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Miss Murphy rolls in
in her slipcover dress,
beanbags into her chair,
eagle-eyes the class.

She looks for movement,
sees none.
We are well trained.

Who doesn’t know where babies come from? she asks.
The air suddenly gels.
We cannot breathe
even if we want to.

She asks again
Who doesn’t know where babies come from?
Three hands levitate imperceptibly
(girls!).

Miss Murphy stares at a horizon
beyond the visible
as if conjuring an approaching army.

Finally, she speaks.
See me after class.

IFMiller was born in New York City, and educated at New York University, Purdue University, and the University of Michigan. He taught and administered programs at Polytechnic Institute of Brooklyn, University of Illinois at Chicago, and the University of Akron, and is the author of over 80 refereed articles and book chapters in science and engineering, over 200 abstracts and presentations, has edited and translated several monographs, and has received numerous science and engineering grants and awards. A casual poet for most of his life, he began writing seriously in 1995. Since his retirement from engineering education in 2000, his work has appeared in journals and chapbooks, as well as on several websites.



Tuddle Park
Benjamin C. Krause

It’s the early 90s;
I’m on the swing set,
pulling on the chains
trying to swing high enough
to flip over the bar
but I get scared and jump,
and there’s a reason,
'cause nothing good can come
once you lose that instinct.

2009, I’m walking with my little cousin
on the beach below the hill.
I tell him I used to float in the lake
and empty myself of thought.
He asks me how far out you have to swim
before you can’t get back on your own
and I tell him it’s different for everyone;
it could be miles or a few hundred feet,
but for me it was years.

Benjamin C. Krause left a lucrative software engineering job to concentrate on writing. His first chapbook, Classifieds, was released by erbacce-press in February 2010. Jazz music is his muse, and his process often begins with an attempt to poetically “transcribe” an instrumental song. Other influences include Catullus, Emily Dickinson, E.E. Cummings, Pablo Neruda, John Berryman, and Kristina Marie Darling. Benjamin is Publisher and Editor-in-Chief of Diamond Point Press, which produces the journals Liebamour and Muscle & Blood.

No Houses
Dale Wisely

A famous architect
interviewed on the radio
said the future of architecture
is a world with no houses.

He said our clothes will be our homes—
hi-tech garments that feed us information,
create micro-environments,
make weather irrelevant.

We will stand here, walk there,
sit down and stand up.
Our clothes will shelter us.

There will be no reason
to be afraid then and so there is
no reason to be afraid now.

Dale Wisely is the founding editor of Right Hand Pointing and Left Hand Waving. He lives in Alabama, is a clinical psychologist, and works in K-12 public education.

Home Improvement
Lynn DeTurk

Walls stripped back to bare studs
exposed pink fiberglass insulation
1/2 inch copper pipes and shut-off valves
toilet and tub removed

only the wax ring remains.

Our only bathroom.
We wait for it to be reassembled
we ask politely
                          we beg.
Now he knows he has power
                          holds the family hostage
                          with the promised indoor plumbing

Seven days for the toilet
longer for the tub
I bathe in the water trough
the children at their friend’s
hands are washed in the kitchen sink.

Liquor bottle in hand
in the name of home improvement
he agitates to tear another room apart.
Then another. Eventually
                          every room in the house is dismantled
                          I divorce him when there is nothing left
                          of our marriage to deconstruct.

Lynn DeTurk is a new poet and has been writing less than a year. One of her first poems was chosen for the Broken Circles Hunger Project to be published in 2011 by Cave Moon Press. Another was chosen for publication this February by The Orange Room Review. She is also part of the jury for the new National Association of Social Workers-Michigan journal, Social Workers: Poets and Writers.

Sixteen Years Later
Oleh Lysiak

she announces they
have nothing in
common and she’s
ambivalent about sex.
Oh well. How about
pancakes?
Goodness
Oleh Lysiak

Clouds swell voluminous backlit
heaving cleavage translucent
streaking morning come. Offshore
winds kick ass, swirl vapor laden
above unruly opaque surf to frenzied
cream extravaganzas mad for whipping.
Goodness. The ride home in the El Camino,
heater on full blast, connects the moment
to a less grandiose but comfier reality.

Oleh Lysiak is working on a new collection. His dogs insist he take them to the beach daily. Lysiak's poetry has been published by Boston Literary Magazine, Bad Light Literary Journal, Commonline Project, Void Magazine, Apt Magazine, The Boatmen’s Quarterly, The Bay City Slug, The Stinking Desert Gazette, Estafette Literary Journal and The Word Almanac. He is author of Filet & Release, The Chromium Kid In The American Zoo, Barely Inside The Lines, Scars In Progress, Geezer Rumba.

Draining the Cup
Karen Kelsay

After she agonized about the equity
disappearing from her home, and walking away
from the city she grew up in; after she wept
at the thought of leaving white plantation shutters
that slit the morning into little ribbons
of warmth, and the fireplace mantle she had constructed
to look like a picture she found in a magazine—

after she anguished over living in a small apartment
with no garden; after she announced she was taking her piano
with her, no matter what; after she talked to lawyers
and accountants who said there was no logic
in staying—

after she moved into a pint-sized rental
by the beach, and stopped the three hour commute
each day; after she realized a dishwasher for two people
wasted more time than it was worth; after she discovered
her cats got along better in a tiny area; after she could
sleep in, and have an extra cup of tea
before eight o'clock—

after she had no flowers to clip or sidewalks
to sweep; after she spent an hour on the sand and studied
a strip of scarlet cloud that stretched
from Palos Verdes to Santa Monica; after porpoise
appeared and the sun's back-glow turned the bay
into a goblet of rose-colored waves; after she bought
a hot chocolate on the pier and proclaimed it
the best dessert in the world—

she realized how delicious it could be
when the cup is drained.

Karen Kelsay is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the editor of Victorian Violet Press, an online poetry magazine that encourages formal poetry. Her poems have been featured at The New Formalist, and have recently been accepted for publication in: The Raintown Review, The Flea, The Lyric, 14 by 14 and Lucid Rhythms. She lives in Orange County, California.



Chamber Music
Jeff Flynn

Between diastole and systole worlds exist and lives are lived.
How many rooms and light filled atriums will she pass through
While the measure of her heart is taken?
And what import will she place on her fractional shortening value?

Between premature heart beats, eternity.
Her heart's an edifice of many rooms, and
Between atria and ventricles
Septa resist the assaults of time.

While the aortic whoosh rattles those walls,
And VPC's are tallied,
Singular, couplets, triplets...
And time asserts its claim,

Measure her life not by the number of its beats,
But by the music that echoes between them.

Jeff Flynn is the Assistant Director for Technical Services, Moakley Law Library, Suffolk University Law School. He lives in Quincy, Massachusetts.


A terpene mist clings to the trees in morning.
The sentiment of being pulses
ever closer to the aging pores of his skin.
The event horizon of his future
appears to recede always.
Life is rote. Rhythms and themes repeat.
With each birthday, the subterranean plates
that make him what he is
grind one against the other, exposing the unexposed,
reforming the landscape of self.
He hears heavy tires on the gravel of his driveway.
The septic tank needs digging.
Nothing works when you get old.
The scarred bucket of the backhoe rips away nurtured grass.
Piss on it. Where's the whiskey?
Under the sink with the rat poison, shoe polish, cleanser, and garbage bags—
all of life's little necessities.
He dumps a healthy dose in his coffee.
By noon, he remembers he is hungry.
The dog envies the half-devoured sandwich,
now ignored on the end table next to a supple couch with low arms;
a welcome shoulder for sleeping heads.
Pounding at the door rouses him.
The digger man presents a bill; the backhoe lumbers into twilight.
Secure in the knowledge that his shit hole is fixed, he flushes without worry.
A shower, shave, and clean clothes rekindle his desires.
Into his truck he climbs, nocturnal,
in search of promise
he cannot keep.

Recently retired, Mr. Davis earned his living as a writer/editor in business and industry. He is now a domestic in his own home, and suffers from occasional bouts of fishing and writing.



Take Out
Pedro Poitevin

"Your father came the other day: he ordered
lemongrass tofu, just like you," she said.
He'd never order that, not even dead,
I thought, and then it hit me: how it bordered
on the surreal. My father here in town?
"He doesn't live nearby," was my reply.
She poured green tea in porcelain. "But I
remember well...," she muttered, and her frown
betrayed her disbelief. Perhaps she wondered
about what I withheld, so hard to tell.
But I was there for take-out, not to dwell
on stubborn details. Once back home, I pondered
that lemony but sweet juxtaposition:
myself and my dead father's apparition.

Pedro Poitevin teaches mathematics at Salem State University. Recently, following in the footsteps of his grandfather, he began writing poetry. He has written many palindromes in Spanish, among them three sonnets. Ediciones La Galera is publishing his first book of palindromes, Eco da eco de doce a doce, in Mexico.

Redding, Iowa, 1909
Kevin Heaton

I am well acquainted
with Mister Sanger:

his chivalrous, champagne
smirk of conquest,

and slick, wolfish, ‘Dapper
Dan’ design. He christens

sidewalk elms with golden
rut sprinkle; all the while

sniffing at fem awaiting
trolley cars on midtown,

apple pie, high-rise corners.
His eyes fondle for Victorian

secrets locked inside hope
chests of nostalgic inspiration;

chain mailed behind bird
plumes, and lacy, satin boas.

He offers me escort in a voice
pleading moral turpitude;

promising white-washed
picket fences, portrayed

on cheap, penny postcards.
But I will not attach my charms

to the end of his fob chain:
my opera gloves remain in place—

my corset tautly laced.

Kevin Heaton was born, and raised in Kansas. He lives, and writes in Aiken, South Carolina. At night, he roams the swamps, and pine forests seeking the elusive Pushcart Creature. He is a notable poet at: KansasPoets.com. His work has appeared in: Elimae, Nibble, Pirene's Fountain, Foliate Oak, and others. kevinheatonpoetry.webstarts.com

Subway
Ronald Kichurchak Jr.

I notice a girl sitting near me on the subway,
and she looks up at me
and smiles,
and I smile,
and I think that I should strike up a conversation,
and we could talk until she misses her stop
and has to get off at mine,
and I could see her the next day,
and the day after,
and then one day she can call
and I wont pick up,
and she could call the next day too,
and the next,
and this time with her voice choked full of tears,
and I could care, but I won't.

I could strike up a conversation with her,
or I could step off the train alone,
then buy a magazine from the newsstand,
something with a title like Penthouse or Hustler.
I could picture the girl's face
attached to the naked bodies spread across the page,
and sometimes this is easier.

Ronald Kichurchak Jr. is a current resident of New York City where he is pursuing a duel major in creative writing and environmental studies. He has had poetry published in Heavy Hands Ink.

Dia de Los Angelitos
Katherine Parker Richmond

Yesterday
I waited to know you
wrap you in a soft blanket
nuzzle you to my breast
stroke the down in the warm hollow
at the nape of your neck.

Yesterday
my heart
was a clear spring
words
welling up
water
spilling over
too much to contain.

Today
I look into your face
afraid to press you to my breast
to even touch you
scared I might
tear your paper-thin skin
already cold.

Today
my once-pulsing heart
barely beats
dried to bone
my blood, water, words
flow
no more.

Tomorrow
I may
be able to pray
to plead
if I cannot hold you
you are cradled instead
in the starry arms
of heaven.

Tomorrow
my heart
may start
to beat again.

Katherine Parker Richmond aspires to be the poet laureate of cheapskate moms. She lives in a big red ramshackle house in Ellensburg, Washington, with her husband, son, daughter and two long-suffering cats.

The Divided Psyche
Samuel Haynes

You will sit down here, as I have also done
We must now play a game in which one of us dies
Of these two vials, you will choose only one
Then we both drink, then we both close our eyes

It is an endless game in which one player dies
For I can’t ever know which vial you will choose
After we both drink, only one opens his eyes
And whoever picks poison is the one who will lose

But I can’t ever know which vial you will choose
You must now learn the rules to this game
Whoever picks poison is the one who will lose
It does not ever change, it is always the same

These are the rules to this lethal game:
Of these two vials, you will poison only one
With each new opponent it is always the same
The winner will say Sit down here, as I have also done

Samuel Haynes is a professional cook who was born in Kentucky. He recently received a degree in English from the University of West Florida. His passions include sailing and fishing.

Anger Management
Steve Klepetar

Punch a hole in your kitchen wall,
then call your friend who knows
how to do these things and watch
him work with plaster

                 and spackle
and gauze. While the paint dries,
grill burgers, pressing hard to score
ash-black lines on bloody meat,
crack open the beer you bought
and lean back, trying

                 not to look
directly into the sun. Sing on the
subway, rocking back and forth
on your pastel plastic seat, your eyes
shut tight and wires dangling

from your hairy ears. Shout at the TV
until your own voice disappears, a wall
of smoke against the cracked ceiling of your smile.

Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations and his chapbook, Thirty-six Crows, was published last summer by erbacce-press.


He said to me, Your hair is like a flower
that opens as the day progresses.
I guessed he meant something poetic
but I thought of Venus flytraps and smiled.
He was still talking about curls and tendrils
(deeply rooting his clichés),
but it’s so hard to pay attention
when your head is eating flies.
Warm
Erica Minton

By the time she is born
the mountains have been out of gold
for years, and all that is left for her
are the tail ends of songs
about women she’ll never know.
She yearns to find her fortune
in the dirt, wants to marry a butcher
of a man, have a humble wedding
(close to the earth), bonfires,
a new name. Her home fire
is always burning; she saves the ashes
for the smell and, quietly, the taste.
Ashes from oak taste so strong,
so muscular, that she cannot picture
the tree giving in to the flames—but
maybe it’s akin to how she pictures love:
two unconquerable bodies bowing
to something warm.

Erica Minton lives, works and loves in Cincinnati, Ohio. She holds a BA in Creative Writing: Poetry from Miami University, and can be reached at ericaminton@gmail.com.

Forty Steps
Bob Zappacosta

He had read Sylivia Plath's

"Suicide Off Egg Rock."

And then one day
there he was ......

so close to it

he could see the
splattered stains of bird shit

on the rocks.

He watched in awe
the seagulls, flying,

soaring,
high above it.

Standing there
at the edge of the cliff

he began to think

of everything—and nothing
at the same time

until a crashing wave
sprayed a mist of

saltwater against his face.

He then turned
         and walked away.

Bob Zappacosta's poems have been published by The Aurorean, Bowersock Gallery, Pasco Arts Council, PEARL, St. Petersburg Times, Tampa Tribune, and Verdad. His poetic short film "Jack Buchanan—rough cut, a work in progress" was recently shown at Progress Energy Art Gallery.



Hateful Things
Robert Laughlin

A bat that failed to bring your runners back;
A leash whose other end is limp and slack;
A brooch that snagged and tore away your blouse;
A pen that signed away your parents’ house.
How natural to hate a thing, inert,
The sight of which brings memories of hurt.
I’ve learned, myself, to hate a thing: my bed,
From which her warmth has permanently fled.

Robert Laughlin lives in Chico, California. He is a frequent contributor to Boston Literary Magazine. Two of his short stories are Million Writers Award Notable Stories, and his novel, Vow of Silence, was favorably reviewed by Publishers Weekly. His website is at www.pw.org/content/robert_laughlin.


I wanted you to tell me about the lunar eclipse,
the light bending,
the spectrum of colors,
the red being slower,
quietly covering its face in bold crimson.

Then we would watch our moon come back,
and you would say,
"There it is;
the one you love."
But I would say,
"I love the other one too."

And you would reach for my hand.

AJ Smith likes: kissing in airports, afternoon naps, and eating mandarin oranges. She spends her days teaching and her nights dreaming.

She Tells
Devon Miller-Duggan

Need is not quite belief.
~ Anne Sexton

I was 10. He’d spanked me,
so angry he’d forgotten to strip the buds
from the branch.
They left welts. I thought the welts were
wrong.
I showed them to him, believing he’d be ashamed.
He stripped the buds
and used the branch again.

Decades later, after he was dead a year, maybe,
I’m at church and remember it all.
I’d like to say the text for the week was Jephthah and his Daughter—
Except Jephthah and his daughter are never read into the cycle.
A friend to whom the dead sometimes speak sits next to me.
She leans over,
Whispers in my ear that my father says he’s sorry,
Doesn’t understand why he treated me this way.
He’s working on it.

I don’t believe it.
My heart shoves all the breath out of my lungs.
If my father really speaks to my friend, then he’s confessing.
He’s forgiving me for my memory.

Not even speaking from wherever-it-is suffices.

Yet again, I’m yanked toward gratitude; I always was by his gifts.
Gratitude is not quite love.

He never broke me until then.

Eight years now he’s gone and that, that, that message
It’s a tick rooted into the wall of my heart,
Sucked too full to move, half-alive,
Too enclosed to burst.

Devon Miller-Duggan has had poems in Rattle, Shenandoah, Margie, Christianity and Literature, The Indiana Review, Harpur Palate, The Hollins Critic and a longish list of really little magazines. She’s won an Academy of American Poets Prize, a fellowship from the Delaware Division of the Arts, an editor’s prize in Margie, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She teaches for the Department of English at the University of Delaware. Her first book, Pinning the Bird to the Wall appeared from Tres Chicas Books in November 2008.

Honk if You Speak Latin
Merle P. Martin

Each car—or truck—buyer owns a horn,
(maybe two, if you’re well to do).
Although not well known, each horn adopts
the attitude and accent of its owner’s locale.

When you buy a car in Boston, you test
the horn first, then honk it every second,
even when there are no other cars around.
Boston horns have New England accents—
some have Irish brogues.

When you’re honked at in L.A., it’s an
obscene gesture; with a glare that shouts,
“Watch out! If I ever catch you alone,
I’ll slice you with my knife.”
When you hear a San Francisco horn,
you’ve already been hit.
Mississippi horns drawl softly,
“Be careful, all y’all.”

No one uses horns in Vladivostok.
Cars are predators—pedestrians prey.
You cannot sneak up on a victim if
he hears you coming. So, no horns!
Bangkok horns politely smile,
“Please be careful; I’m near”.
Saigon’s horns are muted “Excuse me.”

Paris horns drip disdain, moaning
“I know you can’t do anything, but I’m late.”
Or sneering, “There must be an
American blocking traffic somewhere.”

Las Vegas horns are a Tower of Babel,
bred elsewhere by tourist hordes.
Don’t try to figure them out;
just turn your radio up louder.

Dr. Merle Martin is author of The Haunting: Poetic Images of Alaska and several other books. He is a Professor Emeritus at Sacramento State University and Editor of Remodel Spokane Magazine. Dr. Martin has taught at several universities including ones in Thailand and the Russian Far East. He holds degrees from Texas A&M, Stanford, and the University of California, Berkeley. He was a Lt. Colonel in the Air Force and a former State Director of Logistics for the Alaska Air National Guard. He resides with his wife in Spokane Valley, Washington.

Odonata
David Stallings

A heart-shaped wheel dances
about my porch
as I water container gardens

of kale and lettuce.
I dodge the couple, watch them
land on a nearby gutter.

The male has fitted his tail-tip genitals
to the template on his lady’s head, aiding
her own arching tail connection

to his thorax. There, she palpates
his readied sperm packets
into herself.

Such moments must be shared.

I invite my neighbor.
Once lovers, we stand
on porch chairs to closely view

large compound eyes, membranous
wings, the sunlit sheen
of diaphanous blues.

The pair finally disengage,
swirl away through summer greens.
We climb down,

marvel at how life unfolds,
and return
to our separate worlds.
Leaving Nashville, 1952
David Stallings

I’m packed between suitcases and boxes
into the back seat of a Buick Dynaflow.

The view is blocked, the air thick with Dick’s Camels
and my mother’s Herbert Tareytons.

I try to filter my breath
with Kleenex—

the asthma isn’t fooled.
How will I make it all the way to Alaska?

On the way out of town, Dick swings into a gas station.
The trailer we’re towing slows us down,

and another car slips in front.
Asshole! my new stepfather roars, and grabs

for his .45 automatic in the glove box.
All I see is his arm

and my pleading mother’s grip
on his wrist.

I can barely breathe.

David Stallings was born in the South, raised in Alaska and Colorado before settling in the Pacific Northwest. Once an academic geographer, he has spent many years promoting public transportation in the Puget Sound area. His poems have appeared in several U.S. literary journals and two anthologies.

Seizure Aftermath
Douglas Polk

The seizure finally stops,
My son’s breathing,
once again,
rhythmic,
relaxed,
as he begins a renewing slumber,

Crawling off my knees by his bedside,
Once again aware of my own breathing,
I feel the tremors begin,
convulsions of a different sort than my son’s,
Taking a few deep breaths,
hoping to calm my nerves,
and drive the thoughts from my mind,
and the newly formed tears from my eyes,
I try not to think about the pain,
but instead focus on the love,

Love hurts,
but it also cures,
and heals,
even the incurable,
as I kiss my son on the forehead ,
and move to the rocking chair,
privileged to spend another night,
Watching my son sleep.

Douglas Polk is a lifelong resident of rural Nebraska where he teaches high school history. In between teaching stints in rural Nebraska, he also worked as a sports editor, editor and columnist at numerous local newspapers, including the Minden Courier, the Custer County CHIEF and the Kearney Hub. Polk is a published poet and artist, having had a number of paintings included at different juried art shows around Nebraska.

Memorial of Stone
Diane Smith

“Where is my David, my honored
lost soldier of the War?”

“He’s wandering between two grounds:
the Veteran's Hospital and cemetery;
homeless, with a limestone cot and
cardboard blanket for a bed.”

Diane Smith is the founder and chief editor of Grey Sparrow Press and the recipient of a few writing awards from modest independent competitions such as the SIWC, the William Faulkner/William Wisdom competition, The Ottawa Valley Writers’ Guild from Canada and Summer Literary Seminars (partial fellowship), as well as the Binnacle.

Sweet Fifteen
Michael Milburn

It's important to her to look
exasperated when I assign
a new project, although she
stops just short of truly rude.

For some kids, school sucks
and always will, a conviction
hammered into them by their
lack of aptitude for doing well.

She’s just precocious, body
of a grown-up and interests
of one, too, name-dropping
The New Yorker or how the

film of The English Patient
is so inferior to the book. It
shouldn’t, but her constant
jaundiced act unnerves me

when I’m collecting tests,
ask if she’s done and she
replies coldly, “no,” as if I’d
reached for her diary, or her.

I try to separate the attitude
from the girl, see her scorn
in context of judging peers,
helicoptering parents, low

self-esteem, and not take it
personally when she looks
pissed off, bored, or sad.
I only hope age makes her

more tolerant, not hardened
into rigidity, contempt. What
catches up with what? Right
now it’s her body and mind

in a dead heat plunked down
in my class making her feel
out of place so she gives me
a taste of my own medicine.

Michael Milburn teaches high school English in New Haven, CT. His writing has appeared most recently in New England Review, Ploughshares, and Poetry East.

Loneliness Motel
Michael Keshigian

His little hole in the Boston skyline,
one window lined with soot
facing Fenway Park.
In the room overhead,
there was a clarinet
that stalked Stravinsky’s Three Pieces
every evening.
During the day it was mostly quiet,
the crowd on the sidewalks
resembled the spiders in the room,
preying with thick overcoats
to catch the unsuspecting
in a web woven with smog
dimly illuminated with the little light
that penetrated the building alleys,
so dark, he could only shave
with a lamp in his face.
Every morning at 7:30 A.M.,
students clamored on the staircase,
rushing en route to classes
at the universities
and colleges around the corner,
the clarinet player would flush the toilet
then turn on the shower.
Once in a while, a bird
chirped or tweeted, like a bell chime,
so close to his door,
for a moment, he believed
he had a visitor.
The Corner Musician
Michael Keshigian

With massive gasps and fluid fingers
a saxophonist improvises
the sounds of city,
capturing the rhythm of urban diaspora
as it approaches the cadence of life.
His licks and riffs reveal
the tempest of the metropolitan mentality,
his intonation shades its complexities
as he attempts to calm the pulse
of the sprawl with modal motifs
that identify the dissonance
each inhabitant exudes
as they follow a silent song.
He clears the way
with a beam of sound
and opens a passage that is human,
capturing passion and sensitivity
in a web of eighth notes
that interview the mystery
between asphalt and the soul.

Michael Keshigian is the author of five poetry chapbooks. His sixth collection "Jazz Face", was recently released by Big Table Publishing Co. His poetry has appeared in numerous national and international journals as well as many online publications, including California Quarterly, Barbaric Yawp, Tipton Poetry Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Sierra Nevada College Review, and Ibbetson Street Press. He has been a feature writer for The Aurorean, Poetree Magazine, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Bellowing Ark, Pegasus Review, The Illogical Muse, interviewed by Boston Literary Magazine and Reader’s Choice in the Fairfield Review. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee. Visit him at Michael Keshigian.com.





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