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TRIGGER WARNING Copyright 2021 The Parliament Literary Journal, ISSN 2767-2158 (print); ISSN 2767-2166 (online) is published quarterly in November, February, May, and August. All correspondence should be sent via email to parliamentlit@gmail.com. All rights are reserved by the arsts and authors; all stories and poetry in the journal are conal. The Parliament Literary Journal and logo design are registered trademarks. Submissions are accepted for our themed issues and contests via Submiable; details on our submission requirements can be found at our website. www.parliamentlit.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS4/5 /6/7 Nikki Gonzalez   
8/9 Michael Brockley
12/13 Khristy Knudtson  
14/15/16/17 Kate Meyer-Currey 
18/19 Alan Bern  
20/21/22/23/24  Paul Tanner  
25 Kevin Vivers  
26/27 Natalie Kormos  
28/29  Eddie Brophy  
30 Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier  31 Daniel Flore III  
32 Rich Renner  
33 Maid Čorbić   
34/35  Lynda Scott Araya 
36/37/38   Mac Gay  
40/41 Lindsey Pucci  
42/43  Karla Linn Merrifeld  
45  Matt Dube  
46 J.M. Allen  47 Anthy Strom  
48  Yi Jung Chen  
50 Benjamin Jacoby  
51 Stephen Kingsnorth  


Artistically Inspired Contest52 Michael Rogers  
54/55 Stephen Kingsnorth  (Arst’s Winner) 56/57 Lucia Coppola  (Editor’s Winner) 58/59 Jay Weinberg  (All-Around Winner) 

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR I remember my first ever literary scumbag. I can, to this day, place myself full-bodied into the memory of reading “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein. My six-year-old body is tucked into the corner of our living room sofa and I can feel the warm press of my mother against me, the book splayed open on her lap. And she read to me the story about the boy who grows into a man and takes and takes and takes from a tree until the tree is nothing but a stump. And even that he takes, as well, in the end. I didn’t want to cry in front of my mother, I remember that, too, but, oh!, how I hurt. How I angered! I knew a scumbag even if I didn’t have the word for it. The years - decades! - that followed would bring more scumbags into my literature. I enthralled as violins would wail in the guts of Pinkie Brown; as Sick Boy and Begbie were shooting up and giving Glasgow kisses; as Alex couldn’t outrun the law (or the deconditioning therapy); as I se-cretly aspired to be as ambitious (even at the cost of selfishness) as Scarlett. How delightful to be so close -- even submerged -- with the subversive. The antiheroes of literature remain the most enticing characters for me. But there are antiheroes in our real lives, too, beyond the safety of a book’s cover. They walk among us and, often times, hurt us. Now here, dear readers, I must tell you: In another draft of this cover letter -- a version that only the con-tributors to this issue will have access to now -- I told a story here. A true story about a woman being hurt quite badly by someone she had given her whole heart to. In this version of my letter was her sordid story, with the details of the abuse she endured and the heart-ache she suffered as the result of one man’s selfish-ness. I told, in this story, how her friends urge her away from him time and again, watching as she crum-bled under the weight of him. As he devoured her (continued) 4

love and support so greedily, she weakened into a frail shell of herself. Despite all warnings offered to her, her mind couldn’t fathom people behaving like this outside of fiction. Monsters like this can’t be real, can they? Stomp all over hearts gifted to them so trusting? My description of this man left him bruised and battered, his deeds fully exposed. And I had included her story originally as it was the very impetus for this issue’s theme. She needed, I knew, the words of Kanye. She needed, as we all do at times, the outlet that his inspiring invi-tation calls for: Let's have a toast for the douche bags Let's have a toast for the assholes Let's have a toast for the scumbags Every one of them that I know And so this issue became an offering to her and to all writers and artists to sit with their own scumbags -- to look them in the eyes, to confront them. It was an opportunity not only to vent but, perhaps, swing hard at them. This theme became my way of saying to everyone that I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. Or used. Or lied to. But, let’s let that be our fuel to create. As Freud would have us do, let us take that energy and cathex it. Let’s throw it, smear it, launch it, -- write the shit out of it! -- into something beautiful, rather than have it eat away at us. Shit turned into a masterpiece through our very talents. We will write our curses in cursive. And writers and artists did just this. They rose to the challenge and embraced it. In fact, they SLAYED IT and made the most gorgeous works of art; fitting tributes to our antiheroes. This is, without coincidence, our longest issue ever (with the need even, we think to revisit the theme again soon for a Part 2 to give pages to well-deserving works that we just didn’t have space for). We NEEDED this. In this invitation to vent, we collaborated, too, with #HaikusThatBurn, a cheeky little photog-raphy-meets-poetry project that invites people to create three lines of haiku but “to make it 5 1 Kanye West & Jay Z. Os . Os Redding. Watch the Throne, Roc-A-Fella Records, 2011. (continued) 2 2 1 Kanye West. Runaway. My Beauful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Roc-A-Fella Records, 2010.

burn”; the traditional homage to nature and life turned on its head. An assortment of submissions can be found on pages throughout the issue (and I couldn’t help myself from adding one of my own to the mix). We created a mix tape of our favor-ite songs that burn and lines that jab hard at the scumbags, too. We jeered our antiheroes properly. BUT! But something else happened as I was spurring people on, riling them up, and lacing up my own gloves to join in the melee for some heavy hitting. Something beautiful and wonderful arose in this call for submissions that would eventually lead me to take out the brutal details of the ori-gins story: There were writers and the artists -- a surprising number of them! -- who submitted and told me in their cover letters that they COULDN’T and WOULDN’T. There was a vocal contingency of optimists -- the ones who find sympathy for the scumbags, seeing deeper into their motivations; the ones who unwaveringly believe in love triumphing through forgiveness and communication; and the ones reminding us that we must not throw stones (aren’t we scum-bags, too, after all?) I, for my part, could not and would not ignore their hopefulness. What kind of monster would I be to squash that? So they, too, are in these pages and I am grateful for them. It was a reminder I needed to hear; a call to try forgiveness and love perhaps one more time -- and not because the scumbags deserve it, but because we do. The story, then, edited out of this cover letter, seeing now that he may already be bruised enough. So, in these pages, we will do both. We will swing hard (because, damn, it does feel good indeed) but we will also pro-mote another perspective, one summed up so well by the Span-ish word I learned long ago: “pobrecito” -- poor little thing -- rep-resenting the idea that rather than letting anger alone drive us, perhaps we can find it in ourselves to drive forward with a view fueled by pity and understanding. Because isn’t forgiveness 6

catharsis, too? The final pages of this journal, as is our tradition, are filled with the winners of our Art-Inspired contest. And here, too, these stories and poems, based on the artwork by Michael Rogers entitled “Abstract Noir”, underscore how perception is truly in the eye of the beholder. Like the writers who would not, could not affix a ‘scumbag’ label alone, these writers also saw and wrote with depth. The three stories we selected went beyond the dichotomy of colors, the black/white; be-yond the either/or, and found complexity in Michael Roger’s shadow-play that mirrored the complexity they find in their own lives. Stephen Kingsnorth, in Ctl X, Ctl V, did his research (as he always does) and finds connection to the art and the artist, alike. Lucia Coppola, in Riddle, takes us on a gentle though curious ramble through a sculpture garden where what is not visible or named on a plaque is just as present as what is. And lastly, closing this issue as the most apropos finale, bringing together contest and theme and the enduring insistence of seeing the dimensional layers to people, is Jay Weinberg with Equus, his first-ever contest entry. His words paint colors across the pages for us and with deep poetry insist that though behind bars we fortify one label, we cannot stifle or erase the whole person. It’s a story that I expect will sit with you long after you close the back cover, as it has for me. And so, I leave this issue with a very different perspective than what called it forward. My hope is this: Fun though the antihe-roes may be in our literary world, may, in the end, the optimists and reformers prevail. Let us be kind to one another, scumbags the lot of us as we are. Nikki Gonzalez 7

MICHAEL BROCKLEY Sherry Darling’s Mother Drinks a Glass of Sun Tea on Her Front Porch While Criticizing Her Daughter’s Boyfriends Not one of them has a name a girl’s mother could love. Weak-Kneed Willie. Chicken Man. The Magic Rat, for God’s sake. And every one pulls up to the house in a pink Cadillac that gets repossessed before the carnival gypsy can read the lovebird’s Tarot. It’s like each suitor sells his heart to a junkman before the couple reaches the Tunnel of Love. One of the Casa-novas honked his arrival from behind the wheel of Frankie Roberts’ Buick, the getaway car from the time Roberts murdered that kid in a roadhouse. That handsome Dan didn’t both-er to clean up the beer cans and cheeseburger wrappers the killer left on the floor. And here’s Sherry all gussied up in a summer dress for a chili dog at an all-night diner in Atlan-tic City. If some long-gone daddy promised to write her name in his book of dreams, she’d primp in her bedroom for weeks. Might as well believe Santa Claus is coming to town. Like the sort of woman who wears a wedding dress to an “I do” service in a J.P. office. She drew pictures of her mansion on the hill in her sketch book. I’m not saying my daughter is a su-permarket queen. She ain’t a beauty, but she’s all right. Still the Magic Rat never dropped to a knee offering a wedding ring and a roll of dice on something more than the last ride on a ferris wheel in a city of ruins. I heard Spanish Johnny swore he’d prove it all night, but my baby deserves a Romeo with a hungry heart and a roadmap toward more than a leap of faith into Mr. Trouble’s glory days. 8

A Bench Buddy Dedication at the Donald J. Trump Primary Academy The school custodian turned the covfefe-colored bench to face the swing sets, the one the lo-cal bully shoved fourth grade girls off of at the beginning of the year. The stench from a toma-to cannery the next town over hovers over the dais; its cloud pesters the principal, the mayor and a work-release prisoner on loan from the county jail. Beyond the playground fence, a Pe-terbilt rig carrying Spotted boars to slaughter rumbles past an Amish gelding pulling a driver-less buggy. The bench was manufactured from recycled beer can tabs in a city named for a mad general. Now it will serve as a seat for kids who want to join a dodgeball match or a game of Bang, Bang, You’re Dead. “America the Beautiful” skips and shrieks from an invisi-ble speaker. Recorded by the wife of the sole survivor from the massacre at Bowling Green. The mayor mumbles his speech about uplifted boots and second amendment heroes into a dead mic. Then taps his watch as the principal adjusts a Save the Children scarf around her neck. She signals to the office until “You’ve Got a Friend” groans from the hidden speaker. Near the bench, the work-release prisoner burnishes a gray name plaque with the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit and pockets the off-brand screwdriver he’d used to tighten a few bolts. He’s the only one to notice a bucket of white tadpoles beneath the seat. An omen he’ll ask his wife to interpret the next time she visits. Michael Brockley Michael Brockley is a rered school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana where he is looking for a dog to adopt. His poems have appeared in Woolgathering Review, The Pine Cone Review, and Vising Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan. Poems are forthcoming in The Last Stanza Poetry Journal and Flying Island. 9

#HAIKUSTHATBURN (a collaborative project of anonymous poets) 10

#haikusthatburn 11

Khristy Knudtson Inviting the Banshee to Tea Emotionally dysregulated, a disturbed identity. Amidst hysterical lamentation, my own banshee shrieks to me. She is invasive and delusional with defective neuro-circuitry. Throwing matches onto my amygdala, incineration of my rationality. She is an outcry of disturbance a developmental deformity, formerly marked for self-destruction, now-turned mental health insurgency. The scent of hemorrhaging embolisms, kinetic vapors, a cauterized effigy. Boiling cerebrospinal fluid into my soup of toxicity. She is an eidolon, an apparition, my sister, my sanity. A Borderline’s Banshee sibling, and the better part of Me. 12

To My Un-Born Child Khristy Knudtson Who are you but a vacancy? a cigarette burn on the wall of my uterus and an abscess of DNA. Please understand, this was not Darwin’s suggestion but my decision to save you. from yourself (and me and her). Please understand, this is not your history and I am not your mother. Please understand, that if you could think you’d be thankful for that. As a high school English teacher, Khristy L. Knudtson encourages her students to be vulnerable risk-takers even when they don’t necessarily share her passion for reading and wring. Knudtson graduated with a BSE in Secondary Educaon from the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh. In May of 2019, she received her MA in English and Creave Wring with a concentraon in poetry from Southern New Hampshire University. She has four poems published in The Penmen Review and twelve arcles published in The Mighty where she is an unapologec mental health advocate. Forever toeing the line between sensive and sardonic, Knudtson lives in Wisconsin with her husband and cats where she keeps herself caeinated enough to know when it’s an appropriate me to speak her mind. 13

KATE MEYER-CURREYPure GoldI’m your original rough Diamond init. TheTotal platinum deal.Teflon, too; as noShit sticks; I swerveAnd redirect. I’m a Ninja, with someBadass moves;Fly, float, sting or Drop like an atomBomb. Hide inNo shadowsYou see meComing; I’m On display 24/7;Wear my coloursWith pride. HoldMe down; I’ll Hold you upAt gunpoint,Give you bothBarrels; Mr GlockOne of my boys.Mr TongueFights his corner;(continued)1`4

Kate Meyer-CurreyGets them beforeThey get him.He’s got an elegant  Vocabulary for aWar of words.Mr Third LegIs my weaponOf choice; makeLove not war,Only womenSay one thingAnd mean another:They’re tongue Twisters in myBook. Relying onMr Right HandFor now; he’s All action. FairTo say I’m the Full package:100% respectIn my blood,Learned off myMum but madeLike my dad.(continued)15 

Crack and smackAre bad mixers soGuess I’m the Citric in the hit;Someone’s Mr Addictive, PureClass A withIntent to supplyWhat I neverGot. Tragic?No ways: it’s  The story ofMy life. MakeMy own happyEndings in myKingdom ifYou’re too  Much of aPrincess toSee I’m not A fuckingFrog. It’s not A fairy taleOr I’d be dead By now, or lostIn the forestOr some shitLike that. Got(continued)Kate Meyer-Currey16 

Kate Meyer-CurreyTo turn cursesInto blessingsOr still be asleep,Like the deadPeople who thinkThey’re in charge. Emporio new clothesNot Armani; justBare ass bollockNaked: stark likeMy truth. This is noSpoiler alert;Get on my magicCarpet ride andCruise the hood;Destroy thoseMonsters hidingIn my head,Under the bed,In my ends.Watch me putOn my crown:So wake upSleeping BeautyGet with my plot.Kate Meyer-Currey was born in 1969 and moved to Devon in 1973. A varied career in frontline sengs has fueledher interest in griy urbanism, contrasted with a rural upbringing. Her ADHD also insls a sense of ‘other’ in her life and wring. She currently has over sixty poems in print and e journals including Family Landscape: Colchester1957 (Not Very Quiet, 2020), Fear the reaper, (Red Wolf Journal, 2021) and Chopped egg and onion (Sck Figure, 2021). Gloves recently made top 100 in the UK’s ‘PoetryforGood’ compeon for healthcare workers. Her rst chapbook ‘County Lines’ (Dancing Girl Press) comes out later this year. 17 

ALAN BERN down went Mike Pence 18

when they came for the others Alan Bern Alan Bern, rered children’s librarian, is a prize-winning poet, storywriter, and photographer with three poetry books: No no the saddest and Waterwalking in Berkeley from Fithian Press; greater distance, Lines & Faces, his own ne press/publisher specializing in illustrated poetry broadsides, collaborang with arst/printer Robert Woods, linesandfaces.com. Recently published photos: unearthedesf.com/alan-bern, thimblelitmag.com/2020/08/10/emptying/, and theravensperch.com/12439-2/. Alan performs with the dancer Lucinda Weaver as PACES: dance & poetry t to the space and with musicians from Composing Together, composingtogether.org/ 19

PAUL TANNER Cut to Black EXT. HIGH STREET. DAY. FADE INTO : A typical British High Street. Everyone is fat and ugly and pushing prams, faces twisted in offence at their own existence. ZOOM IN: Exterior of a shop. A SHOP WORKER stands in the doorway. A CUSTOMER approaches: CUSTOMER: Can’t I come in? SHOP WORKER: No. CUSTOMER: Why not? SHOP WORKER: We’re at maximum capacity. CUSTOMER: (sceptical) Oh yeah? How many customers have you got in there? SHOP WORKER: Five. CUSTOMER: And how many can you have? SHOP WORKER: (visibly deflates with a sigh) Guess. The CUSTOMER narrows her eyes … She looks over the SHOP WORKER’s shoulder. CUSTOMER: I only count four. SHOP WORKER: Well, there’s five. CUSTOMER: No there isn’t. SHOP WORKER: Yes, there is. I can count to five, thank you very much. (continued) 20

Paul Tanner CUSTOMER: Oh, and you’re saying I can’t, is that it? At this accusation, the CUSTOMER is smiling triumphantly, for some reason. She puts her hands on her hips and waits for the response. The SHOP WORKER takes a deep breath, picking his words carefully: SHOP WORKER: No … I’m merely saying that I’m confident that I know how to count. And I’ve been stood here longer than you, so can you just take my word for it, please? CUSTOMER: (visibly panicked) Oh, well, yeah, but, you know! You could be lying, couldn’t you? The SHOP WORKER shakes his head in disbelief. SHOP WORKER: Why? Why would I lie? CUSTOMER: I don’t know! you tell me! SHOP WORKER: (pinches nose) Jesus fucking Christ … CUSTOMER: What? (steps forward) What was that? SHOP WORKER: Why should I be the one to come up with reasons for why I’m a liar? You’re the one suggesting it! While he’s taking, a customer walks out of the shop … SHOP WORKER: Are you really this bored and miserable? Have you really not got anything else to do but pick a fight with someone who’s trying to save your life? … and another customer walks in … SHOP WORKER: If you want to kill yourself, do it at home! But don’t drag the rest of us to hell with you, you vindictive, lonely sack of – CUSTOMER: (pointing) Look! You just let someone in! Cos you were too busy abusing me! I’m gonna report this! You’ll be sorry! She starts to walk away backwards, waving her fist in joy. (continued) 21

CUSTOMER: You’ll see! Everyone’s gonna know what a discriminatory bastard you are! And then we’ll see who’s the vindictive one, won’t we? SHOP WORKER: Ok … The SHOP WORKER stands there a moment, nodding to himself quietly … SHOP WORKER: Looks like today’s finally the day … He gets out his gun and chases after her. CUSTOMER: Hey! What’s that you’re – He rapid-fires a stream of bullets into CUSTOMER. She explodes in fleshy confetti upon on the pavement. It’s kind of beautiful. At least, it would be, if it wasn’t her. He looks around: The throng of disaffected mouth-breathers – maskless to a man – all stand staring, shopping bags full of tomorrow’s refunds dangling from their greasy paws … whilst breathing through their naked open mouths, of course. SHOP WORKER locks and loads again … QUE MUSIC: that “Happy” song with the really catchy chorus that was in that film with them yellow cartoon aliens (and every fucking advert, so getting the licence to use it shouldn’t be an issue). SLO-MO: finger permanently on the trigger, SHOP WORKER sweeps a bullet-storm across the crowd of shuffling shoppers: Waves of plebeian meat scatters in all directions … The pram-pushers implode from bullets and / or irrelevance. Their spherical children pop like red and yellow boils, lanced too late. It’s all very metaphorical … As the fat flesh farts from their wasteful bones, some of them even drop their cans of lager or iPhones – just as they were typing a Google Review too, what a shame ... Paul Tanner (continued) 22

Paul Tanner Down they go, until the street is knee-high with consumer patè … And, with every local cunt safely dead, the SHOP WORKER and his gun finally run out of steam … MUSIC FADES OUT. He stands there panting, an almost orgasmic look of relief on his face … Then he climbs the pile of shredded, twitching bodies and stands proudly atop them. SHOP WORKER: Review this, you nation of narcissistic class cannibals! He fists bumps his gun into the sky. ZOOM OUT with an ARIEL VIEW of him amid all the human devastation he has just rightly caused, cackling wildly: SHOP WORKER: Ah-ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa! CUT TO – Close up of SHOP WORKER, staring into space, daydreaming … VOICE: (off camera) Oi! Excuse me! SHOP WORKER: Huh? He is back in the shop doorway. A new customer stands before him. CUSTOMER 2: Can I come in? SHOP WORKER shakes his head, snapping out of it: SHOP WORKER: Oh, er, no. Sorry. CUSTOMER 2: Why not? SHOP WORKER: We’re at maximum capacity. CUSTOMER 2: Oh yeah? (continued) 23

Paul Tanner CUSTOMER 2 narrows his eyes and looks over SHOP WORKER’S shoulder. CUSTOMER 2: How many you got in there now? The SHOP WORKER sighs. He takes out his gun and cocks it. He looks at the camera and shrugs. It’s bloody endearing, it is. CUT TO BLACK. ROLL CREDITS. PLEASE. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST ROLL CREDITS ON THIS TYPICAL BRITISH HIGH STREET SCENE. Tanner plays Dark Souls and gets COVID. His favourite colour is twat and he is sll allergic to cheese, dagnabit. He authored Shop Talk, No Refunds, and Working Class Zero. His newest, Lowest Form, is out now. See @vote_tanner for more. 24

KEVIN VIVERS The Hustler A statement from Kevin Vivers: My photographs capture the aesthecs of the everyday—the people, buildings, plants and animals, trash, rocks, possessions, and images that moment by moment weave the tapestry of our lives, even as we pass them by. This theme is appealing as I take a gentler look at my subject, not so much a scumbag but as an underdog. I've had a past life, or two, where I was very much on the underdog side of life but I have been very fortunate to come out fairly well. This lady was one of the hardest working hustlers I have seen. Methodical and relentless, borderline obnoxious but, very focused in manic way of making her ends meet. 25

NATALIE KORMOS Implosion A thousand screams of which to cry, to come and rush and spill right out, Bring forth the burning of the pain, fiery coils to writhe about. Locked right in with walls too close, no door, no window, no way out, Her chest heaving with cold abuse, no use to cry, no use to shout. Breath that did not seem enough, to fill her lungs, just not enough, Her thoughts though wild, her mind chained and cuffed. Her skin crawled with the thought of him, his ugly soul, Eyes so evil, his manipulative control His foul mouth that spoke such lies, To all others he deceitfully wore, an ever so pleasant disguise. No words could she ever say to fight, against his foul spew, The raging storm inside of her, of which none ever knew. The truth must out about this leech, That sucks the life, to joy lays siege. His ears that could never hear a word, spoken by her thoughts so true, His wicked eyes that cackled in taunt, of which he’d cry boo-hoo! Such a horrid beast too nasty to paint, Though a self-portrait, would be of a saint. (continued) 26

Natalie Kormos A 2020 graduate of University of St Andrews, Scotland (Biology BSc), Natalie competes on the horse polo and ballroom dancing teams in addion to taking part in golf, sailing and reeling. Natalie began wring poetry when her mum read Hailstones and Halibut Bones to her at a very young age. Natalie’s work has been featured in North American and Canadian poetry compeons hosted by Creave Communicaon, The Poetry Instute of Canada, The Royal Canadian Legion and Polar Expressions Publishing. Natalie has most recently been featured in The Parliament Literary Journal's inaugural issue as the Ekphrasc poetry compeon’s Arst's Choice winner. She has a great passion in wring to share messages in a rhyming form, that challenge perspecves inspire innovaon and allow for creavity. Poem Comments: This issue’s topic A Toast to the Scumbags was truly inspiring and emoon-relieving. Thank you to Nikki Gonzalez for the opportunity for writers to share some of the most tangled emoons through the wrien word. In wring Implosion, I felt there were a lot of shards of hurt that came through and in toasng the Scumbags, I believe it allows us to free ourselves from the binds of some weighing pain. This poem is entled Implosion for the very reason that I believe a lot of people keep most of this pain to themselves and rather than releasing it, it crushes the light. Let the implosion rather be, the crushing of the scumbag! A tongue that’s forked, that whips her soul, His heart a rotting, empty hole. There is nowhere for her to disappear, nowhere for her to flee, His deafening cackling at her displeasure, he hollers with glee. Was it ever different, from this before? Ever a time when which, cruelty he never wore? The sinking of a ship far from shore, when all the stars are black, A thievery of righteousness from which, none is ever given back. Sinking, sinking, to the very bottom of the sea, Landing amongst the shells and sand, a soft implosion no one ever could see. There in the depths, lies a soul broken beyond repair, A cold shiver away from daylight, in an ever-salty despair. 27

EDDIE BROPHY A Millennial's Lament to Tami’s Fatigue The inundation of perfection goads a reluctant adherence to specious panaceas creating an industry of placation to the cupidity of sorrow building a mausoleum of envy through vapid consumerism and perpetual qualms poised for the tedious algorithms of the pseudo persuasions of truth I am a domestic neutered alpha male I am the antithesis of patriarchy my words seldom heard yet the thoughts are a cumbersome weight supine, servile, and seditious I watch a future of futile redundancy in the form of quasi-masculinity normalizing the echo chambers of its own demoralization I paint my son’s nails, and read the first draft of a suicide note of my deceased mother-in-law pulled from moldy box millennial fatigue inundated with somber nostalgia I was bastardized by a false creed Yet, a forever latchkey kid my anthem feels apropos to succeed so Tami’s last days weren’t in vain. 28

A Requiem Begging for clemency from despair there’s a vacancy you can’t fathom when love is arbitrarily taken you used to speak in tandem now people are garrulously talking you through the grief of a lost appendage in languages you can’t understand because his voice no longer resonates outside the synapses of your wearied head across from you is an empty mattress in a room full of melancholic reminders that bereavement is your new roommate I’m afraid to trivialize the existential and there’s nothing I can do to disencumber the sound of your mother’s pain from the reality that you lost your little brother I harbor no storied sage, and we’ve been dormant But I remember when We used to anesthetize each other in cynical laughter about the subterfuge of life’s most abrasive lies holding you while you cried felt like home in the most morbid way you lost him at 29, and you apologized why did it take this to pick up a phone? I assured you that the operator should work both ways I cannot say I’m sorry enough I don’t want you to go through this alone Eddie Brophy's poems have appeared in several print and online publicaons including In Parenthesis, Terror House Magazine, and Ghost City Press. His short story "The B.K.R. Killer" was published by Haunted MTL and his debut novel "Nothing to Get Nostalgic About" was published by Atmosphere Press in 2020. You can follow him on Insta-gram @Eddiebrophywriter and read his blog at www.eddiebrophywriter.weebly.com. Eddie Brophy 29

KAREN BOISSONNEAULT-GAUTHIER Midge Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier is an Indigenous visual arst, writer and photographer. Most recently she's been a cover arst for Arachne Press, Prey Owl Poetry, Wild Musee, Existere Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Giganc Sequins, Oawa Arts Journal and more. When she's not walking her husky, she's also designing with Art of Where and somemes wring poetry or essays. Karen now uses some of her artwork on non-medical face masks, hoping to be a beer global cizen. See www.kcbgphoto.com to nd out more. 30

this woman at the pool can tell I really want her squirts white sunblock on her legs looks at me as she applies it and is really rubbing it in DANIEL FLORE III A Response to Poolside Gawking Daniel J. Flore III’s wrings have appeared in many publicaons. He is the author of 4 books of poetry from GenZ Publishing. The latest is tled Pink Marigold Rays. 31

RICH RENNER Nightshade Nineteen decorated seedlings stand at attention In a straight line on the border of our yards and Greet my neighbor who ignores his unrestrained Havanese, yipping, yapping, prancing, chasing its Tail and pausing to sniff the mulch beneath these Solanaceae, the ones I ordered last March from a Horticulture website that popped up on my feed After I had watched a breaking news story about Dead rabbits cast in a mirthless circle, ink-lipped Eastern cottontails round an altar of devil’s berries. Rich Renner is an Emmy award-winning media producer whose work has appeared onscreen and on stage, as well as in various literary publicaons. He is a volunteer organizer of the Collingswood Book Fesval. Rich lives in southern New Jersey. 32

MAID ČORBIĆ Incomprehensive Disgusters I raised a toast with smiles on our faces And I haven't even met yet How do I know what needs to be done When do I still scratch our noses? I steal God’s days and catch the Sun with our hands I cut our veins for bastards How is it possible that I still love those people Who can't love us sincerely? The firmness of it all is that I look boldly forward Bastards need nothing but a wink I caress their hearts and sew their wounds When they see how insignificant the variety is I are still patiently waiting for fate I are kicking, and I haven't even drunk brandy yet The lifestyle is fast, brisk and purposeful Some new happenings that happen every day Idiots need nothing more than applause It goes without saying that the Moon caresses our hands It eats our brains juicy and drinks our veins He gallantly and optimistically crosses the field of the wicked! Maid Čorbić is 21 years old from Tuzla. In his spare me, he writes poetry that have received praised and awards. He also selessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan. He is also the editor of the First Virtual Art portal led by Dijana Uherek Stevanovic, and the selector of the compeon at a page of the same name that aims to bring together all poets around the world. Many works of his works have also been published in anthologies and journals around the world (Chile, Spain, Ecuador, Bosnia and Herzegovina, San Salvador, United Kingdom, Indonesia, India, Croaa, Serbia, etc.) as well as printed copies of the anthology of poems "Sea in the palm of your hand“, “Stories from Isolaon", "Kosovo Peony" and others. 33

LYNDA SCOTT ARAYA Cock Womble My boss is SUCH a cock womble She shouted Loudly Across the crowded bar. The words Spurted between her lips With venom. They wove their way to me Where they sat Unknown and unused In my mouth. I had heard Cock wobble. I thought of her boss And when I had met him first At a barbecue. Where he had attempted small talk While his eyes had grazed her nipples, then looked to the rugby field beyond Before turning gratefully and resting on a MAN Come to join the conversation. (continued) 34

Lynda Scott Araya His eyes had lit up then He turned Cold shouldered us As though we had never been. As though our job adding the onions, pricking the sausages, dolloping sauce Had no place in his world. Now, at the table, for a brief second I imagined his penis - A worm. Thin, pale pink. It would lie in my hand Flaccid Before I squashed it underfoot. Lynda Sco Araya is a writer and educator who lives in rural New Zealand in a heritage house with too many animals. She enjoys wring about quirky everyday events as well as advocang for suicide aware-ness and beer understanding of grief. Most recently, she has been published in Sending Nudes, an an-thology published by Guts Publishing, Landfall 240, and Prospectus. A Literary Oering. 35

MAC GAY Killer When I got home from Desert Storm the crazy terror hit me like a bomb. My stress was caused by nothing-- all the nothing here back home-- smiles and laughter, calm drove me to drink. Then County Chairman Johnson hoisted a few with me, we talked, he said he had a job he thought might fit me to a T, to tie some loose ends up. He chuckled, then called my job Euthanatologist, and said I'd have a truck, new Remington, free cartridges, good pay. He said just be available each day-- Sunday too, to make "house calls" to where a deer's been hit, stray dogs after a calf, maybe wild hogs. It calms me down to see them die, I don't know why. Guess red's my favorite color. Even after all these years my aim's as steady as it was when I cleared out those black-haired fellows on the other side. My heart's a happy hammer when I kill. Hey, you got a mess to fix, I will. 36

Mac Gay Catcher in the Wry Way back, got jerked from second base to catcher because of little rich boy's shitty arm. First day a foul tip hit me in the balls, so rich boy's dad bought me a cup, which rubbed a weeping blister on both legs. Squat down, stand up, squat down, stand up, so I ditched the cup and took my chances. It's then I learned loving taking chances to see those cocky fucks swing hard as hell and still strike out. Up close and personal revenge was always sweet, foul tips be damned. Third strikes are what I lived for way back then. I'd stick that last strike in their faces. Like pissing in those rich boys' Cheerios. Just like these hard years now, all up the ass of a rich man's house, spraying Acme's poison on the termites. I take my chances there, too, sucking the fumes a poor man has to bear. But sweet as the chance of a clean-up hitter's flop is the soft underbelly of a rich man's house. I'll risk cancer, rats, a copperhead's bite, even that rabid coon that bit my throwing hand and blessed me with twenty injections in the belly for a few good shots at the privileged SOBs (continued) 37

Mac Gay who've had me my whole life squat or crawl. All folks are full of darkness-- so am I, so before I leave, sometimes I crack a pipe-- just a little hammer-tap here and there, to leave a little gift for my superiors. The sound at night my mind dreams up at dozing is big man's golden toilet's flushing, and knowing the filth that fills even the richest, luckiest man, his trophy wife and spoiled and rotten kids, swirls down and around, by God, but not away into the sewer, least not until a plumber visits. I'm always with my hammer and pipe wrench. Sometimes for weeks they can't locate the stench. Their crawl space is proof the rich are full of shit. Mac Gay's most recent collecon is OUR FATHERLESSNESS now out from Orchard Street Press, Ltd. His new collecon THE LEAST is forthcoming from Iris Press. His poems have appeared in numerous mags including The American Journal of Poetry, Atlanta Review, Cutbank, and Main Street Rag. He teaches at Perimeter College of Georgia State University. 38

#HAIKUSTHATBURN 39

LINDSEY PUCCI The Boss 40

Scarlett’s Shadow Lindsey Pucci Lindsey Pucci has a B.S. in Art Educaon from U.W. La Crosse where she was the recipient of the Carol Quillins Scholarship Award for her digital photography. Her work has been shown in the La Crosse Cen-ter for the Arts and The State Street Gallery in Wisconsin as well as being published in Nighngale & Sparrow. She teaches and lives with her husband and young son in Minnesota. 41

KARLA LINN MERRIFELD #41 & #42 at the Hearing Did you have relations with the member in question? Relations? Media relations? Intercourse. No. No? No. We fucked— he burst into my velvet vault. Er, right. How many times? Who’s counting? Estimate. A dozenish. Over three long months? Plenty, considering I was trading him on and off with Chep, chief in charge of the operation on my Lady Jane’s rosebud. Ahem, Madam President. Do you or do you not support this body’s sanctions for their ethics violations? I do not. Mr. Hung and Mr. Tongue may be cockslingers, nothing compared to you whoremongers. 42

Dirty Business Karla Linn Merrifeld Andy fucked himself big time in the dot-com Bust – and the marriage bust: Amandy inside trading Cowboy cock, Brahman-bull breaking her skinny ass. Don’t think Mr. Andrew Suit flipped his phone. Easy come, easy go. Why not real estate For a quick change of biz? Latina Anita’s next in line, Girl with lips to give his head a spin, Hot for all the subprime he had to mortgage. In for an inch, into all kinds of one-night Junk bonding, hedging his fund of lust. Killing them slyly with butt smacks and a finger, Lies in small print, Handy Andrew/Andy Made a bundle shooting his wad, Wall St. to Main St., No avenue of sleaze left unslimed. One day banking in offshore pussy, the next diddling Ponzi schemes, Mini Madoff Andrewski didn’t Quit. He just kept on spurting all over his Spreadsheets ’til he screwed the final monkey. This shit, the Great Recession? Sucks like a ghetto whore. Unprotected sex on the stock exchange floor? Who me? Very, like, unlikely, officer. I’m an innocent dude. Whatever will my brother do with himself in Sing-Sing? X-wife, x-string of conned bitches, x-sister— You won’t see us on prison visitors day. Zebra Stripe behind the iron bars of greed. Karla Linn Merrield has had 900+ poems appear in dozens of journals and anthologies, with 14 books to her credit. Following her 2018 Psyche’s Scroll (Poetry Box Select) is the newly released full-length book Athabaskan Fractal: Poems of the Far North from Cirque Press. She is currently at work on a poetry collecon, My Body the Guitar, inspired by famous guitarists and their guitars; the book is slated to be published in December 2021 by Before Your Quiet Eyes Publicaons Holograph Series (Rochester, NY). 43

#HAIKUSTHATBURN 44

MATT DUBE Butterfly Named Sue No one else in the kitchen at Chianti wanted to go with Jamie to the Bad Behavior tat-too parlor, so it fell to me, like any other prep task. After, I led him with my hand around his elbow to the Green Top for a beer, his left eye covered by a gauze bandage to give the new tatt time to settle. He leered at the other folks on the sidewalk, daring someone to ask what happened to his eye, but no one took the bait. The leather-backed chairs cracked when he sat, stuffing peeking out. Buy yourself a man’s drink, Ja-mie said and handed me a twenty. I’m not going to fight you, I said, but took the money and stood at the rail. An old horse in a Megadeath t-shirt drew two dollar drafts. I made him give me some quarters and dropped them into the jukebox, pressed the but-tons to bring Johnny Cash into the bar. You should listen to this, I said to Jamie when Johnny started telling the story of the boy named Sue. He sipped his beer and listened, but got up after a couple minutes. It’s so long, he said, and I want to see what it looks like. I followed him to the bathroom. I stood in his light when he peeled back the tape that covered the butterfly he had tattooed over his eye. It was still a swirl of color and irritat-ed skin; to me it looked like a bruise. He started to cry. It’s so beautiful, he said. I want-ed him to punch me so he would stop crying. Come on, I said, you’ll ruin your make-up. Ma Dube has worked with some scumbags, and he's unsure why he's adming this, but the memorable scumbags were more fun than the ones who just went about their day making everyone miserable. He's probably been a scumbag himself on occasion. In fact, he's sure of it. 45

J.M. ALLEN The Lawn Keeper Early on Sunday mornings, my neighbor is out mowing his lawn. I’m still in bed trying to sleep, because it is not long past dawn. He patrols his whole lawn daily, the grass is a thick dark green. Automatic sprinklers run daily, and there is not a weed to be seen. Chemicals are often sprayed on it, and I think ants get it the worst. No insects at all are tolerated, even though they lived there first. The weed trimmer is very loud, and the cordless blower too. Much energy spent fighting nature, all for one home owner’s view. J. M. Allen is a 50+ year old, who recently started wring a bunch of rhyming poems. He is a long-me resident of Rochester, Minnesota. 46

the crocodile a bizarre work a rictus picture of the old times smiles at me and whispers truths into the air irony is Fate’s promise misinterpreted 3 people have alllll the money I lie she loved you, you pushed her away because you were afraid of being abandoned violence is my favorite food the universe is petty, disturb it with trivial frivolities and it will pay you back with interest you found it funny when they died because it had nothing to do with you curses sell better than blessings and terror more alluring than hope _ _ his eyes are covered in mucus and flies he quotes ee cummings and Freud old bat ANTHY STROM Crocodylidae Anthy Strom is a poet from Alberta, Canada. Although they have been wring since they were eleven, it was only in the past year that they began wring poetry. They are currently pursuing a career in Aviaon. They specialize in free verse poetry. 47

#HAIKUSTHATBURN 48

YI JUNG CHEN Mending Patches The cardinal reminds me to take three steps back, struggling with angers and building fences against each other, the proof of love, from stitches looping to floral design, hand embroidery too difficult for clumsy fingers, seams torn open wide, takes time to repair. Extending an olive branch, your way of making compromises, quarrels ripping our hearts apart, niggling over details, dark thoughts gnawing at my minds, creating hidden breach in our relationship. Pulling the thread to one side or the other, giving a nice press with the iron, try to make it flat and wrinkles, two detached souls, reunite us again for the old time’s sake. Stumbling over words to fix the face, filling our rooms with the aroma of citrus bergamia letting the magic formula comfort mood swings holding you back in my arms, felt into gentle slumbers, as we once did. Besides teaching pupils of learning dicules at Dounan Elementary School of Taiwan, Yi Jung Chen wrote poems in English, Chinese and Taiwanese languages, which had been published online and on paperback edions. She would like to have her poems published by more journals and shares them with people around the globe. ＊Contact Info: jolenechen@tnps.ylc.edu.tw ＊Instagram Handle: @ymay86 ＊Twier Handle:@YiJungChen3 49

I really wish she could have seen me in action that day. It was the second basketball session, a warm Friday afternoon. I purposely distracted myself during an activity and they all laughed at me, which was the intent! I wish she was there in that mo-ment, comfortably sitting on a beach towel on that grassy hill adjacent to the court, laughing in unison with the others. Don’t worry! You were being you! That’s not going to change anytime soon. There will be many other moments. She will be there and you’ll make her laugh til she cries. Keep being you because that’s who you are. You won’t have to force it. It will come naturally in any scenario whether you’re coaching or simply at home together on your couch. Be kind to her always. You’ll laugh together always. Self-confidence will come natu-rally always. I stress always because that’s you. You know your potential and she will see it in your words and actions. Maybe an unexpected surprise? A random act of kindness? Whatever works for her. You know her well enough. Just don’t stop being you! That’s all you have to do and she’ll laugh every time; she’ll look you in your eyes for more than a split second and she’ll be yours ALWAYS! BENJAMIN JACOBY Forever a Dreamer When Benjamin Jacoby is not creang stories and characters in his mind, you can nd him coaching youth sports in Highland Park, New Jersey, working as a paraprofessional in Highland Park Middle School, or geng together with a wring club on Tuesdays via Zoom with members from all over Middlesex County. He has wrien four complete rough dras of novels and is hard at work on eding. He is dedicang Summer 2021 to honing his cra. A long-me Jersey resident, he currently resides in South Edison and enjoys spending me close to home and especially down the shore with local friends. He is looking to expand his horizons as a writer and is thrilled to be a part of this ne establishment. 50

STEPHEN KINGSNORTH High Five Thumbs Up I guess, when’s done, we all are scum, the sum of all those arrogant, who point the finger, selves with thumb, print whorl, tip end, identikit, the bunch of three, clenched into palm. From scattered stones, shamed woman prone, I see a man who stands alone, then lowered, scribbles in the dust, and dares those elders, gather round, to throw the first, their target near, but as they slink, he raises her, in equal stance, on level pitch. That lore is shared by those who know, whatever faith, or none at all, save that companions, walking low, once blamed a woman, then the snake. We measure up, we find our height, not through our knowing we are loved, but when we find those needing such, the baby cry, first gasp of breath, ourselves, round earth, inhabitants. Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), rered to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had some 300 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Parliament Literary Journal, Runcible Spoon, Poetry Poon. hps://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ 51

MICHAEL ROGERS Abstract Noir 52

53 Michael Rogers is an arst from Highland Park, New Jersey. Though his day job is as an electrician, he follows his passion to create in all the mes between, having always been drawn to underground art and culture. His preferred medium of expression is in the creaon of zines, parcularly using yers from punk shows and gallery events, an obsession that began from his youth in the Midwest with underground culture. He nds the art of creang zines a completely pliable way to express yourself with no rules or limitaons. He adds, “To me, zines are a perfect example of how cung edge art and culture can survive any sort of degradaon or selling out. Zines are a way to experience the truest form of art that is totally original and real without any preconceived noon of what it should be.” Michael Rogers’s original zine series is called PERSONAL BEST and he has recently begun laying out a new larger format zine. This new magazine is tled “RUBALCAVA” See a full interview about his process and inspiraons with Where the W3irdos Go at hps://weirdobrigade.com/2020/12/24/meet-this-zinester-michael-rogers/ and nd more of his artwork on Instagram @personalbestpublishing

Stephen Kingsnorth Ctl X, Ctl V ARTIST’S WINNER Here’s punk, rock, rolled to anarchy, a collage zine beyond your norm - bipolar swings and roundabouts, lines overstepped in monochrome. From underground to overland, sourced adolescent shakiness, dissatisfied with growing up into premould, presetted shape, outside the box - beyond the pale - four horsemen of apocalypse. Let serendipity be rule, the fall of things, chance visited, and find the shadowlands beneath the expectations, board bard bored; they talk of light from upper left, event horizons, curvature of space time in continuum, where strictures prompt to disobey. So cut and paste your poetry, find typewriter with monkey play, dyslexia write reading way and feed as alphabetti soup - confuse with hex broomstick brigade, to lunge in mystery of swamp, (continued) 54

Stephen Kingsorth discover wraiths in Elmo’s fire. With logic banned and perchance flail, opencast opportunity, try verse both blank, free, recipe, words insufficient parallels - unsuited our cosmology, unbalance form - my Parkinson’s. Conflicts, raging, every turn. JHWH wars on ُرَبْكَأ ُهٰٱ - global tetragrammaton. Without the morse to save our souls, a dot or dash can kill a child, both binary and Unicode, as unclear trans old ♀♂. Decode encrypt our only hope, NATO phonetic alphabet, where juliett meets alfa male - and ˈælfəbɪt sounds off again - told printers watched their p’s ⅋ q’s, both eroteme and ampersand. Precision aim has had its say. Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), rered to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had some 300 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Parliament Literary Journal, Runcible Spoon, Poetry Poon. hps://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ 55

Lucia Coppola Riddle EDITOR’S WINNER There are two chipped and weathered stone figures on the steps of this sculpture garden near where I live. They look like cherubs guarding a gate and though cold to the touch they seem soft and round with eyes that tell of a flame that’s within. One has the gentle look of innocence and the other a harsh glare. Were they to speak, I guess the first one would gurgle and the second would narrow its eyes, hiss and stare. The grassy part of the lawn with the well-spaced sculptures invites me to do a little ambling. I look lingeringly upon the curious forms and nameplates hidden between eyelets, bluebells, daisies and what nots. There’s “Rhinoceros” – wood”, “Circe” – stone”, “Mother - Walls” an amusing steel dot on a line - “Dialogue at 45° on the Hypotenuse”. The gibberish is bemusing, so I move along with my own point of view. “Abstract Noir” reflects on a pool of water with a golden glow and looks like angel wings emerging from below. I suppose Heaven and Hell must be here in this place where the paths are so straight and perplexing. And I wonder who put the stone cherubs there in the first place? I wonder why I even care - though one thing is certain (continued) 56

this is a place of delicate crafting - of worms that churn soil cavorting with bees that stir air of bronze hippos designing space with a correlated square of looking at what can't be by looking seen - things like angels that pass, the tease and tap of wings. Now I see them now I don’t. I’m tempted to call them by names but I’m not sure it suits them as they prefer to be secret and if you do count them you’ll always find more and more. Each one like numbers tends to invoke all the rest, so I’m left speaking of relationships: guardian, messenger, score-keeper, choir... And just now there are two of them here where I stand by the gate. Having guessed what they are, should they speak I may guess what they say. But they won’t speak except in riddles or tongues, or on a special day. Doers as opposed to talkers, they’re busy all the time. They put their buzzers on mute, shift shapes, change winds. Just now I can’t help but wonder at how well they’re providing perspective. Lucia Coppola Lucia Coppola is an ESL teacher who is originally from New York and has lived in France since 1985. She has a professional background in dance and body techniques. Her wring is largely informed by nature, tradional storytelling and by where she lives near the forest of Paris. Her work has been read at poetry readings in Paris, published online with Inspirelle journal and read on the Clocktower Radio program "New River". 57

He awoke again to a hot, arid morning. It was light, the sun had not yet come up. He engaged in his first daily mindful act of faith and gratitude, he would think of all that he loved, not his mistakes, during those timeless minutes when light presented itself before the sunrise. His faith confirmed, the sliver appeared, and he adjusted his gaze from inward ac-ceptance outwards toward the horizon, and as the red turned to orange, and the orange turned to yellow, the sun rose in the east, and in his mind, every day. He meditated on that. For only a few minutes he could gaze directly into the sun, and then it would burn and he couldn’t look at it at all. In that, this was like many things in his life. He was black with the white stripes that defined him, but never bound him. He studied the grasslands, scrublands and woodlands, the prairies of North America, the Asian steppes, the African savannas and veldts, the Australian rangelands, and South Ameri-ca’s pampas, llanos and cerrados. He was different than the other Zebras in this way, his chameleon self, here secretly learning to understand. It was his way of surviving. He now belonged to much that could never be taken away. The day consumed him with the intricacies of his connection to nature - fruit and leaves and bark, wild rosemary and wild oregano, the world of grasses. He was quite certain no one knew more about grasses than he did. Jay Weinberg Equus 58 OVERALL WINNER

He had his Zebra power, deep in each single cell, he would push and jump, bound and roll. He was capable, he could be still and peaceful, he could be explosive, he could conserve energy, and, mostly, he could wait, seemingly endlessly. He could strive to un-derstand how there could be such things as him in this world. The darkness came, but not to his soul, as he settled into those deep grasses, against the forces and predators of his life, his white stripes absorbed into his entire being as the corrections officers yelled “lights out” each night. He was black again, but the sun would rise over the savanna, morning would come, the lights would go on and they would reveal through the bars of his cage his powerful stripes, not the binds they want-ed him to feel. This is how he passed his time. Jay Weinberg Jay Weinberg is a resident of Highland Park, New Jersey and owns his own law rm in New Brunswick, New Jersey. He rst became aware of The Parliament through local social media groups, and thought to enter his rst “wring contest” in large part in support of community acvies and Nikki’s eorts. His job as a lawyer is to disnguish relevant facts and explanaons -- to express that which oen overlooked is most relevant. 59

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