Three Poems

John Grey

THE SICKNESS OF OTHERS

I am writing this
as white as the pith of an orange.

Is she okay?
Her face is as red and sweaty
as a boiled beet.

Everything’s fine.
She’s durable.
She wasn’t born with a high temperature.

And her sweetness isn’t compromised.
Nor is the softness of her voice.

She’s vulnerable, as we all are.
A baby bawling for its comforter.
But tough like a hard-backed chair.

Her sickness is merely filtered through
the skin that she wore the last time 1 saw her.

Call it tropical orchards in bloom if you must.
Or any plant that’s nasty and meaty and beautiful
as all hell.

 

THE ARGUMENT FADES WITH THE MILES

For the longest time
I thought it was going to be
one of those futile drives

when nothing I said
could salve your mood exactly right
and I plead endlessly
until frustration overwhelms

but then the road
had the good sense
to change from paved to gravel
and the suburbs gave way

to farms and hay meadows
then rolling blue hills
followed by deep lush woods –

I stopped talking,
you still said nothing

but I had a sense
that there is more than
one kind of silence –

there’s that which sets itself up
as a counterpoint to sound –

there’s that which
chooses to hold its tongue

often and without warning.

 

REPENT AT YOUR LEISURE

No more tear
of conception, beds, relatives, bodies.
And virginal loneliness.
Sex happened
and it didn’t kill you both.
It was more like humanity
than you imagined
and less like a playground
for youth.
It reminded you of
the time you had orchestra seats
for a play,
front row in fact.
You could reach out
and almost touch the actors.
Only now.
it was more than almost.
You might never see him again
but you could always have husbands later.
For now,
you could believe that
was as close as life had ever got
to being all about you.
It may not have been heaven
but it was better
than nothing ever was.

————————————————————————–

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

4 Women: 1 Damaged, 3 Dead

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

1.

A woman supine on a Mexican blanket is pitted like an olive, with one deft twist. The brass bars of a wind chime hang above her like a skeleton. Her joints glow in the dark, like something freshly soldered. She sleeps.

The men in the front room peer out the glassless windows and listen for moans. When the infant comes, it will be an icon of metal scraps and fish-heads. They will set it in a bare corner atop a
stool.

It will scrabble. White powder will film its brown belly. One of its arms will be crustacean.

The dark man and his wife—their hands will fit together grimly, like railroad cars coupling.

2.

I took the tiny Guatemalan doll out of its knitted pouch. It looked like Nanci, recently dead. Dark hair, straight features, a Twilight Zone moment.

Nanci could have reincarnated as this doll, comfortable in her little pouch with no need for food, toileting or other mortal maintenance.

She looks forward to my gently removing her from the knit-work to hold insomniac
conversations. She has plenty of time to catch up on her sleep. After all, she’s dead and, as she always joked, busy painting or making photographs or traveling in distant lands, I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.

3.

My dentist tells me I have acid erosion. Then he bashes Princess Diana. She might have been pretty but she was dumb, he says, a typical aristocratic British daughter, raised to be a potential Windsor brood mare.

What are you saying, I demand. Diana’s been dead… how long? And today you want to bash her? You know I admired and respected Diana. You know I was in love with her (I stifle a sob).

I regret taking the nitrous oxide. Me and Dent huff it recreationally after my appointments, at other times too. We prefer it to cocktails.

Oh, he says, a new biography just came out about good old Princess Dead. I’ve been reading it, and the author’s style and sensibilities have affected me.

Dent and I have been friends since junior high, when he admired my performance art. Now I’m a portrait painter, not terribly successful. I show up in his office in paint-spattered pants. Dent pays his assistant extra to work on me because she despises me and the smell of turpentine.

Dentistry is soulless, I accuse him. Every year you become more callous, more empty. Princess Diana shone like the Virgin in the grotto at St. Mary Star of the Sea.

Dent turns off the nitrous. He yawns. Yeah, yeah, she was a princess she was, he says in a bad British accent.

4.

My favorite cousin killed herself. She took a massive dose of Benadryl. She won’t have to worry about bee allergies ever again. She won’t have to run screaming from them. She won’t have to fear any toxin. She won’t have to fear the toxins inside her head.

I’m so pissed at her, I want to plunge my arm into a bee hive. I want to scream in earthly pain.


 

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois  has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including several times in THE MISCREANT. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and. was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To read more of his work, Google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

Two Poems

Jeff Bagato

They Don’t Call Them Gods Anymore

I didn’t earn any money
today—I sat here,
I wrote, I fought off
the blank page and the blank
mind; I tried to kill
the dullness of the world,
and the deadliness of
the dull, and I couldn’t
watch the mailman
sacrifice his hours placing
junk mail in the apartment
boxes one by one—it was
too deadly, too dull

Egyptians had gods who
told them how to behave,
who to be, what to know—
and you had to know
it after death,
but today
we don’t call them
gods any more

But we have religions and
therefore
we die

 

A Long Sweet Line

In the 50’s, everybody believed
the con
of good jobs
and television;
they believed the advertisements
and trusted
the advertisers.
They believed the power
of toothpaste
and the hamburger.

Now, people are jaded to the con;
it doesn’t cut it anymore,
and they fall for it
in smaller and smaller
numbers.

So a new line of con
is needed—
a better line,
that makes us think
we are not wallowing
in an extra 40 years of garbage,
an extra 40 years of bills
and brain damage
and death.

We need a whole new rock and roll,
a whole new Howdy Doody,
the next big cornflake,
some hot new sliced bread.

A better hamburger.

A face must sell the prizes,
deliver the sweet line of con
to young ladies’ ears
so they spread their legs
for the young men and make
them happy—like in
the 60s when the face said
turn on, tune in, drop out
and the hippie girls screwed automatic—
making the young men work
harder, the hamburgers get bigger,
cheaper and easier to afford,
and the space program lift off.

We need a new face

and a long, sweet line of con.

—————————————————————————–

Multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have recently appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, Gold Wake Live, Chiron Review, and Midnight Lane Boutique. Some short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and The Colored Lens. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.com.

Five Poems

PJ Carmichael

The Days Are Getting Shorter

“The future is fluid.”

Bricks line the city sidewalks
in protest of impending frost,
trees trashing their décor
in anticipation of the coming
cold.

Mornings have grown darker,
afternoons fleeting, evening’s
an eternity.

Night has fallen and refuses to
rise,

its stars among the dead and dying.
The forests are stifled into silence.

A collective lack
of energy permeates the landscape
and its sleepy populace,

bleeding life dry of its warmth.

Each breath gains visibility
as temperatures plummet,
ponds freezing slowly in plain view,
Days bringing with them

the guaranteed difficulty
of survival and sanity.

Light fades
before tired eyes
can fully open,

yet sleep still escapes
the frigid and weary.

(Each sunset is a struggle.)

Plans are abandoned
to prepare for hibernation,
goals of modest grandeur all put on hold.

(To save the world
or to feed a family?)

 

Off the Bridge

I walk to South Boston in
the pouring rain,

the waterfront spitting in my face,
angels shedding stillborn tears
that erode the aging bridge.

My shoes are the first victims,
soaked in evening’s sweat,
rainwater and ocean air,

puddles engulfing my feet
at every street corner.

The flood continues as I
cross over the to the other side,
droplets dragging me into
cracks in the asphalt, open
wounds that only deepen with

time.

Skies darken;
the heavens spill their fluids
over pedestrians, grey clouds

dispersed across the firmament.

Cold wind is unapologetic, assaulting
neck, face, cheeks, splashing innocent
passers-by with relentless fury.

Hair on my head: the mane
of a wet dog lost amongst gutters
and alleyways.

Eyes strain to see
through the storm
but to no avail.

Showers blind pedestrians,
the downpour continuing on
with no plans of ever
letting up.

Cars toss waves onto the crowded sidewalk.

The umbrella is of no use,

but I couldn’t care less.
This is the best part of my day.

 

A Passing Storm

Daydreams disregarded
by modern industry:

millions seek technological salvation.
Christ weeps again.

(We are the unloved neighbors
whose domestic disputes can be heard
through the walls.)

The global village
has been introduced to force
and firepower;

women and children
scour the landscape for sustenance.

Early-morning ghouls
swarm the subways
while worlds away

are torn apart
in a frantic and desperate search

for order and certainty.

Cloud cover provides conversation
at the local street corner,

the entire Earth and its inhabitants
perpetually turning

in a carnival of momentous occasions
and minor inconveniences,

a spectacle whose stories are carried on
by partial observers who believe

they’ve seen it all. The sky signals
rainfall. It darkens beneath rumors

of a benevolent creator.

By the time we can take it all in,
before we can make any sense of it,

the day has passed.

Listen to the requiem.

 

Rough Start

A slick layer of ice
coats the sidewalks,

innocent bystanders
thrown to the wet, cold concrete

after a single misstep,
an unfortunate lapse in judgment
regarding the next move

towards the semblance of stability.

I manage to avoid such fate
as others curse the Season,
blasphemies flowing like sweet
wine from their lips>

(I, too, have been guilty of this.)

The frozen ground does not respond
to its furious victims,

their expletives evaporating into the ether,
each obscenity as visible

as the breath it travels on.

Witnesses offer hesitant consolation,
the obligatory helping hand
outstretched towards a broken
body.

The asphalt
provides no comfort.

With each collapse,
a shout of frustration,
all too familiar and sadly relatable.

(I, too, cry out for warmth.)

Clothing torn, ruined
by the remnants of the storm.
The day is off to a rough start.

But in the midst of tragedy,
a lesson learned:

a peculiar camaraderie
to be found in each minor misery.

 

Through the Fire

I will live to see another day.
I will wake in the morning
with passion in the window,

the sun striking my eyes
with light and love,

an honest will
to survive

enveloping the dark days
of this year’s winter.

I’ll bask in the glory of frigid moonlight,

howl at the dying stars,
lungs bursting with frost,

melt the frozen crystals
with the warmth
of an ambitious
tongue.

I’ll stroll leisurely
into the future,

dive headfirst into every
early evening,

embrace the fleeting
comfort of an ever-
changing landscape,

rejoice in the shelter
of a lifeless forest,

spark a flame amidst
snowfall and barren limbs.

I’ll pass through the fire
of another sullen season,

sulk with satisfaction
through countless inevitable epiphanies,

drive each and every point home
until all notions have nowhere left
to stay.

I’ll welcome the uncertainty of new paths,

float along the wind and waves
in search of fresh views,
hidden treasures to pass the time.

I’ll stumble across discoveries
yet to be realized,

indulge in the unexpected,
savor the unique sensation

that comes with deeply breathing.

Oh yes,
I will live to see another day.

————————————————————————–

PJ Carmichael is a writer, noise musician, and outdoors enthusiast from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He finds himself alternating between immersion in the forestry of New England and observation of the sights and sounds of its cities. He is currently working on finding the balance between vice and virtue.

 

Three Poems

Jake Cosmos Aller

It Can’t Happen Here

The pundits and talking heads
The chaterati classes

All assure us
That it can’t happen here
Fascism will never happen here

Our democratic system
Superior to all others
Check and balances
Power of the media

Will prevent fascism
From taking root
In the American soil

They laugh
And talk amongst themselves
And laugh some more
Convincing themselves

Meantime the darkness
Continues to descend

As our President becomes more erratic
And frankly shows signs of insanity
The fascists supporting him
Gather strength

And one day
They strike back
With furry

When the powers that be
Try to remove the President

He mobilizes his army
His army of deplorables
And they mobilize

And his fascist supporters
In the government
Demand law and order
And restoration of the Leader of the people
As they have started calling the President

He comes back into power
And demands
Unspecified emergency powers

And so, the cycle ends
And fascism wrapped inside a Christian flag

Comes to America
Full vengeance
As they take charge

And the chaterati classes
Are all arrested
The first to be rounded up

America has fallen
The media stars
All comply

The leader is great
America is great
And all who oppose him

Must be terror sympathizers
Or Tersymps for short
And deserve to be rounded up

Public protests are forbidden
Muslims must register
Atheists must be fired

Alt media is shut down
The internet is censored

And I weep
As I see the once great American nation
Descend into a fascist nightmare

And I wait for the midnight knock on the door
Knowing that I am on the list.

Knock Knock knock
Open it is homeland security……

 

Masters of the Universe

The earth has been invaded
By hideous blood sucking vampires
Disgusting vile alien creatures
Devoid of all compassion
Lacking any human empathy

These so-called Masters of the universe
These psychopathic monsters
Are everywhere
They even took over the White house

And to these vile creatures
Everyone is nothing but a commodity
These alien monsters
Worship the god of the market
While proclaiming that they serve Jesus

Jesus would turn over in his grave
To see these people in action

The airlines in Florida
Facing the worst hurricane in world history
Decided that the expeditated thing to do
The MBA approved thing to do
The profit maximizing, screw the public thing to do

Was to raise prices 600 percent
Without prior notice charging 3,000 dollars

Instead of doing the right thing
The compassion thing
The human thing of offering free flights to all

These executives, these so-called Masters of the Universe
thus, demonstrated that they are no longer human

But greed driven monsters
As are all the other soulless automatons
Who have taken over the world

Perhaps some day
Jesus will come back
And smite these motherfuckers
Send them to the hell they so richly deserve

We can only pray
For our deliverance from such evil
From the soulless evil masters of the universe
Who have taken over the planet

 

Idiots in High Places

Many years ago
I was amazed to find
So many idiots in high places
All over the world

Senators, congressmen
Office directors
Presidents
Corporation CEO’s

All were idiots
Completely stupid

People who should have known
A thing or so
because they should have seen a thing or so

and yet these idiots in high places
would reveal their total ignorance
every time they opened their mouth
or tweet or email their profoundly wrong thoughts

and it never ceased to amaze me
that few ever challenged these idiots
few ever said but you are wrong
or you don’t have a clue

and these idiots caused so much damage
to those around them
to the country and the world

and now we have the idiot in chief
in charge of the richest most powerful country
the world has ever known

and I wonder how in a country of 350 million people
we ended up with such an idiot in charge

But the idiots in high places phenomenon
Exists everywhere

Corporations made stupid decisions
Countries make incredibly bad decisions

All traced back to idiots in high places
And these idiots in high places
Can’t hide their ignorance and pure stupidity

They can’t pretend anymore
In a world of 24/7 constant news
The idiots every pronouncement
Fills the airways 24/7

And the only people who know better
Are too afraid to say what they know

That the idiot in high place
Is an idiot
and is destroying the world

and so, we doomed to die
due to the idiot in high places

——————————————————————————-

John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department in ten countries – Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, Korea, India, St Kitts, St Lucia, St Vincent, Spain, and Thailand. Prior to joining the U.S. State Department, Jake taught overseas for eight years. Jake served in the Peace Corps in Korea. Jake has been an aspiring novelist for several years and has completed four novels, (Giant Nazi Spiders, “the Great Divorce” and “Jurassic Cruise”, and is pursuing publication. He has been writing poetry and fiction all his life and has published his poetry fiction in over 25 literary journals He speaks Korean, some Spanish and Thai. He grew up in Berkeley, California but has lived in Seattle, Washington DC and Stockton California. He has traveled to over 45 countries and 49 States.

 

Two Poems

John Grey

MIRROR

A mirror serves a purpose,
strives to remain constant
despite the changing faces –
sometimes someone new,
sometimes the same one
but a day older.

It’s not just
the one gray hair,
the blemish on the chin.
It reflects everything.
It’s up to us to pick and choose.

A mirror is okay with lake water
doing the job for it,
rippling a face
like a snake casting off slough.

Or even a window,
both in the glass family
even if the unwitting pane
can only accommodate parts of people
and, even then, its accuracy is disputed.

A mirror is not devious.
merely holds to the two dimensional doctrine:
return all that it is given
perfectly intact.
It has no interest
in where we go, what we do,
after we’re done looking.

For a mirror has no inner life,
is content to stare at a wall
until we return

A mirror can’t tell ugliness from beauty
though it assumes, on some level,
that, if we stare into it long enough,
we’ll make our own judgment.

A broken mirror, they say.
brings seven years’ bad luck.
But only if it’s the seven years’ bad luck
we already had coming.

 

GLAMOR QUEEN

The lady is idolized.
Forget the accomplishments.
Her perfect figure
warrants preserving after death.

Love the fantasy.
Skin stops at the edge of our inquiry.
Her eyes say
you’ve come far enough…
wallow in the color.

She had a child,
She wed a man.
She even has a delicate scar
beneath her skin
from a minor car accident.

But her breasts don’t believe
in life stories.
And her hips have nothing to gain
from how she pays her bills on time.

The lady is in our heads
posing for our thoughts.
She can’t be in her head.
Her face won’t allow it.

LEOPARD SKIN

Blame the lack of stimulants in the air.
Call me an effigy made of stone.
But my blood refuses to be wooed
despite your come-hither gesture.

The moonlight lies like a sheet
on your spotted body.
Your language is a brighter shade of pink.
Lamp tries to warm

but the background music is frozen.
It’s your leopard-skin that’s at fault.
It prods my sensibilities like a pistol barrel.
What’s next? An ocelot coat?

You’re pushing a rock up a hill
if you imagine I can love you in that.
No, make that fighting a big cat bare-handed.
My ideals are clear on the subject.

I‘m so like the leopard,
searching for that justice we seek
but will never find.
And, despite your sexy winds blowing my way,

I will not waver.
For necrophilia, bestiality –
that is the love and sex you offer.
So here we are in the living room –

a man and a corpse
that’s embalmed by pretty green eyes
and a flash of shoulder-length black hair.
But the shadows under those eyes are pits.

Those tresses are a form of tallow.
Really, your insinuations arc beginning to sicken me
Sure, you insist your leopard-skin is really a fake.
But a fake’s the real thing in this light.

————————————————————————-

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Field of Vision

Stefanie Bennett

“Everyone knows that the dice are loaded,
everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.”

(L. Cohen & S. Robinson)

He said ‘I lend you love’
which meant – lease:
the aftertaste
of lips
dispersed
on spent tourmaline.

The attache of indifference
doesn’t come
to terms
with chancery.
Doesn’t see
the meteor fall

or how she aggregates
the delicate
architecture


 

Stefanie Bennett ex-blues singer and musician has published several books
of poetry, a novel and a libretto and worked with No Nukes – Arts Action
For Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was
born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s been nominated for the Pushcart
and Best of the Net.

Three Poems

Matt Dennison

Runaway

I ran away because my
parents told me that
I needed to do better
in school and I wanted
people to know exactly
what I wanted to do
with my life. I wanted
to be a professional
wrestler and I wanted
them to know that
my life was out of their
hands. I ran away to
make them miss me, and
when they did,
I was the one to
determine whether they
saw me or not.

Wrestler

He takes a back hand
and he grabs the rope
praying that he’ll
get a few minutes rest.
He gets that rest,
and it’s exactly at
that moment that he
pokes his opponent in
the eye.

Love

He dreams of the day
he touches her. His
eyes only ever look
at her and he thinks
about the day he gets
to touch her and hold
her and he dreams
of the day she’ll be
his and he dreams
of the day she’ll
kiss him.

————————————————————————–

Matt Dennison hails from Florida. His work can be found in numerous journals, but he really wants you to read the work he submitted to The Miscreant first.

About

Uncategorized

The Miscreant publishes flash fiction and poetry that challenges social boundaries, makes us rethink what it means to be human–and more importantly, bludgeons us over the head with raw, honest reality.

Submissions are on a rolling basis and responses will typically be given within two weeks.

The Miscreant is a Duotrope listed publication; further info can be found here: https://duotrope.com/listing/19973

Flash fiction pieces should be no longer than 600 words and poetry should be no longer than 20 lines.

Send your work, along with a short bio, in the body of an email addressed to themiscreantmag@gmail.com.

Please submit no more than five poems or short fiction pieces per issue.

The Miscreant is an equal opportunity publishing venture. It does not discriminate on the basis of gender identity, sexual identity, race, religious affiliation and/or disability.

Issue 9a

Table of Contents

Poetry

Four Poems—-Steve Klepetar

Five Poems—Donal Mahoney

JEHOVA FRAGMENT #7

JEHOVAH FRAGMENT #8

JEHOVAH FRAGMENT #11—Joseph J. Wood

Caseworker Arrives—Catherine Zickgraf

Two Poems—Chella Courington

On Platform 2, You See Yourself—-Kate Garrett

Tenacity—-Nikki Anne Schmutz

 

Fiction

I Know—Beate Siggridaughter

Romantic Precepts for the Aesthetically Challenged—Jacob Appel

Final Transmission of HMS Prayopavesa—Joseph J. Wood

Three Fictions—Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Issue 8

Table of Contents

Poetry

Three Poems–Eric Allen Yankee

Three Poems–Andi Stout

Three Poems–Tim Suermondt

Three Poems–Irena Koronas

Three Poems–Robert Cole

Two Poems–PJ Carmichael

Two Poems–David Wright

Three Poems–Marc Frazier

 

Fiction

Vows–Barry Basden

The Johnny Carson Show–Gary V. Powell

This story is a stone–James Lloyd Davis

Scintilla Whiff’s Short Day–strannikov

 

Reviews:

Music: Outer Edge (Ollocs)

Books: Underwater Typewriter (Marc Zegans)

Issue 4

Uncategorized

Fiction:

Three Stories–Matt Hill

Flim-flam–Chris Okum

Two Stories–Barry Basden

Mandatory Options–Robert Cole

Rwanda Suite: Cabaret La Prospérité–Steven Gowin

First Week–Cezarija Abartis

Tale from a Möbius Strip–strannikov

Sisters–Christopher Allen

Sausages–Deborah Oster Pannell

Thunder Snow–Gary V. Powell

Poetry:

Three Poems–Keri Withington

Four Poems–Emily Bertholf

never a baby–jan Ball

Three Poems–Jenene Ravesloot

Two Poems–Lucy Logsdon

About

Uncategorized

The Miscreant publishes flash fiction and poetry that challenges social boundaries, makes us rethink what it means to be human–and more importantly, bludgeons us over the head with raw, honest reality.

Submissions are on a rolling basis and responses will typically be given within two weeks.

The Miscreant is a Duotrope listed publication; further info can be found here: https://duotrope.com/listing/19973

Flash fiction pieces should be no longer than 600 words and poetry should be no longer than 20 lines.

Send your work, along with a short bio, in the body of an email addressed to themiscreantmag@gmail.com.

Please submit no more than five poems or short fiction pieces per issue.

The Miscreant is an equal opportunity publishing venture. It does not discriminate on the basis of gender identity, sexual identity, race, religious affiliation and/or disability.

Two Poems

Chella Courington

Three-Quarter Time

I watched a woman
hair once the color of coal
shape bagels at the corner deli
her long fingers
looping dough around her hand
rolling it on white marble
until a round tube twirled
in on itself.

She dropped the circle
into steaming water
the dough rose swollen & wet

Through her I saw
faintly a girl
in dark braids sitting
at a Wurlitzer
turning pages faster & faster
until the paper floated up
my hands holding to the treble clef
swinging above brick and tile
through altostratus clouds.

 

The Steady Drain of Habit

as two bodies
side by side
sharing the same bed
same morning coffee
wake one Wednesday
or maybe Sunday
see the other
etched in lines
crevices of the past
and walk away
to find what’s lost.

———————————————————————–

Chella Courington is a writer and teacher. With a Ph.D. in American and British Literature and an MFA in Poetry, she is the author of six poetry and three flash fiction chapbooks. Her poetry appears in numerous anthologies and journals including Non-Binary Review, Pirene’s Fountain, and The Los Angeles Review.