Nov 22, 2016

Special feature:  


Art by Vickers Gringo

Writers, multi-media poets and artists have had much to say about the American election that occurred this November 8, 2016.  We bring you these national reports--live from New York. 

-- LH, editor

From "Telescope Highway"

By Toni Simon 

By inducing euphoria the circle evolved into a wheel until there was no more reason to return. Harping on the same moments became a past time, occurring in a past when there was no record of emotions. The wheel gets knocked around and can no longer spin. The free world survives on such allusions. Only the thoughts are crumbling and disintegrating without glue to cohere them. Silence invades the crevices of sanity and holds its own--to resist means death. Do not remove underwear from our monuments or step over the yellow line of delusion. Dark powers are invading newspapers who merge with crimes well spent as a day on the beach. Up ahead a carrot waves in the breeze, an airy promise. 

Clouds of misgiving settle on the populace. The air raid shelters are full up. Some wag a finger at authority and question the foundations. Others seek progression in a waterfall of clay idols before succumbing to the mass directives. Fomenting anger cannot distinguish the inhabitants from one another. In a litany of monologues the head swells and reveals an assortment of shells. Mollusks fly out of ears and leap towards the horizon, fulfilling the ancient prophesy.


Untitled (poetry video with vocals & ukulele)

By Nada Gordon



By Nick Piombino

Without the employment of intensified focus, alternated with 
a fully accepted loss of focus, nothing.


The "willing suspension of disbelief."


An equivalence, an attainment of balance between
the willingness to listen and the willingness
to speak; part and parcel of the greatest


Art by Toni Simon 
Cite meter, sight meter, site meter 


Silenced by being unresponded to;
silenced by being echoed in a
resounding voice.

The meaninglessness of'


Silenced by sarcasm.
Silenced by silence.


Silenced by indifference,
ridicule, deliberate
exclusion, prejudice,
gossip, group
formation, elitism,
Big Brotherism,
poverty, intimidation,


Silenced by

Silenced by 
Martial law {click here} 


Silenced by Critical indifference
 {click here} 

Silenced by
political manipulation

Silenced by the deafening roar of the
noise of bombing, war, shooting,
news reports, misinformation, disinformation,
fighting, arguing, moral indictment,
advertising, celebrity mongering,
hectoring, violent physical intrusion.


Silenced by exhaustion, physical
and psychological illness,
fear of death and death.


Silenced by lack of response,
silenced by being ranked
and sidelined.


Silenced by the economics,
the driving insistence,
the gender conflicts
of sexuality.


Silenced by discrimination.


Silenced by one-upsmanship,
exclusion by means of
critical categorization,
moral sanctions
Silenced by starvation,
physical or


Silenced by confusion,
inarticulateness, lack
of vocabulary, language
skills, numbness,


Silenced by lack of
social skills, sense of
irony and humor.


Silenced by address unknown,
nonlisted number, code 404
blog not found.


Silenced by "lack of
sufficient funds", "we
are sending this bill
to our credit department",
"account closed."


Silenced by, "please
leave a message,"
"your call is valuable
to us please stay
on the line."


Silenced by "line
forms here", by
"sold out", by "bus out
of service"
"last stop."


Silenced by
"how are you?",
"happy birthday"
"what's new?"
"what's happening"
""I'm so jealous!"
""Guess what?"


Silenced by
you can do I can
do better,


Silenced by


Silenced by
the short list


Silenced by
"no refunds"


Silenced by
"toilet only
for customers"


Silenced by



By Rebecca Teich


"Sonnets from the New Dark Ages"

By Karen Brennan

A US Secret Service agent
Assigned to checking doors opened a
Door one night & found Hillary
Clinton in a compromising sexual
Position w/Ms Mahoney, a known
LESBIAN since highschool
Hillary was furious & whacked him
In the head with a metal

The Clintons are so EVIL
But God and his People in Heaven have
Recorded every second THE MEDIA IS STILL LIEING

Guys  Guys  Wake up
If you have not read Donald’s books then
You are confused right now I can ASSURE you
You have no idea what you’re talking about
There is nothing to worry about
Trump will tear out her heart that psychocunt

Will either rot in prison or be executed
The AG can immediately press charges against
That satanic cvnt  personally I would like
To see her beheaded in public with her head
In a glass case flanked by Obamas head

On the left and Bills head with his
2” dick stuffed in his mouth that would be
pretty cool in fact

Heres exactly what Trump
Is going to do He’s going to wait 2
More months
Until he’s president
Whatever gets said in the

Meantime is hype WOW
Thanks for explaining
That to me you must be
Rilly smart
If all else fails we are VERY

Armed and VERY dangerous
& there is absolutely NOTHING WRONG
with watering the Tree of Liberty
from time to time

[unadulterated material collected from comment streams on, November 2016]


"Portrait and a Dream, 12"

By Marina Adams

Gouache, Flashe and India Ink on Paper 16 x 24.5 in., 41 x 62 cm. 

"Election Day"

By Kit Robinson

Air seeks its own level
The cat is out of the bag
A house divided cannot stand
One step forward two steps back
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark

The country mourns in celebration
Turnip, onion, parsnip
Anchored in blood and soil
How much of which is in the head
Turns over with the planet


"The Fountains, Red"

By Abigail Welhouse

We were there because we wanted to be with friends when history was made.
I couldn't watch the whole night. The certainty from people who were uncertain.
Flashes of blue, then red. I took a walk on Bedford Avenue to buy candy,
but really to take a walk. I saw a dog. I found a Dr. Pepper for Adam.

I couldn't watch the whole night. At 11 PM I said to Gregory, let's go home.
I knew that we would know. If anything was announced when we were on the train,
we would know. It felt like we were taking the subway to a funeral. When we got home --
our new, hopeful home -- I couldn't stop refreshing election results.

At 1 AM Gregory said to me, let's go to bed. I refreshed the New York Times again.
Like A Clockwork Orange. My eyes, pried open as the dial ticked toward 100% probability.
I took a sleeping pill. I woke up for work. I refreshed the websites. I didn't drink enough
to feel hungover, and yet my head ached and light felt too bright. I didn't know

what to do except get on the train. People were crying and I was crying
and I didn't feel like a person. It got worse. People started fighting about safety pins
and white supremacists were placed in positions of power and snake people started
picking up their phones and leaving voicemails. I remembered my first trip to Spain,

when the teachers told us that if anyone asked where we were from, we should lie
and say Canada. Our trip was almost cancelled because of 9/11. I was on Wisconsin
local television reading a letter that said that we should still go, that learning about other cultures was important for peace.  I don't know if I'm remembering that right. But I do

remember that the US invaded Iraq and Madrid turned the fountains red. I remember
that I didn't lie. I said I was American. Before the trip, the teachers taught us to memorize
the names of the Spanish rivers, but we never learned about Franco. The UN covered up
Picasso's Guernica painting and the fountains were red. And I think of all those decades

of lost minds and lost bodies and lost art. And I miss Jane Marcus, a professor at CCNY
who taught me about the Spanish Civil War, and how our class fought about the Auden
poem "Spain" because some people said that war was not linear like that, that you can't
have "to-day the struggle" divided into to-day and tomorrow. But I thought it was honest,

how Auden placed the mundane next to the grotesque, the exchanging of tips on the
breeding of terriers alongside the poets exploding like bombs. I made a typo at first and
said poets exploding like poems. Like poems. Like bombs. The library has books by Martha
Gellhorn but The Face of War is non-circulating and I feel like I'm going to die before I get

to the end of writing this poem. I don't write poems like this. I never thought I'd live
in a country that's putting fascists in charge. I don't write poems like this. I got a web browser that doesn't track you and sell your information to advertisers and I got an email
address that doesn't give your emails to the government. I paid cash to tell my computer

that it lives in Sweden instead of New York. I don't write poems like this
but I'm feeling like I need to be more, like I need to do more,
like I'm taking more from the world than I'm giving it.
I'm calling and I'm writing and I'm giving but it's so close to nothing.

Lord if you can't make me an instrument of your peace, don't make me an instrument
of distraction. The Sunday after, I went to mass and the priest said we need to find unity
but fuck unity with fascists. I said the last part, not the priest. I drink blood
because I can't stop tasting it. Give me my body back, said Jesus. I agreed.


"Trembling Ghosts"

By Pamela L. Laskin

It didn’t matter
that women were silly putty
shaped in your hands, 

nor did it matter
that this Muslim had a name-Assad,
"A Ghost of Himself." Photo by Laura Hinton
and a wife and a daughter
who whispered American dreams.

The only America you know
was your brand-
big, blustering, bombastic words:
“Make America great again”
worn on your silly baseball hat,

forgetting America
is the Mexican
standing by the wall,
(built by whom?)
and who to keep out:

my Holocaust ancestors
the Irish and the poverty of potatoes
the Sudanese lost boy who has walked
miles in the blazing hot desert,
the Syrian doctor
whose children were doused to death
with chemicals,
the African Americans, who once were slaves,
and if some have their way
in this topsy-turvy law and order world,
will be slaves once again.

The ghosts and skeletons
burned and buried
tremor in disbelief:

This is not America.
America is not free.
“America never was
America to me.” *

* Langston Hughes


"The Enantiodromia" 

By Sharon Mesmer

(Ancient Greek: ἐνάντιος, enantios [opposite] + δρόμος, dromos [running course] —  
 a course of action that inevitably produces its opposite)

welcome wet red leaves 
welcome sidewalk shiny as a sink

welcome footfalls of a daughter who cracks the world open

welcome abyss finally divulging its form
welcome eyes keeping vigil with the moon 

welcome cold stars —  the rain the day after
welcome the subsiding of light
welcome silver / crack / intrude

welcome upsetting conclusion

welcome surface tension

welcome via negativa

welcome Teresa’s heart pierced by an arrow

welcome Neptune stationing direct: 
making peace with all we have lost

welcome 39 dead over the weekend
welcome the luxury of buying cups

welcome hatred felt by that which stays 
toward that which escapes and disappears

welcome fist of light punching through my throat
welcome fifth chakra problem

welcome the story not being told:
all of us condemned to put on skin for this world

welcome beauty which is ugly

welcome my cat’s ashes

welcome anthracite on clamflats
welcome small insect I do not kill

welcome shoe lost long ago that still breaks my heart
welcome the dust that was my grandmother 

welcome my abusive ex-fiance marrying my nephew’s stepmother 

welcome putting books back in order before the last lecture
welcome climbing the ladder of my spine

welcome dead rising on the wings of our breath 
welcome darkness that is another sun

welcome Old Woman who counts my scars:
she is uninterested in anything akin to sin

welcome the moment I start thinking I’m special, but then it turns out
I’m no different than anyone else

welcome the worlds we have refused

welcome carefully choosing words so as to not tell everything: 
certain things lose fragrance in air

* * *

welcome dying to be born to eternal life

welcome void and compensation
welcome litany and invocation

welcome recalling with fondness the days of rough magic
welcome being enveloped by darkness

welcome all-consuming weariness —
grace is sure to fail

welcome familiar joys tinged with bitterness
welcome stars blotted out 

welcome age of chaos 
welcome subtle tidal pulse

welcome reversal

welcome seventh year of my sister’s death
welcome event horizon where familiar things disappear

welcome moment when something new appears
welcome searching through ruins 

welcome unknown frontier that forces us to become
more than we were before

welcome divesting the abyss of its vertigo

welcome all that is difficult

welcome poem that some will dismiss

welcome poem written quickly wherein I say
“Welcome, new future of which I am not afraid for I have 
 looked long into the abyss and am well prepared to fight.”


“via negativa” / St. John of the Cross: “To come to the knowledge you have not, you must go by a way in which you know not.” From “Second Ascent of Mount Carmel,” written between 1578 and 1579 in Granada, Spain. Referenced by T. S. Eliot in The Four Quartets (“East Coker”).

“ . . . hatred felt by that which stays where it is toward that which escapes and disappears” / paraphrase of Magdalena Tulli, Dreams and Stones


"Red State."
"Blue State."
Photos by Laura Hinton

"Luxor, 2016"

By Devi S. Laskar 

The hotel is shaped like a pharoah’s tomb:
a sphinx with a plaster of Paris nose
and American blue eyes guards the black

pyramid’s entrance. We stare at flashing
neon signs for the perfect meal, perfect

date, the perfect prize if we can muster
ourselves, place our bets: blue or red,
the roulette wheels sigh with every

revolution. Hieroglyphics on
geometric walls, warning us about

something but no one understands. The pharaoh’s
likeness looms several stories tall by the bell
hop and escalators that lead to the food

court  -- and unenviable lines
for a museum hosting the Titanic’s

recovered artifacts. What part of us
will have to die for others to care
long enough to want to see? On the jumbo

screens, a woman in white sings Hallelujah
and the people fall silent for a moment,

to listen. The slot machines parrot
TV jingles in the distance while
the escalators continue their climb

to the mezzanine. No one is riding.
A calm, fleeting, fleeing, while the woman

plays a baby grand and sings. And then
some people resume their lives, turn away
their heads; others laugh, others still enter

the casino, neon lights shining holy.

"Las Vegas."  Photo by Laura Hinton


"Dear Natasha" 

By Cynthia Hogue 

Don’t avoid thinking
about what has happened in this country, is happening.
Art by Terry Zacuto
No escape but in understanding.  To a feminist
this was the patriarchy—turning
the election by hook or crook and mostly crook.

Imagine it the last gasp, the ab-
reaction.  Yeats wrote of cycles:
this is a cycle. The damage re-
versible.  Some miracle
stop them. 

A friend writes that angels
watch over us, Guadalupe
(she also writes fairytales).
Expect a woman in the White House.
It is not naïve but time.  Her time (ours).

Women know it (I mean feminists).
Anyway, I fought whatever's
going around, too. 
Zinc and C and more
sleep if possible. 

"The Loud Dream"

It felt solemn. I sang in a baseball stadium at the top of my lungs and what came out to my shock was a song not a screech. The crowd come to see me. I think it was me not a game. I got stage fright from being crabby and tired not offkey. I sang-yang so loud I woke up feeling so free I hopped like a frog.  All day I was a Frog.  Singing in a Bog.  I’m nobody who are you?  Because Somebody (I said I'd said) held me while I metamorphosed in a fishbowl like a tadpole, in their cupped palms where I skipped along the heart line, in their arms gingerly, as if I were bone china, and when kissed become a Princess sitting on a Pea wondering who’d want to be a princess, sleeping might bruise her, dreaming could split her like a peapod, whereas I woke up whole and safe.   But solemn, for in truth I’m skipping breakfast listening, hunched over the breakfast bar staring at the stove, to the radio which is saying there’s been another election, or the same election but the wrong outcome, repeating lies that have been given instead of reasons, and the lies called reasons (for no one uses that word and everyone denies using that word) are denied to be false.  But no one denies that at this moment the populace protests, but everyone argues about what the facts are, which doesn’t change the truth, or the fact that I can’t really sing, and am not dreaming but silenced.


"Every Word"

By Laynie Browne

In the beginning all words were one word. And every word was love. Or every word, once written, was in need of love, shelter or crumpled theories. Every word was well kept for so long. Even if disproven, incorrect or misshapen. Until every word, finally, in order to survive became defensive, a border, its own edging.


She stopped halfway down the stairs clutching the laundry. Pausing, remembering the amulet. Then she made her way down the rest of the stairs, put down the laundry basket, put the boots back away in the closet, glanced at the full afternoon ahead, fitted and folded the sheets against her body, put on more layers wakefulness and tried hard to forget the clogged drain. The amulet of power she knew would never be hers and yet she knew she also contained or wore or misled or grasped its resonance. The color of blood held inside the body. There was no mistaking it she was now about to be one of the bearers of color.  The season chanced that instant like a clasp or a catch in her throat, a bleat or admission of becoming a synonym to seasons, regardless of who she was or how she appeared. Her sentence had learned, if nothing else, to contrive itself. To be alive in leaves. But just as she said this to herself every one of her words became images. And in the middle of each image, a scroll containing barely legible instructions. She can continue for a few stricken sentences but for how long can she continue to tend to everything? She tried to ignore the rabbit eating hay out of the bucket too close to her pen but she could not ignore the deer kneeling to inscribe itself in her fence, nor any frog for long. Every living thing in fact was inside. Resided in the red amulet of power she wore around her neck. It was hers and she had chosen it with all of creation still inside. And that meant caring for the immediacy of beings, the caulked sinks, the peeling permissions, the schedules and papers. The forms of all promises and the promise of all form. Now arriving at the landing still clutching laundry not wishing to forget her written self. She would not finally put all of these concerns down— not the rude comment from one to another at breakfast. Not elections or refugees, not pipelines or weapons emblazoned on illuminated maps. She tied the mast to her forehead, waded out into morning and plodded on. Her arms were full with sheaves of tongues. She did not forget the invoices, medicines or fixatives. She did not stop to listen to the informing pancakes. She put the stove on pause and resurrected an occasion for calmative speech.  She watered the children and gave words to the willows. She would not be done until she was finished with this world. At which point she would say to her non-existent daughter: I want to be thrown at the foot of that tree.


"Red State." 
"Blue State."
Photos by Laura Hinton

Dream and Darker

By Laura Hinton 

You want it darker?
We kill the flame.
—Leonard Cohen

Momma’s legs crouched in a half lotus
in the dream she’s still
pointing and pontificating
still “herself”  (something)                —unrecorded

not yet changed content, illuminated            or        hair-dyed orange

            [blank]             no content       [no image]      yet
Damn sheets—WAKE UP!  [!! ]   This is not
a real dream, darker
            but a false comforter of sleep
Fake new venture, let me sing your song:
 “Amerika, Amerika…”—Land of Cheetos and Poptarts, you were so
sweet asleep, we are all in a sleep—wrapped up in [blank] sheets
we cannot breathe.  Like the colleague who
(in the dream)
to a wilderness called “Ireland”—
(now a U-shaped island in the South Pacific)
to escape the country where dreams allow upside-down logic
She can abandon hearth and home
(she promises to send Celtic music tapes)
I’m left alone
I cannot FALL asleep—so I will RESPOND

I wake to hear the screaming.


In this dream of darkness Momma’s still
pointing and pontificating, not yet
She gesticulates towards the Evils of Aberration
I exist in a shadow of this unrolling dream
—reeling backwards

To locate the source I plow through search engines, social media fabrics, icons of
dialectal transformation.  I punch and click

                        looking for textbook answers:

Narcissism, Fetishism, Authoritarianism, Fascist Tendencies, Borderline Disorder Maps
            the brain is insane, a division of
Red States / Blue States / Red States / Blue
            How I love you!—my desert patchworks
My barren mountain emptinesses!
Roll over, dark dream, you are on the dark side of that hidden channel
and I am told via email:
“You are going to hell.”
Navigating with Charon’s proud pole
I break new skin on the river bottom
in this eternal flow
crystalizes the Biggest Hardest Dream
Rock solid
I mimic the good company.

Post-Dark-Dream Havoc: What is there to do? A white man
Twitters on his golden throne and spits
darkness from his multi-storied Tower of Delusion
The illustrious collect
            other made-up dreamers
for a ride or two.  Kissing in the dark.
Pulling the covers up
—the dream
backs up.  It swamps, it
changes convection or misdirection.  Pilot error—
twists and rolls—writhes

[And now Black Friday is HERE, says pop-up window.]


Darkest before the flame.

Like any bad dream.  Turn on that damn light.

The bully pulpit of pontiffs
hosts many singing souls.
We are their witnesses.
They have a song to sing, too.


"Red State." 
"Blue State."
Photos by Laura Hinton

"TWO STATES OF A4, with no longer understanding"

 By Steve Benson 

quiescent     striations

         mentioned chastened clashes
     used       bent
   wounds          meant   stirring
turn biked         mysteries          into

        shin splints gored tie          timely

                            sticks of turgid rabid
closure           engendering my laugh  

behind             torpid      stunted             sheen   of
  blinds      a    creation   in
              states of              stunted          scrimping
    bips  of                        fended
           away         arrogance

crescent    ended    civilizations

grist for the trusts                                                        scaled down to strange
rules, a glance happens to stab the wall
                                                                             you’re cured
                 before you’ve shattered the mirror
            you chase butterflies from their clothes
                silver minarets or something fishy
                  a sluice opened up in the reverent dirt
         fluttering bystander                     shunted backward by
      all 6 packed into a dumpster         crushed
                                                      into immateriality
                    splintered bones no one bothered to clear
                  off the fifties linoleum ultimately
                                                       stricken with surly ravings
      “Oh . . . sure . . . you go . . .”         I  let  go  of  my  leg  and  my  ass
dips away in the dark horror of the sea
                   the shore line buzzing with mosquitos through which
         my pale rear reads like a peony slumming homeward
                              a favorite salon or you say shelter
                          eyes symmetrical in my face front
                                lazily dreaming
                                                             daytime as I can drown here
       slovenly crick in my neck necktie listlessly standing out
stale                               texture                   unlimited                            texture
                             scraps                                                          heaped up
                                    stripped from
                                        frenzy’s broken cloaca
                                                          faded      flailing     decadence


"Add Lump Torn"

By A.L. Nielsen 


Excerpt from play, “The Sapphics, or, Hysterical Studies on the Dream of Transsexuals”

By Elise Y. Chou

PROLOGUE, which introduces our heroines
ANTI AND PHIGE: “I am a young girl; an empty girl, an emptied girl and unrefused. Hear me that I might sing. Hear me that I might be— Devoured. Wind touches my hair and I shudder, empty. Begin me in a season of dying. Bless me.”

ANTI AND PHIGE [to say of the light what say what say of that depraved and slickgrayed light emptying inward from the casement unto the corridor and past the jamb. to speak and say; who, who; who, who; the shaft]: “Takes me midway through a brambled adolescence; by a flies beating, and an eye; affixed onto his sucking teeth, wading; through the hot miasmic regions of stifled breath, takes—
A haunt I frequent some days of this month. Find me in an age of famine, and take up my breath—

“Candle snuffed, and raises a bulb into the iris; wide and everlasting burning, lifted by an evil wind. She trembles in the madding whirl. Body made a bubble, carrying a dead air out and bestilling inwardness, white light searing through taut, whining nerves. Hysteria, an inner region wanders. Under an eye’s light, my flesh takes a sickening redux of gamboge.

“I want to die. It hurts. No longer empty in the house of death, the torn door leaves a frame that hangs with tender hinges. Dullard’s head, who? Sick window. A noise everywhere. Gray buzz of uncountably many flies. Disgusting, wormy reticulations. Fingers in the carpet. Mattress corpse, horrible. Faces seamed for eye and maw. Slimy, invisible stain. Comparing thumbs which leer. Lamp with a black and snaking cord. Nausea. 

“Empty— Empty— Makes an inscrutable chattering. Hand delirious on the jamb, faces the shadowed passage—”



“November 8th, 2016"

By Grant O. Palmer

So tonight Donald Trump won the election to be President of these United States.
In a long line of Abraham Lincolns and Barack Obamas, Trump is sure to go the way 
of the Andrew Jacksons.

After the social progress that we have made as a country,
after the fight to overcome racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, marginalization 
of all kind—a fight which is far from being over, even in our most progressive moments—
the people have spoken, and, in speaking, have laid bare the ugly truth about America:
 the racists, the bigots, the sexists, these strive to be the life blood of the contemporary

But they won’t/can’t/mustn’t defeat us.


publicly criticize the KKK when behind closed doors you actually agree with them.


 tell me about your concerns with transgender bathrooms because of the safety of your
 daughters: you don’t give a shit about them when you elect a man who not only
 degrades women but boasts about sexually assaulting them.


claim to be a Christian when you support hate. The America that is always slammed for being ignorant, violent, racist, sexist is the America that claimed a victory tonight.

In the immortal words of Ginsberg: go fuck yourself. 



Marina Adams is a painter based in both New York City and Parma, Italy.  Adams’ work has been the subject of a number of solo exhibitions, most recently with the gallery and publishing house, Karma at the Independent in NY concurrent with their publication of her newest book, titled Portrait and a Dream.

Steve Benson
Karen Brennan
Steve Benson has lived in downeast Maine since 1996. He shares links to his creative work on line through and last spring performed a major project of nearly daily posts called Page One, which remains archived at He co-authored Grand Piano series of autobiographical essays (Mode A, 2006-10). A chapbook of recent work appeared this year on line at

Karen Brennan is a poet/fiction writer, whose seventh book is entitled Monsters.  She is Professor Emerita at The University of Utah and teaches in the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers.  At present, though generally appalled, she is thankful for her family, friends and country, such as it is.

Laynie Browne
Elise Y. Chou
 Laynie Browne wants to live in a world where poetry will invite and invent futures we all wish to inhabit.

Elise Y. Chou is an undergraduate at Columbia University. She is infatuated with Marx and in love with Freud. She is a woman.

Nada Gordon
Nada Gordon consists of a head, neck, torso, two arms and two legs. Since reaching adulthood, her body has consisted of close to 100 trillion cells, the basic unit of life. These cells are organized biologically to form her whole body (partially depicted in this video with her ukulele).  Her three most recent books were published by Roof Books: Folly (2007), Scented Rushes (2010), Vile Lilt (2013), and poetry has been translated into Chinese, Japanese, Burmese and Hebrew.

Cynthia Hogue
Cynthia Hogue has published thirteen books, including nine collections of poetry, most recently Revenance (2014) and the forthcoming In June the Labyrinth (Red Hen Press, 2017).  She was a 2015 NEA Fellow in Translation, and holds the Marshall Chair in at Arizona State University.

Devi S. Laskar is a native of Chapel Hill, N.C. She holds an MFA from Columbia University in New York.  She is an alumna of both TheOpEdProject and VONA/Voices, and recently won first prize in poetry at the 27th Mendocino Coast Writers Conference contest. In 2017, her chapbook, Gas & Food, No Lodging, will be published by Finishing Line Press. She now lives in California.

Pamela L. Laskin is the author of five books of poetry and several children's books. Harper Collins will be publishing Ronit and Jamil, a Palestinian/Israeli Romeo and Juliet in verse for teens in February, 2017.  She teaches as a Lecturer in English at The City College, where she directs The Poetry Outreach Center.
Devi S. Laskar
Pamela Laskin

Sharon Mesmer’s most recent poetry collection is Greetings From My Girlie Leisure Place (Bloof Books 2015). She teaches in the creative writing programs of NYU and the New School.

A.L. Nielsen, poet/critic, is the Kelly Professor of American literature at Penn State University. His poetry collections include Heat Strings, Evacuation Routes, VEXT, Mixage, Mantic Semantic, Stepping Razor, A Brand New Beggar and Tray. His critical works include Reading Race, Black Chant and Integral Music. He is the editor of Lorenzo Thomas’s award winning posthumous work, Don’t Deny My Name: Words, Music and the Black Intellectual Tradition.

A.L. Nielsen
Grant O. Palmer
Grant Palmer is finishing his MA in English Literature at California State Polytechnic University, Pomona. His current research focuses on contemporary American literature as it relates to race, gender, queer theory, and biopolitics. He also writes poetry.

Kit Robinson
Kit Robinson is the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry, including Determination (2010), The Crave (2002), and The Dolch Stanzas (1976), and is a collaborator on The Grand Piano: An Experiment in Collective Autobiography, San Francisco 1975–1980.

Nick Piombino
Toni Simon
Nick Piombino is a psychoanalyst and poet. His latest book is Contradicta: Aphorisms from Green Integer, with illustrations by Toni Simon. Other books include: fait accompli (Heretical Texts), Free Fall (Otoliths), Theoretical Objects (Green Integer), The Boundary of Blur (Roof) and Poems (Sun and Moon).

Toni Simon is a multimedia artist living in Brooklyn. Her illustrated book of prose poetry Earth After Earth was published by Lunar Chandelier Press in 2012. She is currently collaborating on a literary/visual project entitled Dear Air with poet Joanna Fuhrman. 

Rebecca Teich
Rebecca Teich studies English and Women's, Gender, and Sexuality studies at Columbia University. Her writing, both creative and expository, has been featured or is forthcoming in BigThink, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, the Advocate, Gambling The Aisle, 4x4, and Souvenir Lit Journal. She is the co-Editor-in-Chief for the Columbia Journal of Literary Criticism and works as an assistant instructor for children's writing workshops.

Vickers Gringo
Vickers Gringo (1978-2010) is the artist name of Paul Daniel Lyon, a multi-media and performance artist based in New York City who worked in an artistic integration of media including video, graphic art, cartooning (his “70 Million Rats” series), animation, and as the singer-songwriter for Deuce & a Quarter band. 

Abigail Welhouse
Abigail Welhouse is the author of Bad Baby (dancing girl press), Too Many Humans of New York (Bottlecap Press), and Memento Mori (a poem/comic collaboration with Evan Johnston). Her writing has been published in The Toast, The Billfold, Ghost Ocean Magazine, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere. Subscribe to her Secret Poems at