Poetry is Dead!

2015 Edition

Weasel Presshttp://www.weaselpress.com

Poetry is Dead!2015 Issue

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Weasel

Copyright © 2015 Weasel Press

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Table of Contents

01. Poetry is Dead-But Irony Isn't (For A Surreal Weasel) —Ken Jones, pg. 702. admiring the swans by the lotus —Valdon Ross, pg. 803. Simple —Weasel, pg. 904. The Badlands: Money, Mississippi to Charleston —henry 7 reneau jr. pg. 1005. My professor wants me to write a poem about pidgeons without saying the word "pigeon" —Emily Ramser, pg. 1206. No Philosopher Has Yet Solved the Problem of Evil —Melissa Studdard pg. 1307. Freedom —Brian Kehinde, pg. 1408. Untitled #1 (“Outside a Union-Pacific…”) —Gerald Cedillo, pg. 1709. lessons learned from my father —David E. Cowen, pg. 1810. Beauty Blooming —Dustin Pickering, pg. 1911. U —Birdman, pg. 2012. At the Bed of the Unknown Dreamer —Gerald Cedillo, pg. 2113. Lessons I learned from Catechism —David E. Cowen, pg. 2214. The Bird, the Man, and the Graveyard —Dustin Pickering, pg. 2415. They left out that you'd kill me with weedkiller —Emily Ramser, pg. 25

16. In Another Dimension, We Are Making Love —Melissa Studdard, pg. 2617. A Lonely Vampire by —Birdman, pg. 2718. we’re not the end of a movie by —Weasel, pg. 2819. Monster of Temptation by —Z.M. Wise, pg. 3120. The Bone Clocks by —henry 7 reneau jr. pg. 3221. The Prospector by —Valdon Ross, pg. 37

“That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.” —Andrea Gibson

7Poetry is Dead-But Irony Isn’t(For a Surreal Weasel) "I like it from the rear"The Nawlins Ho cooedTo the man dying of cancerWhose money she coldly stole.Before he could return to his True LoveThe Black Widow struckWith her passionless kisses and weak hugs.She rode the Tech Staff hardMore times than she cared to admit.Mom found a condom in Daddy's walletAs he toiled for Monsanto's death pelletsWhich made her a man hater for life.So YOU say Poetry is Dead-But I say Irony isn'tRefracted through True Love's PrismHer Magic box ended in a weird pig tailAs Italian courtiers wailed"At least it All makes sense now"Mused the philosopher/poet"It's the only way this stupid CupidCould make a go of it."

—Ken Jones

8admiring the swans by the lotus

admiring the swans nesting by the lotus pondan elder reclines, peaceful"man is such a greedy creature" he speaks

inside i stir with protest:not all are tainted by such seedsthere are those of us whose concerns are higher -- yet turning to my reflection, I concede

in my hands, a cameraclinging to tiny snapshots of time

—Valdon Ross

9Simple

there were days I could not breathe.like the dreams, they left me frozen—waiting for a home that is not sealed inside a kiss.

I put a flower inside a soda bottle,filled it with water and placed it inside the window.it still burns like the day I bought it.

water can make anything grow.make anything breathe, even for a momentas it warms my hands; the ice cleansed away.

such are the simple things.

—Weasel

10The Badlands: Money, Mississippi to Charleston

Hate is the keloid topography that marks us with their intolerance. Surrounds us with the shrapnel of stereotype. Our flesh that holds its own beneath a great weight: He’s a Negro.Probably been stealing since he could crawl.Hissing into the face of the wounded.

A dirge-like utterance of ghosts:The terminal currents of psychic graffitithat reside as mute perishing. To fester without livingbetween the wide frame & the close-up shot.

Despiteor maybe because of. A parliament of crowsperched to the left of center.Shining darkly as undulating heat.Yellow beak opento consume.To swallow the Son like magic.

Perseverance hair-trigger tensed on mute but using a guitar as a second voice. We chained lightening to the 12-bar bluesso others might walk with us into the sunrise.

Despite or maybe because of the knowing in our heartsjust how ugly things are. Can be. Have been.

So much anger swallowed by frustration:

Frame by frame. Our broken off shardssharpened by the hate that made hate. Riot become a metaphor: Smoldering ragelike the calcium signposts

11that litter the Middle Passagebelow the Atlantic.

Despite or maybe becauseof 60 million ormore moaning mouth the synchronized plus-justment.Evokes the ragethat validates the fire.

They’re not protesting. They’re not makinga statement.They’re stealing.

Despite or maybe because oftheir paving over all the tiny terrorsbut alwaysreverting back to –type.They (mistakenly) think they’ve done the work &that they never have to confront Selma again.

So much be patient . . .wait & hope.So much just left one locked roomfor anotherlike salt thrown over our shoulder to blind the Devil.

—henry 7 reneau jr.

12My professor wants me to write a poem about pidgeons without saying the word "pigeon"

I tried to pet a pigeon at a park in Dallas, but it appropriately told me to fuck off,so I wrote a poem about how pretty it wasand how I wished I could be a pigeon

cause pigeons don’t have to worryabout if their poetry is good enough to be read by other pigeonssince pigeons don’t read poetry.

Pigeons don’t have to worry about anything buttelling poets to fuck offwhen they start writing poems about trying to pet pigeons at parks.

—Emily Ramser

13No Philosopher Has Yet Solved the Problem of Evil I guess the sunset forgot to tell them about its beauty.Ditto the stars.Because the evening smellslike gun smoke. And someone’s down,or passed out. Too much whistling andforgot to take a breath. No. Lookhow beautiful, the night—dusk crackedopen and growing a strange silence,blood on the floorworm in the blood,body clinging to the soul like a parasite.I don’t have to say it. You know what I mean.What I’m asking. Why?Didn’t they see the sunset?Didn’t they see the stars?

—Melissa Studdard*Previously published in Tupelo Quarterly

14Freedom

"Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect." ~ Chief Seat-tle, Suquamish and Duwamish leader (1780-1866)

freedom is awaking to days of whimsywithout restraint, nor fear, nor inhibitionmy utmost conscience, so inquisitively nimblenourished by the pure theatre of morningthank you, Father cosmos, thank you, Mother milky waysurrounding Womb of dark matter, stars, suns & moonsa borderless abundance for my child-like mind to roamwalking dreams de-institutionalized & raw like suchipathways open & receptive to the complexity of simple joysthe eloquent nature of love to embrace all that is you in me& all that is me in youis an immortal dare& manifests itselfin all things truthmetaphysical pursuits, wellheads of adventure,endogenous searches for the seedthe breeze whispering in my ears, the grass caressing my feei am tiny in the meadow, the unknown is an eagle of gracesky threads kiss & reel me in, a cosmic cohesion on bare brown skincreated anew from water, carbon, oxygenrespect is long past due to our ancestral originprecipitating a liquid present, gentle and giganticprecipitating a lucid current, gentle and gigantici'm not afraid to dream out loud & let my consciousness rain downmy perception has a shimmer & glowmy utterances burn bright before they fadebut nothing is wasted, everything is permissibleit's what the emblazonment of existence in the spirit world revealsthat tapestry of scars & scratches mapped out on my fragile flesh:the intimate melody of physical science

15the primal reverb of significanceand i belong, i am touchi am transient, i am influencei am awareness, i am sighti am timelessness in a vessel tht wil someday rot awaybut not before my soul receives its invitation homei am matter & i matter:i think, therefore i am, a vibrant being of one,a virtuous voice, however minute, in the void created by divine atoms & neonsfundamentally, we are many & possessedall energy is one and everything is a vibration under duresswe are fishes in a thought-constant stream, hungering for universal wisdom

fear not the evils of the world!the trajectory of cradle to grave is but one of a billion shooting starsfor some, every living day is a legacy of sciencefor others, every living day is an answered prayerdissent is a mistake for a mentality wide awakewe walk in validation of the accuracy of our faith

yes, the cornucopia of life is ours to fulfillthe peace of attaining the utopia we deserverevolve around my ost at the steering whell, beloved Earthand wrap your diaphanous starlight around me like a dying lover

freedom is a blessing, eternal & unspokenfreedom is a promise, infinite & never brokenfreedom is an ethic, championed by dauntless heartsfreedom is the temple in which we reside: a living work of art

for the land of Providencewe bleedwe feedwe breathewe needwe believewe conceivewe achievewe succeed

we have roots but we can rise

16we can dance, we can flywe have roots but we can risewe can dance, we can flyno matter how hard our strugglesno matter how deep our painno matter what we loseno matter what we gainit is our birthrightit is our volitionit is our destiny & dutyto be free.

—Brian Kehinde

17Untitled #1 (“Outside a Union-Pacific…”)

Outside a Union-Pacific locomotive of poets I dream, a jump-cut sequence compressed and stored from old Westerns: an overhead shotof bandits riding in an explosion of dust, projected over their piston saddles, afraid the horses’ legs might break to keep up with the steam engine.A glove reaches for the rail, drops the reins and leaps, kicking off the horse’s neck.

With bullets between my feet, kerchiefed men shout “dance, boy, dance,” this body moves like a rattlesnakeand not as if life depended on it, but love--In the name of the lovethat sits and waits for you to approach it,what brings your velocity toward us tonight?Not this one-sided waltz, this confusion between attacker and target. My hands are shantytowns in the air,emptied shantytowns.

How delightful a tormentsettled by who moves quickest first. Evening like a swarm of irascible insects in the tall grass.The way we buy and sell beauty arms deep, bartering in its unlimited re-coining.Take it, heist whatever unsnuffed peace you find. Reader, I only ask what all folk ask of their conquerors, as all the instincts stuck in me sputter an entire history of overtaken muscles: mercy, mercy, mercy.

—Gerald Cedillo

18lessons learned from my father

to remember you skin loose on your boneslarge lump on your sideskeletal hand reaching for a Luckyyour attention always elsewhere making me a bystander obstructingthe remainder of your moments

is not a memory I can cherish but it is all there is for me

to ponder on these days of fatherswhen the strong men of the world are so praisedcan I praise your intellect squandered on cheap whiskeyor your oratory wasted on screaming at shadowscan I praise the strength of your willsquandered in welts on my mother’s face

the lesson thendespite my fear that to judge youis to become you

is to look away from remembrancesand give my sonssomeone to misssomeone to recall with a melancholic smileonce I am forced to join you in the realms of recollection

—David E. Cowen

19Beauty Blooming

Beauty is blooming in the budwith stark natural order.A child is born inside this gravewhere light shines mercifully.I fence in my delightand sing power of night.My vile volition is attackedby sonic echoes.

I see this birth within you.Your laurel branches face evil days.Struggle belittles my being by leading me astray.Pull away from the shadowswhile harpies flock without, in the air.

—Dustin Pickering

20U

U broke me,U left me crippled limping on my own.We walked together as in the walk of life,But U walked your own way to another.But I was still standing: Waiting on U, Looking for U, Amazed, Startled and all tearful.My only crime was that I loved U with commitment,Without any demand then U broke my heart. I will get up. I will heal. I will walk on my own.I will not turn my back to look at U,U is not worth it. U never was. I was just blind in love, U put me on my knees. On my back,Pressure on my shoulders. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat.My heart racing like a train,I was just so madly in love with U, I forgot to love me.

—Birdman

21At the Bed of the Unknown Dreamer

How should you tell the morning what you’ve seen?Like a bride, bring your life nervously to bedwith its mutual longings nonetheless foreign.

Have your tea with milk, turn the lamp,let the body take its leave a great distance.

From closing windows, half-heard music,shots and scattered flashes.Memory makes a good mistress.

Those undiminished eyes, bafflingly.Those whispering relics. That dirt roadthe morning washed with stray petals.

Glamour girls on bicycles across the streetturn their smiles, always, a tease and its undoing.

Present-absentee, how should you return?

When the guest arrives do not wishrevenge for their absence. Be the circuitous path.When the guest asks to hear a song

dust off your notes and march them out.O fugitive innocence, as constant as the passionthat casts you away and reels you back.

What we hide in does not contain us.Are you willing to swim out into love’s undertowbecause the bombardment is beginning.

It blooms light, bloom, light is blooming, yearsof it attack your window and when you awake,on either side of your body,

yesterday and tomorrow drape a hand atop your heaving chest.

—Gerald Cedillo

22Lessons I learned from Catechism

He must have really been pissedwhen Lot’s wife looked backdisobeying such an ultimate command--nothing but a pile of salt—not even fit for meat --that backward observationhad to be worse than their girlsfucking Lot in a cave so they could have children--pedophilic incest must low on the listjust ask any priest

so it makes sense justice is always servedBabylon with its stone worshipping paganswas laid low very lowafter one thousand eight hundred yearsHe taught them

the Jews forgot the Sabbathand were enslaved by Babylonseventy six years of exilechildren sacrificedvirgins defiledmen humiliatedHe must have been really pissedby someone washing clothes on Saturdaywhen they weren’t supposed tobut all is goodBabylon got its dueafter due time

So did Romethose killers of prophets on woodwashing their handsof his fateRome got its dueor would have -- they were forgiven

23converting in three hundred yearsand surviving another thousand in some form or anothercan’t get mad when they built such nice churcheswhile those in the streets starved

if you can’t blame Rome,then who can you blamethe Jews of courseit always goes back the Jews

Judas was a Jewso thirty years later they got their dueselfie sacrifices in the Masada sunand for the next one thousand eight hundred and eighty two yearsthey envied the quick temper that turned Lot’s wife into saltthat quick deathinstead of suffering the slow burn to Auschwitz and Buchenwaldsome end quicksome take a while to burn

all this morality played out over so longlessons learneddon’t look backdo the laundry on Mondaydon’t be a Jewand if you do start worshipping stoneeventuallysometime you will suffer the consequencesunless of courseyou convertthen you can do whatever you are willing to forgive yourselffor having doneso long as you didn’t look back.

—David E. Cowen

24The Bird, the Man, and the Graveyard

There, running like a stream in light foot,is the shadow.A man stands still, etched in black mistlike ink coloring the horizon.A colorful bird floats his wayand envy takes note.Like the witches’ cauldron spilling onto the cottage floor,the rainbow light forms over his being.A soul will never be deluded into seeingwhat isn’t there.In the graveyard lurks a stare.

—Dustin Pickering

25They left out that you'd kill me with weedkiller

I was told thatI would be laid prostrate on the concreteso I mentally prepared myself,but I never expectedyou’d hate me enoughto force my lips openand pour chemicals down my throat.

—Emily Ramser

26In Another Dimension, We Are Making Love

What color is dreaming? you ask.I answer in the language of fleur-de-lis,paisley and plaid. Then, what is the sound of death?you ask, so I draw you a picture of dreaming.What is left to know but that I’m re-writing the formulafor the air between us? Part nitrogen, part oxygen, the rest trace gassesof love. Like you, I believe most in whatI cannot see or hear. Anger: a wounded steamrising from the cauldron of your throat.Alchemy: the steam dissipates, and you reachacross the table for my hand. So—let’s note that it was already storming before we arrived,though our only proofis an exhausted cloud passed out in the courtyardand a thunderbolt curled up beside it.Let me point out that in another dimensionthis restaurant is a bedroomin which we are making love. Don’ttry to understand.Just paint the air human,take off your clothes,hand back your coat of arms.What you mistook for a personis really a countrywith a dark and sacred historyand no scholars to explain away the confusion.Just burn the archives down.Everything we have to knowwe learned from a picture of dreaming.Everything we need to remembercan fit on a scrap of papersmaller than your hand.

—Melissa Studdard* Previously published in Life & Legends and Mad Swirl

27A Lonely Vampire

Allow this claw to mold around your breast,Teasing the nipples.Caressing the moistness of your sweet places,To permit these teeth.To brush across your silken hair,To settle on the softness of your neck.My loving bite flowing,Like ribbons through your veins.My aged and aching heart,Rejoices in renewal.Eternal life,The quest for love.My intentions often misread,To be this creature at night.A dark and bloodied prince,Beauty,Soul,And adoration.Love is fleeting,Short and bitter.My pain can’t be undone,Such is the fate of a lonely vampire.

—Birdman

28we’re not the end of a movie

when the rainsteals from us another songwe play along, we sing along

when the skywraps around usher skeleton boneswe sing along, we carry on

as long as i can remember this is how the story goes.

i hitched a ride on an airplane,rode it wherever it wanted to gosat through turbulence, the pushes and pulls.so goddamn excited that i had toclosed my eyes, so i could imagine our story without the wordsonly i didn’t have to imagine,our words never existed.

i rode this plane all night longmade a stop in some town ihad never heard of, and when isaw you, i draped my fingers onyour surface much like god wouldif he were still alive today. you were the only one to kickstart myheart with a taser and leave mewanting desperately to return…

but when my plane took off into the skythere was no camera behind meno fade to black, no credits rollingup to tell us the parts we playedin each other lives

only left with the drifting deliriumyou had lured me into, writingapocryphal manuscripts out of broken typewriter keys; typesetting

29unanswered emergencies, like the night youhuddled against me. remember?how your body quaked from the cold as we watched ghosts dancearound our window from you hummingmelancholic love songs, and damn, you know magic washappening when you werewhispering our dreams between the notes.

but magic isn’t always love

the next morning we shared our coffee in silence, shadows intertwining in the sun as we tried to shakethe break of character we exposedeach other to. lost in the sacrificewe could not make, but we readyready to return to anarchy the same night

we were children, enamored at theidea of attachments to each other,afraid of how easy we would breakour fragile arms holding ournames, letters twirling between our fingers like were school girls in love

ashamed as i am to say, it took years for me to realize that we are not the end of a movie so i took my typewriter out into lawn and set it on fire, frustrated with knowing it could only type your name—each letter engraved on slivers of paper.

this poem is an apology letter to the both of usfor how far i allowed us to go; for forgettingthat some parts of ourselves need to remain buried. and though i haveforgotten how you look, my bodystill trembles when i remember your taste

30

you stand thereat the edge of my doorstepbut I’m not theremy mind is gone, my body’s home

somewhere…

—Weasel

31Monster of Temptation

Only the shy onesstave off the producingmasses of opportunitiesthat create such chaosand blow it out ofmystic proportions.

They will drink totheir worthless forefatherswho knew and meant wellfor this once well-lit country.They will smoke to thejoys of life that is slowlywasting away.How their coughing and wheezing amuse me!

So many polluted mindsconjure up new concoctionsto bleed the brain and shove it to the sidelike unwanted marriages.

—Z.M. Wise*Previously published in Maudlin House

32The Bone Clocks

White people are terrorists. Period.

—A black woman, heard off camera during a live CNN news report on the Charleston, S.C. church massacre.

The human spirit in astonishing delusion flees from itself while seeking itself.

—Ernst Cassirer

1.

animated clay heaves up a virus the stony heart that splinters intoa tradition of hidebound contagion as a means to man-made endsto death & destruction that moves on & repeats

2.

as fractal patterns of hate the scarring qualifieds that deny the seeds of truth &love a malevolence born of naming to nothing that in the beginning were seeds that went down into the ground to bring life but too soon sorrow written in our heart’s blood our genes & upbringing our belief that we are all heroes of our own lives our content of character become selfish hyperbole usually a nebulous state of alert & wariness

33as well as single cogs down on our kneeswaiting with pious eyes for the Rapture to raise usa flummoxed oddity in a much larger & more beautiful mechanism choosing between episodes of smoked-out folly or spontaneous combustion so very much nothing but something to hide our voice inside that grasps despite lynched while seeking freedom so very much bombed in Bombingham gunned down while prostrate in prayer circle & preyed upon despite the Spirit moves amongst us as we one step forward buttwo steps blind faith behind a speeding truck in Texas chained & dragged to the feet of Jesus past thresholds of burning crosses & churches searching for wherever that somewhere never was the rust of American dreams that will not be returned to nor spoken of the sludge that slowly pollutes the seawith snapped necks & fire-hosed emancipation in retreatfrom the official rhetoric spoken in fractal patterns of Babelcloaking justificationin protocol & tradition & unequal Law that demeans blackness to prey

34only praying to never be hunted as prey despite hate has a history of plot & plan wielding a grain of truth to validate the untrue & the truly questionablethe same static we’ve been hearing as long as we’ve been listening like strangers passing through centuries of repetition through the long dolorous smoke of what we’ve done to one anotherlike what we think we deserve like what we’ve gained & usually lost& where it touches land it turns to violenceuntil one day we wake up & it just becomes part of our life

the pendulum of thuds we felt in our bones as consistent as the tick-tock increments we plea feigning our tiny lives into order

3.

our invisibility is made manifest only in the discussion of our absence

our insecurity minute to minute a metaphor for the gap in our lives

what beast must i adore when nothing shows me the image of myself?

354.

i have a dream strewn with bent & rusted nails with poverty & debt now traditionally cheap fuel for poweran epidemic of invisible bodiescolored only when thrown against a sharp white background & suspended between erasure & empowerment by the shadow magic of hatewe shrunk so much we disappeared divided by the zero of dehumanized black bodies radiating outward like perfect ignorance emanating the loudest caw in a language of crows that renders us hyper-visibleclose to the anxious space of affirmative action the record skipping on the same dust speck we call history (a redundant organ that isn’t used very much)seeking freedom but seen as a citizen in name only & reaching beyond our surfaces to the strange forces inside our genes our blackness becomes a dark energy like lacerations on the bodies of the blindwe cannot explain but can recognize in our bones & blood our identity only in response to being seen by those who dehumanize us our deepest memories & imagination that space within ourselves the hopeful once called soulsonly the grind & gnash

36of uncomfortable silences as we gather around ourselves& pray

—henry 7 reneau jr.Note: Italicized quote by Charlotte Pence, from “among the yellows, the faces slack”

37The Prospector

When the mine first opened, they swarmedProspectors searching for fortuneIt wasn’t long before the vein ran dryAnd drought returned to their impoverished hearts

Gradually, they moved on, settling elsewhereBut he remained behind, the one with green eyesAnd sun stained leather skin

The Natives spoke of the riches within the landAnd he would follow their whisper“Tread the southern spine, When the sun hangs low to retire,You will know where the gold rests.”

Many nights he spent upon that ridgeHis beard growing thick with thornsAlways, he returned without treasure

Mountain men would tell of the silver in the valleys“Head north,” they would say, “in a day’s timeWith the waking sun, sterling glistens back from the rivers.” Still empty, his purse would return to town

I saw it happen, the wilderness broke his spiritNo longer did he resemble a manHe hardened into a glacierThe sun no longer touched his skin

I was there when they found himOn the southern spur, staring into the valleyHe froze in the night, they sayThe ice within claimed him

Yet there was a softness in his faceHis eyes relaxed, openGazing into the valley belowAnd I saw the mother lodeIt was dawn, and the snow glistened in the yellow glowAll around, silver and gold

—Valdon Ross

38

BiographiesBirdman - Originally from Benton Harbor, Michigan and a Graduate from John Wesley College with a B.A. in Social Sci-ence and from ITT-Tech an AA in Networking Admin, I have 4 published poetry books and 3 published chap books. I have been published in several magazines Forward Times Newspaper, Storm Magazine, Harbinger Asylum Indiana News Letter Re-view and am a member of the Austin Writers Roulette, the host for the Spoken Word Contest at the National Black Book Festival. Have several Editor’s Choice Awards in Poetry, a Plaque with the Poem “She”, Gold Medallion and Pendant. I’m also an app developer for iPhones and Androids mobile devices for individ-uals. http://www.birdman313.com/

Gerald Cedillo - Gerald Cedillo organizes several events for the Houston poetry scene. One of the largest events is the World Around Town Tour. More information can be found at http://www.wordaroundtown.org/

David E. Cowen - A trial attorney by trade and author of a volume of poetry entitled Sixth and Adams (PW Press 2001). Da-vid lives in Houston, Texas with his wife Susan and his two sons. He practices law in the historical city of Galveston, Texas which has inspired much of his poetry and photography. His poems have been published in various online journals (such as Eclectica, The Bri-dge, Gumball Poetry, The Cynic, Cosmic Debris, Wired Hearts and others), as well as hard copy journals published by George Mason University, University of Texas at Edinburg (formerly Pan American University), Stephen F. Austin Universi-ty, Sam Houston State University and many privately published journals, in the U.S. and abroad, as well. His poetry was featured in the Canadian Broadcasting Company’s radio program “Out-front” in a 2005 tribute on 9/11. His most recent poetry publica-tions include poems placed in “Dark Portal” (UH Downtown), Harbinger Asylum and the Austin International Poetry Festival Anthology (2014). http://www.decowen.com

Ken Jones - Ken Jones is a poet and musician. Learn more at www.PoetKen.com

39Brian Kehinde - Author Brian Kehinde was born March 27, 1974 in Chicago, Illinois. He published his first book, a poetry anthology titled “Filthy Knowledge”, with the help of Houston poet BGK and a national print-on-demand website (www.lulu.com). He graduated from Prairie View A&M University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Mass Communications in 1997 and joined the U.S. Army the following year, proudly serving for seven years as a Field Artillery Cannon Crewmember (13B) and a Military Broadcast Journalist (46R) before being discharged in 2006 under DADT. He currently works for Half-Price Books and is working on his first novel based on his coming-out experienc-es as a Soldier. His 2013 book, Monkeyassassins - A Chronic Od-yssey, published by Createspace.com and available worldwide on Amazon.com, has been his most successful work so far. He is currently working on “Synchronicity In Violence” for Spring 2015, also known as “Filthy Knowledge II”

Dustin Pickering - Dustin D. Pickering is founder of Tran-scendent Zero Press, a Houston-based poetry publisher. He has been published in Houston and Gnomadic Voices, the Muse for Women anthology, di-verse-city 2013, and many other journals. He will be published in Waiting, a publication dedicated to Lawrence Ferlinghetti for his 96th birthday. He was a feature for Public Poetry 2013, and a Special Guest Poet for Austin Interna-tional Poetry Festival in the same year. http://www.transcendentzeropress.com

Emily Ramser - Emily Ramser is an undergraduate student studying English, Creative Writing, and Not For Profit Manage-ment at Salem College in Winston Salem, North Carolina. She is currently pursuing her Bachelor of Arts in English and Creative Writ- ing, and is expected to graduate in May of 2017. Some of her inspirations include: Thornton Wilder, Robbie Nickles, Law-rence Ferlinghetti, Bhanu Kapil, Andrea Gibson, Gabriel Gud-ding, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Matt Nielsen, and Alfred Lord Tennyson. You can check out some more of her work at her blog. www.chickadeesweetie.wordpress.com.

henry 7 reneau jr. - henry 7 reneau jr writes words in fire to wake the world ablaze: free verse illuminated by courage that empathizes with all the awful moments, launching a freight

40train warning that blazes from the heart, like a chambered bullet exploding inadvertently. now, runantellyomamaboutdat!!

Valdon Ross - Valdon Ross is an enigmatic being who does not particularly reveal much about himself, though he does tend to engage in a fair amount of posturing that makes him appear more competent than he is in reality. So don’t be fooled by his shenanigans. As such, when he reveals that his writing has won awards and that he has been featured in a couple anthologies, don’t go thinking it is really a big deal. It isn’t. Prior to joining Vagabonds, he had briefly been an editor for another creative writing journal. He looks for art that moves him through origi-nality, style, imagination, message, and form. He is particularly drawn to creative expressions that aim at raising consciousness, making a critical vivisection of existence, or giving a voice to social justice. Stylistically, his writing changes tones and voices with the phases of the moon, though careful examination will reveal parallels to some of his inspirations: Kurt Vonnegut, Gins-berg, HST, Saul Williams, Douglas Adams, and the mystics.

Melissa Studdard - Melissa Studdard’s debut poetry col-lection, I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast, was recently released by Saint Julian Press. She is also the author of the best selling novel Six Weeks to Yehidah; its companion journal, My Yehidah (both on All Things That Matter Press); and The Tiferet Talk Interviews. Her awards include the Forward National Literature Award, the International Book Award, the Readers’ Favorite Award, and two Pinnacle Book Achievement Awards. Melissa’s poetry, fiction, essays, reviews, and articles have appeared in dozens of journals, magazines, blogs, and anthologies, includ-ing Tupelo Quarterly, Psychology Today, Connecticut Review, Pleiades, and Poets & Writers. In addition to writing, Melissa serves as the host of the forthcoming program Voices & Views: Interviews from VIDA, an editor and interviewer for Ameri-can Microreviews and Interviews, and a judge for the monthly Goodreads ¡Poetry! Group contest. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence college and is a professor for the Lone Star Col-lege System and a teaching artist for The Rooster Moans Poetry Cooperative. http://melissastuddard.com/

Weasel - Weasel is a writer and overall degenerate poet. He

41received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake and has been a member of the Houston/Clear Lake poetry scene ever since. He has had a few appearanc-es on 90.1 KPFT’s Living Art hosted by Dr. Michael Woodson, and has had the fortunate opportunity to release a full length poetry collection titled Ashes to Burn through Transcendent Zero Press. In April of 2015, he released a novella titled Cigarette Burns through Kool Kids Press. In May of 2015, he released a second collection of poetry titled The Hell Inside Us through Earl of Plaid Press. Weasel has also appeared in an indie docu-mentary titled Something Out of Nothing (S.O.O.N.) directed by Mitchell Dudley. You can find more about Weasel and his writing at his website: http://poetweasel.weebly.com

Z.M. Wise - Z.M. Wise is a poet and poetry activist, writ-ing since his first steps as a child. He has been a written-word poet for almost two decades, and a spoken-word poet for four years. He is an Assistant Editor of Harbinger Asylum, a Houston-based, internationally known poetry magazine. He is co-owner of Transcendent Zero Press, an independent publish-ing house for poetry, with his dear friend and founder Dustin Pickering. He hosts a weekly reading at San Jacinto College. His first book of poetry, ‘Take Me Back, Kingswood Clock,’ pub-lished by MavLit, is available as both a hard copy and ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Nook, and Kindle. His second book that was released by Transcendent Zero Press, ‘The Wandering Poet,’ is available in both hard copy and digital form. Wise has also released another collection titled Wolf: An Epic and Other Poems through Weasel Press. Other than his three books, his poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, such as Boston Poetry Magazine, Coalesce Maga-zine, Great Poems of the Western World, Torrid literary Journal, FreeMyVerse, and A Celebration of Poets. The motto that keeps him going: POETRY LIVES! Mr. Wise will make sure to spread that message and the love of poetry, making sure it remains vi-brant for the rest of his days and beyond. To find out more about Z.M. Wise visit his website. http://zmwisethepoet.tumblr.com/