FFR15ZINE

Consciously we refer to past acts of
compassion

Traumatized, or in mild paralysis,
damaged, weary

Yet awake and still aware of every strange
new power

Visiting and departing the ways they do,
So ever real, something, sometimes.





a selection from

configuring recolections

Felino A. Soriano

from 0 – X

On the neighbor's

kitchen floor 70's tile

, an obligation

of autumn's tonal orange/brown

my hands, blurred wings: antiquated
pots

anatropous,

wooden spoons

banging incoherent rhythms while

into walls of collecting echoes
waiting, an always waiting

for my brother to appear

from the hands of birth's

critical identity

nearing our eyes' intersecting
intuition: he/then

: and when his smallness of body stays against our
mother's growing warmth, what

occurs is elation on the scale

much larger than my three year old language
could articulate in sound

music

in the hearsay of
distance

my feet

wore wheels of a monarch butterfly’s ornate
attention—

skating with others a

Saturday specific expedition with

my father watching and wearing smiles
arcing happiness

toward my racing / and leaping / with

balance of devotion to keeping rhythm of

the music’s loud and voracious evidence
open
the

embrace
altered

my willingness to

composite faith

, Mondays/Thursdays evenings
bowing into

nights' sweat and improving skills:

age 5:

Tae Kwon

Do, father-initiated

composing identity

in the physical impression

of

practical mentality

each kick and strike

parry, process (inward)

mobile need to

cultivate

, improve ,

become and instill

encounter
with what my memory cannot wholly. a swarm
of gibberish on my corneas. the mumble of the
meandering shifts. shapes condemn then interact.
my body is still the boy's that could not whistle
until my hands unknotted into understanding

shoe-tying dexterity. what is shame but a shape

enlisted to dwarf the mirror's truth of imagery?

perhaps further listening will further the hands

calling from my then-alive grandmothers'
disparate

teachings. too, of my allergies to a cousin's cat, my

still desire to interact though eyes became red
marbles

rolling atop the concrete, the game of trade-off my

friends and devotion called toward collecting,
instilling

diagrams and whereabouts to capture and adhere
to

newness. the classrooms teaching introversion,
first. my

anxiety of deliberate attention never did dissipate.
each

brand of language. a notice to interpret, but what?
how

could interpretation compose my tongue without
defining

an interest to abbreviate my motive. gibberish, my
corneas

will exhale, electric.

draw. write this shape

called circle. instructions from foreign sounds.

tongue of teaching fathoms: concentrate
steer the pencil’s movement, well. of
this kindergarten creation, needed blending
do bodies, too-mine, collaboration with minds
and four-year-old intentions.

asthma
the bouquet of my breathing has wilted—

pastel
clarity

now opacity, an impairment of
ability to move sans

an athlete’s motivated effort—
into the emergency
room’s

diluted warmth, into my uneasiness a shot
exposes fear and a child’s hankering to be

escaped, untainted







2 Poems by Heath
Brougher

Jinxed Memories

The shrill and leavened blood
of the immolated children; fire bones rib-wracked
and squashed brown; now dust
and memory and dream and the uncertainty
of whether these things were ever real,

were ever even made of the Physical Universe
or instead of the lightness of mere fantasy;
a swish and a swirl; a droplet of a galaxy;
the memorial never carved in stone,
never fully knowing if such things ever existed,
the servile mind and memory, lost, limps onward.
drowning in the ubiquitous uncertainty that capes
all Thought.

Wooden Wires

I bleed like boredom.
Everything flows and bleeds through me, not you.
You are the son of the Universe.
You are the son of the Monster.

I put a cork back into the deflating cloud.

You keep growing faces on your head.

I turn into modern.
I turn into a modem.
I turn into moths of math.
I turn into trigonometry.
I turn into Truth.

Satie X 3 , Jerome Lester Horwitz

Mom, what’s a

contributor ?

’s work has appeared in
Heavy Hands Ink, mad swirl, Right Hand
Pointing, Four and Twenty, and vox poetica.
Steven lives alone and paints murals of
crowds.

is a poet, songwriter
and collagist living in Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently
appeared locally, nationally, and overseas in a
variety of print and online publications.

studied English at Seton
Hall University and enjoys living in The New
York City area. He is a white-hat hacker, but
his first love is the Arts.

Получить хорошую девушку
Я люблю свободу.

was raised in
Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he
attended public schools until the completion of
seventh grade. He then attended and
graduated from Saint James School located in
Washington County, Maryland. He received
his Bachelor of Arts from West Virginia
University in 1991, and his Master of Arts
from American University in 1999. For over

two decades, he has studied, performed, and
worked with numerous arts projects, musical
collaborations, and arts-related organizations
facilitating various art-mediums and
expression as an artist, a magazine columnist
and poetry editor, lead singer for rock bands,
performance artist, and folk singer. As a solo
artist/acoustic guitarist and songwriter, he
has toured and performed in musical venues
throughout America with an emphasis on the
regions of his Mid-Atlantic roots. He has
three published books of poetry (Red Dragon
Press), and also performed solo works in
improvisational settings in regional art spaces
with nationally known artists and music
groups. He currently lives in Central Florida
and works as a communications director of an

international boarding school where he
continues to write, record, tour, and perform
his acoustic music infused with poetry.

produced all
art within the pages of this magazine,
excluding those attributed to others.

is a poet documenting
coöccurrences. His poetic language stems
from exterior motivation of jazz music and the
belief in language’s unconstrained devotion to
broaden understanding. His work has been
nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of
the Net anthologies. Recent poetry collections
include Forms, migrating, Of isolated
limning, Mathematics, Espials, watching what

invents perception, and Of these voices. He

edits the online journal, Of/with: journal of

immanent renditions. He lives in California

with his wife and family and is a director of

supported living and independent living

programs providing supports to adults with

developmental disabilities. Visit

felinoasoriano.info for more information.

: “I live in York,

Pennsylvania and attended Temple
University. When I am not writing, I help
with the charity called Paws Soup Kitchen
which gives out free dog/cat food to low income
families with pets. My work has appeared or
is forthcoming in Yellow Chair
Review,Of/With, Mobius, Main Street Rag,