MentalShoesMagazine by DH Dowling

7/30/2019 MentalShoesMagazine by DH Dowling

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'm never going to show this to anyone. Okay, maybe you.

Don't run away. Have a seat. Catch your breath.

As I sit in front of my computer, I find myself not knowing what to say.

I often don't know what to say to you. We're creative. A little crazy. We losetouch. We get lost. We lose ourselves to find ourselves.

These are the artists I want to tell you about. Snailbooty's mixed

media collages haunt me like ghosts. Fritz Liedtke's photographs pierce the

veil of consciousness. Husband and wife poets Gail Wronsky and Chuck

Rosenthal eerily unmoor me from space and time. Victor Rodriquez'

paintings are irresistibly fascinating. Julie Dermansky's art is alive with

insight. Karl Hurst's photographs have a stillness that is supernaturallycontemplative. Stephany Prodromides' poems are fierce and exuberant.

Dave Plunkert's illustrations are vivid messages. Will Henderson bakes you

cookies from scratch. ReyGuy soulfully documents the fate of aging.

Thisquietreverie's cyanotypes masterfully challenge the aesthetic reflex.

Holaday Mason's poems are spirit made palpable. Jason Bard Yarmosky's

paintings are beautifully rude awakenings anchored in the human condition.

Tom McKee's drawings are radical underground comics from an alternate

Renaissance. Joana Garrido's illustrations are inscrutably beautiful. CarterBlanchard's images twist reality in Massachusetts. Joyce Ho's paintings are

soft, psychological sonatas. Joe Scarano makes us laugh at his gallery of

jacked-up characters. John Stekl's photographs illuminate a steamy,

sensual Texas. Robert W. Johnson's paintings ignite a fire in the mind.

Gwen Murphy's sculptures are a wry wink at the paths we walk.

022 is for you. From me. Okay. Now, get lost.

Best regards,

D H Dowling

editor-in-chief



1. Cover: "He awaits your return" by Snailbooty

2. Shoephoria9. Snailbooty Mixed media collages

40. Fritz Liedtke Photographs

61. Gail Wronsky and

Chuck Rosenthal Poetry

71. Victor Rodriguez Paintings

102. Julie Dermansky Questions

128. Karl Hurst Photographs

158. Stephany Prodromides Poetry

165. Dave Plunkert Illustrations

188. Will Henderson Fiction

201. Reyguy Photographs

230. thisquietreverie Cyanotypes

255. Holaday Mason Poetry

261. Jason Bard Yarmosky Paintings

283. T om McKee Drawings305. Joana Garrido Illustrations

333. Carter Blanchard Photographs

348. Joyce Ho Paintings

366. Julie Dermansky Collages

393. Joe Scarano Paintings

420. John Stekl Photographs

452. Robert W. Johnson Paintings

477. D H Dowling Photographs503. Gwen Murphy Sculptures

525. Artist Pages

602. Editor Pages

605. From

606. Shoelinks

607. Credits

M E N T A L S H O E S M A G A Z I N E I S S U E 0 2 2

D H Dowling – editor-in-chief . Holaday Mason – poetry editor



T H I S I S N O T T H E P A G E

Y O U A R E L O O K I N G F O R



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S P A C E P O E M S

G A I L W R O N S K Y and

C H U C K R O S E N T H A L



Power, power you can’t conceive

And every living thing was destroyed by an incredible catastrophe.

Now which way do we go?

This is a key moment in the history of the world.

Where are we going to find trees down here?

It’s all right, Sandy. Something will come and save us.

Sometimes I almost want to leave.



They’ve classified the sky top secret now

Maybe we could use a helicopter.

We’ve certainly got enough bones to work with.

Foolish women—running like rabbits in the night.

You’re either fools, or very brave men.

I’m ashamed to be alive.



The tricks they tried, how childish they were

Your wife and unborn child are starving.

Any further damage reports?

Most of them are victims of that burning acid slime.

You can read all about it in the papers tomorrow.

If you wish, call it a premonition.



If you wish, call it a premonition

A policeman hears a lot of strange stories.

This is a true story. Only the facts have been completely distorted.

The world wants to know what happened. I will tell them.

It’s gonna be hard to keep the lid on now.

It doesn’t even resemble human skin anymore.

I shall be back tomorrow night. Bon soir.



A free trip to the moon

You and your vintage cars.

Did they have dials on them, and tubes, and wires on the outside?

Like a blade goes through atoms.

I shall go there in one of your bodies.

I’m not leaving here until I see Miss Mason.



And so it appears that these beings from another world have appealed for our help.

It is time, Earthman.

I think we better knock her out.

All these plants are nothing but men.

Perhaps in a way we’re being controlled too.

I think we better knock her out.

Not until she has to take some notes for us.Perhaps in a way we’re being controlled too.

Release him, or I’ll destroy your leader.

Not until she has to take some notes for us.

Young lady, you are not to discuss that with anyone.

Release him or I’ll destroy your leader.

Where did the eagle come from? Why do men have souls?

Young lady, you are not to discuss that with anyone.

I’ll take you dancing on Mars. How about that?

Where did the eagle come from? Why do men have souls?

Be ready to get out of here in a hurry.

I’ll take you dancing on Mars. How about that?

All these plants are nothing but men.Be ready to get out of here in a hurry.

It is time, Earthman.



HOLE TO ANOTHER UNIVERSE



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OF THE DAY



OF THE DAY

Question of the Day is a project that resulted in hundreds of pages of



Question of the Day is a project that resulted in hundreds of pages of

literary contact. It is a collaboration between myself and countless unidentified participants.

In 2003, I nailed a clipboard outside of my studio storefront on Elizabeth

Street and painted a large question mark above and below it. I diligently

posted a handwritten question of the day, each day first thing in themorning on a piece of paper.

I did not labor over them. I went with the first thought that came to mind

and framed it as a question. They didn't represent sequential ideas.

I continued the project for over 2 years.

The project now sits in Tupperware containers – the pages themselvesstuffed in paper bags, in an attic in New Jersey. Whenever I open the box

and handle the pages they speak to me.

Art projects including time and sequential action have always appealed

to me. The Question of the day remains one of my most treasured works.



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PRODROMIDES

Other

There’s a picture you’re looking for

you cannot find: Elbows to knees

in a black duster, dark hair curtained

across her face. Leicester Square,

The Northern Line. Spilled light on her cheek.

You might will her to draw back her hair . . .

But you could never find your way back home.

Clapton’s Lay Down Sally in echo.

The trace points of her spine the silk



The trace points of her spine, the silk,

the Way Out sign emblazoned overhead.

The unbuttoned wait for what never arrives.

Like silver for coffee at the waffle shop,

or mist after the funeral you didn’t attend,

there’s nobody in the frame.

She’s in the frame.This is understood.

Phoenix Song

Don’t look to me for guidance.

Go find your season of water and wind,

still in its original box.

Night spindles in, past crosshatched trees,and hammers me delicately thin.

Notice the copper sky, how the flat

gold moon seizes the flagstone walk,

makes once-upon-a-time

with the defenseless curve of it—and then it’s in.



I remember the shapely blue of you,

the birds in your eyes, the cattle

nodding their slow accord.

But everything is light now—a cant of silver

hills, bouquets of smoke-licked pines and rippling

orange blooms . . . Fly, beloved.

In fire season, love isn’t enough.

In fire season, swim like a fist.

After Regret

Before dawn, & Pandorea jasminoides

is naked again. Pattering,

salt fog pines weep the quiet.

Her white trumpet blooms

fold delicately downinto the grass, ghosts of green

times when a breeze swung them around

like a girl’s skirt.

The heavy bean seed box hangs

like yesterday’s Christmas. Or Eden.

Olives, & lepers—even in the Bible

they defiled their gardens



they defiled their gardens.

Broke salt into the earth.

Why does everything that still has faith

want curing? Not you, Pandorea. You submit

to the air. After regret—if it comes—

maybe you will join me

in Calico Ghost Town. The sweet

blue sky baking California wagon

wheels. A dash of tumbleweed

& extras on the storefront.

People come lively, & they give tours.

Things used to happen here.



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From scratch you bake cookies, and since you don’t follow recipes, you never know if you have toomuch or not enough of something until after the cookies are baked. Cookies that don’t turn out as you mean

them to turn out are not eaten. You wash your bowls and spoons and cups, and you start again. You try different

amounts of ingredients, and sometimes you try different ingredients, and you keep trying until you get the

cookies right.

I wouldn’t work so hard at baking cookies. I’d either follow a recipe, or, if I didn’t follow a recipe,

I’d at least eat what I took out of the oven.

Actually, I’d just buy one of those Pillsbury tubes of ready-made batter, and I’d spoon the batter into

little balls on the cookie sheets, put the sheets into the oven, make sure the oven was heated to the temperature

suggested on the packaging, and in 10 minutes (maybe a bit longer, to let the cookies cool) I’d eat the resulting

cookies.

When I was younger, I imagined elves churning out package after package of this dough. I figured they

had log-like cookie cutters, because the ready-made cookie dough always looks like a log wrapped in plastic.

You know what you’re getting when you buy ready-made cookie dough, but you don’t always know



what went into the ready-made cookie dough. Elf-chosen ingredients, magically combined and readied for your

oven.

Ingredients are not just what you find in a recipe. Ingredients, as important to a relationship as chemistry.

Unlike the ingredients in a recipe, what isn’t in a relationship is as, if not more than, important as what is in a

relationship. In the recipes you don’t follow, leave out an ingredient and the resulting cookies are flawed. Andwe both know that flawed cookies are not eaten; they are thrown out, as if they never existed.

Not knowing the difference between similar interests and having things in common is my fatal flaw.

And yours is not knowing how unhappy I am.

I’ve told you when you do—or don’t do—something that upsets me. Your request (and promise), when

we weren’t anything but a phone number and volleyed text messages—always be honest and I’ll be the same.

Do I need to use the words I am unhappy to tell you how I feel? Shouldn’t you know how I feel, since

you claim to know me as well as, if not better than, you know yourself?

You make sugar cookies on Saturdays, and you make chocolate chip cookies on holidays (except Christmas,

when you churn out batches of shortbread and pumpkin loaf), and you make oatmeal cookies when someone

is sick, but when you’re angry, or when you know I’m angry but don’t know why I’m angry, you make peanutbutter cookies, even though you know how little I like peanut butter.

And tonight you’re making peanut butter cookies. Started when you got home from work, after taking off

your tie and shoes, but before you asked me about my day. Didn’t kiss me hello, either.

You have a cabinet where you keep your spices (cinnamon, clove, garlic), your flour (white and wheat),

your sugar (confectionary, powder, cane), and your salt (table and sea). Three shelves of ingredients, as if you

are always concocting.

The word concocting reminds me of the word potion which reminds me of the word magic which reminds

me of the word faeries which reminds me of the words Sleeping Beauty which reminds me of the word curses

which reminds me of the word thorns which reminds me of the word vines which reminds me of the word snakes

which reminds me of the words forked tongues which reminds me of the words place settings.

On the right side of the plate: Large table knife. Fish knife. Soup spoon. Also, drinkware (cup and

saucer). On the left side of the plate: Napkin. Bread plate. Butter spreader. Spreads like butter, something onewould write on the inside of a bathroom stall, in ink. Table fork. Fish fork. Oyster fork.



You hate fish. Not all kinds of fish. But most fish. And sushi. You hate sushi if it has fish or any kind

of seafood. Cucumber rolls are fine, you said, when I asked you if you liked sushi, and I laughed and said that

cucumber rolls aren’t sushi, and you said that cucumber rolls are all the sushi you need to eat.

Me: What about sashimi?

You: Which is what?

Me: Raw fish.

You: Isn’t it all raw fish?

Me: Sashimi is even rawer fish.

You: I might try it.

Me: You’d try it if I told you it was Asian cheese (which would be impossible since cheese is seldom

used in Asian food).

You: Probably more willing to try it if you were really offering me Asian cheese.

I know you’re making peanut butter cookies because you slam the cupboard door shut. The sound, from

kitchen to living room, where I’m in front of a computer, sounds like a shot, when really, I’d rather you shout.

Ask me what’s wrong. Tell me you’re angry. Tell me you’re sad. Tell me anything, as long as what you tell me

is true. Cookies are rarely true. They can be bent and modified, transmogrified, water into wine. This cookie is

my body, which is for you.

Baking soda (1/2 teaspoon). Baking powder (1/4 teaspoon). Salt (1/2 teaspoon). Butter, softened (1/2cup). Peanut butter (1/2 cup). Flour, all-purpose (3/4 cup).

I’ve never understood when to pluralize the word cup, when talking about ingredients. Didn’t that

measurement seem to want that ending S?

White sugar (1/2 cup). Packed light brown sugar (1/2 cup). Egg (1). Quick-cooking oats (1 cup). Butter

(3 tablespoons). Vanilla extract (1 teaspoon).

I told you once that you’re kind of vanilla. You’re kind of boring, or, not boring, just not experimental.

I ’ j d i j f li ill illi



I wasn’t judging, just feeling out your non-vanilla willingness.

You didn’t talk to me for two days after I called you vanilla.

Confectioners’ sugar (1 cup). Peanut butter, smooth (1/2 cup). Heavy whipping cream (2 1/2 tablespoons).

Heavy whipping, something you’ve made clear you won’t do, or have done to you, along with rope,

handcuffs, candlewax, or anything you might find in a Madonna music video.

Me: If you were a girl, you would have been a Girl Scout.

You: I don’t know about that.

Me: But you’re kind of a Girl Scouty kind of boy.

You: What’s a Girl Scouty kind of boy?

Me: A boy who knows how to bake cookies.

You: That’s all?

Me: And a boy who knows how to tie knots.

You: Boy Scouts learn how to tie knots.

Me: Were you a Boy Scout?

You: No.

Me: I bet Girl Scouts learn how to tie knots.

You: Probably when they’re knotting together friendship bracelets for each other.

Rope, also on your list of things you won’t try. The way you asked What’s a Girl Scouty kind of boy,

made me feel like you were mocking me.

No. Don’t credit how I feel to something you say or do. You can’t make me feel anything. I control myfeelings. I control how I react, and what I do, and how long I’m willing to sit in the living room while you’re

l i b d d i th kit h



slamming cupboard doors in the kitchen.

The ingredients, when you combine them in a bowl (mine, inherited from my grandmother), sound

angry, though the water—is it water? I can’t remember—sounds sad, maybe defeated, when you add it.

Girl Scouty boy or not, you know which side of the plate one should find the spoon.

You haven’t asked, so I’ll tell you why I’m angry, which is, after all, why you’re baking peanut butter

cookies instead of sitting in the living room with me, watching what passes for news between 5 p.m. and 6 p.m.

Nothing hard before 11 p.m., you say, and I want to ask if you’re talking about the news or about you.

An ex-boyfriend wants to be your Facebook friend again. Or, I assume you and he were Facebook friends

when you and he were dating. You’re always on Facebook, updating where you are and what you’re doing and

who you’re with.

Facebook should have an Unlike status you say. Or a way to tie profiles with a broken heart. An unlike

heart, when that like heart has been unchecked.

I argue that defining something by what it isn’t, instead of by what it is, is the American way. Exes.

Wives and husbands and jobs.

We even describe what we’re feeling by what we’re not feeling.

I’m not happy, so I’m unhappy.

Un, as awful a word as ex.

XOXO, how you used to sign notes, when you left me notes.

You tell me you have to think about accepting this ex-boyfriend’s friend request.

Part of me wants you too, only because then a precedent will be set. I want us to stay friends, when a

heart no longer joins our profiles.

Facebook with its silly hearts.

I hate couples who use a joint profile, or, whose separate profiles use a picture of both people. Whenthese relationships end, their profiles need more pruning than a change in relationship status. More than a heart

disappears



disappears.

Hearts leads to playing cards and playing cards to Wonderland and Wonderland to Alice and Alice to

the Queen of Hearts.

That tart-making Queen of Hearts was, herself, probably a tart. Rouged cheeks and fake eyelashes anda push-up bra. Her hands, always above her head, always tied together, tight enough for her to feel it.

Experimental enough to linger with a knave.

Except I remember the poem about the Queen of Hearts differently. She didn’t make the tarts; she stole

the tarts. Don’t know who made the tarts.

In my version, those tarts, having been made, were cooling in a kitchen, probably on a windowsill

(underneath a cupboard in which were stored spices) and into the kitchen came the Queen of Hearts being allhearty. She thought to herself, Self (because of course she referred to herself as Self ) I’m hungry and those tarts

look good. And into her pockets she put the tarts to be eaten later, when no one was looking.

How can she steal something she already owns? She probably owned the kitchen and the windowsill

and the plate and the ingredients used in the tarts and the person who made the tarts. She probably owned the

entire realm of heart. Her subjects, willing to paint white roses red and die for her, as they sought to head-off

a soon-to-be-beheaded girl. The Queen, in her majesty, didn’t need to steal anything.

But what, if not something that steals or something that can be stolen, is a heart?

Me (about seven months after our first date): Do you think we should be Facebook-official?

You: Absolutely.

Linked. Stolen.

Left on that windowsill, cooling.

Peanut butter (1/2 cup). Peanut butter, smooth (1/2 cup).

So one cup of peanut butter, then.

Recipes are never simple. Why combine what can be separated?



You tell people that we met at a bar, because we met at a bar, but I wish ours was a different story.

Something about meeting in a bar makes me feel dirty.

You: The bar is an ingredient in what makes us us.

Had you decided not to go out, or if your friend hadn’t invited you, or if I had not gone to the bar to get

a drink (martini, three olives), or if you hadn’t –

But we didn’t, and we did, and you asked me if I was new in town (when has that line ever worked?); and I said

that this place isn’t my kind of place, and you asked me what kind of place is my kind of place; and I said that

if I were bolder, your place would be kind of my place.

Egg (1). Quick-cooking oats (1 cup).

Flames needed for the quick-cooking oats.

We eat by candlelight. I keep a box of long matches in my silverware drawer. Bought them more than

a decade ago. The box came with 100 matches, long, red head, tapered tail. The box with its striking surface.

I’ve only used four of these 100 matches. Need to relight the candle. Now I’ve used five of these 100 matches.

The head of a match is made of sulfur, glass powder, and an oxidizing agent. I don’t know the

measurements of these three ingredients, or even if table and/or tea spoons are used. Probably not.

Keeping a flame lit requires oxygen, as do we; relationships need to breathe.

We breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. Kiss me long enough and I might run out of air.

Of breath. That’s how I should say it. You take my breath away.

In oxygen, things burn much faster than they burn in air (which is not entirely oxygen).

Strike a match on the striking surface of a matchbox. The glass powder rubs together and produces enough heat

to turn a very small amount of the red phosphorous into white phosphorus, which catches fire in air.

The candle smells like vanilla.

Again, nothing wrong with vanilla, but sometimes peanut butter belongs in places other than in thekitchen.



In a large bowl, add 1/2 cup butter, 1/2 cup peanut butter, white sugar, brown sugar, vanilla, egg. Beat

well. In another bowl, combine flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt. Add ingredients from the dry bowl to

the wet bowl. Stir. Add oatmeal. Stir again.

Don’t distract me, you say, when you get to this part of the cookie-making process, and I’m alllet’s get

you out of this apron.

Form balls with teaspoon. Put balls on greased baking sheet. I don’t remember our ingredient list

including grease. Press each ball with fork to form 1/2-inch-thick cookies. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes,

or until cookies are light brown.

In a third bowl, add butter, confectioners’ sugar, peanut butter, cream. Stir. Spread filling onto cooled

cookie. Top with another cookie.

You say the best part of this cookie is what is happening in its middle.

Now which side of the plate do we put the silverware? Tricky, dessert sandwiches.

You want to know how I remember how many esses are in the word dessert ? My third grade teacher,

Ms. Hetzendorfer, taught us to remember the difference between desert and dessert like this: You’d never want

more than one desert, while even two desserts won’t be enough. One S in desert; two esses in dessert.

The plate, one inch from the edge of the table. The forks with their handles aligned at the bottom and

their tines placed upward. After each course, you put the used silverware diagonally in your plate, to indicate

you are finished.

In my experience, this signal of being finished often includes missed phone calls and canceled plans.The disconnecting of Facebook comes later. One last bite before you go.

Your apron on a hook, near the cupboard in which you store your spices. You wash your apron every

week, on Sunday, which is your whites day. Between washings, especially in a week when you’ve made cookies,

your apron smells like detergent (liquid ), flour, and yeast.

The cookies are finished, you say, still in the kitchen while I’m in the living room.

I know, I say. I can smell them.



Do you want one?

Not right now, I say.

You don’t follow recipes, though we know by heart how to make peanut butter cookies. Every week at

least once, peanut butter cookies. I don’t like peanut butter, but I’ll eat one cookie. Even though no two batches

of cookies are the same, I know how they’ll taste.

What you do in a relationship, try things you don’t want to do. Add more of something, or take away

something that isn’t working. Flour to make things rise. Salt. Sugar. Even vanilla, for taste.

You leave things in the oven longer than necessary, or you turn down the heat. You warn when things

need to cool. Through trial and error you sometimes get it right. You ask to be tried. You wait for a verdict onthe result.



H O L A D A Y

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Mid Point Mercury Retrograde

July 28, 12

Undone like a whip—my body.

A gnat caught in my palm flutters

& in the morning, a stunned moth on the long table,

wings disappearing into the grain.

Everything is made in the houseof hours—minutes, essence

undone, fecund blooms, holy cave & yes,

my beloved may even lie down in the arms of a lover,

but each kiss is mine, is hers, is ours, revolving in

the black iris of love—Look

at me—the heat in the mouth is the sun—is

whole as the soft drum on the soil of ripe plums fallen from

the trees. Once after planes drew hexagrams over the city,a black crow died on my porch step. It was dawn

on a Sunday. Perhaps it was evening & I, just waking,

in the threads of lights, was this woman—circular

yet specific. & yes, everything is made & unmade

in the land of our bones, so open me slowly & we

become the velveteen moth.

P l L k k ith d i l



Purple Luna, skunk with damp mineral sugar.Old cave of souls, these lips whisper & tell

the story of the hidden letters in

the moon void where I am

forever lightening. Do you hear?

Holaday Mason

Old Music

When you remembered to listen, you searched for a room

with good acoustics: vaulted ceiling—

in the air a woman’s sighs,

the swish of orchid organza, the lyric notes of the flesh.

At the end of the street, high waves jump the sea wall.

You go inside.

You're told to play the bass guitar,

lean it back against your ribs like your lost widow,

O then rock her in your arms,

until a stained light wounds

your forehead & your hollowness,

until your fingers stagger, drunken dancers

too luminous to know they're no longer young.

Chords are hesitations of silence. Silence has forgotten

itself. The deep thrum on the strings is your skin.

The tango is complicated by our differences.

Play. Dance across the broken black, the white tiles, blazing…

But it is always (I place one white camellia behind each ear)



But it is always (I place one white camellia behind each ear)too quick to have been real—

the subtle cradle of hip in hip, the weeping silk slip

as it hits the floor—this coal in the limbs is a Judas—

a bitter smoke curls.

You ask me for water. I give you rum, say

unzip me slowly. The spine will instruct the mouth.The mouth speaks of salt & the dead.

I am ruined.

I am ruined— play

Holaday Mason



B E L I E V E O R D I E



B E L I E V E O R D I E

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W H A T I S Y O U R P R O B L E M ?



“As I drove past scattered toys and clothes and beach chairs propped beside beer coolers on concrete slabs

that used to root a home, all I could think was, 'This is Massachusetts... this is Massachusetts.' An American

flag nailed to a single exposed wall with a cheap framed painting next to a window. A mailbox snarled in the

power lines. A swatch of forest gouged out of the horizon where the spinning terror first appeared to the

people who lived here. And the broken home, still standing, on an otherwise flattened street.”

Carter Blanchard



FADE IN:



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O N E M O R E T I M E W I T H F E E L I N G



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BROKENUNBROKEN

M E N T A L S H O E S



A R T I S T P A G E S



“When you’re in the studio painting, there are a lot of people in there with you - your

teachers, friends, painters from history, critics... and one by one if you’re really painting,

they walk out And if you’re really painting YOU walk out ”



they walk out. And if you re really painting YOU walk out.

Philip Guston

“I do not speak as I think, I do not think as I should, and so it all goes on in helpless darkness.”

Franz Kafka

“Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.”

Steven Wright

Quotes chosen by Snailbooty

Photographs in this issue:

Cover: He awaits your return

10. My invisible friend explains the bible11. Sheer elegance

12. The inheritance of hairy ear rims

13. Untitled

14 My favorite insect



14. My favorite insect

15. Sleep with the fishes

16. Buzzi as a bee

17. Things that go pop in the night

18. Very smallswords19. Phantom of the birdcage

20. A nerkle and a nerd and a seersucker, too

21. Untitled

22. Don’t hate me because I hate you

23. Untitled

24. Earthlings

25. This is about those turnip greens I borrowed, isn’t it?

26. Strange sisters27. Pray tell…

28. It was to be our last day on the beach

29. Ingrid

30. Mr. fancy pants

31. Petri Dish

32. Dum, dum, dum

33. Da bain of my existence

34. Damselflies35. The Art of Faking Exhibition Poultry

36. Prognosis



“April, a freckled woman whom I photographed for Astra Velum, told me a story from her childhood.

One day after playing outside, her grandmother asked her to go wash up. She went to the bathroom

and did so, but grandma wasn’t satisfied.



“Your face isn’t clean! Go scrub it some more!”

The young girl was distraught, for all that was left on her skin were her freckles, and no amount of scrubbing would make them go away.

More than once, while photographing for this series, a model thanked me for making something beautiful

out of what they often viewed as a flaw.

At its essence, Astra Velum explores the beauty of surface textures: human skin and its freckles and

scars, like a thin veil of stars.”

Fritz Liedtke


41. Astra Velum - Ella



42. Astra Velum - April

43. Astra Velum - York

44. Astra Velum - Sarah

45. Astra Velum - Asia46. Astra Velum - Shade

47. Astra Velum - Samantha

48. Astra Velum - Nahani

49. Astra Velum - Celine

50. Astra Velum - Navae

51. Astra Velum - Melia

52. Astra Velum - Fox

53. Astra Velum - Erica54. Astra Velum - Natalie

55. Astra Velum - Cheryl

56. Astra Velum - Georgia

57. Astra Velum - Alisha



W



G

A

IL

W

R

O

NS

K

Y



“If you’re not dancing on the edge of the lake of darkness, it’s not poetry.”

Gail Wronsky

“I gave up quotes for narcotics in the 70’s.”

Chuck Rosenthal



“E i h i i f Al i h h d h f



“Ever since the cave paintings of Altamira humans have used the power of

representation to try to grasp reality or to reinvent a better one. This is a primal human

impulse, and an important part of how we can deal with the world. I do my work asa therapeutic process, more as a mental health issue than anything else. I don’t know

what I would do if I couldn’t make a living out of this, and for that I feel very lucky.”

Victor Rodriguez

Paintings in this issue:

71. 8StripeNewWaveHead

72. Untitled73. AnatomyWhite

74. NewAbstract1(Napoleon)

75. Untitled

76. Sputnik2

77. VisibleHead



78. Fin

79. Untitled

80. RubikT ower281. HalfHead

82. NewAbstract(Columbia)

83. BlackRedBernini

84. Untitled

85. VisibleWoman

86. NewAbstract5(BluePill)

87. PinkDotsTattoo

88. TimesSquareRubik 89. CrazyDiamondSkull

90. CrazyDiamondRubik

91. DoubleWoman

92. DancingRubikSputnik

93. WhiteHead

94. Untitled

95. Untitled

96. GiantRubikSplash97. GameControl

98. B&WRubikDelphica



“Question of the Day is a project that resulted in hundreds of pages of literary contact. It isa collaboration between myself and countless unidentified participants.

In 2003, I nailed a clipboard outside of my studio storefront on Elizabeth Street and painted

a large question mark above and below it. I diligently posted a handwritten question of the

day, each day first thing in the morning, on a piece of paper. The type of paper varied as did



the writing utensil I used. Often there were spelling errors (I’m a horrible speller) which

sometimes the participants corrected. When I went out of town I would leave a neighbor in

charge of posted pre-written/dated questions. The questions were inspired by free association

surrealist writing. I did not labor over them. I went with the first thought that came to mind

and framed it as a question. Some of the questions came from issues I was dealing with --

others from current events -- but most were inspired by random basic thoughts. They didn’t

represent sequential ideas. They were whatever came to mind in the moment. I had a piece

of paper in front of me. I continued the project for over 2 years. I can’t recall why I stopped

but when I did, the clipboard remained. A few disgruntled participants in the project posted

notes as to their disappointment. The project now sits in T upperware containers -- the pages themselves stuffed in paper bags, in an attic in New Jersey. Whenever I open the box and

handle the pages they speak to me. It is addictive to read them as each answer is as fresh as

when it was written. I had a few regular visitors to the clipboard. You can follow their answers

through their distinctive writing. Art projects including time and sequential action have always

appealed to me. The Question of the day remains, one of my most treasured works.”

Julie Dermansky

Questions of the Day in this issue:

105. Do you look forward to arriving guest?

106. Do you have any fetishes?

107. What makes a person good?

108. Do you like to sell things?

109. Is there an item which you lose again and again?

110 D k i t t ?



110. Do snakes interest you?

111. Do you listen to the advice people give you?

112. How often (if ever) do you run out of time?113. Have you ever read someone else’s personal writings

without permission?

114. What is your favorite piece of classical music?

115. Have you ever faked an illness or exaggerated?

116. Have you ever paid someone to do something

you didn’t want to do yourself?

117. When was the last time you stubbed your toe?

118. Do you ever have nightmares?119. Have you ever used wallpaper?

120. How many people do you absolutely hate?

121. What is a sign of getting older to you?

122. When you eat an Easter bunny (chocolate)

where do you take your first bite?

123. Have you ever experienced a health related problem

you felt embarrassed about?

124. Have you ever taken a tranquilizer?

“Collage is the perfect medium for expressing thoughts without words. My processinvolved my own photographs, and images I’d cut from books and magazines. I would

accumulate piles of cut-out images so, when working, I’d have a stockpile of what I would

most likely need on hand. I’m drawn to religious imagery, pop culture, and everyday topics.

My last series of collages dealt with home renovation. Home renovation is a subtopic under

the American dream. I had renovated a house and dealt with the consequences of wanting



to sell it but being stuck with the property longer then I wanted it. The personal as well

as topics that interest me were the subjects of my work. The Kennedy dynasty, medicine,religion, guns and American culture are recurring themes in my work. My collage work

was always tactile, never computer manipulation. My technique involves moving images

around and making the decision what to glue where when the markers were just right. I

store a visual record of the images I have accumulated and when an idea strikes, dig through

my piles and select the correct one. Chance equally plays a role in the process, though the

act of collecting and cutting the images is deliberate. If I don’t have the images I need to hunt

for them. Searching for certain topics, I’d seek out books and magazines. The reverse

worked as well. In a book store or flea market I’d find a book whose images would dictatemy next series. My medium of choice is now photography. My process in composing images

and choosing subject matter is deeply informed by two decades of collage-making.”

Julie Dermansky

Collages in this issue:

368. Untitled

369. Untitled

370. Untitled

371. Untitled

372. Untitled



373. Untitled

374. Untitled

375. Untitled

376. Untitled

377. Untitled

378. Untitled

379. Untitled

380. Untitled

381. Untitled

382. Untitled

383. Untitled

384. Untitled

385. Untitled

386. Untitled

387. Untitled

388. Untitled

389. Untitled



“It is often an attempt to re-familiarize myself with the world through photography

h k Of h f l f h



that spurs me to take a certain image. Often the feeling of having never seen or

forgetting what a thing looks like begins the process. Everything becomes of interest to me then, a shade, a texture, a tone. Then I aim to begin to think about how this

thing fits into the world, into its world or our own, like how a word fits into a poem.

Then the eye settles on another thing and the others all have to shift over again.”

Karl Hurst


128. From the series: Origins

129. From the series: Sketches for summer

130. Untitled




134. From the series: Chalk (with Matt Clegg)

135 From the series: The pornography of looking



135. From the series: The pornography of looking

136. From the series: Water studies

137. From the series: The Last Acts of a T yrant

138. From the series: Pictures from a fever


140. From the series: Erasing the Present


142. From the series: Smoker



145. From the series: Pictures from a fever 146. From the series: Origins





151 From the series: Origins

152. From the series: The pornography of looking

153. From the series: Sketches for summer 154. From the series: Winter dance (reprise)



“Why does everything that still has faith want curing?”

Stephany Prodromides



Poems in this issue:

159. Other

160. Phoenix Song

161. After Regret



“I’m not the first guy you hire to make something beautiful… I’m far more interested

in making something witty interesting and effective darkly humorous if I’m lucky



in making something witty, interesting and effective, darkly humorous if I m lucky.

It’s not that I intentionally reject making something beautiful, it’s just I don’t think it’s very important, and if it does happen occasionally it’s completely by accident.”

Dave Plunkert

Illustrations in this issue:

166. New Scientist - 5 Ages Of The Brain 2

167. MICA - HS Recruitment 2010

168. New York Times - Codeworld

169. Chronicle Review - Are Medications Making Us Sicker?

170 Chronicle Review - Americas Secret Culture



170. Chronicle Review Americas Secret Culture

171. Chronicle Review - Musicastorture172. Chronicle Review - Expanding Cultural Research

173. New York Times - Thinking Fast And Slow

174. New York Times - Sorry Strivers Talent Matters

175. Runner’s World - Achilles Grenade

176. Golf Digest - The Tiger We Miss

177. Stanford Law - White Collar Crime

178. Prevention - Your DNA

179. Golf Digest - Belly Becomes The Beast180. New York Times - The Sky Below

181. Runner’s World - Shin Splints

182. Golf Digest - Intelligent Design

183. Audubon - Poison Control

184. New Scientist - 5 ages Of The Brain 1



“Love becomes a masquerade. Come as you aren’t. Be who you want to be, all of you, all



you can be. Practice an accent, use a flask. Dress to impress, and stay past midnight. Nothing

will change, at a minute past 12. You're still wearing glass. The lighting is dim, and pictures

prohibited. Ignore your blinders. Apologize, amend, mend. Unravel tightly wound things.

Sleep with the lights on. Get up at dawn. Masks, provided with champagne in the foyer.”

Will Henderson



Fiction in this issue:

189. From Scratch You Bake Cookies



“I make photographs to see what things look like as photographs. While that’s probably anoversimplification, because I do put a lot of thought into what I do, that’s it in a nutshell. I don’t do

conceptual; I do documentation. I’m an observer. And I observe with an eye that’s maybe a bit askew

from others. I see people being praised all the time for seeing things others would overlook and I look

at their work and think, well, if others wouldn’t have seen that, what the hell were they looking at? I

can be highly critical when it comes to photographs and that comes from having been an image maker

and editor for the better part of 35 years now, 30 as a professional (whatever that means?). I’ve never

made a dime doing anything other than photography since 1982 I’ve done the math and I estimate that



made a dime doing anything other than photography since 1982. I ve done the math and I estimate that

I’ve made some 1.8 million exposures. I haven’t done the math, but being a photo editor at a major daily for the past 15 years, I’d venture a guess of some 15 million images viewed that were made by others.

That’s what I do: I either make images or select ones made by others.

I came to the harsh realization as a youth that I couldn’t draw and for whatever reason I was enamored

with cameras early on. My mother had a book store that I worked in as a teen and the books that I spent

time with sucked me in. Ernst Haas, Andre Kertesz, Eliot Porter, Walker Evans, Margaret Bourke-White,

Elliott Erwitt, Paul Strand, Cartier-Breeson, Eisenstadt, Steichen’s Family of Man and many others madean impact and they all dealt with reality (or what passes as reality) captured on film. There was no

tomfoolery going on in the ones I was most drawn to and certainly no computers and software involved.

And they informed me and guided me and mentored me in absentia. I’m indebted to them all.”

ReyGuy


201. Me, myself and sky 202. Infant

203. Dune climb legs

204. Drew at USA donuts

205. Alex buried

206. Drew head sand beach

207. South Haven beach trio

208. Swingin’ in the rain



209. Pump jacks210. Bangor lights

211. Selfie with knobs

212. Drought

213. Barcalounger

214. Nancy’s scar

215. Dead and alive

216. Cactus shadows 1

217. After Ike

218. Inside the levee

219. Cactus shadows on stucco

220. Fire beater

221. T exas finial

222. Bones

223. Untitled

224. Sunset snake

225. Birds

226. Close encounter



“This would be the first time I’ve ever had anything of mine presented. I make other people’s ideas by day.

I collage and photograph on the weekends. At night I make these cyanotypes in my garage, huddled under

a naked bulb like I’m piecing together the bones of dead men.

I started doing these when a friend of mine who was doing a lot of interesting cyanotypes by recombining

his photographs encouraged me to try my hand. I started by creating and transposing faces from multiple

people, junk and machines. Making monsters. T rying to see what the human brain would accept as a face.

It was just supposed to be about learning a little about contact printing and exploring alternative processes

but somehow I find myself with boxes of negatives labeled eyes, mouths, bones, and gears. I’m buying used

books on dentofacial trauma scouring antique stores for doll heads statues and false teeth Photographing



books on dentofacial trauma, scouring antique stores for doll heads, statues and false teeth. Photographing

machine innards. Creating manqué puzzles that I don’t know what to do with.

Suddenly I’m invested.

Having to explain myself puts me in a state of disrepair but being forced to put this to words enables me

to put my finger on why I enjoy the process. It is control wedded to chaos. You really learn a lot about

zeroing-in on the aesthetics you find interesting when you have absolute control over the elements to

include and the onus is on you to go out and collect them. It is chaos when all those elements are laid before you, scissors and tape in your hands. You can try to predict how it will turn out but how you will assemble

the negatives or how light will penetrate through them and how the paper takes it makes each piece

unpredictable and unique.

It is vandalism and it is delightful.”

thisquietreverie

Cyanotypes in this issue:

231. Untitled (Peephole Monstrosities)

232. Untitled (Portraiture Sacrilegium) (2)

233. Untitled (Peephole Monstrosities) (2)

234. Untitled (Through A Window) (8)

235. Untitled (Circle Golems)



236. Baby Smashmouth (Childhood Monsters)237. Black Angel (Memories I Don’t Have Anymore)

238. She’s Got Your Crazy Eyes (Peephole Monstrosities)

239. Animosity Construct (Animosity Construct) (2)


241. Splitscream (Memories I Don’t Have Anymore)

242 T errorterror (Peephole Monstrosities)


244. Untitled (Childhood Monsters) (7)



247. Untitled (Childhood Monsters) (6)


249. Untitled (Circle Golems) (10)


251. Untitled (Amid Disquieting Dreams) (3)



“Whispering, again, again, most certainly sun, most certainly rain.”

Holaday Mason



Poems in this issue:

256. Mid Point Mercury Retrograde

257. Old Music



“The process of aging has always intrigued me. The lack of permanence in life and the

inevitability of aging has always been on my mind growing up. I am also interested in how

l i b th i d d b d d t th f ti A M d l i L’E l id



people, in both mind and body, respond to the passage of time. As Madeleine L’Engle said:

The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.”

Jason Bard Yarmosky


262. Haughty Elaine

263. Ballet

264. Cheerleader

265. FIVE-O

266. Ballerina

267 40oz



267. 40oz268. Blame Elaine

269. The Bather

270. Gefiltefish

271. Tight End

272. Rockabye Baby

273. The Boxer

274. Horse Feathers

275. Senior Prom276. Sound of Silence

277. Whateveritisimagainstit

278. Wondering Woman

279. The High Rollers



“Since I was a small child, I have drawn as a means of dealing with the real world. I

constantly carried drawing materials. Many of the photographs of me as a child showedme drawing. I never fit in with others and drawing allowed me to create my own alternate

reality.

I have drawn influence from a number of sources. Their sources come from comics,

underground comics as well as many fine art styles including the Renaissance in Northern

Europe. In addition to the external influence, the drawings have fed and grown from the

older drawings I have done I have worked on these black and white images for well over



older drawings I have done.. I have worked on these black and white images for well over twenty years.

I have often been linked to Outsider Art. I am not self-taught. Although to be taught to

do these images would involve extensive drug therapy and a twisted mental outlook. I

think a have a touch of dyslexia. Things twist and come out sideways in my drawings. I

used to fight it but I have learned to accept it as something that makes my art unique. I try

not to work from life because it forces me to reinvent objects. I am often told by people

that they have never seen anything like my work. I have always tried to create a range of

imagery that was uniquely my own. I think that at least on some level, I have done that.”

T om McKee

Drawings in this issue:

284. Lady from Spain

285. Sword of Damnand Cheese

286. Cheap Foreign Labor

287. The Seventh Seal

288. Bad dating advice

289. Vacationing in the Alleghenies290 B L



289. Vacationing in the Alleghenies290. Big Louie

291. New to the Neighborhood

292. Half Rotten Rat

293. An amalgamation of partially truthful statements

294. Handfull and Grechin

295. Funetta

296. Safe in Lab Rats

297. Just Another End of the World298. Evacuous Interenum

299. Fun at the Beach

300. Woodland Fiesta

301. Alperto’s Penny



“One day we will look back and laugh about all this.”



One day we will look back and laugh about all this.

Joana Garrido

Illustrations in this issue:

306. Velasca

307. 4 Optiker

308. Oui Zi Ouig Series Hyla

309. Namiuquarlo 5

310. Carto Gult II

311. Namiuquarlo 3

312. Burox 3

313. 6 Gyrobillon

314. Namiuquarlo 2



315. Carto Gult VI

316. Carto Gult IV

317. Untitled

318. Carto Gult 111

319. 5 Siodlo

320. Voorburox

321. Namiuquarlo

322. Burox323. Namiuquarlo 4

324. Voorburox 2

325. Untitled

326. Carto Gult I

327. Burox 2

328. Carto Gult V

329. Untitled



CARTER BLANCHARD

"I'd rather be writing."



Carter Blanchard


334. Untitled

335. Untitled

336. Untitled337 Untitled



337. Untitled

338. Untitled

339 . Untitled

340 . Untitled

341. Untitled

342. Untitled

343. Untitled

344. Untitled



“I view my work as a starting point for the audience instead of a conclusion ”



I view my work as a starting point for the audience instead of a conclusion.

Joyce Ho


349. Finale

350. Invisible

351. One hundred nights’ dreams

352. We’re-all-in-this-together 353. Showtime



354. Banquet

355. Four-seasons

356. Cotton candy

357. Frame

358. Passing-through

359. Comings and goings

360. December 361. Father

362. Survival instinct



“I like to paint silly shit, crazy characters caught in sad, dark situations. I’m not

sure why. I’m a weird kid I guess. I’m terrible at explaining what it’s supposed to mean. I’m not sure any of it is supposed to mean anything specific. Hopefully

my work either makes you sad creeped-out or giddy with laughter or all of



my work either makes you sad, creeped-out or giddy with laughter, or all of

that at the same time, or none of it. hey, look at that shiny thing over there!”

Joe Scarano


394. Must Have Brought the Bad Weather With Me395. Andrew

396. Afloat on a River of Despair

397. Dance of the Parasitic T win

398. Choxy’s Sad Discovery

399. Chahley’s Eye

400. Chupps

401. From This Day Forward

402. Clarabelle403. Corner Boys

404 D li i Mi d t



404. Delicious Misadventure

405. Gleefully Led Astray

406. Headfull O’ Hell

407. Look Out Below

408. Mortimer

409. Oh the Things to Come For You and Me

410. Poof Pooch411. Ol’ Gyp and the Briar Patch of Doom

412. Reigning Madness

413. Stitch Wilson

414. Timmy hung Around with a Bad Element

415. T ongue Peddler, Quiet Time for Choxy

416. Zippy



“Since I was a kid, I’ve always had an interest in abandoned buildings. It was a treat

to get inside them. I was scared of the unknown, and of being somewhere you werenot supposed to be.

As a photographer, I enjoy capturing these structures as if they where abstract

sculptures with their twisted shapes and bleeding colors.

The challenge of shooting nudes is to capture the essence and soul of the person

without creating just another glamour shot.

The idea of combining both subject matters made sense to me.



g j

I once shot in an abandoned high school with wild dogs living in the gymnasium. It's

always unpredictable when I show-up to these locations for the first time. How close

can I get? Will weirdos or police show up? Snakes? Will I be able to get inside? Sure

as hell hope so because it took 8 hours of driving to get here. I never really know.

The abandoned light; the portrait. That’s the goal; that’s the thrill. Beautiful women

in these ruins--nude ruins–some in the middle of a city, others in the middle of

nowhere. They are my studios. The rent is free.”

John Stekl


421. Untitled

422. Untitled

423. Untitled

424. Untitled

425. Untitled

426. Untitled

427. Untitled

428. Untitled

429. Untitled

430. Untitled

431. Untitled

432. Untitled

433 U l d



433. Untitled

434. Untitled

435. Untitled

436. Untitled

437. Untitled

438. Untitled

439. Untitled

440. Untitled

441. Untitled

442. Untitled

443. Untitled

444. Untitled

445. Untitled

446. Untitled

447. Untitled

448. Untitled



Robert W . Johnson is a survivor of traumatic brain injury. Years

ago, after a l ife-altering event, he found inspirat ion in painting.



g g p p g

He is the rare individual who, not only is aware of what he lost and

how it changed him, but also can transform this awareness into

pow erful creative expression. He speaks eloquently though his art.



“100 thousand gallons of rum is bigger than my house. It’s too

hard to explain. It’s smaller than Italy, bigger than a mouse.

When there’s too much money to lingo, dance like a flamingo.”

Robert W Johnson



Robert W. Johnson


453. Flush

454. Esophagus

455. Zygosity

456. Mythos

457. Gazing Future

458. Five Wee Wee Wees

459. Hammercry

460. Compound461. Confused

462. Quantum

463 Shi Zi Z



463. Shiny Zig-Zag

464. My Live

465. Option of Life

466. Medea

467. Antihero

468. Interline469. Zeal

470. Solitary

471. Incurious Solution

472. Brutal

473. Ratbomb Piggypelt



“Art makes us see. Look.”

D H Dowling




478. Unapproachable

479. Chapter S

480. Count Stars and Stumble

481. Complications

482. Friendship

483. The Cat

484. Ugly

485. Chopper

486. Hookman’s Imaginary Building

487. Soup



488. Spider with Harp

489. The Octopus Hunters 2

490. Grimace, 1938

491. Unemployed Man

492. Junk Yard Sarcophagus

493. Entrance, 1938494. Excalibur

495. T wo brute hours

496. T ransit of Venus

497. Candelabra

498. T onight I Sailed



“Since I was a kid, I have looked at shoes and found them looking back at me, each pair with

its particular personality and facial expression. I find the human foot, and the endless variety

of coverings we invent for it, to be both beautifully expressive and pitifully vulnerable. I havealways had the feeling that a person’s shoes revealed secrets that could not be put into words.”

G M h



Gwen Murphy

Sculptures in this issue:

504. Blue Suedes

505. Visitors

506. T ee Straps

507. Foot Fetish 15

508. Big Mouth T wins

509. Red Devils

510. Ahhh511. Big Lebowski

512. Snake Skins

513 Converse Monsters



513. Converse Monsters

514. Nudes Foot Fetish 61

515. Edgar Erwin 1

516. Sentinels Foot Fetish 54

517. Foot Fetish 32 & 33

518. Tasseled T wosome Foot Fetish 88519. Duet

520. T opsiders

521. Where Are You Going?



.



Snailbooty http://www.flickr.com/photos/snailbooty/

http://fluffybalboa.tumblr.com/post/22313446394/c-snailbooty-2012http://itchykitschyyaya.tumblr.com/

Fritz Liedtke http://fritzphoto.com/arts/

http://www.fritzphotographic.com

Victor Rodriguez http://www.victorrodrigueznyc.com/victorrodrigueznyc/Home.html

http://www.flickr.com/photos/victorrodrigueznyc/

Julie Dermansky http://www.jsdart.com

Karl Hurst http://www.flickr.com/photos/57845057@N03/

Dave Plunkert http://www.spurdesign.com/plunkert/work.html

William Henderson http://hendersonhouseofcards.com/

Jason Bard Yarmosky http://jasonyarmosky.com/

Holaday Mason http://holadaymason com/

S H O E L I N K S



Holaday Mason http://holadaymason.com/

Tom McKee http://www.flickr.com/photos/48219835@N02/

http://www.outsiderart.co.uk/mckee.html

Joana Garrido http://joanagarrido.com/

Thisquietreverie http://www.thisquietreverie.comJoyce Ho http://www.flickr.com/photos/joycehostudio/

http://joyceho-art.blogspot.com/

Joe Scarano http://joescarano.com/links.html

Reyguy http://www.flickr.com/photos/guyr/

John Stekl http://nuderuins.com/nuderuins.com/Welcome.html

Robert W. Johnson http://thrashapart.blogspot.com/

D H Dowling http://pinterest.com/edgewater5/photography-by-d-h/http://tudeface.tumblr.com

Gwen Murphy http://www.gwenmurphy.com/

Editor http://[email protected]

C R E D I T S : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

This issue was designed, edited and curated by D H [email protected]



All interstitial photography by D H Dowling

Photographs of Julie Dermansky by Phinizy Percy Jr.

Photograph of William Henderson by Holly Hendersonhttp://pinkhazephotography.smugmug.com/

Photograph of Robert W. Johnson by Nick Neo Martin

http://www.first-classphotos.com/

Photograph of Joe Scarano by Jennifer Frost

S P E C I A L T H A N K S TO : : : : : : : :

Poetry Editor Holaday Mason for her blazing talent.

The artists in this issue for being patient and extraordinary. You are why I do this.

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MentalShoesMagazine by DH Dowling

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Transcript of MentalShoesMagazine by DH Dowling