Self Portrait Issue
Jason John Stephen Wright Jarrett Min Davis Denise Duhamel Jennifer Wildermuth Richard J. Frost Billy Collins Alyssa Monks Bob Hicok Steven DaLuz Rauan Klassnik Ron Androla William Stobb David Lehman and more …

poets and artists
on the cover
5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 14 15 16 18 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 28 29 30 31 34 35 36 37 38 40 42

96 Jason


Publisher / E.I.C. DIDI MENENDEZ Creative Director I. M. BESS

Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. O&S: PoetsandArtists.com requests first publisher rights of poems published in future reprints of books, anthologies, website publications, podcasts, radio, etc. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Poets and Artists website. Print copies available at www.amazon.com. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.poetsandartists.com

Stephen Wright Adam Fieled Jarrett Min Davis Denise Duhamel Billy Collins Marcus Slease Alison Jardine Joseph P. Wood Marie-Elizabeth Mali Luisa A. Igloria Alyssa Monks Andrew Demcak Sally Hanreck Matthew Hittinger Kent Leatham Francois Chartier Ellen McGrath Smith Ming Holden Bob Hicok Jason Joyce Coleen Shin Brian Walters Juliet Cook Kathy Kubik Steven DaLuz Larry W. Lawrence Linda Benninghoff Jon Damaschke Elaine Kahn Jordan Stempleman

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 R Jay Slais James Belflower Nina Bennett Terry Lucas Suzanne Savickas Cheryl Snell Dan Murano Grace Cavalieri Norman Mallory Mia Paul Siegell Peggy Eldridge-Love Pris Campbell Michelle McEwen Rauan Klassnik Oscar Bermeo Nydia Rojas Ed Marion Ron Androla Paul Squires Peter Ciccariello Dave Lordan Janelle McKain Nick Piombino Janet Snell William Stobb Jennifer Wildermuth Fábio Baroli Luc Simonic John Korn Craig Hawkins Stephen Russell Richard J. Frost 76 77 78 80 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 Ernie Wormwood Jeremy Baum Jeff Filipski David Lehman Renée Zepeda Leigh Wells Nanette Rayman Rivera Cedar Lee Grady Harp Patrice Erickson ChiaNi Hsu Annie Finch Pauline Aubey Barbara Jane Reyes Sarah Zambiasi Kate Wyer April Carter Grant Belinda Subraman John Walz Jeremy Hughes Calli Whittall Emma Trelles Barbra Nightingale Didi Menendez Marcus Kwame Anderson Melissa McEwen Ruben Belloso Howard Camner Tara M.M. Larkin Angelique Price Diana Adams Luke Meinzen Joze Hicks


com 5 .Stephen Wright Self Profile oil on canvas 66” X 33” Mouth oil on canvas 66” X 33” poetsandartists.

converse. plus a fridge with whiskey.com . guitars (a Strat and an acoustic). to have waking hours be dreams. a sweet tooth for crazy-assed girls living in wood-floored bedrooms without shades on their lamps. I am into the travel light thing. little else. a Derrida-reading Doctor that plays along with Cream records. a computer. I walk with legends. because my mind is heavy: textlust! Imperatives come into me with fish-hooks— I dare not resist.Adam Fieled Enter the Dragon This is what I amount to: a connoisseur of cultural capital. When I die I’ll leave no traces. 6 poetsandartists. manuscripts scattered on a desk. move in preordained rhythm to music made by heavenly bodies. Text! Child of the Moon Neptune’s Trident: an emblem I use to channel spirits. born in a snowstorm in New York. to plunge beyond time’s parameters into mystic parallelogram places. pasta. A sudden blow: that’s how sweet joy befalls me. Brita water. Scorpio Rising My apartment is stark: four hundred books on a big Ikea shelf. I was born to be shuttled through the Milky Way in my sleep. 1976. eggs. green. why I’m dragon-like: lean. I’m the dragon.

Shipwrecked oil on linen 32” X 28” Jarrett Min Davis .

Then he says. I’m a cougar now. So I tried to act dumb. blonds on staff becoming redheads and brunettes. Oh. the first choice of the hairdresser who was sure I could pull off. just the way I’ve always wanted to blend in and not. about my doomed article on redheads for which I was paid a kill fee. He says he doesn’t care. He says. At first. Glamour ran a similar story shortly thereafter. So I went back to being blond. I dyed my hair red for over ten years. When I ask him if he knows what a cub reporter is. not Pamela-Anderson-platinum. I thought. He’s relieved I’m not a murderer. Even though I’m “a blond. I tell my potential suitor. I found. Now I’m middle-aged. My friends want to know why I keep bringing up the blond divorcée. to see if people reacted to redheads differently. I don’t have to be ostracized. even though my bank account isn’t exactly purring. But now I have a lot of gray hair. so my article was never printed. it’s easier to be blond because the gray blends in. then smart again. even though I haven’t had plastic surgery. until I moved to Florida where it was too hard to keep up. I had the highest IQ in 7th grade— the teacher announced this fact to the class after we took some standardized test. I blurt. The magazine folded. I’m 47. he squints. looking smart. I get this. my frizz turning orange in the sun. the gentle accent over the first “e” like a hand coming down to pat me on the shoulder.com . but I still don’t feel like a blond—a blonde with or without the extra “e” on the end. reminding me that I am a cougar which makes him a cub. but that can’t be true— because then why would I have dyed my hair bright red? It was an experiment for an article I was writing for an alternative weekly in New York. There’s a lot of silver in my hair. In fact. Why would I want to go out with you? Then I begin to roar. which. to tell me things will be OK. they did. Women were less likely to cut in front of me in line.” until a young man working his way up to asking me for a date says. his big arms and pressed shirt.” it’s false advertising. a wrinkle in my skirt. reporting pretty much the same results I’d found. I think he means someone else. I catch us in the mirror—my lines. men less likely to whistle. sort of. I grew up with dumb blond jokes and one of my big fears was looking stupid. the big laugh of a blond cougar.Denise Duhamel SelfPortrait in Hydrogen Peroxide I never thought of myself as “the blond” or even “a blond. Another big fear. I held onto my power in a Clairol box as long as I could. My ex is jealous of the blond I keep talking about. like the divorced moms I knew as a child. but not “a blond” or “the blond. my loose skin. with a middle-age spread. a term I have to explain. accepted and absorbed by the mainstream. To tell you the truth. Great. I have only recently grasped the fact that I am a divorcée. never mind then. now I’ll never get a date. 8 poetsandartists. then I thought that what I really wanted was to blend in. I’m nervous and talking too much. you crazy old lady. someone other than me.” I insisted on Jodie-Foster-ash-blond. A third woman in the equation.

The body is no great matter. an allusion to my world travels. lines of smoke rising from the chimney should be mandatory. The result should be a strained but self-satisfied expression. just draw some straight lines with a pencil and ruler. My face should be painted with an ant-like sense of detail. any one but red or blue. Also. please trace the circle with a dinner plate rather than a button or dime. The background I leave up to you but if there is to be a house. Sign the painting on my upper lip so your name will always be my mustache.com 9 . pretend you are executing a street map of Rome and that all the citizens can lift thirty times their own weight. have several kangaroos grazing and hopping around in the distance. Kindly limit your palette to a single primary color. Some final recommendations: I should like to appear hatless. I will not be around to hear the voice of posterity calling me Stickman. 1991) poetsandartists. Never be ashamed of kindergarten— it is the alphabet’s only temple. First appeared in Questions About Angels (University of Pittsburgh.Billy Collins Instructions to the Artist I wish my head to appear perfectly round and since the canvas should be of epic dimensions. as if I am lifting a Volkswagen with one foot.

Marcus Slease Self Portrait 1 you you chameleon your greatest fear is offending you grow your blond mop you you shave your blond mop you run you run across the world sapless figtree ashy graze of the eye you you boy far from home a great horse is waiting your castle is the mythopoetic cabbage Self Portrait 2 I’m the golden butter I live to flatter I live live towards the border yeah Self Portrait 3 I go outside tonight and locusts grace my mind I go outside I go outside to see the sea to find my mind to look to look for the new all ways to look always to look for the new the new shoes the new toadstool the new allergy is the new excuse the new winter the new paradise the mew is the news the you the you is where to look for the new the you is the new home 10 poetsandartists.com .

com 11 .Alison Jardine Self Portrait After Midnight oil on canvas 24” X 30” poetsandartists.

I turned for my mother but she was the street. slurred sentiment upon hearing Brady caught Reagan’s bullet. greyhoundlike twitching. the divebombing snow. ditto the planets. it’s a lie to claim there are 30 words for glory. El’ hurdling darkness I wished to sip. the stars are pointless. 12 poetsandartists. 28 which I know will never cross my lips when the funeral car stops. thesauruses where Purple Hearts were pinned. the sun daggers its burn. narcotic snore. in my dream I became my dream electrified with a bugle. soldiers’ hard-ons flown half-mast. Wood My Biography grand as Lagos mine disaster. his one night white Russian. son.com . the dead man’s collar like a dog-eared page I did not fold nor write.Joseph P. cruel like Beijing prison cells. starts & stutters in my father’s unshaven ghost.

I am your chasm. I’m the shoebox of yard. I undermine neighbors. I shall lead you by hand. chicken pox cats. I bring you the Styx. I philander. Stomp my larynx. The pollen fleets. a mealymouthed suitcase. I’m a thick thread of droll. I shall name you sweet duckling. Implode I do. offer it catlike. the gutted house. The unfurled copper wire. The falling beams.com 13 . I the eyes your daughters magpie. brown Augustine grass. The brown. Wood Definitions of Son I am your rope bridge. Declaw their infants. Let us be the bus. Let us take a bus.Joseph P. And cling I do. freshen-up your highball. Three day stubble. the kudzu clinging. I call it a spring. I rumor. A brain verging collapse. I the optic scraps. I sandbag the snow. poetsandartists.

If your ears can’t hear what your eyes don’t see. He can’t know about my cravings for arepas. aguacate. then I’ve got nothing to say to you in any language. following eyes that kept me awake. At my college in Ohio. remaining here a transplanted orquídea. yuca. I sang lead in a salsa band. Gringo Centrál.Marie-Elizabeth Mali Invisible in Me —Disculpe señor. the corazón sagrado.␣ afraid. El Libertador. home of Simón Bolívar’s tomb. He answered me in English. Nor about my love for Mary. but he can’t know about that. carousel three. and the painting of Santa Lucía over my childhood bed at the hacienda. plátanos maduros. the only one able to sing quimbaracumbaracumbaquimbamba without messing up once. not knowing any of these things because they are invisible in me. Because the language I spoke did not match my features. muses immortalized for centuries to come. y batidos de parchita y mango. his words falling into the well filled with a lifetime of Tú eres Latina? Why do you speak Spanish? He can’t know about my grandmother’s trip from Caracas to New York.com . I walked away thinking. the one with her eyes on a plate. where she married my grandfather. 14 poetsandartists. he answered me in English. dónde está el reclamo de equipaje? —Over there. Nor has he seen the faces of my grandmother and her three sisters painted on the ceiling of the Panteón.

poetsandartists. Do not forget me. Igloria Magnolia He said. the phosphored heads of matchsticks they struck. Their creamy damask has begun to slide— straps of a cocktail dress worn past dusk. which can’t be the anagram of Regret me. that flared all the way down the avenue.com 15 . Another summer: buds of the magnolia push heady scent into the sun. until all that remains is softly leathered: a purse with counters of loose change. They spend it all. into dishabille.Luisa A.

Alyssa Monks Vaseline II oil on linen 64” X 86” 16 poetsandartists.com .


Where is that young man I’d find. Damp bolts of kelp furled. like a full moon drifting these lands? He was not as cruel as I am. Truthfulness. I took measurements. A hooked fish mouth. My first sex. day into day. etched. The thin lines.Andrew Demcak Abalone Cove I see his surfboard scritch-scratched by sand. Still important each morning. soft plink of buoy bells. 18 poetsandartists. Mussel-shelled. Slash of an anxious fin felt. Mirror at Forty My other self. Tidal boy gouges an under-carpet of coastline. Urchin beds improved after day’s calm. towards mine. spattered by the waves’ perfumed crests. flesh defining stranded pores. some terrible haul brought toughly up. his face rising roughly shaved. Cock tip salt-white. spread-eagle on a tern’s nest. the hues of lead. that exact little god. blood pink. a slick turret.com .

His mouth is wet. A phone ringing somewhere is answered. as if I were his mother. poetsandartists. Spring crickets count off in the blackness. He whispers and gets in bed.Andrew Demcak Oedipus Night opens over the street like a wound. and he could love her. I read his rose scars like riddles. Tonight he’ll enter me like a blind man. The house groans and settles down on its back.com 19 . His swollen feet poke out beneath the quilt.

Sally Hanreck 20 poetsandartists.com Recovery oil on canvas 70cm X 45cm .

Matthew Hittinger

Sketch and Pentimento
Put a pen in my hand and I will sketch out the terms : before words found me my guise was pigment, colored pencil pastel yes acrylic and wood block my canvas name M D H three letters like two eighth notes stems connected by a beam but that map tracks a different theme where the staff maps clef time and key, ledger and measure sketched by line and space, rests like periods notes like words and this time signature disguise seems to stray from where I started. Erase then and start again. I was a clown. No one recognized me that Halloween not even if I had used a semaphore to telegraph “last kid standing” my name forgotten, classmates “who’s missing?” sketchy unable to realize through the disguise. And if that moment of triumph denotes love of deception it also connotes my long standing fear of the red ball nose and rainbow wig, white face and masked eyed guise when real skin is hidden, hermaphrodite face. And yet I love a good drag queen sketch lip synch and banter but does that erase or lace a boy too shy to state his name? These facts are gone replaced by odd footnotes like you will never catch me in Skechers or skinny jeans; if you ever did yes I’d disavow blame my evil twin map the points my doppelgänger did disguise to be a spy, a master of disguise to hide the final claim made to my name. It’s all terra incognito unmapped dream to be a cartographer endnote letters all rearranged I might never add that wit or just might threaten wit etched on my final guise stone or urn last note to preserve the nature-erased name. Yes a map. But as for treasure? Come and sketch.



Kent Leatham

Patriotism, or, Let the Children Boogie

Because it’s the fourth of July I sleep late then finish reading “The Sun Also Rises” after which I masturbate to prove that despite my empathy with Jake Barnes I’m no castrato although I would like to be an expatriate except I’m lazy and love living in California too much even with the Governator and earthquakes and wildfires every summer and the cost of living which reminds me I need to buy groceries but instead I watch Rob Reiner’s “The American President” where Michael Douglas and Annette Bening reveal that love can conquer anything including credibility so I follow it with the true story of “Boys Don’t Cry” but that’s too heavy so I go buy groceries after all since the co-op down the street is open all day because Americans still believe the pursuit of happiness is a right which means we should be able to buy beer and hot-dogs any day of the year, even if that requires making the local teenagers and immigrants work on holidays, but I guess the idea is to give them something to look forward to by way of better jobs where they won’t have to work on holidays, and anyway I’m not buying beer and hot-dogs I’m buying sushi and soda which I eat and drink while listening to Leonard Cohen and Neil Young and that David Bowie song “I’m Afraid of Americans” which was beefed up by Trent Reznor to make Bowie sound tough to a new generation that wouldn’t be as inclined to idolize a sexually ambiguous Martian even if he was the nazz and had that ridiculous codpiece in Jim Henson’s “Labyrinth” and condemned Willem Dafoe to death in Scorsese’s “The Last Temptation of Christ” and played the Elephant Man on Broadway because in America anyone can do whatever they want if they are famous and don’t get caught using ethnic slurs or prepubescent girls or tax breaks, but hey one shouldn’t criticize one’s country even jokingly at least not on a holiday when they let you sleep in.

for Peter Jay Shippy

Francois Chartier

Self Portrait acrylic on canvas 58” X 58”



laconic. Still the phone made its sound. What is that moaning against the wood table? Whose cattle are lowing. a kind of spell in which the ears get taller (like a dog’s do): hence. the cochlea roll inside the pockets. We would walk up Bigway Avenue and. even smaller). it came out covered in Cheez-Whiz.Ellen McGrath Smith Self-Portrait at Forty-Six The phone didn’t know anyone in the building. antimacassars. I wish phones stood still like they used to. abandoned as it was — the building — its ligaments languid. or in some cases.com . like houses of god. I say it’s the place where your stomach used to growl. 24 poetsandartists. like tombstones. in the bag. stick a thumb into the Coin Return. a sausage casing holding the idea of meat? Now. How will those fixed locations flag us down today. The payphones so autistic on the sides of those abandoned buildings. what they call a skin for I-phones. The phone didn’t know any sausages uncooked and linked as depicted in comics to distract the watchdog — holy mac! and KAPOW! In swings a policeman like an echo. the need to pick it up and say a little something. One day. The size of an Adam’s apple (in some cases. each time we passed the payphone. when Plexiglas is nothing but a lung wiped clean of oxygen. What a phone might do is called a tone now. whose new baby wakes? You say it’s your phone that’s on vibrate. and two-toed sloths. tony gadgets knowing lobes and tongues.

disturbing womb. In thrumming room where high bell of neighbor’s basketball rang through foam mats. reassembles in blooming shape. Where I was born breaks apart to shrapnel. Line of cottonwoods past which I sped over and over learning to ride bike knocked between hipbones and ribcage. Where I was born leaves been dry for weeks. splintered. Wide-skied widestreeted between stomach and collarbone.Ming Holden origin On my way to yoga. white-flower smell stopped me. After class: threaded long aching evening through to grungy city room. Where I was born same open land. Man’s bright eyes crinkled across street at me in question. poetsandartists. Inside the body I tend to leave in thought a sage-ridden endoskeleton of seared grass. movements to open hearts. Thorns around heart own bones. but in suspended hour of breath: traced inward to why green leaves afford not.com 25 .

ganymede. where have you gone.Bob Hicok self-portrait of a self-portrait you=eve poets want to be painters. we had been trying to characterize our love. our love is going to spain and running with the peonies.com . but asked. 26 poetsandartists. then she heard the rustling of my leaves. how long have you been a forest inside? this is what i see when i don’t look in the mirror: art. saw a robin land on my abundance. io. stood within my shade. and did not ask. i have painted myself out of the picture: i am the japanese maple holding the hand of the woman holding the diamond parasol holding sunlight hostage in the upper right corner of everything that has happened so far. the dawn of a new erogenous zone. musicians want breakfast at the oddest times. our love is a six year old who knows the satellites of jupiter. painters want to be musicians. our love is a futures contract for soy.

green penis. who thinks. i see a chin the size of other people’s scurvy moods on monday when their lives haven’t changed. and doesn’t the mushroom cloud remind the imagination of itself? you asked if i’ve ever thought of painting myself and i have thought of painting myself green from head to toe. green knees. for contrast. see a cold regard of my cold regard. half. that pumpkins love you.Bob Hicok when i look in the mirror. green tongue. green eyes. orange fingernails. there has to be an end. so to speak. so to live brightly at the heart of it all. so to sway. green hope. for once.and shit colored moons under my eyes. you feel.com 27 . so when i touch you. as if i am an atom bomb given consciousness. that citrus has your clitoris’ back. poetsandartists. what of it: since there is a beginning.

m. held standards. written songs I’m proud of. made amends. led someone on. stayed the straight edge. scored six goals in a lacrosse game. shopped shopped shopped. took a girl with multicolored hair and eyes done up like circus tent stripes on the perfect first date. lost friends to girls. held out. Who the hell do you think you are? 28 poetsandartists. text-text-texted. played shows to ten kids. saw the ocean for the first time. helped the guy who played Bogy Lowenstein in 10 Things I Hate About You write a new joke. rushed. gotten excited by the small things. played shows to six hundred kids. been ran over by a golf cart. had doubts. saw justification for higher education. figured out why divorce rates are so high. slept on the floor of an airport. threw mousetraps at two cast members of Whose Line Is It Anyway. laughed until I peed just a little.Jason Joyce Whatever Happened to TGIF on ABC? I’ve (played with famous bands. worried too much. been honest with strangers. thought I knew what was best for people. wanted to hunt ghosts. wasted peoples time. discovered amazing bands. wanted a girlfriend. filmed skits with Hollywood eyes. started eating more salad. let my body language speak too loudly. developed arthritis. stared at the stars. wanted to see other countries.com . taken satisfaction in proving others wrong. been an asshole. stepped on toes. let secrets slip. met and dined with notable people. lacked self-control. played jokes on strangers. had sex with friends. threw many many concerts. pissed off the homeless. underestimated. watched horrible b-movies. grown closer to best friends. lost my religion. caught the Twitter bug. worn high heels. made mistakes. slept in. overanalyzed. convinced a lot of people that Patrick Ewing and Will Smith died. been guest-listed. thrown a couch off a balcony. worn sandals every day for a month. watched friends marry too young. weighed my options. decided to pass out whenever my blood is drawn. started pursuing this silly dream of being a writer) started living this past year. signed autographs. obsessed over plans. been the target of an ex’s drunk dialing. at McDonalds on the rough side of Nashville. been hit on by girls…and guys. regretted it. pushed away long time friends. rushed. lied to close kin. kissed on the first date. hands and grudges. started a halfsleeve. waited. read important books. been front row for this roller coaster called confidence. had a drug dealer buy me a cheeseburger at 2 a. regretted it. caught my roommate having phone sex.

shop it. a come on into me. of guilt of wonder brought on by altered chemical states I have prayed to random entities to absolve me of pain prayed like a child does before sleep. I want you to remember me what I am going to say I am not afraid to die not afraid of the slow demise I have lived with the disease of remorse. into my gaze one last time. made hay made strange music made a mess of things made love in a graveyard under the stoned angel his heavy feathered wings poetsandartists.com 29 .Coleen Shin The Photo staring into the little pink camera arm’s length away channel Veronica Lake for posterity. airbrush the fatigue and the change the odd little dot. the blue circles under my eyes the brown splotch high on my cheek. a blemish that wasn’t there yesterday the leach of encroaching age. before I waste take it. with absolute faith prayed wailing like a mother her child excised from the womb bled out on the table while surgeons shook their heads left the room the photo. one moment clear eyed a woman who made mistakes made pie.

nothing but the worm’s stomach he dissected once in high school. pinning it to some Styrofoam tray. Spill your juice and spray your seed all over everywhere. 30 poetsandartists. Nothing but a migraine right now exploding behind his eye. that desperate seagulls eat then fall from the sky. But bullet-holes. No lichen around its headless stump for decaying pigeons to roost on.Brian Walters Inside Brian Walters is Nothing But foam. Nothing here or there sprouts in row after jagged row like poppies in the fields of Afghanistan. Like fish. utterly useless. Before that. dead and bloated. Big. floating along the Florida coastline. Inside Brian Walters is nothing but an old tape recorder full of previously recorded messages playing whatever you want him to say. Inside Brian Walters everything is so long dead that not even moss will grow in its corpse’s rotting muck. Nothing but the worm inside the bird inside the cat. But crappy Halloween candy unwrapped and stuffed with needles or razors or broken glass. Name one new thing he’ll ever be able to tell you. But frog spawn. An abandoned library in that part of campus where no one goes to learn or even shirk off learning anymore. tasteless and fat free. But spit and fine-spun froth.com . bright swaths of nothing as far as the eye can see. Jerk off. Of course you’ve heard this all before. Inside Brian Walters is nothing but the cat shit inside the sandbox. Jerk off inside Brian Walters. No moldy leftovers left in the fridge. still nothing will grow. piss in gas tanks and un-detonated land mines rusting inside the sandbox where retarded children go to die. But plastic forks with broken tines.

poetsandartists. see what I am cooking in here. Like an alien on a plate. I just might be designed for consumption. gutted inside. Before you take off my flabbergasted flapper lid and inspect for saucy or seedy trickery. posing as an edible self portrait. My bestial female flow. I might be a messy quick fix. stowing secretly a choking hazard in the midst of flapping lips. what I’ve been stewing secretly… Do you call it dressing or do you call it stuffing? Do you call it lovemaking or do you call it fucking? Do you call it sexy dissection or ugly striptease or silly slits picking at food when they should simply eat or be eaten? At least I’m good with spicing. At least I’m good at knifing my own wicked witch. posing as your seasoned spill.com 31 .Juliet Cook Self Portrait as Stuffed Pepper Precocious green glowing outside.

Juliet Cook

Self Portrait as Queer Cane Toad
This isn’t sugar cane. This isn’t sweet. Semi-comatose in the deep freeze, I won’t be eaten. I won’t even be licked for my mind-

altering properties. This isn’t savory. I’m a wart-covered invasive species. I’m a poison-glanded obstacle, just waiting for you to catch me

like some seeping disease. Not like a gingerbread girl at all; that was just a silly tease. Lumping myself in with sugar cube edibility;

falsifying my true identity as akin to the fairy tale anomaly, but no princess will kiss me unless she is oddly drawn to bufotoxic bisexual bestiality.



Juliet Cook

Self Portrait as a Slab on a Slab
I’m a little slice of pound cake in a little coffin, served with a little container of half & half. Where will you pour the creamer?

I’m a cut off braid with silver threads, served on a silver platter. Split ends unloose themselves from multiple strands.

I’m a slab on a slab, a plait on a plate, a poorly shorn lamb on the lam. I’m sweet, heavy, deathly, hairy. I’m shaved, heaving, dripping, dirty with my ruffled bloomers torn off at the stems. So throw me in. Fast forward

my declension. Will I thrash or gulp? Will I sink or float? Will I suck it all up like a sugary sea sponge with teeth?



Kathy Kubik
Poem inspired by the George Ella Lyons poem, “Where I’m From”.

Where I’m From
I am from jello molds, from crochet needles and my grandmother’s hair. I am from the peach tree in our backyard (leaves rattled like layers of cellophane over rummaged plastic tableware.) I am from the Redwoods, whose rough edges I curved my bones around, not minding the splinters. I am from flapjacks and forget-me-nots, from Michael and Nancy. I’m from the fools and the alcoholics. I am from eat all your cereal before leaving the table, and I’ll tell you about maxi pads when you’re older. I am from Irish Catholic, going to church and then sneaking out after communion. I am from Chicago, France, Ireland, Denmark and Germany. I am from my great grandfather Christian Nielsen who courted Alice Dungan and sung the lyrics to Alice Bluegown – until then, she dismissed him. Afterward, a family grown. I am from the great uncle with frilly collars to the ancestors that fought in the Civil War to my father who fought in Viet Nam to my husband who fought in Desert Storm. I am from heavy gilded frames hanging from trees, from genealogy lines of pictures, from voices unheard except when the house echoes and the ghosts come out.



Steven DaLuz Self Portrait 0509 conte.com 35 . black gesso on mylar 22” x 18” poetsandartists.

joke some more. The kids weren’t tired and stayed awake. the TV is blaring. Ignoring the final warning. Clowning. sister a year younger. but forgetting more. 36 poetsandartists. Mom yells and threatens to make them fall asleep! The brother and sister laugh. but they weren’t asleep that night. a slice of angel food cake. The man storms in the room. “You’ll never marry my mother. watching. Mom’s in the living room. decades later remembering the days and nights. in a torrent of rage.sleeping below. with a smug look of satisfaction. The children cried themselves to sleep as they would for the next ten or twelve years. spanks both of the children soundly and the mother stands by.com . she’s chatting over a cup of coffee. Lawrence The Bedtime Story Laying on the top bunk. this new man. And they call each other on the phone. It seemed that she liked him. An hour or so passed.Larry W. laughing like four and five year olds always do. I won’t let you!” is what the boy said choking on snot and slobber. giggling.

The cat Buttons plays in the window. You tell me you still feel joy but you are dying? How do you reconcile the two? If the fish shine in the afternoon sea then there must be light lying over them--if you feel joy then mustn’t that be a lifeline for you? We thumb through capabilities. remember. and hang onto what seems possible. mashed potatoes and chicken--before the day’s light goes out the window and the squiggly moon comes up. hear the loon but feel no joy for the loon or the red spring azalea.Linda Benninghoff Sun Washed The place where we meet is always sun washed straight through the room. poetsandartists.com 37 . I used to want to see zebras and gazelles. Now I can only see the space out my window. We eat squash.

Jon Damaschke Struggling with a Beast digital 20” x 30” 38 poetsandartists.com .


You are kneeling in the everycolor. The bluegraygreen. * Now in a wide. You turn away. You hide your eyes in your long translucent braid of hair. * 40 poetsandartists. You’re such a let down with your skirt off and now everybody knows. The spool of the horizon breaks apart. come out. You’re in a field with no perimeter.* Is that a promise--If it was held up to the light would it wilt to gossamer? * Oh. * Remember the order of everything there is. Nearly there. Your hair is in your mouth and now the birds have sunk.com . The birds are sinking. If you would break apart-Come out. if the world would only break apart. Your crinoline hangs from a dark magnolia branch. how difficult it has been to be-To be kneeling in a field without an edge. Oh. a point within a field. the everycolor. * Do not forget the sky has other zones. wet field.Elaine Kahn Field At night you watched the city river round its sooty sloping ledge. There is a braid growing out of your mouth.

*Quote from the Barbara Guest poem. Imagined Rooms poetsandartists. * You break into a million shining points of light. Remember to be brave.Elaine Kahn Fields unlock. The sky unspools. then it’s a story. Bluegraygreen. * You thread your braid into the slipping sky. A million shining points into the everycolor. Fields overlap and do not end. Isn’t it a pleasure. Now you have no end. The field is glowing. Undone.com 41 . Come out. Now you are everycolor. It lifts you up. Remember how the city bent. * Remember how the city swayed against its verge. You’re such a let down. Your skirt is hanging from your plaited gape. The field may have no end but you can float above it. If you’re crying while your hair grows out. * When finally your braid has left your mouth you start to sing. can’t you break apart.

Jordan Stempleman Self Portrait photo booth/digitized spray-paint 6” x 6” 42 poetsandartists.com .

more like a three month sap squeeze then settle for a year gone by in waves.R Jay Slais Happenstance After the emergence. The rings are not circular. Await the taking by beetles and birds. tremble of fern leaf like a flight feather wisp hastens the formation of tough-skin layers until desensitized. a held breath until whatsound on acoustic gland flesh. with thick arms along the dirt into the black depths. soon shadow vegetables and verdure until the ice storm fall. Finally well rooted.com 43 . the barkwood surrounds. to high on land for sun and the rains that fell yearn for nothing but escape. the ones who carry all the tiny pieces of my mud to rust. though some say they are. Theology of the splurge. pruning of great branches that will rattle an acre on impact. poetsandartists.

a very similar rasp to the impact of bird wings. a petite shell? Another one has come from across the street and two more have dived on them. What a strange sound. It makes me think it is falling into a crevasse its mouth slowly fills up. As I write this I am muffled by a chattering of two finches on the concrete to my right.com . The noise must be deafening in that petite shell. Must voice resemble a wing. This may have been one of the first. A rustle of corn leaves. corn leaves would make. 44 poetsandartists.James Belflower A Black Volkswagen Beetle Passes. The driver stares. What I recall is their texture. Though this sounds convincing. wing against wing. a rustle of corn leaves. Each day this dog barks. The first time I heard a bird fall. I can’t recall having heard corn leaves rub. Judging by this. if imagined rubbed across each other. I remember thinking extensively about voice. A massive Weimaraner barks out its passenger window.

poetsandartists. First time I heard In Your Wildest Dreams was on the car radio on my way to work. First time I heard Light My Fire was on a transistor radio in my bedroom.Nina Bennett Liner Notes First time I heard the Beatles was family night. pretending to play ping pong. brother. First time I heard Traveling Soldier was in your car on a Friday night. First time I heard Pet Sounds was in the middle of a neighborhood Monopoly game during a summer thunderstorm.com 45 . wondering who was listening to Jackson Browne with you. The cinnamon glaze on her hair glowed purple under the lights. I had to pull over because I was shaking so hard I popped the clutch. Ed Sullivan on a black and white TV with my parents. I was glad it was dark so you wouldn’t see my tears. First time I heard Live For Today you and I were pressed thigh to thigh as we danced at Roxanne’s birthday party. I stayed awake all night waiting for the deejay to play it again. I landed on Nancy’s railroad empire and lost all my money. First time I heard the seductive bass line of Brown Eyed Girl we were making out in your parents’ basement. I hit replay until the tape broke. First time I heard Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes was in the trauma center in Seattle where my sister died. First time I heard Fountain of Sorrow I was nursing my newborn son. sister. First time I heard Wild Angels was on a cassette mix tape you made me. First time I heard Shake It Up was in a rundown disco in Warminster where my girlfriend and I went to dance when we were bored. as we drove down Delaware Avenue.

com . searching for the centerline— but these are just thoughts in the mind. For some time. A cry from one far peak to another. like a saxophonist swaying on stage. 46 poetsandartists.Terry Lucas In This Room There is a long-playing record turning on the turntable. or a drunk driving a black-iced road on a new moon night. the moonlight flushing the dry flesh of curled leaves blowing across the road that has tangled itself in the hills like a necklace in my mother’s long hair fanned out on my father’s pillow. out of time. From another room there might be the moaning of lovers over the hiss of knees caressing satin sheets. the speakers have been faithfully amplifying the scratches residing behind Art or Miles or Freddie—who knows which?—with a metronomic ticking. legs rising and falling. And what am I but the valley between them? A watershed of snowmelt and shade. the needle bumping up against the label’s edge. where the index finger of a trembling hand is lowering the stylus aiming the needle for the edge of a black vinyl record. sending the tone arm veering back across the smooth gap. And who is to say which is more holy? The music or the static electricity? The arm holding the needle in the groove of the vinyl. an avalanche of sound echoing between the walls of yet another room.

com 47 . Impatient with her world. attempting to recreate herself. The longer the heel. Signature in ten variations. poetsandartists. She avoided her own structure. Ran her fingers through the ground she fell square onto. Modeled herself after no one. Continually changed her own name. She remained unclear. she wrote a new one.Suzanne Savickas Blurred The reflection in the mirror always blurred. the shorter she felt.

who came home rolled in a rug. I might have stayed a little longer. Mother pounded it back. Gran hurled Scripture through the air like retribution. and my life became a staff of running notes and syncopated rhythms. The only time he brought his hands together was to play trumpet for Mother’s torch songs. but Daddy walked in out of the Alberta winter in his red pompadour and Navy uniform.Cheryl Snell Sound Gran turned to God when tempted to murder her faithless husband. She tried to save Mother’s soul in case there was something in the genes. 48 poetsandartists. but I never learned a single hymn until Daddy shipped out. If only I’d known how deep silence could be. For years.com . I knew all the standards by the time I could walk.

Dan Murano Polaroid Spectra instant photos above: Self Portrait In Triplicate With Clay Sun below: Lucy & Me .

as if it were mine to give. I still see them reflected on the day my mother was happy. Assignations Uncertain language making its way into my life walked me backward to sound. I am happy to have known you. Gherardi’s sewing circle when I was four.com .Grace Cavalieri DUCKS For years now I look out the same shining window from Mrs. carried me into the future before crossing the threshold to leaving. not too cold. I am ready to go back into time. and starring my dark lucky sky. although tortured by affection. and. perfect lives buoyant soft creatures complete on a float made for their pleasure. How I stayed while the women in the other room laughed and talked. to the stir of the cradle. how the center of a rose opened in me I do not close. Over and over I see them shifting water under their feet without fear. The faint moon alone and content then. gratefully flailing against the bright lights beckoning. not too hot. The large clear view overlooking a water of shadows shows three yellow ducks at peace without a worry of their own. I kneel close to the glass. 50 poetsandartists.

com 51 .Norman Mallory Self Portrait in Painting Hat egg tempera on gesso panel 20” x 16” poetsandartists.

I sprung out from the shadows to save him. like a ballast hurled my seven-year old body across the room. as a crime. She couldn’t help herself. 52 poetsandartists. and the wind. the gentle slope of a hill under her sprung feet. But that wasn’t the time I cracked open my head and saw pinpricks of light gather like so many fireflies.com . when she whipped around. she was four. I lay blooming into a Red Poppy on my father’s t-shirt. Three days he had tormented her as she ran through the alley into the streets. she made a dash— he jumped out of the doorway and she saw nothing but the sky open up in front of her. What had started out with the wind and the weight of the moon upon one’s will veered off into an apology for the color of my skin. The midnight train ride to the hospital.Mia Race This—just because—wasn’t going to be easy. Four times I changed the title and back again to what the poem called for the first time. Her arm. the piercing animal screams. What is a child but a thing to blame? The mistake of it all is to assume that she can be unmended. The time I caught her beating her fists against his chest. my past self dividing to catch the phantom pieces only to be cut by the sharp edges of her mouth. was no larger than a peeved mouse. but not to my mother. her second skin. tucked in the mountains. But what did the poem know about my mother’s favorite Waterford crystal bowl? That I dropped it out of my eight-year old hands and watched it shatter into a thousand nightmares in slow motion. nearly fiveand a boy threw rocks at her because she had dared to cross his path. The face of the boy. She stuck out her tongue and chortled the rest of the way home. Race. The day of the race in question. When she saw no sign of him. not a crutch and the sins of my father who learned to speak Korean softly to women. blood singing in her ears. The very sight of her enraged him as if she were an earth grub to be squashed.

Tiger heat. A boom shakka lakka spirit beacon. How ’bout 05:11:51 a.” And then a bazillionpiece puzzle of the Milky Way became a fan of realizing that even thinking about applying for a job at the apocalypse is what wrecks the rocket ship. flower skull. Davis.com 53 . absorbed in experiments of out-of-sight seeing.2012? Sound good? A cuckoo skill. on 12.Paul Siegell Tiger Bridge to Giant Serpent in Space Your core: Galactic activity. Brahkuna matata. All on a fresh head. poetsandartists. tiger bid. I overheard a Scott Medosis go to a Scott B.m.21. Blood to blog about. They’re giving a polygraph to the hieroglyphs today. Scottie B. wondering why I thought packing Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno’s Slamming Open the Door to Bonnaroo was a good idea. “Got anything crispy to listen to?” Vivid bridge. goes. “It looks like you’ve got poison ivy in your eyes. ticket-stub’d. Waiting for my tentmates to wake.

Currently In winter I will lean into the window and let puffs of breath cloud the pane and give me the power to write my name on the world as I see it. arms encircling so that I can give myself quick little hugs of reassurance. rush to and fro unwilling to make the commitment I need not to fret. taunting me with its knowledge of my fear of lush rippling green turning to brown dying straw. the knitted wrap.com . There will be. and the stoke to stir the fire that has burned down to embers inside. 54 poetsandartists. close at hand. the fuzzy shoes. Summer lingers while I wait for winter. no doubt. Autumn will. In winter I will move with the grace of one January born without apology for loving best the feel of ice pelting down my neck.Peggy Eldridge-Love Me. touching me with authority. reminding me promises sometime do come back in Spring. I will love the time spent with me. the comforter.

Nobody mentions the feds tracking my poems about sexual revolutions. Mother’s china serves up scenes of Last Suppers. this cell of karmic perdition. They never say Hair’s last song has been sung or Lucy in the Sky has long been in rehab. spine bent like a weeping cross. kiss the prince.com 55 . poetsandartists. getting their rocks off in the pale green light of monitors that never blink. eaten and gone. grow.Pris Campbell Rites of Passage I step through my mirror. self-blinded in order to stay the way. I become Moses crossing the Red Sea. become Alice — sometimes Cinderella. protest signs. Frodo. no-one pokes fun at my floppy hats. Grandmother’s sideboard moans family stories to a glass angel standing guard on my windowsill. shine my slippers. I eat cookies. already tumbling against that greedy Bluebird’s beak. long hippie skirts held together by daisies. Bluebird The fallen Bluebird of Happiness caws. folds its molting wings around my house. Here in Aliceland. too late to catch her. grasping the golden ring. The Filipino couple next door argue until dawn ignites the sky with its breath. She sparks back the passing lights of cars careless enough to venture this ruptured street. They think redemption can later be found in a bottle of Christ’s Blood Shed For Them or in a quick fuck on a mattress. but in my cockiness. Ulysses. I stumble against my dear angel. my prison. Nobody tells me the Sixties have passed or that I’m obsolete—Martin and Bobby are dead.

singing for my open-mouthed babies.Michelle McEwen How Else To Explain It In a past life. singing for my late rent. I must have been a woman blues singer— one of hoarse-&-harsh voice gotten by the cigarettes Boy Piano turned me on to the first night. Me. this voice – rough raw – meant more for a smooth-tongued womanizer? 56 poetsandartists. when I should have been sleepin. promising to send money home. singing for the money spent. these vagabond bags. these bags under my eyes I’ve had since birth— these toiler bags. then. wide-mouthed & slim. these midnight singer bags? How else to explain it. Up there.com . in this life. in this life. singing for the ladies with men gone to find work up north. up on stage. then. How else to explain it.

Collapsed. Swept up into violence. Into us.com . Dragged us down. In frozen rubble. Down on me. A thin grey sword. Cracked shadows. Saints. Suns twitching. Ashes. A man bites down on his fist. And death—its breath. Twitching. Burned down the sea. Along the boardwalk—the palm trees wave. gasping. I miss my body. Self-Portrait (2) Reptile hunger. Doors closed. Bent rebar. They leapt up. Filled with light. And the sea like ashes. Love: sunsets soft and warm. Cold mists of piss. Self-Portrait (3) Everything’s dripping. A room filled with it. All of them. Not like a star. Drops of blood. Veins of black-gold crystal.Rauan Klassnik Self-Portrait (1) White strips of gold pulsing. And she has. or God—trees swept out to the sea. Curtains drawn. In the dirt. The way cocaine turns you into mist. Swarmed—On their backs—Crippled—Gleaming. I prayed a woman would save me. 00 poetsandartists. Egrets rise up. Everything’s exactly what I wanted. Thorned in fat stone pulps. Elephants. They raged in my cunt—spiders’ teeth—shivering silver. Swelled up. And pigeons. Curled up. Exploding. Or just plain old loneliness.

dear Reverendo. I heard you grillin’ them hard: Who killed the chuletas? What price gineos? Are you my Boo? I stroll in and out of the brilliant shelves of Goya cans trailing you. Olga. home to our makeshift shack? Ah. Mikey Piñero. Where we headin’. maestro de locura y verso. Which way does your fedora point tonight? (I touch your suitcase and dream of our viaje in the bodega and feel tan pendejo. and doin’ the dip past the cashier. why is Ameríca still the America of Juan. pokin’ among the hot dogs in the fridge and scopin’ the superette boys. and fiendin’ for images. I hit up the 24/7 bodega. and Manuel who died waiting. munchin’every frozen icee. In my deep jones. viejo manganson. Pedro Pietri? The last downtown express will be here any minute. as I strut down the block under the El with a headache self-conscious checking out the lights of the #4 train. bummin’ for a loose poema! ¡Que guava y que gusto! The whole fam shoppin’ late-night! Aisles full of señores! Doñas in the platanos. Miguel Algarín. Milagros. Pedro Pietri. and who were born again to still keep waiting? How long must we stand by the busy tarmac of JFK and watch the planes bring more dreamers into the waiting dark waters of the East River? 58 poetsandartists. shorties in the yucca!—¿y tu. lights off in the apartments. Miguel. and trailed in my imagination by the store rent-a-cop.Oscar Bermeo A Bodega on Anywhere Avenue After Allen Ginsberg’s “A Supermarket in California” You got me straight trippin’ tonight. Easin’ down the tight rows together buggin’ out and scarfin’ down coco bread.com . gran poeta. Will we troop while ruminatin’ on the forgotten America of dreams past abandoned cars in alleyways. what were you doin’ down by the mangoes? Caught you out there. who lived waiting.) Will we wander to the break of dawn through the streets? The lampposts add shadow on shadow. we’ll both be ass out if keep goin’ on like this.

poetsandartists. no respite in between. All day long raindrops falling. exploring. These maps you leave where you found them. hope the roots go exploring deeper. I’ll work the compact ground. I wonder. no easing off.com 59 . how to follow.Nydia Rojas Spring Rain Morning. Judging by the fierceness with which it falls on the ground and how continuously the raindrops follow each other it will be raining all day long. Today I bet you I’ll plant those overgrown sunflowers seedlings by the south side of the garden. I place another bet against the weather. Waiting. The raindrops touch the ground. The saturated ground with which I’m left as necessary as the dry soil I’ll be able to dig. to alter with the nutrients the new seedlings will need. sip down through the hidden web of roots. add peat moss and top soil. undisturbed. then I’ll place them gently in the loose soil. How deep into the ground do these roots go? The raindrops quicken and pelt the groundno pity. deeper. Most times only requiring the simple act of spreading the pine mulch around the trunks of the evergreen or the crab apple.maps I will not know how to read. building Earth underground. The rain continues. Sometimes an easy journey requiring no movement or digging on my part. Morning. The rain like a glass mirage covers the horizon where dawn is still imprecise light in waiting. The rain steadily falling as if saying these maps are not for you to alter.

Ed Marion As written by the Academy of Art University. WY. and returned back into the chain of time. Wildermut In the Studio oil on board 14” x 11” .  Elaboration on the representational nature of her work. Jennifer Wildermuth naturally gravitates towards to the human figure in her absorbing oil paintings.”  Currently represented by the renowned Horizon Fine Art Gallery in Jackson. San Francisco. then captured. Wildermuth describes her aesthetic as “Impressions of a fleeting moment or idea. analyzed. CA Developing her passion for fine art as a child in Wisconsin.

I’m startled. troops Inside. I’m instinctually ducking. perceptible Radioactivity Geiger counter Rockslide. vapor hiss. it growls Across my roof & maybe blows The trees to lean northwest.Ron Androla 55 55 tomahawks 55 glances from A 360 degree 55 second spin 55 senses of self 55 progressively Lowering bottles of Absinthe xylophonic Oxygenation 55 Bulldog protons leap over 55 holes in a dead face 55 xylophone opium poppies 55 levels to a smile Where the crack of Black Space Dark Matter leaks 55 sunburst beams 55 world-perfect moments Ago 55 pterodactyl Time Warps 55 bones 55 stomach-lining djembe drums 55 yesterdays yes existence 55 algebra tomorrows fail Equation after equation Exactly after beat 55 Confession #3 No jet has ever flown so low Over our house.com 61 . This existential hiss. I hear the hollow roar Echo of the crash: city trains. This steamy hiss of aftermath. armed for Battle. Hell Right it’s not right. Their viola moans crescendo Before chopped silence & This hiss. This viper. steering for The Erie International Airport Maybe 5 miles away. without hearing a Crash. Which are self portrait poems. Pulled by the object’s magnitude. writing confessions. writing in my upstairs Room. & maybe. This jet Is way too low. this electric hiss. Midnight traffic. poetsandartists.

self-portrait (with whiskey and cigarette) 62 poetsandartists. lips move when reading japanese wine (obvious segue-sake) negative definitions as in this is not without what this is 2. why the orchid? being so far from surreal. revolution? why not? 7. consistently demonstrates a need for obvious self-reference as in whispers and intuition and the crackle of dry leaves 4. noh.Paul Squires Degrees of Resolution (camera 7) 1. pointless syllable casting as in what if this silver bubble s’next to this 3. silhouette shadow puppets. on any occasion that I offend. it will save us both a lot of time) 6. almost licentiously obvious especially in hindsight 5.com . immediately. one persistent and constant apology (just take it for granted.

inside where I live The newsprint is unreadable The road impassable The rain incessant. always temperature Heartbeat. breathe in breathe out Breathe in breathe out Sheaves of newspaper Tumble and slap the street A cool wind from the coast Promises. promises. promises Here. dubiously Striking the next possibility into awareness Breathe in breathe out Outside where I live One step follows another One reason becomes the next reason Breathe out breathe in This rain.Peter Ciccariello Breathe This muffled cognition These slick asphalt roads The circuitous hum of electric motors Temperature. carried here by gods with buckets Dissolving icons obscuring metaphors Revealing the black bird in the branches Darkening the shadows In the corners of the room .

..com .. Michelle. Yuri. 64 poetsandartists. Emad. Lisa. Luis.. Now I look like I’ve been pulped and shallow buried in a roadside wood My gruesome face is like a warning a dark boreen might shout from the shadows at a driver turning off a motorway My My My My My brow is full of tiny holes tongue is a wormeaten sponge lips stink cheeks have a bloom of algae eyes bob in jaundiced sacs Through platforms rushing by in the rain Fat little boys are pointing me out and laughing and I can’t read and I don’t speak anything and I don’t know why I am alone on this train or why it keeps speeding the opposite way to the train heading home I got on.. Solomon.Dave Lordan After the party Don’t ask me when night ends and the morning begins Don’t ask me for a light Don’t ask me for a cigarette Don’t ask me my name how old I am or who I know in Galway Don’t ask me anything the tunnel I claw through afternoon is caving in around me A few hours ago I was beautiful just one among many wrapped in a towel neck high in bubbles hot water flowed through me my locks swam my mouth danced I understood so many tongues I passed so much warmth around and so many loved me.

com 65 .Janelle McKain The Mystery of Me graphite drawing 8” X 10” poetsandartists.

I find my hopefulness to be boundless. had some illnesses. As I got older.com . Every piece of bad luck proves me wrong. I am ending this. Go your own way—the literalist manifesto. Must I compose allegories and stories? Must I be abstract and emblematic? Must I derive my raison d’être as a writer from a given theory. but that optimistic part of me says NO WAY. about worrying about what other people think. What to base it on? As a psychoanalyst I would bring it to my work—but gradually I have realized that this feeling was never rational or practical or based on anything realistic or actual. but the solace of words. But my essential optimism has remained unchanged. At the moment of contemplating this. words. This is mostly about feeling competitive. Perhaps my optimism was borne out of youth—out of the idea of a limitless horizon. witnessed tragedy after tragedy. I realized that the surface aspects of this stance had been lifted out from under me. or from theory at all? Must I create mindscapes or conform to the latest literary movement? Part of me says yes. experienced death again and again.Nick Piombino The Current Assignment “Not words of solace. 66 poetsandartists. Vague hunches. I am a crazy optimist. Always an impalpable time when it is unclear what the elements are or how they are interrelating. My poet friends might wonder what has happened to me and shake their heads. He is not mysterious anymore. when I’m not writing I tend to feel guilty. about feeling like a loser.” Ray DiPalma As a writer. There is much excitement to be felt about the possibility of change. This guy has gone off the deep end. As with anything else. has retreated to the shallow end of the pool. I need not conform to someone else’s idea of how I might employ these feelings. Writing is something that comes and goes but time is always there. ideas and thought and human discussion. or better yet. Again—I’ve put an end to feeling guilty—to feeling not good enough. the writer needs to be able to say—of writing—I’d prefer not to. There is always the current assignment. It derived from the love of books.

Janet Snell Self Portrait with Blue Lips oil on canvas 30” X 32” poetsandartists.com 67 .

After a fight but before major security we went to the airport. branches. I took another viewing of Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Ruins compressed in geological strata. 68 poetsandartists. Then he said he might’ve murdered the whole committee if they’d sent him back to China. What could I have been thinking? A question I’ve asked when memory heaves back another city’s abutments. Obsessive traits run in families.” Virginia Woolf Packed sand. One surprise at the Moscow station: humans crumpled in fluorescent sleep. shoreline. From 1980 when Jason Robards got dropped by that Kansas blast until 2002 when the nuclear part was just the tip to bust the bunker which I always thought of as a golf not a gulf word. Then I lived in one and found it good for Frisbee. For a while deserts only seemed good for war.William Stobb I Try to Think “A thing there was that mattered. Glacial runoff. Most of the time nuclear war. A squirrel got trapped in my friend’s parents’ cabin and died chewing at a window frame. For a while it seemed I’d never share a sensible word with my father. This intersection of county roads after consecutive untended millennia. I wondered how they taught Sunday school in those basement rooms knowing wildness in every moment’s eighty-six religions. refreshing.com . pristine. A child’s sparkly sandal drifting down. There. watched jets leap the ravine into cumulus clouds with sculptural properties— I thought of invisible pressures roughing up cabins-full of married people. nettles. I dreamed of Osama Bin Laden’s mountain lair— lighted tennis courts under granite tonnage his high toss under high voltage the perfect C-pose of his heavy serve in white robes. Then. Afraid at customs I’d never understand sent to Siberia but she stopped yelling let me through to Fish Fabrique where one old Russian hippie kept his John Lennon peace and love shrine.

His paintings explores issues of identity and the collisions of culture between East and West. My Website is www.com Blinds oil on canvas 16” X 20” .Jennifer Wildermuth Shipwrecked 2009 oil on linen 32 x 28 Short Biographical note: Jarrett Min Davis was born in Seoul. South Korea and adopted by American parents. His current work is a revisionist history of the nautical voyages Admiral Yi of Korea.jarrettmindavis.

Fábio Baroli Self Portrait oil on canvas 60cm x 48cm .

bagging blue plums. We coil in wait. I made the most humbling tofu flan . and just like that blood. absolutely “Quids in” . We can’t even read. pictures on a refrigerator for a few years. dry brown wisps that fade away. my stamen-eyed priestess spies the bard the bars of gold tucked safely below the tons of coal traveling slow the long iron road from northeast Wyoming to southern Colorado. Once.com 71 . A lyre begging for heat. poetsandartists. But wait. We hardly see a word for five hundred years. white. ain’t no different than blood unresurrected. you and I. tall. there’s more. behind the mirrored glass luxury of the fifty sixth floor. We are shaking hands in the penthouse donning feudal cloaks while perspiring like shark bait. and we are no different from one another.it spelled my name for me and I grew a falsetto smile like a lyre begging for heat. I’m an idiomatic sigh. bodies to die.Luc Simonic THE DEAD LEFT IN ME I’ve been beautiful enough to die several times over. We screw ourselves through to delirium. much less decipher the simplest message.

John Korn false teeth like dentures I take my little heart out and put it in a glass on the night table and sleep on one side of a big bed I drop blue tablets into the water and it fizzles into the cockles of my arteries a baby’s fist my heart soft and pink grabs at the glow of a dim white light bulb in the yellow shade I flick it off and lie in the dark sunday night the wind is a dark blue soul tonight feeling the brick walls of my second floor apartment the way a blind man feels a face it is making the sky above this into an ocean there are caverns in the night clouds it seems as though one could float up into this and my wind chimes yes they bring a voice to this ghost heartbreak but I must say I’ve never felt so good being this heartbroken I hope it stays broken it is like a vase that split and now the flowers have grown up the walls laying on the couch I slip my hand down the front of my pants now I am a sexual being I must do this at least three times a day but tonight it is lovely and not mechanical I imagine those wind chimes unhooking from the their metal loops and sailing into the sea air 72 poetsandartists.com .


” My mother’s voice. Several more . my sister.” 74 poetsandartists. A neighbor’s mutt yelped.Stephen Russell Hit Parade A beer can hit the hood of a pickup as “Smoke On The Water” belched from the eight track Billy Right had installed in his new Dodge Dart. “Not in my house.com . Sarah screamed.. the smell of burnt bacon filled the kitchen with dark clouds. was not a whore.” Older people were always fighting. into my bedroom where I grabbed my headphones and the latest Jethro Tull.. My mother balled her right hand.” Sarah. My mother slapped my sister. “Don’t. I strummed along on acoustic as Ian Anderson sung the 1971 billboard hit “Aqualung. Dishes crashed into walls. a grave large enough for each curse clenched into fist. I walked past my mom. My sister wouldn’t budge. wounds. my sister. “I didn’t raise a slut.

Frost .Self Portrait acrylic on masonite 11” x 14”” Richard J.

Each day I rise. How the man I adored loves another and worse still. writes poems about it. How I resisted the typewriter and the computer.com .Ernie Wormwood Fountain Pen ␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣ I am a poet who writes with a fountain pen (doesn’t make me Shakespeare or Keats) from which the ink flows sensuously (doesn’t make me Hari or Monroe) lending substance and salt to a life (doesn’t make me Lot’s wife or anyone’s) lived only in my imagination. I grasp another pen. Stop here if you do not want the sad ending. I think of it not as a fountain pen. How fortunate that I am yet a woman who prefers to do the job with her hand. The pen has grooves near the tip that exactly fit my first three fingers. they are everywhere. a miraculous yes of writing. (but Barrie wishes he had known me). but as the penis of the man I adore and whom I loved under many moons. 76 poetsandartists. making each script a grasp of pleasure. I write again.

Translation ballpoint pen and prismacolor marker on bristol 9” x 12” Jeremy Baum .

gently entwined and slippery with lust. china white boiling in spoon. penetrations. or leave it. blankly stare half smile erectile grin Cheshire catlike and satisfied. shredded by logic denial. poison is relative. take it. personal or otherwise. but hardly breathing. makes weapon of midnight tension. mania leaks from my head like a dripping sore. bang the gong of agog. The moment a wandering prurient force left less satisfied wrung out like cloth. sucked like wind through rotting tunnels.. inside like outside.. 78 poetsandartists. constant oscillations. the same old story teased by the ordinary if the ordinary fails to feed for the extraordinary there remains no recourse darkened ghosts of memory. a rude wet wake up of rhinoceros horn impaling supple flesh of laughing day. puddles of clear thought splashed at tiny feet mottled by heresy. no difference.com . the boogie man delights the dead. a woodpecker sips water from a stagnant pool near a busy street as angular clouds scratch skies like broken glass. rubber boot societies within echo finger cordial manners. by hanged outstretched soul like gutted fowl in Chinese kitchen.Jeff Filipski tweaked perception of a disturbed serenity sugar rush plant life walk like mindless tourist through sunlit brain.. suffocate orgasm rules are smitten. erotic dream sequence pokes musky fingers into sleeping folds .

Jeff Filipski Self Portrait mixed media 8” X 11” poetsandartists.com 79 .

Hannah Barbaro. “Commercial real estate may take hit. the city will probably not go into mourning and property values will almost certainly remain unaffected.com .” And yet. may not have occurred then. 80 poetsandartists.David Lehman from Adventures of Lehman A sampling of today’s headlines: “City Bracing for Lehman’s Demise”: The New York Sun “Should You Dump Lehman Or Is It Too Late?” CNBC “Lehman’s Assurances Ring Hollow”: The New York Times “For Lehman Employees. The Collapse Is Personal. when the firm that bore his name had record revenues and earnings per share and yet did nothing to avert a calamity that it should have foreseen. might not break up with him. Everyone knows that it is fatal to mix “personal” and “business. Reuters also gave readers a timeline on the Lehman family. or even a year ago. or might at least postpone the dreaded phone call. His record here doesn’t inspire confidence. Like any jilted lover he tried to take some consolation from the idea that his girl friend.” The adjacent article on the same page announced that “For Lehman Employees. The Times devoted several headlines to Lehman.” he had said. The stock jock on the TV was saying it was already too late to “dump” him. “I will change.” said Reuters.” according to the Motley Fool. his swift decline down the slippery slope? There was.” Well. Lehman was going to take a “long weekend. why not? Wouldn’t you? “Lehman Shares Slide. If autonomy remains the goal. “I can change. Lehman wed Libby Shearson back in 1984 and let her talk him into changing his name. in 1844. The brothers established a private investment firm in 1929. perhaps not in retrospect the best year to have initiated such an enterprise. You’ll see. who came to this country from Germany. if CNBC had it right. In Lehman’s mind. Just yesterday he had taken up an hour of Glen’s time on the phone complaining about Hannah and her sisters. The Sun reported that the whole city was bracing for his demise. Goddamn journalists. Or was it both? Was the wire service insinuating that Lehman’s famous generosity amounted to sharing his fall from grace. according to US News and World Report. undercut the promises he had made to Hannah on the previous day. Alabama. Henry Lehman. His brothers Manny and Mayer joined him six years later.” on the front page of the business section. the Collapse is Persona”: The New York Times “Lehman’s Long Weekend”: US News and World Report “Lehman’s Worst Gamble Ever”: Motley Fool What a day. whom she had enlisted in the struggle with Lehman. Lehman had better proceed cautiously in the next few days when choosing among seemingly reluctant suitors proposing a merger of convenience. set up shop in Montgomery. In a marriage arranged by the matchmakers at American Express. the worst gamble is still to come and has to do with his choice of partners to the dance. Lehman said. “Lehman’s Assurances Ring Hollow. Both CNBC and the Times were looking into Lehman’s personal life. rolling out of bed. and it took Lehman a moment to realize that “Shares” in that headline was not a verb but a noun. which is inevitable. he had to admit. In ten years the Lehman family is going to be completely legitimate. But “Lehman’s Worst Gamble Ever.” Lehman resisted the impulse to tell the Sun guy that when the Sun goes down.” He thus stood accused of violating the oldest rule in the book. Only with their divorce in 1994 did Lehman become Lehman again. some truth to the thought.

Jack of Diamonds watercolor 9” x 12” David Lehman .

Renée Zepeda

In This World Together
My sister once called what I do in my poems pedestrian so I thought about that a while then I decided to go on walking. My arms tend to stray at first sin but eventually ribbon like Picasso’s portrait. Here’s my portrait: the poet propels the poem by using charm, coming clean she likes some things’ mystery, spontaneous, on the spot like jazz. Abstraction is my sister’s raven hair and my stance is one of admiration. In “Jackson Pollock at the Tate” you should have seen her painting her own anger. Why is she ascending? She performs; she keeps circulating. Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. I didn’t, but I did stop, and I died a little. The poem doesn’t die, it lapses into melancholy, but I can bring it back with a shot of something maybe something freaky like a memory of speed riding a Munich train, my sister and I riding a Munich train “watching colors changing,” my sister, cold and bitter, thin as a rail, and me, cold and sweet, thinking of a machine made out of words racing by, in the air, so high, so high—



Leigh Wells

Self Portrait. Atlantic City. MAMIYA 7II 14” x 12.5”



Nanette Rayman Rivera

m butterfly lock
Rene Gallimard’s on a hydrant in Union Square and I’m sick. Artists and vendors cut stems and paintings with machetes. Mosquitoes bevy my belle. A- Donna comes to my mind. In poverty and de-synchroni-city there’s nothing but predators and mothers. But in Boston Donna my friend forgot me like the weedy garter belt that is life releasing her stockings each night, casting off what’s unbearable, shaping herself in her own obi. And in Boston mothers not woman enough to hold a woman like a daughter: In New York I will fight the yearning in hands made for rain and sex that purées the sediment and lets me bring up hoar from my frost. Because the girl I am walks through homeless over water, my feet too gilled to ever feel again what’s above me. The day Jeremy Irons caught me by the Futon store with a bottle of pills, I let his lashes butterfly over my face with their unknowing tips, a secret Donna would die for—my mother would kill me for—a swallowing of circumstance, a hand into hand where I wanted to devour him completely—taste of lotus and cherry cigarettes, his mouth tasting of water, a no going back afterlife mouth. It isn’t the way he swims in my eyes but that his hand grips mine and is grace like the sunstreak across Fourteenth Street— that he’s a haze, like rain against an aqueduct, and my heart might disable, withering down to the peach pit spring of persecution. Hand against hand, two people grip the parallel lives of the body’s penitentiary, the lines of the locks sudden death and the crux of the key is the cry of awareness—where the obsessive sun illumines what we are not.



Cedar Lee Joyful Moment acrylic on canvas 12” X 16” poetsandartists.com 85 .

com .Grady Harp Self Portrait Memories rattle inside time’s can and tumble out on the lawn especially in summer especially in the hour when light dips behind the edge of the yard and trees and what’s left of the barn at the end of the dirt driveway. at distance from the page. And in all of that there is no grandpa left and no crickets and no prairie parades. the canvas. the glowing matrix where lies the magic and in older eyes and worn about heart. a bangle of moment held loosely by evening breezes until the stars stop being shy to the gloaming. the gifts talent has blossomed in their hands their thoughts their more alive lives? Time has pushed me back in spectator stance. signed. Little lights of blinking fireflies pull the space between the lawn’s dewy covering and the ink that is night hiding behind a waning white moon into worn pages of yesterday tales. others who prospect ideas or illusions or allusions or even dare to brush color on monotone images. when instead I hide in retrospect or wordify the intangibles. charades or even shards of a boy’s life or beginnings of one that could hold tenderly and say it was okay that I never became an artist. #3 And why review. critique hold up for exam the art of creators. I view/review/critique/ time and sidelines. 86 poetsandartists. why. and fearing ultimate impotency or other bridges of desire.

com 87 .Patrice Erickson Artist’s Self-Portrait oil on linen 10” X 8” poetsandartists.

ChiaNi Hsu Greenwind photoshop with tablet .

When the lava reaches to the girl burrowing around inside the world.Annie Finch Song of the Sorry Side On the sorry. poetsandartists. A rising has begun.com 89 . and the lava slowly rides the sea till it reaches to her heart. solid places in the ocean floor fill the spaces she was looking for. She has fallen down a winding curve to the place where solid seas are torn and the continents are lost in stone that obtrudes upon their rest. An opening has gone. sorry side of the world is an opening that hides the girl who is closing up her heart.

Pauline Aubey Self Portrait pastel pencils A4 (8.26”x11.69”) .

two spirit bull poetsandartists. La Casa de Bernarda Alba patron saint of lightning bolts you. tattooed daughter our lady of gunpowder our lady of bullets our lady of men deep in the earth sweet anise star. astig poeta.com 91 . mártir.Barbara Jane Reyes Tocaya Madre. que en el cielo estás escrita con papel y agua bendita? —Federico García Lorca. of sharpened tongue maiden of thunder and war guard us against malediction beautiful girl. ¿por qué cuando se corre una estrella o luce un relámpago se dice: Santa Bárbara bendita. bold pomegranate saint of machete. rebel.

Sarah Zambiasi Self-Portrait : Sarah-Bernadette oil on canvas 50cm x 75cm .

I filter water into chambers to sink toward the floor. He shows me where I do not end. Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0>L2>L3>N>R Inside my body dogs are barking. I prefer liquid that has passed through peat. Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0>L2 I must use mouth. Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0>L2>L3 I meet a body. Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0>L2>L3>N>R>U My body fills up with other bodies. feet to see where the body stops. my mouth without teeth. I learn about an angry virgin. I prefer falling. Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0>L2>L3>N>R>U>U5 I always swim alone. poetsandartists.com 93 . show me. I learn I am bad. I prefer Fathers that are living to Fathers that are dead. Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0>L2>L3>N I write letters to God. Compress me. I take the Son on my tongue and say thank you for entering my heart and body. My tongue retreats down my swollen throat. I am in love with poinsettias. fingers.Kate Wyer Mitochondria Ancestral line: “Eve” >L1/L0 Inside a body of loud brine.

acrylic. acrylic ink . marker. ballpoint pen.April Carter Grant Self Portrait pencil.

Belinda Subraman What It’s Like The way plants turn yellow and limp Flowers faint to the ground Or trees so brittle their limbs Break off in wind The way anything that danced Now lies still The way the hand resists a pen And the need to speak lessens The way the dying Grasp towards air Eyes fixed upward There is no practice for life ending The closer ones gets the less one conveys How can we know? “Ready to go” is relative to imagination.com 95 . poetsandartists.

Jason John Self Portrai oil on board 16” X 20” 96 poetsandartists.com .


com . Walz hi res scan of collage printed on canvas 37” X 42” 98 poetsandartists.John Walz J.

I used to wonder at the beaten silver river’s sound between the trees clutching to its bank. Waters sense their way beneath me to places rivers merely dream. One man painted me as a bear. I am the cornerstone of an academic reputation. a mob thrashed me with rakes and wooden mallets until my dumb intransigence made their arms ache and throb: their crops had failed. I am intimate with rain the sheep and lichens shun in my lee. a woman was burnt against me for saying her baby born as still as stone was mine. close to me now. gone save for teeth and claws experts says map the constellations. inch by inch. Even the frost cannot compete with my kernel: it is as cold as the coins a Civil War soldier buried at my foot when lightning silhouetted me against the clouds’ chiaroscuro. unlike the hundred men who prised me up.Jeremy Hughes I am a standing stone some folk think walks at night to kill the rooks and stoats they find crushed on the roads next day. I court the moon that casts me half in this world and half in another. Time-lapse photography dials me around the field. an island adrift in swells of grass which break against me. Aerial archaeology reveals I am the hub of a wheel with stones that spoke to near horizons. I am impermeable. The sun picks me up in the morning and puts me down in the evening without a sound. Cows’ tongues lizard my fissures. Consider me now. The stones of the field are no relations. poetsandartists.com 99 . its pebbled engine buppling in its bed. though the memory of the sun’s first heat is latent as a lover’s back once pressed against me. their timbers snapping like bones till I slid into the hole they had dug.

com . which is situated on the border of Wales and England.Calli Whittall Jeremy Hughes lives in the market town of Abergavenny.  He has published two pamphlets: “breathing for all my birds” and “The Woman Opposite”.     she is a work-in-progress mixed media on canvas 30” X 30” 100 poetsandartists.

Here is a sheet of water rising behind the iris. and nowhere does light soften brow and wrist to the grays cherished by Velázquez. In this lull between doing and dreaming. My skin is a plausible way of counting miles. Draw closer. It is possible to love the trouble in this face.com 101 . poetsandartists. to pull a chain loop free from its knots and trace the oval loop a portrait might make if the impossible appeared: a king’s room brushed with grace. in water smoothing the pre-dawn fears of possible cysts. the possible a mottled gold. My hands have the grace to wield a wrench. the radio loop of reasons I’m needed and belong nowhere. here. water owns shadow and animal rust. the tongue floating in water carried since birth. the tender nowhere route of veins. and grace arrives in fixing the toilet. to surrender. Here is a needle’s loop for a mouth. royal lace and a leisure nowhere near the bathroom echo of iron and water. Here is a mirror without Las Meninas.Emma Trelles Autorretrato Quintina A mind needs a place to set its teeth. light. faulty seatbelts. water loops music around the heads of all who are nowhere in the path of sleep.

a purple sky. 102 poetsandartists. it matches just about everything. so. After all.Barbra Nightingale Aging Disgracefully Picture this: a red rain on green grass running to purple lakes. wear all the purple you can get. bluishred at the center. rest. The blue veins in your hands merge with the raw red skin casting a purplish glow— held near a light. bathe your feet in the sea and do not notice how the clouds. the soft fleshy bulge just behind the knees. the edges all gone purple. The clouds spell out “When I grow old I shall wear purple” till your eyes turn red then blue. Little did you know that phrase would burrow? Look at your legs. purple at the ends.com . stippled rose resemble your toes. they’re luminous. instead of fighting. take in a sunset. Notice the spider webs— in a certain light. revel. then purple. Sit. almost transparent. There is nothing you can do against the march of purple: it will make its way.

I Am The Walrus oil on gessoed canvas 36” x 24” Didi Menendez .

Marcus Kwame Anderson 104 poetsandartists.com Blues Portrait acrylic on paper 9” x 12” .

Sermonizing signs tacked on trees along the highway: Jesus Saves But I can’t save a dime. just the one on my hitchhiking thumb.com 105 . No ring on my finger. I want to live in my swimsuit all summer long with firecracker & cherry bomb love.Melissa McEwen Thirty-Four I don’t know where I’m going. but I still need a lift— stuck out thumb & hiked skirt. No work uniform. I’m so far from where my mother was at this age. poetsandartists.

Ruben Belloso Autorretrato pastel on paper 50cm x 70cm .

C I hated the fame the money the women the clap the book signings I hated it all the weasel manager the sniveling agent the tours the bad jokes the rancid coffee so I locked myself away for three months in a New York hole and did nothing but watch old reruns of “Leave it to Beaver” I expected to die in my twenties to find fast fame.com 107 . make a bundle. and take a good long nap I expected to die in my twenties but. I didn’t live up to my expectations and must now suffer accordingly poetsandartists. as usual.Howard Camner The Celebrated Mr.

I went ballistic Screaming who would do such a thing To you. my baby. Maybe A mustache. Frightening enough. She of the ersatz arts and dirty needles. her gentle instep skin Logo command: Love Your Mother What had I been afraid of? 108 poetsandartists. I did believe.shell-like Shelf-like. sleeve of tats Fit. Larkin She Loved Her Mother When Rose got her nipples pierced At seventeen. too early for roaches! Ash and trash can sour. Meekly then she replied and revealed The nature of the perps name Scary Shari from Morgan Hell.M. I would confront her. Prince Albert and Marilyn Monroe her Tarted up companions of note.Tara M. Bleachcoif or jericurl. young. magnificent . girlchild barely Womanized. Vomit and pomegranate under her nails? Yet there she was wise eyed With a soft smile. Might she have wild Presto eyes and Celt lips covering Missing or perhaps decayed dentition Foul smelling like chicken fat left For the ravens and magpies? Rump like a twisted heavensward Tortoise.com .. now marred. chintz covered rear? Entrance to her lair webbed with Expired flies. beard. even. Mom.. yellow Leather pumps. smoking cloves Legs dangling smoothly across Space and time between us.

Invisible Presence prismacolor and sharpie on heavyweight watercolor paper 24” x 30” Angelique Price .

to aroused blue space with glitters of water. A boat of silver fish is feasible. salt spray to purl virgin air. A crawlspace is kicked out of the snow shut container. Walls clutter up up with brain caught snapshots. eyes dawn-soft close from not knowing. top-notch flocks.com .Diana Adams Self Portrait as a Box of Gulls Begat in an airport staring north. Wing points wilt. 110 poetsandartists. hypotheses of sand. gulls small as a plum unfeather as a woman without shoes in thin dress leaves through ice-aluminum sky.

poetsandartists. My parents said German when they meant tall and stubborn. When I said I was leaving. We all said Midwestern when we meant virtuous. My younger brother started saying white guilt when he meant privilege guilt. she didn’t say anything. When I said homecoming. when I see them. My first lover said independent when she meant inaccessible. none of us knew what I meant. I said young progressive when I meant anything but old and conservative. My younger brother said I don’t understand why you don’t get along better with our parents. Greek. My mother said middle child when she meant I was difficult. meant independent.com 111 . I said I speak the language when I meant I’m happier elsewhere. I said I’m proud of you when I meant I’m proud you speak my language. I thought. and she may have meant it.Luke Meinzen Tall tales My grandfather said children of God when he meant family. My grandmother said Jewish. My parents said we’re proud of you when they meant we don’t speak your language. I didn’t say anything. My grandfather said independent when he meant traveling together. I said we should catch up someday when I meant I doubt I’ll be back. My father said she was difficult when he meant bi-polar. which. I agreed because traveling meant expatriate. They said joyless. unmanageable hair. so I said I love you until I learned what it meant. but I mean to tell them. Another lover said emotionally retarded. and prow-like noses. They both said young when they meant agnostic. and royalty when she meant dark eyebrows. My older brother said it’s been a while when he meant unfamiliar to begin with. that I love them and saying it will be the beginning of meaning what we say. My father said the influence of liberal professors when he meant well-intentioned but wrong. I said grown up. I said socialist when I meant bored in high school. We all meant distant. I started saying ethnic enclave when I meant German-American.

Joze Hicks Above acrylics on paper 30cm x 30cm 112 poetsandartists.com .


He curates PotLatchpoetry.marcuskwame.org Ruben Belloso Rubén Belloso Adorna is currently finishing his degree at the University of Fine Arts in Seville.paulineaubey. Canada based writer with work published in a variety of journals.org. but had to wait until 2006 to draw on a regular basis. a technique he has been perfecting for the past five years.deviantart. he is focusing almost exclusively on portraits in pastel. In 2006.com/books/2081. He believes that the arts can be a powerful vehicle for change and his work often contains social commentary. and Mind Fields: Adventures in Purgatory by Jeremy Baum. a website dedicated to the gifting and exchange of poetry resources.potlatchpoetry.booklocker.com . He posts poems and other tidbits at pressurepress. At the present. (Instance Press) and And Also a Fountain. PA with his wife Ann.com or email him at madbaumer37@hotmail. 114 poetsandartists.flickr.madbaumer37.com Fábio Baroli Fabio Baroli earned a bachelor’s degree in Visual Arts from the University of Brasília. Brazil in 2009.net. Nowadays he is focusing on oil painting as his main media. Television Farm by John Korn. Attracted by opposite feelings. “For me. Marcus Kwame Anderson Marcus Kwame Anderson is an artist who lives in upstate NY with his lovely and talented wife and beautiful baby daughter.” benbe.com/photos/fabiobaroli Jeremy Baum Jeremy Baum lives in Pittsburgh and has done illustrations for For Love of Armadillo by Didi Menendez.deviantart.html Linda Benninghoff Linda Benninghoff has been published in Agenda and Ocho.com Ron Androla Ron Androla lives in Erie.Diana Adams Diana Adams is an Alberta. her main goal is to depict beauty in a strange unexpected way. every portrait has a story to tell. Her works are displayed on her online gallery: www. Her second book of poetry Theaters of the Tongue was recently published by BlazeVOX Books. www. www. Michael Martinez. She is currently Assistant Poetry Editor at Women Writers womenwriters.ning. (NeOpepper Press) a collaborative echap with Anne Heide and J. Some of his paints can be views at www. Check out his online gallery at www. She started with celebrity portraits before choosing to draw more personal works with a more specific mood. Since 1999 Baroli works extensively with several artistic languages. James Belflower James Belflower is the author of Commuter.com. She developed a very early interest in drawing people. www. she was chosen by the poet laureate of Delaware to participate in a writers’ retreat sponsored by the Delaware Division of the Arts.deviantart. among others.com Nina Bennett Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief.com Pauline Aubey Pauline Aubey is a French self-taught portrait artist. He wishes he was not 55 years old.

and now makes his home in Oakland. 2009.gracecavalieri. Picnic.com 115 .net/hcamner Pris Campbell Pris Campbell composes her poetry three and a half miles from the ocean in Southeast Florida. Her new book. He had a nice antique frame that he wanted to use in one of his paintings and found a photograph of himself at one year old.oscarbermeo. will be released by Lummox Press.). He was recently selected for the 2009 Florence Biennale in Italy. He served as the United States Poet Laureate for 2001-2003 and as New York State Poet Laureate 2004-2006. Sea Trails. He is the editor of Poetry 180 and a New York Public Library “Literary Lion. which was selected by Edward Hirsch for the National Poetry Series. he wanted to find a way to create a self portrait. members. He is the author of the poetry chapbooks Anywhere Avenue. Collins’ poetry has appeared in a variety of periodicals and in numerous volumes of The Best American Poetry.Oscar Bermeo Oscar Bermeo was born in Ecuador.com Francois Chartier Francois Chartier has much respect for portrait artists. He lives in Miami with his wife and children. thinking. editing. it became his “humble essay to a self portrait. but prefers to paint objects. The Trouble with Poetry and Other Poems.” He is a distinguished professor of English at Lehman College.” Peter Ciccariello Peter Ciccariello is currently writing. Sailing Alone Around the Room and Questions About Angels. and growing things in an old farm house in a small town in Connecticut.stevendaluz.blogspot. poemsfromprovidence. and a small sampling of his work can be found at www.com Grace Cavalieri Grace Cavalieri’s latest book of poetry is Anna Nicole: Poems. and publishing projects can be viewed by visiting her website: julietcook. Palimpsest and Heaven Below.com Billy Collins Billy Collins is the author of eight books of poetry including Ballistics. 2008 (Goss 183::Casa Menendez. He was named “Best Poet of 2007” in the New Times “Best of Miami” readers poll issue.com poetsandartists. CA. His autobiography Turbulence at 67 Inches was recently released. raised in the Bronx. All bets are off. www.com Steven DaLuz Steven DaLuz is a San Antonio-based artist who paints both figurative work and landscape-referential abstractions. poet Barbara Jane Reyes. While working on his “Pop Culture Icons” series.weebly. Surrounding it with objects that have special meaning to him. www.authorsguild. She produces/hosts “The Poet and the Poem from the Library of Congress” for public radio. Lightning. with his wife. www.com Howard Camner Howard Camner is the author of 16 poetry books. Juliet Cook Juliet Cook’s poetry.poeticinspire.

Sometimes. He lives in Los Angeles where he shows his work and would gladly do commissions.com Adam Fieled Adam Fieled is a poet. and criticism. she photographs. She took up painting in 2006. Jeff Filipski Jeff Filipski lives with his wife and daughter in the heavenly throes of small town Florida waiting patiently for the muse. and marketing consultant who helps new businesses launch. musician. Jon resides in Chicago. and critic. and now living in Melbourne. Peggy Eldridge-Love Peggy Eldridge-Love is a poet. Evident in his work is the Surrealism of Salvador Dali and the Impressionism of Claude Monet. He is finishing his PhD at Temple University in Philadelphia.com Sally Hanreck Sally Hanreck is a self taught artist born in Sydney.com Andrew Demcak Andrew Demcak is a poet and a librarian in Oakland.com . jondamaschke. She is drawn towards painting as a means to communicate complex. often overwhelming emotion. She is director of Stonecoast. His art evolves concurrently with the digital art movement. and composes music. www. When he’s not busy working on his new novel. illustrator. Annie Finch Annie Finch is author or editor of fifteen books of poetry. www. 116 poetsandartists.jarrettmindavis. www. Images of her commissioned portraits as well as landscapes of wild fields and rural pastures are visible at www. Despite these influences.com Jarrett Min Davis Jarrett Min Davis was born in Seoul. while reflecting the artists and movements that have influenced him. Patrice Erickson Patrice Erickson is a realist artist based in Michigan who specializes in painting fine art portraits and landscapes in oils using time honored methods that go back to the Renaissance.edu/~afinch Richard J. Denise Duhamel Denise Duhamel’s most recent poetry title is Ka-Ching! (University of Pittsburgh Press. the low-residency MFA program of the University of Southern Maine. Frost graduated from Otis/Parsons Art Institute 1990. writes. Frost Richard J. Jon brings a unique sublimity to his art through his intuitive use of line and color to suggest movement and convey emotion. South Korea and adopted by American parents. he spends most of his time communicating with the dead via sock puppets and sending love letters to Edward Norton. 2009).patriceerickson. CA. most recently Calendars.maine. raised in Spain.sugarsock.Jon Damaschke Jon Damaschke’s work has been showcased in Italy and museums & galleries in Wisconsin and Michigan. She is an associate professor at Florida International University in Miami. When time allows. April Carter Grant Raised in rural Illinois and now based in Los Angeles. April Carter Grant is a designer. She is an eternal optimist. translation.usm. His paintings explore issues of identity and the collisions of culture between East and West. Illinois. aged 32. His current work is a revisionist history of the nautical voyages Admiral Yi of Korea. Currently. schooled in England from age 11. playwright. novelist and artist living in middle-America.

ChiaNi Hsu ChiaNi creates beautiful masterpieces traditionally with paint as well as with the use of modern tools such as a computer and mouse. An emerging talent.com Alison Jardine Alison Jardine is a prize-winning British artist. Originally from Baguio City. a guest lecturer on music. craighawkinsart. Jeremy Hughes Jeremy Hughes lives in the market town of Abergavenny. 2005) and eight other books. Alison’s paintings immerse the viewer in the artist’s distinctive experience of the subject. resulting in a breathtaking final product nearly indistinguishable from traditional oils or acrylics. as Forewords for novels and art books. University of Notre Dame Press). He lives and works in New York City. Igloria Luisa A. local moments and record them through meditative compositions. Luisa A. went to hippie commune schools. born in the north of Scotland in 1991 has recently completed his education at Thurso High School. now living in Dallas. a published poet. winner of the 2006 Spire Press Chapbook Award. each piece elicits an emotion which is hauntingly familiar. Matthew Hittinger Matthew Hittinger is the author of the chapbooks Pear Slip. This is ChiaNi’s intent.com poetsandartists. In ChiaNi’s most recent body of work. www. Igloria is the author of Juan Luna’s Revolver (2009 Ernest Sandeen Prize. www. This year he is due to start his BA(hons) in Art and Design at Edinburgh College of Art with the ambition to specialize in painting after the first year. Exploring mood and sensation. The artist hopes each print will touch every individual who sees this collection. to express what’s real and true in humanity. high contrast. she is currently Director of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University. Joze’s work travels though a wide spectrum of styles and media to produce some interesting and beautiful results. co-founded the Brown Literary Review. in unconventional.com Joze Hicks Joze Hicks. He takes these personal. and expressive mark making with the hope of expressing them as having applicable qualities. Words for Empty and Words for Full. Trill & Mordent (WordTech Editions. 2009) and Platos de Sal (Seven Kitchens Press. She likes pesto pasta. He is a gallerist. and he is a regular Reviewer for multiple Internet sites as well as O&S Poets and Artists.luisaigloria. colorful and emotive compositions. will be out from Pitt in 2010. the Mask Collection. Joze’s work has been shown in the Scottish Parliament and also at Lyth Arts Centre.matthewhittinger. Bob Hicok Bob Hicok’s new book.Grady Harp Grady Harp is a practicing surgeon while retaining his involvement in all aspects of the arts. www. 2009). alisonjardine. To date. He has published two pamphlets: breathing for all my birds and The Woman Opposite. He likes to collect moments of revelation.com 117 . Narcissus Resists (GOSS183/MiPOesias. Craig Hawkins Craig Hawkins makes his home in George and has lived in the South all his life. which is situated on the border of Wales and England.com Ming Holden Ming Holden grew up on a zebra farm.com. whether landscapes or people. and spent her year as a Henry Luce Scholar in Mongolia working with writers.chiani. and his critical writings appear in museum catalogues.

where she paints majestic trees. www. a split with Canadian poet Valerie Webber which was recently featured in Arthur Magazine. She has two chapbooks out Radiant Bottle Caps (Glasseye Books. Larkin T.thebroadstreetstudio.com Jason John Jason John is a painter who specializes in Psychological Realism. Dreaming.M.com and at moisttowelette. is due out shortly. 2008).M. maudlin magic. and Mark Levine.com John Korn John Korn is a poet and artist living in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania.com . Larry W.”More of his work can be found at crownedwithlaurels. 118 poetsandartists. where she finds that the fog acts like foxglove on her stenciled four-chambered rib cage. When she is not writing poems.com and amazon. VA.com Kent Leatham Kent Leatham is a California poet currently relocated to Pittsburgh.blogsport.blogspot. Cedar Lee Cedar Lee is currently represented by several art galleries and her work is in private collections throughout the world.M. One chapbook. She operates her art studio from her home in Maryland. Jim Galvin. He teaches in the graduate writing program of the New School in New York City.com Rauan Klassnik Rauan Klassnik has a book of prose poems. 2009. Yeshiva Boys (Scribner). He has been writing poems for many years now and still likes “a place called school. or working on a novel or two. Ringing. His work is forthcoming on a bookshelf near you. before obtaining a Masters Degree from Kean University. 2008) and Convinced By the End Of It (Big Baby Books. 2009). Holy Land (Black Ocean. Rauan blogs at rauanklassnik.blogspot. Some of my poems can be read at shampoopoetry. He plays bass in the band Save My Hero and is working on his first full-length collection of poetry. PA. colorful. both published in fall 2009. Lawrence Larry Lawrence graduated from Rutgers University where he studied Playwriting.com Kathy Kubik Kathy Kubik is the author of four poetry chapbooks. Tara M. Recently Jason has received second place in the Art Kudos International Juried Exhibition and has received an Honorable Mention at the Target Gallery’s ‘In the Flesh II’ juried exhibition at the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria.Jason Joyce Jason Joyce recently graduated from the University of Wyoming and is pursuing a career in event and entertainment management. Mary Jo Bang. symbolic flowers and cosmic universe art. David Lehman David Lehman’s new books are A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters. American Songs (Nextbook / Schocken) and a book of poems. He’s been published in a few places online as well as in print and his book Television Farm is currently available at createspace. filling the holes with damp.blogspot. released Feb. He teaches technology to children grades K-5. and a second. jasonrjoyce. Larkin writes and lives on California’s central coast. short stories.com Elaine Kahn Elaine Kahn is currently working towards an MFA in Poetry at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop where she has studied with Cole Swenson. she is spending time with her true loves: daughters Lucy and Marlo and her husband Jim.

although.com. He more rarely writes poetry. Links to his portrait and selfportrait work can be found at www. guitar. live in Alaska. Now she does this and has finally let her hair grow long again. Terry Lucas Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His first collection of Poems The Boy In The Ring (Salmon Poetry 2007) won the 2005 The Patrick Kavanagh Award in manuscript and 2008 Rupert and Eithne Strong award for best first collection by an Irish Writer. tennis. NE. Mia Mia is the editor of Tryst.theblacktelephone.com 119 . in Gourmet and on the walls of his friends’ homes. Ed is now a full-time cityscape and portrait painter living and working in Ithaca. New York. and online at UmbrellaJournal. Connecticut. essays. She has had poems published in Best New Poets 2007. Ed Marion went on to life as a New York City litigator for 20 years. grant writer.C. She is Dept Chair and high school art instructor at Millard South High School in Omaha. As such.com Norman Mallory N.org/artists/janelle-mckain/gallery/drawings/ Marie-Elizabeth Mali Marie-Elizabeth Mali received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and is a co-curator for louderARTS: the Reading Series in New York City. beinart.com/photos/augustusswift Ed Marion After studying life drawing at the Art Students League and the Cooper Union.Dave Lordan Dave Lordan is 34 and currently lives in Mantova. Didi Menendez Didi Menendez used to play the piano. thewideningspell. she’s looking for a change of scenery and a change of pace. she’s busy doing something poetry related on www. O&S. and long letters to friends. Mallory was born in Oregon and taught in colleges and universities in the west until 2000. She has work forthcoming in Slant Poetry.blogspot.flickr. She has recently published a poem in Quiet Mountain Essays. English teacher. once. He is coming to the end of three years in Mongolia and is taking suggestions about where to go next. right now.edmarion.com Luke Meinzen Luke Meinzen occasionally works as an exchange program administrator. brides. poetsandartists. When she isn’t writing. his writing may be found. and is an assistant editor for Fifth Wednesday Journal. Italy.floweringlotus. He received his poetry MFA from New England College in 2008. take pretty pictures of debutants.com Melissa McEwen Melissa McEwen lives and writes in Bloomfield. babies. His work has appeared in and on the covers of many publications and he has exhibited in galleries for over thirty years. wear her hair cropped short as if it were a porcupine sticking out of her head. www. www. and dissenting voice.blogspot.com Janelle McKain Janelle McKain is a surreal pencil artist. Terry’s work has been published in several online and print journals. Michelle McEwen Michelle McEwen is a writer living in central Connecticut.

She is founder and editor of Le Pink-Elephant Press and co-editor of the press’s new subsidiary. com.alyssamonks. 2008) and the e-chap JAM> (ungovernable press. near Ft. His latest book of photography. Mom Writes and Palabra. Nydia Rojas Nydia Rojas likes to garden and go for long walks. pulling it out and making it her bitch. 2010).wordpress. 2009). She teaches literature and poetry at Broward College. Poeta en San Francisco (Tinfish. She blogs regularly at bjanepr. Kindly hit up more of his work at ReVeLeR @ eYeLeVeL paulsiegell. and Diwata (BOA Editions. Her poems have appeared in many anthologies and journals. Barbara Jane Reyes Barbara Jane Reyes is the author of Gravities of Center (Arkipelago. Geometry of Dreams just came out in May. shana linda ~ pretty pretty.com Paul Siegell Paul Siegell is the author of jambandbootleg (A-Head. published by Scattered Light Publications. A chronic pain survivor. Sarah Bain Gallery in California. New York.ning. is the author of the new poetry collection.blogspot. She is represented by DFN Gallery in New York.com Angelique Price Angelique Price is a fine artist and a tattoo artist. and David Klein Gallery in Michigan. Nick Piombino Nick Piombino’s Contradicta with collages by Toni Simon will be published soon by Green Integer.C. Lauderdale. Stephen Russell Stephen Russell lives in Washington.. in The Wisconsin Academy Review. paints and practices the art of self delusion in a large house full of dust and echo on a wooded hill in Texas. Nick Piombino’s blog is fait accompli nickpiombino. is available at Blurb. He is the editor of OCHO 14 and OCHO 21.com. 2009 and is available at Amazon. Suzanne Savickas Suzanne Savickas obtained her MFA from Naropa University. A Solitary Moment. She often finds inspiration in nature.com . He encourages the dogs to growl at pedestrians. and walks dogs for a living. 2005).com Dan Murano Dan Murano is a photo editor by trade and a photographer by passion. Her work has appeared. D. Look for upcoming solo shows at www. paint and ink to create all of her two dimensional friends. among many others. 2008). She has an arsenal of markers. her art reflects the process of taking hold of it via pen and paint.com 120 poetsandartists. FL. A Trunk of Delirium. Poemergency Room (Otoliths Books. pressurepress. three-time Pushcart nominee.Alyssa Monks Alyssa Monks lives and paints in Brooklyn. Madison Magazine.com or Barnes & Noble. Coleen Shin Coleen Shin writes.com Nanette Rayman Rivera Nanette Rayman Rivera.blogspot. Barbra Nightingale Barbra Nightingale’s newest book. 2003).

com Emma Trelles Emma Trelles is the author of Little Spells. Brian Walters Brian Walters is currently completing his PhD in Classics at UCLA where he is working on a translation of Lucan’s poetic epic Civil War and writing on the interrelations of violence and metaphor in Latin literature.com Ellen McGrath Smith Ellen McGrath Smith teaches literature and writing at the University of Pittsburgh. she has published work in Kestrel. multi-media artist and Registered Nurse.m. Belinda Subraman Belinda Subraman is a writer. and is the author of Flytrap (Cleveland State University Poetry Center) and other books of art and words. Mipoesias. His work has appeared in obscure literary journals all over the world and he believes that poetry is the cornerstone of civilization.marcusslease.Luc Simonic Luc Simonic is an Anglo-American Poet. 5 a. Jordan Stempleman Jordan Stempleman is the author of six collections of poetry. A 2007 recipient of an Pennsylvania Council on the Arts fellowship.com Janet Snell Janet Snell is a painter from Akron. Missouri and teaches at the Kansas City Art Institute. Cheryl Snell Cheryl Snell is a classical pianist and the author of nine books of poetry and fiction. She is an arts and culture writer and a regular contributor to The Best American Poetry blog. and The Rose & Thorn.com 121 . Ohio. and other journals.. personal musings and poetry in progress at www. a chapbook of poems published by GOSS::183 press. He lives in Kansas City. He lives in La Crosse. His poetry has recently appeared in Barnwood online and the UC magazine MATCHBOX.blogspot. Cause & Effect. Hanging Moss Journal. poetsandartists. among other things.com) and host of “Hard to Say” on miPOradio. Marcus Slease Marcus Slease is the author of Godzenie and co-author of This is the Motherfucking Remix with Brian Howe.blogspot. Wisconsin. R Jay Slais R Jay Slais makes his living as an engineer and inventor while bleeding a lifeblood of poetry some of which can be read at Barnwood International Poetry Mag. She graduated from MICA. Pedestal Magazine.blogspot. Diner. and is Reviews Editor for Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics. shivasarms. He is co-editor of poetry for O&S (poetsandartists. snellsisters. William Stobb William Stobb is the author of Nervous Systems (Penguin 2007).com Paul Squires Paul Squires is a slow large moving Australian who has been writing poetry for nearly thirty years. Her main website is belindasubraman. He was born and resides in Colorado with his family. You can check out his multimedia projects.

His photo work can be seen at www. She works as a mental health interviewer for the public health care system. an experimental literary magazine available for purchasing.wildermuthart.com Kate Wyer Kate Wyer lives in Baltimore with her husband and two dogs.com Ernie Wormwood Ernie Wormwood is a poet and transformative mediator in Leonardtown.com Renée Zepeda Renée Zepeda is a poet and teacher who also edits The Pulchritudinous Review.com .com and his collage work can be seen on his Face Book page. her work has appeared in Fifth Wednesday. The renowned Horizon Fine Art Gallery in Jackson. Travel Writing (Scantily Clad Press). ideas. Leigh Wells Leigh Wells is a bluegrass born photographer and writer living in Bx.slashpinepress. artworkbysarah.John Walz John Walz is a photographer and collage artist living in Waterville. and Gourmet.blogspot. Stephen Wright Stephen Wright’s work has been exhibited internationally and is in several important private collections. Her work involves transformational themes and attempts to depict the emotions involved within the process of transforming ones self. Jennifer Wildermuth naturally gravitates towards to the human figure in her absorbing oil paintings.photoleighflet. Wood is the author of the forthcoming I & We (CustomWords). Visit her website at: www.com Joseph P. Spinning Jenny. currently represents her. Maryland. He edits Slash Pine Press and coordinates the Slash Pine Poetry Festival. www. He lives and works in Los Angeles. New York artist.com 122 poetsandartists. He makes a living as a documentary photographer specializing in Weddings. WY. stephenwrightart. and life. Sarah Zambiasi Sarah Zambiasi is a self taught visual artist living in Australia.soulreflectionsinart. Wood Joseph P. www.blogspot. Ohio. Urgency (Cannibal Books). She paints/illustrates and creates soft sculptures. and In What I Have Done & What I Have Failed to Do (Elixir Press). A Severing (Cinematheque Press). In the recent past. She has poems forthcoming in Gargoyle Magazine and the Ars Poetica Anthology.com Calli Whittall Calli Whittall is an upstate. www.JohnWalzPhoto. and as a college instructor teaching photography.com Jennifer Wildermuth Developing her passion for fine art as a child in Wisconsin. For more information contact: ReneeZepeda@gmail.

www.poetsandartists.com .

what of it: since there is a beginning.com . who thinks. there has to be an end. half. i see a chin the size of other people’s scurvy moods on monday when their lives haven’t changed.and shit colored moons under my eyes. as if i am an atom bomb given consciousness.poetsandartists.excerpt from: self-portrait of a self-portrait by Bob Hicok when i look in the mirror. and doesn’t the mushroom cloud remind the imagination of itself? www. see a cold regard of my cold regard.