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Andy Stallings, Stephanie Chen, Joshua Roark,
Joan McNerney, Emily Brock, Meredith Thornhill,
Jane Awde Goodwin, Wanda Morrow Clevenger,
Rollo Nye, Marie-Claire Serou

Artwork & Illustrations

Titus Groan, Emily Herberich, Daniel de Cull,
Elliote Long, Alexander Limarev

Alessandro Mario Powell & Samuel Rowe


From the Editors3
Untitled by Emily Herberich4
We take something like a star and tell it to speak6
Their tuxedo skin is not the only thing that makes the Orca civilized7
electric pearls8
dividing mind9
Autumn Leaves: The Fall10
Cymera by Daniel de Cull12
independent moth14
the woman and the whale17
mtier of rise18
rogue chords19
water over rock20
Still Life with Nausea21
Untitled by Elliote Long23

Front Cover: Untitled by Titus Groan

Back Cover: Glitch Asemic Pixel Poem vol.3 by Alexander Limarev

From The Editors

Here we are: two years on, four Vol.s later.

Everything is coming together, tighter every time.
We began with the intention of starting a journal
open to all. And as our Bios show: everyone is all
over the place. Its a real honour editing this along
with my learned friend Ale. Yall are stars.
Samuel Rowe

With sea levels rising at astounding rates, 2015 proved a good year for orcas everywhere. The
monstrous overlords of Seaworld finally capitulatedOctober legislation effectively doubled
the size of killer whale enclosures, and banned their breeding. Semper sic tyrannis, indeed.
After volume III of Killer Whale Journal surfaced victorious last year, we, the management,
hibernated. No, orcas do not hibernate. Admittedly, we are not Killer Whales ourselves.
Emerging from our seasonal slumber last September, we licked the lingering honey off of our
mammalian fingers, we brushed the leaves from our knotted, poetic hair, we yawned
felicitously, and we finally checked the KWJ email. Once again you have outdone yourselves,
you beautiful people you. When a distressed sailor happens upon the orca this goes one of two
ways: the good way and the bad. In this analogy you, dear reader (and/or writer), are the
majestic killer whale and we, the management, but shipwrecked sailors. Youre work surprised
us, so very pleasantly. I am pleased to announce that in its fourth installment KWJ is stronger
than ever. From here 2016 looks like a wonderfully plump sea lion pirouetting, neutrally
buoyanta marriage of entertainment and sustenance. We were more selective than ever this
time around, but we think you shall thank us for it. This year, instead of publishing the best of
our submissions, we strove to build more a cohesive volume, a work of art in and of itself. After
all, efficiency and concision are the defining traits of any nautical mammal.

Alessandro Mario Powell

Andy Stallings

The bowl filled with cereal,
the sink slowly drained, the
sentences lost their meaning
as he drifted back to sleep.
They learned to measure
time by trips to the beach or
the megamart, appetite by
the size of the sandwich
someone set on the plate. Its
total activity for the seabirds,
collective legislation for
the beach community.
We understood that the
scaffolding was, itself, an
installation. The music
perennial, we were just
visitors. A question gives
the profile of anothers
wondering. The unreal, not
inhuman. What was I
supposed to think, and how.

Opposite: Untitled by Emily Herberich

Stephanie Chen

We take something like a star and tell it to speak

after Robert Frost

Azealia breaks the word, speaks with vultures. Caricature soaked in saltpeter. She
throws it out to this mentioning: All talk is a gauntlet, flames in your teeth. Shes
buried under mass while were digging through the horizon, for one star brash
enough with its explosions. A punching through of the skyhere, a hole for
collecting light.
They ask of her a certain height. Pressed into a headline. Hack off entrails and make
it money, cunt-talk catwalk around her. She breaks a heel on the bridge when it
catches. Lead into twilight, shes printed the shape of a constellation. What if she
could balance a star on her tongue, like their mothers insist? Star talking, flash of
sky: Tame the elemental collision with talk-story. They clap their hands, say it in
unison. Say something of yourself! And she says: I burn.

Joshua Roark

Their tuxedo skin is not the only thing that makes the Orca civilized
When all my bones curve just right
my body is an empty kitchen sink,
or fresh made bed with all its corners tucked in,
and I take off, peeking, when I
spit, at that edge lying so far off
like a set of traffic lights a dozen blocks
down. Gods bleed and deepen, Plath said
I deepen and turn off my bleeding
twist the inner handle and my whole
bloodtube network responds:
my heart, big and fat as a human head, quits
feeling so




swimming cool

dive down deep


with bloodtubes
and hot.

Joan McNerney

electric pearls
rush from fingers
typist waltz
up we trudge on
wooden legs
up the long staircase
air tingling with
anisette & ammonia
typist threading
word waves
lifts palm
one upon another
each step
up the long staircase
of sense
beneath nonsense
between images
of birds crashing
glass windows
symbols strung upon
chains of electric pearls
letters illusion
the typist
tongue tied
now in knots
hands crisscrossed
a line
gone mad.

dividing mind
no particular
passing sculptured gardens,
graveyards, women in long
veils of mourning/morning
black everything still still still
(except for children who skip while
clutching doubleheaded iccreamcones)
no particular
clock stares at 12 which
was yesterday or could be
tomorrow but might as well
be today why talk against time?
no particular
automobile driving thru
longwhiteline of hi way
dividing mind into
distinct red boxes
cat e gories
automobile driving to
any anonymous
beyond graveyards
gardens morning veils

Emily Brock

Autumn Leaves: The Fall

Tumbler: full:
you wear the Fall well
gold feathers rust
on the bark of your spine
terminal summer drips
from under shoulder plates
little russet ships
slip out from under wing
wrinkle, wane, tumble
death waxes on you
Tumbler 1/2 full:
you fall well
feathers rust
on bark spine
terminal summer drip
from shoulder plates
little russet ships
p out from under
, wane, tumble
death waxes on you
Tumble 1/2 empty:
you f
feathers rust
on spine
, , tumbl
death waxes on you


Tmbl 1/4 mpty

er e
Ia u
o u
r st
n sp n
i e
t rm n l
e i a
sh ps
sl p
death waxes on you
1/8 mpt
Tb ue a
p m a l l po si
r I o a h c
s yf o u u ii s s r
s t n s p n t r m n l l llr
.. death waxes on you


Andy Stallings

Bright as the noun in its
setting. Cabin country,
commute country, settling
dusk on the shoreline.
The man looked up as the
train roared past, his arms
bent to hoeing a line
of recreational tubers.
Bellflowers swept the foothills
one morning, like a pure
white line that advances
through sleep with the
unreckonable speed of
eclipse, unbearable and even
deadly. With her fingers, she
pried apart my lips and put in
the hard kernel. Red like
childrens toy metal, called
candy apple. A series of
indentations in the skin.

Opposite: Cymera by Daniel de Cull


Meredith Thornhill

independent moth
no luck liberating
bauhaus textiles
old liberty prints,
north, east, south and west,
leafy roads
little parks
this underground reservoir
the last few years.
break into beautiful fabric
a different world we lost
a little time now,
three messy girls
a decent space
telegraph hillthe real stuff
a milk place
Upper East Sidethe American killing
a headquarter
a response
my belongings
keep zen.
a few things,
my judgement
the ongoing
preoccupied specifics.
timing now laughing
so baffling!
believing the keys
proposed success,
time + energy


valuable opportunities
went quiet,
looking not holding my breath.
killer culture
third times a charm
they shall absolutely say,
you cannot put all your eggs in one basket.
stability excel.
stability grow.
my presence graces
a new venture peak,
independent moth,
a poem collection.
the 80s
a ghost town
sussing out its image
more interesting.
strobe lighting staggering
last at night
fills me with doom
finding my home town.
20 surreal minutes.
Ive no idea
no news
I want to hear them!
hypnotic white noise
an odd frustrating place
experimental art school.
its all too easy
to be enamored
fall in love
out dancing in minehead
fusty butlins holiday park
music festival.
bloc weekend, send me
free flights
some poems.
stand still out dancing
my shoulders broke down
six weeks
a sad space
a desolate space
a weight
my departure.

two months sorting

New York, New York
whatever that may be
to just words
to just fragments
to just poems
free flowing verses
to be continued
in times of
longing the familiar.
I am stronger
a free little bird
rearranged such a culture
to give up
to run away
truly moved on
out of town.
April spring fever
recharge my batteries
quite toy with
the characters
illustrated visuals
inspiring animations
collaborate the poems,
accompanying very much
looking forward
en route
two friends
speak of the devil...


Jane Awde Goodwin

the woman and the whale

forget that you are reading words now close your eyes
not your body part eyes your real eyes the ones
in the middle of your head imagine yourself falling falling
but you are falling underwater and you are not
really falling but being dragged down by a whale
who has got a hold of you by your thigh
no wait first imagine that you are under blue clear
water watching a girl swimming there is her dark blue
one piece with the vertical turquoise stripe good
there is her yellow snorkel picture a beluga
but not the white beluga the charcoal gray kind look
do you see he is letting her pet him notice how white
and silvery her legs look next to him and small remember
that you are underwater it is getting harder to breathe
watch now the whale puts his mouth around her thigh
he starts traveling vertically down the blue
is so clear imagine water in a cup picture watching
from just underneath the surface she is getting smaller and
smaller there is no bottom
this whale will drag her down forever.


Wanda Morrow Clevenger

mtier of rise
all this passing
age, this mtier
of rise
cosmos stretching
fossiled grudges
gilded guillotines,
wars & wars & wars
& Warner Brothers
Looney Tunes,
at my heels
I was
all eyes & awkward
Mom would say
cat got your tongue


rogue cords
a sun of teal
and brown calicos
against a tan bee
background above
purple deer prancing
through a red forest
resides beside a
porcelain pony
foaled in pacific
japan and a mexican
plumed bird
watching time tick
on a melted merlot
the composition is
surprisingly symmetrically
an ice pick in my
left lower gut
jabs at its
irritating discretion
the electrician comes
today to put rogue cords
to code
so when we leave
no one will suspect
anything at all
was amiss


Rollo Nye

water over rock

the water from
the stream which
ran over the rocks
out back
through the yard has decided that
it can take
its business elsewhere and as a consequence there is silence
where there once was
a gentle gurgle and this is why
I am searching
for another way
to lull my mind
back to sleep
on this night
of quiet.


Marie-Claire Serou

Still Life with Nausea

Soundless footfalls light on the floor improbably beneath feet
that touch less and less of the corporeal as owner ceases to
own or owe or borrow and begins to exist catty corner to
existences plane or boat or bus pass and passes quietly into
Its beautiful and sad but light doesnt stream through the
and the chill is so persistent it ceases to trigger nostalgia.
Outside, the birds leave the telephone wire, trace a circle and
reperch reproachfully ruffling black feathers around their
hollow breakable bones. Time flies and fruit flies become
lively as each of the bananas on the fridge blooms bruises as
its past unfolds. The stomach churns, leaching what it can
from a diet of minced words and bitter coffee.
Apathetic or Apoplectic or Apologetic, A state or another to
be traversed without stopping to look around or turning back.
A spine can become a rosary:
the body is accustomed to repetition and guilt, but
True Salvation is packaged in snack sized bags, small, sterile
and unassuming like the stiff backed chairs that furnish the
room where the self resides when one declares oneself weak.


Andy Stallings

The insight slips past. In the
Acapulco market, where wed
been told we were expected
to bargain, we doubted
the cultural competency of
our source. Somewhere else,
somewhat beguiled, detached
from the dumb body. A
Sarasota serenade, sweet as
the strings of Nashville.
Staring at nothing but
the time it takes to think.
And perception, which
means: more birds, more
trees, more clouds, cars,
shells, and the styrofoam and
utensils from last nights
beach barbecue. Capital
never stops moving. The
moment of crisis might lead
to a denouement, but it
hasnt, yet.

Opposite: Untitled by Elliote Long


Andy Stallings
lives in Deerfield, MA, where he teaches English and poetry at Deerfield
Academy. He taught several years at Tulane University prior to that, and has
published a book of poems, To the Heart of the World, with Rescue Press
(2014). He has three small children, and coaches cross country running.

Stephanie Chen
s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, Bayou Magazine, Lumen, No
Falling Ribbons, and the Tulane Review, among others. The Honorable Mention
recipient of the Anselle M. Larson Academy of Poets contest, she recently
received a Studio in the Woods fellowship. She loves black coffee, bad puns,
nearly-ripe satsumas.

Joshua Roark
was born in Cuba, raised all over as a navy brat, and formed himself in places by
the ocean. He currently lives with his beautiful, amazing, fellow writer wife in
Los Angeles, working as a homeschool teacher for young kids while pursuing an
MFA from Antioch University.

Joan McNerney
has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press,
Dinner with the Muse, Camel Saloon, Blueline, Poppy Road Review, Spectrum,
three Bright Hills Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.
She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net.

Emily Brock
is part-writer, part-professional bum, busy schooning her way around europe and
wha(i)ling about her empty pockets. She doesn't currently own a set of keys and
that seems to be an important thing she keeps telling people.

Meredith Thornhill

is a thinker and an observer, who corresponds these intricacies-at best-through

the written word. It should be noted that independent moth is dedicated to a
friendship that once was, though it shall not be forgotten. She currently resides
in Atlanta and is the Managing Director of The Spin Style Agency.


Jane Awde Goodwin

is a 28-year-old redhead court reporter who has sold groceries, knives, hotel
rooms, furniture and cameras. Her poetry has been published in Room, Prism
International, Geist, ARC Poetry Magazine, The Dalhousie Review and is upcoming
in The Fiddlehead.

Wanda Morrow Clevenger

is a Carlinville, Illinois, native. She has published over 335 pieces of work in 127
print and electronic publications. Yes, she does the math.

Rollo Nye
is a poet living in New York. His poems have recently appeared in minor
literature(s) & will soon be published in Avatar Review and The Red River Review.

Marie-Claire Serou
is a chariot for more than ten thousand types of bacteria.

Titus Groan
was raised by wolves, trained by monks. He can only be contacted via Hawk.
Some say he's over 200 years old, others believe there's more than one. Though
littles known of him, make your own assumptions from the etchings he musters.

Elliote Long
is a student and whale enthusiast, based in South London. She lives for sea glass,
IKEA canteens and the number 168 bus.

Daniel de Cull
is a Castilian and Aragon poet. Highly involved with natural life and love. Popular
and often quoted. Editor of the cultural reviews Gallo Tricolor and Robespierre.

Emily Herberich
is a writer for hire by day, and a human person who enjoys oil painting by night.
Her favorite novel is Moby-Dick.

Alexander Limarev
is a freelance artist, mail art artist, poet and curator from Russia. Participated in
more than 400 international projects and exhibitions. His artworks are part of
private and museum collections of 58 countries.


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