Sunday, February 1, 2009

February 2009 page 2

Content Links

Links by contributing poet:

Renee Dwyer
Will Hames
Don Schaeffer
Dianne Borsenik
Sadiq Rahman
Stu Hatton
John Burroughs
Joy Leftow
Don Coorough
Paul Niziol
Tanuj Solanki
Bernard Alain

Links by accepted submissions:

Prince of Persia 
To Aunt Sylvie and Sister Annie
I will not carry
Mid-city meditation
For Edwin
Blowing Horns
the truth about Truth (d.2)
a poem about zen.
Violet Brown
Fridge Poetry
Starry, Cloudless Nights
To Greet a Warmer Dawn
Free Style Spitting Rant
Manhattan Forest or Zoo...
Ninety Seconds at KP
Oliver Twist's Friends
out near the curb


Two poems by Renee Dwyer

Renee Dwyer writes while working at her job as a purveyor for the Transit Authority of Dreams. She will graduate from Ramapo College in 2009 with a degree in Literature. Originally from South Korea, she now divides her time between New Jersey and Elephant Island, Antarctica.

the truth about Truth (d.2)

It’s like last night’s dinner
left out on the counter overnight
in the morning
it could poison you
and you could end up in the hospital
even though you can’t afford it
and even though you keep trying to leave
the nurses keep pushing you back down
see, it starts out real good
like potatoes and steak and A-1 sauce
except it’s not always good to the last drop
and later you get indigestion
and end up sitting on the toilet for an hour
Truth is like that, sometimes.
and sometimes there are warning signs
cramps in your gut
and you know to be making your way to the
and sometimes you get caught unaware
like in the middle of Target
while you’re standing there
looking at the Tupperware
and suddenly your intestines are aflame.
if it smells funny, throw it away.
that’s the number one truth about Truth.
all the rest of it’s just shit.

a poem about zen.

this is how you become empty:
take the glass and turn it upside down.

i have just as much compassion for potted
plants as i do for human beings.

what is the sound of a heart collapsing
if no one is around to hear it

i meditate upon the breath during sex
and forget to orgasm.

the amputee in the corner claps with one hand.

Two poems by Will Hames

I'm a full-time carer with a lot of time on my hands but hardly any freedom to go out of the house. Fortunately, I am able to keep in touch with my fellow poets through Facebook and long, rambling phone calls. I would describe myself as an amiable lunatic.

Violet Brown

Violet Brown was known in this town
For the tartar that tainted her teeth
Her hobby, of late, was directing her hate
At the folk in the flat underneath

Clues there were none, as to what they had done
To make her so bitter and twisted
But she'd fume and she'd squint at the tiniest hint
That the people downstairs still existed

They didn't deserve all the loathing she'd serve up
Each day at the drop of a hat
But Violet Brown had a need to look down
On somebody, the nasty old bat

She was ugly as sin, without and within
This evil-intentioned old harpy
With a stoop and a hump and a face like the rump
Of a recently-rogered okapi

She'd hated her Mum, 'til the Reaper had come
The loss made her bile even stronger
And her husband, it's said, had preferred to be dead
Than to live with old Vi any longer

He'd worked like a slave to make her behave
But that hadn't done any good
So, shouting "Oh, f*** it!" he'd gone to the bucket
And kicked it as hard as he could

Now lone and aloof, she'd stand on the roof
Surveying the pavement below
And screeching, "Just die!" as the neighbours went by
It was her way of saying, "Hello"

One day, letting loose with more verbal abuse
She'd picked up her tomcat's excreta
To throw at their car, but she leaned out too far
And the pavement came rushing to meet her

Now, up in the sky, I'd swear I could spy
A cloud with old Violet Brown on
She'll be happy at last, with her pain in the past
And the rest of the world to look down on

Fridge Poetry

A while ago, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden, I picked up a little box of random words printed on fridge magnets. I thought my children might find them fun, and for about five minutes, they did. Five minutes was about the amount of time it took for them to establish that there were no swear words in the mix. I've just found the box stuffed under a small mountain of teddy bears and boldly aromatic socks in my son's bedroom. Nobody was watching, so I took the box down to the kitchen and started fiddling around, sorting out the nouns, adjectives and so on into different areas of our magnetic notice board.

This is what I came up with:

Somewhere in the mysterious forbidden forest
I found a cold newt potion
Yet there was no rainbow fire carpet
No giant lizard for a troll fang
Ask a small screaming hobbit to leap & dance
These owls of gold are bloody fierce
It must have flown beneath my dragon house

I think I'll leave this up on the board to remind me not to waste so much time. My children think I'm a mystic.

Two poems by Don Schaeffer

Don Schaeffer established Enthalpy Press and has published 5 chap books including "Time Meat" and "The Word Cow and the Pig O' Love." ISBN series: 0-9687017 Recent poetry has been published in The Writers Publishing, Lilly Lit, Burning Effigy Press, "Understanding Magazine," "Melange," "Tryst," "Quills," and others. His first book of poetry, Almost Full" was published by Owl Oak Press early in the summer of 2006. He holds a Ph.D. in Psychology from City University of New York (1975) and lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba with his wife, Joyce.

Ninety Seconds at KP

The little girl friend
takes a leap out of the bus
with her wirey fingers,
bare pale flesh against the cold.
Then he comes out
tall with his hoody almost
biblical. She takes a toke
of his cigarette and vanishes
jaywalking skillfully
across the avenue.

Then he turns
and I get a look at his face.
He is tall and lean
and those eyes
seem so unchanging,
still young but
eternally old, pupils
sunk low in the eye-display
as if resting.

Nothing was ever really right,
his eyes say. And nothing will
ever change. I must be cautious,
his eyes say. I must be

Oliver Twist's Friends

When you wait for buses
in the cold you have time
to contemplate wanting.

Come to think of it,
there was only one of us in the orphanage
who was able to ask for more.

Don't worry, I know
that we have become
a bunch of want nebbishes.

You look at us and say
nah, it's not
worth the trouble.

Three poems by Dianne Borsenik

I am a former flowerchild and a current redhead, and I co-produce/co-host (along with John "Jesus Crisis" Burroughs) the monthly Lix and Kix Poetry Extravaganza in the historic Tremont district of Cleveland, Ohio. My poems, lyrics, and modern haiku have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies, including Slipstream, Nerve Cowboy, The City Poetry, Zygote In My Coffee, The Magnetic Poetry Book of Poetry, Haiku World: An International Poetry Almanac, Modern Haiku, and Naturally. Actor Jonathan Frid used three of my poems in his performance "Genesis Of Evil".


What a mess this is!
Your passive-aggressive tendencies
and my latent insecurities

slugging it out
smack in the middle of our stressed
relationship's squared circle!

What a brawl!
But I must confess
that my hair-trigger temper was to blame
for throwing that first punch,

after your overblown ego jabbed
its hard elbow into the yielding
flesh of my trusting nature,
and left an oh, so ugly bruise. Of course,

that pissed off your brooding resentment,
which then tackled my emotional outburst
at the knees, and wrestled it screaming
to the ground. It then became
a free-for-all,

nasty imprecations
against injured pride,
smoldering doubts
against unreasonable expectations,
withheld affections
against mounting suspicions,
pained expressions
against lack of communication,
and a massive roundhouse
blow by chauvinism that decked
the hormonal surges with a shout--

Now, all of them are down--
the count is
and out!

Tell me, my dear--
are you ready for the next bout?


he's pensive
in touch with
his feminine side
penis inoffensive
pen in hand
a poet
a political warrior
a new age man
an intellectual
and sensitive

he's restive
a festival of
carbon black
and fulsome blues
emotionally undressed
faith a little rusted
used, tomorrow's
confessional news
tried and tested
yin is love and
yang is lust
pending the outcum
of trust

mister pensive
by a data storm
of contradictions
his insisting on
taking a path
of least resistance
a pent-up send-up
but... no bars, no fences
bubbling over like a bottle
of Dom Perignon
opened, uncorked


such a temptation
this thick fuse of yours

oh god
I want to set my
match to it
I want it
to sizzle
spark and burn

sensation climbing
the length of it
tension building
the width of it

I want to fill you with flame
moment by moment
until you detonate

into a universe
of technicolor sparkles
mirrorball fractals
fireflies, snowflakes

each one a tiny piece
of starstuff
each one a tiny piece
of me

Two poems by Sadiq Rahman

Sadiq Rahman is 24 years old. Apart from being an Academic, he is a poet, short film maker and a Radio Jockey. He was born on the 29th of October 1984. He completed his graduation from Calcutta University where he studied English (Hons). He completed his Masters in English from Jamia Millia Islamia where he was a topper and a Gold Medalist. Sadiq is Fulbright Scholar and taught in the Asian Studies Department of the University of Texas.

His first book of poems The Dream Seller was published in 2003, when he was only 19 years old. Dreamseller got wide reviews from leading Newspapers of the country. The then Governor of Bengal,India Mr.Viren J.Shah inauguarated his book. He was later invited by the chief minister of West Bengal Mr.Buddhadev Bhattacharya for a brief audience at his office in Writer's Building. He was later invited in the University of Texas' presitigeous Poetry on the Plaza to read his poetry.

Prince of Persia

Steal me from myself, O! Persian Prince
Rob me of all my love…
Lock me there - in the deep,
Dark corners of your soul,
Where you hide your million conspiracies.

(And then) with cold, shining eyes
Like the moon over desert nights - watch me
Plunder, O! Persian Prince, take me there
To that distant land.
Make me your slave girl, I have lost it all…
Give no reason, have no cause (my Lord)
Kiss me with the sword, paint my body
With Bridal red…
And as I drown in a river of blood
Hold me, I want to die in your arms

Lines …these lines

Those marks on your palms, crooked
Straight, intersecting lines - like
Grids on a graph, disect your life
Into grief and heath
Loss and wealth.

How they trap your destiny
Inside your fists
And you with stones and strings
Metals and rings
Control your stars….

With wrinkled face,
You chase your happiness
And curse your Gods in defeat!
Do not worship these lines of your hands
As they distort your dreams
Destiny is pre written. Even for
those without arms!

To Aunt Sylvie and Sister Annie

(Dedicated to Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton)

I  talk’d to trees, fought with sound
When kids dance, cycle around
I played too. With Angels in the grave 
Where Jim and Joe would never go.

    And I went there too
To the doctor who screamed. Dad felt bad
Mom wept. And they  laughed at me

                                                But I am fine, there is nothing wrong with me.

Jane and Lisa, got Barbie dolls
Santa  brought me a chair  
With wheels to play  and run on
They call me crazy girl, don’t play with me.

                                  But I know I’m fine. There  is nothing wrong with me.

Then Mom brought me “A Birthday Present”
It was you - Aunt Sylvie.
                            Alone no more, I had you, and a new life

And we sang, we thought, we laughed ,we wept
With Sister Anne

Beautiful  poetry you wrote
Every night.
                        Wasn’t I your Mad girl? The Insomniac, Paralytic in Plaster?

You gave me life after Aftermath
Cinderella out of a cripple

Not the other I am your Metaphor.
Monologue, your morning song
No more a bed
Or dead – on wheels

I cross Atlantic now
Go beyond the Purdah!
I am Courage, I am strength

I see my little world with you Annie,
Which no one can!
Rock me in your arms Silvie
Fill those eyes with color and ducks
Make me a child
Say nothing is wrong with me.
I believe there is nothing.

Two poems by Dubblex

DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.

Free Style Spitting Rant

Addicted to rap like a stockbroker making bank
On the NASDAQ when I hear a fat track it’s like heroin
To a junky getting finished on smack shine
The spot light on the stuff I write
It’s as hot as a laser shocks like a taser rips
like a razor sees the flames rise cause this ones a blazer
hot like a microwave examined with x-rays
sit back and wonder while I amaze my tail
still unravels like rims over gravel
this case is not closed till the bank of the gravel
I blast off my rhymes from Cape Canaveral in the Space Shuttle
me and the microphone huddle
the other mics left without rebuttal
go home with their girls and just cuddle
because when I be kicking verses nothing is subtle
My ammunition is my vocabulary
By all means necessary
It’s a metaphoric snow flurry
If music were food this would be Nutriment
Even anorexics don’t regurgitate what I create
bulimic beats give rail girls weight
Too many kids on Ritalin
It’s belittling - turning pre-teens into pharmaceutical drug fiends
you got a hammer
I got a nuclear warhead
set that sucker off and we’ll all be dead
so go ahead and shoot
It’s self-destruction
black on black crime
a government production penitentiary and cemeteries
too many young brothers names filling up obituaries
you can hear me but you don’t understand me
It’s genocide a slow homicide this epidemic is systemic
While government controls our consciousness
Let’s condemn government
all our forefathers were killers and robbers
too bad the Indians couldn’t finish off the pilgrims
it’s our chagrin
I am not commercial I’m controversial

Manhattan Forest or Zoo...

I walk through the enchanted forest of tall office trees
with small bushes of brown stones
fresh concrete grows daily
and smothers all life underneath it
it grows square and gray and rigid alongside steel trees
wild criminal animals roam and attack until caged in the local zoo
keep the animals locked in the city zoo
they lock up us humans too
my cell block is Manhattan
every where I go shit happens
my job is my prison
they keep me locked in institutions
giving me their solutions
they tell me this is the home of the free
but people around me report everything they see
because I live as I believe that I am free to be me
so institutions looks at me funny
as a matter of fuck this job they can keep their money

A beautiful mist of pollution hangs over Manhattan’s chemical rain forest
Mercurys SUVs Fords Toyotas and Mitsubishi all add to it
Cry out in horn chirps and other species
vehicles for emergencies screaming sirens
Race over tar covered postmodern dirt roads
Saving us from fire and death is their goal
This city terrain is slighted and a jagged edge covers the horizon
Our streets covered in human daytime congestion
The forgotten get swallowed with gassy ingestion
Few stop and colorful lights to question
This city life is an unseen obsession

Three poems by Stu Hatton

Stu Hatton is a poet, freelance writer and editor based in Melbourne, Australia. He teaches creative and professional writing at Deakin University. His work has appeared (or will be appearing) in hutt, Mascara, Otoliths, Verandah, Poetry SZ, Voiceworks, Bambikino, Unusual Work, Page Seventeen, Frame Lines and elsewhere.

I will not carry

I will not carry
bad blood
because it corrodes,
spreads, leaves us exposed
with too many entrances
and exits.

I will not carry
awkward, bulky items
like red carpets
(for off-chance dignitaries)
or restless dogs
or heavy corpses.

In fact
I have decided
to carry nothing at all.

I will find water on my way,
and the words left to say

(I have no pocket
for a script).

Mid-city meditation

I take off my shoes
so the grass can imprint
abstract designs on my ankles

can't see any other meditators
in Alexandra Gardens

a precious day

sun gushing,
pooling on gemgrass;
river metallic

cars on City Rd
sounding like the ocean
(peaceful cars)

I slow
& stop thinking
for some seconds

then I remember
to take off my sunglasses

& it becomes a lot brighter
behind closed eyes

I notice this,
then revisit the breath

an easy breeze
stroking my face

I revisit the breath,
revisit the breath

until half an hour later
I hatch
from my trance-shell,

look over at my shadow,
my head made of grass

8pm that night
I meet Monica on the bridge

we gaze through the sci-fi city,
make new pledges,
smile out…

a 4x4 crushing
a skater's stray deck
jolts us back to the wheel

For Edwin

"If we continue in our mindful observation there will no
longer be a duality between observer and observed."
- Thich Nhat Hanh

We have always been as weightless as this.

Our modest collection of questions.

Holes full of nets; nets full of holes.

No waiting: all things are present.

Eye observes itself.

One poem by John Burroughs

I am a Buddho-Taoist, poet, musician/composer, teacher, philosopher, and webmaster/blogger. In 1997, I held the official title of "number one blogger" on MySpace. As "Jesus Crisis", my nom de blog, I maintain my own website, which includes, "The Tao, The Ow, The Wow, and The Ka-Pow of Jesus Crisis" blogs, the burgeoning Crisis Chronicles Press, and a free Online Library of both classical and contemporary poets' works. My poems and reviews have appeared in various journals and newspapers, and most recently, in two issues of The City Poetry. At one point, I spent eleven years in prison for a crime I did not commit and I am writing a book about the incredible but true stories leading up to and including my incarceration.

I am very involved in the vibrant Cleveland poetry scene. I am co-producer and co-host (along with Dianne Borsenik) of a monthly show, The Lix and Kix Poetry Extravaganza, in the historic district of Tremont in Cleveland. Next week I will perform as featured reader at Mac's Backs in Cleveland.


Pralines in
Apples in
In small packages,
Nursing a dream,
Queer little ripple
Under the skin,
Elated by nougat,
Urgent and thin-
Eat life,
Speak food.

One poem by Joy Leftow

“Poet Laureate” of Washington Heights, Joy Leftow is a double alumna at Columbia University and has her second Masters from CCNY in Creative Writing. Joy’s style is - in your face reality. When Joy is not busy doing people & cat rescues, she meets her muse & reflects on relationships with more sarcasm than you’d get in an entire season of Seinfeld.


The who am I lost & found in who I am, a contradictory introspection of a delusion of who I want to be mixed with who I already am, the me that is so deep it transcends lucidity the me that fires synapses constantly. I am the me with no home inside, listless, desolate, discontent, abjective, retrospective, lost in grim moments of lost wishes and dreams of who I could be if Clinton was my family, or even Obama would be better for me, I love color. I’ll sell myself for a less, I promise I’ll settle.

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes - well you just might find
you get what you need, oh baby

Let me sing the blues for you again today like I sang for you yesterday
My eyes run misty blue for you
The holiday a passed disgrace I saved no face my eyes stay misty blue for you
An outcast jew singing outcast blues, my mother sang them before me. I want to sing misty blue for you this season.

Freshly showered I emerge to sing the blues for you, to bring you back to where I want to be
I go back in time to rhyme with you, keep my flow to your flow, the glow of my flow keeping rhyme to your rhythm.
You go Charley Brown; come back to hear me sing misty blues

Your eyes shine misty in return I see beyond your armor, sing misty with me
Come in, stay a spell, let me sing misty blue for you.
I put a spell on you
I’m a give you some real life southern comfort, a few pecans, flow the red river stills your mind without forgetting the questions,
I falter, our laughter fills volumes of silent banter, I stand before you, my sensibility turning chill while I wait for the lantern of my soul to light this space
Make this day holy, my life skips an Eartha Kitt beat
my mind feels my heart sing for rain is misty blue I’m sensing changes maybe I’ll wait for you, what if I don’t know all I claim to what about you do you play misty blue and know more than I know.
Inky blue, dusk settles a cool blanket on the sky glimmers of silver clouds shimmer remain
Do you see the same inky sky I see when I see what you see when I look for you to see if you’re looking where I’mmm looking for you, I want a raspberry sky to roll its toll onto golden unplowed fields of ripe green wheat
Common Daddy let the good times roll
Common Daddy let me fill your soul
Common Daddy don’t you be late I think I may have a date with fate
I’ve got this date for old time’s sake, just let me fill your plate
Let the good times roll for old times, for old soul’s sake
Sing me those old time blues give me a taste of those old soul blues
A blue eyed soul girl singing the old soul blues for you Daddy

Two poems by Don Coorough

A freelance writer for 10 years, Don had articles published in Log Home Design Ideas, and his poetry has appeared in edificeWRECKED, Eleventh Transmission and Blood Moon Rising Magazine. Don currently writes for and publishes his blog, Shoreline Driftwood. Involved in multiple artistic endeavors, Don has 15 years experience in animation, managing, producing and occasionally directing commercials, television specials and CD-roms, as well as 27 years in music, performing in clubs and concerts on guitar and bass. Don also possesses 24 years experience as a songwriter/composer, and his song, "They Died Young," was recorded by The Tooners on their CD "Rocktasia" with both available on iTunes.

Starry, Cloudless Nights

The old black dress
no longer fits. It's
too tight, outgrown.
Unsewn, intuition hints
through de-spooled,
rainbow threads
unwound on cold,
tiled flooring haphazardly,
unconcerned with any
mannequin's silent deception.
Pre-conception of objective
formulas severs creators'
minds from hearts.
Art's fathomed
in the breath,
in the spaces
between, where unconscious
intuition breathily whispers
on glimmering,
starry, cloudless nights.

To Greet a Warmer Dawn

Into a still, dry silence
Venus descends, unthreading
her honey-scented, tightrope
like a beam of light which knifes
through the darkest hour.

Cricket chorused chirps
crescendo as the moon hides
behind the garden maiden's
shawl - her cloaking embrace
wards off frozen fingernails
scratching down my spine.

Dew-moistening Venus'
wet tongue kisses my cheek
breathlessly, anointing this fragile
human flesh in her ancient
yet eternal rite, wrapping me
with the sticky scent of oleander.

In the moment before
the first mist rises,
the purple-robed lady
sculpts out from deformed
clay a new, serene countenance
to greet a warmer dawn.

One poem by Paul Niziol

Paul Niziol is not a critically acclaimed and award-winning creator of anything....yet! An avid fan of the written word, especially science fiction and fantasy. When not busy expanding on the human condition, Paul lives an ordinary life in Ontario, Canada where he ages with all the grace of a hippo in orthopedic shoes.


If I could be born again
I'd like to be a peregrine,
On wings so swift: I would be gone
To soar above the rising dawn.
Above the rooftops, quiet, dark,
Above the silent sleeping park.
Id' see the twinkling city lights
As the morning woke the night
From dark slumber, while far below
The streets and cars become a glow;
And climbing higher still I fly,
Pre-natal colours would fill my eyes
Swirling greys & misty pinks,
Solitude, my place to think
The winds so strong I would not fall
The problems of our world so small
And far below & far away
Would not belong to this new day!
...Ah! If I could be born again,
I'd like to be a peregrine!

One poem by Tanuj Solanki

Tanuj Solanki hails from Ahmedabad, India. He plays the rational management student in the day and the irrational poet in the night and claims to be in love with both roles. At 22 years of age, he considers himself a beginner poet and he finds that writing poetry makes him feel very fulfilled. Tanuj's work has been accepted in Tin Foil Dresses.

Blowing Horns

A certain death versus
an existence dabbling
with the lower fragments
of the poverty line,
the line of poverty.

My government
and My parents
made the obvious choice

They call me a minor girl,
and I wash dishes
with gutter water--
just a part-time job.
A shoe factory
employs me
for more hours though.

Each day is insanely long,
with pushes and shoves and slaps
from knowns and unknowns.
Crevices of my heart
are now filled
with a shaky jelly
of fear and pain

But (smiles) little whiffs
of joy do come
in childish and childlike fashion,
scattered in occurrence
and reminding,
me of my age.

And about three months back,
boys at the factory touched me--
some weird places.

The fear of this night
somehow seems to have started there

My father,
feverish forever
ordered me to please the insides
of this monstrous black car
where two gentlemen
blow their horns

I know how.
I know why.

The generation
you are proud of,
is full of knowledge.

One poem by Bernard Alain

I am a canadian poet born on the east coast and now residing in the nation's capital Ottawa. I am always looking for new influences and ideas by interacting with my fellow poets. Currently I am the editor of The Cartier Street Review and administrator for The Ink Blot poetry forum. I have been published and/or featured in a few online journals recently such as the Orange Room Review, Madswirl, Pirene's Fountain, Mississippi Crow Magazine/RiverMuse Press, International Poet, The World Poets Society Electronic Catalog, Bywords, Bywords Quarterly Journal and others.

out near the curb

the city can be a
pernicious snake somedays
and I have no idea
how it got in front of

it's the narrow streets
with longer articulators
swinging their vulcanized hips

backs flex
crowds compress

I swear the sleepers
of the next headline terrorist attack
are going to come from
this town not Yarmouth,
dressed in blue uniforms
hiding behind reflective
and hissing hydraulics will signal
a beginning to the massacre,
bystanders lapped up
by the treads of 'gotta stay on time'
and 'this lane is mine'

and the second wave
as misplaced suburbanites
make the final
[c]rush into the last
express, singing
'thank god it's friday'
and 'seeya at the pub',
one more time,
shoulder to shoulder,
as they sink into
the opiate of
slower middle lanes

they started to widen
Bank street the other day,
with sidewalks gone,
a labyrinth of gravel
peeking in from behind the
construction barricade
I can see the gaping hole,
quite obvious
it's going to take
some time

I and the other
supermen are powerless,
little we can do
but rest our capes
and wait

wait for it
to move along

The Cartier Street Review

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Janice Dayton
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Milton P. Ehrlich
AnnMarie Eldon
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Tiziano Fratus
John C. Goodman
Joseph Goosey
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Will Hames
Nick Harris
Stu Hatton
Shell Heller
Kyle Hemmings
Charles Hice
Thomas Hubbard
Oritsegbemi Emmanuel Jakpa
Marco Kaufman
Penn Kemp
Ruth  Ellen Kocher
Engin Korkmaz
Dimitris P. Kraniotis
Yahia Lababidi
Chris Labrenz
Jackson Lassiter
Joy Leftow
Heller Levinson
Ira Lightman
Louis K. Lowy
Ross McCague
Stephen Murray
Carl Palmer
Helen Peterson
Kate Peterson 
Elaine Rosenberg Miller
Carolyn Srygley-Moore
Todd Moore
Steve Nash
Paul Niziol
Valery Oisteanu
Charles Potts
Nicoletta A. Poulakida
Casey Quinn
Barbara Reiher-Meyers
Randall Radic
Sadiq Rahman
Dibyajyoti Sarma
Don Schaeffer
Bobby Slais (R Jay)
Patricia Smith
Ruth Spalding
Edward Sobanski
Tanuj Solanki
Don Stabler
Ana Stjelja
Thiery Tillier
Paul A. Toth
C. Derick Varn
Rodrigo Verdugo
Teresa White
Sharon Boyle-Woods
Anne Harding Woodworth
John Yamrus
Changming Yuan