THE BAT SHAT

Volume 1 Issue 2, Jan 31st 2011

The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

Table Settings
THE BAT SHAT
Volume 1 Issue 2
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
A CHANGE OF POSITION
By Nicholas Anders
} 3
}
NEW EYES
publishing fine works since 2010

ENRI ZOLTZ
By George Such
WINTER 4
By Alexa Mergen
Editor-In-Chief ALL-YOU-CAN EAT
By Susan Gabrielle} 5
}
ELLO PIARO CHALK
Design and Concept By Zachary Scott Hamilton

FOUR MONKEYS IN A SMALL

CONVERSATION
By Nancy Canyon
6
BOX
Standardized Editorial Staff
WINTERTIME
}
By Laura Merleau 7
(non-mail order)
I COULD ONLY WATCH AND HEAR
By George Such
} 8
}
BEAUTY SHOP - DECEMBER 30
TWO OTHER MONKEYS
(free range)
By Lucile Barker
CRASH 9
Creative Consultants By Alexa Mergen

}
THE END OF WINTER
By Anne Earney
J.C. MARTINEZ-SIFRE
Layout Designer ON FEBRUARY 29TH
By George Such
10
NICHOLAS ANDERS
VIOLET GLASSES
}
By Zachary Scott Hamilton 11
Guest Editor CHRISTMASTIME
By Alexa Mergen } 12
FROZEN PIPES
}
By Nancy Canyon 13
CIRCLE ON THE EARTH
By George Such } 14
SUBMISSIONS
QUESTIONS
COMMENTS
ALIVE IN WINTER
By Anne Earney
MY BONES
By Hazel Mankin
} 15
}
I DON’T REMEMBER
CRITIQUE By Nancy Canyon
PRAISE ON A MOUNTAINTOP ABOVE HAMPI
By George Such
16
MORE PRAISE
EVEN MORE PRAISE
SHOVEL//HOUSE//GARAGE
By Zachary Scott Hamilton } 17
}
WINTER BREAK
WWW.THEBATSHAT.US By Alexa Mergen
CITY//KINESCOPE
By Zachary Scott Hamilton
18
2
The Bat Shat
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
A s we on the northeast coast of the
united states make our way through
one of the more bleak and icy win-
ters of recent history we send out this
shiny second issue to our readers and
hope that it provides some warmth
in the belly and kindle for the mind.
I asked Nicholas Anders, a writer and
reader of fine works, to be the guest
editor for this issue and to provide a
balance in the review process in or-
der to help me finesse this issue into
existence. While I purposely continue
to leave the rest of our staff a mys-
tery, I will begin to unmask them a
few a time with real names or pseud-
onyms (depending on their level of
needed secrecy from the beasts of
the material world). The guest editor
is a spicy new sandwich we wish to
experiment with and can only hope
to get as much bang out of it as a sea-
sonal pressed-and-formed riblet con-
coction. Additionally, I am offering
up a previously unpublished poem
of Nicholas Anders’ in order to give
you, our dear readers, a crack in the
mirror. Overall, the review process
Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
requires us to make some challeng- start that dialogue by emailing us at
ing decisions based on our combined “thebatshat,” we live just to the right
sensibilities here at The Bat Shat. In of the “at the rate of ” gmail.com.
addition to pieces that made it to May this wintry episode go nice with
the final review table for this issue, I your favorite beverage. Even if you
also utilized the power and privilege live in the tropics where the romantic
of my position to add a few pieces notion of being snowed-in sounds
back in that I thought needed to be mildly refreshing.
there whether our full editorial staff
was in agreement or not. That is to Sincerely,
say that some of these works were Enri Zoltz
not published in solidarity, but in my Editor-In-Chief
own iron-fisted isolation in an effort
to control the essential direction of
this journal. Some might consider
these pieces to have “slid in,” others A CHANGE OF POSITION
may deem them as “favorites;” nei-
By Nicholas Anders
ther case would be truly correct nor
incorrect. These works will bear the One time to look.
mark of my initials at the bottom of
the page. It is the mere question of Twelve hours at the equator.
why certain works are selected that All you can see
I wish to always give the reader a is
peek at, the questions that I hope will
someday warrant a speakeasy mes- what is
sage board or online chat area where above your horizon.
we can all discuss what we like, what
we don’t, and why. Please feel free to the tiny little circles.
there is a path
in the sky.
one degree of difference,
everyday.
Look to Midnight.
The sun will burn your eyes.
The slow spin of the sphere.
I stand fixed beneath
the constant light
of stars,
Bound by math.
33
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

WINTER
By Alexa Mergen

winter of
storm and
cancer cells

as snow melts
streets will clear

stay

NEW EYES
By George Such

previously published in Exit 13 Magazine Number 15

I felt them before I saw them, ended. open to the sun and rain.
colored like strong Oolong tea, I was needing new eyes to see. At night we’d ride
steady in the turbulence You know how it is on her silver Honda, crazily
of hungry hands and watery faces, when your whole world changes. weaving through the streams
a sweaty sea that shook of other bikes just riding . . .
against the tall chain-link fence We worked and laughed
where I walked outside in that hollow gray hospital Her dark hair brushed
the Tan Son Nhat built around a bursting garden my face when I spoke
airport gate. into her ear
Her hands held a white sign above Saigon’s roar,
with my name misspelled my nose pressing
in wide black ink. into her cheek
GO ERG SUCK, it read. when she turned
to smile at my words.
I had come for volunteer work,
eighteen years of marriage just

4
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
ALL-YOU-CAN EAT
By Susan Gabrielle

He dreams of smoked salmon for a traditional dinner at home

pretending the white slop they serve
is the rice pudding of his childhood
From the windowless room
he can see his mother
glasses steamed up from cooking at the hot stove
she waves a spoon at him to come closer,
closer
she learned nothing from her grandmother
his mother
couldn’t make a decent sausage to save her life
Instead, the day before Christmas
they load him from his chair
where he spends his days
watching reruns of I Love Lucy

The daughter who visits on Sundays Into the teal minivan

the same daughter who put him in this place for the all-you-can-eat
does not listen to his demands pancake breakfast
at IHOP.

“Sausages from Réunion Island” Copyright © 2005 David Monniaux

5
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

CONVERSATION
By Nancy Canyon

Morning arrives and the woman asks

What is this, another cloudy day?
Yes, another one, she hears him answer.
Many in a row make winter.
She cocks her head to listen: chickadees
sing winter songs.

She never guessed fall would begin

Orginally found at flikr. Photo taken by user 4ocima and
enhanced by Zappernapper using Adobe Photoshop. 2007-
01-07 (original upload date)
and end so soon--a cold wind coming over the hill,
while inside her warm kitchen, restless limbs,
her bare feet warm in slippers.
Lately, at night, she stares at the dark ceiling,
asks the still air to untie her heavy wrappings,
winter clothing making for a muffler too tight.

CHALK She dreams of Summer, heaven

By Zachary Scott Hamilton hanging heavy over a sleeping land,
reminding her once again that
Bitter, eyelets at the ends of sleep into the other layer of me everything eventually comes to an end.
abused -- neglected
Since 1922 A melancholy dessert, this winter night,
(the year they loved me) her cold houseguest, dressed in white,
The floor, some call me the walk, others, the tiles. appearing in snowshoes at the top of the hill.
The ones in their underwear, who wander late at night call (selected exclusively by E.Z.)
me by my real name.
The patterns.

Above one green place

dragging on and on in rubber black
holes in
growth bodies in black in multi-face pattern
out of shoe scuffs.
Shrieks down
deep into
cement land

where cold heaps to one thick-feathered edge

and rats make homes in medical supplies
left behind in ‘53.
(selected exclusively by E.Z.)
6
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

Photo By PlanetSurfer
WINTERTIME
By Laura Merleau

A trillion here, a trillion

there – are these real snowflakes,
or have we crossed the line
into fantasy? In the house

late in the afternoon, you begin

to recite a poem only before you finish it
you lie down taking the rest of the day
with you to sleep. You dream the leaves

blowing across the sofa are real.

You dream you have a pretty good idea
who is behind all this.
You dream God is an oak tree bleached
by the sun, blinding you with the glory of
his ice-encrusted branches – so many
arms reaching stiffly, reluctantly toward
you on this side of the window.

He says, Be good.

You wake and decide to paint

the table white. You fall
back asleep and dream of placing
the mirror back into the sky.

God places the mirror

back in your eye.

You wake and see everything is real.

Photo By JC Martinez-Sifre

7
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
I COULD ONLY WATCH AND HEAR
By George Such

previously published in Blue Earth Review Volume 7, Issue 2

You cried in your sleep next to me, and spoke

in Hindi – out loud – in your dream. It seemed
you were pleading with someone, asking why
it had to be this way. I wrapped my arm
around you, but couldn’t reach that place.

I could only watch the fan turn above us

in the darkness of our room in Mumbai,
and hear the hollow vowels of pigeons
in the elevator shaft, the crowd of crows
outside the window, and the haunting echo
of a man’s voice, calling all to morning prayer.

“light on door at the end of the long dark catacomb” by Dusan Bicanski
8
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
CRASH
By Alexa Mergen

When the jet crashed into the Potomac, the river

absorbed the weight ice cracking
the plane sank into the frigid water.
We learned later the wings had iced over after take-off
from National.
A water landing leaves no ground scars and
once crews removed debris after rescuing
whom they could, water filled spaces where people
and machinery had floated. The river snowed smooth again.
(selected exclusively by E.Z.)

Great Falls of the Potomac River, Maryland

by Henry Hartley
BEAUTY SHOP - DECEMBER 30
By Lucile Barker

This is the last time of the ritual; dozens of mud faces smiling in the prescribed ways,
cleansing and preparation for the next evening’s rites. nails being reddened as if our
This is the new sisterhood, hands were dipped in the entrails of time,
metal hoods over heads, lips stained by sticks and jars of magic,
deformed by plastic tubes, brushes dusting years away from untranquil foreheads,
each chair an altar, too few fingers to count our ages,
the priests rolling, massaging, smelling of flowers lying dead under winter snows,
mixing the colors in bowls, the hands of clocks smearing the year to its end,
libations for the faces; while each of us prepares to sacrifice herself.
swirling lights to tone the skin.
We talk of the garments we shall wear.
The silver surfaces in front of us
sing back more and more of us, From 1900 Encyclopedie Larousse Illustree

9
The Bat Shat
THE END OF WINTER
By Anne Earney
F lurries fell that day — big, sloppy
flakes that wafted with the wind,
gusty at times, the clouds breathing
in and out like the gray bellies of
sleeping seals. It was early March; I’d
turned the heat off at home. I ex-
pected no more winter days, but I al-
ways believed winter would be back.
So I didn’t let the snow swirl around
me; I didn’t stick my tongue out to
catch an elusive flake. I gave the sky
no more than a cursory glance. I
went to work and, afterward, to The
Danielle. With my husband out of
town, there was no reason for the
hotel, except I didn’t like the idea of
inviting the other man back to my
house. It was the first time, planned,
and the planning left me exhila-
rated, too distracted to pay attention
to snow. Waiting in The Danielle,
downtown in an historic building
with an elaborate plaster relief ceil-
ing in the lobby, I stood between the
mechanical mouths of the elevators
and the brisk words of the desk
attendants, memories of his quick,
crooked smile and blue eyes under
a heavy brow competed with the
ceiling, where cherubs and nymphs
and half-dragon, half-human figures,
floated above me. I forgot about his
voice, deep and gravely. We took the
elevator to 1401, a suite. We ordered
room service. We drank wine. I
awoke minutes before midnight, my
limbs damp and warm, sticky against
his strange form. Through the plate
glass window, I looked at the clear
sky. The fat clouds had transformed
into strings, tangled along the hori-
zon, leaving the buildings exposed,
Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
ON FEBRUARY 29TH
By George Such
as if the city, too, had lost some-
previously published in
Blue Earth Review Volume 7, Issue 2
thing. We never again met at that
hotel, or any other. I went home, my we drifted beyond friendship
husband returned, no one told or I remember
found out, and life went on. Except the naked steps
that when November came, the into those hot springs
trees lost their leaves, the tempera- at Breitenbush
tures fell, and it didn’t get very cold. and later our bare words
January came and went with hardly under that unzipped
a dip into the thirties, and February blue sleeping bag
was warmer still. There was talk of the way
global warming and natural patterns.
your gray eyes
Whatever the cause, last winter
took me in
was the end of winter. But on that
and how I seemed
March evening, as the last snowflake
to lose my skin
fell somewhere in the city, possibly
in your softness
landing on a rooftop, lying for a mo-
ment before tossing into the wind, how the early singing
falling to the pavement below, a man of your hidden clock
pressed it home with his foot, into untangled
the ground, on his way to meet the our knitted slumber
woman who, for one night, would how I laughed
be his lover. I like to think that had out loud
I known, I might have done things when you sprang
differently. into the crisp cabin air
your white bottom
(selected exclusively by E.Z.) giggling at me
as you frantically searched
for the beeping source
how you returned
smiling with cold skin
and explained
that the Inuit word
for lovemaking
was the same as their word
for laughter
and how
we laughed together
then
Photo By Batni
10
The Bat Shat
VIOLET GLASSES
By Zachary Scott Hamilton
My son’s mother wears
My girlfriend memory
In argyle sox that hang
The distance.
It’s a symbol that races through
Meat, cheeseburgers, rock and
Follow it into the terror,
Follow it into a mountain.
Pulling down the rocks and
Breaking through the symbol,
Shattered diamonds flip
Sides, reflect the others.
The city comes into
Focus, a standing and a
Thin spray of color
Lay words down on
The street.
Broken thoughts
Hang in the windows,
Where a boat can flounder along.
Pieces of it flying into
The rock side,
The mountain,
The river spinning through elm
Spinning down the Lego’s,
Pens and dragon tails,
empty of bone -- empty of elbows.
The boat--
it made eyes--
Wood smiles, it sees me
and tumbles into the shapes:
argyle sox and memories
then down a dark hole in the moun-
tain,
tipping upon one side.
Absent bone meal,
set on stage
within shattering
limousines.
Effervescent limestone
on my head wakes me to the
weight of it. Crashing through the
Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
Geyser.
Makes me smell like mountains. I
sniff my velvet.
So much Moss, so much funny
blue.
Stalactite dreams melting
down me.
Heavy headdress, lights a ruby
(green)
Sweaty armpit(s) down the river
(slope of time)
Hair at the end of
a rooster and then floating up
through argyle as thoughts,
turtles perching in a smile-a-dactyl.
Stalagmites and stalactites, Rushing
rapids
Rinse and repeat.
Wake up.
Walk home.
Foliage.
In and out
Dreaming/rinse and repeat
Walking/rinse and repeat
Winter.
Bone meal Plexiglas
and snow in the stage--
this is what we wanted to be
within the limousine squat.
Home in everything
(selected exclusively by E.Z.)
11
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

CHRISTMASTIME
By Alexa Mergen

For a dollar kids sell bags of mistletoe

tied with ribbon bits –
two boys at the market/a quilt-wrapped girl by the road.

We plot kisses in doorways

counting down from ten
to one, sealing the old year lips to lips.

We kiss a chalice, a ring, a baby’s hand,

a star, an ear, our own fingers to say goodbye,
the ground when we’ve arrived home from a bad time
away.
(selected exclusively by E.Z.)
12
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

FROZEN PIPES
By Nancy Canyon

He asks you what you know about love—

the fact is, you aren’t sure—
and when he shrugs, as if to say,
“See, you know nothing of the heart,”
his hunched shoulders bring you a chill,
like pipes in a deep freeze,
and when at last the spring thaw comes,
water doesn’t stop gushing, flooding
under the house, compromising the foundation.
It can be fixed, if you wear hip waders.
But maybe your heart isn’t so brittle.
Maybe the pipes thawed before they fractured,
and the stream bed, well you’ve always
known where the source resides; it never
does stops flowing.

13
The Bat Shat
CIRCLE ON THE EARTH
By George Such
previously published in The Meadow 2009
In Luang Prabang, I paid the driver 5,000 kip
to take me across the Mekong River in his long
wooden boat, painted red, the color of his cap.
I wanted to see the other side. His wife, who
was dressed in orange and black, sat in the center
of the boat, stitching a checkered orange quilt.
The motor chugged as we cruised through
the brown water, surrounded by jungle-covered
mountains. The clouds above us looked like
dragons fighting. On the other side of the river
I walked through a village where chickens ran free
on muddy paths between thatch huts, and followed
a trail through the jungle that led to stone steps
up a hill, where temple ruins overlooked the valley.
A dozen men were struggling there, trying to lift
a fallen pillar – it was tall and made of square gray
stone. I joined them, put my shoulder against
Benh LIEU SONG c/o Wikimedia commons - Panorama of Luang Prabang, north Laos, seen from Phu Si hill (9/9/09)
Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
the warm rock, and lifted with all my strength,
even though I could see the weight was too great
for us. Sometimes you want to help even if
you can’t, you just want to push against the load.
One of the men pointed to my leg and made
snapping sounds with his mouth, concerned my leg
would break if the pillar fell. After a time we stopped
lifting and they motioned for me to join them
in a circle. We sat cross-legged on the earth
and passed around two leather bags, one filled
with raw meat and the other with fried water-buffalo
fat that crunched when I chewed it. The men
were all smiles and spoke words I didn’t know.
Then their leader opened a bottle, filled two glasses,
and passed them around the circle, one in each
direction. When it came to me I raised the glass to us,
as the warmth of whisky Lao kindled inside my mouth.
14
The Bat Shat
ALIVE IN WINTER
By Anne Earney
Everything alive in winter is invis-
ible, hidden in the metallic sparkle
of snow, in the cold-burnt remains
of tree trunks, in the frozen remains
of pavilions in the park, the icy still-
ness of the pond, blue spark of
flame at the end of a cigarette
lighter. Where you see death, there is
the hint of life. Where you see
the leaves of last year, the cold alter-
ego of spring rain, the ghosts of the
past, there is also the future,
dormant, resting, waiting. Waiting
and breathing, slowly, quietly, so
slowly and quietly you might miss it,
thinking the world is dead by the
end of December.
“Agua Potable” by Benutzer:Alex Anlicker
Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011
“photograph of car cigarette lighter” by Alexander Menk
MY BONES
By Hazel Mankin
My feet whispered me stories through my bones.
Answers seeped, shoulder level, from the alleys and barred gates.
I saw a man crouching at the corner,
His liver torn out and flattened in the street.
But it was only bags of newspaper,
And a red shirt, abandoned out a car window.
I tiptoed up the hill that night,
My calves burning from the strain.
As the world tilted sideways, trying to throw me off,
I mounted the last slope
And passed the moat, entering my humble castle.
Everything made me laugh:
The way the tap water burned my frozen hands,
How when I bit the hard, chilled chocolate, it threatened to lever my teeth
from their moorings,
The way everything spilled from my bag onto the floor, when I meant to
throw it on the couch,
How that could have been them outside, but I really didn’t care,
The way my mind composed ballads to sorely missed friends of its own ac-
cord, without asking, even though I couldn’t remember their names.
Its audacity, too, made me laugh.
Through my laughter, I realized that I didn’t recognize this house.
This wasn’t my house.
But I couldn’t stop laughing.
15
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

ON A MOUNTAINTOP ABOVE HAMPI

By George Such

previously published in Axe Factory Review Number 25, 2009

After my climb, the evening sun left saffron and red chili
streaked across the South India sky, seasoning the rice-colored
cirrus clouds and the ruins of the Vijayanagar empire below.

I feel so small, I spoke out loud, thinking I was alone.

Then your voice rose softly from the boulders behind me,
I feel so big. I laughed then, and still chuckle now,

remembering. When I left the next morning, you wrote down

your teacher’s words in black ink on a piece of paper.
It is next to me now, as I write.

Wisdom tells me I am nothing.

Love tells me I am everything.
Between these two, my life flows.

I DON’T REMEMBER
By Nancy Canyon I don’t remember the smell of flakes
falling from soggy clouds strung
(selected exclusively by E.Z.) on gray skies like wet towels pinned
along a clothesline, nor the muffled
squeals of children dancing through
swirls and drifts at dusk. I don’t re-
member the smell of fur-lined boots
tossed inside a bootbox along with
snow-crusted mittens, wool scarves,
and knit hats. I don’t remember rosy
cheeks burning in a steamy kitchen,
nor miniature marshmallows melt-
ing in a cup of hot cocoa while
sleds dripped in the garage. I don’t
remember the sound of Daddy
stumbling over a pile of snow boots
that didn’t make it into the bootbox,
nor his words: Keep the doorway clear,
for God’s sake. And leave that white stuff
outside where it belongs.

16
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

SHOVEL//HOUSE//GARAGE
By Zachary Scott Hamilton

Distant TIGER TAMER

#2. {Gravedigger}shovels out a reasonable amount of feet from the ice chest in the extra garage in the woods.
To
Serve generally for his delusions.
The one thinks thought
Doesn’t give a damn about untouched garage door
And
Thorough things: paint buckets, chrome alloy stacked in rare grey.
Assimilated to blankets in the frozen straw field,
Giving off the impressions of doubt and long suffering.
Humble death to humans far too gone
To deserve destroying nature in the thought
Of tongue reaching to remark otherwise.

Far too lost in the woods to gather their senses about them,
Their clothing to cover them
Just barely deserted forever.
Human hands in the forecast of sweltering persona,
Doomed to birth wreckage
from within it’s subtle cave.
These are the kind killers of our time,
the plastic remnants of a dream
leaking into a forgotten area.
There is no one living there in that house.

Listen to the rain drip

down,
beneath your skeleton
if you can,

marvel over the substance,

in this unnatural flight

from a dream to the nexus,

his heart is held together with paper and pulp.

(selected exclusively by E.Z.)

17
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

WINTER BREAK CITY//KINESCOPE

By Alexa Mergen By Zachary Scott Hamilton

within her a woman surfaces It’s a wallet of hexagons,

like a bubble a periwinkle philosophy on cake and
she waits the bully.
holds her mouth tight I see hungry pants inside the kinescope…
against it Nibbling,
the hands of doom come closed
once she played in snow together around the lemonade stand.
with brisk joy I zoom through ghettos,
snow now clutching a respirator in one hand
a playground and the wrench of overt wisdom in
of boys and other people the other.
spending an afternoon My pelt is a vicious satire,
up and down it is the lampoon of my ravenous
approach.
the mountain
A small girl with a pink dress and
until a ride arrives,
blonde hair becomes an illustration
a mother taking her turn
before me.
“Nobody move!”
retrieving and dropping-off
There is a reference scan of the city.
almost-growns The airport terminal, missing
the girl the train tunnels, abandoned
in the back seat the taxi lines, forgot it
scraping green polish from her nails bus stops, abandoned.
(selected exclusively by E.Z.) Every point in the city is
viewed upon a cool half-inch screen.
The picture is grainy.
The thing is covered in crisscross.
There isn’t anybody to watch the
screen as it scans,
only a reference tape that is going to
“parish” later on tonight.
No one settles in but the macrocosm
these days,
just to watch the kinescope show.

(selected exclusively by E.Z.)

18
The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

FEATURED IN THIS ISSUE

NANCY CANYON’S prose is l r m l w h G ANNE EARNEY lives in
published in Water~Stone Review, e i a i i a e St. Louis with her husband
Fourth Genre, Exhibition, Main Street T s o i s d s o and several well-mannered
Rag, Able Muse, & Obliquity; her po- h s u n h e r cats. She earned her MFA
etry in Floating Bridge Review, Poetry e s s e l g from the University of
South, Wicked Alice, and more. She B w , d y e Missouri-St. Louis. Her fic-
holds the MFA in Creative Writing a o a , tion has been published or is
from Pacific Lutheran University, a t n forthcoming in journals such
Certificate in Fiction Writing from d m b as Natural Bridge, The Linnet’s
UW, and has studied with Natalie S e u Wings, Six Little Things, Night
Goldberg in Taos, New Mexico. h r b y t b S Train, and Versal.
a i s p e u
She is a Fiction Editor for Crab
Creek Review. Canyon lives and t t o t r u e c
e e b n h
-
teaches writing and art in Fairhaven, . o -
-
-
a quaint village overlooking Bell-
ingham Bay in northwestern Wash-
A ZEL MANKIN
ington. . H is a
ic e g
tw

oo
ed

dn
LAURA MERLEAU has two cats
ept

ame
LUCILE BARKER MAY
nce and acc

who love nothing more than travel-

for a poet a

ing with her across country to visit HAVE BEEN NAMED AF- ALEXA MERGEN
her family living everywhere from TER BB KING’S GUI- writes from Sacramento
Seattle to Texas to New York. Her TAR, BUT WE WOULD
nal o

poems have recently appeared or

nd h

BE GUESSING.
our

will soon appear in Ragazine, The

a s
yj

Los Angeles Review, and Qarrtsiluni.

be
tr

oe n
pu
tp blis
Sha hed in
The Bat

ZACH- SUSAN GABRIELLE is an

ARY SCOTT instructor of writing in Califor-
HAMILTON lives nia. She received her MFA from
in an abandoned house in North- the University of San Francisco,
east Portland with his cat. He writes poems to and her work has been pub-
his cat under candlelight and some of his work lished in several U.S. publica-
appears in Sein und werden, www.ignaviapress.com, tions, including The Christian Sci-
Kara wane magazine, and Mary Mark press out of ence Monitor. In her spare time,
she expects the unexpected.
New Jersey.
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The Bat Shat Issue 2, Janurary 31st2011

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