ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue XI

The Masthead:

"Blue Pink"

Art/Photo by Harold Ackerman

"Waiting for a lover, blue pink, pink tulips in a pink glass vase,
winter through sunlight Summer, "nurse Nightingale of the
St.Valentine, the angel", I could see the moon . . ."

"snow and snow

the cold winds, drift


into summer . . ."

"he keeps the rose

wrapped in paper

inside his jacket

out of the cold

the winter

vladistock valenet

day marked expedient


"there are no victims

only volunteers"

not to be too attached

to what you should be attached to

the end sigh am

loose change

blue bird in the night window

light in the dark

sea beaches

(snow camion moving slow

into night)

and the directors from cinemascope

beaten into sunrise

the heat

an endless highway

looking for Summer

the garden girl

the honeyed coffee

at the bottom of the cup

we are doves

we do not fall

like doves . . .

some quiet atoll

in the river

and somewhere

dragging stone animals

around in the dark

leather tail skins

white roses

and bleeding lavender

(needs pink histamine . . .)

don't suffer

the smell of heat

blue velvet



mixed dreads

turn the ground

the dark


into dark.

(nurse Nightingale

of the St. Valentine

the angel)

and the day goes on forever

somewhere it is Summer"

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VIII Issue XI
(November 2020)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2020


Trends in Poetry: The New Gothic Cathedral

Through the publishing of Poets at Subterranean Blue Poetry it is possible to note the considered works of others, often a combination of different genres, unique styles, a New Age extravaganza. And in a very exciting moment different Poets begin to write in a similar vein and a new genre is celebrated. To This Writer steampunk is an extension of the New Gothic Cathedral (the New Goth)/The New Romantics, a reinvented neo-classicism driven by a certain nostalgia for the industrialized era. Suddenly the everday "machines" of 50 years ago are now fascinating artefacts of culture. The typewriter, watches, clocks, kitchen appliances, stereos, radios, all intricate constructions of metal components and mechanization with time take on the cast of Art Nouveau, not unlike the fascination of whirly gigs. Moving into sombre romantic aesthetics, an art of dark spaces, horror movies, vampires, zombies, things that go bump in the night, dark romance and a certain rebellion that is also a truthtelling, Goth beginning in the 1980's as post-punk, infused the arts scene, music, art, film, fashion and maintenant into literature. Inspired by Victoriana, the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe, Alexander Dumas, French Symbolist Poets, the New Music of Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Joy Division, Kate Bush, The Spoons, Blue Peter, a celebration of dark eye makeup, dark clothes, black hair, velvet and lace clothing ospreys. And now the fascination with the mystery of the industrialized past. "In the pain infested techno-net" the New Goth literature takes on an aura of romantic traffic in cold dark spaces, a stab in the dark, in lover disparu, lover on the run and zones out into a haunted surrealism. Evokes time out of mind, the horror of the large tower clock in the background of the village square. The spaces of time revisited. Particularly fascinating, the abundance of the 1920's Regency period, double breasted men's jackets, zoot suits, revisited skyscrapers decorated with gargoyles, Citizen Kayne. The fascination of before W.W. II. The saving graces from the hardship of the Depression Era, the invention of luxuriously thick pressed sandwich glass serving ware in different colours that sold for 10 cents or 20 cents for a cup or plate. Happy intricate flower and filigree patterns in relief that could make any day shine. And the thick cotton feed and seed sacs for the horses and cows on the farm (the partly agricultural society still morphing into cityscapes) that on inspiration became manufactured with beautifully coloured patterns that were saved and sewn for clothes and quilts. A great fascination in recycling and the creativity of handiwork that ended with the beginning of W.W. II, when it was thought the thick cotton material could better be used in making soldiers uniforms, the sacs being relegated to burlap. The dominant culture on a good day, like birds of peace. The fascination of the 1960's and the history of everyday things. These elements of inspiration take flight in the New Poetry, particularly notable in the work of Marc Zegans, Kristen Garth, Peter O'Neill, Margaret Saine, Mike McNamara, Hart L'Ecuyer, and Gabor Gyukics amongst others spinning into a dark surrealism, lost spaces, found.

- The Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry


by Hart L'Ecuyer

her island body millions calligraphically organize
into lipstick & shiny dragons in drywall scuffs
where muddy is the photographer with slimy notarized documents
& distilled the nudist who hopscotches into safe clouds

so, toss me the aux cord & don't swerve into bank shadows
unless you want to shark the gospel of its hypnotic justified columns
revisited symbiotically such gazebos as my index finger
yodeling quietly under the arches of this bibliography


by James Croal Jackson

I know nothing
about you anymore.
Can't remember conversations.

Sometimes you are a leaf
blowing past the yard of memory,
a whisper reminding who

I was and am.


by James Croal Jackson

you answer when you are ready
to leave we want to rush to the next

drunk-stop the next essential crying
opposite ends of Silky's shuffleboard

table all the sugar scattered on wood
by the windows of natural sunlight

we slide the puck across attempts
to not cross the line too late

we have said what we have said
I am on my phone sobbing

to an automated voice the bank
the prophet's lugubrious martini

raised inevitably to our lips


For Herself

by Mark J. Mitchell

The how of her smile -
Her singular where -
Right now, when imperfect time
meets her perfect soul -
then her there
makes it hold
on time. Almost morning through night.
She wakes with why in her eyes.

Pain asks a soft balm
for when comes too late.
Poems fall - small, psalms
(that's what poets owe truth).
Early waits -
all the now of youth
slides from then to when. Her palm
unfolds on your why becomes


by Marc Zegans

The days of summer boats now gone
the grey-sprayed rock jetty silent
cast out, cracked and quarried to break
the line of winter swell, full-mouthed
dead-waking - an apparition.

I put up the mast, fastened stays
recalled lobstermen - with rock salt
loaded in shotguns - who fired
when we came too close to their pots
striped and chipped buoys - a warning

dropped in centerboard and rudder
hoisted sail, and took the tiller
gliding out from the small harbor
spindrift spatter burning my cheek
blood raising - a recognition.

The quiet chop and lap of waves
against the hull, sitting windless
in a fog bank tasting of kelp
I could feel the long carried rot
in this diffusion - a sign.

And into my mainsail came gasps
a gathering of distant cries
the sounding of expiration
reflected between the gunwales
raising cilia - a tocsin

calling winds that set me running
through the sea fret, an ancient haar
enshrouding these sullied waters
sails set wing-to-wing, hull planing
in the mystic - a summoning

that lifted me out of myself.
i was simply hand on tiller
skimming silent into the white.
I felt a pull as if true north
had fixed my eyes - a quickening

covering distance without time
until there was a hole and light
a shaft-way beacon through the brume
to a windless strewn splash, debris
floating round a tattered gill net

four bickered bodies, torn and spent
sucking and spitting surface brine
their white skin gone greener than scales
tails drained of iridescence, caught
in lines and mesh - a trawling.

As my luffed boat came round and by
it was their eyes, stripped of all sense
so wide and lost, their world betrayed
eyes beyond asking and sorrow
that were as mine - a communion.

And then there was the work of it:
drawing near the net; unfolding
the wood handled knife bought in France
with the metal collar you twist
to lock the blade - a steadying

the cutting; the reaching; the lifting
the embrace of a near dead soul
the scum of the sea on her skin
her tail's erratic final beats
and then the next - a lament.

Three backs pressing 'gainst the foredeck
and one leaning on another's shins
breathing slowly on the port bench
as (like the others) her tail turned
to a vapor - a becoming.

Their conveyance done, the fog
opened to the afternoon sun.
I could feel their thoughts traveling
between them like a sea current
invisible and fast - a flow.

Connected again by touch
this group of once Oceanids
resonated with a low hum
their eyes clearing, their hair losing
the stink of the sea - a rising.

And then one spoke as a chorus
the others in naked unison
swaying with the tones of her voice
"Do you remember when you pulled her
bleeding from the sea - a rescue?"

I nodded. "Her hair was short brown then.
It is grey now. You wouldn't know.
We were there far beneath, you know.
We tasted her blood, saving her
and you from the sharks - a blessing.

So she is in and among us
and we are connected to the land
through her, and through the life you saved.
And you sat shivering in your boat
because you gave her your sweater

the color of seawater and peat
a conduit between our worlds
like the fog that brought you to us
with the knife you carried all these years
cutting us free to live on land.

Now that our world has been destroyed
we can never go back." Sobbing
spread between them, shaking the boat
causing furious waves to rise
crashing over the hull - a wake.

The roiling dropped then ended.
The westward sun had found the land
casting a stripe from harbor out
bringing us warmly into the bay
and the promise of different lives.


by John Ryland

Each carefully chosen, picked
in its own time, plucked
stowed for future use.
Like a poet choosing his words,
or a musician
the perfect note.
In the Autumn sun, he decides
which is ready today,
Decisions whose fruit
is reliant on a delicate
balance of time and wisdom,
seeds of days yet to come
stolen from frost's first bite.
Delicate beauty bereaved
when the season goes cold
and the world is deemed
lost to the dark days
of winter.
Packed and stored, safe,
lying in colorful beds
within his mind, waiting.
For the spring.




Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweet thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth's dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder


New York Craigslist - Missed Connections - November 19th, 2019 - Anonymous

Chai tea latte

Hoping this finds you well. We were waiting in line at the Starbucks on Central Avenue in Yonkers on Monday. U ordered a chai tea latte with almond mild. U are a thick little girl with a nose ring and claws. I would love to make u mine and take good care of you. I am Swm, 6'4" early 50s and professional.

(N.B.: "happy days are here again . . ." - a note from the Editor

"o' the cat of cats" - a note from the "other" Editor

"me like" - says the cat

"me like, me like" - says the "other" cat

"I think it is easier to adopt a cat from the SPCA . . ." - says Machiavelli

"no cat hair, no litter box . . ." - says the cat

"me like" - says the other cat)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: A Signal Through the Flames (poem for two voices)

Author: Neil Beethoven Flowers

Publisher: Little Wing Press

Date of Publication: 2020

Pages: 24

"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day . . ."
- from We'll Meet Again by Vera Lynn

A Signal Through the Flames by Neil Beethoven Flowers, an inside story of the invasion of Yugoslavia by the Nazi's, a story of the Resistance, of memory and love song through the cold rain. A long poem in a Beat poetry oeuvre with black and white historical photos that tells the story of Alex who was 15 years when the occupation of Yugoslavia began. Flowers born in Montreal, studied literature at Carleton University, and is widely traveled. He is a poet, actor, director, screen writer, and has worked in film, theater and radio. He has published several collections of poetry including some kinds of earthly love, Taxi Cab Voice and Suite for the Animals.

This long poem begins: "Les Allemands étaient chez moi
                          On m'a dit, "Resigne toi"
                          Mais je n'ai pas pu
                          Et j'ai repris mon ârme"

                         "The Germans were with me
                          I was told to resign yourself
                          but I could not
                          and I picked up my gun"

This Art Nouveau Beat poetry cinematique is the story of Alex, 15 years old in the early days of W.W. II his love for his teacher, his escape to the mountains, launching missions with the Resistance, his life and loves, his travels. A brilliant oeuvre in dark and light weaving love song, this poetry dances.

Is the natural state of the world - war? Are beautiful people sitting naked under their fancy dress clothes thinking of ways to hurt people? What disagreement that serious would devolve into physical violence and/or death, except perhaps a righteous war to protect innocents? Two people can pass each other in the street, in the same city on the same day at the same moment and be living in completely different worlds, with a completely different understanding of what life is about. When they turn to talk to each other, is this war? Better mentoring and discernment for work and love, for culture and the Holy Spirit Way could go a long way to creating a dialogue for peace.

A brilliant love story through the glass of time, a considered write of the magical from a consummate Poet. The Angels would approve of such reminiscences, it is the places of love that defines us, even in the midst of war. A Signal Through the Flames by Neil Flowers.

Available @ Amazon.com.

Or send an email to littlewingpress@gmail.com.


Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: 50 Barn Poems

Author: Zac Smith

Publisher: CLASH Books

Date of Publication: 2019

Pages: 64

"What do you call when the cows escape the barn?"
"A mootiny"
- Barn Puns @ www.punstoppable.com

Are all themes an obsession? Is this a rhetorical question? 50 Barn Poems by Zac Smith and CLASH Books, is an original Beat Poetry offering, presenting a humorous surreal fascination with barns, from Generation "Y". Zac Smith lives in Boston and "likes to walk his dogs." His stories and poems are largely published online. 50 Barn Poems is his first published book.

Spellbound. A satirical allurement with the broken, the haunted social scene, haunted barns go up in flames, twirl in the air, float in the ocean in a riveting worship of the dark, cold mystery pavilion of farmyards everywhere. A Beat Poetry progression with a truncated mix of street narrative, dark humor and a certain profound surrealism that makes this a great read, at once setting your teeth on edge, you laugh quietly. A mix of humor with a learned intelligence, Smith could be the Richard Brautigan of the New Age.


we all belong to a barn somewhere -
there is no escape"


barn on wheels
cruisin' down the highway

righteous cliffs
and sandy shores

hairpin turn!
oh shit!
barn in the air
a slow twirl toward the sea"

A mad, fun sendup, truly a great first oeuvre, we look for more from this Poet, 50 Barn Poems by Zac Smith.

Available @ Amazon.com and CLASH Books.




Rebecca Anne Banks

(A serialized long poem in cycles)

she on the stone dais she sits dangles the girl child from her lap the storm is gone faraway, just as she reconciles herself to him . . . the sky opens the day opens a traveller from a distance he introduces himself Paris of Troy of the winter of the velvet blue the world stops they are Starcrossed . . . he is on a trade mission, from faraway the Storm, "Why should we trade goods, when we can take them?" . . . the night falls, Paris finds his way to her apartments she agrees to leave with him, if the child fusses the guards may find them, they do not bring the child . . .

Press soft my mouth my lips

Chorus: "Sing to us of Hélène's Song"

by the angels that fly                                 love as creation's song                                     falling into light
                                  the girl the dark one                                     of the mountain people                              falling into dark

I could no longer leave you                 than my soul pine in the night                                                       in dreams                        we sleep
                                               cries                                                      her lover has brought a new lover               back to Troy

                  remembering the first days of Troy                            the song of love                                  that dances sweet
she cries                                                        she travels back                            to the mountain people                             the storm clouds

in Starcrossed fields                     golden fields                         possessing heaven . . .
                                 gathering                         rain and hell

Chorus: "Sing to us of the Starcrossed lover's song"

Press soft my mouth my lips

Chorus: "Sing to us of Hélène's Song"

                          as if possessing the sea                   the call of blue                           and song of light                             upon the water
The Storm King                                    travels                            to the kingdoms                             gathers the storm

                                as we arrived in the warm                           the Summer flower Troy                                    touching the land
gathers the soldiers                                     the belges fire                                  "We must get Hélène back"

                                 caressed by the wind and sky                                  the healing sun
the spears and swords                                        the armour and shields                           through the mists . . .

Chorus: "Sing to us of Eden's Song"

Press soft my mouth my lips

Chorus: "Sing to us of Hélène's Song"

                         we walked up to the gates                             hand in hand with Aphrodite                                        walking into Canaan
The Fire King                                     arrives in Ithaca                                                but where is the Sun Le Roi?

                             into the Creation                              the garden                        walled by love's blue sky
"he has no sense"                             "see for yourself"                      at the beach                                     he pulled the plow drunkenly

within peace                          the rose of Summer                              through the mists
                        planting seeds                              "it is the Spring"                            "soon it will be the harvest"

we walked past the orange grove                                   in warm winds                            nestled high up
                                                 he looked up at the sun                         "You must come!"                           "We must get Hélène back!"

in the tree                                a magical bird rests wrapped in headdress
                  he pulled the traces                                                               "I cannot rest 'til all the seeds are planted"

bejeweled and blue-green                                                      quiet stirrings                           hint at other beasts
                                        "but it is sand, you are planting in sand"                 "are you daft?"

                                      in the desert forest                                            by the river trailing deep
"We must get Hélène back!"                           "but where are the butterflies?"                                   he looked up, pretending uncomprehending

in blue stone wells                    spring with fountains pure                   that spout the healing water
                         the Storm King                                threw a punch                                  wrestled him to the ground

into sanctuary
                          "gather your men for war" . . .

Press soft my mouth my lips

Chorus: "Sing to us of Hélène's Song"

Maidens dress in flowering white                                   with their masters                               dance from heaven
                                            the men beat the anvils                              the gathering storm                              the men gather their weapons

wood sprites the Muses gather soft                                  time casts into peace                                      the lavish wedding feast
                                              the men ready the ships                                 "We must get Hélène back!"

                             in the light the days                               that flowed danced                            and rang with joy
the harbour watch                                 the soldiers gather                              from all corners

                           that those so sweet                       in love possessed                     the honey of the flower           the peace, that rests within quiet
from all points                               on the star                             the storm                                   the storm

                               by the wedding bower                                      women deep with love, how they dance                      still sweet the days
the gathering storm                                "We must get Hélène back!"                                               make peace

                    so sweet the nights                                    that prays on wings of doves
make war                               the dark across the sun,                                       the journey begins . . .

Chorus: "Sing to us of Hélène's Song"

Press soft my mouth my lips

Chorus: "Sing to us of Hélène's Song

Sing to us the song of dreams

Sing to us of Hélène's song"

(to be continued . . .)



Rebecca Anne Banks

"the morning dark thick with rain a day of shadows sunlight afternoon . . ."

rosebud blooms a touch of grace a touch of champagne to the rose was it a long war? how the day stopped we sit in the garden (amongst those that need barbed wire fences - radioland a new love, an old love) watch each other drink in loving eyes the beauty of enough hoping not to attract the guards the heralds of Berlin at the gate "surely he is not dead" my blonde soldier and virgin pink in the middle of the feast I look up (the colour of blond champagne the air of pink roses a full moon full sweet the air of roses drift . . .) and he was gone it is not dressage what the heart owns (I live for second chances although sometimes do not get them) you're different changed somehow he never said a word how the day goes the sounding church bells in the distance God knows the day brightens so for January trees . . .


Harold Ackerman is a writer and photographer living in Berwick, P.A., with poetry most recently at Word Fountain and photo art most recently at Broad River Review and forthcoming in Pithead Chapel. www.briarcreekphotos.com.

Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 38 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, guides to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CD's of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's of music awaiting production. She won an IARA Award for Top 55 Internet Airplays for Angel Song (2010). She is an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. She is also the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records (www.tympanilanerecords.com), the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca)and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com.

Hart L'Ecuyer has published industrial surrealist/maximalist poetry in places such as PARAGRAPHITI, Blue Lyra Review, Futures Trading, Blue River Review, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Former People, Bad Jacket, The Conglomerate, Blue Moon, and Mannequin Haus. His seventh collection, OK, Forever, was released in January 2020.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti (Poet, artist, social activist) was born in Yonkers, New York. His father died before he was born and his mother was hospitalized, he was raised by a relative in France. He served in the United States Navy as an officer in World War II, studied at university and at the Sorbonne. He made his way to San Francisco in the early 1950's and was one of the first Beat Poets, he helped found City Lights Booksellers and Publishers. Poetry Readings were held at the bookstore and the publishing house was famous for supporting Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William Carlos Williams, Gregory Corso, Denise Levertov, William Burroughs amongst others.

Neil Flowers was born in Montréal. He has lived and loved in Ottawa, Toronto, Vancouver, Saltspring Island, Albuquerque, Guadalajara (Mexico), and Italy. He currently moves back and forth between Los Angeles, Ottawa, and Peterborough, Ontario. He is at work on a new book of poems, POLYPHONIC LYRE and a non-fiction account of nearly dying called ALMOST DEAD. Email: littlewingpress@gmail.com.

James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and recent poems in Sampsonia Way, San Antonio Review, and Pacifica. He edits The Mantle Poetry (www.themantlepoetry.com) and works in film production in Pittsburgh, PA. www.jamescroaljackson.com.

Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and grew up in southern California. His latest poetry collection, Starting from Tu Fu was just published by Encircle Publications. A new collection is due out in December from Cherry Grove. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster where he made his marginal living pointing out pretty things. Now, like everyone else, he's unemployed. He has published 2 novels and three chapbooks and two full length collections so far. Titles on request. Facebook - Mark J. Mitchell.

John Ryland. In the words of the Poet, "I have published poems in journals such as Poetalk, The Bay Area Poets society, and The Poetry Guild. Recently three of my short stories were accepted for publication with Potato Soup Journal, The Scarlet Leaf review, and Otherwise Engaged. I maintain a Facebook page at JRylandtheWriter where I have over 1,000 followers. I also have a chapbook available on Amazon entitled, The Stranger, poems from the chair.

Zac Smith. In the words of the Poet, "lives in Boston, where he likes to walk his dogs." 50 Barn Poems (CLASH Books)is his first published book. His poetry and short stories are online. Twitter@ZacTheLinguist. www.zacsmith.net.

Marc Zegans is the author of five collections of poems (Boys in the Woods, The Underwater Typewriter, The Book of Clouds, Pillow Talk, and most recently, La Commedia Sotteranea: Swizzle Felt's First Folio from The Typewriter Underground); two spoken word albums, and two immersive theatre productions based on his verse: "Mum and Shaw", and "The Typewriter Underground." His most recent collection, The Snow Dead, is launched from Cervena Barva Press, 2020. Marc lives by the coast in Northern California. His work can be found at www.marczegans.com.