Right

Vignette by Melissa Rothman

Staff

Founder Lamont B. Steptoe

Poetry Editor S.W. Lynch

Art Director & DesignerMelissa Rothman

AknowledgementsAnna G. Raman’s “Face like the triangle of the iron” previously appeared in the Autumn 2010 issue of the “River Poets Journal.” Hal O’Leary’s “But What of Truth” has been published in “Philly Flash *OGFSOP w�i5IF�$PSCFUU�3FQPSU w�BOE�i5IF�)VGmOHUPO�1PTU�w�-BNPOU�#��4UFQUPF�T�i5IF�'JSTU�5JNF�5IFZ�$BMM�:PV�/JHHFSw�XBT�mSTU�QVCMJTIFE�JO�IJT�DIBQCPPL �i$SJNTPO�3JWFSTw�4MBTI�BOE�#VSO�1SFTT �1984). Samuel Allen’s two poems were originally published in his poetry collection “Every Round” %FUSPJU��-PUVT�1SFTT ������

First PrintingCopyright © 2014 by Whirlwind Magazine

All rights reserved.No individual poem or artwork may be reproduced in any form without the author’s permission."MM�JORVJSJFT�TIPVME�CF�BEESFTTFE�UP�Whirlwind PressP.O Box 109Camden, NJ 08101-0109

0S�FNBJMFE�SFRVFTUT�UP�poetryandpoverty@gmail.com

Printed in the United States of America

whirlwind

1. “The Man Who Admired Hitler...” Linda Johnston Muhlhausen

2. “The Kill” &3.“Maypops” Christopher Bogart 4. “and yes” Bree

5. “But What of Truth” Hal O'Leary 6. “Notes From an Intake Worker...” Ruth Deming

7. “Mallard” & Trina Gaynon8. “Federal Building Bombed...”

9. “an honest thief” Daniel Coghlan

10. “Glimpse” P. F. Palm

12. “Woman in Transit” K. D. Morris

14. "Occupant Apartment 2 D" Joan McNerney

16. "Harem" Simona DeFeo

18. "In Remembrance" Venus Jones

19. “The Janitor Says” Danny Barbare

20. “Small Town” John Grey

21 “The Alpha and Omega...” Kaz Sussman

22. "The Cliff Wall" A.J. Huffman

23 “Musing outside the library” & Anna G. Raman24 “Face like the triangle of the iron”

25. “Dating Scene Down Under Fool...” David S. Pointer

26. "The War of My Generation" William Doreski

27. “The Most Dangerous Game” Courtney Gambrell

28. “Song For Chano” & Ted Wilson29. “Atlantic City '64 Convention”

31. ”The Ire Required This Time” Bob McNeil

32. “Metaphysical Housecall” Aaren Yeatts Perry

33."Nat Turner..." & Samuel Allen34, “Law and Order”

35. “Listen for the Horn!” & Lamont b. Steptoe36. “The First Time They Call You Nigger” 37. “Remembering Jimmy...” Shaun O. Henderson

Contents

Thank you, dear reader, for picking up a copy (or clicking on the link) of :KLUOZLQG�0DJD]LQH·V�second issue. Here you will encounter a diverse range of voices that bear witness. Whether they reveal the mind of a genocidal dictator, the brutal execution of a black child, the travails of prostitution (as in gender/racial slavery in any form), or an invocation of Nat Turner, the following poems and the poets who wrote them are all relevant to the struggle for justice that is especially needed halfway through the VHFRQG�GHFDGH�RI�WKH�WZHQW\�ÀUVW�FHQWXU\�� 2014 is the year of James Baldwin, as the celebrated writer and activist would have been nine-ty years old if he was still alive today. NYC decided to name a street after him, and we thought it was QHFHVVDU\�WR�GHGLFDWH�DQ�LVVXH�WR�WKH�PDQ�ZKR�EURXJKW�XV�WKH�JURXQG�EUHDNLQJ�´*LRYDQQL·V�5RRPµ�²WR�the man who mediated White House meetings between Bobby Kennedy and SNCC, as well as the wise and caring uncle heard in “The Fire Next Time.” Several poems in this issue directly refer to Baldwin, and many more indirectly confront the problems that he dealt with in his poems, plays, novels, letters, and actions as a writer of international renown. Some of the photographs that appear throughout are from our founder, Lamont b. Steptoe, DQG�RWKHUV�DUH�LQWLPDWH�SLFWXUHV�WDNHQ�E\�6KDXQ�R��+HQGHUVRQ��$Q�H[FHUSW�IURP�+HQGHUVRQ·V�HOXFL-GDWLQJ�PHPRLU�DERXW�%DOGZLQ�ÀQLVKHV�RXU�ÀQDO�LVVXH�IRU�RXU�ÀUVW�\HDU�DV�D�PDJD]LQH��:LWKRXW�IXUWKHU�LQWHUUXSWLRQ��,·G�OLNH�WR�MXVW�VWDWH�WKDW�,�DP�SURXG�DQG�KXPEOHG�WR�EH�EULQJLQJ�WKHVH�WDOHQWHG�SRHWV�DQG�artists to you, the reader, and would love to invite you to become a part of our rapidly expanding family by submitting to us through our website, www.whirlwindmagazine.org or “liking” us on our Facebook page. Take care, and happy reading.

-S.W. Lynch

Letter From the Editor

Sheen cheeked yellow eyedPresident for Death -- GenocideUganda juju man Amin Buffoon grin blood drunkSRB thugs car trunk Barbed wire Russian guns Amin :KLWH�1LOH�����5LYHU�ÁRDWHGBleached bodies faces bloatedPike panga bullet rope Amin Ugandan Asians expelled by him6LWWLQJ�RQ�ÀUH����VXFFHVV�WKH�VLQ���Branded scorched his Jews Amin Kampala Christians soon they knewMuslim Amin would eat them tooBind hands martyr hearts Amin $�QDWLRQ·V�ZRPHQ������VR�PDQ\�UDSHGpulled from buses travel unsafeMothers wives sisters Amin Five hundred thousand butchered ghosts grew World failed to do failed to do)RU�$IULFD·V�SHDUO���ZH���IDLOHG����WR����GR���

The Man Who Admired Hitler:Idi Amin Dada (1925-2003)by Linda Johnston Muhlhausen

1

Your children are not your children.

������7KH\�DUH�WKH�VRQV�DQG�GDXJKWHUV�RI�/LIHV�ORQJLQJ�IRU�LWVHOI� The Prophet (Kahlil Gibran) They held him up,Like a prized catch,A trout, perhaps,His mouth agape,Gripped by his brown curls,Face turned toward the camera.They took turns,Posed with himNaked,+LV�SDOH�ÁHVKExposedTo the unforgiving sun. Once he was Gul Mudin,+LV�IDWKHU·V�ÀIWHHQ�\HDU�ROGAfghan rose.1RZ��KH·V�D�VWDWLVWLF�Bravo Company “kill.” 0HGLF�VKHDUV�VHYHUHG�KLV�SLQN\�ÀQJHU�The one that would have beenHenna-stained for his wedding day,Kept now in plastic Ziploc bagTo desiccate,3URXG�WURSK\�²Wage of war.

The Kill by Christopher Bogart

2

3DVVLÁRUD�LQFDUQDWD 2QH�0DUFK�LQ�VRXWKHUQ�ÀHOGV�QHDU�$OFROX�George Stinney and his sister grazed their cow.7ZR�ZKLWH�JLUOV�SDVVHG�LQ�VHDUFK�RI�PD\SRS�ÁRZHUV�Their battered bodies late that day were found. One hundred volunteers commenced a search.7ZR�EODFN�ER\V�ÀW�WKH�FKRVHQ�UDFH�SURÀOH�7KUHH�SROLFHPHQ�VHWWOHG�ÀQDOO\�RQ�MXVW�RQH�²A ninety-two pound fourteen year old child. )URP�HDFK�FRUH��PD\SRS�ÁRZHUV�JURZ�ÀYH�OLPEV�To scare the Stinney family took just four.Three policemen lied with oaths to seal his fate.Two massive voltage surges did the chore. George shuttered twice; one clear tear stained each cheek.2OG�6SDUN\·V�PHWDO�PDVN�ERXQFHG�RII�WKH�ÁRRU�

Maypopsby Christopher Bogart

3

you know that suffering exists, and that death is your only sure companion on this walk, and that to accept, yea, to alleviate the suffering of others is to soften your own blows, with death watching, his head propped up on an elbow, the while.

and yesby Bree

Madame Photo by Jessica Giacobbe

4

)RU�QRZ��WKH�ORVV�RI�WUXWK·V�WKH�RQO\�NQRZQ�The truth's become old fashioned. Could this be?With lies, we have decided to condone.Just what the end will be, I cannot see. The truth is now old fashioned. Could this be?Like chastity and people you can trust?Just what the end will be, I cannot see,For those believing life was somehow just. Like chastity and people you can trust,A thing called love could also disappearFor those believing life was somehow just.We've got to make an effort, or I fear A thing called love could also disappearTo set each individual apart.We've got to make an effort, or I fearThere is the chance that we could lose the heart. To set each individual apart,With lies we have decided to condone,There is the chance that we could lose the heart.)RU�QRZ��WKH�ORVV�RI�WUXWK·V�WKH�RQO\�NQRZQ�

But What of TruthE\�+DO�2·/HDU\

5

Your not quite cleanwhite hairfalls without enthusiasmto your shouldersbut then the March nightsare still chillrippling with winds that lashan unprotected bodywho has no home.

Last night, you tell me,your intake workerat the shelter,you passed an auto body shopand found an unlocked Mustang,crawled into the cold furyof the backseat, slick as a frozen crick.

God, it was cold, you tell meexpecting neither pity nor human kindnessAnd in that momentbecause nothing was asked forI looked at you from the niagara spanof our bodiesand saw a man sitting there.

If I would have come upon youthis early mornoutside your backseat motelI would have seen yougulping in the fresh light of dawn��R��UDWKHU�LW�ZHUH�WRQJXH�VZHHW�ZLQH�²readying yourself like an ancient warriorfor the rigors of the streetanother pitiless hegira.

Notes From an Intake Worker: Backseat Motelby Ruth Deming

6

<RX·YH�VWRQHG�LW�WR�GHDWK²never having felt the heartbeating under game feathers,not meant to be palmedin hands sweatedwith bicycle handlebars.

May you dream every night ofbreath stopped, heart stopped.

Mallardby Trina Gaynon

7

We lifted pieces of skyscraperin Oklahoma City, pushedaside mangled tricycles to handchildren, who couldn't remember their names,to ambulance workers. Sirens neverstopped. But nothing got through tomy numbed body, sortingJODVV�IURP�ÁHVK�DQG�FHPHQW�until a volunteer put a cup of coffeein my hands.No lid to holdin the heatand I wept,faced withthe only griefI could put myhands around.

Federal Building Bombed, April 1995by Trina Gaynon

8

it is a promise made and daily brokento brake, and slow, and stopand strip keys from their ringand throw them haphazardly intothe wide open lock of the world.

to walk southdown the Pulaski skylinethat bourgeois revolution,that polish caballero, my head holding ideas over itOLNH�+LWOHU�KHOG�WDQNV��7KDW�EUD]HQ�GHÀDQFH�LQ�WKH�IDFH�RI�WRWDOinadequacy. That American dream, that sleepy sneer.That bridge that wasn't even new in 1930,that bridge that couldn't do it's job when it was built.

to walk past that land of opportunity,and to walk past Newark,and to walk past Trenton,and to walk past Camden.and to walk past terror,and addiction, and corruption,and racism, and inequality,and rape, and money,and Patterson,

DQG�ÀQG�D�ÀHOG��GXVW\�EURZQ��QR�PRUH�JUHHQin which to stagger and starveand steal oneselfand live outside laborÀQDOO\�DQ�KRQHVW�WKLHI��

an honest thiefby Daniel Coghlan

9

She points her footAnd steps into the street Her toes graze pavement+HU�FOLFNLQJ�KHHOV�D�ÁDPLQJRTimed to her charging stride Her shoulders backHer head highHer eyes regal ProudUntouchableFree And gone

Glimpseby P. F. Palm

10

1DWXUH�LV�)ODZHGPhoto by Jessica Giacobbe

11

Courageous she raisestired traveled legs onto modern tubular machine -That's when we make eye contactwhere I see the life of a woman whopossibly bore four healthy childrenand is "mom mom" to at least seven

Her face has as many linesand reasons as a John Milton epicexplaining the purpose and relevance of lifeand what happens when you don't conform to the norms of society.

Her hands -with charcoaled stained knuckles,speak storiesof lives lostand gripping fablesof letting go ofthe forgotten loves, fractured hopes and unwilling departures that she still holdson to...

She knows what it isBefore it is

Between Harlem and Queens,she is in transit to return to a place wherehands and faceswait for her whereH[SHFWDWLRQV��ÁXRUHVFHQW�VPLOHV�and "gimme what you got for me"will greet her

- of reaching for handlesladles and platesbecause, her work has just begun.

Woman In Transitby K.D. Morris

Mouths gape as newly hatchedchicks would whenmother hen returns to the nest,all competing for her attention -Posting up to be favored.

This woman in transitshould pretend not to hear themSo that she can maintain focuson herself -on her craft.

One passed through generationsof I love you througharroz y com pollo,red beans, SODQNWRQ�DQG�FDWÀVK���rosaries and bibliographies in each room... KRVWHG�E\�FUXFLÀ[HVand pictures of Christ in the middleof family photos- images of saintsfaith And prayer cloths.

Woman in transitrises to continueto lift tired,strong "let's keep it movin" legsas bone DQG�ÁHVKcooperate with her intended movementto bare the task of motivating her to continue one step moreone more dayalways and againbe a woman in transit.

12

13

Resource Centerat Friends Hospital

?hk�fhk^�maZg�Û_m^^g�r^Zkl%�<hglnemZmbhg%�Bg_hkfZmbhg���

K^_^kkZel�hg�fZmm^kl�pertaining to Mental Health.

Bg�ma^�L\Zmm^k`hh]�;nbe]bg`%�?kb^g]l�AhlibmZe%�

-/-*�Khhl^o^em�;hne^oZk]%�IabeZ]^eiabZ�IZ%�*2*+-

215 831 4894:�?k^^�L^kob\^'�

Volunteers Wanted

2014 - 2015

PROGRAM

Greater PhiladelphiaPhilosophy Consortium

OPEN TO THE PUBLIC

PhilosophyDiscussionGroups

Colloquia

Women in the History of Philosophy (Penn-Villanova)

GPPC Public Issues Forum (Rosemont College)

Happiness Ancient and Modern Seminar (Penn)

Community Lecture: Stevenson and Friendship (Cherry Hill)

Philosophy on Film Series (Bryn Mawr Film Institute)

Queer Philosophy (Ursinus College)

SEPT.12-13

SEPT. 27

NOV. 7-8

JAN. 29

APR.2,9,16

APRIL 18

Epistemology

Asian and Comparative Philosophy

Philosophy of Religion

Philosophy of Psychiatry

www.thegppc.orgAlso find us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter@TheGPPC

His days marched in placedays like tin soldiers each onepushing the next aside.

Hurry, hurry before it is too late...LQVLGH�D�JDSLQJ�KROH�WR�EH�ÀOOHG�More and more of the surfaceof his life was covered by dust.

The hallway gave off a musty odor.Night after night, lights burned.Busted dreams heaped in boxes.%ODFN�PDUNV�FRYHUHG�ÁRRUV�

Less and less energy to clean up.His body betrayed him, both hisbones, his breath betrayed him.

One edge of his room spoke tothe other. His fan purred all summer,basement furnace heaved all winter.This incessant sigh gathering dust.

Occupant Apartment 2 Dby Joan McNerney

14

%UHDNIDVW�Photos by Paige Navalany

15

A thousand wives sweepingcaressing your facewith silk scarves weaved by the children of roaming gypsiesa thousand wives bathing you with Schechem's saltswashing away your stainsZKLOVW�WKH�ZRXQGV�UDZ�ÁHVK�DEVRUEVthe minerals to thaw the darkness

Haremby Simona DeFeo

16

6ROVWLFHMixed Media Melissa Rothman

17

She signs her name in white chalk beside the door.She says "I'm here." in a counterfeit voice.Someone unseen sighs loudly in the brothel.She prepares for the shift to end all shifts. The scentof sex begins to sicken her. She breaks out.

She catches street corner stares every SundayPRUQLQJ�LQ�VHUYLFH��VKH·V�GUHVVHG�LQ�VWLOHWWRV�her best skin tight skirt, begging for sacrament.The deacons and missionaries move on to mind their ownbusiness. Her church pew prayers prove it pointless.

Her footprints found in basement chambers, behindthe pulpit. Where the preacher pulls out more thanpassages to comfort her pain and pressure.Later she's searching for a hero on the hill,DPRQJ�WKH�PHQ�RI�FLW\�KDOO��6KH·V�GLVPLVVHG�

No one stays after the hearing. Oversight.Once she felt whole from the power. The lobby.Presiding over priests, politicians and bills.Staggering back to room c for the calling.&XUVLQJ�*RG�DQG�PDQ��VKH·V�FU\LQJ�DOO�DORQH�

She places the money under the mattress.Paints her face in the mirror and slaps bottom.6KH·V�GLPPLQJ�WKH�OLJKWV�DQG�EXUQLQJ�WKH�LQFHQVH�Then she does it to herself, one last time. Damn!

Her coroner and former client is found sippingWKH�EORRG�IURP�KXPDQ�WUDIÀF�LQ�UHPHPEUDQFH�

In Remembranceby Venus Jones

18

Like an old rag all thethreads are coming outof me leaving a hole inmy life. I put myself togood use and clean. Andat least I can say I donesomething, no matter howVPDOO�RU�VTXDUH��,·P�DVhandy and genuine ascotton and original.

The Janitor Saysby Danny Barbare

19

Walk along the mad at midnight, see Jesse Parker,RU�LV�WKDW�KLV�JUDQGIDWKHU·V�JKRVWstumbling home drunk,falling in and out of the hedgerows.I talk to lights in windows.Are you the skin of my third Connie,my second Michelle?7KHQ�WKH\�JR�GDUN�OLNH�WKDW·V�DQ�DQVZHU� %DU·V�VWLOO�FRRNLQJ�Voices enough to buryevery drunkard for miles,terrible fragments of the dead,soldiers, car crashes, overdoses,a drowning in the cold brown river,deadly accident at the mill. :LQG·V�JRW�PRUH�FKLOO�WKDQ�GLUHFWLRQ�,W·V�EORZLQJ�RQ�EHKDOI�RI�DOO�WKH�ROG�ZLQGV�7KRXJKWV�FDQ·W�JHW�WKHLU�EHDULQJV�An elm takes off its glassesDQG�LW·V�WKH�ROG�PDQ�Thick grasses knot around my footsteps,three family members at a time. I breathe the air, my ancestors.I kick the dirt, who I might be.In between, the moon busts from a cloud,like me trying to bust freeuntil the next night.

Small Townby John Grey

20

The sun-smacked back roads runpast little churches lording overcongregations of kudzu. Pecan

deacons leaning over graveyardswhose tombstones listfrom the tilt of time.

On the empty days I would pullinto these groves to swigfrom the growler of shadesome faint respite. Too late

I see the clutch of vine, the greennoose that hangs from the old limb. The unsettled past, danglingfrom the wounded moss. In response,

nearby magnolias spread benedictionsof blossom, each petal a poulticeof unfolding grace, fallingover the bruised earth.

The Alpha and Omega of the Mississippi Deltaby Kaz Sussman

21

22

ORRNHG�OLNH�D�NDOHLGRVFRSH��D�UHÁHFWLRQof stained glass shades holding vigilDORQJ�WKH�VLGH�RI�QDWXUH·V�VN\VFUDSHU�I placed my hand against the rock,and for a moment imagined my bodyhad the power to shatter the world.

The Cliff Wallby A.J. Huffman

A littered piece of aluminumis weathered - it's buried in tarin the shape of a heart.An unbroken bottle lies, empty on the roadside -memory of someone's drunken night.A girl walks, wearing a shirt that strugglesto stay on her shoulders, bag in one hand,phone in the other. She is the musefor a smoking reclusewho supports himself against a wall.He does not feel the pebbles on itagainst his skin. Both watchthe old haggard man,cold under the winter sun,barely on his bikethat holds a paint pail, his treasures,and his soul, as he crawlsto cross the street.

I cannot describethe shroud that I am under.My will vanishes, slowly into obscurity,DV�,�UHJHQHUDWH�WKDW�VWDUÀVK�DUP�wishing I will be the silver leaveson a gift box of sweets, the straw woven with goldon a glitter plate or maybe even the subject of someone'snext song

because some stories endwithout a single change.

Musing outside the libraryby Anna G. Raman

23

His little roadside business:A padded surfaceWith a shelter for it,A heavy hot iron,Water to sprinkleOn clothes from which he smoothed awayWrinkles, all day

I remember his faceAs the triangle of the iron,Burning from the heat,With eyes, ardent, like coal,His hands strong,His legs weak and limpingFrom the weight of the ironThat he was.

A friend of festivities,He fervently smoothed wrinklesOff the streetAnd adorned itWith fascinating, neatly pleated sarees,Some nine yards each,And perfectly pressedPants, shirts and dhotis.

He did not break into housesOr beg from them.He pressed and got paid for.Occasionally he stepped away from his stallFor a smoke break,For a siesta on our verandah

My grandma was kind -She always tipped himWith tumblers of tea.

Face like the triangle of the ironby Anna G. Raman

24

Inside my apartment pouring damnationby way of girlie-list mixed drinksWKH�ODG\�SV\FKRORJLVW�,·G�PHW�RQ�VLQJOH·V�OLQHasked me probing questions about my parentsbefore long she was snatching her brown pursesprinting out of this incinerating enchantmentas if she were climbing over an obstacle courseDWRS�WKH�KRW�FDU�KRRG�RQ�P\�GDG·V�JHWDZD\�ULGHher spiked heels stabbing holes everywhere exitingmy past, our future, I let her go never commentingstanding there like a school track coach holding asilver stop watch recording an unbelievable time

Dating Scene Down Under Fool: 1996by David S. Pointer

Neon

Mixed MediaMelissa Rothman

25

The war of my generation stillgrumbles through cloudy mountains,dragging its burlap feedbag.With all of its juries tampered,DOO�LWV�RLOV�DQG�VXJDUV�UHÀQHG�all its glossy surfaces waxed,LW·V�LQYXOQHUDEOH�DV�EODFN�PDWWHUand innocent as primal slime.

Browsing the latest GQ,,·P�DVWRQLVKHG�E\�WKH�FDUHOHVVposes, the alligator smirks,the clothing wrung free of wrinklesof human habitation. So now,decades after the shooting stopped,people gaze into smart phones,wear polka-dot socks, ring-bucklebelts, drive semi-electric autos.

Women shaped like bowstrings and menshaped like Doric columns mateWR�HPSRZHU�FKLOGUHQ�ZKR�ZRQ·Wstay empowered for long. To honorWKH�ÀIW\�\HDUV�RI�RXU�ZDU,·YH�ÀOOHG�D�GR]HQ�VSUHDGVKHHWVZLWK�GDWD�WR�ÁDWWHU�SROLWLFV�Casualties: none worth counting.Destruction: minor slum clearance.Psychic wounds: a few bad dreamsthat render waking life a pleasure.

But soon the war will descend from mistto settle in the streets and groan.Everyone will have to comfortor be eaten by it. Leather, gold,DQG�(J\SWLDQ�FRWWRQ�ZRQ·W�FXUH�LWRI�LWVHOI��,W·V�WRR�ROG�DQG�VHWin its ways. Because we forgotWR�VXUUHQGHU�ZH·OO�DOZD\V�EH�SUH\�I print my spreadsheets, fold theminto paper airplanes, and sail themover lamp-lit cities that escapedthe bombing they badly desire.

The War of My Generationby William Doreski

26

My heart still mourns the loss of Trayvon MartinMy brain still wrestles with the reality of the outcome: AcquittalThe legal term for injustice committed by white perpetratorsThe Black man is a scapegoat, a black sheep*UD]LQJ�LQ�D�ÀHOG�PDUUHG�E\�GLVFULPLQDWLRQBlack men are dehumanizedComparable to unassuming fawns lost in a tragic forest of hatredDuring open seasonYes! These hunters have permits, license to killShall we refer to them as police men or exterminators?Because X marks the spot!Are we merely two-legged targets?Wandering and wondering when will this endI am sick and tired of murdered, unarmed black men!

The Most Dangerous Gameby Courtney Gambrell

27

A percussive toucha sweet collaborationcombining the top, i.e. hornsAndBottom: piano congas timbalesin recognition of Chano Pozoand Dizzy Gillespie unitingA/A jazz and A/C carribbeanoff springing CuBop African Brassa fantastic realityA place for African Musiciansand music to come to Home20th century homeA place for Garvey a place for Elijah Muhammada podium for Malcolm Carlos CooksWKH�FRPPDQGDQW·V�ODXQFKLQJ�SDGfor a 20th century successfulsocialist revolutionContributing to Southern Africanliberation on the ContinentA song for Chanothe creation of PanAfrican liberationDiz's horn and Chano's druma percussive touch determinedto be liberated throughAncestral Messages making the spirit whole

Song For Chanoby Ted Wilson

28

It was the dixiecrat conventiondominated by liberals1964 was a year of massive demonstrations Arrests demonstrations murderous lynchings demonstrationsbacklashing against demonstrationsmass illness i.e. being sick and tired of being sick and tiredLocked up in the spring for three daysVLWWLQ·�LQ�LQ�TXHHQV�DQ�DOWHUQDWLYH�WR�VWDOOLQ·�inRSHQLQJ�GD\�DW�7KH�:RUOG·V�)DLU�GHPRQVWUDWLQJkicked walked on abused and demonstratingOn the boardwalk in AC demonstratingVLWWLQ·�LQ�GHPRQVWUDWLQJ�sweat pouring down demonstratingAugust heat burning our rear endSudden clouds come upon us quickly making afternoon like nightAnti war anti bomb demonstratorsanti anti demonstrators and us ÀJKWLQJ�IRU�WKH�0)'3�WR�EH�VHDWHGthe rains come down in bucketsThe other antees ran for coverwhere there was no cover we sat soaking and a voice sprung upWe Shall Overcome more voicesWe Shall Overcome stronger louderWe Shall Overcome somedayyyyThe rains receded only where we sat demonstrating Went back up in the sky as the sunburst forth hotter than everover us only drying us likewe never got wet as kept demonstratingOh Freedom! Ohh FreedomOh freedom over me$QG�EHIRUH�,·OO�EH�D�VODYH,·OO�EH�EXULHG�LQ�P\�JUDYHAnd take my place with thoseWho struggled before me The creator had spokenWe sat for three more daysDemonstrating

*Al Pertilla was a SNCCworker who became a friendand lifetime comrade who askedme to write this piece

Atlantic City ’64 Conventionfor Al Pertilla*by Ted Wilson

29

30Photo by Lamont Steptoe.

Yes, James Baldwin,I will always go tell it on the mountain.I will always go tell it on the mountain.Yes, Nikki Giovanni,Quite a few of our hued humans can kill.They let large bullets dischargeThe way racecars charge.Quite a few of our hued humans'RQ·W�XQGHUVWDQG�WKH\·UH�DVVLVWLQJ�WKH�.ODQ�This is not what your poem wanted.You wanted the other lot shot, not our own.No matter, unrelated criminal lives,Probably unaware of your diatribes,Gave us untold murder-related cries.Yes, Toni Morrison,Quite a few of our hued humansNot only desire blue eyes,They desire skin bleachSince it gets the palenessCadavers always reach.Quite a few of our hued humans,Adrift along a blizzard,Blind under the order of their disorder,&DQQRW�ÀQG�DQFHVWUDO�EHDXW\�LQ�D�PLUURU�Yes, Ralph Ellison,Quite a few of our hued humansBelieve their campaignsFor fair wages,Health care or equalityAre air, wind and scents,Invisible concernsThat soar out/HJLVODWRUV·�GRRUVOr assorted windows.Yes, Walter Mosley,There is a pre-colonial-old case:KLFK�VWLOO�EDIÁHVEven Ezekiel Rawlins.7KH�FDVH·V�HYLO�RXWULYDOV�DOO�YLOODLQV�Quite a few of our hued humans believeEvery true gumshoe cannot sleuthWell enough to elucidate our crewAbout these queries,Will our hued humans indeed use+HQU\�6\OYHVWHU�:LOOLDPV·�SUXGHQFH"Will our hued humans ever interfuse,Forming a hand and arm,Conjoined to battle all harm?Yes, James Baldwin,I will always go tell it on the mountain.I will always go tell it on the mountain.

The Ire Required This Timeby Bob McNeil

31

32

Your third eye glows in the darkof my living room, cracks framed glass,freeing you from the black and white photoof us standing together in an elevatorascending some cityscape

Like wine splashingfrom a shattered crystal goblet\RX�DUULYH�DJDLQ��Á\LQJ�LQ�IURP�WKH�)UDQFHof dream, wearing the mask of nightyou stalk into the battlefrontquiet of my home jingling Johnny Walker ice cubesand smiling like a drunk Santa

I would think this visit strangehad you not also appeared to me before we metin an elevator roof shack playing cards at a tablewith Gary Snyder, turning from whiskeyDQG�ZLQQLQJ��SXOOLQJ�GRZQ�\RXU�FKHHN�ÁHVK�rolling your great prophetic pupils to the skiesand writing a Chinese calligraphy letteron the white of your eye that meant,if you choose to be a writermany strange and unexplainablemeetings await you

Your leathery hands palm the spines RI�P\�ERRNV�DQG�ÀQJHU�WKH�GXVWYour gap-toothed grin stretchesWKH�OHQJWK�RI�WKH�PRRQ�ÀOOLQJthe living room wallAnd your eyes bag the copper and silver,DEVRUE�WKH�ÁLFNHU�RI�FDQGOHÁDPHV�IRU�\RXU�MRXUQH\to all the hearths and homeswhere your books open

Metaphysical HousecallFor James A. Baldwinby Aaren Yeatts Perry

Photo by Shaun O. Henderson

From the obscurity of the past, we sawWKH�GDUN�QRZ�ÁDPLQJ�IDFH�RI�D�JLDQW�1DWKDQLHOcallingwhosoever willlet him come.

)RU�D�PRPHQW��7XUQHU·V�IHDWXUHV�VRIWHQHG he mourned the lost years the centuries of lined and somber faces the broken ranks of his people thousands by the tens of thousands torn from the soil of their fathers to death in life on bleak, distant shores.

And his face hardenedAnd we heard, again, the voice, callingWhosoever willLet him comeLet him come nowHim who can hearWhosoever will---ComeHim who thirsts---HaWould drink of the waters---ComeWould drink of the waters of lifeWould drink freely.

Is there one?Is there anyone?

I who speak according to prophecyIn his name I say ComeFor the thousands gone, ComeFor the living the dead and the not yet born, I say Come

Nat Turner Or Let Him Come An Invitational Appeal

by Samuel Allen

Is there one? Is there anyone? Even so. Thank God. Praise him. I say Come.

Is there another? Is there one? I say Come.

I which testify these things---Ha!Surely now---who would---Ha!Let him come. Let him come quickly---Ha!

Even so. Thanks be to God. Yes, another! You will drink, my brother, of the breaking waters Of freedom. Thanks be to the father! Is there another? Is there another? Let him come. Yes, come weeping. Come rejoicing! My God, come! I say, Come!

33

Are they safe?Safe, are they safe?An understandable concern.

Black tie or turtleneck

VODFNV�RU�HYHQLQJ�JRZQHDVW�VLGH��ZHVW�VLGHVXEXUE��DOO�DURXQGDUH�WKH�ZRPHQ�VDIH"$UH�WKH�FKLOGUHQ�VDIH"

In the dungeons of Goree7KLV�VDOH�ZLOO�EH�FDUULHG�RXWare the children safe,LQ�D�ODZIXO�PDQQHU���LQ�WKH�VKLS·V�KROGOrder!

on the auction block:H�PXVW�KDYH�RUGHU�are the women safe?cried the auctioneer.

From the sheeted KlanWhat do I hear?from the bellied sheriffGoing

were they safe?WKH�JHQWOHPDQ�LQ�WKH�EODFN�WLH!are theyGone!

Safe?

Are they safe?

Law and Orderby Samuel Allen

34

heard coyotes are ridin' the subways in New York Citygettin' on and gettin' off at will

animals have always been at one with the spirit worldunlike humanity

somethin' is about to endwhile somethin' a whole lot better is about to be born

listen for the horn!coyotes are runnin' the streets of Chicago too!

seen video evidence of that!I wanna run with the coyotes they on to somethin'

Listen for the Horn!by Lamont b. Steptoe

35Photo by Lamont Steptoe

The First Timethey call you NIGGERyour head will eruptlike Vesuviusdrowning your age of innocencelike the Village of PompeiiHot molten lavawill rush throughyour veinsat the speed of lightsearing your heartwith third degree burns.Your vision will blurrefocusthen blur again while small Central American warsbreak out in the catacombsof your mind.

Hound dogswill pursueyou down thecorridors of confusionas you escape through southern swampslooking for the North Star.

The First Time they call youNIGGERyou will be one with the cremated Japaneseat Hiroshima and Nagasakiwho left onlytheir shadows behind.You'll be one with South Africanminersforced to vomit dailyas they emergefrom the ground thatno longer belongs to themin searchof stolen diamonds.

The First Time They Call You Niggerfor Montess Edwin Trapp III, my nephewby Lamont b. Steptoe

You'll be one withold Black womenin White folks' kitchenshumming spiritualsin Godless templesof alabaster

You'll be onewith stolen kings and queensscatteredlike gemsDFURVV�PLGQLJKW�ÁRRUVof oblivion.

the ÀUVW�WLPH�WKH\�FDOO�\RXNIGGERyou will suddenlyknow all aboutyour mamaand daddyand grandma andgranddaddyand greatgrandma and great granddaddyand great great grandmaand great great granddaddy.

Suddenly,you will seelike you've never seen beforeas the cataractsof youth fall away.Not until you meetGod Almightyhimselfwill visionbe so intenselyvisionagain.

36

III. Flight #2634 (On the Road, Diary Entries 1985-1986)excerpts from 5HPHPEHULQJ�-LPP\��2Q�WKH�5RDG�ZLWK�-DPHV�%DOGZLQ�by Shaun O. HendersonPhotos by Shaun O. Henderson

37

5/4/85I spoke with James Baldwin today. He said he never received my poetry. Both of us were upset. I told him the package was sent certi-ÀHG�PDLO�DQG�WKDW�,�UHFHLYHG�a receipt upon delivery with the name: James L. Bellows, stamped on it. I assumed it was his alias. By thinking he received the poems, I threw away the receipt. I thought there was no more use for it since the package had reached its destination. Now that I have discovered that he did not receive the poetry, I went home and searched my apartment like a hound dog. ,�KRSHG�WR�ÀQG�WKH�RULJLQDO�receipt I received when paying for the postage. If I FDQ�ÀQG�LW��,·P�VXUH�WKH�SRVW�RIÀFH�FDQ�WUDFH�WKH�PDLO���,�FRXOGQ·W�ÀQG�LW�DQ\ZKHUH���,�will have to go to the post RIÀFH�DQG�LQIRUP�WKHP�RI�the lost package.

1/86Recently I interviewed James Baldwin, the “fa-PRXVµ�ZULWHU���6LQFH�ZH·YH�EHFRPH�IULHQGV��,·YH�OHDUQHG�a lot from him. I hope to write these moments VKDUHG���,·P�QRW�JRLQJ�WR�express them all in this journal although there is much to say. I would like to study with him (a mentor) for a while. I want to learn as much as I can about him and the business of writing.Funny. When I was in NYC interviewing Baldwin, afterwards he wanted to go have a drink. He took me WR�D�EDU�FDOOHG�0LNHO·V�IRU�D�few rounds. To my surprise, Luther Vandross was sitting at a table alone. Sissy

Houston was performing that night. Seeing Luther close up, I was star struck. I was too scared to walk over and start a conversation ZLWK�KLP��VR�,�GLGQ·W���,�KDG�in my possession songs that ,�ZURWH�EXW�FRXOGQ·W�PXVWHU�up the courage to share them with him. I told Bald-win about my thoughts and feelings. When Luther got up to leave, Baldwin boldly reached out and grabbed his arm introducing us as he passed by. He started E\�VD\LQJ��´+L���,·P�-LPP\�Baldwin” as if he owned the SODFH���7LOO�WKLV�GD\��,�GRQ·W�think Vandross realized that was James Baldwin, the famous writer who was trying to introduce us, nor do I think he really cared. (Jimmy later went on to tell me he felt the same kind of intimidation once upon a time when in the presence of a talented singer of his era.)

2/2/86Recently I visited James Baldwin in New York. I sat in on a 60 Minutes interview with him and Diane Sawyer. :KDW�DQ�H[SHULHQFH���,W·V�WKH�ÀUVW�WLPH�,·G�HYHU�ULGGHQ�LQ�D�OLPRXVLQH���,·OO�QR�GRXEW�write about the interview between the two of them. I called Timmy, my best friend who was in graduate school at Columbia University. He came over and chatted with Baldwin as well. We all went out for dinner and stayed up all night until 6:00 a.m. or maybe 7:00 a.m., drinking. Baldwin asked me to come work for him doing research. I want to take the offer, however, I wanted

WR�ÀQLVK�VFKRRO�ÀUVW���,�DOVR�had a very bad dream about Baldwin. I dreamed he at-tacked me as he was dying. It was a nightmare. I woke up feeling scared.

2/23/86This week I met James Baldwin at the Afro-American Museum with Gwendolyn Brooks. She ZDV�WKH�VZHHWHVW�ODG\�,·YH�ever met. She reminded me of Grand-mom Shelton. She also reminded me of Miss Dovie (who helped raise me along side my Mother). Her poetry was beautiful. After the reading, we had dinner at the direc-WRU�RI�WKH�PXVHXP·V�KRPH���We drank and talked until 4:00 a.m. It was great and a rare occasion to see the two of them together in such DQ�LQIRUPDO�PDQQHU���,�FDQ·W�believe this is happening to me. Meeting and becoming friends with Baldwin, wow! Meeting Mrs. Brooks, wow! She asked me to write to KHU���,·G�OLNH�WR�LQWHUYLHZ�KHU���,�ZLOO�GHÀQLWHO\�VHQG�her my poetry. Baldwin and I stayed up until 7:30am talking, and then we went to breakfast.

3/5/86We arrived in Paris two days ago. The journey has EHHQ�VR�H[FLWLQJ�,�KDYHQ·W�had the time to write it all down. How could I? We left for Paris Sunday. Prior to leaving we had lunch. Valerie prepared a home-made pizza.I packed my bags while Jimmy and Bernard went to the bank. I walked around snapping more photographs ZKLOH�WKLQNLQJ��´,·OO�QHYHU�

see this place again.” As we climbed into the taxi, I said a silent prayer. I said farewell to all this beauty and magic as I watched the Village fade through the window of the taxi. Once in the air, I began thinking and questioning myself about how little one knows about life, how beautiful the baby Alps are as seen from the airplane, and about all the nuclear power we have to destroy ourselves but can never destroy the beauty of this planet. When we touched GRZQ��-DQWHO��-LPP\·V�French publicist) met us at the airport. Once again I found myself at a loss for language. I was reduced to reading gestures. We arrived at our hotel. To me, the city seemed like so PDQ\�FLWLHV�,·YH�VHHQ�EHIRUH�yet so old and rustic in ap-pearance. After getting situat-HG��ZH�ZHQW�WR�-DQWHO·V�IRU�dinner. Of course there was wine. All kinds of wines. They ate. They drank. They talked. Periodically someone would attempt to speak English. After dinner, we went back to the hotel. Bernard had left right after dinner. After Jimmy and I got back to the hotel, I went out wandering. Passing -LPP\·V�URRP��KH�RIIHUHG�me some fatherly advice stating; “Assume all streets are dangerous.” The next morning we started off with coffee and croissants for breakfast. I joined Jimmy in his room. Following this, we had lunch at a restaurant in which Jim-P\·V�)UHQFK�ODZ\HU��5XG\��joined us.

38

They began discussing GRLQJ�D�ÀOP�YHUVLRQ�RI�KLV�ERRN��*LRYDQQL·V�5RRP���$I-ter a rather long lunch, and a few interviews Jimmy had at the hotel, I drifted alone in the city taking photographs.Bernard had disappeared with his friends. I did not see much of him at all. Later that evening, Jimmy and I met for dinner then returned to the hotel. The desk clerk suggested a cafe to me. I went alone. It was extremely dull. I wanted to go to a nightclub where I could dance. Being with Jimmy day in and day out is overwhelming at times. I needed a break. So I went to this nightclub and met Elizabeth. She spoke En-glish. She was Norwegian. I hung out all night with her, meeting her friends. I re-turned to the hotel after 5:00 am. The next day Jimmy was doing back-to-back in-terviews. Later that evening we had dinner at his pub-OLVKHU·V�KRPH���7KH\�VSRNH�both French and English, I was relieved. A French editor who was to translate RQH�RI�-LPP\·V�ERRNV�DOVR�joined us for dinner. Most of the days which followed were the same. Jimmy doing interviews. Ber-nard disappearing with his

friends. And I alone, drifting about the streets of Paris taking it all in.The following evening, Jimmy received The Golden H. Award. The ceremony was quite long and extreme-ly boring since once again I could not understand what was being said. However, there was a lady, Madam Townsend, who befriended me and translated most of what was being said to me. From my observation, Jimmy, Bernard and myself were the only colored folk in the joint. Witnessing Jimmy on the road is yet another story. Constantly being bombarded with people and questions. It takes a toll on him. He looks so tired at times. Drained. I began thinking, if only all these people saw how he does it from the time he awakes in the morning, WKH�ÀUVW�WKLQJ�KH�UHDFKHV�IRU�is a cigarette. What really bothers me the most is his cough.After the awards ceremo-ny, we went for drinks with Rudy and his wife. They were concerned about Jim-P\·V�SXEOLFDWLRQ�ULJKWV�DQG�KLV�ÀQDQFHV���7D[HV��ELOOV�etc. I remember sitting in this very dark, cool, intimate FDIH·�ZKLOH�WKH�VXOWU\�MD]]�

played in the background. Very tired, I slowly began to fade. Then a George Benson rendition of Every-thing Must Change began to play on the jukebox. Jimmy and I sat quietly staring into space. Jimmy and I were both tired and weary. As the song played on, he softly said, “Love is the key to poetry.” Later, driving to the KRWHO�LQ�5XG\·V�FDU��-DQWHO�and Jimmy began arguing in French. Here we go again I thought. He was scolding her. Once in a while he would interject with English, ,·G�OLNH�WR�WKLQN�IRU�P\�VDNH�of understanding, telling her. ´,�GRQ·W�PLQG�GRLQJ�DOO�WKHVH�damn interviews. Just let me know up front!” He went on to vent about not know-ing if he were coming or going. I sensed that he felt like a commodity exchange for coins. He was telling her something to the effect WKDW�WKRVH�SHRSOH�GLGQ·W�FDUH�about him and not to be too much of a part of that. That he cared too much about her. She began to cry. I looked into her eyes. They said it all.Thursday I could not get out of bed. Too tired. Too much of everything. Food. Wine. Conversations. I

simply slept, slept, slept. Later that day I met Jimmy for dinner. We dined at the theater with a director who wanted to do %OXHV�IRU�0U��Charlie, in French. Earlier that day, Jimmy was once again faced with back-to-EDFN�LQWHUYLHZV���,�GLGQ·W�JHW�to see much of him while in Paris. He was on stage you might say. In fact, the last glimpse I saw of Jimmy was 5:30 a.m. in Saint Paul while he was sitting at his desk, with those half lens glasses hanging off his nose while crouching over his typewrit-er. I walked pass the door-way. He looked up. Our eyes met like they did the ÀUVW�WLPH�ZH�PHW��EXW�ZLWK�more trust, understanding and love. Neither he nor I said anything to each other. I passed by in route to bed. That was the last glimpse of Jimmy. What I am seeing now is James Baldwin, a man under great pressure and in great demand, a man with a continuous glass of scotch in one hand and a cigarette in another. “Those are my shields,” he once told me. After dinner Jimmy went to do more interviews to the radio station this time. I waited

or Elizabeth to meet me. She never showed. Meanwhile, I met an ac-tress named Isabelle. We FKDWWHG�EULHÁ\�DQG�VKH�gave me an address to a supposedly chic nightspot in Paris. When I arrived, they would not let me in. I guess I was not famous enough or French enough. The rest of the night was a whirlwind.The next morning I had breakfast and hit the city. Later that evening I met with Jimmy for dinner. Brighten Bretenbach (A South African writer) and his wife, as well as my friend Elizabeth joined us. We had a won-derful meal with exception of the sardines. From there, Jimmy and Mr. Bretenbach insisted that Elizabeth and I get out of the presence of WZR�ROG�IDUWV�DQG�Á\�DZD\��Go see the romance of Paris. They must have been reading our minds. They shooed us away as we ran off to explore our youth and new found lust for one another. The next morning Jimmy had to go to Brussels. I was dead tired. ,�KDGQ·W�VOHSW�D�ZLQN���7KH�next thing I know Jimmy and I were on a train to Belgium. Jantel met us there. While riding on the train Jimmy had asked me to listen to a SRHP�KH·G�MXVW�ZULWWHQ��+H�recited it. It was profound. It was deep. I asked him for a copy. He promised to make a copy for me. That was the last we ever saw of the poem. For days after we searched and searched

EXW�FRXOG�QRW�ÀQG�LW���+H�resolved that it was stolen when we were in Belgium. He said to me from time to time people would steal pages of notes from him if he would lay them down and turn away for a minute. Once we arrived, again he was faced with back-to-back interviews. Later that evening the three of us had dinner. Out of nowhere, from the top of his lungs, Jimmy began to sing, Pre-cious Lord. I tried to photo-graph him in this moment. It ZDV�EULOOLDQW��6XGGHQO\�,�ÀQG�myself departing Paris and homeward bound. We left the night before. Getting home was another trip in itself. On top of everything else, Jimmy was beat. I could see it written all over him. He looked like a zom-bie. He was about to pass out or drop from fatigue. I am in my early twenties and am completely worn out. +HUH·V�D�PDQ�LQ�KLV�VL[WLHV�When we arrived at the terminal, TWA was on VWULNH��VR�ZH�KDG�WR�Á\�LQ�a small-chartered airplane that had us both tied in a knot. As we sat in the air-port, a group of White Amer-ican athletes approached Jimmy for his autograph. With all this commotion, a FRXSOH�RI�VHFXULW\�RIÀFHUV��with loaded sub machine guns, approached us for our passports.Jimmy really looked sick. For some reason he be-gan to tell me that he had a slight heart attack a few

months ago. I became angry with him. I did not un-derstand why he would then allow himself to embark on such a rigorous touring schedule. All the strain and pressure he was under. 7KHQ�,�UHFDOOHG�%HUQDUG·V�constant scolding of Jimmy telling him to take it easy. My opinion was that Jim-my should have stayed in Saint Paul, resting, relaxing and reading. We began to argue about this. Now I too found myself scolding Jimmy. We resolved our ÀJKW�ZKHQ�KH�DJUHHG�WKDW�DV�VRRQ�DV�KH�IXOÀOOHG�KLV�commitment to Amherst University he would come home and take it easy.Jimmy and I had dinner in the airport when we arrived LQ�1HZ�<RUN���:H�UHÁHFWHG�on the trip abroad. I felt so much closer to him, even to the point of reprimand-ing him. Critiquing the journey, I told him it was too exhausting; there were too many interviews, and too many people to see. Jimmy wisely commented, “Now you bear witness to the price of the ticket.” For every story I could possibly share about this adventure, WKHUH·V�D�WKRXVDQG�ORVW���Jimmy the man, is terribly lonely at times. After the curtain comes down, he retreats alone, to an empty bed.However, once we arrived in New York, the curtain went up again. People began demanding his time, energy and autographs. We de-

SDUWHG�RQH�DQRWKHU·V�FRP-pany in the airport terminal. We kissed cheeks and said good-bye. Walking away, we turned and looked back at one another with friendly smiles. I felt relieved about something. Now I sit on the train, homeward bound, trying to digest it all.7RPRUURZ�,�IDFH�WKH�FLW\�,·YH�known so well. However, things for me have changed. My attitude. My vision. My purpose. Myself.

40

Bree is a Cleveland, OH poet and founder of *UHHQ�3DQGD�3UHVV, which publishes chaps and anthologies of poetry and art. she created the Gonzo Library of the Indy Outlaw (www.outlawlibrary.blogspot.com) with Dave Roskos of Iniqity Press in 2012, and has been the woman behind many festivals of small press poetry.

Christopher Bogart is a retired high school English teacher and a present graduate student at Monmouth University. As a working poet, he is presently a member of New -HUVH\�3RHWV, a Monmouth County poetry group that meets monthly in Eatontown, and is a member of the 1HZ�-HUVH\�3RHWU\�6RFLHW\� As a published poet, his work has appeared in collections of local poetry, university literary magazines and literary journals as well as various online sites. On August 1, 2005, he presented a paper on the importance of poetry in the teaching of literature and writing to the Oxford Round Table at the Oxford Union Debate Hall at Oxford University.

David S. Pointer of Murfeesboro Tennessee moved into Camelot federal housing project when he was 11 years old. He started earning a different perspective on things at that time.

Anna G. Raman's work has appeared in The DuPage Valley Review, Sparkbright, River Poets Journal, The Stillwater Re-view, and others online and in print. She lives in Iselin, NJ with her husband and daughter.

k/d/morris - spoken word artist, educator and producer...concert photographer...your year 'round - all round artist...self con-tained and ready to build who has Umar Bin Hassan of the Last Poets and others on his projects. Produced North Philly's Finest - Shyster and music for Internationally known poet Taalam Acey...So, let's build.

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.

Ted Wilson has been a poet and cultural worker since the 1960's black liberation and civil rights movement. Learn more about him on http://www.fromblackartstoreparations.com

3��)��3DOP�LV�D�UHWLUHG�WHDFKHU��OLEUDULDQ�DQG�V\VWHPV�DQDO\VW�ZKRVH�ÁDVK�ÀFWLRQ�KDV�DSSHDUHG�LQ�SXEOLFDWLRQV�VXFK�DV�)LF-WLRQ����DQG�1HJDWLYH�6XFN��7KLV�LV�WKH�ÀUVW�DSSHDUDQFH�RI�KHU�SRHWU\�LQ�SXEOLFDWLRQ�

Linda Johnston Muhlhausen lives and writes in New Jersey. Poetry is witness, wonder, soapbox, making love in the dark. She writes it, reads it, listens to it, and much less often, gets some of it published.

7ULQD�*D\QRQ·V�SRHPV�DSSHDU�LQ�WKH�DQWKRORJLHV�6DLQW�3HWHU·V�%�OLVW��&RQWHPSRUDU\�3RHPV�,QVSLUHG�E\�WKH�6DLQWV��2E-session: Sestinas for the 21st Century,A Ritual to Read Together: Poems in Conversation with William Stafford, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of Sonnets of the Early Third Millennium,Bombshells and Knocking at the Door, as well DV�QXPHURXV�MRXUQDOV�LQFOXGLQJ�1DWXUDO�%ULGJH��5HHG�DQG�WKH�ÀQDO�LVVXH�RI�5XQHV��+HU�FKDSERRN�$Q�$OSKDEHW�RI�5RPDQFH�is available from Finishing Line Press. 6RXWKHUQ�&DOLIRUQLD�0LOHV�7ULQD�*D\QRQ

Samuel Allen was born at Columbus, Ohio on December 9, 1917. His father was a clergyman. He attended Fiske Univer-sity where he studied with James Weldon Johnson. He received his degree from Fiske in 1938 and went on to study law at Harvard where he received his law degree in 1941. He later did graduate work at the the New School for Social Research ������������DQG�WKH�6RUERQQH�LQ�3DULV��������������$OOHQV�SRHPV�ZHUH�ÀUVW�SXEOLVKHG�E\�5LFKDUG�:ULJKW�LQ�WKH�MRXUQDO��3UpVHQFH�$IULFDLQH, and his poetry is today found in many anthologies. He sometimes writes under the name Paul Vesey. Allen is also a reviewer, translator, editor and lecturer. His translations include the following: Jean-Paul Sartre's Orphee Noir and Leopold 6HQJKRUV�$QWKRORJLH�GH�OD�1RXYHOOH�3RHVLH�1HJUH�

Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. He works as a janitor at a local YMCA.

Biographies

%RUQ�LQ�1HZ�-HUVH\��'DQ�&RJKODQ�KDV�UHSXUSRVHG�SRHWU\�DV�D�SLJJ\EDQN�IRU�WKH�VKDWWHUHG�VKDUGV�RI�KLV�PLQG�DIWHU�D�KDUG�GD\·V�swing of the hammer. He shares the popular delusion that this tottering tattered stack of thoughts might be a lottery disguised in RLO�SDLQWV��WKDW�RQH�GD\�KH�PLJKW�PHUHO\�SXVK�RYHU�WKH�ZKROH�VWDFN�ZLWK�ÀQJHUWLSV�OLNH�TXDUWHUV�DQG�GLH�LQ�D�JUHDV\�SLOH�RI�GROODU�bills. He tells himself he is wise as he walks into the convenience store of his mind to buy the daily ticket; he looks at his mirror image from yesterday, the broken-toothed banker who keeps his memories behind the counter. He thinks to himself, “This rube.”

William Doreski's work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently 7KH�6XEXUEV�RI�$WODQWLV�(AA Press, 2013).

/LNH�HYHU\RQH�HOVH��.D]�6XVVPDQ�JRW�LQWR�SRHWU\�EHFDXVH�WKDW·V�ZKHUH�WKH�ELJ�EXFNV�DUH��+H�LV�D�FDUSHQWHU��OLYLQJ�LQ�D�KRPH�KH�has built in Oregon from abandoned poems. His work has appeared in &DGXFHXV��5DYHQ�&KURQLFOHV��1LPURG�-RXUQDO��6LQ�)URQ�WHUDV�:ULWHUV�:LWKRXW�%RUGHUV��DQG�:KLWHÀVK�5HYLHZ�DPRQJ�RWKHU�SXEOLFDWLRQV��ZZZ�ND]VXVVPDQ�FRP

7KH�,PDJLVWV�DQG�1HJULWXGH�0RYHPHQW�LQÁXHQFHG�%RE�0F1HLO��)XUWKHUPRUH��DIWHU�PDQ\�\HDUV�RI�EHLQJ�D�SURIHVVLRQDO�LOOXVWUDWRU��spoken word artist and writer, he still hopes to express and address the needs of the human mosaic.

-RDQ�0F1HUQH\·V�SRHWU\�KDV�EHHQ�LQFOXGHG�LQ�QXPHURXV�OLWHUDU\�PDJD]LQHV�VXFK�DV�&DPHO�6DORRQ��6HYHQ�&LUFOH�3UHVV��'LQQHU�with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Hill Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has EHHQ�QRPLQDWHG�WKUHH�WLPHV�IRU�%HVW�RI�WKH�1HW��)RXU�RI�KHU�ERRNV�KDYH�EHHQ�SXEOLVKHG�E\�ÀQH�VPDOO�OLWHUDU\�SUHVVHV�

A.J. Huffman has published eight solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publish-LQJ���6KH�LV�D�3XVKFDUW�3UL]H�QRPLQHH��DQG�KHU�SRHWU\��ÀFWLRQ��DQG�KDLNX�KDYH�DSSHDUHG�LQ�KXQGUHGV�RI�QDWLRQDO�DQG�LQWHUQDWLRQDO�journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofa-hurricanepress.com

9HQXV�-RQHV�KDV�RSHQHG�IRU�'HI�3RHWU\�RQ�%URDGZD\��DQG�KHU�ZRUN�KDV�DSSHDUHG�LQ�3RHW�/RUH��8.·V�;�0DJD]LQH��6SRNHQ�9L]LRQV�DQG�DQWKRORJLHV�LQFOXGLQJ��+RZ�,�)UHHG�0\�6RXO��$�7LPH�WR�5K\PH�DQG�$�*HQHUDWLRQ�'HÀQLQJ�,WVHOI��6KH·V�DQ�$XVWLQ�,QWHUQDWLRQDO�SRHWU\�VODP�ÀQDOLVW�DQG�IRUPHU�079�FRUUHVSRQGHQW��0V��-RQHV�LV�WKH�DXWKRU�RI�IRXU�&'V�DQG�WZR�ERRNV�HQWLWOHG�6KH�5RVH�DQG�/\ULFV�IRU�/DQJVWRQ��6KH·V�DOVR�DQ�DFFRPSOLVKHG�PRGHO�DQG�DFWUHVV��ZKR·V�ZRUNHG�RQ�IHDWXUH�ÀOPV�DQG�VWDUUHG�LQ�countless commercials and print ads. Venus is versatile, inspiring people of diverse ages, backgrounds and faiths. Her favorite TXRWH�LV�´3HRSOH�GRQ·W�FDUH�KRZ�PXFK�\RX�NQRZ��XQWLO�WKH\�NQRZ�KRZ�PXFK�\RX�FDUH�µ�9LVLW�ZZZ�YHQXVMRQHV�FRP

Hal O'Leary is an eighty-nine-year-old Secular Humanist who believes that it is only through the arts, poetry in particular, that one LV�DIIRUGHG�DQ�RFFDVLRQDO�JOLPSVH�LQWR�WKH�RWKHUZLVH�LQFRPSUHKHQVLEOH���+H�ÀQDOO\�UHWLUHG�DW�DJH�HLJKW\�IRXU�IURP�D�OLIH�LQ�WKH�WKH-DWUH��DQG�KDV�WXUQHG�WR�ZULWLQJ��7R�GDWH��KH�KDV�EHHQ�SXEOLVKHG�LQ�ÀIWHHQ�GLIIHUHQW�FRXQWULHV��$IWHU�EHLQJ�LQGXFWHG�LQWR�WKH�:KHHO-LQJ��:9��+DOO�RI�)DPH�IRU�KLV�FRQWULEXWLRQV�WR�WKH�$UWV��WKHUH�FDPH�WKH�ÀQDO�LURQ\��+DO�ZDV�DZDUGHG�KLV�RQO\�GHJUHH��DQ�+RQRUDU\�Doctor of Humane Letters by the very institution, West Liberty University, from which he had been a sorry college drop-out sixty years earlier.

Lamont b. Steptoe is an American Award winning poet and publisher from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. He has published twelve books of poetry and edited two poetry collections of the late South African poet and activist Dennis Brutus. In 2006 he won a Pew Fellowship, and his most recent book is “Meditations in Congo Square.”

Courtney Gambrell is a recent graduate from Immaculata University and was published in the Immaculata Literary Magazine WKUHH�WLPHV��+HU�´2GH�WR�7UD\YRQ�0DUWLQµ�DSSHDUHG�LQ�WKH�ÀUVW�LVVXH�RI�:KLUOZLQG�0DJD]LQH�

6KDXQ�2��+HQGHUVRQ�LV�D�ZULWHU�SRHW�ERUQ�DQG�UDLVHG�LQ�&DPGHQ��1HZ�-HUVH\��ZKLFK�LV�WKH�ÀQDO�UHVWLQJ�SODFH�RI�:DOW�:KLW-man. His repertoire includes poetry, short stories, and plays. Most notably Shaun traveled extensively with late author James Baldwin in his later years. He intends to publish his memoirs of Baldwin in the near future.

Indianapolis native Aaren Perry is the recipient of a Writing Fellowship from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. Bilingual and holding an MFA in Writing from Vermont College, Mr. Perry has worked as a poet, writer, and cultural activist.

Ruth Z. Deming has had her poetry published in many journals including Metazen, River Poets, Bellowing Ark and Innisfree. She runs a Writing Groupat a coffeeshop in her hometown of Willow Grove, PA, suburban Philadelphia.

42