April 2013 36.2 $5.00

Poetry by Ed Binkley 4 Wyrms & Wormholes — F.J. Bergmann 7 President’s Message — David C. Kopaska-Merkel 12 Elgin Awards Announcement 13 From the Small Press — David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Joshua Gage, Wendy Rathbone, Bryan Thao Worra, Terrie Leigh Relf, John Garrison, Susan Gabrielle 46 Xenopoetry — translation by Fred W. Bergmann Poetry 3 “Transmuter backed up” — David C. Kopaska-Merkel 6 I’m the Stone You Can Squeeze Blood from — Sarah Terry 8 Making Amends — Jason Sturner 9 Black Sabbath Sestina — Wade German 11 Don’t Think There’s Nothing to Fear — Kurt MacPhearson 11 Moon Jim Skinhead — John W. Sexton 11 “relearning farming” — David C. Kopaska-Merkel 11 New and Improved — David Dickinson 17 Mississippi Twilight — Chad Hensley • “green thumb” — LeRoy Gorman 18 My Blind Desire for the Fleeting — Robert Frazier 19 General Curse against One Who Has Tried to Harm You — Margaret Benbow 19 Ifrit — Jason Matthews 19 Oregon 2112 — Harvey J. Baine 20 Superiority Is Relative — Robert Laughlin 20 Terran delegation — Lauren McBride • Workshop — Lenore McComas Coberley 21 Our Hearts Cried Out — Alicia Cole 21 Who’s for Dinner — David C. Kopaska-Merkel 22 Interpose: A Love Poem — Scott T. Hutchison 23 His Majesty — Justin Hamm • Advice from the future — Damien Cowger 23 Famers — Vincent Miskell • “game for the outer world cup” — LeRoy Gorman 24 Towers of Light — Ann K. Schwader 25 In Monster Years, I’m Old — Lauren McBride 25 “the dogs go quack” — Kim L. Neidigh 25 The Truth about Fairies —Beth Cato • Old Fashions — Neal Wilgus 26 Keeping Company — Jarod K. Anderson 27 The City on the Hill — Jeanie Tomasko • Fungal Singularity — Holly Jensen 28 Hands, Discovered Independent of Body — Justin Hamm 28 Just the Way It Is — Tim Laffey • “she doesn’t like” — David C. Kopaska-Merkel 29 Wormhole — Alan Meyrowitz • Pallid Bone Telemetries — Marc Dorpema 30 Mad Scientists — Chris Bullard 31 Father Is Never Coming Home — Jeffrey Johannes 31 Wire Mother — Jason Matthews • A Questionable Immortality — Bruce Boston 32 Special Delivery from the Unnamed Quadrant — Jason Matthews 33 “offworld trade fair” — Carolyn M. Hinderliter 34 Lusus Naturae — Albert W. Grohmann • The Bed I Haven’t Made — Peg Duthie 35 After Oz — C. W. Johnson • warriors lament — Anna Sykora 37 Pinocchio in the Toothpick Factory — Andrew Kozma 37 Boa Boy Sends His Regrets — David C. Kopaska-Merkel Back Mayflies — Glenn Meisenheimer Illustrations 19 The Forest — Dina Djabieva 21 Onward Light Traveler — Denny E. Marshall 24 Nessiterix Attacks an Elephoid — Richard H. Fay 29 Aves — Dina Djabieva 33 Wheel of Time — Dina Djabieva 35 Desert of the Spiral Tower — Denny E. Marshall 37 Close-Up Encounters — Denny E. Marshall Star*Line 2 April 2013 STARLINE is pleased to congratulate our 2013 Rhysling nominees.

SHORT POEMS: Going Viral • Mary A. Turzillo • 35.1 The Moon Tripped • Angel Favazza • 35.1 10 Things To Know About Staple Removers • Ian Hunter • 35.2 Absent Fiends • Marcie Lynn Tentchoff • 35.2 LOL_ALIENS • Elizabeth Barrette • 35.2 Regrets Only • Jeanie Tomasko • 35.3 Burning Down Woods on a Snowy Evening • James S. Dorr • 35.4 Cognizance: a Triptych • Kurt Macphearson • 35.4 “a rabid bat” • LeRoy Gorman • 35.4

LONG POEMS: Six Random Facts About Halley’s Comet • J.E. Stanley • 35.1 Casting the Future • Serena Fusek • 35.3

Transmuter backed up: basement’s full of lead.

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Apex Magazine congratulates Amal El-Mohtar and her fellow Rhysling Award nominees

2013 Rhysling Award Nominee “No Poisoned Comb” by Amal El-Mohtar

2013 Hugo Award Nominee Best Semiprozine Apex Magazine

Apex-Magazine.com

Star*Line 3 April 2013 Quality Control The sharp-eyed Reader may notice an unusual abundance of advertisements from other speculative poetry venues. This is a Good Thing! Not only does it mean that our lovely color covers will be possible for a few more issues, but it celebrates the coming of the annual Rhysling Awards and presents many other discerning publications in which nominated poems have appeared. A regrettably small number of SFPA members (less than a quarter of our membership) avail themselves of the opportunity to nominate poems— and even fewer bother to nominate long poems. The number who actually vote for the Rhysling each year is even smaller. Conversely, the numbers of both nominators and voters have been rising steadily despite a slight decline in total membership—and the number of publications upon which those nominations draw has increased much more dramatically: 34 in 2011, 48 in 2012, and 55 this year. This is very encouraging: if the statistics are to be believed, members are both participating more and reading—or finding speculative poetry that pleases them—in a wider range of publications. Many of which have advertised herein; we encourage you, dear Reader, to support them in turn. There’s been a recent discussion of gender bias (again) in publishing, where males continue to dominate in most venues. As is typical, Star*Line receives twice as many submissions from those with male names as those with female names—since nearly all are via e-mail (except for prisoners, who are not only welcome to submit via postal mail, but need not furnish an SASE), I’m guessing here. I was somewhat disconcerted to realize that unlike Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, another journal for which I am the poetry editor, Star*Line has recently accepted a disproportionately higher number of submissions from men. This is, perhaps, offset by the fact that the reverse holds true for Star*Line’s annual award nominations even more disproportionately. Or perhaps it is not. From a poem in Mobius: I have never said Please, treat the people I love like they are disposable or It’s okay to call her that name or I’ll let this slide the first hundred times but my silence said it for me. Miles Walser, “Negative Space” I’d like to make clear that whatever gender ratio manifests in these pages is not a matter of deliberate policy nor, I hope, a matter of unconscious animus. Unlike many other journals whose rejection letters invariably include the phrase “We receive many more wonderful poems than we can publish,” Star*Line does not receive as many excellent submissions as I would like—or could make space for. I actively work to counteract this status by frequently urging other poets to submit, not only via personal contact, but by posts on websites, listservs, and blogs. Reader, consider submitting if you are not already doing so. Invite other poets to submit; invite your friends—hell, invite your enemies. And perhaps

Star*Line 4 April 2013 in doing so you will find common ground. The poet Tracy K. Smith has said (on https://www.pw.org/content/tracy_k_smith_1) “Poetry is a wonderful tool for understanding and changing the way you look at the world,” and she was speaking about writing poetry, not only reading it. Elsewhere* I have said that science-fiction poetry is a subset of poetry, but that is not really true. Non-speculative poetry is actually only a small island floating in the Sea of the Imagination, dwarfed by the splendid waves of that alien ocean and menaced by the fantastic creatures that swim beneath it. It is the quality and content of what’s imagined that changes how we think and, as a result, how we exist. Of course the future approaches inexorably, whether we imagine it or not, but it is important to remember that how we imagine that future is capable of transforming it. What I love shall come like visitant of air … Emily Brontë, “The Visionary”

Join me in the future, where all the cool life-forms hang out. —F.J. Bergmann, Star*Line Editor

*amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/02/a-broader-view-of-science-fiction-poetry/

Congratulations to Elizabeth McClellan and Samantha Henderson for their Rhysling Award Nominations! Memphis Street Railway Co. v. Stratton: 1915 by Elizabeth McClellan • New Myths June 2012

Quince by Samantha Henderson • New Myths September 2012 Read them under Past Issues at www.newmyths.com

Star*Line 5 April 2013 I’m the Stone You Can Squeeze Blood from

In my dream, he lives in a house with six pianos and I wish it were seven. I don’t like even amounts of things because they are so uncentered. Also, the knocking that comes from his walls comes in fours. We’re not meant to be, but are, at this moment, very much in love. He appreciates the things I’ve chosen to become good at—namely everything—and his name, I think, is Norman. Noel. It begins with a nonsymmetrical letter, I’m fairly certain. I wake up. I’m so good to come home to, it’s my job. I’m a time keeper, a sanitizer, I live life as typically, as period-correctly as possible, so that other people travelling through time can tune in to my days and not forget where they came from. It’s a common problem—people setting off to the future, jetting back to the past, they get a little wonky sometimes. They forget how many presidents have passed, how to conjugate regular verbs, and whether or not we eat peacocks yet. We do. Each morning I stitch together a dress made of the front pages of every major newspaper. It’s a real time-saver. Ha. Everything to do with time is a joke to me. Usually the cameras are off when I’m sleeping but sometimes someone gets panicky, and I have to wear the pajamas made of almanacs, which are rather uncomfortable. It’s worth it though. This is lifesaving work. People have died of displacement and left their drooling corpses at the feet of pharaohs, the helms of starships. And sometimes it gets lonely—sometimes I go years without touching my front steps—but there are so many eyes to follow me and I love each one of them. I know how to be taken as solace—in odd-numbered doses with a cup of cold honey and three kisses held to his lip. I tell Nicolas: my dreams are all unfailing as stone.

—Sarah Terry

Bag Person Press Collective congratulates  Lady Poetesses from Hell  Terry A. Garey for “The Cat Star” & K.C. O’Malley “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” among the Rhysling nominations Thanks to SFPA & the Rhysling Chair for their work in administering the Rhysling Awards

Star*Line 6 April 2013 So much I could talk about…. How about submissions etiquette? This appears to be common sense until someone proves it false. For instance: don’t argue with the editor. Right or wrong, it comes down to editorial preference. Where is the upside to acrimony in that situation? Polite questions are acceptable—but if you don’t get all the information you wanted, c’est la vie. Include functioning contact information. Do you really have to ask why? Be courteous, respectful, thorough. Know markets, follow guidelines, submit appropriate material, etc. This isn’t hard. The subject of gender bias in publishing exploded across the twitterverse and elsewhere recently. It is easy to resolve to be fair and yet retain unintended bias. Reliable studies have proven this. Being female isn’t a guarantee against male preference, either. Bias is like Hydra and affects both publisher and poet. For instance, it seems that female writers are less persistent than their male counterparts, on average. Why, and what to do about it, are tough questions. I hope genre writers of every kind will submit their work here. You are welcome. Note that a ballot is enclosed for SFPA members to vote for new officers; if you are receiving the .pdf, it will be attached. For all of the following, see sfpoetry.com for details. Rhysling Update: The 2013 award is closed to nominations. Soon, about May 15, the Rhysling anthology will be published. I can hardly wait. It will contain some lovely poems this year. Elgin Award: SFPA has an exciting new award! I never met our founder, Suzette Haden Elgin, but I’ve read her Science Fiction Poetry Handbook and her fiction. It is sad that she is slipping away so soon; this organization exists because of her. This award for best speculative poetry book (or chapbook; there are two categories) honors her. Nominate any and all books that meet the guidelines (except your own) by May 15. Voting deadline July 1. Eye to the Telescope: Issue 8, edited by Joanne Merriam with the theme of interactions between cultures, went live April 15. Thanks to Bryan Thao Worra for editing the previous issue of Asian speculative poetry. All past issues are archived at eyetothetelescope.org. By the time you read this, editor Cathrynne Valente is reading for issue 9. Theme: Bodies; deadline June 15. Dwarf Stars: The editors actively seek speculative poems of ≤10 lines first published in 2012. Send them poems you read, you wrote, you published. Seriously—all eligible poems, so they can choose the best. Deadline May 15. Don’t Forget The T-Shirts: Buy an SFPA t-shirt; for MANY colors and sizes, see sfpoetry.com/t-shirts.html. The shirts are cool (I bought one)! —David C. Kopaska-Merkel President, Science Fiction Poetry Association [email protected]

Star*Line 7 April 2013 Making Amends

He is making amends to his victims in the swarm of their ghosts, enduring the blades, the beatings, the wringing hands— each angry shade sucking up heat as its own death reblooms and blackens. For thirty years, few women walked that city alone. In dreams they shrank beneath his composite-face, took to prayer in the gore of his wake. The law shaved off its own flesh, trying to bring closure. The instant death claimed him in age, a pack of shades broke from the freeze, scurried like bats to the rising maw of Hell. There they blocked him, traded one of their own. He is making amends to his victims.

—Jason Sturner

Star*Line 8 April 2013 Black Sabbath Sestina

Come, take my hand, child, I shall lead the way; Of chosen few you are the chosen one. In you, the fiery forges of true faith Have built a black cathedral of your heart - Wherein lie portals to the outer night For which your heathen brethren here await. The ancient altar in the woods awaits. The stone is but a stage to open ways For Those Who Dream beyond the wall of night. Their many mysteries shall be as one And known to you, within your soul and heart, O most-unhallowed of uncommon faith. All those who went before had lesser faith. They are as shadows now; but they await, In other spaces known to us by heart, To guard and guide your spirit on its way; But at the gate there can be only one To cross that threshold of transfigured night. Your mind has fed upon essential night; Your soul has drunk black oceans of our faith. And as a child, you dreamed to be the one. Assembled in the outer gulfs, They wait And dream as you have for the open way. The gate is locked. The key is in your heart. You have no fear; in this we must take heart As we prepare your journey into night. The scriptures have described for us the way - And you must find it, with a leap of faith, Then reach that distant place where old gods wait To greet the presence of a chosen one. May all the nameless demons take this one, This child who lives forever in our hearts! We call upon the legions who await To guide this creature through the voids of night, On pale nocturnal voyage in pure faith, And pray the sacrificed shall find her way, For she shall lead us into utter night By this, her bloody heart still pulsing faith, Which like a black star lights for Them the way! —Wade German Star*Line 9 April 2013 Scarlet Imprint would like to congratulate

Adrienne J. Odasso

whose poem The Still Point of the Turning World has been nominated for the Rhysling Award for best genre poetry.

Mandragora: Further Explorations in Esoteric Poesis

Edited by Ruby Sara, published mmxii www.scarletimprint.com

Star*Line 10 April 2013 Don’t Think There’s Nothing to Fear

Don’t think there’s nothing to fear ripples through all composite things decay into sepulchral echoes Moon Jim Skinhead extrapolate like telescopes peek into the unknown lurks in ominous shadows an electric razor fall after an uttered curse helps recover his anti-power tastes of wormwood every week swills in polystyrene there’s a strange outlasts most ancient relics face of bone on the back incite fervor in the heart of his skull encapsules time like flies observe from a crumbling wall when he bites his nails displays a rusty civil defense symbol he’s chewing bits reminds us of a bygone era off the moon acts often as an anodyne struggles to conquer paranoia he can kick keeps us on our toes a puddle so hard that the sky hold fast to party lines will fall off its hinge confuse conversation’s context dictates a particular existence he’s trouble stems from tiny quarks so the other side of the road explode from split atoms stays there to avoid him shudder when we fear he can fold a used shadow into a letter Kurt MacPhearson and post it anywhere he lets black cats cross his path relearning farming for bad luck after the EMP no Wikipedia it’s safer if everyone thinks he’s the weakest boy —David C. Kopaska-Merkel in the school

—John W. Sexton New and Improved

In an effort to change our maligned image, Our company is pleased to announce Soylent Blue; Now with 10% less People …

—David Dickinson Star*Line 11 April 2013 New SFPA Book Prize Announcement! 2013 ELGIN AWARDS NOMINATIONS OPEN SFPA President David C. Kopaska-Merkel is pleased to announce the creation of the Elgin Awards, named for SFPA founder Suzette Haden Elgin, to be presented annually by SFPA for books published in the preceding year. There will be two categories, Chapbook (10-39 pages of poetry) and Book (40+ pages of poetry). E-books are eligible; self-published books are not. Single-author and collaborative books are eligible; anthologies are not. Books containing fiction as well as poetry are not eligible. Books must be in English, but translations are eligible (the poems in the original language will not count toward the total page count. Nominated books must be made available to the Chair upon request to remain eligible. Only members can nominate books. They may not nominate their own books, but they may nominate multiple books, and the books need not be by members in order to be nominated or to win. Nominated books will be listed on the SFPA website: title, author, poetry page count, and press name and address (URL or postal) are required to nominate. If available, a link where the book can be purchased or downloaded should be provided. Authors or publishers may also provide an e-mail address for SFPA members to request a .pdf of the book to facilitate voting consideration. The nominations deadline will be May 15; the voting deadline will be July 1. Members may vote for first, second, and third choices in both chapbook and full-length categories. A list of the nominated books will be mailed to members who have no e-mail address, or upon request. Nominations and votes should be e-mailed to [email protected]; members without access to e-mail may send nominations and votes directly to the Elgin Award Chair (for 2013, Kendall Evans & Marge Simon) at Kendall Evans, Co-Chair SFPA Elgin Awards 15102 Lefloss Ave Norwalk CA 90650-5442 Winners will be announced on July 15 and the 2013 awards will be presented at WorldCon (LoneStarCon 3, San Antonio, TX, Aug. 29–Sept. 2), with the Rhysling awards. See sfpoetry.com/elgin.html for more information.

Eye to the Telescope

wishes to congratulate the 2013 Rhysling nominees: Something Super • Mary Alexandra Agner • ETTT 3 Blind Obedience • Dennis M. Lane • ETTT 4 First Context • JohnStar *GarrisonLine 12 • ETTT April 5 2013 Conservatory of Shadows • Jacie Ragan • ETTT 6 Reviews in their entirety are posted at sfpoetry.com/sl/slreviews.html Codex Ponape by Cardinal Cox. 2013, Starburker Publications, saddle- stitched, 12 pp. Free for C5 SASE from 58 Pennington, Orton Goldhay, Peterborough, PE2 5RB United Kingdom or e-mail cardinalcox1@yahoo. co.uk […] the latest in Cox’s series of thin white pamphlets […] focuses on the greatest malevolent deity of them all, […] he who waits dreaming in […] R’lyeh, under the Pacific Ocean near the island of Ponape. […] not one of my favorites of these small Lovecraftian offerings. […] “Just read what it says on the card,” is priceless. If your ophthalmologist was an adherent of the cult of Cthulhu, this would probably be on his wall. Several […] great ideas that are not adequately realized. […] this little book is not without merit […]. —David C. Kopaska-Merkel ° Lady Poetesses from Hell ed. Bag Person Press Collective 2012, Bag Person Press, 3149 Park Ave S, Minneapolis, MN 55407. Print, 116 pages, $10. The Lady Poetesses From Hell began at a Tea and Poetry Salon when one member brought in a poem that was “unladylike,” […] the members all began to realize that they, too, had similar poems, so […] dressing like formal ladies would at tea, and reading their dark and disturbing, most unladylike, poems. […] in rounds, imitating a live reading by the Lady Poetesses From Hell. […] something to be said for keeping the reader on their toes […] the editors have chosen the broadest definition of speculative possible, including detailed personification, ekphrasis and erotica. […] some readers may be disappointed at the dearth of clearly speculative work throughout […] “unladylike,” not necessarily “speculative” or “horror,” […] a decent anthology showcasing the work of a fun and prolific group […]. —Joshua Gage ~ 62 poems from what must be the most decorated group of genre poets that has ever existed […] includes my favorite SF poem of all time […] like a one-pass visit to a smorgasbord. […] From “Advanced Decomposition,” by Laurel Winter: the fact that you no longer have to shave your legs is small consolation […] humor to deal with serious issues, like death, or the death of love, or abusive relationships. […] From “Vampires on a Bed of Wild Rice (with just a hint of thyme),” by Rebecca Marjesdatter: Star*Line 13 April 2013 They buy me appetizer plates and double-chocolate tortes, watch with glittering eyes while I eat, trying to remember what food is like. Goddamn vampires, making me fat. […] Rhysling winning poems by these poets. […] one of the themes of this book is the old taking something familiar and turning it on its head trick. […] Reversal is the meat and potatoes of many kinds of humor […]. —David C. Kopaska-Merkel ° Luminous Worlds by David C. Kopaska-Merkel. 2013, Dark Regions Press, darkregions.com. 110 pages, perfect-bound. $9.95 […] drawn into a continuum of lit and unlit earthly and alien landscapes from which emerge clones, sad gorgons, strange circuses, painted stars, zombies, abandoned ruined cities, and alien women fishing spacemen out of a sparkling lake. […] no stranger to weird and beautiful poetry. […] Our minds move on these far-flung tawny shores of stars quite naturally […] pure love of science fiction, of dark fantasy, of altered reality, of time’s lost dreams. […] words like “chatoyant” or “golden menhirs?” From “Dragon Wind”: wind, spiraling through barren streets like the breath of dragons, scouring clean what was never soiled, making new what was never old, this place is not a place, those who built it never lived here. I highly recommend this book […] rocketeers, tsunami revenants, enchanted mushrooms, surreal underwater cities, hungry spaceships, ghost- lovers. […] “The past is where you are.” This book will keep you there, in a pleasure of words, and well on into the future. —Wendy Rathbone ° Notes from the Shadow City by Bruce Boston and Gary William Crawford. Cover and interior collages by Bruce Boston. 2012, Dark Regions Press, darkregions.com. 84 pages, perfect-bound. $9.95 Boston is a legend among speculative poets […] Crawford, who is also no slouch […] opens the scene for us with “Few have heard of the Shadow City./ Even fewer have been there. Some say it existed thousands of years ago. / Some say it exists only in the future./ Others say it never existed at all,” […] not an architecture friendly to humanity. […] akin to a waking dream, albeit with all of the boring fat flensed […] Each poet’s voice remains distinctive […] a labyrinthine city that may be a section of hell […] Poets seem to thrive there, living frantic lives among the horrors. […] where crime, rebellion, heartbreak and decrepit transport abound. […] mimicking another life it seems almost best to forget […] a zippy gallows humor: “Not responsible for lost identities.” Is this the American Inferno? […]. —Bryan Thao Worra Star*Line 14 April 2013 Paranormal/Romance: Poems Romancing the Paranormal by Denise Dumars. 2012, Sam’s Dot Publications, $10.00. sdpbookstore.com […] two books in one, Cartographie of the Undiscovered Country […] and Traversing the Kalunga […] multiple levels, or dimensions […] “It is about a special kind of love that we have for those who are no longer with us in our plane of existence … unless you believe, of course, that they are with us still …” […] a simultaneously amorphous and distinct geography […] unveiled by ever-so-helpful guides (or not, as the case may be) […] Dumars’ sense of humor is definitely something […] an organic-cheese-cracker-eating narrator watching a TV special about parallel worlds where a scientist says: … in a parallel reality, A dinosaur may be walking Through your living room Right now. The poem then reveals said dinosaur is … not a T-Rex From another dimension; It’s your ex— He’s having a bad dream. […] those not-so-endearing traits that seem to endure into the afterlife. […] “a breath of icy moisture, condensation on a margarita glass” […] The tone definitely shifts […] While the humor is there, caution reigns as well. […] Guedé “are a family of Vodou psychopomps …” […] “was partially written by the process of automatic writing, and partially by the process of bibliomancy” […] we, the living, are most assuredly connected with the dead. […] —Terrie Leigh Relf ° Sonata Vampirica by Samuel Peralta. 2012, Windrift Books, 3-1750 The Queensway, Toronto Ontario, M9C 5H5, Canada. E-book, 28 pp. $1.99. […] a stunning collection of connected poems that tells a story of vampirism, desire, and erotic engagement. It envisions a world of ecstasy and longing, all the while emphasizing how verse itself enables profound expression of the twin experiences of erotism and death. […] alternating between vampires and their victims. […] ambitious, […] very compelling volume. […] the opening of “The Fourth Deadly Sin”: Three days entr’acte, and the savage garden wakens in me a restive thirst for prey; but I can starve off the thirst a little while. […] One of the author’s stated goals is to bring raw horror back to the romance genre. […] a victim says, “And I rise, your poison dissipated / after days beneath your will, your hated / touch.” […] the sequence considers each of the seven deadly sins as embodied in a speaking vampire. […] impressive […] get to know this poet […] at www.samuelperalta.com. —John Garrison

Star*Line 15 April 2013 Unearthly: the collected poetry of Wendy Rathbone. 2013, Eye Scry Publications, 170 p. $2.99 for Kindle from Amazon.com; $2.99 pdf from fanzinesplus.com/html/unearthly.htm. […] reprint of seven out-of-print chapbooks published between 1994 and 2005. […] a sensory experience. […] pictures in words of eerie settings and situations. If these poems were abstract paintings I would hang them in my house. […] carries the reader through dreamworlds that are intimate, beautiful, ghostly, and sharp-edged. […] monsters are more like old friends, and draw explicitly on tales we’ve long known. […] Immortality, vampires, creation and destruction. Especially vampires! […] moody; it broods over impossible landscapes like the ghosts of Lovecraft’s Elder Things […] unreal worlds: outer space, undefined regions beyond reality, dreams. […] From “The Vampyre Cathedral” One boy dreamed of a goblin who owns time. He woke aged and weeping. […] less than $3 for the whole delightful collection […]. —David C. Kopaska-Merkel ° Why Photographers Commit Suicide by Mary McCray. 2012, Trementina Books, 102 pp.perfect-bound. $13 print, $2.99 Kindle. trementinabooks.com […] illustrator Howard Schwartz claims […] “… an ingenious vision of a future in which life on Mars resembles life on Earth as we know it” […] pokes fun at all aspects of life, both here and in the “final frontier.” […] lovely images […] “the porcupine feeling of antiseptic air” from “Imagine Mars”: Imagine the smell of autumn in a test tube, cloning sickly trees, with nowhere to go, leaflessness. […] she has the ability to reach beyond the easy […] McCray herself says […] “… I hope […] that geologists and oceanographers will read poems to research the mysteries of land and sea, and that poets will embark on voyages to locate sunken ships, to decipher the physics of music, to unearth the charms of a treasure map, or to explore space.” […] But swings back to satire with “Sex in Zero Gravity:” the acceleration thrust of your deep-space Cadillac cruising my jellyfish tremors … […] may leave the reader feeling a little off-balance […] as she reaches beyond the planets to tangle with subject matter in a serious and sustained way. —Susan Gabrielle Star*Line 16 April 2013 Mississippi Twilight

In the gloaming, through my window, My backyard has become prehistoric: An ocean of giant, angular ferns undulates softly. Fireflies as big as your thumb blink like bare light bulbs in a thunderstorm As they dart haphazardly through a thickening mist of cooling darkness. Even bigger flying roaches with thorny stingers whir loudly as they swarm. Shiny brown insects the size of shrimp Jump out of the grass like fleas, A silverfish the size of a small rat races across the plate glass In front of my face. Startled, I jerk back and see Larger shapes moving at the edge of the forest, Wonder what midnight will bring. a green thumb the gardener’s —Chad Hensley identified remains

—LeRoy Gorman

DARK REGIONS PRESS congratulates current Rhysling-nominated poet  Mary Turzillo author of ...... Lovers & Killers  A new collection of thirty- seven poems from Nebula Award-winning author Mary Turzillo. Currently nominated for the SFPA Elgin Award. darkregions.com

Star*Line 17 April 2013 The Pedestal Magazine congratulates the following poets for their Rhysling Award nominations:

David C. Kopaska-Merkel for “Prince of Autumn” (Issue 70) Glen Pape for “Sci Fi Memory” (Issue 70) Jenny Blackford for “Their Cold Eyes Pierced my Skin” (Issue 70) ThePedestalMagazine.com

My Blind Desire for the Fleeting

Cool evening gusts across the massive rooftops Carrying the perfume of off-worldly gardens I pass three nodding Altairan security guards Steam curls from behind their red masks Keening birds flicker above the comm towers Beams set their transparent flesh aglow A foppish official from the city’s mid-levels Ascends to a checkpoint and zips from sight Up here I find myself willing to fly as well Abandon the convolutions of stellar intrigue From the desolate wards at ground level Where citizens dream of sunlit worlds I hear the lonesome shout of a water seller Amid an amplified din of street musicians The ambassador’s summons winks in my palm

—Robert Frazier

Star*Line 18 April 2013 General Curse against One Who Has Tried to Harm You

Fish will eat you and your yellow coyote eyes Ifrit bubble to oyster jelly, your rank vermicelli hair A shadow in the sandstorm. bolt straight up in terror The burning wreckage on your death, death, deathbed of the armored division. (sinner don’t wait Laughter. until it’s too late) —Jason Matthews and still no one will forgive you, you may have as many eyes as hairs on your head and fail to track the spell: what went around will come around, its foot will make no sound. No use to hide in seams where even a mole could not go. Oregon 2112 Darkness doesn’t fall, it rises, milk you put to your lips The air has been smoke boils red in your belly overnight. for years. Back and front you’ll suffer in an ape suit of hives, Children play you’re a silver skeleton walking, ring around a dead tree, your marrow and bone shine. in colorful head-scarves, red and white, blue and white, —Margaret Benbow purple, green and gold and red as blood melons. Their feet are the color of soft earth. They run and sing holding laughter in grubby hands. A witch snatches them, catches them in her cloak and takes them home to make bacon. The sun goes down radish-red in the evening. Two Humvees are cresting the hill. The Forest by Dina Djabieva —Harvey J. Baine Star*Line 19 April 2013 Superiority Is Relative

The biotechs have done a job on everybody but poor Mel. For reasons no one knows, his augmentations just don’t work as well. While everybody else can leap tall buildings at a single bound, Poor Mel can only leap a house, and then is rudely brought to ground. And everybody else can run to make a speeding bullet blush. Poor Mel can barely beat his Chevy hatchback in the morning rush. And everybody else can see through miles of rock beneath the sod. Poor Mel can only see through garments of his neighbor’s super-bod. And everybody else is IQ six-oh-oh. Poor Mel’s much dumber: Three-oh-oh. Poor Mel—to be a lesser superman’s a bummer.

—Robert Laughlin

Workshop Terran delegation excited to dine The article writer on Baham homeworld explains that he never until the meat dishes arrive— writes on spec. all served alive The poet admits —Lauren McBride that he always (Baham is a star in Pegasus whose does. name means “livestock” in Arabic) —Lenore McComas Coberly

Dreams & Nightmares (published since 1986) congratulates our 2013 Rhysling nominees: Perversity • Stephen D. Rogers Capgras • Robert Borski Rockabye • Adele Gardner

dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com • $25/6 issues via PayPal to [email protected] or by check to 1300 Kicker Rd, Tuscaloosa AL 35404

Star*Line 20 April 2013 Our Hearts Cried Out Who’s for Dinner

When differences held court, time Sure, swung against us. In the pleasure we ate a few. gardens, the pools, murder lurked. Everyone did; We are a bloodied people now, they were so sweet. our names erased: ushered Back then we didn’t know, into traps, rabbits gnawing and I don’t think at barbed wire. The stars called those spun-sugar blooms, fitfully, far gods unable to intervene. green-veined nodders are, Their tears shone and howled. you know, animals anyway, not for real, still less thinkers: The ghosts of our children still not then, not now. roam the corridors of buildings. I heard any fone’s AI Sometimes, a ball, invisible, dull, can Turing with us real folk; echoes their footsteps. Houses these fat wobblies plowed over, the gardens grow do no better. resplendent with poppies. Two plus friggin’ six, and when to shake a stain, We do not envy you, the living. my shirt knows that: We also killed, snatched the bread has it got rights? from old hands, engulfing it with And the taste of ‘em! trembling, greedy mouths. It’s not like anything you’ve had, The worlds continue to dip not lamb or scallops, a steady hand to clear up space. veal or cheesecake, When round finality breathes not fruit nor fowl, at your doorstep, tell your children: but good? Man! death is a solid plaything. You gonna turn your back As the skies open up with fire, on all that goodness? hold the salt to their lips. I see you know; you had a bite, maybe just once but you —Alicia Cole want more: you’re holding back. See, I got a friend can get ‘em, many as you want, if you got a taste for ‘em— just don’t ask questions. Then you tell me: are they people?

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Onward Light Traveler by Denny E. Marshall Star*Line 21 April 2013 Interpose: A Love Poem

If Death’s cowled presumption were ever to enter your wing-whispering room I will be iron gate and waiting. If he dares reach brittle finger bone toward you, he will meet a resistance of glint and roar beyond his ancient ken and dominion. He will not pass, for I have supped full of flesh-scratching fears from my own making, the less of me confronting the dirt and sandbox, the spitball years of school yard, the narrowing of parents behind their newspapers and curtains, two bruised feet of my own for blind stumbling, until you were balm and oil and voice to soothe those winces and abidings hiding behind the frail rust of human hinge—what is his reach to me, who has kissed hatred full on the mouth, lessoned in lowering others to the bottom of goldless wishing wells, unjusted for crimes I did not commit while rat-gliding along the grey wall of unaccused transgressions, finally mirrored with only one face to smash and blame—lost and angry until you gently entered, stood within the frame smoothing graven lines into submission, your kiss opiating all history into forgiveness. Let him bring his embrace of cold dark endlessness into your room, his pitiful dreams of unfurling and dust, and I will begin a war that shakes the rough edges of all expanding matter and star fabric, all light, all atoms, all invisible and eternal god scream— let him know: I have grasped the flaming sword from the door of Paradise, laughed through cleansing and the forge, and I will cleave all worlds asunder if he even thinks your name.

—Scott T. Hutchison

Congratulations to Marsheila Rockwell, whose Rhysling-nominated poem “Enter Persephone” appeared in the fifth issue of Lissette’s Tales of the Imagination www.LissettesPublishing.com

Star*Line 22 April 2013 His Majesty Advice from the Future In Father’s orchard I saw him. He gutted our goat then stooped Note to my past-self: and slurped and sucked the gore don’t invent a gasoline- and wiped his talons in our flowers. powered time machine

I saw him twice unscrew his gruesome head —Damien Cowger and lay it aside for hours. And when the new sun lit our trees and his wet feast was over I saw him crown and cloak himself again and turn his thirst toward power. Famers —Justin Hamm About twelve of us at a time follow would-be celebrities around, oohing and ahhing, applauding almost anything until neophyte holovid journalists or cyber-junkies commit some big bandwidth to our clients, which then goes viral, making them netfamous for a day, sometimes a week; and then our work is done. If none of that works after 30 or 60 days, we stage a wild public assassination —really an attempted one— that draws police and news bandwidth, standard in most time-limited contracts. Naturally, we’re not liable for occasional slippage —sometimes fame’s as fleeting as our clients’ lost lives, though lavish funerals guarantee 100,000-plus views. We never whisper “memento mori” (remember you will die) game for the outer world cup in our clients’ ears a flaming zamboni because that’s somebody else’s job. grooms frozen methane And we certainly don’t say, —LeRoy Gorman “Cineri gloria sera venit” —fame to the dead comes too late— because for some of our clients fame cannot come a second sooner.

—Vincent Miskell Star*Line 23 April 2013 Nessiterix Attacks an Elephoid by Richard H. Fay Towers of Light

They burn all night at the edges of our vision, luminescent as nuclear fungi. Translucent as tears. Darkness slides from their heights to drown our tattered lives, and we welcome its blindness. Behind those spidered panes leaking heat into winter’s infinity—rimed with ice far purer than the snows blistering our lips—shadows dance and mock and swirl. Untouchable in their towers of light, they stalk Möbius corridors where imagination failed. The inevitable unthinkable. We inhabit its cratered remains, not daring to gaze up. Our own faces in shadow. half-lives the brightness of decay —Ann K. Schwader

Star*Line 24 April 2013 In Monster Years, I’m Old

First my claws grew brown and brittle; The dogs go quack, then I started drooling spittle. the cats go moo, All my knees began to ache, the sheep go oink, and several legs began to shake. and the horses coo— My stomach pooches, back hunches, April Fool’s Day scales have wrinkled into bunches. at the Acme Genetics Lab. Lost another tooth at dinner. —Kim L. Neidigh (It’s growing back.) I’m growing thinner. One eye is drooping on its stalk, both tails keep dragging when I walk, and now my nose has come unjointed! Seven ears all flop, unpointed. Still, I can hear if others shout— just hope my sex appeal holds out.

—Lauren McBride The Truth About Fairies

oh, everyone knows fairies are allergic to iron and salt, but they are really hypersensitive to all kinds of things case in point: the last fae war was caused by the dark temptation of a Cheddar Bay Biscuit from Red Lobster it’s a raging gluten intolerance, you see and not the sort of little digestive issue that sends them scampering for bushes no, “raging” means a gluten reaction makes them rather homicidal Old Fashions kinda like a kid stomping on sidewalk ants with the ants being humanity Forget the mummies so if you see Queen Mab in line of the past, over at Whole Foods forget the zombies— licking her lips and cradling they won’t last. some sweet-scrumptious cinnamon rolls Give ghosts and ghouls drop your handbasket a mighty boot run but fear the dread unholy carbohydrate-induced warfare gray flannel suit! is gonna go down

Neal Wilgus —Beth Cato Star*Line 25 April 2013 Keeping Company

The alien looks like a man-sized aloe plant viewed through time-lapse photography. I’m supposed to make friends with it. The technicians chirp in my earpiece. They say we share carbon. I suspect we might share more. We’re the two who stepped forward. The ones brave and expendable enough to go first. Tips of our genetic icebergs. I can’t stop thinking like a mammal. I want a hand to squeeze, a shoulder to pat. Solidarity among the fuzzy, warm-blooded crew. It doesn’t look built for touching. So we stand exposed and ridiculous in the dusty middle ground between our ships. I wave and feel instantly embarrassed. It strobes—expanding and contracting faster. The air buzzes like bees. I think it’s leaning forward. I step closer, toeing the line of its ragged shadow. We could reach for one another, but we don’t. We don’t talk or laugh or rub elbows, but an hour passes and we pass it together. Soon, I forget to be afraid. When the sun gets too hot, I sit in the alien’s shadow, tucking knees to chest. When the light shifts, I find my shade shifting with it. I’ve never been more grateful.

—Jarod K. Anderson

Star*Line 26 April 2013 The City on the Hill

From The Chronicles of Men

We had heard that, from afar, the city on the hill shone like the noonday sun. From where we lived, the journey would take eight days and seven nights. The roads were narrow and every now and then we had to pass through the eye of a gold needle. Camels grazed on the hillsides and watched us with sad eyes, reluctant to tell us what they knew. Travelers had the option of a train, but it was even harder to pass through the needle on a train. The places of rest were all group homes and often the people who lived in them were disturbed and wore drab lanyards and had a taste for sacrifice. Some kept their backs to the city and pulled rakes quietly through the silver sand. Many had body parts missing. It was late in the year when we went, the rainy season. Geese flew over in rags. The sullen fog usually lifted by early afternoon. Roadside stands were popular; at one, old gods were on sale, two for one, though the price was not named. It seemed too good to be true. We bought two and some organic herbs and a candle. At the end of the seventh day we could see something shining, a day’s journey away. Is there a name for that color? you asked. It burned through the backs of our eyes. At the group home on that last night, we chewed our nails. We saw residents that had bitten their entire fingers off. It was hard to sleep. A poster on the wall said there is a way that seems right to a man, but the rest was missing. After breakfast we made our way to the shining. It was like the churches of old in the dust-covered storybooks we read as children. There was even a drive-thru, and a short line. They had an extensive dollar menu. If you ordered three items or more the meal came with free salvation. It was a bottomless cup that you could keep if you had a coupon.

—Jeanie Tomasko Fungal Singularity

The fungal singularity blooms a shade of violet we cannot comprehend yet. Armillaria ostoyae, the Dark Honey of Oregon, spreads doublespeed, pours across the Blue Mountains. From outer space, it looks as though the continent’s fontanel is, at last, sealing.

—Holly Jensen Star*Line 27 April 2013 Hands, Discovered Independent of Body

They spoke in gesture and in low swinish gutturals, conjuring spells to aid themselves in the delicate art of untwining threads of thunder. At night, clawing the forest floor, hunting gems to barter for bridges over this tedious witchwork and on to fitter feats for hands more often scrubbed. A heathen’s abandoned house, pig’s lower jawbone affixed above the threshold just days before the winter solstice would arrive to phantom drums. Just the Way It Is In the light they turned: a maiden’s hands, now a woodcutter’s rough hands, You wormhole to work now the truth: two pale, palsified on Eridani b where you hands of the already-mostly corpse, punch the local clock and find your desk. the pungent scent of earthy herbmagic Sadly, travel’s not always balled beneath their brittle nails. the answer we think it’ll be. The 2x gravity here Hunting, I was, and cold, when I makes you tired. shoved inside to find them floating. Your job is boring, They reached out, palms up, as if and the natives cook to say, Please, boy, please hold us, a tarlike substance in the break-room microwave and damn me for a fool, I reached out and stink the place up. too, and trembling, I did take them. They persist in this despite bureaucratic signs —Justin Hamm clearly written in Terran (which they can’t read, as their eyes are vestigial and don’t accept input). It’s very sad. We were sure she doesn’t like we’d like them the scratching machine better. We’d hoped for barks even more so much more.

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel —Tim Laffey Star*Line 28 April 2013 Wormhole

Halfway through it has the look of Mother’s soft meringue Pallid Bone Telemetries ladled on top of lemon mousse. Her voice, gone with her passing, Chatoyant silver scalps whispers in the din, are in flux through the oddly gentle in that vortex binary downtown of a of twisting cosmic wind, grey crow’s last hotel. yet again arriving at— Sprinkling gardens with not quite my home remembered. ones and zeros, living Mother so delighted. in the shadow of a function. Her table set much as it was Boiling overhead, lies in a distant iteration, chicken on my plate still alive. a matrix of a digit-green heaven. Buffering birds —Alan Meyrowitz land on an ephemeral tree, its contours desperately attempting to become subconscious imperfect. Cacophonous desire relumes an austere cavern, fills it with crescent smells and shots of blue, brown bears and beetles. Snap. Gone. A pulled cable.

—Marc Dorpema

Aves by Dina Djabieva Star*Line 29 April 2013 Mad Scientists

I had taken the body parts from the refrigerator: a workman’s hands and a wrestler’s forearms I could imagine draped over me in paternal support, a scalp of grey hair a senator would admire and the brain of some wise professor-type I’d killed, but as I started suturing flesh (tab A in slot B) a host of sullen villagers with torches and lederhosen broke down the castle door. I tell you I was sweating until they said they didn’t want me; they wanted my father, who’d stolen oodles of curly-haired boys, painted freckles on their cheeks, dyed their hair with henna and pasted Opie-like grins on their bloodless faces. While I had been building a paterfamilias, the old bastard had been building a son.

—Chris Bullard

P’REA PRESS CONGRATULATES RHYSLING AWARD NOMINEES Best Long Poem BRUCE BOSTON for “THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT AND THROUGH HASHISH” WADE GERMAN for “THE NECROMANTIC WINE” KYLA LEE WARD for “LUCUBRATION” Each contained in Avatars of Wizardry, ed. Charles Lovecraft, a poetry collection inspired by Clark Ashton Smith’s “The Hashish-Eater” and George Sterling’s “A Wine of Wizardry.” Best Short Poem MICHAEL FANTINA for “THE DARK” From Weird Fiction Review 3, ed. S. T. Joshi (Fantina is also in Avatars). Avatars of Wizardry Available now! www.preapress.com or from Amazon P’REA PRESS

Star*Line 30 April 2013 Father Is Never Coming Home

Actually, in the right light their nipples look blue and brittle like bubbles frozen inside champagne, or time travel-soft-drink tubes. Dew turns yellow when they spread their wings. Everyone knew Father would never come home when furan-spitting bipeds materialized in the tall grass behind my garage and melted the swing set, hints of Father’s DNA staining their fins. I’m telling you this as calmly as I can. Seriously, just ask yourself: What’s going on here? Who knows—but their voices sound like ukuleles; yes, like ukuleles oscillating sound waves into string theory. My father bent time and space with candlelight— no incandescent, coiled tungsten for him. His ongoing sense of surviving the death of the universe pervaded his laughter and his peculiar ventures into quantum physics. I lived with his constant queries about rotary moles, absolute zero, and knitting with smoke-detector thread. Suppose he’s wounded, a captive trapped in a time-loop, all alone somewhere beyond Uranus, far from home under Epsilon rings; or is he virtually ethereal, unlike these blue-nippled beings wormholing through my tulips? I may be xenophobic, but someone needs to stop them— Yul Brynner & the Magnificent Seven, Popeye, my priest. Zap! Zap! goes the Zap-a-tron my dad built just in case.

—Jeffrey Johannes

A Questionable Immortality

His flesh grew weary so he replaced it Wire Mother with wires and circuits and relays and metal. The turbines scream and the lights flicker: His mind grew weary Mother’s getting stronger so he replaced it by the hour. with wires and circuits and relays and metal. —Jason Matthews Now it is not unhappy.

—Bruce Boston Star*Line 31 April 2013 Special Delivery from the Unnamed Quadrant

Dear Mom, College was a drag, so I took the laser pointer we used to tease the cat with, and wrote ANYWHERE BUT HERE in the night sky beneath Jupiter. Next thing I knew, my atoms re-knit on a crystalline freighter. The captain handed me a mop and asked my gender. Disappointed static splashed his facial display when I told him. “Never mind, never mind; so long as you understand no one rides for free.” Then he went belowdecks to lubricate his pleasure pod. In the last six months, I’ve seen: Miasmic galleons plow through asteroid belts like it ain’t no thing; a world peopled by synesthetic gasses (breathing them is a crime, but it makes you ejaculate purple Kargyraa angels); proud vegetable warriors julienne one another for the love of a slatternly carrot; a battle of puns where the winner is put to death; sentient quartz in nitrogen showers, superprocessing stray memories of the agéd; and high-velocity stains on the captain’s ceiling which resist even the most caustic solvents. I’m cultivating a new type of tuber from which we’ll distill dehydrated vodka. Three sects on three different planets worship me as a god. Nineteen other worlds want me for offenses ranging from vandalism to emitting carbon dioxide without a license. (stanza break) Star*Line 32 April 2013 As I dictate this letter to the freighter’s AutoBoswell, I’m naked in the cargo bay, lit only by redshift, balls-deep in a winged girl whose name I’d need an extra larynx to pronounce. Nearby gloops a cube of jellied magma that the captain keeps as a pet. I think it’s masturbating, but I can’t figure out how. (Excuse all the sex stuff. I’ve been colonized by a succuboid virus. It’s not painful—just painfully frank.) I hate to beg a favor, but if you could please send platinum and Tang to this P.O. box in Duluth (they have a subspace dispersal unit), I might be able to pay off the bounty hunters that have been after me since I accidentally wiped out a subatomic banking cartel. My love to Fred and the girls. P.S.: The girl with the wings wants to say hi: EEEEEEE— [dispatch ends]

—Jason Matthews

offworld trade fair the locals offer lunch to my ray gun

—Carolyn M. Hinderliter

Wheel of Time by Dina Djabieva Star*Line 33 April 2013 Lusus Naturae

The machine became a deadness on my tongue; the world revised through liquid crystal veils and memes of whimsy. I, alone among the networked and connected, telling tales of how things were, of how they should have been, believed time still held space within its span for learning comfort’s feel in one’s own skin; for letting days unfold without a plan. But now their eyes are caught in nets of text; ears seem to hear only what earbuds say— brief disconnection leaving them perplexed and functionless outside of their array. They cannot see me through their puppet bliss; how could they come to love their strings like this?

—Albert W. Grohmann

The Bed I Haven’t Made

Though I’m no princess, I’d let myself dream that sleeping in mid-air would tame my hair. To wake up with no need to soak or steam my matted tresses, or to comb and swear and comb some more—it would have been so sweet to flaunt the mane of fairy-tales—to slide from sleep still looking polished as a doll and there’s the rub. I am no Nancy Neat. My feet forever track in what’s outside; my hair soaks up the winds. They take a toll I wish I didn’t mind having to pay. I try to be sanguine, forbearing, mild but Mama can’t forgive my tomboy play— her “can’t you be a girl?”—it makes me wild.

—Peg Duthie

Star*Line 34 April 2013 After Oz

My body no longer rises into the air like a buoyant balloon I cannot control. Over the past ten years I have slowly folded into an pear-shaped old man, my rusted fingers no longer nimble at card tricks. The only green in this gray Nebraska town comes from emerald mobs of corn alongside highways the color and texture of crocodile backs. One day the tin bell in my curio shop dingled. Shadowed in the doorway stood Dorothy, a grown woman now, tall, with her breasts filled out. I could tell despite the heavy coat she wore. Behind the curtain of my muddy flesh I hid. She tugged at the black gloves on her hands, not looking at my face. In the silence, each tick of the clock screwed tighter the brass vise on my brain. Do they know about you? Her words spun my stomach like a dishwater cyclone. I said, “I haven’t—.” Do you stay away from little girls? My tongue wriggled thick as a thumb, useless as a charred broomstick. She said, No one believed me. Just a fanciful tale. My uncle whipped me for lying and sent me to bed without supper. The gloves came off, and I saw her hands, porcelain white, the way I knew her body to be, her shoulders, her thighs, her belly sleek as a cat. The old monkey-whispers licked my skin like flames on straw, the desert sun burned my face. As she walked away each click of her red heels battered my limbs like an axe-blade in the forest, and grief fell on my body heavy as a house.

—C. W. Johnson

warriors lament armed and armored bleeding still we always have we always will

—Anna Sykora Desert of the Spiral Tower by Denny E. Marshall Star*Line 35 April 2013 O R E S C I M I E T N L C THE BALTIMORE A E B SCIENCE FICTION

F I Y SOCIETY, INC. C T T I I E O N S O C congratulates Marge Simon on the nomination of her poem Futurity’s Shoelaces for the 2013 Rhysling Award for best genre poetry. Futurity’s Shoelaces won 2nd Place in the 2012 Balticon Poetry Contest and appeared in the BSFAN, the Balticon 46 convention souvenir book.

More information on the Annual Balticon Poetry Contest can be found at: www.bsfs.org/bsfspoetry.

More information about Balticon can be found at: www.balticon.org.

Star*Line 36 April 2013 Pinocchio in the Toothpick Factory

Sacrifice the cricket first. And then relax. They don’t know who you are or what tree you’re born from. You’ve evolved, just like your fellow workers, but from different stock. They talk of malaria and syphilis, and you keep your wood-boring beetles to yourself. But the floor manager has such strong, white teeth you imagine him chewing oak to splinters. He smiles, and you smile, and almost say you aren’t afraid, but that would give you away. Your nose would grow, and they would know. But console yourself, little man, such teeth are rotting even as he speaks. His swampy breath assaults your still-short nose, redolent of farts and death. He says, “My boy, you’re as reliable as a redwood, and as straight as an elm. Oh, I like you, I do.” Truthfully, you suspect he suspects. Your sap runs cold. The only place that would hire you, Geppetto said, though he had to fib a little on the forms. Oh God! Oh father! Oh Geppetto! Is this what you’d planned for me? They’ll keep me lying here forever and never need another tree.

—Andrew Kozma

Boa Boy Sends His Regrets

Red moon draws the lycanthrope a hairy slavering mess I think the silver vampire moon’s enchantment says it best on this world of twenty moons a melee in the sky everybody’s beast inside comes out when its moon’s high that’s why, my lovely mongoose girl our moons both shining bright Close-Up Encounters by Denny E. Marshall I have to break my date with you I’ll dine alone tonight

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Star*Line 37 April 2013 Xenopoetry In order to be more inclusive toward SFPA’s international membership, we encourage submissions of speculative poems translated from other languages into English. Translations are eligible for SFPA awards.

Robots

Pisar las cabezas de los robots, Como una mariposa electromagnética Sobrevolando los páramos de la urbe. Escuchar las letanías que repiten Como un mantra De bytes ajenos, downloaded. No son sus ojos, no son sus palabras. Ellos son hablados Por la fábrica que los creó, Que los ensambló en una cadena fordista, Toyotista, postcapitalista. Pisar sus cabezas es como Robots Navegar el barro Que fundamenta sus circuitos. Access the minds of the robots, like an electronic butterfly —Esteban Moscarda flying over the wasteland of a metropolis. Listen to the repeating litanies like a mantra of far-off bytes, downloaded. Not their own eyes, not their own words. Those are spoken by the factories that created them, that assembled them into a Fordist, Toyotaist, postcapitalist chain. Accessing their minds is like browsing the clay that generated their circuits.

—tr. Fred W. Bergmann

Esteban Moscarda (1983–), Buenos Aires. as a boy loved reading and writing poetry and short fiction. He is an assistant professor of criminal law at the University of Buenos Aires. He blogs at Grupo Heliconia (whence our feature poem) and was a contest finalist in miNatura (Spain). His first short-story collection is forthcoming.

Star*Line 38 April 2013 2013 DWARF STARS NOMINATIONS OPEN Submissions are open for the Dwarf Stars anthology, edited by Stephen M. Wilson & Linda Addison, from which the best short poem published in 2012 is selected. Anyone may submit their own poems or those of others; there is no limit to how many poems you may submit for the anthology, but only SFPA members may vote for the award. All genres of speculative poetry are eligible, including science fiction, fantasy, horror, and “unclassifiable, but speculative.” Poems must be no more than ten lines (no more than 100 words for prose poems) not including title or stanza breaks, and first published in 2012; include publication credit. Editors are welcome to submit entire issues; no need to name specific poems. Poems must be received by May 15 (extended from May 1). Send e-mail submissions (preferred) to [email protected]; please use “DWARF STARS SUBMISSION” as the subject line so submissions don’t get bounced to junkmail or buried in our inboxes. Mail print submissions (discouraged) to Linda Addison, 3444 Cannon Place, Bronx, NY 10463.

Silver Pen Writers’ Association, home to Rhysling-nominated poetry published in Silver Blade (silverblade.net) and Liquid Imagination (liquid-imagination.com), congratulates Elizabeth Barrette for the nomination of her poem “She Walks in Light and Darkness,” published in Silver Blade Issue 16, Andrew Robert Sutton for the nomination of his poem “Into Flight,” published in Silver Blade Issue 14, and Adele Gardner for the nomination of her poem “The Time Traveler’s Weekend,” published in Liquid Imagination Issue 15.

REVIEW POLICY To review speculative poetry books for Star*Line, please e-mail the editor at [email protected]. Due to the labor involved in transcription, only e-mailed reviews will be accepted; attached .rtfs preferred. Because we’d rather give preference to poetry itself, reviews will be excerpted here but published in their entirety at sfpoetry.com/sl/slreviews.html. Star*Line 39 April 2013 Mayflies STAR*LINE Journal of the SFPA How petty the affairs of men, Science Fiction Poetry Association How trivial we are, © 2013 STAR*LINE in the names of Upon our mote spun deep in space individual contributors. Rights revert Round some forgotten star. to individual creators on publication.

One of a hundred billion stars Opinions herein are not necessarily In a galaxy unknown, those of STAR*LINE staff or the SFPA Yet in the vastness we call space membership or its representatives. Quite frankly, all alone. SUBSCRIPTION RATES: 4 issues/ year: $10 .pdf + Dwarf Stars A hundred billion galaxies antho; $24 print U.S. incl. postage In a universe unnamed, 1 issue: $2.50 .pdf; $5 print +$2 sh Overseas: sfpoetry.com/starline.html And countless universes too By spacetime fabric framed. SFPA MEMBERSHIP: Includes Star*Line subscription and more: Though brutish human lives are short, See sfpoetry.com/join.html for rates. Like mayflies we essay Make all funds payable to SFPA To cram our whole existence in PayPal to [email protected] One single cosmic day. or mail to: SFPA Treasurer How impudent! What hubris! P.O. Box 4846 To think that we are kings Covina, CA 91723 Not only of our earth, but of, PAYMENT: Poetry: 3¢/word, min $3). Creation—of all things! Reviews $3; articles:1¢/word (to > $). B+w interior art $5; cover $10. Yet what a day we mayflies live, One copy to all contributors. We frolic, feast and breed Editorial Office: As if these paltry given hours F.J. Bergmann, STAR*LINE editor Were all the time we need. star*[email protected] W5679 State Road 60 We struggle to improve ourselves, Poynette, WI 53955-8564 We fill our lives with awe, Production Manager: F.J. Bergmann We contemplate the universe, Layout/Design: Decipher cosmic law. F.J. Bergmann and Robert Frazier More about SFPA at sfpoetry.com For untold distances around [email protected] Space lies but cold and dark, facebook.com/sfpoetry Yet here, on this unlikely speck, Ad rates: $75 full-page, Life’s truly left its mark! $40 half-page, $25 quarter-page, $15 eighth-page or business card. So live and love and, mayflies, build, Speculative-lit-related ads only. For though our lives be short, Together we may yet transcend Our little fly resort…. Front cover: Poetry © 2012 Ed Binkley —Glenn Meisenheimer www.edbinkley.com

Star*Line 40 April 2013