off-red

           decaf-fast

           subtle-savage

0626:0900p

********

Lib’rul Mums Hate Thur Bay-behs

The pharmacy

       Is not for the feint of

          (any organ

          not covered by

            Inzurence)

The doctor’s office, so private! So hush-hush

         Your body, your chart

      doc-blocked from anyone’s view

But @ the pharmacy

   All your numerology

         On display

All your head contents 

     laid on the counter

  like cosmetics & candy bars

Heavy industrial beauty supplies, Ma’am

Your testosterone won’t be available

Till Thursday

I’m sorry, Miss, but I won’t

Supply this abortion

Pill your doctor

  Ordered like some elitist liberal potlord

Indoctrinated by classist Ivy League propaganda

The endless dialogue flares up again

Silver-haired satan 

    Speaking through angelic lungs & orifixes

The cries of a perfectly modified infant

Clock-blocked by genetical correctness

0626:0900p

[SCOTUS = not my patronus

My exitmusic begins

After this lick of ice

Cream]

The Octopus Review #5: Summer '18

Oh Friends!

Here it is!  When the Octopus Review #4 came out I was afraid I would never be able to live up to that again. But here we are with another collection of some of the biggest, moodiest, most cathartic, utmost confessional poems to ever slide down this screen.

Not to mention the art, perched like vultures between the words to shock you out of your scroll-weary reverie! I hope you’ll enjoy reading the Octopus Review #5 as much as I enjoyed assembling it.

Speaking of that…you may notice a slight format change. I usually showcase each writer separately, but I noticed a dynamic interplay in this batch, so I “lost the cubicles” so to speak. Let me know if you like it, or want it switched back to the old way immediately. Feedback always welcome!

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Pisscake

My piss smells like sweet cake

so maybe I should take a photo

of my piss cake because these days

the photos poets take of themselves

seem to get more attention than their poetry.

Maybe I should drink more,
piss all over another glass

cake plate and then break it down.

Apply some trendy cupcake frosting over my bleeding lips
and spew it out.  Batter up,
splatter down, (be)rate

someone else's cupcake color, size and shape and then

piss all over another face.

— Juliet Cook

"Riverdale Liverfail" by KEITH WINKLE

when I go out into the street

when I go out into the street I see

the people are all afraid

there’s a hush

as neighbors size each other up

now is that the kind of person who’d

burn a cross in someone’s yard,

would they rat me out,

will they call the cops when the wives

are getting their beatings?

when I go out into the street I see

the people are all afraid

in stores we shift our eyes downward

people are afraid to peek

into the lives of the people next to them

they are afraid to see themselves

looking back

when I go out into the street I see

near-terror unspooling

heightened rabbit-sense

people sharp

and ready

for the gun to go off

carefully wrapping their hurts away

and steeling themselves

for the coming war

— Heidi Blakeslee

****

Camp Bastion

 9 months

after I

left Afghanistan

4 marines

were killed

in the

spot we

used to

duck the

wire to

sneak to

the next

base for

breakfast

and when

they closed

the camp

later that

year I

don't remember

being anything

like happy

just relieved

like you

feel right

after puking

or burning

a tick

off your

arm.

— Matt Borczon

"After the War in Heaven 1" by MATT BORCZON

HURRICANE HUSBAND

Hurricane husband

battered at the door of my heart

His wild wind words   that

sliced and diced at    100 miles an hour

stripped my soul bare

His voice forced my eyes closed

to protect them from the splinters and slivers

that caused my psyche to shiver

in the corner of my brain

In his wind tunnel world

where those words

stretched the skin back from my face

I lived with gale force words

which left our relationship

barren of any life

Listless and breathless 

I waited

on the roof of my soul waving my white flag

Where was the rescue crew?

— Thasia Anne

******

Exposed

The bone exposed

broken

Too close to the surface

wound too deep

Fragments of white move in muscle

carried by blood

They will be removed

then discarded

Once part of me

lost

Metal on bone

Knots in flesh

Hold me together

define what I am now

Patient

valid

in 

the care of others

some who can't always care

Mending takes time

Time melting slowly

Nurses doctors aides

Forms and faxes

Pills injections IVs and tubes

Words I will never remember

names I could never spell

Define me this 

defective me

In a bed not my own

Deficient

Patient

Valid

in

the care of others

and my own

— Mike Griffith

Photo by ROB PLATH

Case #4167 (a)

Dear Rory,

I know you won’t be *you* much longer. I need to get this out. You were so awake in the questioning room, I’d love to be that awake. How do I become awake Rory? What is yoga for if I don’t have clear skin and shiny hair like those agents at the climbing wall? They look good in less clothes Rory. But you know that now. You swagger and tip. Your jeans are tight. You aren’t afraid. Walking down alley ways, leaving that office supply warehouse. Even if I ask you the right questions I know you are going to start to lie Rory, (The ink is taking control. You are becoming one of them.) 

Options for me now in the questioning room as a Female citizen of sunshine nation are  1) call for back up 2) turn on the black light.  3) tape the hole in your  forehead shut. 

Rory I’m so sorry.

— Jennifer MacBain-Stephens

******

the high tower

shaking and quaking and

trembling in the light of day

into the dark of night, then feeling trapped

quickly and with absolute certainty.

rough

ragged and burned edges

ripped and raw,

open and spewing sorrow

and all those things made of dark matter…

remorse, regret, blame, shame

and guilt.  they are harshly built

and pile up and around and over

you with those haunting sounds.

peek over that high tower that encases and entraps

you, your mind, your power.

climb up and out and away from

the dark sounds that smother

and choke

you.

shake out the taste

of the pasty wasted man

who is more dead than alive...

more dead than death 

and do not mourn him

because he doesn’t know and he

cannot hear you.  there is no

reflection in his mirror…

just smoke and cinder, for he cannot feel.

his eyes are cold.

drive fast and far away from that dreary place

and free yourself in the cool air

with loud sounds of your own selection

that will wash away the empty

vibrations that are not real.

for you are more real than

any of this and you are strong and

made of silk and black leather.

— Lois Betterton [2-9-13]

"Leak" by EMILY WARZENIAK

She's writing down names and numbers 

& I am just an anchor 

I ask her whose numbers she wrote down

but I am just an anchor

Double check she's got the lady

who schedules her shifts at work

she picks up her phone

punches in the pass code

writes down Margarita

though I want to be a buoy

I am just an anchor

she knew this was coming

a vacation in the psych ward

so when we left this morning

she grabbed her essentials

which in retrospect was odd

but I said nothing 

because I am just an anchor 

I tell her I love her

that I don't even have to question

because when she hurts, I hurt

which I don't make secret 

and it draws her down deeper 

but even though I see this 

it's not like I stop

I hold onto my heart ache

divorced from my conscience

making my love another of her enemies

along with her guilt and self-loathing

and me, just an anchor

they told her more than once

she can't save herself from drowning 

with me in the picture 

a shadowy figure

greedy, ill-intentioned

not bad but misguided 

she pulls me through the water

I love her so much

but even I can see

that I am just an anchor 

so I can't save her

she doesn't tell me what she's thinking

but I know she can see it

that I am just an anchor

I want to cut myself off

as much as I want to pull her even tighter

but love that is pure

would do what is right

and hope just to float

tread water long enough to see her

sail off into the sunset

and disappear into the horizon.

— Luke Kuzmish

*******

sweet amnesia 

she liked 

to braille 

the thick

raised scar

across 

my palm 

from a 

punched out 

cigar 

& hold it up 

to her 

cool lips 

& for a 

little while 

make 

my flesh 

lose its 

memory 

of fire

— Rob Plath

"After the War in Heaven 2" by MATT BORCZON

Abandonment

My cousin didn’t inherit her mother’s craziness.

No stacking her house, floor to ceiling,

with old magazines, unmatched plates 

and teacups, newspapers dating from birth.

No hand slaps across faces or verbal degradations,

though she did have hints of her mother’s ill temper.

When a tumor coiled around the major blood vessel 

in her esophagus, unbeaten by radiation,

an operation impossible, her anger rose its genetic head, 

aimed both barrels in my direction.

She refused to speak to me 

throughout the year she was dying,

instead, calling the long-loved woman 

who had cut short their sexual tryst to marry,

to camp by her bedside, hold her hand

in this perceived family abandonment.

I don’t know where her ashes are scattered,

what her last thoughts were, or if she remembered

before the light went out that I had cared for her.

I flip through my photos and see my cousin,

a toddler again, tagging after her sister and me.

I see frown lines gradually replacing the dimples.

I see spaces she would inhabit, had she lived.

I see ghosts fading from the life she might have had.

— Pris Campbell

******

Writing poetry #2

 since the

war is

raising a

dog that

was beaten

half to

death by

its last

owner

it bites

and will

hurt you

but you

can't blame

it for

it's suffering

or yourself

for loving

it any way.

— Matt Borczon

Art by ROB PLATH

Case # 4167 (b)

Dear Rory,

I tried to go on vacation with Z. but it was all work. Three beheadings in three hours. My zoot suit was ruined with ink and goo. Rory don’t worry about your ink. It will be like blood but cold. I know you will start to feel it take over. It begins up top. Works down. Sometimes I wish I could be subsumed Rory. The twenty oceans scare me Rory. 

I’m still saying your name Rory, trying to keep you with me. Are your eyes still hazel? Citizens don’t like my non-committal colored eyes, but isn’t it better to be adaptable? Not the same way all the time? 

How much time has passed since the infection? Don’t answer that. I know how much time has passed. It’s all I think about.

— Jennifer MacBain-Stephens

"Blue Girl" by KEITH WINKLE

To Serve and Protect (Out of Order)

in his cell, a team in riot gear storms in and swarms

while he repeatedly says he can’t breathe

            He is lying on the prison bed naked,

            gasping out his last inconsistent breaths.

            An officer's armored foot stomped down

            on the bed beside his head

            to serve and protect this dying man.
           
He begs for water and

is given half a Dixie cup as he heaves,  

has a mask placed over his face,

he’s then given an injection 

            They wheel his dead body out

            like it's another slab of nude dead

            disposable meat on a cart.

            It doesn't mean anything to them.

            Dead hearts are just a part of their job routine.

Attorneys say an ambulance was never called.

Brown was eventually brought to a hospital,

where he was pronounced dead

            It's up to them to quickly decide who is nothing

            but another dead body part rammed

            into their broken down meat machine.

            After all, they're the ones in charge.
            So what if they're out of control.
            Unfair, unjust, who cares?

            What are you going to do? Arrest THEM?

Brown has said he can’t breathe at least 20 times.

Then he is left naked in a cell,

not blinking or responding

            They're the ones with the badges and guns

            to serve and protect against unnecessary violence

            by working for a system rigged with unnecessary violence.

            Conducting their own violent attacks and getting away with it.

            Choking the head that dissents from this power structure.

 Help me! Help! I can’t breathe!

I’m choking on my blood! Help me!

I’m choking on my blood! I’m choking on my blood!

I’m choking on my blood!

            What is your life worth anyway?

            Another bloody stuffed animal hung

            on the wall like an ugly display,

            then torn down and thrown away.

            You might have tried screaming,

            but your voice never mattered enough.

(This poem was inspired by Sgt. James Brown, an African-American active-duty soldier who checked himself into county jail for a two-day sentence for driving under the influence, and ended up dying while in custody. Authorities claimed he died due to a pre-existing medical condition, but years later, new video from inside the jail raised questions about what had happened.

The lines in italics were taken from news articles about what happened.

The last four lines in italics were taken from Sgt. James Brown's own voice in the video.)

— Juliet Cook

********

beg to differ

the

middle

fingers 

are 

the 

windows 

to 

the 

soul

— Rob Plath

"After the War in Heaven 3" by MATT BORCZON

Selective Mutism

my fourth grade teacher

Mrs. Shultz or some variation of it

always underestimated me

but one day when she called on me

she took a different approach

in fact I believe to humiliate me

into forced speech

“Fine, since you won’t speak—”

she was always pestering me

to at least say “yes” or “no”

or “I don’t know”

(Idon’tknow) became my muttered mantra

“go to the blackboard and point out

the answer from the overhead projection”

this I did smugly, effortlessly

she seemed surprised

like oh, all this time I thought

you weren’t listening

comprehending

yet I still remained in the lowest

reading group

quiet

silent and misunderstood

because the vocals wouldn’t come

thus I soured like milk left out in the heat

— Jennifer Behling

******

HE SAID

He said it is his breath, and

a part and portion of his blood through hungry veins

He said that his brain screamed

continually 

Nothing else mattered

Not his kids,

Not his parents,

Not even his Gramma can quiet the scream

when he needed the scream to be quiet

He said

he would do ANYTHING,

anything to stop the octopus inside from reaching its tentacles

squeezing his heart

smashing his lungs

He said the drug is his breath

— Thasia Anne

"Rawktopus" by EMILY WARZENIAK

Vow

Lipstick stains my wineglass.

I loved her long before the grapes were harvested,

turned to a red deeper than her stain

but less intoxicating than her lips.

Stick to stone, break the bone.

Broken bonds and words 

can always hurt me.

Vow          do us          part.

Death may still kiss my bride,

a willful bride to a willing death.

She: Look how lovely in white!

He: How handsome in his best suit,

gray as cloud-layer atop a pyre.

— Mike Griffith

******

2^nd female citizen from sunshine nation faces off with one light sucking demon

she says she trespassed in a dream 

of rainbow earrings of $55 synth transfusion

He is too much of a sieve in his own mugger story

still life photos that castle rock climb 

in brown eyes dead

sucks the sun down a straw and

massacres that crinkle brunette curl 

a need  to please before he kills, 

the most dangerous kind. 

so cold once you get inside his flannel.

once he flaunts his fake hair dryer heat 

launders your arms and wrists scoping for a way in

every day since that day

she craved violence 

He rupped the tremors out of her person

she whispers at night 

‘cept u and me babe. ‘cept you and me babe  

longs to sucker punch him by the fridge. 

a force like sharks 

like torso electric timing. 

don’t tangle words. 

waltz with her at dawn.

you eel

mewl your need into the literature

sweep tears off my back.

the man in black and the man in white 

need to swap.

the deep deep voice of the crinkle 

unhinges his jaw  

hands come out, reach for her clavicle.

— Jennifer MacBain-Stephens

"Untitled" by KEITH WINKLE

doors & tables

there 

was

a

slammed 

door

i

died 

behind

that 

transformed

into 

a 

slab

in

a 

morgue

& 

it

was

decades

before

i

turned 

the 

tables 

& 

made 

it 

into 

a 

surfboard

— Rob Plath

******

Writing poetry #5

 since the

war is

a bone

saw I

am still

trying

to learn

how to

use.

— Matt Borczon

"Phoenix Rising" by MAGGIE DAVENPORT

Warrior

(Lido Tiki Bar 9-5-16)

His look is overpowering - the glance, the grin, the sideways smile.

That unimaginable strength takes my breath away.

My heart screams in silence, trapped in a sweet but slow reality.

I close my eyes, I smile.

Arms the size of trees,

Chest with the depth of a forest.

Voice - liquid velvet, soft, surprising.

Samson, Goliath, Man of Men.

He shines.

I dare imagine.

I am a tree, my limbs sway with the warm wind.

I offer them to him for his arrows, his bow, his home, his comfort.

He respects my will to serve, to give, to be his ally.

And I replenish my wounds with his love of Nature.

We are one and yet we are alien creatures

Invented and envisioned and loved by the Source.

I understand,

I dare imagine.

— Lois Betterton

Art by ROB PLATH

CONTRIBUTOR NOTES

Emily Warzeniak is a prickly, desert dwelling hobgoblin who spends her days hiding in the shadow of sand dunes and under cactus patches but also likes to make art sometimes.

Heidi Blakeslee lives and writes in Ambridge, Pa with her seven cats and her partner, James.  She has authored two poetry books, "Should the Need Arise" and "The Empress of Hours" as well as a novel, "Strange Man."  She is looking for a publisher for a new completed novel, "The House."

Jennifer Behling: I am a recent graduate of Saginaw Valley State University. I studied English literature and art. My poetry has also been featured in the Haight-Ashbury Literary journal.

Jennifer MacBain-Stephens lives in Midwest and is the author of four full length poetry collections: "Your Best Asset is a White Lace Dress," (Yellow Chair Press, 2016) "The Messenger is Already Dead," (Stalking Horse Press, 2017,) “We’re Going to Need a Higher Fence,” tied for first place in the 2017 Lit Fest Book Competition, and “The Vitamix and the Murder of Crows,” (full length collection,) is recently out from Apocalypse Party Press. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She is also the author of ten chapbooks. Recent work can be seen at or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Black Lawrence Press, Prelude, Cleaver, Yalobusha Review, decomp, and Inter/rupture. Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/

Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. She is drawn to poetry, abstract visual art, and other forms of expression. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. You can find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com

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.

Lois Betterton grew up in Yonkers, New York and now resides in Sarasota’s Historic Rosemary District Florida. She began reading and writing poetry as a young child and has embraced the written word all her life.  She founded and hosts The Word Show at The Reserve SRQ in Sarasota that showcases local, free range, organic, Poets.  Publications include ‘Dr. Alfonz Lengyel, RPA China Connections, US-China Review Winter 2010 Edition,’ her poetry blog ‘New Words,’ and edited ‘GUANYIN The Art of Compassion – Guanyin And the Welfare of Sentient Beings:  Images from The Medieval Period of China’ by Dr. Chang Qing.

Luke Kuzmish is a recovering addict and poet from Erie, Pennsylvania.  He considers himself a deconstructionist and confessional writer.  His latest collection is entitled LITTLE HOLLYWOOD (Alien Buddha Press, 2018) a collection of 18 poems dealing with stigma, love, depression, and struggles to find a philosophy to make sense of this world.  It is available on Amazon and at the author's website: https://squareup.com/store/luke-kuzmish

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.

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. He also holds a degree in fine arts from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania.

Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry as he recovered from a life-changing injury. His poems, essays, and non-fiction articles have appeared in many print and online publications and anthologies. He resides and teaches near Princeton, NJ. His first poetry chapbook is slated to appear later this year.

The poems of Pris Campbell have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including PoetsArtists, Nixes Mate, Rusty Truck, Bicycle Review, Chiron Review, Pulse, and Outlaw Poetry Network. Nominated four times for a Pushcart, the Small Press has published nine collections of her poetry and Clemson University Press a collaboration with Scott Owens. “My Southern Childhood” from Nixes Mate Press is her most recent book. A former Clinical Psychologist, sailor and bicyclist until sidelined by ME/CFS in 1990, she makes her home in the Greater West Palm Beach, Florida. 

Rob Plath is a 48-year-old poet from New York. He has published 20 books so far. He is most known for his collection A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press). Rob was once a student of Allen Ginsberg for two years. He lives alone with his cat and stays out of trouble. See more of his work at www.robplath.com 

Thasia Anne is a great-grandmother and Edinboro University senior in social work. She uses her writing to help clients realize that they are not alone. She has a chapbook of domestic violence poems, titled Love and Licorice Whips, and three children’s books that she uses in her domestic violence education program to help children understand better their own living situations. She has been published in Our Favorites; Poets’ Halls Press, Spitmag; Art and Poetry Magazine, Poetry of S.O.U.L. An Anthology of Selected Works from Poets Around the World, and Word Stock.