Yes, Poetry

The December issue is now online for a free download here!

Contributor’s Notes

Charles Bassey lives in Abuja, Nigeria, where he works full-time with a financial services regulatory agency and writes part-time. As a creative writer with the sociological imagination, he stares at life actively and reflects on human existence and emotions through poetry, essay and creative fiction. His poetry has appeared in an anthology and on the internet. As a life traveller as well as a path follower who believes in parenting as a child, he envisions a world of radiant people living their best. He is a member of Abuja Literary Society.

Kory Beach is an undergraduate student at Colgate University; he is 18 years old and previously unpublished. He writes and reads frequently and hopes to one day be a well-known poet.

Les Bernstein has been published in the California Poetry Society Quarterlies, The Marin Poetry Center Anthologies, and other small presses. His chapbook, Borderland, was published by Finishing Line Press. He lives in Mill Valley, California with his very large and boisterous family

Ann Cummings, who lives in Florida, has had work published previously in a few select religious magazines. This is her first attempt at submitting to a secular magazine.

For about a year, writing has come to her as poetry. Brevity appeals to her now, packing the most into a few words. Briefly, her life experience has included motorcycle riding, mountain climbing, and other sports. Married twice, now widowed, she has one daughter.

Andrew P. Dillon received his bachelor’s of arts in English from the University of Tennessee. He has been published in Phoenix Literary Arts Magazine of the University of Tennessee, and Siren and Tourist, both of Knoxville, Tennessee. He writes poetry and short fiction, but not as often as he discusses music with his father, attempts to become fluent in Korean, and plays soccer. He strongly supports the use of semi-colons, dashes, and the serial comma. He can be reached at andrewpdillon@gmail.com

Casey Francis is currently pursuing a graduate degree in English at New Mexico Highlands University, but he’s desperate to get back to the humid summers and frigid winters of the Midwest. He has published or has work forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, Red River Review, Verse Wisconsin, and the Blog for Rural America (www.cfra.org/blog).

Will Greenway’s tenth collection, Everywhere at Once, won the Poetry Book of the Year Award from the Ohio Library Association, as did his eighth collection Ascending Order. Both are from the University of Akron Press Poetry Series. His publications include Poetry, American Poetry Review, Southern Review, Georgia Review, Missouri Review, Southern Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, and Shenandoah. He is currently Distinguished Professor of English at Youngstown State University.

John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as

financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem. Kestrel and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Caveat Lector, Prism International, and the Cider Press Review.

John Grochalski’s poems and stories have appeared in several journals including The Lilliput Review, Underground Voices, Zygote In My Coffee, The Big Stupid Review, and Bartleby Snopes. Grochalski is the author of two books of poems The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008) and Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he constantly worries about the high cost of everything.

Born in Windsor, Ontario in 1960,Gregory Gunn grew up in small towns before settling in London in 1970. A graduate of Fanshawe College in 1982 as an electronics technician, he has worked in that field ever since. Mr. Gunn began writing during his tenure at Fanshawe and has done so for over thirty years. He is most passionate about poetry.

Some of his credits include: Cyclamens & Swords, The Toronto Quarterly, Glimpse Magazine, Ascent Aspirations, Butterflies Are Free To Fly, Carcinogenic, Psychopoetica, Afterthoughts, Ditch Magazine, One Earth, and myriad others. His other interests comprise music, astronomy, foreign languages, psychology, gardening, photography, and philosophy.

Joe Massingham was born in the UK but has lived the second half of his life in Australia. Major employment has been as a Navy officer, university student from first degree to PhD, tutor, lecturer and Master of Wright College, University of New England, NSW. Has run his own writing and editing business but retired early because of cancer and heart problems and now spends time waiting to see medical practitioners, writing poetry and prose and smelling the roses.He has had work published in Australia, UK, Eire, USA ,NZ and India.

Jeffrey Park is a native of Baltimore, Maryland. He has been a movie theater manager, an IT specialist and a middle school English teacher. He currently lives in Munich, Germany where he works as an educator in a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults.

Vincent Renstrom lives with his wife and daughter in Middletown, Ohio. He received his Ph.D. in Hispanic Literature from Indiana University in 1996 and spent a decade chasing that elusive tenure-track position before packing it in in 2006 to become a full-time househusband and stay-at-home Dad. He is one lucky son-of-a-gun. Since 2008 his poems have appeared in MARGIE/The American Journal of Poetry, Vol. 7, as well as in the online journals Alba, The Centrifugal Eye, Silenced Press, Slow Trains, and Tertulia.

Doris Shores, a New Yorker, has been a college-level English teacher, a pharmaceutical-advertising copywriter, and a freelance editor. Her earlier publications were feature articles, mostly in newspapers. More recently, a poem and an essay of hers appeared in 14th Street Gold.

Alyssa Grace Sorresso is a post grad student in London, studying for an MA in Applied Theatre. She ran away from her home in Chicago only to discover that she likes writing and making videos much more, and laughs about it sometimes. You can find more of her writing and videos at www.tactlessgrace.com, and follow her on twitter at tactless_grace.

M. G. Stephens has published eighteen books, including the novel The Brooklyn Book of the Dead (“a great, great book,” says Roddy Doyle) and the essay collection Green Dreams, which Joyce Carol Oates picked as one of the notable nonfiction books of the 20th century in Best American Essays of the Century.

Patrice M. Wilson’s poetry has been published by the Journal of New Jersey Poets, Nimrod, Barbaric Yawp , Hawai‘i Review, Hawai‘i Pacific Review, Byline, and Common Ground among others, and is forthcoming in Eclipse. She has three chapbooks by Finishing Line Press, On Neither Side (2009), When All Else Falters (2003) and A Different Current (2011). Her ancestors are African-American, Tsalagi (Cherokee), and Irish. She is an assistant professor of English at Hawai‘i Pacific University.

Amos Jasper Wright is a native of Birmingham, Alabama. After two years drifting hand-to-mouth in Boston, he returned to Birmingham and recently completed a master’s in English at the University of Alabama, Birmingham. Upon realization that he must work for a living, and after acquiring experience in architecture and planning, he applied and was accepted to Tufts University, where he will enroll in the fall of 2011 to begin a master’s degree in urban planning. He has high hopes that two master’s degrees will equal a PhD.

Editor Biographies

Joanna C. Valente is a MFA candidate in Poetry Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is also a part-time mermaid. More can be found at her website: http://joannavalente.com

Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. Her work has appeared in Italics Mine and other journals. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and as always, poetry. She enjoys candlelit smiles and diamond cut laughter. One day, she would like to become a silent film star. Her favorite desserts are crème brûlée and strawberry-rhubarb pie. She can be found at: kitschy.tumblr.com.

G. Taylor Davis, Jr is from the Milky Way. 

ANGELA QIAN

ANGEL CITY


feather touches soprano-light
haloed in blurs of afterimages
vibrations making microcosms in
[sight flight might night airy]

mirror in the cloud, wherefore
does it come? lasting an endless autumn
on the earth of man and fibers 
trailing syllables proclaiming eternity.

terra del nozza where:
two out of three words 
are compounded into sense—the last
brings hisses and beating drums; 
psychedelic music ribboned
in hues of shifting dreams


JOHN GROCHALSKI

MORNING LIKE THIS

for harvey pekar
(1939-2010)
 
mornings like this
with the scotch burning a new hole
in the stomach
with the coffee tasting stale
and the rejection letters stinging
a little more than usual
 
mornings like this
with the dumb sun breaking through the dark
shaking off violent dreams
worrying about the last month
of paychecks coming
 
mornings like this
sitting in front of the machine
hoping for magic
or a soft single into shallow left
with the gods playing on the radio
and the bad news of the world
untouched by the eyes
 
mornings like this
where anything is possible
mornings of great poems and stories
mornings like this
of words slapped on paper
of the solitary act of saving your own life
 
that’s what this life is all about
mornings like this
or nights just the same
under the hot lights
under the gun of your own genius
 
so many of us try for it every day
so few of us have it
even fewer will let it grow
and that’s why hearing about you, harvey
makes mornings like this
a bit more somber
knowing that we, the crazy souls,
the ones up while the fat world rests
have one less of us out there
scratching insanity and soul onto paper
hoping for just a sliver of bliss
 
 
THE CLOSE READER
 

between conversations
about her husband
rare steaks
the amount of money
that her son makes per year
in his lucrative yet unsatisfying job
she picks up a book sitting
on her desk and says
 
someone recommended this to me
 
then she starts to read it
while i try and sneak in
the day’s events
in the new york times
 
this doesn’t last long
she puts down the book
turns to me and says
 
i’m done with this thing already
this is what i hate about authors
they always have to ruin their books
so quickly
the character was at a beach house alone
reading and just enjoying her coffee
when these neighbors came in
and just started talking her ear off about nothing
 
maybe that’s a part of the plot, i tell her
kissing the international news goodbye
 
well, it’s a stupid plot, she says
that’s the problem with books
with the world
every time you get a moment of peace
some busybody or neighbor comes by
to ruin it
 
yes, i say
 
then she starts talking to me
about the coming weekend
the cookout she’ll have if the weather hold out
her son’s girlfriend
how much she doesn’t like the bitch
because she’s always telling her son
what to do
 
while i eye the novel
sitting there between us
thinking there’s another writer
in this world
that i have to hate.

TAYLOR GRAHAM

EL CONDOR PASA

Enchiladas verdes and a cabbage slaw
with cilantro, slivered radish and a shake of lime –
his favorites for this Día de los Muertos,
day of marigolds for the graveyard.

Remember how he’d climb the switchback trail,
singing the tramping song, never at a loss for breath. 
We thought he was forever as the mountains. 
No shiver of snow off cedar boughs,

no flicker of gold in the willow 
went unnoticed. No one more alive.
Just for tonight, let’s pretend. No, tonight
we know it’s so.


ERIK KNUTSEN

TOO TIRED TO LIVE, TOO HARD TO BE DEAD


I have seen the men in their big stone buildings, black suits, and ties
The creases in my pants mark me stuck in line
Now I’m smoking a pack a day and thinking about running away
Don’t want to think about hair so long, beard well trimmed, or my body thinned
I haven’t eaten a proper meal to feed the meat beneath my skin

Firemen are autocrats too paranoid of their concubine
I hold so much fire it’s time I started spewing smoke,
Maybe next I’ll be snorting coke
I’m just a pidgeon pecking the ground grabbing anything that can be found
I want to hear a warmer sound

It was a plaid shirt and a paisley tie that made me feel alright that time

My mind is taken up with dollar signs and cents and dimes,
Perhaps I’m too in touch with the times
I have to last three months, three years, but I can’t bear the fare
When I spend a year of time waiting just to die
My little sister will come and see me completely unrecognised

Everything is gnarly here: the trees, the benches, and the beer
We’re all just paying out of habit,
And exhorting for a change
It all seems the same,
Same, same, same old thing
All these thoughts already thought, time to blow them away;
In the end I’m only left with the words that I can say

Our loves always end up breaking down between the light and lines of our palms
It’s so fucking cool to be two:
You’re compact and have nothing to do,
Everyone’s looking out for you,
You bounce more than run, it’s sweet
I’m sweating with all of this envy

Don’t want to be a king or priest?
You better lose your strut
But I need a sword and hat because Versailles is where it’s at
All roads lead to Rome, but it’s fearsome and hostile;
It ain’t home
I wish I had been turned away, then it wouldn’t be because of my say
I don’t care enough to share, don’t care enough to horde
Would I be as lost were I a lord?


I tried to take it all at once and was humbled when I met a dunce
I had this goal in my mind, but by the time I was ready to go
I didn’t need it anymore
They never tell the doubt and thought of the intermediary from this to that
I miss having ideas and being able to sit at any time and bring them to fruition

How could anyone say, “What I’m doing is too important for you.”
The leaves on the ground are orange and on the trees they’re green
It’s all in the air I breathe, the water I drink, and the food I eat
I just can’t find a comfortable seat
I don’t want to be an artist because there’s no such thing,
Just makers and providers of aesthetic tinkerings

There’s my freedom flying away with the strength I cannot find
I’m just trying to write down the pessimism in my head
Too tired to live, too hard to be dead


LONE DOG


        In silent streets the lone dog prowls, runaway from the hand that feeds; is he thinking now he’s free?  Hat and shoes and coat in brown, the trials of life crease the leather and his frown.  His walking long will bring the dawn, but, light and dark, he’s like the shark that’s found no scent to push him on.  Wandering, steel-stoned, unified by meat and bone but conflict replete within the soul, he wants to be a wolf so bad: purpose, prey, and pack to have; but he’s just a dog.
       In spring he sings of hope, in autumn a mournful tune.  Could he love a woman as much as John loved June?  His heart bursts for doubling, but everyone says that it’s too soon; he should sow seeds first, beneath the moon.  That long, lonesome howl is all the crop he’s got.  Does anyone ever listen when the full sky is twisting?  He’ll probably be here till the mourning for the day he dies.  Only then will his howl be praised, as it’s eulogised.


PATRICK BRALEY

WE ARE THE POETS


I.

I am man, sporting a beard and flannel shirt,
thrift corduroys and a pocket watch, and sweet girls in tights and tank tops and giant sweaters
and tank tops and no shoes on cold tile
grin at me in coffee shops because I’m a
poet, sitting at desks by large windows without drapes
igniting antique typewriters with some exaggeration of life or death or love
with furrowed brow and shaking hands that hover over keys like fat black roaches.
A struggling musician, with bloody fingers that caress steel and brass to tempt the ears by soft seductive note, tapping a bare foot to alien meter.
I’m an artist, leaning over cliff faced paintings of serenity and
walking closer to the edge with every stroke, squirrel hair scratching classical pornography like nails on bare flesh.
I’m the creator, a man of prose to women of shade or shape or slight of hand
magicians in their capes and tophats full of lovers, whose oil scars and
ink-stained cheeks are soft with tears from their palms shoved hard into eyesockets.
Driving through blackened streets in Ford Pintos, the headlights turned off
as I am one with the night and the air and the sound
while buildings lean overhead looking into holes in skulls and oatmeal brains
spitting granola through gapped teeth and mustache clippings.
My facial ivy curls down torsos like tentacles of beasts below the depths
hungry, lusting for flesh of pink lilies and I choke
on dust storm tornadoes through canyons with finite understanding
regarding the meaning of the vast spaces between breaths.
A troubled youth, strung out on coffee and Prozac in empty hallways
chewing baggies of rainbows like salt water taffy and biting my nails to the quick,
sipping on coffee mugs full of whiskey as the sun paints the bed sheets effortlessly.
Drunk off rum and high on opiates tripping through the bedrooms for a lighter in the dark
stilling lovers in their socks with my bare footsteps.
Sitting on glacial bathroom floors with shamans citing verses from hallucinated
walks though midnight mists, up azure hills with wizard men smoking pipes and breathing smoke like dragons,
flying minivans down paper highways and playing invisible drums, conducting symphonies
under the influence of God and grass and electric guitar while spacecrafts soar overhead,
smoking under the full moon as it grows like pupils of boys smoking under the full moon who are sick of walking through downtown streets on wing-tipped shoes reciting
99 lines about lovers trapped in war-torn apartments for the tiny heroes in our skulls.
I am an emperor, staining the sheets with skidmarks and semen from the love
of a fine man or the lust of a soft woman, or the abysmal mire of no one at all.
I am loveless, standing naked on roofs covered in the frost of early March
looking quietly towards the ground while a cigarette hangs contemptuously in my mouth,
burning holes in lungs and pockets and forearms of the world I rule over.
Writing prayers in my thighs with razor blade quills
hands clasped in shaking assuredness that I’m still here I’m still here I’m still here
and loved, surely by these pretty little ladies
and all the people and the animals and the ants, as well.
I sleep on cold bedroom floors with my heart on mattresses above my head
held firmly in the jaws of she-wolves
shaking so violently that I purge it all right there on the carpet in a stinking mess of
booze and pills and sweat and blood and tears and lust and hope and love and hate and loss
so profound that I will want to write a poem about it
and not know how to end it
so it will conclude with a deep draw of breath and a sigh,
because I seem to have become long-winded
and I am none of these things
and all the lovely girls have left my side.


MIKE BERGER

CAPTURING HER ESSENCE


No heavy clang of the hammer;
a soft ping speaks of gentle strokes.
Bold strokes are now over, chunks
of marble litter the floor. The fine
work begins. Features of her body
emerege with each chisel stroke.

Face and hands will be the last
to be liberated from the stone.
Slender hips and delicate breasts
respond to the softer touch. 

Fighting back the desires to hurry,
at this stage, a missed stroke
would rendered the hours before
for naught. Reading the grain in 
the stone, being careful not to
cross cut. Polishing the the
breasts and torso with fine files.

The large hammer lies silent; a
small one takes its place. Delicate
features of her face began to shine.
Pointed nose, big lower lip, and eyes
of innocents. The fine work is done
with dental picks.

The hands will be the last, they are
the hardest to chisel out. Their
delicate lines are painstakingly etched.
Long slender fingers entwining, clutching
a rose to her breast. Spending hours 
putting the shine on her finger nails and
catching the gentle lines in her knuckles.
Progress is measured by flex of dust.

Finally putting the fine files down and
standing back, soaking in the beauty.
With a block of marble you can say
the work is finished. To my love, the
object of all my long hours of labor 
my work is never done.


BEN RASNIC

THE POOL


Aqua blue absorbs
the skin of an azure sky
textured by long, slow 
summer days.

Brown bodies
wrapped in wet towels
on a concrete beach
baste in ultraviolet rays;
smell of chloramines and Coppertone.

An undulating jukebox 
spins Spirit in the Sky
over pulsing speakers 
at 45 rpms

ripples
from the deep 
blue abyss 
wave upon wave
swirling counter-clockwise
into the fading light.

It’s 1972 again,
silhouette poised 
at the water’s edge.

I lean in;
It pulls me under.


MIRAGE (NEVADA MOON)


Egg yolk moon over Nevada
quivers in the smoky mist
of a bloodshot sky.

Neon bleeds like candle wax;
swirls of colored lava
sculpting light waves in the dunes.

Vapor of fine silk
radiates from statues,
glass and sand.

The steady drone 
from spinning wheels
has swelled my brain like a cantaloupe;

Hung over, my head is chiseled
full of holes from shots
of Jack Daniels, chinks

of martini glasses, loose
change and the bone rattle
of snake eyes in the pit.

I will risk everything
and sleep
in the air conditioned desert
tonight.


CHRISTINA RODRIGUEZ

MUSIC LESSONS


strum me.
callous your fingers
on my rigid back.

you know the
curve of my derrière
as you push down on the
small of my back
screams at you

to pound and
drop melodies
on my convulsing skin.

we push and pull our
nerves in a tug of war
that makes love
a casualty in this
whirl of plucking,

blowing orgasms
across hidden intentions

letting them seep into our pores
like air,
tightening our skin
a moment before
we stretch and
crack the surface,

releasing the note
found only in arched backs
and never along guitar strings:

O


MARCUS W. N.

RUMINATION


I’m watching Frasier one icy night
and Dr. Crain can’t ride a bicycle
because he fixates on obstacles
not in his path.
Sycamores and
bright blue mailboxes
draw him in.
He’s stuck in an infinite loop of crash,
helmet sideways, wheels horizontal.

How fantastically odd, I think and
chew on the cud of my thought.
He’s a psychiatrist,
a diagnostic diviner of obsessions,
yet he fixates.

What a word, fixate, two words,
fix and ate, two separate sounds.
What if someone
fixated on the word,
fixate?
Dwelling there on the edge, 
between correction and dinner,
teasing the idea of vocalizing it,
swallowing it, regurgitating it,
twisting it away from the tongue,
like a reluctant to leave leech.
But it’s a smooth release, not bloody,
no pain as it lets go
whipping off of 
the lingua,
turning to smoke;
Its spirit sharing
the air.

Some say, “Actions speak louder than words.”
Thoughts precede action, speaking becomes word,
and chewing is human.
Always will I be nourished,
forever digesting
words.


ANTHONY VIGORITO

WOMEN IN ART, CREATED BY AND FOR MEN
OR
FEMINIST REVISIONISM IN ART HISTORY


Reubens’ women ate good
Degas’ women were athletic, ate balanced meals
Renoirs’ women demure, ate daintily outdoors
Modigliani’s’ women, chisselled, protein only
Matisse’s’ women took two cubes in their demitasse
Goyas’ women, good, evil, saint, sinner, needed to add salt
Lautrecs’ women ate at the bar with patrons, 
Manet’s women tended bar then ate, 
Rivera’s, Orozco, and Siqueiros’ women, ate lunch quickly, seated on amber sheafs
Seurat’s women were spotted at the strand picnicking on finger sandwiches
Van Gogh’s’ women ate potatoes in dimly lit rooms
Gauguin and Rousseau’s’ women ate tropical fruits they picked
Velasquez’s’ women were patient, ate three fried eggs at a time
Corot’s’ women didn’t dine in public
Dali’s women, portalled, were nourished seaside weening furniture
Munch’s’ women, fled before breakfast, offered no excuses
Picassos’ women, complex, two-faced, eating disordered

Cassatt, O’Keefe, Kahlo, Nevelson, LaFuente, Smith, Chicago, 
Haynes, Hoffman, Krasner, Gornik, Moses, Modotti, Lange, and Arbus,
Knew and know exactly what women wanted and want to eat, 
And men had and have absolutely nothing to do with the menu


FAIRGROUNDS (in memory of Kitty)
Kew Gardens Queens, March 13, 1964


It was in that storybook neighborhood by the Unisphere
Where they saw her every day, 
Transient bar-flies that never learned her name

Thirty eight blood curdling shrills
Hers went ignored in that grim vestibule of New York
They didn’t even drop a dime
No one wanted to get involved
Confront the monster from the underside
So they waited behind slightly parted curtains
Hoping someone else would be brave enough

Curled on that storefront sash, 
Cut short of her threshold, keys in hand
Alone in a city of eight million
If only she could have gotten her key in that door

Depraved indifference, 
Criminal anonymity in gray cold city

As they lined up in droves to take a futuristic tram,
The perfect world showcased
On the other side of the monorail’s track,
Back in the Sixties at the New York World’s Fair

———————————————————————————-
Contributor’s Notes:

 Mike Berger, PhD, holds a doctorate in psychology. He is now retired and writing poetry full time. He has only been writing for a year, and has had good success publishing thus far.

Patrick Braley is an 18 year old poet, living in a small town  deep in the heart of Maine. He spends much of his time reading Bukowski, listening to podcasts and not sleeping. His poetry has been featured in The Montreal Review, The Blue Pencil Online, Transient Vanity Press, De La Mancha Magazine, as well as several other places. Patrick plans to attend college next fall to study creative writing.


Taylor Graham is a long-time volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler. She lives with her husband, two trained dogs, two untrainable cats, and six sheep in the California Sierra. Graham’s latest book, Walking with Elihu: poems on Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith, is available on Amazon.

John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser, After You Punch Out.  He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Erik Knutsen longs to be free.  Like in the sentence: “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”  But, living in the United States of America, nobody can really tell him what being free means.

Angela Qian is a student, dreamer, incorrigible romantic, and big eater. One day she will bake a chocolate mousse cake and finish her novel. For now, she spends her days staring at the computer screen and falling in love with fictional manga characters. She blogs excessively.

Christina Rodriguez wouldn’t know a career choice if it hit her on the head with a wad of cash and health benefits. Living in Queens, New York in an attic with her mother as a recent college graduate, her days are filled with job hunting while her nights are filled with poetry and margaritas. She is an aspiring arts journalist with B.A. in Journalism from Brooklyn College. Her poetry has appeared in a handful of stones, Daily Love, amphibi.us, High Coup Journal, Train Write and Short, Fast, and Deadly. Visit her at http://christinarodriguez.webs.com.

Markus W. N. lives in the Louisiana countryside with his wife, two daughters, three dogs, and two chinchillas.  In addition to being a writer of fiction and poetry, he is a full-time graduate student, part-time teacher, and part-time whatever else he can do to make an honest dollar.  He has published in Spectra, the brave little literary magazineat LSU-S, WritingRaw.com, and other small workshop publications.  Some of his work and his ideas about creativity and existence can be found at www.thanatosversuseros.com .

Anthony Vigorito is a lifelong Brooklynite, was born in 1948. He attended St.Athanasius elementary school, Lafayette High School, SUNY Fredonia, and Brooklyn College. He has recently retired from the Department of Education having served 30 years as a special education teacher. Anthony was mentored by and worked closely with Ken Siegelman, Brooklyn’s third Poet Laureate for the past ten years, assisting in the implementation of Brooklyn Poetry Outreach, Ken Siegelman and Marty Markowitz’ creation, from its inception until now. He is currently hosting Ken Siegelman’s Brooklyn Poetry Outreach the last Thursday of every month at the Park Slope Barnes & Noble. Anthony is also hosting a poetry venue at Boulevard Books and Café in Dyker Heights, Brooklyn. Anthony sat on the committee to select the new Brooklyn Poet Laureate, and is currently writing, reading, supporting poets, advocating literacy, encouraging everyone to write, chronicle, diary, and journal. Anthony lives with his wife Ann in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn. He is currently working on his second collection of poems.