The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
In the heart of Nara Park there is a five story pagoda. Deer appear, standing sentinel along the lantern lined walk. Up the unseen hill the Temple bell announces the full arrival of morning as the Golden Buddha awakens. Young children can see all of this through eyes unlensed, and fetter free. They watch clouds release a cascade of tiny maple leaves which flow over sitting monks, a stream washing spring into the waiting valley. I sit with my granddaughter in the center of a dry garden. The Jizo will watch us. The three of us throw leaves into the air as the wrens echo our laughter in a five tiered cacophony. Louis Faber’s His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Europe and Asia, including in Arena Magazine (Australia), Whisky Blot, Glimpse, South Carolina Review, Rattle, Pearl, Dreich (Scotland), Alchemy Stone (U.K.), and Flora Fiction, Defenestration, Constellations, Jimson Weed and Atlanta Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. On the steps of the Temple the unexpected morning snow which cast a threadbare blanket over the gates and lanterns recedes slowly like a supplicant whose prayers have been offered. The candle flames shiver in the strong February wind while the Buddha sits, implacable. In the park below a dragon kite takes the wind and swoops and darts higher and higher, staring down at the Temple and the children laughing as they chase each other among the trees. It is gold, red and black reflecting the sun, the fires of heaven dance down over the head of the gold robed priests who bow while chanting the prayer cards yet look up and smile at the serpent who dips his tail to the enlightened one and tears off after a cloud. Louis Faber’s His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Europe and Asia, including in Arena Magazine (Australia), Whisky Blot, Glimpse, South Carolina Review, Rattle, Pearl, Dreich (Scotland), Alchemy Stone (U.K.), and Flora Fiction, Defenestration, Constellations, Jimson Weed and Atlanta Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Drowning Drowning in self pity Drowning in guilt Drowning in the workload Unmatched socks, piles of paper and unfinished projects. Drowning in my own unhealthy body. Drowning in “what-ifs” Drowning in listlessness I think they call it ennui Drowning in a lack of desire To do anything But drown myself In another. And another. And another. If you maintain this lifestyle you won’t reach 30. – Marillion, Torch Song Kim Hurley has been writing since she learned how to hold a pen. By day, she’s a professional copywriter at a global non-profit – think, Sally Struthers – using her storytelling abilities to extract financial support for children around the world. By night, she drinks wine and pounds away at her Mac, freelancing to make ends meet. This week I went fishing for a sea monster. I go every Friday. The one I want has scales hard as silence And moonlit eyes that see straight through you, As if to say ‘I could do better’ To be fair, he could. I’ve caught him twice before. The first time he got away, Diving so deep, I could hardly see his outline As he sped away. The second time I let him think he got away But I used a line so long It went to the bottom of the ocean. So I just have to be patient. I bought more than a few good books. Right now he’s somewhere near Greenland, Annoying the icebergs. He'll be back. People say I’m crazy. That I could be doing better things With all my time and all my line. That the flat and ceaseless ocean is no companion And I should find someone to dance with. I say they’ve never met my dragon. And if they ever had the chance, To gamble all their heart On some reckless, wild chase, Then I hope they jump at it. Even the shadow of a sea serpent Can outshine the sun. The writing of Holly Payne-Strange has been lauded by USA Today, LA weekly and The New York Times. Her poetry has been published by various groups including Door Is A Jar magazine, Quail Bell, In Parenthesis, and Dipity Lit Magazine, among others. After he died, she had no interest in taking care of her husband’s prized garden. The neighbors would always comment on the enviable beauty of the grounds, perfected by many years of his obsessive and careful tending. But she hated yard work in the hot sun, disliked mosquitos and the scent of insect repellent. The smell of sweat and potting soil on her husband made her sick. And most of all, she detested the fact that work in the yard is never done. Each season has its own set of critical tasks. There are always sticks to pick up, leaves to rake, grass to mow, weeds to pull, watering, fertilizing and spraying pesticides. Year round, her husband spent most of his free time out there. So, you might wonder why she is working in the yard today. The neighbors certainly do, as they look through their windows. They are horrified when she rips out all the foliage from the garden and throws it in the street. They watch her place pavers in patterns for a winding walkway and pour bags of colored gravel between the arcs of stones. The neighbors observe with dismay as she places large pots of artificial plants on the gravel along the garden path. They hesitate to ask her about it, but sense that something is terribly wrong. Something more than a simple dislike of gardening. William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published ten collections of poetry and one book of short stories all available on Amazon.com. Over two hundred and thirty of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and his work is frequently anthologized. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com. I’m working nights again, the light of six computer monitors glowing bright and humming low, security feeds segmented into scenes the size of a postcard. Given time zones, the 3-hour time difference, and your sleep schedule, I could text. Maybe tell you that I love you. But I hate you. We aren’t speaking and a trespasser appears on the black-and-white security feed — small, so small that they could fit between your calloused hands, enclosed by walls made of tobacco-stained fingers, dying from suffocation. Or maybe small enough to be plucked backwards from the gate, guided sternly back across the street within your sturdy grip. It’d be as if they’d never crossed beneath the archway to begin with, but they’ve crossed the gate, they’ve moved beyond the threshold. I announce the intrusion via radio, my voice monotone and flat as it travels across the electronic current. The guards are on their way and thoughts of you depart in waves. You size glasses for a living. Your hands, constantly coated with dust and dirt and grime at home, the home you never want to be in, are scrubbed and washed, unsullied, while you’re out fiddling with borrowed instruments. When you say “I never cared enough to do anything else,” I believe you. You’ve never cared enough. At least, under your insurance plan, I’m offered vision care. I leave work and let a subway car carry me to someplace else — a place where I have my own money, where I’m never beat up or choked out, where I don’t feel quite as angry. A man at the end of the car scratches madly at his arms and legs, reopening old wounds. There’s blood on his hands; it touches everything. The sight is irritating and makes the hairs on my arms bristle, it sets my teeth rattling — but I’m headed someplace else. I scroll through old texts. Where are you staying tonight? And what are your plans for tomorrow? The years seem to be passing by faster and faster. Someplace else, it’s nice out, sunny and mild. I take my time walking back. Before the pandemic, I’d pass parents and children on their way to school, smiling politely. Now, I pass refrigerated trucks that serve as temporary morgues. In a pandemic, you start to think of everything as a virus. Allergies. The common cold. Policing and its penchant for violence. You start to think of contempt as a virus. It infects us on a cellular level, becomes a part of us, and then it replicates. It spreads, moving from one host to the next. We die or we survive, but survival is insufficient. There is no full recovery. The virus lingers in the body. Its symptoms weigh you down for so long, your body changes. You adapt until, without realizing, you start to think of yourself as a virus. We’ll need to restart everything. Did you ever try on any glasses? I guess I’ll pick a pair for you. I have about a week left to exchange them. Hey Jake, what’s your address? I have your glasses. I’ll mail them today. Hi Jake, can you try and pick up those glasses because when I track the package it says that they tried to deliver and now it’s at the post office. If you are unable to get the package I will remake the glasses. The post office says they held the package for the required amount of days and now they are returning to sender. I already reordered 2 new pairs for you, how should I send them? Are you planning a trip home anytime soon? Keep me posted. I did not ship them again because you were moving. Just tell me where to send them. I sleep the rest of the morning away. The light outside my window shifts to afternoon. I wake up and immediately check my phone. Multiple missed calls. I sleep with the ringer on silent. There’s a voicemail left by you. I listen, but it isn’t you. It’s from your number, but it isn’t you. It’s mom. On the other end of the line is the sound of primal screaming emerging at the front end of grief, a cry expressing pain so devastating, so earth-shattering and destructive, that the sound gives rise to a deafening, all-consuming silence. I leave New York wearing a mask and let an airplane carry me home. There’s no signal, so I scroll through old texts to the last you ever sent. My part is done, you wrote. I wish I’d seen it before. My part is done. Staring at screens all night has left me bleary-eyed. I’m getting older and the years seem to be passing by faster and faster. In nine days, I’ll be twenty-six. In nine days, I’ll lose my vision care. I don’t see anything particularly troubling about this fact. If my glasses break, you’ll fix them. If they’re lost, you’ll still replace them. We aren’t speaking. I hate you and you’ve never cared enough, but you size glasses for a living and I love you. Jacob Moniz is a graduate of UC Santa Cruz, NYU, and the University of Notre Dame. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Catamaran Literary Reader, Penumbra, Chicago Quarterly Review, The Ocotillo Review, and Southeast Review, among other journals and publications. He is the recipient of a grant from the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts at the University of Notre Dame, which he used to fund a multimedia arts project based on his family history in São Miguel, Azores. He has since been selected as a 2023-2024 Fulbright Student Researcher to continue work on this project in Portugal. Couple kerfuffle… hack bonsai, bow, drink sake …Harmony ensues. Ms. Kalouria, a retired language teacher and soap actress, now writes in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. Her online poems (3 or more) are found at Classical Poets Society, Lighten Up!, Take 5ive, LOL Comedy, The Literary Vegan, and The 5-2 Crime Weekly Blog. Poems in Anthologies include: Quoth the Raven, A Glass of Wine With Edgar, Poems From the Lockdown; Lifespan: Love Vol. 4, Classical Poets Society Vol. 10, and Nothing Ever Happens in Fox Hollow. They said I should have loved a crane wife, her bleeding out in snow, onto ivory ice, I would give her my cloak and she would be the female Christ, her blood stain my kimono, and as I carried her home to rice paper walls, on bent back, she would sing the sister stars down, and those souls departed would flock around me, and I would know something of the afterlife, offering up my pain and beauty to death, and as her wings married my mind and marred my pain stains into something quixotic, I would quicken, and Hell would have no place in my palace, and I would make a thousand like her, all for one wish of peace, after Hiroshima bombed me quite starstruck and desolate, and the grave of the fireflies wept. They say I should have loved a crane wife instead. But I became the bank of winter she drowned in, you see. And I would never steal feathers or clip the wings off a bird. We let our greatest potential go, and in that, grow. Love is not the answer. The answer is a frozen rose. Hope is not my delight. No, it is sacrifice. And as the crane flies free, I am left flying kites, looking up at the clouds, and dreaming of redemption found at bitter beak and angel lips, and a thousand other impossible things. Allister Nelson is a poet and author whose work has appeared in Apex Magazine, The Showbear Family Circus, Eternal Haunted Summer, SENTIDOS: Revistas Amazonicas, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, FunDead Publications Gothic Anthology, and many other venues. Her most recent publication, "The Tobias Problem," was just nominated for a Pushcart Prize at Freedom Fiction. Sunlit ocean waves break on seaweed covered granite. Sea birds dive in surf foam for a meal. Cars bring weekenders. Good companions bring joy They trudge unimpaired strolling alongside shore. I can no longer walk far (the price of inactivity and years). Still, I am older than my father ever got to be. What day is like this in all of history?! The sun’s yellow ball burns in the blue sky. I cannot think of the words. Instead I make notes hoping to remember later how to convey my elation. I have lived through psychosis and thoughts of suicide, lived to see a day like this. I want to remember the smell of its sunshine as I pass through bleak days ahead. I want to show you its fervid energy with words, but my hand lies limp as I sit at a bar and drink my Virgin Mary. Ed Krizek holds a BA and MS from University of Pennsylvania, and an MBA and MPH from Columbia University. For over thirty years Ed has been studying and writing poetry. He is the author of six books of poetry: Threshold, Longwood Poems, What Lies Ahead, Swimming With Words, The Pure Land, and This Will Pass All are available on Amazon.com. Ed writes for the reader who is not necessarily an initiate into the poetry community. He likes to connect with his readers on a personal level. A moment in time and a brief memory, whispered words softly spoken in a darkened room. The dust rising in a cloud in some distant desert, sunlight shining through the ashes of all our yesterdays. We live many lives wearing many masks, we love too much and too often or not enough or not at all. We spend our lives fearing death, while we let love die before our eyes. Our bones will one day be but dust as we find our last resting place; or our bodies will become mere ashes in the final fire of our lives. Death is not always at the end and it is not always an ending: through love we sometimes die a deeper death than that which eternal sleep can bring. I have walked in the dust of yesterday and left footprints the wind won’t touch; I have risen from the ashes of love gone bad and found peace flying above and beyond. I have seen the Phoenix and will follow its flight: rising out of the ashes, flying through the dust. John RC Potter is an international educator (currently university counsellor, previously principal & teacher) and gay man from Canada, living in Istanbul. He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, “Snowbound in the House of God” (Memoirist, May 2023). His poems and stories have been published in a range of magazines and journals, most recently in Blank Spaces, (“In Search of Alice Munro”, June 2023), Literary Yard (“She Got What She Deserved”, June 2023) & Freedom Fiction (“The Mystery of the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author”, July 2023). It was recently announced that "She Got What She Deserved" has been named as one of the Top 100 Projects in the 7th Annual Launch Pad Prose Competition. Learn more at author-blog.org and https://twitter.com/JohnRCPotter. we went fishing that one time Dad and I used these little strips of lead you could twist them into all kinds of shapes weigh down the line so it didn’t float on the surface in the sun innocuous, commonplace toxicity dismissed out of hand Patricia Wentzel lives at the confluence of two rivers which may explain why she sometimes writes work that stirs the silt of social conventions especially around mental health. She has been previously published in the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA), the Light Ekphrastic, Right Hand Pointing, and has work forthcoming in the Cutbow Quarterly, the Tule Review and the Monterey Poetry Journal. Sorry, my knees don’t bend that way. Shantih. Mark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses. He has also been a working poet for almost 50 years. An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka, Dante, and his wife, activist and documentarian Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco, where he makes his marginal living pointing out pretty things. He can be found reading his poetry here: https://www.youtube.com/@markj.mitchell4351. A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/. A primitive web site now exists: https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/ He sometimes tweets @Mark J Mitchell_Writer Drunk at noon in the city of Baudelaire, I am back at my hotel, deprived of sleep, here for an afternoon nap. I yank the curtains shut, lie down on the bed, think about all the ghosts who’ve occupied this space before me. Ghosts. I can almost see them gliding across the carpet, laughing, arguing, making love in the milky maundering moonlit hours. This hotel is ancient. It’s at least 200 years old. I can hear a strange occasional clicking inside the walls. I can hear the floors groaning. I can feel the heavy rumble of the metro as it passes underneath the building. I fold the pillow around my skull, throw the duvet over me. But after about 10 minutes, it becomes clear – I’m too wired to sleep. How can you sleep in bright liquid August in the city of Picasso, Cendrars, Hemingway? I ponder the question for a bit, though I know the answer. So, I climb out of bed - I too am a ghost in this hotel’s memory - pulling up my trousers, lacing my shoes. I grab my wallet off the dresser and, remembering I am in the city of Villon, remove bank card licenses Deutschland Ticket everything but €30 and head up to Montmartre. M.P. Powers is the author of The Initiate (Anxiety Press, Fall, 2023). Recent publications include the Columbia Review, Black Stone/White Stone, Mayday Magazine, and others. His artwork can be found on Instagram @mppowers1132. English language lamentation: mighty vocab notwithstanding! Clunky linear equations – imbued pathos not commanding. Romance linguists venire boldly; spry phonemics rattle-patter… Latin phrases comfort coldly; verbum ordo doesn’t matter. Syntaxe française quite dynamic: morphemic déclinaisons flounce. Bellas frases panoramic: Spanish dicción diphthongs pronounce. Modern word choice can constrict one, forcing language leaps to craft puns. Christopher Capri (he/him) is a poet and fiction author whose work focuses on the experiences of his LGBTQ+ community; while completing an MFA in Poetry at Lindenwood University, he is a Fiber Artist and educator, Editorial Board Member of Cicada Creative Magazine, and member of Worcester Writers’ Collective. Chris’ work has been featured in Drip Literary Magazine, Graphic Violence Lit, and Fifth Wheel Press’ upcoming Dreamland. Find out more at christophications.com. There are three ways to go over, under, across the center knot, it all starts with the slip watch your master’s hands as he executes the twists and turns, motions smooth, too quick to follow – blacksmith hammer on the anvil if you don’t pick it up today, tomorrow brings another task, new loads to secure. Checkerboard moves made, no shades of gray – battles won, fortunes lost. Breathe deep, clear your mind, begin again – STEVE SIBRA grew up on a small wheat farm in North Central Montana, near the town of Big Sandy (population approximately 800 people). His work has appeared in numerous literary journals, magazines and newspapers over the past 3 decades, including Chiron Review, Jellyfish Review, Jersey Devil, Flint Hills Review and others. His full length book of poetry, Shoes For Baby, was published in 2022 by Swallow Publishing. Steve resides in the Seattle area. Already knew it, Long before I did. When told you left me, They managed to nod. Kept watching the ballgame. Spoke as little as possible-- Except to order more whisky; On my tab, of course. Can’t say I blamed the boys. Would have done the same, If they met a similar fate. Warned me, again and again, Claimed you were out of my league. Should have listened to them. Saved my folding money For more nights like these. Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023, forthcoming from Meadowlark Press. He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. His work has been widely anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Fountainhead Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, Simon & Schuster, Thomson/Heinle, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California. It sits off an alley that winds off an alley halfway up the hill you climb from Akasaka to Ropponggi, cursing the layout of the subway at the end of a too long day of meetings. There are no plastic samples in a glass case outside the door just a t-shirt and beer mug, for ribs and fires don’t translate well to polystyrene and the loud oldies rock that engulfs you says it all anyway. Around the back, down still another alley, where the neon fades to partially blinding, the chef at Spago sucks on his Lucky Seven and stares at the Hard Rock Café and dreams he is Elvis. A splotch of Heinz ketchup a bit of veggie burger falls on my white cotton shirt sleeves rolled mid-forearm, while the waitress refills my Sapporo and giggles her way into the kitchen. Louis Faber’s His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Europe and Asia, including in Arena Magazine (Australia), Whisky Blot, Glimpse, South Carolina Review, Rattle, Pearl, Dreich (Scotland), Alchemy Stone (U.K.), and Flora Fiction, Defenestration, Constellations, Jimson Weed and Atlanta Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. On the side of Blackrock Village
Where nursed flowers adorn the square See visitors enjoy the spectacle Of Cork rowers on the pier. When sky is bruised and silent Up Old Blackrock Road Hear oars displace the quiet With such grace they shift their load. Olympians or enthusiasts The thrill is just the same Watch the shells fly towards Blackrock Castle And see them fly back again. Owen O’Sullivan has studied both Film Making and Photography at St. John’s Central College, Cork. His love for the Arts comes from his father who would sing the songs of Van Morrison while walking with his children around Blackrock Castle. He has been writing poetry for twelve years and has been published in Ireland, U.K., and U.S.A. He graduated from University College Cork in 2021 after studying Youth and Community and is currently coordinator for Mahon Meals on Wheels. He lives in Blackrock, Cork. One is ironing his habit carefully, nosing the hot tip of the iron into gathers frowning in the off-white fabric. There is a method here, a dance implicit in the movements made, stepped into many times before – hand-lift and footfall surely done. Skill focussed on the task in hand, it has the comeliness of calm performance like fruit ripening, a steady coming to the full. He parks the iron to cool down, leaving all as neat as before. Carrying the alb across his arms it looks like a limp pietà. Jim Friedman has been published online and in anthologies. He had his first collection published in 2022. He is working on a second collection. Fly you rebel, you charlatan, for who other than a trickster could feel lightness in such times as these? Although you circle and swoop, we know the world is broken. And the tears we cry at that knowledge forever stain our cheeks. Don’t shimmer in the golden glow of daybreak, don’t bring another dawn if it cannot be better than those we have already seen. I see you as you want us to – benevolent, generous – but the sheen blinds us from the truth. Yet, you touch me, and the sting of gratification inoculates my doubts, makes me want to trust. But tell me, how can we soar, how do we survive when each day whittles away our resolve. How do we overcome the burdens handed us, the holes that can’t be filled with 10,000 shovelfuls of dirt. No, even you can’t pretend that all will be well. You rise higher, but at some point, the wax will melt. David Mihalyov lives near Lake Ontario in Webster, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and beagle. His poems and short fiction have appeared in Ocean State Review, Dunes Review, Free State Review, New Plains Review, San Pedro River Review, and other journals. His first poetry collection, A Safe Distance, was published by Main Street Rag Press in 2022. I want to slam the steel tracks and bomb the railcar that’s scheduled to take you away from me. I become hard like you but not in a hotel way. The stabbing below my waist is the hate I start to have for the things I love: your five o’clock shadow, your David body, your Joker laugh, your addicting affirmations, your stare from green eyes we both share. all because I am not there, on the steel tracks in the railcar with you. Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a poet from Long Island, New York who currently lives in Troy, NY with her two cats: Nash and Emily Dickinson. San Pedro River Review, 34 Orchard, Defenestration, Hobo Camp Review, Bending Genres, The Mantle, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Glass: a Poetry Journal are some of the places you will find her. She is the author of three chapbooks, Temptation of Wood (Nixes Mate Review, 2018), Goblin Fruit (Impspired, 2021), and Primitive Prayer (Plan B Press, fall 2022). Visit her at www.nancybyrneiannucci.com Instagram: @nancybyrneiannucci when she came to leave her tearful goodbye whispered like a hand grenade Ian Gouge is an experienced author and poet with numerous volumes mainly Indie published but some with non-fiction published traditionally. i. I bowed to the crows when I realized your presence turned my eyes to tongues. Mind led where body resisted. But how could I scare something so rare? ii. Alone with you, time held a match to my belly and rusted my spine. Time was a deep sea oil spill when I had you I hemorrhaged you. iii. A lone sisserou choosing my shoulder would coo as it pleased while I’d cower, memorize its weight; wait for the talon in the collarbone. iv. You flew off before the gentle bleach of habit falling like first snow. But weren’t there others in need of technicolor and a way back home? Lindsay Clark is a resident physician living in California with her family. The formal fashion of an ode, reflection of emotive style embraces only what I know, my heart, mind, soul combined to show a sole commitment, chosen goal. Holistic, mindful, common wealth, well-being in community, these I can raise, praiseworthy whole, but ill-defined when general, an ode to everything is null, a jack of all, master of none, like prayer of child that all be blest. But poets seek to garner verse, as anglers on a sea of words, the fisherman’s hope, she or he, from depths, swirl eddies, current flow. With net or rod, can it be hooked, some darting silver, flying fish, or is it shark fin, tuna tin? To catch a Water-God, old rope, detritus or the pearl, great price, the selkie, mermaid, siren call, must rise before the squall capsize; but will it suit their palate taste? Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including The Whisky Blot. He has, like so many, been a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/. Death caps mass in the rot of oakfall; nearby, a single chanterelle A lone bat flaps by-- streetlight and clapboard conjure its fleeting double Headlights lacerate heavy air, disappear; night heals without a scar Michael Rodman’s writing, including poetry and satire, has appeared in Bear Creek Gazette, Talking River Review, MAD Magazine, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Defenestration, Oddfellow, and elsewhere. His poem “Document (Undocumented)” was winner of the 2019 Oscar Wilde Award from Gival Press. His work has been adapted and presented onstage by Lively Productions in New York City. A native of Metro Detroit, he now lives in New Hampshire. |
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