Friday, October 7, 2022

Horror of the Hoarfrost Fray by Daniel Moreschi

When bloomy bells and balmy days forsake
A sphere of solstice worn, miasmal skies
Enfold a leaden shroud of winter wake,
A falling crystalline array belies.

The oaks are weaned from reach of red and gold
And held by stranded lines of bleary wings,
With sculptured trunk for base of bastions, holed,
To brave the brink that famished lustre brings.

From fleeting streaks of gleam, to chartless height
Of icy dunes, now flanked by sleety sheets.
Yet swallowed beds patrolled by frost and flight
Become graves when homing light depletes.

For daunting dawns, in lieu of morning song,
Are tempered trills of fretful flits that leads
To lurid storms, with swooping strikes along
A shattered fray on view of scanty seeds.

The roots are rattled by a wild cascade
As turning tails are tolls from layers thinned,
While clouds are sated by the tainted glade
And dusky tinge, when lesions stain the wind.

Though sunlit lances lift the sullen screen
To galvanise the depths of faded earth
And breach the unthawed walls for vital green,
There are no quills to greet the spring's rebirth.
Biography:  Daniel is a poet from Neath, South Wales, UK. After life was turned upside down by contacting M.E., he rediscovered his passion for poetry that had been dormant since his teenage years. Writing has served as a distraction from his daily struggles ever since. Daniel has been acclaimed by various poetry competitions, including The Oliver Goldsmith Literature Festival, the Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival, the Jurica-Suchy Nature Museum's Nature Poetry Contest, and the Hugo Dock Snow Maze Poetry Contest. Daniel has also had poetry published by The Society of Classical Poets and The Black Cat Poetry Press.

Friday, September 30, 2022

Overview: Stamped Cross-Stitch by Spazzy Crafter

Two images: the one on the left is on white with a khaki pattern of two dogs in an autumn basket with leaves. The picture on the right side is of the design fully finished, complete with texture on the chocolate labs.

Everything that comes in a stamped cross-stitch kit:

Embroidery floss

Printed instructions


Fabric (with the design)

Colored picture of the completed design

The basics and tips:

The easiest way to begin your project is to start from the middle and work your way out. The instructions tell you how many strands of each color you need for each part of the project. Basically, you embroider a bunch of small X’s on the fabric. The most efficient way to not lose your place on your project is to mark off on your instructions. You have to be careful not to get the fabric wet or dirty because it will fade the design. However, dampening your floss a bit on the end helps with threading the needle.

On embroidery hoops:

Depending on the size of the project, you might want an embroidery hoop. Hoops make it easier by allowing you to focus on small areas at a time. I also use them because they are better to hold onto than trying to work with everything laid out. Embroidery hoops don't always come with the kit, but you can find them at crafting stores or Amazon.

To use the embroidery hoop, unscrew the top of the hoop. Put the smaller hoop on the underneath side of the project. Then, put the bigger part of the hoop over the front. Snap the smaller and bigger parts together and tighten the top.

As a disabled crafter:

I need help with inserting the embroidery floss in the eye of the needle and separating the floss strands. My hands just don’t cooperate enough.

Friday, September 23, 2022

Two Poems by Allison Whittenberg


my dry wit
held its own
as the rain came down
in spits
then a geyser
we kept talking and talking at the outside table
al fresco -- all wet, oh
your zingers
in the dampness
left us
talking about every little
The Hard Way

You never know people
till they die
you gingerly page
through their privacy

Those fresh, fateful photos:
mothers in mauve miniskirts,
fathers frying hash browns, wearing floppy hats

After there is nothing at stake,
you find out all that you could have given

A little air comes in,
combats the forming mold that corrupted keepsakes,
contaminated these attic memories

This knowing threatens to sun the was
the is, now, will be more forgiving

  Allison Whittenberg is a poet, playwright and fiction writer. Her lastest collection of short stories Carnival of Reality came out April 2022.

Instagram: therealallisonwhittenberg
Twitter: @allisonwhitten6

Monday, September 19, 2022

Neither Weak Nor Obtuse: an Interview with Author, Jake Goldsmith

By Valois J Vera
Interviewer, Handy Uncapped Pen

"I am very ill. That would be the first and most obvious thing
to know. I have something of a haughty and self-important mo-
tivation for writing a memoir, being relatively young, as I have the persistent weight of illness stunting my time to speak. I need a model of myself—to have a promotion of my worth— and so here is no small attempt at a testament to my life and constitution. This work is a show of my growth, of what I love, and some diagnosis as to why I would love those particular things."

The introduction to Jake Goldsmith's Neither Weak Nor Obtuse reveals a glimpse into the raw and genuine pages of this striking memoir. We certainly wanted to learn more about Jake and his book.

Handy Uncapped Pen: What inspired the idea for Neither Weak Nor Obtuse?

Jake Goldsmith: I’m a memoirist, if I’m any sort of writer. I’m very weary and anxious about my life and health and I felt the (indulgent) need to hint at something of a last testament. It’s morbid, and I don’t think it means I will have nothing else to say, but I think the book does hint at fundamentally what my state of mind is as a chronically ill person—my thoughts, perceptions, how I have come to be, who I am.

HUP: Tell us about your writing process.

JG: I normally write notes on an iPad, or paper that I then transfer to an iPad—on Pages or Word. It’s much easier for me than sitting at a computer or desk and I’d normally have some inspiration to write, say, just a paragraph on a particular subject—which I would then expand on or polish later. I rarely rewrite anything substantially but rather make additions or renovate what I’ve initially put down. It is liberating, though, to cut large swathes of text if I have something better. I don’t think my process is too interesting and I don’t have much good advice for anyone I know who wants to write; I write organically, at whatever time it comes to me, and without any real discipline. As my life, it affords something, means I don’t need to be so disciplined or regimented.

HUP: Tell us about your publication experience.

JG: I originally self-published my book. I didn’t care too much about wider ramifications and just wanted something for my parents or friends to point at. It was too difficult to ask publishers anyway, out of embarrassment or just by being a stranger. When I later founded The Barbellion Prize, I was noticed by literary people, who are a closer knit community of people I was outside of, and that lent me a gateway to people with links to independent publishers. Before I would have to knock on the door of publishers as an unknown entity from the outside if I wanted anything, but if you know someone then it’s friendly. It’s unfair, in many ways; cynically it’s nepotism that means anyone can get anywhere—knowing people at the right time and place means a lot more than raw talent or expertise individually (if I have that). But I’m thankful to have made friends, first online, just by being noticed after creating The Barbellion Prize and allowing me some access into an alien literary world. I’d be aware of the literary world, of course, but it’s very much a selection of (often metropolitan) cliques and cultural niches most are not in.

Otherwise, my publisher has been very personable, personal, and entirely receptive of me. This would, I gather, be more difficult with a larger publisher—with its own obtuse marketing directives or other pursuits. I was seen for what I am and given the editorial help I needed, or anyone really needs. It may be a harder world to access if you’re not initiated, but it certainly has its necessary advantages. Purely as a framework for editors, anyone needs a good editor to be anything worth looking at—and that’s harder if you don’t have the means or you’re self-published. Most self-published works will be rougher simply because of the lack of good editing, clearly.

HUP: Looking back at both the writing and publication process, is there anything you would have done differently?

JG: Not particularly. I had regular calls with my editor to go through the text bit by bit and polish it (often while I was in hospital). It was a rewarding experience and I had no real trouble with it, and I’m grateful for it.

HUP: Will there be a sequel, or what projects are you working on now?

JG: I may try to have some shorter articles published. I’m afraid of being one note. I’m strongest when writing this very blunt, frank, open confessional. I have a few thousand words of something that’s akin to Barbellion’s journal. It’s an apt comparison to me. It also rewards writing in short disjointed essays or paragraphs and could be published as a short journal or a collection in a magazine. I have a few brief essays published in the quarterly magazine Exacting Clam, from my publisher Sagging Meniscus, about my experiences in hospital and with people's behaviour and thoughts regarding illness—more phenomenology of illness. I detail less of the basic physical facts of illness and more any thought or philosophical processes, which are more important to me. Coping with the facts of illness are more important to me than simply what those facts are—which are obvious or boring. I don’t need to write down, as much, what my hospital notes are. I need to think about what they implicate, what they mean exactly, what fate I then have and how I am going to reconcile or deal with those realities—if I even can. My emotional or philosophical reactions to my health are more important to detail than my BPM or oxygen saturation.

HUP: Tell us about the Disability narratives in your book.

JG: The whole thing, any political thought, any perceptions I have, are from my reality as an ill person. Through the lens of illness. It’s the defining characteristic and I think it’s a lie, and insulting, unwitting or not, to say that illness or disability isn’t so utterly defining. It’s not shameful, it’s fine for disability to define what you can do and it will define how you think. I’m not sure how that’s escapable without lying about or underestimating what disability and illness is. I can’t be ashamed of it, of course it’s going to shape everything and I’m not sure how it couldn’t.

Otherwise, I talk of how healthier people don’t reflect on or comprehend disability, and illness as a means towards philosophical or psychological evaluation. I don’t portray disabled people as soothsayers, but rather more immediately faced with a reality to confront and think about—while others, self-admittedly, are more blithe about things.

HUP: As a Disabled Author, what is your perspective on Disability representation in literature?

JG: Many of our best historical writers were disabled, in some way. Academically or as laypeople we care not to notice this or appreciate it. We will either not know of it, or if we do we distance it from our daily lives.

Despite historical representation from the likes of Kierkegaard, Samuel Johnson, Emily Dickinson, or any other number of renowned and canon authors, modern publishing is limited in the number of openly disabled people it elects to publish—as much as other industries are also very impoverished when it comes to disability representation, or class representation, etc.

The Barbellion Prize is only a small effort to reward disabled authors (at least I say that, while others say it can be more), and to me it’s still unjust that disability isn’t perceived as a fundamental or primary subject, and we neglect disabled people in literature as much as we do in everyday life—even if we want to pretend we are more cultured and worldly in literature.

It’s common to quote Virginia Woolf, but she rightly expressed in her essay On Being Ill, “ . . . it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature."

It is indeed strange and insulting that this is still true.

Friday, September 9, 2022

At Last... by Jim Tritten

I woke up suddenly at 3:00 a.m. The cats went flying from the bed. My eyes strained wide open, jaws clenched; I sat straight up in bed and was instantly aware of my surroundings. I closed my eyes, exhaled, rubbed my temples, and took in a bushel of the stale night air. Maybe tomorrow it would be better.

The next night, I woke up at 2:00 a.m. Not so abruptly this time, but still, I went rapidly from an active dream state to being fully awake. There was no point in staying in bed, so I slowly extricated myself from the covers and cats and crept out of the dark bedroom, trying not to wake my wife, Jasmine. The following night, I woke up gasping for air at 4:00 a.m. I sat up and coughed. The cats and my wife stirred and looked at me.

“Bad dream?” my wife asked.


How long has it been since I had a good night’s rest? A night without dreams about places, situations, and things that I had tried very hard to forget. How long had it been since I could look forward to waking in the morning feeling refreshed? How long had it been since I had a “sweet” dream? Years—not days nor weeks nor months, but years. I enrolled in a sleep betterment group and began to learn techniques about what to do when I suddenly awakened in the middle of the night.

My recent dreams varied in bizarre content but not in the essence of their character. They always involved some sort of conflict and problems that could not be solved. Often there was violence and threat to life. These dreams were not pleasant, and they caused me to view sleep as something to fear rather than welcome. How many years can the body tolerate abnormal sleep?

The dreams also bled over into the daytime in the form of intrusive thoughts. These were not the same bizarre scenes that filled my brain during my troubled sleep, but unwanted memories of particular events and situations that had actually occurred in my past. The recollections that I tried extremely hard to forget. Real unresolved problems that still lacked satisfactory endings. Circumstances for which there was not, and would likely never be, a happy ending. All revolved around the unanswered question of “why?” I enrolled in various groups that helped veterans deal with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Then, too, I often “woke up” in the middle of walking in a building or driving on the road in my car. Not the return-to-consciousness wakeup that comes about when your mind wanders from what you are doing, but rather the abrupt kind of shocking wakeup that occurs when an incredibly annoying alarm clock buzzer goes off. Unlike the wakeups after my bad dreams, these wakeups during the day were typified by a total lack of awareness of my own self and my immediate surroundings.

I was subjected to a wide variety of medical tests that attempted to establish the cause of this abnormal brain behavior. I was told there was nothing physically wrong and that I likely needed to process things and situations from my past and resolve them. As if that were easy.

The two most challenging things I have ever done, and I used to land a jet on aircraft carriers at night in the stormy North Atlantic, were to say in public that I had been diagnosed with a mental illness and to swallow the first medication that would help me deal with PTSD. After all, people like me did not have mental illnesses. And once I took that first pill, I would never again be allowed back into the work world that once was my escape and in which I excelled. That pill was the first step down a one-way road into the unknown, portrayed on the silver screen in ignominious screenplays like The Snake Pit and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

It was hard to keep taking those pills once the side effects kicked in. Remember, your physician has determined that the positive effects of your medication outweigh the adverse side effects. Easy for someone who has never taken mind-altering drugs to say. Equally challenging, I was about to learn, was to agree to meet regularly with a stranger and enter into a conspiracy by which we would pick at the scabs of my life and expose those wounds to the air — and pain. After all, they were scabs because I had tried to cover over the damage and put an end to the pain. No, this was not going to be easy. Why can’t there just be a shot that would make it all go away and restore my life to the way it was? This process hurt. My hands trembled as I described things that I had never told anyone.

Finally, there was a session during which we got to the critical issues that needed to be resolved. The center of gravity had been identified. An explanation was provided. The “why” was answered. “Not so,” said I. But ... it was so. Now there was an explanation that could account for all the things that had been done, resulting in all the pain I had felt. I left the session totally drained and sought solace in meditation.

The following day, I woke up suddenly at 5:00 a.m. The cats again went flying from the bed. My eyes strained wide open, jaws clenched; I sat straight up in bed and was instantly aware of my surroundings. I was drenched in sweat and could hardly breathe. I had awakened suddenly from a dream. All my issues and unresolved problems had been squarely addressed and resolved beyond my wildest expectations in this dream. The dream included a most satisfactory alternate future. I smiled, got out of bed, and went into the living room to sit in a chair and repeatedly think to myself, “Wow.”

The next day, I woke up again at 5:00 a.m. My new dream had been one of telling the story of the previous night’s dream. It felt good to dream about recounting the alternate history story with a happy ending. It was an enjoyable dream. I did not have another dream for several days. When I finally did, I woke up at 6:00 a.m., calmly and without disturbing the cats or my wife.

I had finally dreamed about something else, something new, something not at all involving my troubled past—just an ordinary everyday dream of no real importance.

At last…


  Jim Tritten is a retired Navy pilot diagnosed with PTSD. He writes for therapy and lives in a semi-rural village in New Mexico with his Danish artist/author wife and four cats.

Find him on Facebook:
Follow him on Twitter:

Friday, September 2, 2022

Abandonment by Samir Knego

A large, rectangular image. There are black, swirling lines throughout the white in no particular pattern. The words of the poem are in black print in white rectangles. The poem reads: We're at that liminal point/where I settled down deep,/I wanted everything deep/sleeping,/"health"/consent/it's just that/without/a miracle/we just/mend/and I saw him/abandonment/barely personified/cursed/dry/Gorgeous?
Artist's Statement:

My submission includes a poem told in cut-out words over lines meant to resemble some combination of fingerprints and topographic maps. I found the words for the poem while cutting up an old literary magazine I found in a Little Free Library, and so while the poem in some ways reads as quite personal, I also feel a certain distance from it because the individual words are not purely my own. I think the lines in the background reflect this—the fingerprints of other people and their work are on this poem, but from where the reader sits they have all blended together into something more like a landscape.


BiographySamir Knego is a multidisciplinary artist and zinester. He was LEVEL’s Spring 2021 Local Artist-In-Residence and is currently part of Socially Distant Art’s 2022-23 residency program centered around accessibility and Disability Justice. When he’s not making art, he works in a library and listens to lots of heavy metal. Find him online at or in person at the Eno Arts Mill in Hillsborough, NC where he is a resident artist.

Friday, August 26, 2022

The Life Aquatic by Cameron Morse

New baby and no function in my left hand
means I may not hold her. No wonder
The Life Aquatic makes me cry in my laundry
basket and I write down, “Infra 5 Orchestra
Version,” in a red marker. Paint swatches—
“seaside villa, sunbaked brick, incredible
white …”—a deck of cards arrayed before me:
“Pick a card, pick any card.” I should have
been killed as an undergrad in Grand Rapids,
crossing some black parking lot. How many
times had I walked to Celebration Cinema
to sit alone in an empty theater and weep
during The Darjeeling Limited? Samples
of paint bloom on the dark wall of my bedroom.

  Cameron Morse (he, him) is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and the author of eight collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His book of unrhymed sonnets, Sonnetizer, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City-Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and three children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website

Friday, August 12, 2022

John Sinclair and The Chair by Su Zi

John is a white man with glasses. He has salt and pepper hair with a full beard to match. He sits in a manual wheelchair with hands clasped near his lap. He has on a white Saints sweatshirt and dark pants. A younger woman is behind him looking down at him; she is wearing a sweater and has brown, curly hair. A man on the right appears to be talking to Sinclair and there is camera equipment to Sinclair's left. Farther left, a black woman exits a building looking at Sinclair. Everyone is outside. A street is seen with homes and vehicles.

John Sinclair is a cultural icon. An author of so many books he has “no idea” how many, saying “why would I count them?”; a sonorous baritone of the radio waves, including formerly on WWOZ New Orleans, and now via streaming on Radio Free Amsterdam; John Sinclair has presence. In fact, one rainy night in New Orleans, there was a show at Snug Harbor featuring John Cleary on keyboard with Michael Ward on congas; after the opening piece was performed, the theater doors opened and in walked John Sinclair: he walked with a cane then, wore a beret against the rain: everyone stopped, turned, Cleary and Ward brightened considerably from the stage—John commanded the room, and everyone waited for him to be seated.

Back in 1991, Sinclair spent six months in a wheelchair when “I tore the tendons in both knees” (personal interview, 2022). Of that time, he says “I was crippled. Painful. It was a drag. I never had anything like that before. It was a new experience. It was terrible.” At that time, Sinclair lived in a rental in the upper Marigny, which had doors at street level. Still, to go out, he says it took “a lot of nerve. It was mental, it was challenging. When you can’t control your leg, it's challenging, you know”. At that time, there was unofficial assistance “oh yeah, I had helpers” by family members Penny, and daughter Celia. There might have been a van. Anyone who visited Sinclair then would find themselves in the front room, which shared two walls with the street and was lined inside with wooden crates filled with records albums. There was always music. After he got past the point where he needed to keep his leg extended horizontally, the wheelchair became occasionally just a chair to sit in for guests, as John pulled albums for his radio show.

Thirty-one years later, John Sinclair is still broadcasting the blues. Although he currently finds mobility with a walker, he has again done time in the chair.

Of that time again in the chair, Sinclair says: “ooo hoo hoo”.

Acknowledging being formerly abled, Sinclair says, “it’s a whole different life now.”

Back when, in Chicago or New Orleans, John Sinclair stood large—tall and wide across the shoulders. He would have been seen smoking outside some pishposh auditorium before a reading by Gwendolyn Brooks, he would be seen strolling the Irish Channel during the street party that second-lined the St Patrick’s parade, he would be seen taking up an entire comfy chair in Bob Rudnick’s Chicago apartment: John Sinclair was seen out.

Now, John says, “I just go to the doctor.” His assistance consists of “a live-in caregiver, one of my daughters come everyday—cook, clean up, it’s a beautiful thing”. He has a porch.

But John Sinclair no longer goes out: “I don’t go anywhere…too much work. I gotta go up and down 22 stairs, so I don’t go anywhere if I don’t have to.” He prefers the walker, because he says, “I have no balance, so when I walk, I am terrified that I am going to fall.” Unfortunately, also, “One time, the walker collapsed…fell on the sidewalk…broke my shoulder in three places.” Yet, there’s still recent releases of books, his voice can be heard by a few touches from a media device, and the laziest research will have him among cohorts like Abbie Hoffman and Marshall McLuhan. Sometimes, the TV will broadcast a John Lennon documentary, and suddenly there’s the voice of John Sinclair—of which, Sinclair himself says, “oh, yeah, that’ll always be there”.

As we go through our lives, we might become aware of decisions about how we want to live; in this regard, we have The Blues—a lifestyle choice that acknowledges both deep sorrow and spiritual uplift, and can perhaps be most easily seen by a No-Longer-Young Mick Jagger rising from a COVID-positive to performance dancing in a fortnight’s time. The Blues is more than a style of music, it’s a way of life; a way of life that encompasses a career of recordings, publications, broadcasts, appearances, public support, activism…and now, Disability, which is, in Sinclair’s words “no bed of roses”.


Biography: Su Zi is a poet/writer and artist/printmaker and edits, designs and constructs the eco-feminist poetry chapbook series Red Mare.

Publications include poetry, essays, stories and reviews that date back to pre-cyber publishing, including when Exquisite Corpse was a vertical print publication, and a few editions of New American Writing. More recent publications include Red Fez, Alien Buddha, and Thrice. A resident of the Ocala National Forest, with a dedicated commitment to providing a safe feeding respite for wild birds, and for a haphazard gardening practice that serves as a life model for all aspects of her work.

Friday, August 5, 2022

Privileged by F.I. Goldhaber

You labored hard to get where you are
            did the work,
            you earned it.

You ignore others who labored just as hard
            did the work,
            got nowhere.

Because of their skin color, gender

Because systemic racism, misogyny,
            neurotypicality, and racism
            deprived them of
            the same opportunities
            you took for granted.

Because authoritarian governments
            deny them education,
            jobs, housing,
            civil rights,
            health care,

Not all those who
            did the work,
            reaped the rewards.

If you never had
            to wait for a court
            to decide if you've
            the same rights (or not)
            as everyone else,
            you have privilege.
Biography:  F.I. Goldhaber's words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer's eye and a poet's soul. As a reporter, editor, business writer, and marketing communications consultant, they produced news stories, feature articles, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now paper, plastic, electronic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, broadsides, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. Left Fork press will publish What Color is Your Privilege?—a collection of political statements in poetic form—this September.

Friday, April 29, 2022

Prosthetic Gods: Jonathan Penton (Review by Su Zi)

Black and white drawing. A large planet and rocketship are over the heads of three figures. So figure on the right looks alien, and the figure on the left looks like a man with a partial face. There is another figure in the middle that is humanoid. The title of the book starts on the planet and extends on an angle outward across the top of the picture. There are little asteroids dotting the sky.

Dark material can be difficult for some readers; work that is violent, even when it rhymes, can feel as if the song itself, the poem itself, the art itself is an assault. Those familiar with contemporary genres in music or cinema are no strangers to violence in art; however, not every reader of poetry is accustomed to violence as a thematic element in a chapbook. A reader who is disabled, or is sensitive to disability justice, will notice the book’s title Prosthetic Gods, as disabled folk who live with prosthetic aids are often socially marginalized. While the title refers to a remark made by Freud, and the remark is included in the book’s initial pages, the title itself serves as a warning of this chapbook’s raw content.

Of course, those familiar with punk as a multi-genre philosophy, will also recognize the energy here. The black and white cover features a delicate drawing of subtly grotesque figures apparently in conversation during a rocket launch, and the volume of less than thirty pages uses a nice weight of paper—a testament to the work’s second edition status. Also, the spine is perfect bound, which is unusual in a book of such brevity. One wonders maybe if the first edition didn’t have that wonderful copy shop at midnight look, crooked stapling and all.

The eight titles of the poems also indicate a punk sensibility in this work, with the opening title being “First Mind Buried”, although an untitled poem precedes it. Indeed, Penton’s punk sensibility becomes revealed in this poem’s fifth line “cheap fucks who rent their stolen suits”(6), and there’s an odd use of taboo language through the volume. The punk genre makes full use of impolite terms, but what’s curious is how in “Sin of the Calf” (10), Penton eliminates the vowel to write “g-d” but also uses “fucking” in the same line. There’s no particular spiritual reverence otherwise present in the poem—or the book itself—and punk was notable for its use of deliberate irreverence. 

There’s lots of use of impolite biology in this work; the prologue poem’s longest line is “your ink a mix of sweat, tears, vomit, and blood” and the writing grows increasing in violence, with perhaps a culmination of sorts in a section titled “Maror”. There’s four poems, or sections on separate pages under the title, with the last of these beginning with the rather elegant line “Venus walks among us, invisible and stalking”(14); however, this is not a lush and romantic symbol, but a destructive one who “murders their parents” and continues on with a horrific litany of intimate destruction.

While some readers might dismiss the work as merely the sort of punk porn posture assumed by many practitioners of the genre, there’s ample evidence of horror genre: a poem dedicated to Stephen King involves domestic violence and a nascent mass shooter, and the violence of the poems lends itself well to that genre. Yet, the repeated use of unsavory biologic imagery goes further than the plot of a regular person beset by demons. In “Don’t Let me Give You a Title”, the poem takes a kind of Prufrock journey, “You move smoothly, easily/among these discharged minds/their walls of blood and puke”(20) with the poet’s response being “but you feel more you than ever”. This is not the writer witnessing otherness around him, but rather the writer’s discovery of his own otherness in the least attractive aspects of those he encounters.

While this work may not be an overt testimonial to the author’s identity as other-minded, or neurodivergent, Penton’s participation in a panel on neurodivergence at AWP might be. In the realm of ND activism, there’s debate about which characteristics are also Disability or Crip issues, with some disabled people even objecting to Crip as a title. Nonetheless, the familiarity with the less-than-glamorous aspects of our biology is a fat realm in disability discussion, and has been weaponized against disabled people in a variety of ways in our culture. Just as classical punk was a genre-crossing philosophy, and as disability crosses all social castes among us, experiencing Penton’s chapbook is a visit to both of these realms in an intersection beyond sexual identity alone, or horror alone. Perhaps Penton’s poems here might find welcome if viewed as CripPunk, an energetic arts consideration which seeks revisionist historical acknowledgement of disability in classically accepted artists. While disability in the arts is ever uninvited, and occasionally tokenized, in the literary culture, Penton makes no apologies for his rage: “Let me suffer without any comforts/And the lies that you tell to make your lies worth living/Can rot with the flesh of our culture”(26). The rage of the disabled has almost come within earshot of the wider culture in these years since the beginning of COVID; the rage against the machines that tout a false narrative of normalcy are now coming from voices previously marginalized into invisibility. Our news cycles ever display yet more ugly from the abled towards everything around them, a genuine horrorshow from which literary horror seems a calm respite. Penton’s poetry here bridges the prosaic horror of lives thought to be ordinary, and does so with an artful mix of vernacular language and an elevated ear.


Su Zi is a poet/writer and artist/printmaker and edits, designs and constructs the eco-feminist poetry chapbook series Red Mare.

Publications include poetry, essays, stories and reviews that date back to pre-cyber publishing, including when Exquisite Corpse was a vertical print publication, and a few editions of New American Writing. More recent publications include Red Fez, Alien Buddha, and Thrice. A resident of the Ocala National Forest, with a dedicated commitment to providing a safe feeding respite for wild birds, and for a haphazard gardening practice that serves as a life model for all aspects of her work.

Friday, April 22, 2022

Fate of The Cripendy Contest

There are no results to announce today. I decided the first year I ran the contest not to award prizes unless we had at least ten entries for the sake of variety and quality. Only three entries came in this year.

I thought about scrapping it immediately when the deadline went by due to lack of interest (and the latest mentor program SNAFU). But I think it's a mistake to do so. I want to try again one more year. One more big push to get the word out in 2023 will ensure I'm able to give it my all before I have to let it go.

There are other projects I want to start in the coming years. If I can correctly evaluate which things to end, it might free up time to devote elsewhere. Maybe it will be something else for our community, or maybe it will just be something I've been holding off on doing for myself. Time will tell.

Thank those of you who shared the contest with your communities this year. I appreciate you.

Friday, April 15, 2022

Three Poems by Samir Knego

Note: "Fall I" and "Fall II" first appeared in Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature. "Exit or dancing, for what it’s worth and it’s not about not being disabled” first appeared in The Fieldstone Review.

Fall I

Passing a church with the stations of the cross outside
Jesus fell in front of my eyes
once, twice, then a third time

Watching Christ in pain and difficulty
I thought of Nancy Eisland’s image
of God in a wheelchair

“Open to all!” proclaimed a sign
At the top of several steps

(sometimes, the punchline is almost too obvious)

Fall II

And the falls, all of them.
Some people don’t know that feeling of precariousness,
always half-preparing to plummet, or float away.

When the very earth can’t hold you like it should
(or can, but won’t–I’m not sure if it’s worse to assume intentions or abilities)
you turn to the sea and sky instead.

Some Christians talk about living in the world but not of it
and maybe disability is the flip side,
as you’re steeped in a world that keeps separating itself from you.

or dancing, for what it’s worth
and it’s not about not being disabled

When I dream about dancing I don’t dream about being able to stand or step or spin

I don’t dream about dancing as something physical, not really

I don’t dream of it as something that my body could do or cannot do or should or would do. No,

I dream of dancing as a feeling, as a joy as a floating as a you and I

In space somewhere just moving and laughing and being together

And maybe there is music and maybe there is only perfect silence but somehow

I know that this feeling, this being, this thing that is of my body but not quite in it--

That this is dancing, for what it’s worth.

Biography:  Samir Knego is a multidisciplinary artist and zinester. He lives in North Carolina with a bright green wheelchair and an ever-growing CD collection and was LEVEL’s Spring 2021 Local Artist-In-Residence. When he’s not making art, he works in a library and listens to lots of heavy metal. Find him on Twitter: @SamirKnego

Friday, April 8, 2022

The Cost of Staying Alive by F.I. Goldhaber

Ten times a day
I prick a finger,
squeeze out a drop of blood
and wait for the number that
will determine what I do next.

Must I pierce my
skin again, this time
using needles that screw
onto pens I then use to
inject units of insulin?

Or do I need
to eat, even if
I do not hunger and
have no interest in food
of any kind at the moment?

The meter rules
my life, decides what,
when, and whether I eat
while I fight for insurance
coverage to pay for the strips

required to make
it work, strips that cost
as much as a dollar
apiece, ten bucks a day, more
than three thousand greenbacks yearly.

When combined with
fifty cents for each
needle, sixty bucks for
two days' insulin supply,
that's a high price to stay alive.


F.I. Goldhaber's words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer's eye and a poet's soul. As a reporter, editor, and business writer, they produced articles, features, editorials, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits. Now paper, electronic, plastic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, broadsides, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. More than 230 of their poems appear in almost 80 publications. Left Fork press will publish their fifth book of poetry, What Color is Your Privilege?, in September.

Friday, April 1, 2022

Divergent Minds and Dissentient Bodies by Mila Bea

Part I — The Firehose Problem

The concept of drinking from a firehose describes the impossibility of retaining each piece of new information when someone is immersed in a novel setting, such as starting a job or traveling abroad. There is a reason that we use firehoses to extinguish large fires—they function quite well within the scope of this task—and not for personal drinking fountains. 

For me, firehose mode is the only option for information processing. My brain perceives stimuli as if vital sensory data floods from every nook and cranny of my external surroundings. Excitement quickly becomes overload, then invariably leads to burnout. I ritualistically perform certain actions, often just to keep afloat. I make copious lists; find methods of categorization; wear headphones to dampen noise; and I self-stimulate.

A “Books” list contains the 174 books that I wish to read at some point, which of those I hope to read in the more immediate future, along with a full inventory of the 134 books that I own. Each item is neatly adorned with the title, author, publication year, genre, and a brief summary. My “Clothes” list documents each article of clothing that I own, including color and fabric type. 

Amidst persistent growth over time, my “Quotes” list sits as a tangled gargantuan, swollen to a 77-page tome of over 34,000 words, with only the first fifteen pages separated into differentiating topics, an effort now in a state of permanent hiatus. The repository remains open; the bold words and piercing ideas of others intertwist with one another, a house with endless additions but no coherent floor plan. 

At the helm, the “Executive Summary” acts as a moderator of sorts, consisting of a list of my 48 lists, including their status (Current; Research; Inventory; Hiatus; Completed), which life system they comprise (Creative Expression; Personal Development; Learning; Finance; Relationships; Exploration; Maintenance), and of course the URL to take me to the document. 

Clearly, despite earnest exertion and periodic reassessment, certain elements drift into far regions, known but forgotten. On bad days, it is an exercise in wading through the murky sludge of a Kafkaesque labyrinth of my own making. But ideally, as the firehose bursts forth without mercy, I can fill certain buckets of various sizes in the hopes of using the stored water for irrigation purposes to cultivate facets of myself that I want to nurture and help flourish. 


I wear headphones whenever I am reading or writing—no, not the kind for listening to music, but far bulkier and intended for mining and construction projects—in the ceaseless battle against the distracting low-level hum of ambient noise. But even within my own head, pathways can become clogged and it all can start to feel jumbled. 

While reading nonfiction I summon a level of concentration to absorb new information while simultaneously directing it to the appropriate point within the landscape of all existing information. If I properly care for this landscape, it can be called knowledge as the puzzle pieces begin to fit together. Alternatively, a jagged terrain sometimes envelops me with its absence of structure or meaningful patterns. 

Even with headphones, and even while taking the time to get the gunk out of my brain and onto all of these lists, the firehose still exudes a pressure that often overpowers me. There is no valve to adjust, no mechanism by which I can negotiate with the external world to deliver its surroundings to me in a more gentle manner. In the face of this sheer force I find myself coughing up water while struggling to sit upright, my eyes occasionally glancing to the periphery at the firehose that thrashes wildly, relentless and without direction. 

A sting of defeat punctures me, leaving me deflated and disheartened, as if my brain is waterlogged and only capable of focusing on the shiniest and brightest fragment of unchallenging digital satiation available. Guilt begins to permeate, even though I know rationally that relaxation and stretches of time not subject to the dictates of productivity are restorative practices crucial for physical, mental, and emotional health. 

A gnawing sentiment defies this logic and a narrative emerges that I am tapping out due to some lack of strength instead of opting out as a form of self-care. But we all need to care for ourselves. I do know that, and yet to emotionally internalize such a core truth remains no small feat. My knee-jerk urge is to grind myself down to a splintered nub while espousing to others the need to be kind and patient with themselves. 

I did, and still do in many ways, conceive of my neurological firehose as a problem. I can also redefine it. It is not a superpower, not for me at least. But it can also just be an immutable facet of myself that I can begin to accept. I will not change or eliminate it; there is no cure nor do I want one. 

And it makes me wonder, and perhaps begs the question to others, as integral entities interconnected within a rich collective tapestry, how we can be kinder to ourselves and to others when there is a firehose, however it may manifest, seeming to demand urgent attention at the forefront of conscious experience. 

Part II — The Reclamation of Stimming

On September 26, 2018, Professor M. Remi Yergeau gave a talk at the CUNY School of Professional Studies about her book, Authoring Autism: On Rhetoric and Neurological Queerness. During the question and answer portion, she said something that continues to resonate with me. 

“For me personally, I still stim but I developed these tricks to make it stop, and it gets to a point where I’m no longer sure what’s more comfortable for me because it’s all anxiety now. It’s like it took something core away from me…Before I was trained to recognize that I was “unusual” or aberrant, it was fine, it was great. But now that I know, it’s always tainted.”  

Similarly for me, it is oftentimes all anxiety, and I search for viable pathways to reclaim agency over my body. The locus of the endeavor lies in reconciling my continuing need to stim with the memories of that very behavior being used against me. At young ages imitators performed the flailing and spastic motions as I did, caricatures bearing the disguise of an homage. 

Nearly my entire adulthood has involved, at least to some degree, the suppression of my full range of embodied expression with the paramount goal being to appear normal, and then seemingly only ever holding that title on a trial basis. Despite a concerted effort over the past two years to unlearn my myriad masking techniques, along with an awareness of the harm that such self-denial has caused, that same anxiety described by Dr. Yergeau still lives inside of me. 

It is very possible to rationally understand that certain aspects of our cultural messaging are unhealthy and perpetuated for the purposes of benefiting a very specific group of people, while nonetheless remaining emotionally beholden to that same guidance. In so many ways, again similar to Yergeau’s experience, stimming is tainted for me. 

Throughout the course of my life, the real social contagion continually materializes as this viscid coating that demands conformity. I have encountered it overlaid atop all experience, and I know its shape as neurotypicalized cisfatalism. But it dons ever-changing faces and appears in numerous forms. Laverne Cox, putting her spin on bell hooks, described it as “cisnormative heteronormative imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy.”  

This mechanism of control breeds complacency, complicity, and compliance in those who may access the scraps of its inequitable bounty. I did benefit, and continue to benefit from this organization of society, and am only now beginning to develop a critical awareness of how these rewards inevitably come at the direct cost of others. 


I am white, I grew up in an affluent suburb with continuous access to educational institutions and learning resources that are unavailable to many people. That was, is, and will continue to be a privilege that I seek to leverage in the hopes of forging broader and deeper and more holistic notions of justice. 

But this system did bludgeon me into submission with its authoritative instruction on which types of bodies are deemed acceptable. Mine, when I exercise complete liberty over it, is unacceptable; and most people inhabit bodies either outright unacceptable or similarly acceptable only on the condition of their constant adherence to this rigid framework.  

I was assigned male at birth, born into a body whose limbs needed to periodically and without warning shake and flap. The gendered expectations of boy, coupled with the clear social cues that stimming was irregular and thus bad, obstructed my full bodily autonomy, constricting me in such a way that it took over a decade of drug and alcohol abuse followed by several years of psychotherapy to begin to glimpse a path toward living peaceably and feeling whole. 

There exist a litany of ways in which mainstream society subtly but distinctly illuminates for us the fundamental inadequacy of our bodies in their current state. But we are pushing back, beginning to search for avenues wherein we can reject those previously ingrained precepts and begin to heal. One example is Aaron Rose Philip, a trailblazer whose modeling work celebrates that our full spectrum of corporeal diversity is deserving of acceptance and worthy of love. 

In a scene from the 2009 documentary, Examined Life, philosopher Judith Butler talks with artist and activist Sunaura Taylor and a part of their conversation pertains to Taylor’s experiences ordering coffee as a disabled person. Butler observes that, “there’s a challenge to individualism that happens at the moment in which you ask for some assistance with the coffee cup, and hopefully people will take it up and say, ‘yes I too live in that world in which I understand that we need each other in order to address our basic needs.’”

We do need other people. We coexist with one another and we need each other. Within this newfound paradigm, I can assess how and why I hold onto those hard-fought masking techniques and ask myself who benefits from my exerting a portion of cognitive and physical energy to inhibit myself from following my natural inclinations. 

But I still mask; I still suppress stimming due to my deeply held desire to preserve some vague concept of decorum and respectability. Behavioral patterns solidified over the course of decades cannot be unlearned overnight. But I can at least say to myself, “today it is okay to stim. I am neurodivergent, I am not defective.” 

None of us are defective, despite all the social conditioning we have internalized to the contrary. We can remind ourselves each day that we are not defective. We can show up for each other and work to build a world that promises us safety and human dignity and offers us the freedom to know love and to feel seen inside of heterogeneous bodies. 


Biography: Mila Bea is a thirtysomething autistic trans woman who spent the last two decades on a tumultuous path to self-acceptance. While nestled indoors she drinks coffee, reads books, and watches movies. While out of doors she explores the world on foot, finding adventures in things novel and familiar. In her spare time, she often contemplates the processes by which people form beliefs and how this impacts public discourse. Find more of her writing at:

Friday, March 25, 2022

Book Review: Whispers of Stone by Allegra Pescatore

                         A white man with dark brown hair and a beard stands in front of a fence with trees and a palace behind. He has a small, white dragon on his shoulder. He wears a long dark jacket and trousers. In one hand he holds a satchel at his side and the other holds a golden circuit. The author's name is in white across the top and the bottom has the title written in gold.

Note: I received a copy of this book in order to review it.
There will be brief mentions of rape (a slight spoiler), racism, and ableism.

Picking up directly after Where Shadows Lie, our protagonists find themselves in various states of danger. Elenor's father is dead, and she is accused of his murder; it doesn't help that her mother is missing and her scheming aunt has arrived in the kingdom. Gabriel has aligned himself with Elenor while trying to control his unlocked magical potential. Fedrik has an ability that just might doom the world... even with Fayrian's help. Daemon keeps ticking off the wrong beings. And a golden god seeks vengeance for the death of another.

I loved the first book, so I was a bit skeptical going into this one as sequels can often disappoint. There are more books to the universe than I thought, and I only found out about them in this book. The book is split in two due to length (the next book arrives this summer). Despite my concerns going in, they proved unfounded. The series is in a universe with other books (but can stand alone). While much is left unresolved in this book, it doesn't leave me feeling like I'm on a ledge waiting for rescue.

The characters feel genuine. Elenor anguishes over her past decisions and deals with the impact of an illness flare (which can affect her ability to make decisions). Fedrik is lost and dealing with the fury his new Gift gives him. Fayrian is still a smartass, but she also has a small sense of hope underneath. There are a lot of tough emotions in this novel but also tiny sparks of strength and joy.

There are a few minor characters with various disabilities. Phoebi is a grandmother with cerebral palsy. Mari is an amputee who had her hands cut off for being part of the rebellion. Suela has no eyes. I'd say Alehan has PTSD, but it isn't confirmed.

Schemes and plans are amped up in this installment. Elenor must find a way to get out of her aunt's terrible trap. Each god has plans (and pawns) that continue to move forward. I could feel the clock ticking, and I'm excited to see what the author does going forward because there are a lot of threads to tie together.

The world still feels like a real place. Readers are given more details on the complex (and somewhat unique) magic system. Places come alive with just the right amount of detail. The lore is evolving with each book. Supplemental materials (including a recap of the first book) exist in the back of the novel to assist readers with remembering characters and events.

Ableism and racism are vaguely present in this world. I counted one instance of each. 

Spoilers: At one point in the book, Elenor has sex with someone she doesn't want due to blackmail. I consider this a type of rape, though the person she beds isn't the one blackmailing her. She is given a tea to make sure an unwanted pregnancy doesn't occur.

There was a novelette after the book that details the time Gabriel spent caring for victims of an epidemic during his last year in school. The doctors go through burnout, there aren't enough beds or medications for everyone, and certain patients are immediately given palliative care because they aren't considered worthy of saving. Yes, it's very reminiscent to the pandemic we just went through, but the illness and the devastation it caused parts of the world were already present in the book before COVID-19 came about. Even so, it might be hard to read for some people.

I definitely recommend this book and have high expectations for the next one!

Friday, March 18, 2022

A Conversation with Author, Joel Champion

A black and white photograph of Joel holding his book. He is wearing a shirt that says "ask me about my book" with "published author" underneath. He has short, dark hair and dark, prominent eyebrows. He is smiling, and his eyes appear closed..

By Val Vera
Interviewer, Handy Uncapped Pen

The journey begins in the wondrous and ancient land of Mythokor as an evil force, known as the Shroud, scours the realm to rebuild an ancient weapon of power. However, can an unlikely hero from humble beginnings defeat the diabolical Shroud and save his home? The adventures of kings, heroes, villains, knaves, a mysterious princess and the Wolf Jumper begin here!

Intrigued? Yeah, I was too. So much so I had a little Q&A with Joel Champion, Author of "The Chronicles of Legend: The Wolf Jumper Arises".

Handy Uncapped Pen: What inspired the idea for the book?

Joel Champion: I think a lot of what I consume inspired me to write, particularly this story, but I’ve had this idea of the land of Mythokor and the Wolf Jumper narrative in my head since 2016 (I think). The development process was super long, but the writing and publishing process took around three years. But a lot of different things inspired me: like the idea of building and creating my own world to write and “play in” rather than writing for other franchises and their stories. I believe being independent gave me great freedom to be flexible with characters, history, names, and the narrative itself. Sometimes, I would listen to music and soundtracks that would put images of epic battles of sword and sorcery in my imagination, and I hoped to create a story that would inspire others as well as myself when reading because I believe it’s important for me to write and create independently since most stories nowadays aren’t what I prefer.

HUP: Is there anything you would have done differently during the publication process?

JC: Honestly I would’ve hoped to get a hybrid publisher or wish I could’ve had a bigger platform before publishing, and wish I could’ve tested certain things like getting a cover artist and editor before actually hiring them, for the process was long and took me nearly six months to complete! I also would’ve found an authoring coach and gotten the inside scoop on who to publish with before publishing on Amazon with KDP. It was really hard to do research on such a niche idea and process like self-publishing. I also would’ve done a lot of things differently, like making the book longer and testing its length with others.

HUP: Will there be a sequel, or what projects are you working on now?

JC: Regardless of the success of the first book in my “Chronicles of Legend” line, I want to revise and expand the first book to make it longer (more in depth) and fix certain things I found and believe need fixing, such as missing dialogue and added details. I’m currently writing the revisions and want to publish that very soon, hopefully this year, but maybe using a different platform or publisher! But I’m also working on more than ten different types of books I want to write throughout my life, jumping from narrative to narrative, keeping my writing and imagination fresh! Such as a sci-fi book, a superhero team book, a detective story, and a comedic trek story—I got a lot of plans to publish someday, one book at time for me! So long story short: yes, I hope to do a worthy sequel!

HUP: Are there any narratives in your book that discuss Disability?

JC: There isn’t really a mention of disabilities in my current book, but I’m planning on writing a book with autism and other disabilities being the focus on certain characters! And I guess I kinda based the Chronicles of Legend main character: Zyte, on myself a little but much braver and courageous like I want to be; the main love interest for him: Princess Shadus of the Dragon Nation of Vanlatha, was born human (spoilers) instead of being a dragon due to a rare magical genetic/subspecies within her family line, which I thought was very interesting!

HUP: As a Disabled Author, what is your perspective on Disability representation in literature?

JC: I haven’t really seen a lot of good representation of autistic people in literature, let alone pop culture like games and movies. They (games and movies) depict certain characters with disabilities as the bad guys and are being exploited, which I find very offensive to my kind of people and to myself. But I plan to change that with my own stories and bring a new perspective to the world, showing that we (as people with disabilities) have a voice too, which I take pride in. I’m blessed enough to speak out against the contemptuous people badmouthing disabled people and change the world with my life and stories.

Visit to order your copy of “The Chronicles of Legend: The Wolf Jumper Arises”.

Friday, March 11, 2022

Two Poems by Cameron Morse

The Boy Who Wouldn’t Share

Morning my fingers wake to discover their nails archeologically dug into the soft meat of my palm, fossilized, I don't want to sneak a peek at my future. The well-meaning Velcro strap given the slip while I slept. Some bodyguard. And my fingers all palsied up together like that don't bode well for their wrist: Speaking of which, I have to remind myself not to take some goblins personally. I know the artist is only looking for a vehicle for some inward ugliness, but did they really have to have to steal my car, my critical condition, to get the point across? Couldn't Edward, the frightful, have had thick, muscular wrists and still been hideous to his sister Claire? Am I really going to be so unattractive my own wife even is repulsed by me? I pry my hand out of my hand and ignore the temptation to stay in bed. I had an idea about this: The back deck broke its perfect silence of snow yesterday and passed through the night only a handful of crackling shells of ice. Encouraging a walk in the moonlight. Now there's a children’s book I like.

June is angry at December
for dropping the laundry basket.
It takes him too long
to get strapped in
to the splint before bed,
to straighten out his curly fingers.
It's sad, but there it is. June
remembers the man who dug the ditch,
not this drooling invalid.
December drags his left leg.
Raises the red head of a toy shovel
against the brown paper of a yard
waste bag with his one good
hand and spits sunflower
seeds into the leaves. Slips out
before dawn and pisses in the yard
despite the cold stares
of the stars. You can call it spite.
December loves an audience.
Cameron Morse is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and the author of eight collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is The Thing Is (Briar Creek Press, 2021). He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City-Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and (soon, three) children. 
For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.    

Friday, March 4, 2022

Page Updates: Magazines, Etc. (for Us)


Barking Sycamores
The Perch
Exceptions Journal
Disabled and Inter-Abled Relationships
Pensive Stories

Hiatus or Possibly Defunct:

Doll Hospital Journal
Pen 2 Paper Contest
Hospital Drive
(probably defunct)
First-Person Presence (probably defunct)


Magnets and Ladders
Corporeal (Thank you, Grace Lapointe!)

Other Updates:

Updated the links for Monstering Magazine,  Zoeglossia, and Ability Magazine.

Friday, February 25, 2022

Sentro Knitting Machine by Spazzy Crafter

Image: The Sentro machine is on the left with a purple project in its center. The small, pink handle/crank has a ball on the end. The right side has the Addi machine with its handle prominent; it's larger with a thick, flat circle on the end to grab.

If you're looking for a less expensive loom knitting machine, you might want to try Sentro brand knitting machine. The Sentro comes in three different sizes: 22 needles, 40 needles, and 48 needles. The 22 needles size costs around 40 dollars on Amazon, the 40 needles one costs around 50 dollars, and the 48 needles costs about 70 dollars.

Things I like about the Sentro are:

The price

The included tensioner you put on the machine (makes one-handed knitting easier)

Handle shape is smaller and easier for me to grasp

Suction cups on the legs (I can’t use a clamp on my tray, so they help the machine remain stationary)
The one thing I don't like about the Sentro is how, if you accidentally hit the reset button on the row counter, there is no way for you to go back.

P. S. The reason I started looking into the Sentro is because shortly after I bought my Addi the handle broke. The handle for the Addi set me back about 30 dollars, and it shipped from Germany. Also, a tensioner for my Addi costs eight dollars… I’m already on my second one.

Friday, February 18, 2022

A Case Against Agents

Agents are heralded as champions of novelists. Many writers think their first step after finishing the book (if they aren't publishing it themselves) is to start finding one. But, there are many truths about agents you will not be told.

1. Agents get your money first.
Your agent is supposed to take their 15% before you get your share of royalties or advance payments. So, they get their hands on your money before you even see it (delaying your payday). Unsurprisingly, it's easy for them to skim off extra. If they do, they rarely get caught because people taught to trust their agents won't double-check. How well do you know someone over a dozen phone calls and emails?

2. Querying an agent is like submitting to a publisher.
So many spoonies tell me they don't have the energy to do round after round of submissions to publishers, but querying an agent and submitting your book to a publisher are quite similar; it can take years and dozens of attempts to get anyone's attention. Since a lot of writers go through more than one agent in their lifetime, agents are not a guarantee you won't have to submit/work your ass off for future projects.

3. Anyone can become an agent.
There are no formal requirements to becoming an agent. The best agents have knowledge of the industry, working relationships with various publishing houses, and a passion for books. But, nothing prevents a random person from printing out a business card and accepting clients.

4. Agents are more gatekeepers.
Authors from marginalized groups face even more considerations when dealing with gatekeepers. Will one book by a crip be labeled "enough" in the agency? Will agents not bring your books to the larger houses because they assume the "niche" novel by a neurodivergent writer won't sell? Editors pose plenty of hoops by themselves.

5. Agents can negotiate contracts without a law degree.
To clarify, I'm not saying someone has to have a degree to negotiate a contract (you can even attempt it after teaching yourself), but it's a mistake to automatically think they will always do a better job than a self-educated author. If you are scared you'll mess something up, there are IP lawyers you can pay who can get you better terms... without taking 15% of your royalties indefinitely. Plus, an agent might be more concerned with their relationship with a certain editor or publishing house than giving you what you deserve (you are one smaller client out of a dozen).

6. You don't need an agent to get published.
A lot of publishing houses have reading periods. Getting into one of the Big 5 (maybe the Big 4 soon) might not be directly possible, but even the largest houses can have hungry imprints that will consider manuscripts directly from authors. 

7. Agents aren't the only cheerleaders.
Some agents can be fuzzy cheerleaders, but so can other people in your life. If the main thing you're looking for is someone to lift you up during the writing and submitting process, you can join a writers' group or turn to a friend.

8. Agents can have terrible contracts.
Agent one had her author break up with her but can still get the 15% on a project she negotiated for the author years ago. Agent two won't submit a children's book for his once horror-writing client but will get 15% of the royalties should the author sell it themselves. Yet another agent makes money even when her client self-publishes. I know it seems like a "know what you're signing" warning (it is), but it's easy to slip an unfavorable clause somewhere. 
I know most writers and publishing professionals tell you an agent is necessary to navigate the waters, but most people telling you to get one tend to sweep the negatives under a rug they hope you don't move. Poets and other niche writers are advised (correctly) against trying to secure representation, anyway.  Agents are far from your only way into traditional publishing, and I hope you weigh every option in front of you before choosing your route. I'm cheering for you.

Further reading:

Dean Wesley Smith has a lot of older posts on agents. He and Kristine Kathryn Rusch are firmly against agents and negotiate contracts for themselves.

Friday, February 11, 2022

That Hurts by F.I. Goldhaber

You slapped me on the shoulder,
the one I dislocated
many years ago. That hurts.

You reach out to shake my hand.
I point to the hidden splint.
You grab for the other, but
I wear a brace to protect
it too. Even if you just
gently squeeze either of my
enervated hands, that hurts.

I must dodge and defend from
amiable aggression,
affectionate attacks, and
affable abuse that hurts.

Your cordial clap on my back
wakens persistent pain and
requires ice to recover,
costs me the ability
to attend an event or
write a new poem. You stole
one of my spoons and that hurts.

Why is it acceptable
to slam strangers, cuff colleagues,
bash buddies without consent?

Don't touch me. That always hurts.

Biography: F.I. Goldhaber's words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer's eye and a poet's soul. As a reporter, editor, business writer, and marketing communications consultant, they produced news stories, feature articles, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now paper, electronic, plastic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, broadsides, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. More than 180 of their poems appear in almost 80 publications including four collections.

Friday, February 4, 2022

Review of Leaf Memories by Carol Farnsworth


Image: In the center is a photograph of a girl semi-covered in a pile of brown leaves. The girl is wearing a red sweater, white sneakers, and light colored pants. Her eyes are closed. She has straight, dark hair. The top of the image is a sand color with the title of the book in khaki. The bottom of the image is the same with the author's name.
Note: I was given a copy of this book in order to review it.

Wrinkled creases cover your cheeks.
You cry grey tears from cinder hills.
Burnt pine cones start the mend.

-From "Burnt Over"

Leaf Memories by Carol Farnsworth is a nature poetry chapbook interspersed with the occasional photograph in black-and-white. It is divided into sections by season. Each season begins with a grouping of haiku-like poetry sharing the same page. The division makes it a clear and easy read. 

A fall breeze begins to blow
Leaves are eager to start the show.
Dressed in hues of yellow, orange and red,
They hold on tight as the wind spreads.

-From "Tiny Dancers"

Each piece in this collection is awash with color, sound, and motion. Carol's attention to detail is exquisite and delicate. I felt as though I could see each poem just as she describes. Bits of humor can be found inside certain poems like small gifts.

snowflakes pile
crystal on crystal
creates dreamscapes

- "Flakes"

A few poems almost read like miniature lyric essays. "Beauty in the Field" and "With the Wind" are two examples of the work taking on a more fluid scope. They are small journeys to move through.

Two instances (that I can remember) make note of humanity's carelessness/destruction of the beauty of nature. I found this welcome, especially since most nature poets either brush it aside or make it a focus. It appears Carol comes to nature from a place of wonder and respect.

Rain distorts the reflection in the pane.
I contemplate my twisted hold on reality.
Memory of the visual world changes with age,
reforming like a deck of shuffled cards.

- From "Reflections"

Carol Farnsworth wrote these poems shortly after she lost her sight entirely. The last section of the book is "Spring"; it seems to be done with careful intent... leaving readers at a place of beginning.

I recommend this book to any fan of nature poetry.


Biography:  My name is Carol Farnsworth. I have worn many hats in my life. Trained as a Speech Pathologist, I have worked with children and adults with cognitive and language disorders. My leisure time was spent in a community acting group, singing in a chorus, and teaching Hawaiian dance at a local studio.

Six years ago, I struck my one eye losing the rest of my usable vision. I enrolled in a course in Braille and started to write for the local Association for the Blind newsletter. Through Hadley School for the Blind, I learned of a writers with disabilities group. Joining in early 2019, I have learned from fellow writers to practice writing poetry and short stories.

In March of 2020, I started a bi-weekly blog about living with blindness while seeing the humor in daily situations. Blog posts consist of a short article and a poem.

During my association with Behind Our Eyes, I have been published in Spiritfire Review, Breath & Shadow, The Avocet, and the B.O.E.'s magazine, Magnets and Ladders.

Additionally, I write a monthly article for the Blind Perspective and Newsreel audio magazines.

More information on Leaf Memories: