Category Archives : Poetry


“Teddy Bear” by Steven Jacobson

eyes grey and granite, sparkling and shining, like the
moonlight luminously across the lake.

 

beard soft and shaggy like a large and
lovable saint bear-nard pup.

 

face gentle and gentile like an
uplifting and used book.

 

soul lucent and lovely like the
pure and precious driven snow.

 

hair sticky and short, like a
grown and grey koala.

 

tummy oval and oversize, like a sweet and
succulent water melon.

 

heart rendering and reachable, like a
rich and reliable light house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steven Jacobson was born and raised in the Mid-west graduating from UW-La Crosse, WI with a double major in Physics and Mathematics. He has attended classes from the Loft Literary Center, promoting all levels of creative writing. His poetry has appeared in Access Press, Calvary Cross, Burningword, The Glasscoin, Praisewriters, Enoiar Review, Penwood Review, Littleredtree, and Message in a Bottle.


“Tiger” by Frank De Canio

Like the Phoenix, he rises out of ash
from the chastening fire of his rage.
How sweet the sting of her linguistic lash
confining his wild tiger to its cage.
Fleet-footed carnivores prowling the plain
must seem no fiercer stalking helpless prey
than him, smoldering, making her maintain
control of him. He’ll doggedly obey
her every whim, as though her verbal whip
exacts his shamed submission to her rule.
And he’s afraid to move for fear her grip
will lose its feral hold on him. He drools,
while she keeps pacing – following his rout –
like she’s inside the cage and looking out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank De Canio was born in New Jersey and works in New York. He loves music of all kinds, from Bach to Dory Previn, from Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, and the poetry of Dylan Thomas. He also attends a Café Philo in New York City.


“Under My Dark” by Lana Bella

Five long hours. Under my dark. I sprawl awake.
Tumbling through the house. Sinking against the
windowpane, watching rained acoustics patter on
the terraced roof. Cries of raindrops. Mingle with
a symphony of ghosts roaming about me. Then I
pour myself a memory from a simmering cauldron,
flavored of alphabet scars and flakes of consciousness.
Hands on the pot. A sudden blink. How do I pour the
liquid thoughts and lettered inks into a bottomless beaker
without leaving my body in a pool of shadows? But now,
my lips thirst for drink. To warm over the cold where the
bone is hollow. Until, I lean in, something exposed and
glassy, echoing on the surface. It is my eyes staring back
at me. Gliding through the fluid with hooked arms. And
its mouth slurping up the pale gullet, heaving off the
squirting blood. The muddy mass of flesh throws up
in the mirage. Then high above, a dullard of rain again
breaks over the house. If I listen, my heart would once
more weep and my eyelids would suspend in tears. So I
stretch my skin where the stairs lay muted and heavy,
under the particled air into which darkness goes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction published and forthcoming with Anak Sastra, Atlas Poetica, Bareback Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Beyond Imagination, Buck-Off Magazine, Calliope Magazine, Cecile’s Writers’ Magazine, Dead Snakes Poetry, Deltona Howl, Earl of Plaid Lit, Eunoia Review, Eye On Life Magazine, Family Travel Haiku, First Literary Review-East, Five Willows Literary Review, Foliate Oak Literary, Garbanzo Literary Journal, Global Poetry, Ken*Again, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Marco Polo Arts Literary, Mothers Always Write, Nature Writing, New Plains Review, Poetry Pacific, Spank The Carp, The Camel Saloon, The Commonline Journal, The Higgs Weldon, The Voices Project, Thought Notebook, Undertow Tanka Review, Wordpool Press, Beyond The Sea Anthology, War Anthology: We Go On, Wilderness House Literary Review, and has been a featured artist with Quail Bell Magazine. She resides on some distant isle with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.  facebook.com/niaallanpoe


“After-Life” by Hugh Giblin

I try to imagine what it will be like,
not how it feels, but how I’ll look
to the young group busy scrutinizing
every detail of my naked prone body,
touching, commenting on its every part.
Am I some sort of vicarious exhibitionist?

 

They will saw off the top of my skull,
glad I don’t have to listen to that noise,
and slice me down from neck to navel.
Of course, I won’t feel a single thing,
its an experience I won’t experience,
not subjective although a subject.

 

They will see parts of me I never have,
an intimacy denied to me while living.
I assume it will all be very clinical,
no bad jokes or untoward behavior.
They will even give me a new name,
a new identity, an afterlife indeed.

 

I wonder if I will have gained a kind of immortality,
the first body, like the first sex, always remembered.
Perhaps the details will be dulled by time
and the many bodies that have passed their eyes.
Maybe only the deadly disease is remembered.
Rather than the person that suffered it and died.

 

The body, like meat in a supermarket case,
each piece carefully labeled, neatly dissected,
the blood sucked off, and placed on display.
The bones, the muscles, the ligaments in logical disarray,
the disparate parts of the skeletal personality,
deconstructed from flesh, blood and bone.

 

The class over, the parts, like the remnants of a festive meal,
are collected and bagged, ready for their final journey
to the crematorium where they will meet their fiery end,
their mission of life and mission of death completed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hugh Giblin has been writing poetry for some years. He has been published in local and online journals and won honorable mention in a Duke poetry competition.  He is an omnivorous reader of poetry, likes realism, and is happy to be a minor league poet.


“Incidental Epiphany” by Drew Marshall

Someone or some entity
Bless me
I have not sinned
I bear the signs
Of a marked man

 

Pointed fingers
Accusations
Truths, taken as excuses

 

Because of tomorrow
All things being equal
I remain
Fighting in my sleep
Charming, but angry

 

A mainstream, outsider
Has missed his intended, destination
Time is a luxury of views
I cannot afford

 

Dusty rhythms arrive
At memories end
Under the guise, of cloudy dreams

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Drew Marshall works as a Program Assistant in the mental health field. He has also worked as a Benefit Analyst and litigation paralegal. He enjoys practicing guitar and snorting vanilla scented candles.


“A Moment of Unconditional Love for Little Ones” by Cara Vitadamo

Love bleeds into my soul
Plastering itself to my heart.
I can’t breathe for fear of devastating loss.

 

Always present
Never relenting
Love does not rest
Bringing anxiety
To do its best.

 

Love adheres permanently
To the synapses and axons of my brain
With a glue so powerful
It cannot be pried away.

 

Love is here to stay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cara Vitadamo is a registered nurse that enjoys poetry. She has been published in Torrid Literature, All Things Girl, and Mused a Bella Online Literary Review Magazine.


“222 Homicides in Philadelphia” by Lee Erdo

alone,
on Philadelphia tarmac
lights illuminating recycled
wolf howl over the museum
can you feel them gnawing your skin?
seeping beneath your flesh
with a
blood threatening atmosphere
riding the expressway
with odd misshapen
hues

 

everywhere to nowhere
going postal
& born to be wild

 

Will Smith marches
for an
end to violence
mournful ears
read the words
of missing children
mocking birds play
raunchy bass heavy metals
pounding out a killer’s ransom

 

red eyes blazing anger
out of darkness
like fat slices
of stalking déjà vu

 

explosions stabbing mobs
of crime
sigh an upsurge
of inmates on death row

 

while the
signs on jails shout
“no vacancy”
grimacing screams
on playgrounds
bouncing off the streets

 

Reading Terminal curled up in fetal position
in the narrow alleys of poverty
secluded pathways of drug runners
kids owned by the hood
billowing mysteries of legal failures (mayor street?)

 

living in bell jars of beveled glass
apprehension edges on
the brink of everyday life
putting an end to confidence
growing skeletal remains

 

wearisome
living five floors below the surface
with dark-paneled pubs
pushers & pimps of a worldly hell

 

vomiting freshly spilled blood
a siren’s call in the distance
shifting eyes of some swinging door
monumentally erupting guns
then…
another…
fallen…
police officer
responding to the sum

 

pierced empty sidewalks
with sharp blades of sludge
hidden turnstiles of souls
where children go
at age four

 

and through the visor of mind
refuge screams in terror
“the kid’s zones…”
offered on Ogontz Ave
“stop-snitching” t-shirts
victimize their next targets

 

going against everything we know
while agony of surviving families… friends
have grave decisions to hold
the American Dream becomes
something that goes bump in the night

 

************************************

 

222 homicides in Philadelphia
as of Tuesday, July 25, 2006
sometimes it just gets to ya after a while

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lee Erdo is from north-east Pennsylvania.

 


“For the Poet Taken Away” by Ruth Z. Deming

(in memory of Jane Kenyon, 1947-1995)

 

 

I was looking for
a book of poetry
asparagas-thin,
skinny books being
easier on one’s chest for
bedtime reading.

 

Finding one,
I brought it to the sales girl
who sighed and said,
“Oh, dear,
it doesn’t have a bar code.”

 

Ah, blessed day
for poets and for me.
I looked at the back cover,
clean, unmarred
by that fat
disorderly line-up of sticks.

 

“No wonder,” I said to the sales girl.
“The author has just died
and probably took them with her.”

 

On my way to the car
I invited the poet
to slip inside me.
“Use my body any time you wish,”
I said and waited, my feet
pattering on the pavement,
for some sort of inner settling
that never came.

 

I showed her
the cluster of winter weeds,
their tassels dark with age.
Somehow, in the construction
of this aromatic new Barnes and Noble,
they managed to escape
the carnage that befell the
more obvious trees and woodlands.

 

Did she miss them?
these earthly delights -
thick-maned dogs, ponds, frosty maples -
images from her poems.

 

I will miss them,
when the time comes,
something as simple as
the back of my hand
creased with wrinkles;
fingernails, all without
moons,
a family trait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ruth Z. Deming has had her poetry published in literary journals including Metazen, Mad Swirl, River Poets, and Eunoia Review. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people and families affected by depression and bipolar disorder. She lives in Willow Grove, PA, a suburb of Philadelphia.


“Would It Be Okay” by Mike Nichols

I get that we are tough,
that we’ll get through this
because, I watched you
gripping the telephone
pressing your forehead against
her nightingale patterned wallpaper
and smiling those exact words
after announcing her passing
to the voice on the other side
but

 

would it be okay if
for right now I just
didn’t get through this, if
I didn’t even try to? And instead, stood
gaping for an hour or for a year,
tumbling down the rabbit hole in Slow-Mo
snatching after her fluttering
hospital gown, falling
through memories: her teaching me
to iron my own shirts, to vacuum, to overlap
each pass, keeping the carpet lines straight.
These little necessities I see, but
I’m still struggling
to get the meaning
in the nightingales’ wobbling song
and

 

would it be okay if
these uninvited guests got up
from her matched floral print
couch and loveseat,
her cushioned piano bench,
her lattice backed chair set with
tear shaped trickles of lacquer
hardened on each leg,
and wordlessly walked out,
taking their false sympathy and forced cheer,
bouncing and straining behind them
like white and blue helium balloons,
leaving us, unaccompanied, with her absence
and

 

would it be okay if
I just gave way, collapsed to my knees
on the ceramic tile in front of the
crumb strewn kitchen counter
breaking
into one hundred-thousand
boy shaped pieces
and
would it be okay if
in imitation of the indent
left behind by her withered body
in the rented hospital bed
I arranged myself
splayed out, starfish style
to sink, to drift, to drown
in the unfathomable
sorrow?
because

 

I know
we are tough
and

 

I promise to be tough,
later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mike Nichols was born all in a rush just after midnight, with no assistance from doctor or midwife, under a waning Tennessee moon on a chill October night behind a partition at the back of a tar-paper shack in which his unwed mother had holed-up for a time. Mike won the 2014 Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize. His fiction and poetry may be found at Underground Voices, Bewildering Stories, and Black Rock & Sage.


“Seduction” by Briana Staszak

The carefully chosen words drip seductively from my lips.
I slip the straps off my shoulders, and I am exposed for you only.
Do you see me now?
How I struggle to let what I love go?
The ink pours from my pen as the thoughts stream from my head.
Tears branch out and burn rivers, seared into my cheeks.
Do you see me now?
Caress my feelings like you touched my body:
Hold me close and breathe in every thought of you I’ve ever had.
Understand me.
Feel me.
Kiss me.
I taste as bitter as vinegar, my tongue tracing your lips, mixing my poison with yours.
Let your virginal hands explore the corruption that is my darkness.
I want to let myself shine for you, like at the beginning.
But one can’t shine in fear and sadness, can they?
Let my paper skin and brittle bones be your gilded rock, your silver, your gold, your fucking tin foil.
I miss being the ocean, the sun, the moon, and your constellation.
Search for me again, for I am lost.
Understand me.

 

Do you see me now?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Briana Staszak is a young writer who was born and raised in Southern California. She learned to love writing in her teens and hasn’t stopped ever since.


“Eyes of the Phoenix” by Linda M. Crate

the sunlight races
like blood through your veins
you’re always running,
and you can’t seem to catch a break;
i know you all too well
you are the sinner pretending saint
the man who disguises lust
for love and you’ll blame anyone but
yourself for all the problems
that you’ve caused—
you can turn from a tangerine sunset
into a bone-chilling snow storm
full of blue lipped angels
in ten seconds
flat,
and i know you intended me to die with all
your other angels
but like a phoenix i rose from my ashes burning
away all the suffocating snow and ice
leaving nothing behind but
my eyes;
and i hope they burn you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She is the author of two chapbooks (A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn from Fowlpox Press and Less Than a Man from The Camel Saloon) and the fantasy novels Blood & Magic and Dragons & Magicfacebook.com/pages/Linda-M-Crate/129813357119547


“Heaven Means” by Tom Pescatore

There is a secret
stair in my grandfather’s
closet, one tucked away
behind his clothes.
I think maybe he didn’t
even know about it,
mainly, because it seems
accessible only in dreams.

 

I walk up those
steps some nights, having
parted his slacks and
jackets, air getting thin,
sight diminishing,
brain suffocating,
but I never make it
to the top.

 

I believe it leads
to the roof, or
some other equally
magical place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally, but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.


“A Face in an Endless Sea” by Lana Bella

Into the waking sea of stirring succubi,
I walk through the cobblestone with
measured insolence. It is my life and
yet it is not. It is a known street yet
serpents edge the ground my feet have
not trodden upon. A revised life. While
it is endured on a rewritten script. Like
curious pages from an aged notebook,
flush of spell-casting recipes and archaic
theorems. Drafted in inked calligraphy
from my hand held within someone else’s.
I am thinking I ought to shake away the
cold fingertips that I cannot slake. And
what it would be like to will my private
thoughts, and travel without fragmented
memories. But my verbal bones are deep-
seated and buried, pack together to guard
the centermost. Leaving bare the external
skin. To which I persist on as a compressed
infection, neither growing smaller in mass
nor vanishing into a fictional poem. Yet,
I know not with certainty whether I am
the vast sky or its dispersed molecules.
Or just a face in an endless sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction published and forthcoming with Anak Sastra, Atlas Poetica, Bareback Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Beyond Imagination, Buck-Off Magazine, Calliope Magazine, Cecile’s Writers’ Magazine, Dead Snakes Poetry, Deltona Howl, Earl of Plaid Lit, Eunoia Review, Eye On Life Magazine, Family Travel Haiku, First Literary Review-East, Five Willows Literary Review, Foliate Oak Literary, Garbanzo Literary Journal, Global Poetry, Ken*Again, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Marco Polo Arts Literary, Mothers Always Write, Nature Writing, New Plains Review, Poetry Pacific, Spank The Carp, The Camel Saloon, The Commonline Journal, The Higgs Weldon, The Voices Project, Thought Notebook, Undertow Tanka Review, Wordpool Press, Beyond The Sea Anthology, War Anthology: We Go On, Wilderness House Literary Review, and has been a featured artist with Quail Bell Magazine. She resides on some distant isle with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.  facebook.com/niaallanpoe


“Winter” by Richard Hartwell

Above, snow-dusted granite hills;
Below, thermometer at -4° Celsius;
Caught between, tomatoes drop off vines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) teacher living in Moreno Valley, CA. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather be still tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.


“Fire: An Assay” by Miki Byrne

Lion of elements. Prowling beast.

Wild in voracious conflagration.

Earth-eating. Consuming.

Licking lascivious tongues.

Tasting all, leaving little.

Leaping in spontaneous combustion,

a fearsome phenomena of urban myth,

creepy forensic investigation.

Tamed you are enslaved, used

like all who have been captured.

Caged. Hemmed in, held by brick mouths,

boiler boxes, tooth-like campfire stones.

Blue robed in gas-flamed neat choreography

to do our bidding. Resentfully you comply.

Contemptuous of our need for warmth,

food, light. Your escape brings chaos.

screaming call to arms as you destroy

in a heartbeat, full of vengeful frenzy.

Chameleon character. Ever morphing.

From a volcanoes spew of ignition,

to a kindly candle-glow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miki Byrne has written three poetry collections, had work included in over 160 poetry magazines and anthologies, and won a few poetry competitions. She has read on both radio and TV, judged poetry competitions, and was a finalist for Poet Laureate of Gloucestershire. Miki is disabled and lives near Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire, UK.


“Soap Poems” by Frances Victoria Hargrove

This will probably vanish as soon as I write it.
Do you think our childhoods still exist in chalk on the sidewalk?
Would you write poems on sandy beaches just to give the Ocean credit?
The woman writes her lover a message in the condensation on the mirror and then happily sighs.

 

It will go away, but at least she tried she thought.
She never knew the power of her own love from within.
No one will ever know I tried to admire them was the sad afterthought.
The desire to be recognized began to weigh-in.

 

We’re not here forever; you can’t start to think like that.
We all vanish at some point, no matter what the medium, whether chalk, sand, steam, or human.
A creation is a creation, and your life is an artist’s habitat.
So strive for peace and success; be known as the next President to stop the war like Harry Truman.

 

It’s a little something I like to call the Creative Business.
It’s about the fact that you will have created something.
A creation is a creation, and it’s your love to show, no matter what the bizarreness.
This is more important than doing absolutely nothing.

 

The young woman lived her life by this.
She was created to create whether it would be here to stay or not.
Creations she’d make even if they’d vanish like the cheese in the holes of Swiss.
She couldn’t just live the rest of her life saying I’d love to, but I cannot.

 

An artist she was by her poems in the mirrors.
We must remember those things that will vanish.
You never know, it could have been miracles.
So wake up your inner artist and don’t let it banish.

 

Write your favorite words with yellow highlighters in the Sun.
We all have a story to tell before Sundown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frances Victoria Hargrove (Tory to her friends) was born in Austin, Texas and still lives there today as she pursues her passion for writing. She graduated as valedictorian from Premier High School of South Austin, and is now concentrating on Creative Writing at Austin Community College.


“Shooting From the Hip” by Frank De Canio

How quickly she rides over from the wings
when she’s enlisted to take center stage.
Corralling retrograde imaginings
of macho men she’s eager to engage
in cowboy antics on a movie set.
With pistol, lasso, chaps, and riding boots,
how dauntlessly she takes control to whet
his appetite before she coolly shoots
some varmint in a face-off. Neither shame
nor awkwardness at sporting rowel spurs,
bandanna, or a Stetson stays her game
for blurring lines dividing his and hers.
And since she’s peerless in her dustup part,
he quickens at her unaccustomed art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frank De Canio was born in New Jersey and works in New York. He loves music of all kinds, from Bach to Dory Previn, from Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, and the poetry of Dylan Thomas. He also attends a Café Philo in New York City.


“Teapot” by Juan Pablo Duboue

Robin softly bouncing opposite a butternut
Rustic drawbridge solemnly erected
Beneath, a miscreant drinks cocoa past the queue area
News of a sighting always travel fast via text messages
A ranger breaks the line to head for the woods
Unaware of the dynamic duo of twins that blush
As he rushes by

 

What was found upon arrival
Would constitute a hearty meal for a cannibal
The scrubbing was perfectly coordinated
Yet the blood was too much
Everyone wondered how
The pink little teapot stood unharmed
Next to the decomposing body
How faint one
How endurable the other

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Juan Pablo Duboue was born in Mendoza, Argentina and works as a teacher of English, freelance translator, and interpreter. Currently pursuing a Masters in Contemporary English Literature he enjoys writing poetry, short stories and songs.  sylviafitzgerald.wordpress.com


“Desert Indian Paint Brush” by Cara Vitadamo

A dark rain cloud passed by
Unknown to me
In a time of paramours and mothers.
During a time when my freckles were prominent
Like a constellation in a pale sky
As I skipped in a blazing sun.

 

I the archivist
I the collector
Of families and specimens
Come upon an undiscovered flower
With orange and dark red paint brush bristles.
Its roots deep beneath a cracked and thirsty land
In search of a well of liquid love.

 

A flower that should have been found
Long, long ago
By gregarious young explorers
Who grew up before time sped.

 

Now, solemn anthropologists look at the past
That could have had a cure
Or a succulent scent in a diverse garden
As the flower is cultivated for delight.

 

But for now-
I step into a blue and wet
Frontier of possibility.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cara Vitadamo is a registered nurse that enjoys poetry. She has been published in Torrid Literature, All Things Girl, and Mused a Bella Online Literary Review Magazine.


“Mark of the Young” by Dylan Sanders

I dream of you curled
In disappointment
Umbilical cord
A headphone jack
Wrapping once around the waist

 

Sliding on your back
Through the window
You exit

 

I hear stories
How people wept at Dimebag’s funeral
A piano chorus
A river of black shirts
The way you imagine it
Basically

 

Sprays of sadness
Doused the crowd
Sprinklers of pig blood
As a crack was heard
Startling god

 

I never saw the wave
That crashed
Into the stage
Tore the gunman’s limbs
His face from his hands
Skin from his bone
Salting the dirt with
His jealousy

 

When the news said Jeff Hanneman had died
I thought of how you would react
We all thought
The band would no longer exist
Out of respect

 

For 30 years he inspired
Crowds of sweating
Youth
Muscles pressing into muscles
Elderly
Cobwebs in their sallow bones

 

To bleed elbows with
Chests Faces
Molding them

 

Synonymous pile
Expression of life
Unattainable without
Imagery of death

 

You would react with shouts of protest
Lurking sadness
Serpent in crawlspace
Hide yourself in the dark of your room

 

Your favorite t-shirt
Torn from your body

 

You would bury it
Deep in the woods
As tribute
Their logo bleeding
Bright red through the earth
Before jumping into the nearby lake

 

You would swallow a mouthful of water to cleanse yourself

 

No one talks about how they found you

 

A flag draped over your strong body
No longer a shirt
Black blanketing allegiance
Your arms resting on glass
You mix with the earth

 

I almost saw you a week before
When we would have said goodbye
Without really meaning anything

 

I drive out of boredom
Tired
Singing along
Songs with a car of friends
Full volume
It stopped me from seeing you lying there

 

The officer told us
You’ll have to go back
We asked him what happened
Wondered all the way home

 

Out of sympathy for us
His voice on the verge
Of cracking
He said

Please go home

 

 

 

 

 

Dylan Sanders has lived in Illinois his entire life. He is a graduate of Millikin University with a Bachelor’s degree in creative writing. His dream career is to write video game script for Blizzard Entertainment. He has an obsession with doing Christopher Walken impressions. He has an unquenchable thirst for metal music. He has written articles for Thecirclepit.com and Nerdglow.com and has published a graphic novel.  facebook.com/Dylan.Colonel.Sanders