solid state



The litany of conviction is repetition


 Weather precedes your arrival. Light arrives later as

small irregular shingles,  carpets the lawn.

 Hurricanes drag the levees.

 The current drives our good goat to his knees.

While a hurricane is happening, it’s OK to

      consider your relief when it’s over.

Many traffic lights now have traffic cameras but

      there are only 11 sure ways of lying to a duke.

Do not break your knee.

  Healing it will be more difficult than you expect.

If you died today, would you spend an eternity?

 Solid is a state we might attain, when thick is what we mostly are

The litany of conviction repeats





I Got Him a Shirt


I got him the red shirt but he got
his own belly and we promised not
to go back until we’d had enough
of what was out there for us—
although we did anyway—since
Mexico in a magazine always sighed,
Peregrinate, until the plastic suitcase
gave way while we were still struggling
with the stones in our shoes and
anyway like I said to Mary, buying
that shirt just showed love is something
you do, not something you feel.


First appeared in Ghoti






The Musteline


Take the least weasel, she said,
like every weasel, brown above and white
beneath, take the mostly albino ferret,
or the ermine, dark to light, depending
on the season, even take the wolverine,
that dusky glutton, Gulo Gulo, skunk bear,
every one of these, true carnivores,
take their instinct for testicle and jugular,
their names suggesting a wide paw,
a sharpened tooth, the knife of claw.
The scarlet line from them to us, she said,
is a digression, dear ratel. The larger
mammals like ourselves are hostages
to fractured logic once we’ve dined out
in Leningrad on weaker friends,
our praise for clean, unbloodied paws,
while to our credit, honey Badger,
never hides, nor our white backs disguise
how, unlike any Musteline,
we wear our darkest fur below.


First appeared in Emprise Review









Wendy Taylor Carlisle is an Arkansan who lived for twenty years in Texas. She is the author of Discount Fireworks (Jacaranda Press, 2008) and Reading Berryman to the Dog (Jacaranda Press, 2000). Her chapbook, After Happily Ever After, was published as #15 in the 2River Chapbook Series. Her poems have appeared on line at Fringe Magazine, Ghoti Magazine, Salt River Review, 2River View, The Arkansas Literary Forum, Unlikely Stories, StorySouth and others and in print in CiderPress Review, Cardinalis, Windhover, Borderlands, Ekphrasis and others. She has won several awards and has been eleven times nominated for a Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Web.

Wendy Taylor Carlisle’s chapbook, Persephone on the Metro, is now available from MadHat Press. More info on Wendy can be found at




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Chrystal Berche is an artist, photographer and writer living in North Central Iowa.

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 If you can’t get to Anchorage for this exciting event, 

click the book cover below to purchase your copy

of this tremendous debut collection of short stories

just released by MadHat Press, or go here:





highway 1 front cover draft 4 72px

MadHat Press is proud to present HIGHWAY ONE, ANTARCTICA,
the debut book of short fiction by Justin Herrmann.


Praise for Highway One, Antarctica:

 ”As waves of new stories wash over the reading world day after day, Justin Herrmann’s voice stands out like a boulder anchored to the beach by authenticity and empathy. His working class characters live just out of reach of contemporary middle class life—and love. And Herrmann writes their stories with the respectful honesty of a guy who knows what it’s like to work the late shift with an aching heart.”

—Richard Chiappone, author of Water of an Undetermined Depth


“Justin Hermann is one of the best new voices in short fiction—deep and entertaining as hell, with many funny lines, unexpected turns of events, and great insights. Wonderful stories: each one is a trip!”

—Josip Novakovich

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Lot’s wife looked back


knowing she would become
the salt all men crave,
the taste they wished on their tongue.

They broke her into pieces
to carry
on their fingers, their palms,
and in their pockets.








Janeen Pergrin Rastall lives in Gordon, MI, population 2. Her poetry has appeared in several publications including: The Raleigh Review, Prime Number Magazine, Referential Magazine, Heron Tree and The Michigan Poet. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her chapbook, In the Yellowed House will be published by dancing girl press in the summer of 2014.

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Here is Where


The unmapped fields are mouths of red and purple worms
and blow flies blue as royalty lead the way
to beetle drum and scrape, they lift their dim gray hems
to count the heaps and sing the broken teeth
of who knows what and who knows how

best to mortar blackened bones together, brick
by knuckled brick
and knotted joint into the last stand the last man
booted out in a blaze of glory,
all for one for the history books but

Nevermind nevermind trill the troubadour arthropods
and I agree. Fat-happy, gloss-feathered, beak-deep
in the rich clotted dark I am a patient chef in the musical iron steam of the abbatoir
the scribe of the crumpled field
the soft ground soaked in red confusion.
Off with the heads of the rusted red streams, lost

in the feet of the leafless hills that sag and slump to the ground,
taken. There is no slant obelisk or wall scribble-scratched to say,
Here is where. I sail, I scan, I crouch on the stained brown sand.
I sharpen my claws and quills.
Stone, flesh, paper, it is all the same

I’ll hum while I straddle each page.





Bucket List


Before I die, I will dabble my toes in the Ganges
and caress the face of a statue
in the jungles of Angkor Wat.

I will bear a carved stone breastplate, heavy
to haul up dry Sinai slopes
and I will hold the blue jeweled hands of Vishnu.

I will trace a nameless arabesque
in a sunlit mosque of tiles, shining
the muezzin’s call floats above, a beaded necklace of desire.

The drought-summer garden rattles, here, brittle
while I rake, tines clawing, deep-dowsing
bright bits of bone, fingers of compost, the carcass

of a rabbit the cat killed weeks ago.
Dust petals spiral in the air,
breathe in the perfect fragrant helix.

Set down the shears,
abandon the sweating bucket for a better view.
The journey to paradise is short.








A graduate of Duke University, Janice Eaton Akers has edited, authored, and co-authored many adult nonfiction and children’s titles including The Book of Wizard Craft, which was published in 20 languages. Before she began writing full-time, her photography and visual art explored issues centered on the representation of trauma, genocide, and secondary witness. She and her spouse live in Arnaudville, Louisiana.

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MadHat author Wendy Taylor Carlisle will be performing in Louisiana in April!


Persephone on the Metro by Wendy Taylor Carlisle

Her new book is available now from MadHat Press!




Catch Wendy at one of her south Louisiana reads, or tune in to her radio interview at 3 pm on 4/17 which will stream live at


Thursday, April 17, 3pm

Wendy appears on Apres Midi with MadHat Lit‘s editor Clare L. Martin. Judith Meriwether interviews Wendy and Clare on Lafayette’s NPR affiliate, KRVS.
88.7 FM or live streaming at


Thursday, April 17, 7pm

Wendy Taylor Carlisle and Toby Daspit
Voices Seasonal Reading Series
Carpe Diem, 812 Jefferson St, Lafayette, LA

Saturday, April 19, 2pm

Wendy presents Acadiana Wordlab
(a near-weekly literary drafting workshop)
Acadiana Center for the Arts
101 W. Vermilion St., Lafayette, LA

Tuesday, April 22, 7pm

Wendy, Taylor Carlisle, Vincent Cellucci and Alex Johnson (and others TBA)
“riverever,” River Writers Series
Boudreaux & Thibodeaux’s
214 3rd St, Baton Rouge, LA

Wednesday, April 23, 8pm

Wendy Taylor Carlisle
Blood Jet Poetry Series
4301 Burgundy St, New Orleans, LA
(in the Bywater district)

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A long time ago she had been part of an entourage that traveled to India with the Beatles.  She had been invited.  It’s not exactly a known fact.  There were other people who tagged along and received terrific publicity, had their photo in Look or Life, wrote articles, books, gave interviews that generally exploited the Beatles, the Mahareeshi and India; for what that was worth.  Some forty years later, Mrs. Calcutta almost can’t believe it herself — she was there.  Another little known fact: there were two Mahareeshis on the scene.  The second Mahareeshi (dubbed the lesser Mahareeshi by Beatle George) had given her her new name:  Mrs. Calcutta.  Telling her: You are our mother and our father.  She had traveled to India as Katie Rose Klugen, and she left transformed.  Epic.

When you’ve been on the inside track of something that big, that momentous — historic, really; well there’s never again the need to worry about catching the last errant train.  India.  And she’d literally imploded, all blocks to her mystic pathways released.  Up till that point her life had been fairly humdrum.



Last year Mrs. Calcutta returned to this Queens neighborhood where she’d grown up.  Her elderly mother had fallen ill eventually passing from complications of pneumonia.   The two bedroom co-op left in the will.   There were no siblings.  Crumbly with age, nevertheless the roomy old place had a nice park view from a triple window in the living room, and was still furnished mostly with her mother’s things.  Some of them, like the red lacquer Chinese coffee table, pretty damned nice.

She ran her hand across the smooth-as-glass finish, remembering the story about her dad shipping it home to her mother, during the Second World War.  She pictured him in China haggling over the red table in a marketplace where chickens hung by string fastened to their ankles.  She wondered a moment if chickens were plentiful during that period?  Her dad had been in Army supply and knew how to get things.   After the war, he’d somehow procured this apartment; though decent housing in and around New York City had been scarce.  Then he left for good when she was about three or four.

Well, Mrs. Calcutta had options.  She could stay on in Queens or sell the place.  The town itself was becoming problematic.  Filthy.  An almost deliberate attempt to ruin what had been a green and grassy oasis just beyond city limits.  Accumulating trash along the curbs, graffiti showing up everywhere depressed her.  Most buildings had those steel window guards that clamped down at night to keep out the junkies.

In the mystical trade for many years, she had recently rented a small storefront on one of the main drags.  Minus a window guard, already hers had been smashed.  So much for the honor system, she’d thought.  Not that she had anything in particular against junkies.  These days, more than ever, she understood the great societal need for drugs; though it was probably half a lifetime since Mrs. Calcutta let even a mere joint rest between her lips.  Been there, done that was her stock reply.

Back then. When she was a petite waif-girl, skinny and flat chested with all those protruding bones.  Elbows, knees, chin, cheekbones.  Raffish hair chopped off in a pixie-cut, huge saucer eyes lined with kohl; eyes that took up a good deal of the surface area on her face.  Somewhat coincidentally (though Mrs. Calcutta believed in no such phenomenon) around that same time a certain artist was becoming rich and famous painting faces with impossibly large round eyes, faces that found their way onto greeting cards.

The summer after high school graduation, she’d hopped a plane to LA, ended up in Malibu, at this hip party where the Beatles happened to be partying.  Her face striking a chord with John Lennon.   He’d sniffed her hair like no tomorrow, wanted to know was she the face for the waif-faced model?  Eventually George got into the act, too, but later.  Each in his own way and his own time.   Even the flowing Mahareeshi in his robe was bewitched, inviting her to come along to India.  Sacred.  He’d murmured it into her third eye.



On a train that may have been traveling from Mirat to Ranpur, or Mayapore to Pankot, the Mahareeshi plucked another Mahareeshi practically out of thin air.  That second Mahareeshi seemed to float, materializing from out of the miniscule cloak room in the stuffy train compartment.  Naturally, being the Beatles, they had taken over all the first class walnut-paneled railroad cars.  Everything very British colonial, leftover from the days…  velvet train seats worn down to shiny, mirrors darkly mottled glass, bronze wall sconces and other accoutrements decayed and moldering.  Centuries of dust in the folds of the train curtains.  Not that anyone on that spiritual junket seemed to notice, or care.  Dirt!  Dust!  It was of no significance.

By way of explanation regarding the second Mahareeshi, George told her the lesser Maharesshi was a true Maharesshi all the same.

Ringo, juggling drum sticks in the bong-filled air, said fucking A more than once, as if to confirm the second Mahareeshi’s good standing.    

Paul sat alone and silent.  Brooding in his seat.  Or perhaps just sleepy.

John, in her memory, inexplicably missing from that moment.

At any rate, the lesser Mahareeshi, chubby in the way of the upper Mahareeshi, kept smiling and smiling.  He picked out Mrs. Calcutta to smile at from almost the first instant.  He bobbed up and down like a buoy.

There are other girls on this train, why don’t you smile at Marianne Faithfull? had crossed her mind.

Yet for all his intense cheer there was trouble brewing in his inkpot eyes.  He often looked cloudy and unsteady, mumbling in his native tongue, and sometimes he called her Mister Calcutta; once requesting she wear a necktie to bed.

At that, all the Beatles except Paul had burst out laughing.  Then Paul said How bloody original and told the lesser Mahareeshi to Give it a rest.   Then John told Paul:  You’re confusing things.  The lesser Mahareeshi continued to be confused throughout most of the journey.  India.  All very strange and wonderful.

Of course after a time things began winding down, as things are apt to.   Disagreements arose.  Where to chant, the hill or the garden?  Which foods to eat, who not to invite to dinner.

As for Mrs. Calcutta, some private arrangement had been worked out by John and George, though of the two, George came to her less frequently, engrossed as he was in what would become “Within You Without You.”  She’d heard those particular words spoken but didn’t know beyond them at the time.  

And, what of it?   She liked guessing.  Would it be John or George parting the mosquito netting that draped her bed?  Uncertainty making it all the more wondrous!  Two Beatles at her beck and call!  Or, she at two Beatle’s beck and call!  Either way, it was practically a spontaneous miracle (though Mrs. Calcutta did not believe in miracles).  Devising her own secret game, she placed roots in her ears to blot out their voices, keeping her eyes shut.  Revelation coming only with the kiss.

Then one night after a solid week of mud weather, the lesser Mahareeshi beat it out of the compound.  Who could blame him?   He’d been taking heaps of abuse from the upper Mahareeshi who fingered him for this or that infraction.  As minor as leaving the cap off the toothpaste!  His absence not discovered until morning.

By that time on the journey things had pretty much cooled across the board. The news services picking up and reporting trouble from within the enlightened circle.  Someone (disgruntled servant?) leaked information.  Someone banged a hole in Ringo’s snare drum.

In her opinion he handled the situation well.  No big deal was all he said.  Quietly, meditatively.  Though under that cool friendly exterior Ringo’s nerve endings never stopped jumping.  Mrs. Calcutta saw them doing a sort of jitterbug movement.  Sometimes they acted like ball bearings that kept trying but missing their connective point.



At last, the inevitable goodbyes.  She scarcely felt hers, though her mouth had opened appropriately, the right words poured out, her arms had extended to give and receive hugs.  Then Mrs. Calcutta flew away to Hong Kong.  She’d always dreamed of seeing the Chinese junk boats sliding through the harbor in a purple sunset.  She had money in her purse (a quite considerable sum) thanks to John and George. After a couple of weeks in a noisy flat in Kowloon, where the neighbors strung washing across the balconies, she packed for Macao.  She heard Macao called practically prehistoric and that sounded good; Kowloon under siege from street construction day and night.  One thing she had learned from India: she required the quiet breath.

Built low to the ground, and dusty, Macao had the feel of a Mexican border town.  What motivated Mrs. Calcutta to stay on a few years, she still can’t explain; but stay she did, operating a small truck stop café for people coming off the tour buses in need of light refreshment (after Macao she would put down stakes in seven major cities then broadly called The Orient).  Why that particular region of the world had called to her, she couldn’t say.

And, in all honesty, she couldn’t say she missed a one of them.  Not John, brilliant and ethereal.  Or sweetly sensitive George.  Or the other two Beatles who’d become lumped together like sticky oatmeal.   Elusive reasoning.   In fact, Mrs. Calcutta did not like saying the names of the other two out loud.  She also did not miss either Mahareeshi.  Her time spent in India was her own to claim.  Grown used to her new name, and deciding to keep it, while in Macao, she began noticing things differently.

It began with the people stepping down from the tour buses.  Many looked frustrated, unhappy, the elderly in particular who struggled with the somewhat steep bus steps, as if it meant life or death.  And she would look and immediately know everything.  Infancy down to their last rattling breath.  Spread out nice and orderly in front of her.

Besides the orange swizzle drinks, Chinese beer, and paper thin sandwiches, she had something else to offer people.  Tacking a sign onto the flimsy, termite infested veranda post:  MYSTICAL READINGS (free).



“I’m not sure about that,”  said Mrs. Calcutta.

At her storefront location in Queens, sitting opposite a fleshy, middle-aged male client, the table draped in batik-cloth, she was feeling squeezed.  The single room had required a separation so she hired a carpenter to partition off the waiting space from the consult space.  It turned out all wrong.  The waiting area now way too large, the consult area too tiny to comfortably accommodate both of them, a table, a pair of folding chairs.  Not to mention the man’s overt misery adding to the tight feeling.

For a moment her mind shifted to India.  Its open fields, wild and expansive, as seen from the train windows long ago.  She tried adjusting her chair but it was already smack against the partition wall.  The fake wood paneling with its flat bulbous knots like lips sucking air out of the space.  She took some quick breaths in and out.

She had once known the Beatles.  People passed this information along, it brought people in for a reading.  As the story goes, she had found her spiritual awakening in India on that pilgrimage.  What the heck!  It wasn’t quite like that.

The upper Mahareeshi, quickly growing bored with her, had wanted to toss her off the train.  Literally.  Every time he came within ten feet, she was forced to change cars.  It was exhausting.   He kept calling her idiot over virtually nothing.  Then he called her stupid idiot, all on account of a small fire (easily put out) after she accidentally dropped a match in the lavatory bin.  Everyone standing by benignly while she sobbed.  Even John and George, the train rocking, the Mahareeshi tearing into her.   Soon, maybe a day or so after, the appearance of the lesser Mahareeshi.  Nobody thought much of it.  Not then, not now.

The news services stalking the pilgrimage, had printed a most unflattering photo of her, half-kneeling in the fields beside a young spotted deer, her head tipped at an incongruous angle.

The headline read: Beatle Girl and Billy Goat, Is it Love? 


The implication was hideous.  The Beatles had found it funny.  The article went on to label her a typical American malcontent, mentioning the lavatory fire and hinting that she might be a pyromaniac with tendencies toward bestiality (she’d only wanted to hug the little deer).   In those days bad publicity did not magically convert to good publicity and cash.  When she thought of the deer now, she thought the timing unlucky.

Best to keep everything big secretive; that’s how to get through this life, she thought.  Now she was trying hard to smile at the unhappy man across the table.  Know the unknown and taste the unwelcome —  it had stayed with her all these years, a teaching from one of the Mahareeshis.  Most likely the upper Mahareeshi.

“Please, you have to tell me,”  the man said.  Across from her at the table he looked flushed and sweaty.  She noticed his bottom lip quivering.

Mrs. Calcutta shut her eyes to get away from him.  What could she say?  She couldn’t see his wife, Jodi Lynn.  The wife wasn’t coming across.  A woman he called a princess, and saying she was unfaithful to him.  He was certain.  But he came to Mrs. Calcutta to be one hundred percent sure.  Children are at stake, he told her.

She shook her head and opened her eyes.  “Sorry, I’m still not getting it.  I’ll give you back your money.”

“My money?”  He seemed about to break down.  If he fell against the partition wall, chances were pretty good he’d break that, too.  And if he took back his money, it would negate other things, important things, that she’d already confirmed.  Reducing the whole reading to a big fat zero.   Failure.   She wondered if his princess, Jodi Lynn, ever called him fatso?

Then probably the first time in forty years, Mrs. Calcutta thought of “Within You Without You.”  George’s words infiltrating the tight space.  What he called that space between us—  all his dreamy wall of illusion stuff.

She licked her dry lips.  If the man took his money back, he would leave with less than he came with.  He knew as much, too.  That she could see quite clearly.  Why the hell couldn’t she see the rest of his life?

With some difficulty he stood up in the tight space partially dragging the tablecloth along with him.  Embarrassed, he tried smoothing it; then ran a hand across his balding pate.  “You keep the money,” he told her.   “I’m going home now, to start to trust my wife.”

Maybe it was his hand moving the sparse hairs on his head that caused her insides to shiver.  Again she thought of India, its hills and softly blowing grasses.  Then John, George and the others crowded in, chanting, chanting, everyone as one.  Before the whole thing came loose.

She saw flames latch onto white bed sheets and heard a woman’s shrill laughter ring out.  “Does Jodi Lynn have a lot of red hair?”

His adams apple jumped, a kind of delirium in his throat.

“Long and red, real red, not dyed or anything.”   The man stood straighter.  “You can see her now?  It isn’t good, is it?”

“It isn’t good.  But it’s not forever,” said Mrs. Calcutta standing too.








Susan Tepper is the author of five published books. Her recent title The Merrill Diaries (Pure Slush Books, 2013) is a Novel in Stories. Tepper is a named finalist in story/South Million Writers Award 2013. She has been nominated nine times for the Pushcart, and once for a Pulitzer Prize in fiction.

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Survival Transformation



pendulum targets pragmatic dancers
swollen fleeting down the lifeboat floor


a crux of water / walking on wood
where piety boats follow the blind
rafter diffusion essential theorists

walking corollaries
leather-faced, dead-eyed

parallels in consequence
reach a withered crescendo marker
buoyed sequence to reef


infusions needed lay no claim
to finite darkening / talk

breeds encapsulation shutters
chancing dogmatic interlude diffusion
caterpillar etymology in transition


morphology tactile as presence
in form or manner of discontent



Increase in Direction



rudder placebo tactics inure
federated tax rations from
pillbox allure stations passing
travesty bandages bellied
past leaking feats of renown
a vantage known past giving
leaky memoir facades intruded
on welling masses encasing
voluptuary lace and massage
embracing furtive sex bandits
in transaction predilection pits
shifting gears to transition tides
mud rising to practical heights
where radium artists dream
peptide auguries in rebellion
the nodal fury seams ripping
sure passions decreed impure
where practice barns evade
rapture sessions turning rare
under every pelota template
inflecting caterpillar paper
mushroom fandango suites
play appellant apertures fixed
in garnish cream slathering
fluid emotion tentacles prey
summer ensures blood dreams
no amnesty packets allowed
domestic infusion bracketing
sure as practiced a cappella
wipers hood their ornaments
before living applause clasps
future swallows before breath
takes a year to harrow its toll
exchanges relay cold affection
toned the penalty box fiasco
more to the rolling grasp oiled
beyond mention or standard
deviation eunuchs assemble
pantry lies that slowly inhabit
parchment reciprocity guidelines
implementing rabbit precursors
under stadium frontage laws
passed in rearview mirrors fit
to stage an ampersand colony
accord gauged treaty removal
supplemental labors rescinding
the hold on where the profits sit
much nearer than the rearview
offers for its unpaid hindsight
relived as memory vacations
narrowed to a blink and wallow
rankling crossroads motor events
where baking canon fodder meets
a slow delirium mix banking on
a shore curve resembling hidden
angles to simulate belfry chatter
timing the clinical mix to fixation
rides aching in the saddled more








Vernon Frazer’s most recent books of poetry include T(exto)-V(isual) Poetry and Unsettled Music. Enigmatic Ink has published Frazer’s new novel, Field Reporting.  His work, including the long poem, IMPROVISATIONS, may also be viewed at In addition to writing poetry and fiction, Frazer also performs his poetry, incorporating text and recitation with animation and musical accompaniment on YouTube. Frazer is married.

Frazer’s web site is

Bellicose Warbling, the blog that updates his web page, can be read at


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are these little pinches I’m feeling on my tongue spanning words
from a bubble burst & garlic flavour part of a serial of suicides?

pain crushes me to the ground takes lilliputian steps away
repeating your curses not as delicate as when we were two
skinless birds

I lay here buck naked pushing my right arm to the pole
nobody gives me a hand nobody covers my back

it’s minus 5ºC above me and a bit more below when
nobody walks I hear my bones growing like a snail
making his way through the tissue

crows get close to my face sing dreadful requiems &
hit with their shiny beaks my asphalt mirrored eye

I feel little earthquakes as they get increasingly close
resonate with my heart levitate with my soul’s thin air

far away is you riding an elephant to
the black clouds furnacing on heaven







Marius Surleac was born in Vaslui, Romania. He is a physicist and doing a PhD in Bioinformatics.  He publishes poetry in journals like Pif Magazine, Bare Fiction, 94 Creations (forthcoming in 2014), Dear Sir, Mad Swirl, Poetry Super Highway and others. He published his first poetry book called Zeppelin Jack at Herg Benet publishing house, in 2011. His Romanian translation of The Propaganda Factory, or Speaking of Trees by Marc Vincenz, will be published in bilingual form at Adenium publishing house, in 2014.

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