translated to ASCII on October 10, 1996 -- %%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %% %%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %%%%% %% %% %%%% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% % %% %%%% %% %% %% %% %% %%%%% %% %% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %%% %% %% %% %%%% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% %%%%%% %% %% %% %% dedicated to the art of the written word volume 1, issue 2 "bringing it in under 150k" July 1995 ================================ POETRY INK 1.02 / ISSN 1091-0999 ================================ POETRY INK volume 1, issue 2 July 1995 **Featuring work by** David Bolduc Devs Marlene Abraham Jerrold Rabushka Karen Alkalay-Gut Wade H. Moline In This Issue... ---------------- We are happy to announce several changes beginning in this issue of POETRY INK, many of which you may not notice. I hate to do this, but these changes are so important, I have to outline them in the hope that you'll be impressed. * We have switched formats! We now use the eDOC format, and we hope this results in a more professional appearing publication (no more tpyos!). We have also significantly tweaked the overall appearance and layout by standardizing our use of Apple-supplied TrueType(tm) fonts (which come with every Macintosh). We think these changes make Poetry Ink easier on the eyes. * We killed the Authorization Form as well. Read the NEW & IMPROVED Submission Guidelines and you'll see why. * We added this little editorial introduction of sorts prior to our masthead. We hope to bring you news, a little background on the writers who contribute to POETRY INK, and themes for upcoming editions. What? Themes? * Yes, themes! We have decided to occasionally publish issues which feature work on specific themes, much like many other literary magazines. So, we hope that you like this idea. We promise not to make every issue a theme issue (I hate that), but to bring you works which compliment each other on a thematic basis. No, we won't be doing things like "Spring" or "Flowers" which are drastically overdone, but hopefully more creative, artistic, and intellectual topics. See the Call for Thematic Works chapter later in this issue. * Finally, and most importantly, we have decided to do a Featured Writer chapter, where we turn over the reigns to one author to explain the synthesis of a specific work which appears in POETRY INK. We think this focus on the creative process will help us all become better writers, poets, and thinkers. As you can see, there have been a lot of changes since the first issue. We are happy and pleased to bring you this excitingly new and improved version of POETRY INK . I hope you're impressed. I know I am. Matthew W. Schmeer, editor POETRY INK ---------- **Editor** Matthew W. Schmeer **e-mail** **snail mail** Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 U.S.A. POETRY INK is a regular, erratically published E-zine (electronic magazine). Anyone interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or essays should see the last two pages of this document for submission instructions. If writing via snail mail, please include a #10-sized self-addressed stamped envelope so that we may respond to you. Donations of food, money, software, and hardware are gracefully accepted. Legal Stuff ----------- POETRY INK is copyrighted 1995 by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS, a wholly owned subsidiary of the imagination of Matthew W. Schmeer. POETRY INK can be freely distributed, provided it is not modified in any way, shape, or form. Specifically: * All commercial on-line services, such as eWorld(tm), America On-Line(tm), and CompuServe(tm), and local BBSs may distribute POETRY INK at no charge. * All non-profit user groups may distribute POETRY INK at no charge. * All CD-ROM shareware collections and CD-ROM magazines may not include POETRY INK without prior written consent. * All redistribution companies such as Educorp may not distribute POETRY INK without express written consent. POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to reprint this issue, either printed or electronic. All other rights to works appearing in POETRY INK written by authors other than Matthew W. Schmeer revert to said authors upon publication. POETRY INK is produced on an Apple Macintosh(tm) Color Classic(tm) running System Software 7.1. POETRY INK is initially uploaded to eWorld(tm), with further Internet distribution by our readers. We use Global Village Teleport Gold(tm) II Fax/Modems. POETRY INK is produced using Bare Bones Software's BBEdit Lite 3.0, MicroFrontier's ColorIt!(tm) 2.3.2, Claris Corp.'s ClarisWorks(tm) 2.1v4, Robert Gottshall's & Rick Zaccone's Excalibur 2.1, M. Akif Eyler's EasyView 2.6.1, and Michel & Francois Touchot's eDOC 1.1. We encourage others to support these fine hardware manufacturers and software programmers. Dedication ---------- Dedicated To People Who Have Never Had Anything Dedicated To Them. Featured Writer --------------- David Bolduc 1 poem and an essay _Fred_ "I gotta talk to you," you commanded wrenching me from the buffet line, almost to the capers, deep in Jackson Heights. "In here," you ordered, pointing to a small furred room while handing the startled girl an unopened bottle snatched off the table. "Open up," you growled, pushing me down to my knees with practiced confident ease. The ex-lover's cousin's name escapes me now. But the memories remain of those early 80's Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings: the movies, bowling, going out for pizza, Jones Beach, your wooded upstate cabin. Viewed by others, and rightly so, as more an actual couple than in our own relationships, your disbelieving incredulous smirk fit my own voracious needs continuing past promotions, job shifts, my break up and your divorce until the final move to this desolate mist-shrouded coast. David Bolduc lives in Mountain View, California. Bolduc's books include "SLAM!" (expected 1995) and "Shards" (1994). Bolduc's work is grouped among the 'Bad Boy' category of writers in the 1995 anthology of the best new gay male poets, "Gents, Bad Boys and Barbarians" from Alyson Publications. His chapbooks include "Ashes" (1995) and "Shared Affections" (1993) with Mark Hallman. Selections from Bolduc's translation of Strato's "The Boy Muse" (Musa Puerilis ), an anthology of homoerotic Ancient Greek poetry, have been published in the magazine "Gayme". He briefly worked (re)construction on the Chateau de Sade. About _Fred_, Bolduc writes: Where does poetry come from if not the gods? The usual sources are memories, dreams, reflections, visions, fantasy. These streams run muddy, seldom cleanly. We have, since the late-Victorian Middle European discovery/invention of the unconscious, attributed creation to internal sources; appropriate given the preponderance of mental illness in poets. Where novelists and actors are so often alcoholics, poets tend toward the manic depressive. Some write while down, others only when descending into the snake pit or rising skywards towards the empyrean. I, for example, have strong manic depressive tendencies and am often numbingly depressed; desirable in a poet, but not in a friend, lover, or employee. _Fred_ is dated 5/29/94 and numbered 7.41, which, since it's the seventh century of 100 poems each, is really number 641. Since I have another 42 pieces of juvenalia, _Fred_ is approximately my 683rd poem. I work mostly in free verse (vers libre). This is an example of when I'd gone from shorter than haiku (!) to a mandarined high style (think James Merrill or Richard Howard without the camp) and was now simplifying slightly by adding "found" examples of prolespeak. I think it works. _Fred_ falls fairly closely into the Provencal genre of the aubade (or alba), in which the poet-narrator simultaneously praises the -- traditionally married -- lover and laments the arrival of dawn. The modifications in this poem keep the genders same instead of opposite, invert the social class (the lady of the troubadours were highborn, one didn't sing praise to the maid), and signal the end of a relationship that's survived strong outside forces. Cf. Pound's retro-inspired "Alba" -- from "Langue d'Oc" . Some writers futz endlessly. I write quickly. And usually without revision, except to throw punctuation in after the initial draft. _Fred_ probably took 10-15 minutes maximum to write. Free verse comes to me like dictation. I'm walking to work, sitting at my desk, home trying to sleep -- consciousness shifts to the poetic mode -- and the voice in my head tells me the words exactly as they should be one by one by one. Rhyme, on the other hand, is usually experienced -- by myself and others -- as closer to a crossword puzzle. That is to say, you get the first line in your head, the second either comes or is generated by the story/image you want to convey, and then you pick a rhyme scheme -- say abab, aabb, aababa, ababb, etc. -- whip out the rhyming dictionary (Shelley and Byron used them, who am I to disdain?), and you're off and playing. _Fred_, however, is a mystery. I don't know where it came from. The fragments composing the whole are too finely ground -- MixMastered in a mildly diseased brain -- for me to easily explain that X and Y is really Z. _The Nightmare_, written two days prior to _Fred_ -- and stunningly mediocre, though it's a good example of known sources -- opens: It was, of course, my own fault, introducing Matt to his dinner companions: Rick's my ex-. I had an affair with Sasha. I slept with Bob. And Todd, I met through the personals. I haven't been with Mark, but he had a fling with Rick and Todd, well, and Sasha... It relates a dismal birthday party, where inebriated I truthfully replied to a by now ex- how I knew those around the table. Change the names, and voila! -- a poem. Or _Transience_, a two-liner and one of my best work: The blossom-scattering wind delays my friend of sixteen. I was chasing a boy in spring, while reading about similarities between Classical Greek and Japanese poetry; about how both traditions play off figure-ground relations and permanence/impermanence, especially between nature and humankind. The title referring simultaneously (all ambiguity is intentional) to the impermanence of spring, flowers, youth, and -- the reader suspects -- the friendship between narrator and the beloved. The multiple ambiguities and crisp Imagism give Transience it's power. And, yes, for the Modernists, not too far from Pound's "Alba": "As cool as the pale wet leaves // of lily-of-the-valley // She lay beside me in the dawn." But _Fred_ ? I just don't know. I find that I write about sex and homosex a great deal. Where the homophobia of the Boomer editors keeps a lot of my work out of print, the GenXer editors (when not squeamish about the delicate constitutions of their digizine readers) tend towards an "I'm a student in a lousy major with no job ahead; see if I care about words in cyberspace!" The politics of this are sticky (pun intentional). If I stuck with Bukowskian (what a vulgarian!) descriptions of the old in-out, no one would care. Or, if I wrote about two middle-class gay men (an accountant and stockbroker celebrate their mortgage), no one would care. But, write about sucking off my married neighbor once a week -- "The black Levi's and faded sweatshirt, always fresh // obscure a rangy laborer's honest build // and a chest filigreed with copper-plated ex-'s." -- and people go ballistic. I just don't get it. As a regular poster to rec.arts.poems on the UseNet (and one of the reasons I don't understand the horror and dismay of others at my work), I don't censor my poetry. I listen to the Muse and accept the dictation. It's only later when it's written down that I notice that it repeats itself or violates some local taboo. While my work has been formally influenced by Martial and the Greek epigrammatists (though not in this one) and I revere those greats of this miserable twentieth century (Yeats, Pound, Eliot, Auden), I find also in Whitman, Ginsburg, Sexton and Plath the permission to write honestly about turmoil and unhappiness in ways that affect the reader. And in my dreams I hope to write something as fine as Sexton's "The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator": "At night, alone, I marry the bed." So, we're still not much closer to the sources of _Fred_ except to say I've only been to one wedding (as an adolescent where I got drunk for the first time), I once dated a New York City cop who lived in Jackson Heights, Queens (Lord, send me another), and I love capers! Devs ---- 2 poems _In The Shadows Of A Lonely Night_ I can no longer look upon the skies at night Or see the moon shrouded with stars Cloudless nights I walk with head down Fearing the moments remembered Memories best lost As rain and shadow flow across the sky I wait The corner where you once stood in the naked light A single street lamp--broken now Even as I see your shadow or perhaps its shadow The bench is gone As the dreams we once dreamed upon it The picnic park and the great oaks Gone too--a vacant plot There is no going back to you I remember you--always As I walk by the graveyard In the shadows of a lonely night _Time in Perspective_ a moment ended with reason or not there are no games in random generation completion only those that speak of wisdom have no meaning the talkers have no understanding no reasoning the watchers learn remembering searching quietly as the droners move on unknown realms of lost time dimensionless in context or memory in fixed cycles turning under within without endlessly emptiness given over to reality to teach the masses to think impossible complex thoughts of time Marlene Abraham --------------- 1 poem _Villanelle (untitled)_ I beg you, sweet Earth, teach me something of healing; I long to do at least a shred of good before I die, But my hands are cold from years of days unfeeling. The wisdom of your garden sets my vision reeling, The mystery of your medicines makes my cry; I beg you, sweet Earth, teach me something of healing. Is the end of life a gift; or is it stealing? Putting an end to pain with an ending sigh My hands are cold from years of days unfeeling. What is the logic to the wounds you are sealing Never doubt or ask a wounded creature why. I beg you, sweet Earth, teach me something of healing. Midweek, and church bells are pealing The names of thousands who've passed us by My hands are cold from years of days unfeeling. One lesson from secrets you are dealing, Please, let me learn, let me try. I beg you, sweet Earth, teach me something of healing. My hands are cold from years of days unfeeling. Jerrold Rabushka ---------------- 2 poems _Jewish Holidays_ It finally dawned on me one day That most of our holidays celebrate the fact That we didn't get annihilated By somebody else. Passover celebrates our escape from the Egyptians Purim remembers that we didn't get slaughtered by the Persians And Chanukah commemorates a victory over the Syrians But then over the next few thousand years We still fought against the Egyptians, the Persians, and the Syrians We even have a Holocaust holiday Even though we didn't win that one We take time out to think By now most everyone agrees that we were in the right But all our posthumous name calling And moral supremacy Is a very hollow victory Actually it reeks And the really strange thing is If no one ever tried to kill us We'd never get any time off work _Tonya Harding_ After the Olympics were over I realized that in order to win I'd have had to take out not only That brat Nancy Kerrigan But about eight other beauties from countries All over the world (Which is way too much to ask of an ex-husband) And I thought of myself skating through Lillehammer With the gold around my neck While all nine of them lay sprawled out on the ice Clutching their knees Somehow tenth best in the world didn't seem tolerable at the time But now as my friends are sent to jail And millions of people peel off my last shred of innocence I take my small place in history as an irrelevant villain And the worst part about it is that No one has ever loved me And now everybody knows it Karen Alkalay-Gut ---------------- 2 poems _Windows And Doors_ I_ Her house was another world: in the middle of our town on the way to the library - the low porch, the ramshackle brick-sided abode, reeking smoked food from its chimney. They lived on the porch I thought-- ate in the weedy brown yard, hung up white sheets to dry on the line from tree to tree. We hid our wash out back, sat sometimes on our rockers watching the street, but never showed our lives to the neighbors never let them know our smells, our heat, our hunger. II_ The world was changing-- the year I knew that the windshields of all new cars became one wide glass, so the driver would not miss whatever hid behind the steel rod at midpoint. It meant for me that nothing would ever be the same no matter how much greater my vision. III_ I don't recall fearing the move. The home in which I grew was suddenly inappropriate-- the changing neighborhood, outgrown friends. Proof: When did I return to that tiny green house, the front porch with its heavy dark door, the garden I myself cultivated? Once, perhaps, I went by, looked askance at the old garage, open to the street, saw the window of my room covered with wisteria, gloomily vacant. IV_ She sits on the veranda strapped in her chair, humming to herself, sometimes recognizing an event that goes on in the world outside. A car pulls up, some children get out, race to the revolving doors and disappear into the dispassionate building. "I knew you!" I say, having passed her by and returned. You were my neighbor on Holtzer Street, the house with red-brick siding! We lived on the corner, with the rose garden. I had a black-and-white cat. I was a child. I used to use the knocker at your front door when I could barely reach it. Remember me!" There is a glimmer like a lantern passing by a window in the house across the street --the one that has been vacant for years-- haunted, they say. _Elvis_ It began with my lonesomeness, a wicked look I suddenly remembered in your eye from when I was small and you were on a black-and-white twelve-inch console TV we would strain to watch as a family. Your smile said it was okay to be wild inside and to feel the music inside you coursing like blood through the veins of your hidden places. And your hair that wouldn't stay where your fingers combed it, even with all that cream... God, and that feral twist of your lip dipped into my algebra and put values right. So now--almost fifty--I see you on the street coming out of a pizza parlor--and I am not at all surprised you've hit my neighborhood consciousness at last. Wade H. Moline -------------- short fiction When we read this piece, we thought it was a damn fine piece of fiction. However, Wade says it's not fiction; these events really happened. Names have been changed to protect the innocent, blah blah blah. So, I guess we could call this the first POETRY INK essay. Or we could just call it... _Flashover_ The sudden burst of red and orange flames flashed out the front door and rolled along the underside of the porch roof. Even though my partner Bill and I had flattened out on the porch floor, the radiant heat from the fire quickly raised the temperature inside the protective gear and started an immediate torrent of sweat. On the porch the temperature was approximately 900 degrees Fahrenheit and approximately 1500 degrees Fahrenheit inside the single story home. A quickly lifted hose stream on a wide fog pattern took several minutes of steadily poured water and nerves of steel before taking any effect. The small, round particles of water slowly began to absorb the heat from the fire, cooling it off and taking away its life. The fire slowly began backing into the house and we were finally able to make an advance into the inferno. We advanced into the living room of the house on hands and knees. Thick smoke obscured all vision, and caution was used to prevent a fatal accident such as falling through a hole in the floor. As I swung the nozzle around in the front room, I tried to get a good look around me, which is hard to do at four in the morning with no light outside and thick smoke inside. Beads of sweat dripped down my face inside the mask and irritated my nose. The worst feeling in the world is having your nose itch in a life threatening atmosphere and not be able to scratch it. My backup man banged on my shoulder. In the dense smoke I could not see him even though he was touching me. It was just too thick. "Right above us!" he yelled. I looked straight up and at the same time I lifted my nozzle. In the black smoke I could barely see the faint flicker of orange as bright flames reignited above us where I had just hosed down the ceiling. I shook my head. This was going to be a tough one. We yanked in more hose and worked our way into what felt like a narrow hallway. It was hot and filled with flames. I directed the water stream down the hall, and grimaced as the water had little effect. I worked my radio out of my coat pocket and hollered for Engine 671 to increase the pressure. Seconds later I could feel the hose stiffen. Now I had good penetration down the hall and could feel the water doing its job. Suddenly, hot black tar began raining down on Bill and me. The melting petroleum-based shingles were making it harder for us to see what little we could by covering our face masks. I realized that the roof above us more than likely had burned through. As we moved farther into the hallway we passed a door on our left. I moved into the room and my hands hit air. I pitched forward and down about a foot and hit a solid platform. I could feel the top of the stairs to the basement. I breathed a quick prayer. With heart in throat I backed up. I turned my attention back to the hall. We moved on down towards the bath and bedrooms. A few more feet and we came to a door on the right with intense heat coming out of it. Moving in a little closer I could see an orange glow in the room. I pointed the nozzle into the room and let the water spray on the ceiling. I then dropped it down and swung it around making sure that I got the walls, too. A loud blast came from the room and something ripped through the air by my ear. I ducked my head and started to back up. I yelled at Bill and asked if he was okay. When I got no reply I realized that he had left me. Rounding the corner of the hallway into the front room I smacked into Bill who was coming back in to get me. It was after the fire was out that another firefighter brought us the remnants of a shotgun shell that had discharged in the fire. Madder than a hornet, I grabbed Bill and dragged him back into the hallway. Since the roof hadn't collapsed, and the floor was still intact, I was sure that we were as safe as we had been before. I just hoped that my eleven years of experience at this job wouldn't let my judgment be in error. Back at the nozzle, I soaked the room again and we continued down the hall. Next we found a door on our left. The smoke here was going up to the ceiling quickly. Another hole in the roof for sure, but I couldn't tell in that smoke. There was less heat here, but I soaked the room anyway since the entire house had been swept by flames. A quick wash down was all that we needed to do in this room. In the hallway again, I stopped and checked my air pressure gauge to see how many pounds of air I had left. I pushed it against my mask and could just see the gauge. It read nine hundred pounds of pressure; plenty to continue onward. We now came to the end of the hall. We could feel two doors here, one on the left and one on the right. The left door had the most heat coming out of it so I headed into it. Before entering, I hit the ceiling with water to cool down the temperature and start the steam conversion and expansion. As the steam coming out the door increased, we headed in. Then the hose stopped moving. I hollered at Bill to give it a hard pull. When we did, the nozzle yanked out of my hands. After picking it back up and giving it another good tug I realized we must be at the end of the line. I doused what I could from where we were. Carefully, I moved farther into the room without the line, but I kept it in contact with my feet. In a corner there were still flames, but we had no way to get to it. Someone with a hose line on the outside would have to hit it. We pulled the hose over to the room on the right. At this doorway I again started the steam conversion before entering. The fire here went out quickly. We were making better time in this house than I thought we would. It had probably taken us only fifteen to twenty minutes to work our way through. As we moved the hose deeper into the last room, a low-air warning whistle began to sound. A quick check of my gauge showed eight hundred pounds of air pressure remaining. It was Bill's air supply that was nearly depleted. We headed out the way we came, leaving the hose for the next crew. Interactive Poem*** ------------------ _Communion_ The ticking of the clock calls to the peach trees Here in wintry San Francisco. The branches beat time on the sky And the TransAmerica building is falling again. The trolley bell chimes in, A metronome of nature rarely seen. Three times it sounds, like a dirge In New Orleans-- Memories of dear New York Invade the attic. What's sourdough when Folly fails And the bagels are cheaper Than wine at Sal's Or Kipperman's? There is not enough bread To feed one child; Not enough wine in the streets To bind the tomorrows With our dreams of lawn and garden. The hammock hangs empty between the peach trees, The bee gathers alone And is still. ***This poem was written on 5/7/95 in a chat room on eWorld(tm), Apple Computer's on-line service. The participants, Lou2 and Miss K, along with our editor, Matthew W. Schmeer, composed this poem in about fifteen minutes. All participants agreed to allow this "interactive poem" to be published in this forum. Please forward any comments to all three poets at the e-mail addresses above. By the way, Lou2 suggested the title. We like it. Call For Thematic Works! ------------------------ That's right! Thematic works! We are currently seeking submissions for a special upcoming issue of POETRY INK based upon a specific theme. We hope you answer the call! Don't let us down! The special issue's theme will be (drum roll please!): NIGHT AND THE CITY Send us your poems! Send us your fiction! Send us your essays! Send us your money! Send us photos of your cat dressed in drag! That's right! To repeat, our first theme issue's theme will be: NIGHT AND THE CITY Interpret this as you may. Submissions for the special theme issue must be in by August 1, 1995. Regular submission guidelines apply (so read those chapters!), except the subject of your submission must be "SUBMIT N&C: your name" where "your name" is your actual name, and not the name of your e-mail account. For example, it should look like this: SUBMIT N&C: John Q. Public Accepted submissions will be notified by e-mail. Non-accepted submissions will not. Life sucks. Deal with it. About The Contributors... ------------------------- David Bolduc lives in Mountain View, California. He is considered one of the best new gay male poets in the United States. He has authored several books and chapbooks. His book "SLAM!" is expected to be published before the end of 1995. Devs (whose real name is David Simmons) hails from Ontario, Canada. He publishes widely, both in the electronic and printed media. He says he's superstitious, hence his wish to be published only as "Devs." He invites comments and criticism of his work. Marlene Abraham lives and works as an actor, director, writer and workshop leader in New York City theatre. Her play "Snapshots of Three Women" has received two New York City productions; her plays have also been read at the Playwrights Horizons and Medicine Show Theatre. Currently, Marlene is writing the libretto for a new musical based on Dante's "Inferno" with composer Sima Wolf. Jerrold Rabushka lives in Kirkwood, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis. He writes for "Spotlight" and the "St. Louis Artesian", which cover the local music and literary scenes, respectively. He is the associate editor of the national trade magazine "The Paint Dealer" . Karen Alkalay-Gut teaches English poetry at Tel Aviv University in Tel Aviv, Israel. Her latest books, "Ignorant Armies" (Cross-Cultural Communications, 1994) and "Recipes" (Golan, 1994), include work published in "Prairie Schooner", "American Voice", and "Massachusetts Review". She recently recorded a Compact Disc of her poetry, accompanied by jazz pianist Liz Magnes. Some of her short poems have appeared on t-shirts produced by Toronto's Flying Camel Press. Wade H. Moline lives in Durand, Michigan. He has been a firefighter in Michigan's Vernon Township for twelve years. His hobbies include writing, photography, computer graphics, jet skiing, and biking. This is his first appearance in print. Submission Guidelines --------------------- (You may want to print this for future reference.) * Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of your submission! Please read the following very carefully! * By submitting works for consideration, you agree that if accepted for publication, you grant POETRY INK, the electronic magazine produced by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and Matthew W. Schmeer the right to publish your work. This right includes initial publication and any subsequent re-release of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared, either in the electronic or the printed medium. All other rights to your work are released to you upon publication. If we wish to publish your work in a different issue of POETRY INK, we will contact you for permission to do so and acknowledge your right of refusal. * By submitting work for consideration, you acknowledge that the works you are submitting are your own original works and are products of your own design. You further agree that we have the right to request additional information from you regarding the source(s) of your work and any related topic thereof. You agree that if your work is found to be a derivative of copyrighted material by another author or artist, you, and not POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and/or Matthew W. 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We regret that we are unable to publish work in foreign languages, but we cannot spend time flipping through foreign language dictionaries trying to check grammar, spelling, and meaning. Unless you can provide an English translation to a work in a foreign language, forget about it. * No previously published work may be submitted. Simultaneous submissions are okay. In the case of simultaneous submissions, please contact us if your work has been accepted by another publication so that we may remove the work in question from consideration. * All submissions must have your name, postal address, age, and e-mail address included on each individual work. You may submit work via U.S. Mail or e-mail. See below for addresses. NOTE: e-mail submissions are highly preferred. * No gratuitous obscenity or profanity, although erotic material is okay. 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Public * Manuscripts and submissions cannot be returned, nor can we offer any constructive criticism unless we decide to publish your work and have serious reservations regarding content or structure. You will not receive notification that your work was received; while we regret this inconvenience, you must realize we have to support ourselves somehow. Therefore, due to the amount of expected submissions, we cannot acknowledge receipt of your work unless we decide to publish it. * If your work is accepted for publication, you will be notified as soon as possible via e-mail. If you prefer to be notified by U.S. Mail, please indicate this preference on your submission. Your e-mail address will be published when crediting your work. If you prefer us not to do so, please indicate this on your submission as well. * Subscribers to the PATCHWORK mailing list will be given special consideration in the selection process. For information regarding PATCHWORK, or to subscribe, send an e-mail message to patchwork-request@nyx.cs.du.edu, with the subject "HELP" (no quotes). It is not necessary to include any text in the body of the message. All submissions, inquiries, and comments should be directed to: e-mail: snail mail: Matthew W. Schmeer POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS 6711-A Mitchell Avenue St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA ..