by Howie Good
Juries acquit mothers
who have murdered their children.
There are frequent dances at what used to be
Potter’s Field and the gallows place.
Everything else that happens
will happen mostly after midnight.
Men without firsthand experience of hell
but with large round eyes
claim they can taste sun in the wine.
Howie Good's latest chapbook is Threatening Weather from Whale Sounds.
_____________________________________________________
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
BASTILLE DAY
by David Plumb
I drive into the VA clinic
parking lot at 8.43 a.m.
just as WTMI radio announces
Bastille Day, time for the Marseillaise
I whip around the lot four times
squeeze into my parking spot.
and the glory that was France
fills my small car.
I slip the car in Park and pump my arms
singing what little French I know.
I’m marching past the Arc de Triomphe
when in the left corner of my front
windshield I spot a blue pickup
with the words Blue Angel hooked
to the top of the front license plate.
A chiseled seventy plus cowboy
with straw hat and sunglasses sits in the cab
holding a long plastic tube
and I stop marching in my car.
This cowboy shoves the tube down his tracheotomy
with the gauze around the metal
jams the tube past his gone larynx
sucking up phlegm and snot.
His head lurches. He gags.
He wretches. He sucks up
war, cigarettes and time.
The Marseillaise breathes victory all around.
This whole pass in review marches by.
The sun beats on, the cowboy
puts his tube away and wipes his chin.
I turn off the radio.
We turn off our ignitions
and get out to stand
in line again.
David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”
___________________________________________
I drive into the VA clinic
parking lot at 8.43 a.m.
just as WTMI radio announces
Bastille Day, time for the Marseillaise
I whip around the lot four times
squeeze into my parking spot.
and the glory that was France
fills my small car.
I slip the car in Park and pump my arms
singing what little French I know.
I’m marching past the Arc de Triomphe
when in the left corner of my front
windshield I spot a blue pickup
with the words Blue Angel hooked
to the top of the front license plate.
A chiseled seventy plus cowboy
with straw hat and sunglasses sits in the cab
holding a long plastic tube
and I stop marching in my car.
This cowboy shoves the tube down his tracheotomy
with the gauze around the metal
jams the tube past his gone larynx
sucking up phlegm and snot.
His head lurches. He gags.
He wretches. He sucks up
war, cigarettes and time.
The Marseillaise breathes victory all around.
This whole pass in review marches by.
The sun beats on, the cowboy
puts his tube away and wipes his chin.
I turn off the radio.
We turn off our ignitions
and get out to stand
in line again.
David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”
___________________________________________
Thursday, July 14, 2011
THE MUSLIM WOMEN OF BOSNIA PROTEST
by Lee Ann Pingel
[Jolie’s film] caused controversy in Bosnia with some female victims of sexual violence objecting to details in the plot and Bosnian authorities canceling a filming permit. —Reuters, 17 May 2011
Angelina, you cannot take our stories.
Angelina, you do not speak for us.
The world years since has closed this book,
but still the pages flutter open
as our eyes drift shut each night.
Angelina, they raped us until we could not sit, or stand, or walk.
Until we barely knew our names.
They raped our daughters, mothers, grandmothers…
until we had no begging left in us.
They raped us into exile. Raped us to death.
Not one of us fell in love with our defiler.
Angelina, your movie does not speak for us.
Angelina, you cannot take our stories.
Our torturers planted enemies in our wombs,
whispered that their babies one day would kill us.
But we filled orphanages with any babe born breathing.
Perhaps, Angelina, you can take one of them.
Lee Ann Pingel has lived in the Athens, Georgia, area since 1994 and serves as the distance-learning editor for the University of Georgia. She earned a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from UC San Diego and holds graduate degrees in political science and religion from UGA. After many years of dithering and distraction, she has recently returned in earnest to writing poetry. Her poems have appeared in Motif 2: Come What May, an anthology of writings about chance from Motes Books, in Contemporary Haibun Online, and in Staccato, a journal of flash fiction.
_____________________________________________________
[Jolie’s film] caused controversy in Bosnia with some female victims of sexual violence objecting to details in the plot and Bosnian authorities canceling a filming permit. —Reuters, 17 May 2011
Angelina, you cannot take our stories.
Angelina, you do not speak for us.
The world years since has closed this book,
but still the pages flutter open
as our eyes drift shut each night.
Angelina, they raped us until we could not sit, or stand, or walk.
Until we barely knew our names.
They raped our daughters, mothers, grandmothers…
until we had no begging left in us.
They raped us into exile. Raped us to death.
Not one of us fell in love with our defiler.
Angelina, your movie does not speak for us.
Angelina, you cannot take our stories.
Our torturers planted enemies in our wombs,
whispered that their babies one day would kill us.
But we filled orphanages with any babe born breathing.
Perhaps, Angelina, you can take one of them.
Lee Ann Pingel has lived in the Athens, Georgia, area since 1994 and serves as the distance-learning editor for the University of Georgia. She earned a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from UC San Diego and holds graduate degrees in political science and religion from UGA. After many years of dithering and distraction, she has recently returned in earnest to writing poetry. Her poems have appeared in Motif 2: Come What May, an anthology of writings about chance from Motes Books, in Contemporary Haibun Online, and in Staccato, a journal of flash fiction.
_____________________________________________________
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
DROUGHT
by Penelope Scambly Schott
on the news from Somalia
The baskets of the rain have refused to empty.
Crops shrivel.
For weeks now
she has trekked barefoot over baked dirt.
There is no stalk drier
than an unplanned journey.
Her three children
throw thin shadows in size order.
Last night, beneath an acacia tree,
she gave birth again.
No food or water since.
She owns one piece of cloth
and she is wearing it.
She must leave that baby unwrapped
in the shade of the acacia. It will open its eyes
to wait for the hyenas.
Penelope Scambly Schott is the author of five chapbooks and eight full-length books of poetry. Her verse biography A is for Anne: Mistress Hutchinson Disturbs the Commonwealth received the 2008 Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her newest book, Crow Mercies, was awarded the Sarah Lantz Memorial Award from Calyx Press. Penelope lives in Portland and teaches an annual poetry workshop in Dufur, Oregon.
_____________________________________________________
on the news from Somalia
The baskets of the rain have refused to empty.
Crops shrivel.
For weeks now
she has trekked barefoot over baked dirt.
There is no stalk drier
than an unplanned journey.
Her three children
throw thin shadows in size order.
Last night, beneath an acacia tree,
she gave birth again.
No food or water since.
She owns one piece of cloth
and she is wearing it.
She must leave that baby unwrapped
in the shade of the acacia. It will open its eyes
to wait for the hyenas.
Penelope Scambly Schott is the author of five chapbooks and eight full-length books of poetry. Her verse biography A is for Anne: Mistress Hutchinson Disturbs the Commonwealth received the 2008 Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her newest book, Crow Mercies, was awarded the Sarah Lantz Memorial Award from Calyx Press. Penelope lives in Portland and teaches an annual poetry workshop in Dufur, Oregon.
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
FRENCH NEWS IN BELGIUM
by Caitlin Krause
Here in Belgium, televisions show French news
because it has more accurate weather,
compelling sports, and the lurid appeal
of political scandals that put soaps to shame.
It’s Cannes, the Tour de France and DSK
all in one. Across a dinner table, a Belgian
asks, Would you vote for him for president?
I want to know the opinion of a woman,
he says, adding, and what do you think of his
wife, standing right by his side? I ask him,
What do you think of the Belgian stand-still
for the past year and a half? What do you think
of the lack of a government? Helpless,
he can only smile at the ridiculousness
of it all. Would I even vote for anyone?
I’d sooner play Anne Sinclair each night,
toasting release from recent house arrest,
crafting my latest statement for the public,
flashing my grin all the way to my perfumed pillow…
Does the opinion of a woman set itself apart,
or is there a code that renders all opinions moot?
Natural law once had a name, before charades
made the daily French news far too titillating.
Caitlin Krause is an American writer living in Brussels, Belgium, where she teaches English at an international school. She has a deep interest in ethics, society and social (lack of) conscience. She earned her M.F.A. in creative writing from Lesley University, and she continues to publish prose and poetry. She enjoys running, photography, dark chocolate, and the daily rainstorm.
_____________________________________________________
Here in Belgium, televisions show French news
because it has more accurate weather,
compelling sports, and the lurid appeal
of political scandals that put soaps to shame.
It’s Cannes, the Tour de France and DSK
all in one. Across a dinner table, a Belgian
asks, Would you vote for him for president?
I want to know the opinion of a woman,
he says, adding, and what do you think of his
wife, standing right by his side? I ask him,
What do you think of the Belgian stand-still
for the past year and a half? What do you think
of the lack of a government? Helpless,
he can only smile at the ridiculousness
of it all. Would I even vote for anyone?
I’d sooner play Anne Sinclair each night,
toasting release from recent house arrest,
crafting my latest statement for the public,
flashing my grin all the way to my perfumed pillow…
Does the opinion of a woman set itself apart,
or is there a code that renders all opinions moot?
Natural law once had a name, before charades
made the daily French news far too titillating.
Caitlin Krause is an American writer living in Brussels, Belgium, where she teaches English at an international school. She has a deep interest in ethics, society and social (lack of) conscience. She earned her M.F.A. in creative writing from Lesley University, and she continues to publish prose and poetry. She enjoys running, photography, dark chocolate, and the daily rainstorm.
_____________________________________________________
Monday, July 11, 2011
THE ELEPHANT IS A FAT CAT
by Ed Shacklee
It’s amusing to balance the budget:
While common sense plans seldom pass,
There’s always some way you can fudge it,
Or drop it; it’s fragile as glass.
Let it go pear-shaped, the headlines
Scream panics and slumps — innuendos
Your granny will soon be in breadlines,
And bankers will jump from the windows
Like a biblical cloudburst of frogs;
But the fat will remain on the cats,
For whenever we’ve gone to the dogs,
The first to return are the rats.
Ed Shacklee is a public defender who represents young people in the District of Columbia. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in 14 by 14, the Flea, The Raintown Review and Shot Glass Journal, among other places.
_____________________________________________________
It’s amusing to balance the budget:
While common sense plans seldom pass,
There’s always some way you can fudge it,
Or drop it; it’s fragile as glass.
Let it go pear-shaped, the headlines
Scream panics and slumps — innuendos
Your granny will soon be in breadlines,
And bankers will jump from the windows
Like a biblical cloudburst of frogs;
But the fat will remain on the cats,
For whenever we’ve gone to the dogs,
The first to return are the rats.
Ed Shacklee is a public defender who represents young people in the District of Columbia. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in 14 by 14, the Flea, The Raintown Review and Shot Glass Journal, among other places.
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, July 10, 2011
YOU KEEP LETTING THEM GET AWAY WITH MURDER
by Bill Maher
_____________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________
Saturday, July 09, 2011
ORPHIC
by Catherine McGuire
If, in this world, toxins were visible:
chartreuse streaks as bisphenol broke free
of hard plastic, aqua shoals of RoundUp
swimming the sultry air, towards you;
if hot pink cesium glittered as you drew breath
or swirled in glyphs through garden soil
near ashen gray ribbons of lead;
if your skin lit up with a rainbow of poisons
and polyacrylic fumes danced like diamond gnats;
if smile-packaged word daggers flashed
a dire green like tracer fire – clear, unambiguous –
if dangers were uncamouflaged
and you knew the odds,
would you still shape the day into a lyric,
threading these new colors into the old patterns,
spellbound and singing, composing a new myth,
risking all in one bravado sprint,
accepting the perilous bargain – would you still
attempt the daily audacity
of outwitting Death?
Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with a deep interest in philosophy, the “Why we are here?” question that lurks under so much of our lives. She will have a chapbook released by Uttered Chaos in September. It is tentatively titled, Reflections, Echoes and Palimpsests. She is webmaster for the Oregon Poetry Society and claims her entire garden as her 'poetry office'.
_____________________________________________________
If, in this world, toxins were visible:
chartreuse streaks as bisphenol broke free
of hard plastic, aqua shoals of RoundUp
swimming the sultry air, towards you;
if hot pink cesium glittered as you drew breath
or swirled in glyphs through garden soil
near ashen gray ribbons of lead;
if your skin lit up with a rainbow of poisons
and polyacrylic fumes danced like diamond gnats;
if smile-packaged word daggers flashed
a dire green like tracer fire – clear, unambiguous –
if dangers were uncamouflaged
and you knew the odds,
would you still shape the day into a lyric,
threading these new colors into the old patterns,
spellbound and singing, composing a new myth,
risking all in one bravado sprint,
accepting the perilous bargain – would you still
attempt the daily audacity
of outwitting Death?
Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with a deep interest in philosophy, the “Why we are here?” question that lurks under so much of our lives. She will have a chapbook released by Uttered Chaos in September. It is tentatively titled, Reflections, Echoes and Palimpsests. She is webmaster for the Oregon Poetry Society and claims her entire garden as her 'poetry office'.
_____________________________________________________
Thursday, July 07, 2011
SAND IS FOR MEMBERS
by Helen Tzagoloff
Olga and Anna, my mother’s friends,
came by train to visit us on Long Island
where we rented a room for two weeks
in the house of a friend of a friend.
Good day for a visit. Our landlord had
gone away on business. My mother and I
made cheese blintzes and roasted a chicken.
Olga and Anna brought smoked herring,
dark pumpernickel, Belgian chocolates.
After lunch Olga and Anna wanted to walk
to the beach, see the ocean. Not to swim,
just walk barefoot on the sand. Nobody
on the beach, except for a man in a booth.
“Are you members?” he asked.
“This is a private beach.” Our landlord
had been driving us to a much larger
noisy, crowded beach with concessions.
“Can the shoreline be private?” I asked.
“Yes, it can be and is.” Nobody is here,”
I pleaded. “Our visitors have not seen
the ocean since they fled their war-
torn country.” He’ll be fired if he lets us
walk on the sand. (If we jumped over the sand
into the water, we could swim? I wanted to ask.)
I convinced the guard to let us approach water,
not barefoot, but with our shoes on --
he said it would take too long to take them off.
I quickly took a picture of Olga and Anna,
then another with my mother joining them,
the ocean sunlit and foaming behind them.
My mother and I were upset, but Olga and Anna
said they were happy – they had seen the ocean.
As proof, there will be a framed photo on the bureau.
Helen Tzagoloff's poems and prose have been published recently in Barrow Street, Wild Violet, and Stranger at Home Anthology: Interpoezia. Her book of poems Listening to the Thunder is to be published by Oliver Arts and Open Press.
_____________________________________________________
If democracy is to prevail, public good must prevail over
private interests. The question is: would the majority of people be
happier with a public waterfront on the Long Island Sound or not?
--Enrique Peñalosa, The New York Times Magazine, June 8, 2008
NO TRESPASSING Private Beach to Water’s Edge
--Sign in Destin, FL, The New York Times, December 3, 2009
private interests. The question is: would the majority of people be
happier with a public waterfront on the Long Island Sound or not?
--Enrique Peñalosa, The New York Times Magazine, June 8, 2008
NO TRESPASSING Private Beach to Water’s Edge
--Sign in Destin, FL, The New York Times, December 3, 2009
Olga and Anna, my mother’s friends,
came by train to visit us on Long Island
where we rented a room for two weeks
in the house of a friend of a friend.
Good day for a visit. Our landlord had
gone away on business. My mother and I
made cheese blintzes and roasted a chicken.
Olga and Anna brought smoked herring,
dark pumpernickel, Belgian chocolates.
After lunch Olga and Anna wanted to walk
to the beach, see the ocean. Not to swim,
just walk barefoot on the sand. Nobody
on the beach, except for a man in a booth.
“Are you members?” he asked.
“This is a private beach.” Our landlord
had been driving us to a much larger
noisy, crowded beach with concessions.
“Can the shoreline be private?” I asked.
“Yes, it can be and is.” Nobody is here,”
I pleaded. “Our visitors have not seen
the ocean since they fled their war-
torn country.” He’ll be fired if he lets us
walk on the sand. (If we jumped over the sand
into the water, we could swim? I wanted to ask.)
I convinced the guard to let us approach water,
not barefoot, but with our shoes on --
he said it would take too long to take them off.
I quickly took a picture of Olga and Anna,
then another with my mother joining them,
the ocean sunlit and foaming behind them.
My mother and I were upset, but Olga and Anna
said they were happy – they had seen the ocean.
As proof, there will be a framed photo on the bureau.
Helen Tzagoloff's poems and prose have been published recently in Barrow Street, Wild Violet, and Stranger at Home Anthology: Interpoezia. Her book of poems Listening to the Thunder is to be published by Oliver Arts and Open Press.
_____________________________________________________
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
CLOSE ONLY COUNTS WHEN IT INVOLVES NANCY GRACE
by J. Bradley
In a town full of armchair quarterbacks,
it is easy to catch sand-filled water bottles
with your face. They call it “Dante’s
Ring Toss.”
When I am the mayor, everyone
must wear stockade charm necklaces
once a week, diet on rotting tomatoes
for basketball tickets.
Ask yourself if you could survive
a growing tower of rings and bruises.
Break your own wrists while you still can.
J. Bradley is the author of Bodies Made of Smoke (Housefire, 2011).
_____________________________________________________
In a town full of armchair quarterbacks,
it is easy to catch sand-filled water bottles
with your face. They call it “Dante’s
Ring Toss.”
When I am the mayor, everyone
must wear stockade charm necklaces
once a week, diet on rotting tomatoes
for basketball tickets.
Ask yourself if you could survive
a growing tower of rings and bruises.
Break your own wrists while you still can.
J. Bradley is the author of Bodies Made of Smoke (Housefire, 2011).
_____________________________________________________
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
THIS DRONE
by Tom Karlson
can not sting
nor gather pollen
like that other free flier
has no ovipositor,
can not lay eggs,
will not keep the hive in order
this drone will join with 200 brothers
all looking for a queen to mate
a one minute fly-by-and-die
to father the new hive…
that fertilize crops
and sweetens our lives
the other drone stings
is not an onomatopoeia
it searches
not for mates
but for un-Americans
an airborne judge, jury, and hangman
predator
enemy producer
a collateral damage inducer
widow taker
orphan maker
a one minute fly-by-and-die
to destroy the new hive…
waging class war
keeping profits high
Tom Karlson is founder of Poets for Peace, Long Island, NY.
_____________________________________________________
can not sting
nor gather pollen
like that other free flier
has no ovipositor,
can not lay eggs,
will not keep the hive in order
this drone will join with 200 brothers
all looking for a queen to mate
a one minute fly-by-and-die
to father the new hive…
that fertilize crops
and sweetens our lives
the other drone stings
is not an onomatopoeia
it searches
not for mates
but for un-Americans
an airborne judge, jury, and hangman
predator
enemy producer
a collateral damage inducer
widow taker
orphan maker
a one minute fly-by-and-die
to destroy the new hive…
waging class war
keeping profits high
Tom Karlson is founder of Poets for Peace, Long Island, NY.
_____________________________________________________
Sunday, July 03, 2011
ZERO TOLERANCE FOR SANCTIMONIOUS MORONS
Poem by Charles Frederickson; Graphic by Saknarin Chinayote
All religions profess commonplace values
Merciful kindness embracing each other
Teaching brotherly love not enmity
Non-violent advocates disengaging hateful fear
Toleration is most ardent devotion
Insightful understanding the truthful consequence
Of compassionate humanity begging pardon
Practicing flexibility charity humility magnanimity
True love requires infinite patience
Faking sincerity for heretical beliefs
Practices habits customs folkways mores
High-spirited multiversity expressing opinions freely
One’s enemy is the best
Teacher enlightened by radically different
Ways of looking at distorted
Perspectives dissimilar from our own
Celebrating individual differences without necessarily
Accepting bent curve time warps
Macrocosmic vision seeking kindlier gentler
Belonging to one humanure race
Knowledge of values not facts
To do the right thing
When it should be done
Regardlessly like it or not
No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson & Saknarin Chinayote together comprise PoeArtry. Flutter Press has just published Charles’ new chapbook fanTHAIsies.
___________________________________________
___________________________________________
Saturday, July 02, 2011
UNFINISHED
by Linda Lerner
this is about dozens of turtles
a mid eastern restaurant we sat in on Atlantic Avenue
hungry and broke
turtles crawling onto the tarmac at JFK
delaying flights for over an hour
this is about watching you slowly bite off
a piece of lamb from a skewer as
you watched me do the same and we
inched our way thru couscous into baklava
past closing time
turtles crawling toward the grassy marshlands
on the other side of the runway to lay their eggs
this is about wondering what it feels like
to be a turtle...
we never looked at the bill
we kept on eating the waiters kept looking at their watches
air traffic controllers threw up their hands in frustration
people sat in planes waiting for the turtles to get across
nobody asked what they do once their eggs were laid
where they’ll go
this is about love sick turtles
It is about a meal we never finished
Linda Lerner's Takes Guts and Years Sometimes (New & Selected Poems) has just been published by New York Quarterly Press.
_____________________________________________________
this is about dozens of turtles
a mid eastern restaurant we sat in on Atlantic Avenue
hungry and broke
turtles crawling onto the tarmac at JFK
delaying flights for over an hour
this is about watching you slowly bite off
a piece of lamb from a skewer as
you watched me do the same and we
inched our way thru couscous into baklava
past closing time
turtles crawling toward the grassy marshlands
on the other side of the runway to lay their eggs
this is about wondering what it feels like
to be a turtle...
we never looked at the bill
we kept on eating the waiters kept looking at their watches
air traffic controllers threw up their hands in frustration
people sat in planes waiting for the turtles to get across
nobody asked what they do once their eggs were laid
where they’ll go
this is about love sick turtles
It is about a meal we never finished
Linda Lerner's Takes Guts and Years Sometimes (New & Selected Poems) has just been published by New York Quarterly Press.
_____________________________________________________
Friday, July 01, 2011
WALLS
by Daniel Wilcox
“Baghdad is a huge camp, man. American didn’t bring democracy. It brought walls.” Yousif al-Timimi in National Geographic July 2011
There’s something in man, uh human
That loves a wall…
Jerusalem
China
Hadrian
Mellah
Venice
Pale
Richmond...well, An upside-down Walled trench;
Speaking of
‘Somme’
Others…
Warsaw
Berlin
Panmunjom
Ben Hai...a river wall,
Selma
Belfast Kashmir
Baghdad
Gaza
Yuma…ah finally a rime,
‘Add’ nauseam
And
Two kinds of mortars
Bricks ‘unmortified’
Mortgaging tomorrow for yesterday;
Good ‘fencing’, uh yes…
Daniel Wilcox’s writing has appeared in many magazines including The Danforth Review, The Write Room, and The Copperfield Review. His book Dark Energy was published by Diminuendo Press. Before that he hiked through Cal State University Long Beach (Creative Writing), Montana, Pennsylvania, Europe, Palestine/Israel, and Arizona. He lives with his wife on the central coast of California.
_____________________________________________________
“Baghdad is a huge camp, man. American didn’t bring democracy. It brought walls.” Yousif al-Timimi in National Geographic July 2011
There’s something in man, uh human
That loves a wall…
Jerusalem
China
Hadrian
Mellah
Venice
Pale
Richmond...well, An upside-down Walled trench;
Speaking of
‘Somme’
Others…
Warsaw
Berlin
Panmunjom
Ben Hai...a river wall,
Selma
Belfast Kashmir
Baghdad
Gaza
Yuma…ah finally a rime,
‘Add’ nauseam
And
Two kinds of mortars
Bricks ‘unmortified’
Mortgaging tomorrow for yesterday;
Good ‘fencing’, uh yes…
Daniel Wilcox’s writing has appeared in many magazines including The Danforth Review, The Write Room, and The Copperfield Review. His book Dark Energy was published by Diminuendo Press. Before that he hiked through Cal State University Long Beach (Creative Writing), Montana, Pennsylvania, Europe, Palestine/Israel, and Arizona. He lives with his wife on the central coast of California.
_____________________________________________________
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