Saturday
Aug162014

Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman

Five Poems by Ace Boggess

  

I Take My New Girlfriend to the Gynecologist

                   

this must be more than a fling

pause between lovers to catch my breath

mostly young attractive shuffling feet

heads bowed as if ashamed to face the sky

 

what stillness comes from sharing her discomfort

at least sharing from safety of the parking lot

 

a journalist beyond the fence at Area 51

unwelcome to the mysteries there

 

for an hour I watch in my rearview

as women walk in & out & by

 

 

signs on the wounded fence next door

advise No Trespassing & Beware of Dog

 

one might misread Beware of Doctor

see here comes a nurse radiant in ugly afterglow

 

smoking a long gray cigarette &

telling stories to someone on her phone

 

over there stands another man like me

waiting for bells to chime & a sermon to end

 

perhaps with a splash of water

perhaps an invocation

 

or a sin-eater stealing the horrors

whispering “go in peace” & “see you soon”

 

 

To See You Again After So Many Years

             

I rupture the pen

dousing my face with ink

 

as if I would look in a mirror &

not see me

 

all the poems I have written

you

 

spoiled spilled broken down

into a jumble of letters

 

tied off as musical notes

played out

 

now drifting forever

in radio waves

 

through the universe

a universe of everlasting silence

 

 

“Are They Aware of What They’ve

Done, Those Nameless Guilty Parties?”

 

                        —Paulo Coelho, The Witch of Portobello     

                                        

He was drunken staggering home through a stranger’s field, soul-

sick in mud & darkness, thinking of death—the man who shot a cow point blank & watched it fall like an ax-struck pine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he swears. “It scared me. I didn’t think

a .22 would hurt it,” to which all sharing the prison cell reply

in Greek chorus, ironic & foreboding: “You shot it in the head!”

Another con walked into Wal-Mart, popped the top

on a can of beer off the shelf, then drank. “I mean,

really,” he says with a condescending raising of his eyes

as if a wealthy housewife refusing to hear excuses from her maid,

“did they have to charge me with a felony?” Not innocence,

but oh with what simplicity he sees the world—a kind

of innocence in the way some fire-&-brimstone tele-

vangelist condemning loudly to his congregation is kind of religious,

but also kind of sad. Society wants justice for the spent apple,

not seeing sugary meat of fruit remains. & what

of that young man who woke from his heroin fugue

to find his girlfriend overdosed? He didn’t kill her,

but hid her body & ran—no last Shakespearean kiss,

no poet’s words of mourning—for which the Circuit Judge

handed him a nickel. “All I wanted,” the boy tells us,

“was not to be there,” as if anyone could disappear

from his history, as if knives might stitch what wounds

they made. There is no vanishing act, only water tank &

certainty something someday will go wrong,

while an audience holds its collective breath,

drowning by proxy in the interim, wanting

escape, but eager also for catastrophe.

 

 “How Did You Hear About Us?”

 

                        —asked by Donna Long   

                               

A man, scrawny & Joyce-like,

in melon turtleneck & ratty shoes,

wore your name

on a sandwich board

dangling from his neck.

Another man,

a biker no doubt—

bearded, leather-clad, large—

as he stood at the next urinal,

hummed a line

I later researched—

the internet said it was yours.

You were the punchline

from my last Bazooka Joe, &

the names in neon cursive

above the first bar in town.

The Junior Women’s League,

acting like masons,

tried to keep your names

a secret, but a junior G-man

asked me what I knew.

I knew so little

about your mysterious past.

I learned quickly,

cried at the news, &

begged the judge

to release you

on your own recognizance.

I forgot that I was one of you.

I forgot that we had never met.

I thought I had imagined you:

fictional characters in a fantasy.

When it was over,

I closed the book, &

there you were again.

 

“Do You Like Your Infamy?”

 

                        —Facebook meme         

                                        

When a poet inscribes her book for me

with the message, “Stay out of trouble,”

a permanent admonition on the frontispiece of verse,

I know I have been memorable, my accomplishments

biting as fox urine, sold to scare off squirrels.

This was supposed to be about her, but in her gratitude

for my ten bucks, she has made the story mine

as though I’ve entered a scene at the last,

wielding ax & wearing mask: the antithesis

of deus ex machina, bandit with a heart of coal.

Is this my role in the drama? Prisoner

unleashed on a sleepy, unsuspecting world?

Cowboy in the blackest hat, firing off his pistols

at the moon? See? I’ve come this far &

yet to praise a line she wrote, one in which

I smell ripe apples as I pluck words from a tree.

She has seen the Thou of me, dark

as airplane shadows or a slurry pond.

What have I given back? Ten bucks &

the promised friendship of a stranger,

stranger still in the prison of my past.

 

Four Poems by Heather M. Browne

 

Peeling

 The tree is peeling

shredding skin

paper ribbon curls

rolling up empty

years of annual treasured rings,

forgotten

detaching history

unknowing oneself

with every passing season,

the scaly tree

loses years, twice

Johnny was here, wasn’t

 

 

Carrot

 

I steal the carrot

robbed

from ground

tearing root

hearing rip

 

I see the wet

leeking tears

clinging to its earth

 

I bite

unwashed

unclean

wanting to taste its grit

its birth

 

Lost Hills

 

The earth lies softly

weeping

by my side

as I drive

this long stretch

alone.

Her rising swell

of hips

and gentle dips

of waist and thigh,

breathing out her mourning mist.

Her legs unshaven,

unruly

covering her soiled ground

hiding under her blanket

of stubbled pine.

Waiting for the sun to rise

and dry away this dewy haze,

the fog from her unwanted dreams.

 

Revlon Orange Flip Lipstick  #710

You always wore that blazing color.

Revlon Orange Flip smothering thin parched lips.

Heavily lined and puckered like a rotting fruit.

Dragging smoke, not water for sustenance.

You didn’t need much to sustain you.

Your orchard withered long ago.

 

You lived way outside the lines,

smearing color

covering skin and hair,

making your mouth look more substantial.

Visible.

Was your smile too small?

 

Your prisoned hairs guarded lips and words.

#710, rarely off for good behavior,

not much freedom for you.

 

I kept that lipstick,

trying to make your lips

stick,

long after it was discontinued.

Like you.

 

Four Poems by Eugene Goldin

  

Love in 2014

Love’s a fresh snow cone.
What's your favorite flavor?
Mine is you,
but I'll say something like, Vanilla,
just to lead you astray.
In matters of the heart,
I am fearful.
Let me mislead you then, and
seem to appear proud while
standing in your light.
Oh, give me strong ego-driven responses
when you are insolent, cause me to recoil!
See, I have always wished to seem a stolid creature.
There is no tragedy here.
After all, didn’t you once call me friend?

 

Before Surgery

Before you were to be cut,
I wrote,
“be strong,
you are loved,
have faith,
there is cake to be eaten,
wine still to drink,
flowers,
the night moon,
and wonderment.”
You then called me
“sappy but cute.”

 

Texting in Still Life

Delivered ain't read

and hello has a million different meanings.

You are selling a version of life.

I take no comfort in versions

and hope to rest

when the painting dries in still life.

Yet, still life—is not serenity,

only, resolution.

And so, it seems we can only

Ask one question:

“Did we ever love?”

 

Untitled Pondering

What God

in which heaven

do you pray to at night?

Is it always for protection

when things don’t go right?

When the world closes in

and you’re losing your skin,

and the life you hold precious

dissolves from within?

 

What God

in which heaven

are your dreams all tied to?

Is it Jesus or Buddha

you look to for truth?

Maybe someone will love you

and guide you clear through?

When you’re begging for mercy,

will they hold only you?

 

What God

in which heaven

will you find holds the key

unlocking your dreams

explains life’s mystery?

Lighting the way

on those cold rainy days

when your eyes have shut down

and your heart’s led astray?

 

What God

in which heaven

with your last glimpse you’ll see?

Is He one of great vengeance

or love and mercy?

When your friends are all gone

you’ve no strength to hold on,

will the smile on your face

match the pain in your heart?

 

What God

in which heaven

will you swear is your friend?

Will your lover or husband

be yours in the end?

When they decompensate

and you’re left at the gate,

will you see that I love you

and my heart is on straight?

 

Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

So Many Ways

 

So many ways to watch the world

explode into tiny fragments of colored light:

 

close your eyes and watch the sun disappear

behind those little curtains of flesh;

 

climb a mountain on a humid night, straining

up as your arches ache, until you rip

 

through a veil of cloud.  There, in moonlight

remember your other name, the secret one

 

your lover whispered as hands grew back

and you returned to your body, a diver,

 

head first, nail pounded to a carpenter’s

long beam.  In quiet times hurl your mind

 

through space, past Pluto’s icy dark,

out into the light of a billion foreign suns

 

and come back chastened, alive, handfuls

of shadow dripping from your back.  Fling

 

pebbles into some old pond where the frog

king, bloated in majesty, grunts on a lily pad

 

or follow yellow dogs through vacant lots

where thin rats scurry through untamed weeds. 

 

A Star Listens 


A star listens to murmuring night. 

How far should they swim in that eternal,

fluid dark?  Stars might listen

to light, or cast out hours one by one,

but syllables of night sound strange

to luminous ears.  And listening

hurts, has risks, leaves that shining

point shaken, less than easy in its halo

of self-regard.  They say the stars

are breaking down, spilling

into fragments  along a vivid trail

of cosmic dust. Is this the way

to knowledge, then, the ego’s slow

collapse, trembling otherness in a voice

obsessed with empty space and calm? 

Or are these sounds the shadows

of sound, nothing to seize but echoes

of a cradle rocked with a gentle hand? 

Night has a bleeding, swollen mouth,

hard birth of whispers near dangling moon.

 

I Knew it Was Too I Late

 

Another

door has opened

 

while this quiet

world disappears.

 

We are trees

and sky

 

rooted with our leafy

heads tangled in clouds

 

left to spin

words

 

into gold.

Before

 

the body

of your hand closed

 

around the door

fingers peeking

 

through smoke

I knew

 

it was too

late to love

 

your hair

all of it

 

burning

in a spume of flame.

 

Four Poems by Michael Mark

 

Dangers of Suburbia

 

The family walks

single file,

carrying rolls of tape and papers

with their dog’s face copied on them.

 

They move from lamp posts to big trees

to stop signs. 

 

From the park bench I watch

the boy carefully smooth the tape,

making a deal with God –

for his accuracy he gets his dog back. 

 

And the mother, squeezing his shoulder, not

letting go of him, never;

the leggy sister clapping her hands,

checking in the bushes.

 

Missing since this morning.

“Princess”  is very friendly.

Family distraught.

Reward.

 

You forget the coyotes are out there.

 

Some nights, putting the garbage out,

a shadow passes.

When the moon is bright, you hear

their prayerful moans.

 

Other times, there are small barks,

someone’s Buster or Buddy,

surrounded by the howls.

 

Then quiet.

 

The quiet people leave the city for,

to raise their family in.

 

Survivor

 

This house needs only doors now.

 

Just  murmuring winds,

hurrying through.

 

“Stay,” I say. ‘Talk.”

 

Ghosts don’t have to

answer to anyone.

 

At night, I haunt the halls.

 

This was Alex’s. The first.

This was Sara’s.

This was Sophie’s and Jessie’s. They shared.

This was my wife’s and mine.

 

When they leave,

they take the room with them

 

Protecting Poetry

 

I knew that I’d fall,

stepping over the crest

of the tub,

my legs slick with my wife’s

lavender oils,

but I was protecting the three books.

 

I’d only read from one.

 

The too large waves caused by

my too large body worried me,

 

rising up, threatening

the pages.

 

So I got out, first folding my towel

over the books.

This created an even higher hurdle.

 

And though I cleared it,

my heel hydroplaned

on its puddle,

my thigh split from my groin,

my ankle turned and my knee

went down.

 

The thud and my calling

for the Lord caused my wife

to shout my name three times fast,

which made think, dazed

and naked on the bathroom floor,

we hadn’t had sex in weeks.

 

Funny how the mind works.

 

When they ask me in the park

about my limp

I will tell them I was protecting

my heroes,

 

who gave me their eyes to see

the world, and trained me

to think, and who

stayed at my side during my

convalescence,

all of us dry and comfortable,

 

and where I learned, too late,

not one of them was ever

foolish enough to take a book

into the bath.

 

Thrust

 

Only Newton’s tender explanation

of mass and grasp,

could contain this relationship

between daughter and father.

 

All fuel and heat.

 

3000 tons of pressure

pushing away from the flesh, time

and myths. 

 

To destroy gravity.

 

Generating a thrust

of 7,648,000 pounds

so the child will launch

 

and maintain velocity

as the father continues encouraging

her unchartable trajectory.

 

This is the feeling they call love.

 

Simultaneous, equal

and opposite drag and propulsion  

to create friction, renunciation,

 

flight.

 

I am her father.

It was not in my physics to birth her.

She is my daughter.

How could she deliver me? 

 

Pushing me down was her only way up.

Pushing her down was her only way

into the light. 

 

The Many Rooms

By  Michael Francis McClure

 

 

The Many Rooms

In the house of dreams

            the rooms are unadorned,

            myriad. My heart

            fills them all

            with your voice answering mine.

            We meet in surprise

            of each new place.                                                                             

 

In the house of poetry

            my hand is clumsy

            shaping a name

            to offer you. I gather

            the testimony

            of the mallards at Beaver Lake, the embers

            in the fireplace, the pond water

            curling under the hand

            of the wind, the sound

            of birds beckoning to the morning; I reach to you

            with the vocabulary

            turned golden in the dawning

            light, a perfect moment, its secret

            architecture open

            to our gaze,

            and the touch of my fingers

            along the steel of your inner arm.

 

In the house of dreams

            you return to yourself,

            to a lost room, a chapel,

            dusty, after so long,

            full of fragile treasures

            almost forgotten,

            almost crumbling,

            and you chase away the old

            women who would rob

            you, even now.

 

In the house of art

            I know some true things,

            cobbled together

            from the unlikely,

            the unprovable,

            the beauty of who we are--

            we can be.

 

Maid of the Wood By Don G. Morgan

 

Maid of the Wood

 

Buildings,

Walls angrily

Ripped away leaving raw

Skin so close to blood,

Tender and vulnerable. 

Now, facing the wind sun

Rain.

 

The poet moans in loud, sometimes angry

Doldrums

Blindly sloughing words like sweat,

Refuse. His voice, a

Monotone of sorrow.

 

Broken bones,

Walls, Mortars

of old lies

Now stand visible and abhorrent. A Day,

A simple day gone by.

 

And I cannot see beyond

The bitter, bitter persimmon sun to know the truth.

 

O, Lord free me from this spread of time

That holds, in a single breath, my body floating

Above the complex doom of Hades’

Stars and scars, remorse and pain.

Give me the peace to lie down at last and be free.

Five Poems by Christopher Mulrooney

 

cat scratch post

pussycat bends her back just so

just so the literary editors bend their wits

she sharpens her claws to an exact point

and they can just go scratch themselves is all

 

mad as a well

is deep the bucket

let down the bucket

hear it seep the walls

have moss it’s dark

and deep some bucket

you call that a bucket

the walls are asleep

it must be night outside

deep midnight and no vehicle

so deep as a bucket

my friend look down here

at my face my own tears

watering the great earth

that’s something you don’t know

look into it why don’t you

there’s nourishment in that

if you can penetrate it

 

house on my streetcorner

 

beveled nicely to the avenue as it goes by

realm of sparrows and jackdaws and the odd

cooty bird where wolves patrol and

silence keeps its reign

nothing of this in the news reports no

on the contrary newsbeat footage at one

 

the seriousness  of the proposal

 

we learned that at school on bended knee

my sovereign my liege

so it came to us as no surprise

we had Chaucerian arse to kiss

for our bacon and beans

on a strictly contractual basis you understand

according to the law of the land

 

hacienda

when the lights turn purple and gorgeous in the West

and Eastern lies the cactus-green sunrise

above the ammonia gray and indigo sandstone

I take out my small guitar

I the owl of these desert wastes and sing

nonsense verses to any other                                              

but to some the very thing

 

Four Poems by Andy N

 

 Wind Across Fences

 

Stolen light is trapped

Across the fence near the lake

Capturing the sunrise

Like a spider’s web,

 

Binding flowers and trees together

 

Dancing across the roots

At the height of the mist

 

 

Bewilded against the moonlight

 

Lost in a colourful distortion.

 

Mystery story

 

Covered in slight fog

Faces blur over the sunset

 

Stretching round the back of

The shut down bus station

 

Leading to the deserted dockyard

And blown out streetlights

 

Breathing in and out slowly

Like a deer frozen in the headlights

 

And a mystery unsolved

Dripping off the side of the bridge.

 

Missing summer

 

Film ribbons scattered

Across the heavens

In early Autumn

Pulling your window slowly

Up and down

With invisible gloves

 

Motioning across the air

In a croaky whisper

 

Nursing an open wound

Covered in broken strings

 

Writing in a different language

In rattling letterboxes

Already missing summer.

 

Cages

 

Rolling caged lights

Cling around a beacon

At the edge of moonlight

 

Half trapped underneath

The oceans

Like half chucked out drafts

 

Bleached in fragrances

 

Breathing new life

Into half asleep cities.

 

Three Poems by Thomas Piekarski

 

Eagle Eyes                                                     

 

Confused as can be I inquire                                        

“what are those dinky birds                                     

strung out like an assembly line

of ants the whole length

of Marina Beach?”

 

“Why plovers,” she replies,

as we huddle together

in my private cove,

that mini cave carved out

by countless centuries of wind

and ocean backwash,

cozy venue just right

for bums and lovers alike.

 

A frisky wind chaps our faces:

we sip wine from paper cups

and gawk at those silly plovers

playing chicken with the surf

as it glides in and out.

 

When the surf rolls back to the sea

the plovers rush forth in lockstep

to peck at leftover plankton

and copious marine organisms

that dot the foam’s rich soda.

 

But once that trusty surf

gushes forth again

those skittish little critters

hightail in unison

for the safety of dry sand.

 

We laugh at the plovers’ totally

ridiculous lack of aplomb

that could be considered pathetic

depending on one’s perspective.

 

Later that afternoon

to my surprise and aggrandizement

as we walk along the rocky shore

south of Lovers Point

I witness for the first time

pelicans flying in formation,

their beaks spaced perfectly,

exhibiting navigational skills

congruent with the world’s

foremost pilots.

 

Groves of exotic aloe vera

growing wild beside the path.

 

Transfixed, peering out at riptides,

oscillating water, swirling currents.

 

The ocean at first a brilliant aqua

turns glowing cobalt blue,

 

and further out, beyond the bay

where sea lions frolic

until running into hungry sharks,

the blue merges to a mysterious

dark greenish gray,

filling to absolute capacity

our eagle eyes.

 

Glacier

 

The shield to my upside-down

ostensibly indigenous profile

is feeling vulnerable.

Innocence won’t let the body

understand what the mind can’t.

It would seem quicker

should I jump ship and simply sink.

Stentorian concussions parade

a constellation of mirrors before me

from which I’m forged.

Liberty shines, but doesn’t blink.

Melting vascular escalators sing

“Anchors Away” for a swarm

of venerable distractors.

My bounty awaits

while illusions opt

to pop inside

an estranged imagination

as I slit through life

like a knife.

 

Unamused

 

The implicit existence that painted itself

with liquid glitter became but a faint glimmer

the day my Muse capsized on the bay, grasped

a ride on the back of a pink mermaid

and skimmed away over the cool blue Pacific.

 

Five Poems by Ndaba Sibanda

 

Hymn book

 

 

Mnmm that opposition man                              

Maybe he is on a pay roll

Many people take with a pinch

Of salt his politics of patronage

He seems to be singing from the

Same hymn book with the bullies

Could he be supping with the teasers?

  

Celibates

 

 

The couple who renewed

their wedding vows are parents

to son and daughter called

celibacy and secrecy

respectively

 

Criminals` stern warning

 

 

we view this crime in a serious light

we would want to see  severe action taken

against those involved in petty crimes

yes, those who can`t ply our trade in a

professional and profitable manner

we want to see stern action taken

so that it may send  a serious message

to other criminals that any untoward

behavior will not be tolerated

 

Retirement villages 

 

Is their absence not somehow loud

and ear-deafening? No decent

retirement villages in Afrika?

 

Who will write some sort of

face-saving memoirs when those

who should be  are busybodies?

 

It is one thing to deal with

those who are agile and

innovative and have a soul.

 

It is another to have to contend

with soulless geriatrics who

have run out of ideas.

 

They are not short of a sick

proclivity to play dull antics 

of backwardness and nastiness.

 

Dealing with the nasty mischief

of funny faddy daddies is

an awkward mission and a half.

 

A lizard`s health hazard for they

esteem not the sanctity

of life and choice.

 

They sit and talk

nothing with nobody

like nobody`s business.

 

They fool themselves that

they are still in vogue

yet they are in denial.

 

They have gone past their

sell-by date and should just 

consider a date with retirement.

 

Where are the retirement villages

in mother Afrika? Where is the fresh air?

Where is the vision? Dilapidated faces.

 

The lighter the better 

 

 

give me a dose of gags to

ripple my ribs with laughter

glee can free and be lived too

for life needs something lighter

 

Three Poems by M.E. Silverman

 

Bewildered Still by Falling Shadows

 

The reflection in the lake

is not you

but slivers of silver fish,

their singular, fluid burst of speed

to push away

from anything large

like sharp-toothed gator, snapping turtle,

bewildered still

by falling shadows,

busy with their own

fishy lives,

the simple waters

for breathing,

for feeding,

finding bits to fit

in their mouths,

while they move on

with what matters most,

where love is a belly-full.


How to Learn Faith

 

Ignore the claws, hungry teeth,

The neck-snapping jaw.

Get close to the glass cage.

Closer. Until breath fills

The hollow space with false fog,

Wet shadows puffing,

A dying cave.

 

Press palm to wall,

Watch the big stripes pace,

Follow the trance

& learn the science of solitaire,

The thin card of protected endangerment,

Until the old, orange cat chuffles

Or simply meows. Maybe it yowls, growls,

Or just hisses, spits,

Warning you away,

Afraid from your challenging stare,

Or this unknown.

 

Then, the open mouth grimace,

Raised chin,

Wrinkling nose,

Gaping tongue—

This is the Jacobson’s Organ breathing

Your scent.

 

The tiger’s mouth yawns.

Your head could fit inside its oven.

But you’re not ready for the risk

& reward. It’s too early;

You’re too late.

 

Digital Extinction or a Question of Faith

 

Some say we’d return to our roots

as if yesterday was all prairie & better pastures,

hand-carved bows & perfect arrows,

a world wound not by blips & bleeps

but by churns & hard-days sweat,

when the value of decency meant something,

somehow, someway, a scripted scene

set only in Hollywood,

or in the dreamy minds

of our elders.

 

Nothing so easy. Take away our glowing god,

we’d ball up and cry, confused children

outside a promised land.

We’d look for hidden cameras, try

to catch the prank in medias res

before the stammering, the slamming,

the scared-loud scream,

the one only the deserted know how to make.

 

Every phone, every tablet,

every screen gone,

a digital glitch.

What would we do?

We’d call into the gray flat space,

& call & call & call

& wait.

 

 

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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
  • Response
    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman
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    Lost Coast Review - Poetry - Poetry by Ace Boggess, Heather M. Browne, Eugene Goldin, Steve Klepetar, Michael Mark, Michael Francis McClure, Don G. Morgan, Christopher Mulrooney, Andy N, Thomas Piekarski, Ndaba Sibanda, and M.E. Silverman

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