Sunday, April 1, 2007

CSR: Issue Four

Editor's Note:

I can't believe it's been four months since CSR was born! Every time I look at it I have to smile. And why not. You'd smile too at such a lovable publication even if its little turf of hair doesn't help at all when trying to figure out what sex it is. But who cares about such trivial matters when you're young and foolish and forced to sleep in your own crib anyway. The only thing that really matters is who's dropped by this month to share their talented contributions via poetry, photography and art. They'll capture your action like no reality show ever could. So scroll down and feel the unnaturally opaque air back-lit by a stove of glowing coals, which combined with the rising temperature of an earlier than normal spring, will be all the motivation you need to read the entire issue in one sitting. And if you don't, I bring the baby over to your place along with every dog in this apartment building during one of your delightful cocktail parties. Get the hint? Then get reading...
Issue Four: Contributors/Contents

Arlene Ang

Tim Brenan

Birdie Joworski

Orvar Porgeirsson

Leah Browning

Geoffrey Philp

About Art - Great Sphinx of Giza

Peter Gric

Olutayo Osunsan

About Music - Vance Gilbert

M. Frost

Contributors Biographies
Arlene Ang

After Richard's Swivel Chair Broke

There was heedless TV snow
in the background. His wife puckered her nose
at the smell. He hadn't showered in days.
Hadn't trimmed his nose hair.
She called him Buzz to her girlfriends.
He knew she even had a name
for the way he twitched his ears: Rapunzel.
He was thinking: I can hear
fruit flies embroider the fruit rot.
He remembered how, as a child,
he drank vinegar directly
from the bottle. First love. And he hadn't
met his wife yet. She came later.
With hydrogen peroxide,
power tools, whiskey in his breath.
Already, he was past the respectable weight.
He was past apologies.
He never admitted to anyone
he'd broken the swivel chair settling down.

**previously published in Eclectica Magazine (Oct/Nov 2006)

What The Tabby Scratched Today

The lampshade on the end table
is lopsided. In the room, there are
signs of violence: a spilt vase,
the flowers crushed by fallen
books, the torn curtain, blood
on the sofa, animal fur on the rug.

My skirt is frayed at the hem,
the sole of my left boot threatens
to come off. The lights have gone out
the way a chameleon's tongue
furls back into its mouth.

A door flaps; this house has bats
at night. On the porch, a swirling
wind drags the stainless bowl,
the noise like phantom chains in
an opera the public snubbed.

On my mother's desk, there's an old
Gratta e Vinci ticket. The price,
2500 lire, is half-covered by socks
she failed to mend. A black labrador
licks its wounds by the dying fire.

** previously published in Ink & Ashes (Vol.1 issue 2)

The Icon and the Gander

This wasn't the portraiture I planned to study.
The triangular clockface drunk-drives to ten.

I still dream of migratory birds, and her --
in the vestibule, holding a coral-red umbrella.

Sometimes I wish I could forget. Throughout
the history of flight, saints have contradicted
the fowl and, oftentimes, ate them for supper.

Included in my guilt cargo inventory: the Degas
cup with its broken saucer, rainfall, the yellow cab.

To prove her point, my wife called everyone bastards.
Why withdraw from the diagram of these meanings?

Rather vague details: the Madonna sculpture,
a weak watercolor brushstroke that could've been
a signature or grime on a webbed foot.

And now it's back to mud, the initial idea
that clams are actually quite happy in their shells.

This uncompromising elevator music is louder
than the wrong shoe color in the background.

** previously published in “Eye” (Issue 3, Dec. 2005)


It's the appointment I've missed twice.
An ache, like a bad molar, blows a pistol.
The little parakeet has been taken away.
A heart condition. We are sorry for
the inconvenience: still life with magazine rack.
What secret life do dental assistants lead?
An x-ray of jaw bleeds the Christ head
on the cross. I am required to misunderstand
what pain wants from me. The waiting
room is a kind of bankruptcy itself.
Seeds crack the birdcage floor, but reveal
nothing about its previous occupant.

The scent of

November's tea dance is feral:
fresh shoe polish, naphthalene,
twelve seniors waltzing to bluegrass,
chrysanthemum petals on the floor
like paint flakes from a junked
limousine, lukewarm tea, scones.
The taped music brings back
the 40's, redundant and insidious --
I'm with another woman again.
She is Dahlia, sometimes Maeve.
Lines on her face count down
the numbers on the clock's dial.
The fluorescent lights are white
like weddings. I am in black again,
a guest in someone else's funeral.

** previously published in Bonfire (Issue 4/2005-21/12-05 Winter Solstice)
Tim Brenan


it is impossible to own
a moment or a person
although sometimes
it seems we settle into either
one or the other like
a soft relaxing splash of
soapy warm spa water
lying naked, enjoying
the elasticity of the moment
stretching into others
around us, & me catching
the ends of your hair,
the tips of your fingers
while doing so i often
begin imagining
i can re-grow
each and every limb
i have ever lost


Once, a long time ago,
when i thought the world
was mine, i dreamed of you
through fishbowl silver
marbles, red tetra in your eyes-
you broke sticks & carried
them into the night forest,
naked, promised me a lean-to,
& invited me to follow with
the crook of your finger
i blinked just once &
you were almost moist
eventually, only our legs
could be seen as they
rippled back & forth
like thin flags
in a soft wind
even heavy
stones gossiped -

raspberries (1971)

the woods near my home,
near sand hill, near otter creek,
the place where i learned to cup my hand
over dana's breast, place a finger upon
her nipple in such a way she would sigh,
were filled with wild raspberries
i would pick them in hot august
one red moment at a time, finger
print red, tongue red, mouth redness
dana would join me,
sometimes dipping
in her low brown t-shirt much
like a young sleek otter
chasing another through thickets,
through thick chicory filled with red finches,
each holding its breath in unison
anticipating another red moment

Dreaming of Emily Dickinson

i sometimes dream of Emily Dickinson,
her seemingly stoic allegories
speaking of lost love:
flies buzzing, yellow halos,
unblossomed thighs, apple orchards,
new shoes in Eden
secretly, she was a woman
i once loved even though
she didn't know,
wouldn't acknowledge,
wouldn't have known what
to do even if she had known
she was my home town,
all my favorite places to visit,
walking in her streets,
elm lined
lovers' lanes
i would have died for her Beauty,
instead i live for her Truth
today i saw a woman
who reminded me of her
i wanted to tell her
that it was she who touched
my face and found me there
Birdie Jaworski

My Tablature

A and B and key of C,
never harsh minor keys
or the adventures
of a new alphabet.
A scrawny brown
circle of dog
with nose tucked
into tail begs
at my feet.
Ribs show through
sparse fur;
part of one
ear is missing.
He wears no collar.
I wear no might.
I wrap pieces
of Mom's death
in hope chest scented tissue,
try to floss stray bits
from my molars,
but my loss is a hitchhiker,
a girl of eighteen
with a bulging pregnant belly.
We ride in silence.
She holds her hair in her right hand,
rested against growing baby,
long and straight and black and oily.

any saturday morning, 10th year

A water moccasin disturbs
a lake of black glass.
My dad casts baited line;
shoulders back, trunk swivels,
cuts fog in samurai surrender.
Red bobber falls flat,
spreads concentric messages.
Does the hooked worm know?
I hold a dented bucket in wait.

Timeloop Key

The old '50s Carrizo Impact Area.
Damn. The Carrizo Impact Area.
It tempts me each time I drag
sorry ass up elephant knee mesas.
The army says Don't Cross Carrizo
Impact Area. The signs say Don't
Cross Carrizo Impact Area. My mind
says Don't Stop. Cross it! Who
cares about mines and dodgy bullets
and a stray hydrogen bomb perhaps
lost under mesquite ghost stumps.
The army stuffed planes with
megaton testosterone swag,
let it flash flood dry washes
with enemy voodoo pin pricks.
They thought no one would see
dive bomb hawks chasing popping
shells, colors of aurora borealis
two thousand miles off course.
I keep old casings I find
outside the perimeter
in a wooden cigar box.
Sometimes I empty them
on my desk, let them roll
to the parquet, chain of clinks,
chain of remembered custody,
chained dead human stupidity.
I tell you, I'm gonna cross
the line next time. I will
toss my Panama sunhat across
that invisible barrier, follow
with legs ready to run like hell.


Designing magnets might sound complicated,
but it’s a simple art.
First you collect the experimental specifications.
Scientists want their magnetic fieldsto act certain ways.

Sometimes they need a steep field profile,
one that hits ions with brute Gaussian force.

Sometimes they need something more subtle,
a gentle rise of magnetic power
that coaxes particles in desired directions.

You start by estimating
what your magnet might look like,
taking into consideration
the specifications desired
and your past experience
with similar specifications.
Specifications are the shit.

You feed the parameters of your design
into a computer program
that calculates a field map,
and out spits a topographical chart
showing the magnetic field
at any point near your magnet.

You make adjustments and do it again,
and again,and again,finally reaching something
that approximates the desired outcome,
but never quite matches it.


Telescope lens
focuses on wicker chair
dead center dead
in water field.

I stand wide aperture
eye on eyepiece,
hands dial clarity,
ass bends twine.

Ankle, shin,
patella skim algae,
sink hole echo,
quicksand covers neck.

I twist rusted controls,
watch bottom lip fall.
My hair cracks surface,
negative garden.
Photography & Words by Orvar Pogeirsson

Hill House - "Although I am not very religious, I found it interesting how the sunrays behind this house on a hill created almost a bibical/holyness feeling to the shot."

Sunset - "This mansion is almost in my backyard so I knew when I saw those warm red clouds from my house that I had to grab my camera and drive-off to capture it."

Videy Island & Mt. Esja - "This photograh was shot in a late afternoon of bright sunlight against a snowy mountain and an ocean darkened by shadows to create the highest contrast."

Geothermal Plant - "I wanted to capture the contrasting elements; the cold of the snow & ice plus the heat of a geothermal power plant."

Communication Tower - "The cocktail of a lunar-like landscape in Iceland plus moonlight, stars and a telecommunication tower gives this photograph the feel of being on the moon."

Satellite Discs - "Here I try to produce a sci-fic look by taking a 30 second exposure of a totally dark telecommunication center topped by a starlit sky."
Leah Browning

We Argue About The Aesthetics Of Garbage

The green couch, its pale arm peeled back
to reveal cardboard and staples, leaks
clumps of stuffing across the grass.

We’ve carried it all the way up from the basement,
lifted it over the railing, pinched our fingers
shimmying it through the doorway.

This is the first furniture we ever bought together,
now marred by claw marks and baby vomit,
the threadbare pillow covers peeled off and washed

a hundred times. All night, the couch will sit outside
in the dark, supporting an old stroller’s spongy handle,
pieced back together with strips of clear duct tape.

At first, we are laughing as I adjust the couch,
placing it perpendicular to the lip of black asphalt,
and neatly stack the discarded paper boxes

on the grass next to the trash can. “Leave it be,”
you finally say, and when I refuse, you go inside
without me. I move each item until it is just

where it should be, and then I lie down
on the green couch and watch cars drive by
this precise and orderly arrangement.


I am undressing right now,
in front of you. It’s not
a sexual act, but an act
of devotion. Look: you can see me.

I unbutton my blouse, slide my skirt
down over my hips. I kick off
my shoes. Here I am, stripping down

to my bare bones. Here are my heart,
my lungs, the perfect curves of my kidneys.
Everything that is perfect, imperfect;
everything that makes me whole.

I offer it all.

And when you are ready, I will fold you
in. Align your slim white bones with mine,
lay our organs side by side. Don’t worry,
I’ll tell you. This will only hurt for a second.

New Mexico As the Heartland

You go back to New Mexico and find it softened; in your
absence, it has become beautiful. The mountains slope,
rust-red and tan, a knobbled mixture of dirt and rock
dotted with scrubby green bushes. The road winds past
a wall of mountain on one side, a steep ravine on the
other. You are taken by the harsh beauty of the land, by
the power and magnificence of it all. The summer sky is
sunny and warm, and when you arrive at the house, you
take your daughter to pick peaches from the tree in the
front yard. Together, you hold hands as you walk inside
to sit at the wide wooden table and eat them. Here at
the front of the house, banks of solar windows tease the
sun in through broad panels of glass, turning everything
sunny: the table, the walls, the red brick of the floor.

That night, as you look up at the ceiling, at the planks of
wood fitted neatly together, at the solid wood vigas you
spent every night of your childhood looking up at, as you
listen to the coyotes howling in the cold mountain air,
hunting rabbits under the stars, under this grand and
unforgiving sky, as you drive home and go back to the
streetlamps and oak trees, as you return to your everyday
life, shadows of you will remain scattered in your wake,
like pages torn out of a book: another version of you will
stay behind, lying forever sleepless in the layers of silence
of a summer night; another will walk to the store to buy
milk, panting at the altitude; and another will go on eating
peaches in the sunlight, sitting at your mother’s warm
wooden table with your child at your side.
Geoffrey Philp

(In memory of the New York firefighters
For Lisa Berman-Shaw)

Wherever there are sentient
beings in need of compassion, sick
in need of comfort, hungry
in need of food, they arise
summoned by the cries of the innocents--
a love so strong, they count
their own lives as nothing
to awaken the bounty of our sleeping
lives, lost in the labyrinth of the city,
and they cannot rest until the stones
themselves find solace.
So when we were strapped
securely in our SUVs in Key West,
Van Buren, Providence, Nome
burning money like Saudi oil,
thinking we were safe in our towers
of steel and glass, cages
of mortality that turned to smoke,
ash, soot--they did what they have always
done through time and space, dropped
their lives and rescued us
in the midst of the fire.

poltergeist or the duende's gift

if only sleep or a good night's rest could absolve
my many betrayals: retreating when i should have
forward, retiring when i should have charged ahead;
for the ghosts keep tumbling into bed with me, they
arms and legs, and poke and kick and jab all through
the night,
and i'm left standing naked in the bathroom mirror,
and bruised in the sunlight, wondering, how did it come
to this?
why have i allowed this to go on for so long? and when
i leave,
they pluck the springs in the mattress, rip the
with their teeth, scatter strands of hair on the night
bump photographs of happier times until they hang
on the walls, their edges bent or broken, the glass
with soot; then they rearrange the furniture, so the
i come home to look different, but are the same
tussled sheets and torn comforters. i never sleep
in the same bed twice.

bob marley in the day care center

when i first glimpsed him, the smile,
as he played peek-a-boo in the communal playpen,
inside the young president's club, mt. sinai,
after circle time with the toddlers, reading
real-life stories of heroes whose only weapons
were words aimed at the dragon's heart,
they stared, transfixed, at the sound
uncoiling from his mouth like smoke;
he placed them gently on their blue cots
while the older kids built castles with blocks,
unsteady as jericho's wall to the rastaman's song,
then retreated to the infants' area to sponge bathe
the early risers--he'd burned through life so fast,
he'd never really grown accustomed to this
human softness--no longer the hard, bitter seed
filled with a desperation that couldn't wait to shatter
its shell, like the eucalyptus pods that fell
on the playground where he'd decided
almost a lifetime ago, this time, he'd take it slow.

easy skanking

all saturday evenings
should be like this, caressing
your thigh while reading neruda
with his odes to matilde's arms,
breasts, hair--everything about her
that made him
a part of this bountiful earth--
lilies, onions, avocadoes--that fed
his poetry the way
rain washes the dumb cane with desire
or banyans break through asphalt--
this is the nirvana that the buddha
with his bald monks and tiresome sutras
never knew or else he'd never have left
his palace and longing bride--
the supple feel of your leg in my hands
for which i'd spin the wheel of karma
a thousand lifetimes, more

tiger, tiger

when the tigers entered her body, they started
with her stomach that had flared ever since
she decided to keep the first child and drowned
the fire with the bush that grew behind her kitchen;
under the shade of eucalyptus, the tigers toyed
with her spleen, the spongy fluff on their whiskers,
her gall bladder, already shredded from years
of waiting for headlights to swing around the driveway,
for him to tumble into bed, between her breasts, smelling
of rapture or some other perfume he said they could never
afford, and as the doctors clicked their pens, nudged
interns into the hallway, (her body hidden behind charts
and daily reports) the tigers savored her liver, licked
their paws clean of the veins swollen with bile,
and while the nurses checked i.v. drips, changed
bed pans, she could hear them romping
through her body, tearing the last wisps of hair
from her scalp, feel their breath against her cheeks,
and facing the orange brightness that barred her door,
their yellow eyes, as they clawed her lungs, her voice
becoming hoarse as their snarls, her tongue as bloody,
answered with her own terrible roar.

About Art - The Great Sphinx of Giza

The Great Sphinx of Giza is a large half-human, half-lion Sphinx statue in Egypt, on the Giza Plateau at the west bank of the River Nile, near modern-day Cairo (29.975299 degrees E 31.137496 degrees E). It is one of the largest single-stone statues on Earth, and is commonly believed to have been built by ancient Egyptians in the 3rd millennium BC. What name ancient Egyptians called the statue is not completely known. The commonly used name “Sphinx” was given to it in Antiquity based on the legendary Greek creature with the body of a lion, the head of a woman and the wings of an eagle, though Egyptian sphinxes have the head of a man. The word “sphinx” comes from the Greek Σφινξ — Sphinx, apparently from the verb σφινγω — sphingo, meaning “to strangle,” as the sphinx from Greek mythology strangled anyone incapable of answering her riddle. A few, however, have postulated it to be a corruption of the ancient Egyptian Shesep-ankh, a name applied to royal statues in the Fourth Danasty though it came to be more specifically associated with the Great Sphinx in the New Kingdom. In medieval texts, the names balhib and bilhaw referring to the Sphinx are attested, including by Egyptian historian Maqrizi, which suggest Coptic constructions, but the Egyptian Arabic name Abul-Hôl, which translates as “Father of Terror,” came to be more widely used. Carved out of the surrounding limestone bedrock, it is 57 metres (260 feet) long, 6 m (20 ft) wide, and has a height of 20 m (65 ft), making it the largest single-stone statue in the world. Blocks of stone weighing upwards of 200 tons were quarried in the construction phase to build the adjoining Sphinx Temple. It is located on the west bank of the Nile River within the confines of the Giza pyramid field. The Great Sphinx faces due east, with a small temple between its paws. In 1817 that the first modern dig, supervised by Captain Cavigilia, uncovered the Sphinx’s chest completely. The entirety of the Sphinx was finally dug out in 1925.

Research information provided by:
Artwork by Peter Gric

Olutayo Osunsan

The Truth About Life

The truth about life is death.
Some people’s hunger for death exceeds their thirst for life.
They take a bite first. Mouthful. Nibble. Whatever.
The truth about life is that you die when you live.
You live when you die.
Dying, like Sylvia, is an art.
Not all people do it well.

If Love

If love is fire, let it burn me with
Raging relentless flames, let it burn
True till I am crispy and no more juice
Dares to flow in my rustic veins.
If love is water, let it take me far
Away into the unfathomable depths
Of the grand blue ocean and bury my
Soul where it will remain lost forever.
If love is sand, let it swallow me with
Every grain, draining my spirit of doubt,
Let me be covered far in the belly
Of the bottomless, dark cruel lifeless earth.
If love is life, then let me live every
Nanosecond filtering the goodness
And the purity it spills. Let me
Never die. Let me die only to live
Again. And again.

We Will Live

The mountains are gray and the valleys are green.
There are days and nights.
We will live.
The sun burns the back of those on the fields.
The rocks cut the soles of our bare feet.
We will struggle.
The baked earth crumple into dust as we plough.
Our sweats water the earth.
We will labour.
Our fathers die in their struggle for the promise.
Our mothers cry in pain.
We will stand.
Blood flows through our veins.
Tears fall from our eyes.
We will survive.
Stir down in our bruised hearts.
Roam in our heads
We will live

*previously published in Electric Acorn - Issue 10


Talking drums unwrapping tales
In resounding bounces of leather,
Daring youth to exercise its charisma.
Palm wine staggering in calabashes,
Gracefully white and beaming,
When passed from hand to hand.
Head ties, wrappers in bright colors,
Embroidered caps of different shades
And sandals laced in intricate designs.
Eloquent dishes spread out on the table,
Beautiful smell of freshly pounded yam
Laid out next to fish and vegetable soup.
Pretty beads dancing on swinging hips,
African princesses in Yoruba land
Responding to the drum's challenge.

*previously published in Other Voices Poetry - Vol. 7


As shy as the night
With black veils across her face,
And dreams when I sleep.

About Music - Vance Gilbert

Vance Gilbert burst onto the singer/songwriter scene in the early 90's when the buzz started spreading in the folk clubs of Boston about an ex-jazz singer who was knocking 'em dead at open mikes. The word spread of this Philadelphia-area born and raised performer to New York; Shawn Colvin invited Vance Gilbert to be special guest on her Fat City tour. Gilbert took audiences across the country by storm ("With the voice of an angel, the wit of a devil, and the guitar playing of a god, it was enough to earn him that rarity: an encore for an opener" wrote the Fort Worth Star-Telegram in it's review of a show from that tour). Gilbert's three albums for the Rounder/Philo label - EDGEWISE (1994), FUGITIVES (1995), and the celebrated, arrestingly sparse SHAKING OFF GRAVITY (1998)- are all essential additions to the American singer-songwriter collection. With guests as varied as Tuck and Patti, Jonatha Brooke, Patty Larkin, Dee Carstensen, Vinx, and Jane Siberry, all three albums found significant niches on NAC (New Adult Contemporary) and Non-Commercial A3 (Adult Album Alternative) radio. These discs were followed by the self-released SOMERVILLE LIVE (2000), his live recording lionized by the Boston Globe as the disc "young songwriters should study the way law students cram for bar exams", and ONE THRU FOURTEEN (2002), a stylistically varied tour de force that New York's Town and Village calls "lively, eclectic, electrifying and transcending.” Follow that with SIDE OF THE ROAD (2003), a duo album with Ellis Paul, lauded as “haunting, artful, and lovely" by Boston Magazine and nominated for a 2004 Boston Music Award. Find out more about him and his music:
M. Frost

R8 (Winter Effect)

There are no parables underground, no shows
of metaphor. The icicles are filth and hoar, not
stalactite. Square light marks divisions, yellow
and yellow, her reflection is merely her reflection,
despite what the conductor sees. She travels
backward, hands to knees: her knees are taped
shut. Faster trains have cut aside; the carriage
is a witch on frozen track. Each sound comes back.
The tape will come undone. There are spare lights
ahead where sound repeats; they shun the dark.
Snow reforms in gritty mounds. Her knees unite.
Sight returns, emerging lines; the passengers are
all asleep. They creep and gape with open mouths.
The city dashes by. Ash on window hides the sky.
Metal pulls and engines crack. She travels past
them, knees to tape, before the last mark on the
rail, before its close, before its shape.

** This poem first appeared in The Waybill


Eight of us, divided two and two and two, finally
one and one: the precise mathematics of travel.
One kilometer as measured by the diameter of
eight tires, their circumferences repeated
and this was all we had, the rest of our heritage
of German precision reduced to Achtung! Drive
on the left. Spend on Euro on each litter of gas.
We burned it on the ascent. As the mountains
dropped behind us, street signs disappeared.
Even the lines on the road were lost.
Finally, at the falling away of a sheer cliff into frog,
the asphalt itself vanished. Rain came down, as if
to swell the bogs, to overflow them brown peat,
to created flood out of rock, unmeasured liters of it
to move, as we all do, toward the eighth day.

Warming Trends

Rain rebounded
off asphalt, flattened it
to puddles--nothing special
about wet cries of thunder
in this climate--nothing special,
Except what we brought to it--
bare arms palmed by falling
warmth, flushed and damp
three weeks form winter
solstice, thinking of its heat,
how extraordinary.


Returning to college, I discovered
recent excavations, foundations of a colonial
coffeehouse, each uncovered item granted academic
dissertation, carefully tagged and catalogued:
where it was found,
and who found it,
and what else rested near.
I gouged the dirt inside these pits, unearthed
dissected vertebrae, poetry broken into shards,
then dry bone scabbed and marked, a whole
skeleton of what we had shared here, long ago.
how deep the dirt had settled,
and how rich the soil.
and how much I exhumed:
the body and everything
around it.


Look into it’s siverless depth.
My grandmother. Her brush, the gray strands of time.
Inheritance, 1994. The frame is moved and hung.
2006, wind. The green ribbon clinging to the frame
rubs its button mouth. Dirt claims its foil horse;
its printed 1989. Broken feathers, blonde strands
in the air. Study them as you would a stranger’s face.
My mother stares beside the mirror,
her self-portrait a shadow blue. In the corner,
1962 and signed. Gold rings her cheeks.
Let in more light. Dust on the oils.
Her mouth pink, closed. No voice at all.
But her eyes--
alive beneath the grime
Contributors Biographies

Arlene Ang: was awarded The Frogmore Poetry Prize for 2006. Three of her poems were nominated for the 2006 Puchcart Prize anthology. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Forklift Ohio, 42opus, Liminal Pleasures, Nthposition, Painted Bridge Quarterly and Unpleasant Event Schedule. Her first collection of poetry, The Desecration Of Doves, is available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble. She lives in Spinea, Italy. Her blogsite is:

Tim Brenan: is a poet and playwright. His short plays have been produced in seven states, most recently at the Actor’s Chapel off-Broadway in NYC. His poetry has appeared in The Elegant Thorn Review, The Rose and the Thorn Northogrpahy, and Green Blade. He is a husband and father who likes a cold Leinenkugel beer when BBQing. He lives in southeastern Minnesota. His email is:

Birdie Jaworski: writes a human interest column for the Las Vegas Times. Her writings and poetry have appeared in many online and print journals, including The San Diego Reader, Adoption Today, Ocho, Mipesias, and the American Press Institute’s Media Center blog. She lives in Las Vegas, New Mexico among ranchers and cowboys. Her poetry blog is:

Orvar Porgeirsson: who only became interested in photography as a way of documenting his mountain adventures has become fascinated with this art form. He finds photography to be a good counter-balance to the dry and systematic world of engineering, which was his university major. He is from Iceland and currently works as a software engineer in Odense, Denmark. His photo site is:

Leah Browning: is the author of two nonfiction books for children. Her poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in The Saint Ann’s Review, Literary Mama, Blood Orange Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, and four anthologies. In addition to writing, she edits the Apple Valley Review. She was born in New Mexico then lived in Minnesota before moving to Canada in June 2006. Her website is:

Geoffrey Philp: is the author of the novel, Benjamin, My Son, a book of short stories, Uncle Obadiah And The Alien, and five poetry collections including twelve poems and a story for Christmas. His poems and short stories have appeared in Small Axe, The Oxford Book Of Caribbean Short Stories, and The Oxford Book Of Caribbean Verse. He lives in Miami, Florida. His blog site is:

Peter Gric: credits Salvador Dali, Max Ernst, and Samuel Bak among his artist influences. Originally born in the former Czechoslovakia in 1968, his parents emigrated to Austria in 1980. He studied under Professor Arik Brauer at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna where he received his Masters Degree in Fine Arts in 1993. He has had numerous exhibitions including the Spiegelsprung exhibition at the Academy of Arts in Vienna, the Australian and Global Link exhibition in Ipswich, Australia, and a project called Rieter Meets Art which took place in Switzerland and Italy. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Vienna, Austria. He website is:

Olutayo Osunsan: is Nigerian by nationality. He is the author of two collections of poems, Strange Beauty (2004) and The Poet In May (2006). His poems have appeared in several anthologies, magazines and websites including Niederngasse, The Beat, and elsewhere and on four continents and has been translated into a number of languages including Chinese and German. While he works on ideas for novels he conducts lectures in business and management at Kampala International University in Uganda where in and his wife live. Visit him:

Vance Gilbert: who is a 15-year veteran of the folk circuit is amused that “it’s like I didn’t exist until yesterday.” For eight albums, Gilbert has been part of an evolution, building on his background as a jazz singer to explore his own unique synthesis of folk, jazz, gospel, and soul. His latest CD, "Angels, Castles, Covers,” pays tribute to those roots with his version of 11 songs that inspired him. His website is:

M. Frost: her poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Rose & Thorn, Pemmican, Mannequin Envy, Facets, Philadelphia Stories and the Potomac Review. Last year, finishing Line Press published her first chapbook, Cow Poetry and Other Notes From The Field. Her fiction has appeared in HLLQ. Her fantasy shorts have been published on Quantum Muse. When she is not writing she works as a veterinarian in Pennsylvania. Her website is:

Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on May 1st.
Copyright 2007 by Maurice Oliver. All Rights Reserved.

Also visit the editor’s personal blog at:
And his music blog at: