The Junction 2018

the JUNCTION English Majors’ Annual Literary Magazine Volume 9 | Spring 2018 Supported in Part with Funds from the Riverrun Club

Editors

Brayan De Los Rios Guisao Monica Saw-Aung Richard Gonzalez Emily Costantino Stephanie Montalti Fortunate Ekwuruke Salvatore Casto Nicole Grennan Marie Pruitt John Tucker Amanda Jerido-Katz Eytan Galanter Maryam Choudhary

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From The Editors, The universe is possibly boundless, possibly loops in on itself, and is possibly nothing more than a simulation. It has has been described as a one-sided coin, as being the only thing that can be said to have an inside, but not an outside, and more importantly, as being under no obligation to make sense to us. Yet, here we are, with our poetry of words as weapons, and our serenading arts as shields, fighting to make the impossible seem possible.

Stephen Hawking once said that “while physics and mathematics may tell us how the universe began, they are not much use in predicting human behavior because there are far too many equations to solve.” Well, this Zine is full to the brim with those impossibly possible humans. Writers, and artists alike using their creations to dismantle the bounded edges of this magazine, and their voices to conquer the boundlessness of their future.

The English Majors’ Counseling Office began a tradition of materializing the imagination of Brooklyn College students more than two decades ago. Today, you and we alike are continuing this tradition, not simply by participating in it, but by celebrating our accomplishments through the wonder that is sharing the unfathomable creations that are uniquely our own. Thank you, and remember, you were brilliant.

Riverrun English Majors’ Counseling Office boylanblog@gmail.com theboylanblog@wordpress.com

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Table of Contents

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A Cloudy Epiphany Richard Gonzalez A cloudy epiphany There are cosmos’ filled with things we never had a chance to say - pulsating stars acting as voiceless words - guiding us back to our child, labyrinthine selves.

Just as our inexperienced, childish minds searched for the right things to say to only find darkness, so do our adult minds - to only find silence.

A myriad of stars, gone dark, akin to a myriad of voices, gone mute.

But what do we do, what do we do when we hear a voice that never had a chance to speak, and it’s the one voice you know best. Do you welcome it, or do you turn it away… Do you fear its potential, or do you grasp its reality.

You do both.

You fear its reality, while grasping its potential.

The potential of a sunrise.

The fear of a sunset.

Of a warmth that chills you.

Of a silence that deafens you.

Because if not… you will be nothing more than A voice, circling a lost mind, screaming to be heard, like a sun, circling a black hole, radiating to be seen.

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Andrea Elizabeth

Ode To Ria

Sophie Shnaidan

she has a broken mind which bears itself like a white diadem in the roots of her red hair which, if you will be so kind as to indulge her she will tell you once grew to her knees and how she cried when her sister cut it her brain is fragmented like the lines that cleave her skin draw the corners of her mouth and her eyes and her brow down the sallowed flesh bearing eighty one years of pain until it can no longer sustain the mind festering within she straddles two worlds neither here nor there one foot tethered to the earth locked in a crypt of her own design portraits of the deceased in a suffocating tomb of walls and shelves and dining room tables the drone of the T.V. is her only companion and one eye droops lower than the other and her shoulders sag and she’s too embarrassed to leave the house sometimes because she can’t stand to be seen leaning on a walker I have seen, however, the place where the other foot stands and if you were to listen I mean really listen not to the babbling but to the silences she might pull you into the lovely orbit of her imagination where quite like a bird she runs along rooftops arms outstretched, fingers grazing clouds and her hair- long and not red, but brownbillows around her like a nebula 8

I have seen the dark and quiet places to which she retreats when she sits in her chair as though I were not there and circles her toe in the ground as I imagine she once did long ago trapped in the confines of her own mind dusty from misuse, perhaps like the surface of the moon alone, in this whole great space, in the ellipse of her solar system where her eyes do not droop and her skin is not sallow and her hair is brown atop which the diadem is not broken but full and overflowing and dripping star stuff into her folded lap where she rests lone survivor of her family no sisters no brothers no husband no mother only portraits and deafening silence alone she resides among the nooks and niches crannies, stitches spaces, places of her broken mind and it is not beautiful no, it is not beautiful at all it is a lonely, lonely place which she alone inhabits.

New York You’re New York, You’re the beauty of the city personified in a melting pot of power and struggle and reality and whatever you deem fit to smother in the symptoms of loving anything and everything yet you never shutter, you take it all in with the charisma of no other.

Dance, please, dance your heart out.

Below the city lights with lyrics spilling from your lips, a few drinks swaying us between dilapidations built of hollow bricks.

You’re a home.

Your hands around me are the only walls I need to cope.

Or maybe just the thought, You’re a euphoria even when the memory is gone.

Take me away into your world.

Free me from chains I’ve been allowed.

I could’ve broken them by myself until now.

Without you their touch is too cold.

I’ve run too far below the shroud; clouds of abandon under a bent crown.

You’re anything and everything I need to know.

How often do I hear your voice?

Never enough.

You’re the open road, a symphony of lost souls finding their way or just a hand to hold.

You’re life personified, grabbed by the reigns and taken how it wants to be; fully and graciously with all its meant to be.

Walk away into the sunset and the image will be my oxygen.

Add two words and they’ll be my hydrogen.

So long, my ocean, my sea, my river, my dream.

Soon, oh, soon I say i’ll say what I need to say about your ways.

Your walk, your talk, just the way you lay so sweetly and unchanged in beauty clothed or nude in the light’s dim fade.

Who am I to you?

Just another name.

Brandon Gorton

Set Adrift Teresa Wrobleski

Home is cold without her. The walls look grayer than you remember them being, back before she had papered them with photos of the two of you, side by side, arm in arm, photos she would convince strangers to take because she needed to get the both of you and the background in the shot, before she had filled the mantle with knickknacks she had picked up from dozens of tiny shops, because she always felt bad leaving a store without buying anything, before she had started leaving tiny post-it notes around the house, little things like “pick up more eggs” or “we ran out of cat litter” or “have a nice day, I love you.” The curtains she had put up months ago, after searching endlessly for that perfect shade of sky blue, after you had said time and time again that the color of the curtains didn’t matter and she insisted that they did, those curtains look dusty and dingy now, as faded as you felt yourself to be, without her by your side.

You stand in the middle of the living room, on the hardwood floor that you had once considered getting a rug for, because she used to complain about how chilly it was on winter mornings, but you hadn’t bought a rug and now your toes are curling from the cold. You are wearing one of the few shirts you know for certain was yours, that hadn’t migrated over from her drawer by mistake, and you only knew that because she didn’t like wearing yellow but loved seeing you in it.

You take a deep breath.

You go to the curtains and take them down; light floods the room. The curtains fall to the floor in a heap as you reach out to open the window as far as it can possibly open. You exhale into the stiff breeze blowing in, pushing your hair from your face and ghosting past your cheek like a kiss.

You feel the sunlight on your face.

You go on.

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Meetings With Marina Salvatore Casto An artist should not lie to himself or others An artist should not steal ideas from other artists An artist should not compromise for himself or in regards to the art market An artist should not kill other human beings An artist should not make himself into an idol…

An artist should avoid falling in love with another artist *** In April, we met.

I saw you at the MoMA in a packed atrium amidst hundreds of patrons watching, confused, amused. But it was really just you and me on that budding vernal day.

You didn’t even glance at me, a beguiled prepubescent. I couldn’t part my gaze from you—you in your robes, thickly draped, the hue of a blood red rose; a helmet, braided along the hills of your left shoulder, resting on your breast. You were a seated caryatid, but exuded more command than those at the Erechtheion. You sat, you sat. You never once stood up. You were present and reminded me that I was too. In the museum, yes, standing next to Warhol, Beuys, and Burton, but present in the world, in my body, with my family. In my mind. With you. Midtown on a midday, surrounded by toddlers and nonagenarians, felt like finally awakening. Laying in a grove, expanding in rising warmth, a sudden coming of age began, the ramifications of which are setling still. I wasn’t one of the 1,545 sitters over those 736 hours. Yet, I remember and relate to those who will listen about your intention, your silence, your stance. *** An artist should look deep inside themselves for inspiration The deeper they look inside themselves, the more universal they become The artist is universe *** 13

Your principles I harnessed, absorbed along with your history. Visions of a militant Yugoslavia, a bohemian Croatia, body art abound, the pentagram engraved upon the canvas of your stomach, the meaning behind the pentagram engraved upon the canvas of your stomach. My thoughts were processed through suburban sunsets and experienced behind fictitious lives. I felt like I had lived as long as you in just the handful of years I had seen. I understood, I spread your mission. I lived by certain creeds and orated selected readings. I attempted to rationalize how the five decade difference in our age wasn’t that large when it came to our common understanding, our artistically bound communion. So I withstood the torrential tirades of puberty with pride, allowed worldly events to wash over the nation. I would always have your conceptual decrees, making me miss a woman I had never met and in love with moments we had never shared. *** An artist must make time for the long periods of solitude Solitude is extremely important Away from home, Away from the studio, Away from family, Away from friends An artist should stay for long periods of time at waterfalls An artist should stay for long periods of time at exploding volcanoes An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at fast-running rivers An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the horizon where the ocean and sky meet An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the stars in the night sky *** Why, why? Wait—how? Because ever since I turned 18 those idyllic dictums were shattered. You told us that if we “get angry, stop breathing and hold your breath until you can’t hold it anymore, then inhale fresh air.” Where is there fresh air left? How do you expect me to appreciate the rapids when they’ve been tampered with by lead? Why are you telling me to be in solitude when the quiet provides me with what weighs me down the most—my rampant stream of thought, the cause of my insomniatic tendencies that are quelled only when I envision being interviewed, which allows me to collect ideas?

Is such an enlightenment possible? Do you really live by these standards?

I am plagued with what I know and the words I have not said. The first time I said “fuck” when shouting at my family… the stack of New Yorkers thrown against the wall in a 7 am freak out… my little sister bawling and terrified at the dinner table that November… the fluids washed from my hands after slamming his car door shut… her decision to cosmetically “correct” that tooth gap which initially made me fall for her... not inviting him back when he asked with injured eyes... Robin Williams’s cause of death… the anxiety caused by texts… the knowledge of which drain the food will be washed down. The bruise on my thumb in which I gave myself from slamming my palms against the dashboard resurfaces in sharp stabs when I play the Pathétique.

There was a time when I would let you blindfold me and guide me naked through the forest. We’d communicate nonverbally. And I still love you for that practice. But that enlightenment I thought I had when I saw you at the MoMA, has ways to go and I’m learning to embrace that. I’m learning to embrace. *** An artist has to learn to forgive An artist has to learn to forgive An artist has to learn to forgive *** I’m trying, Marina.

I’m trying.

Excerpts in italics appear in various manifestos written by Marina Abramović.

Yaffa Ilyaguyeva

Brandon Gorton

To Worship an Atheist Nicole Grennan He told me I looked nice, but I know now that what he meant was I looked weak. I looked like holes, with lips which were good for saying “I guess.”

We are intentionally late to the wedding rehearsal but not late enough to miss Grace said over cold lasagna and room temperature sparkling cider. “god bless the happy couple.”

We smile and toast and we laugh at republican jokes Can a person look cavernous? I think I must have, particularly if he wasn’t paying attention to the way I hesitated when he asked if I wanted to. Selective sight, you might call it.

We tell the groom we’re sorry, we were lost but the Truth of the matter is we were late because we were tempted by the sensuality of the roads the way they stretched and yet, lead to nowhere laughing at corn fields and speed limits kissing each other at sixty miles per hour our own brand of Worship.

He hadn’t taken off my socks. My consent was half borne of fear, half of insecurity. But as soon as he took my pants off, a feeling of having been violated planted itself in the depths of my stomach. I felt the flowers of it sprouting out of my belly button like weeds unbothered by Roundup.

After, we were going to stop for coffee but we settle for Rum we play with our Airbnb host’s crippled dog his back legs don’t work but he drags himself across the living room floor like a man with a master plan and his ears hang long like the promises we make in the dark.

We say Grace in our own way.

Though I feel a hint of shame at this admission, all I could think of were my mother’s bed sheets, always crisp and smelling of lavender. It was all I could do to keep from crying. When he dropped me off, I showered immediately, scrubbing myself raw. I drank peppermint tea and I cursed the God that gave me free will.

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The bed sheets were polka dot and the night table had a world map and so he takes off his khakis we bought six hours ago at the only Macy’s in bumblefuck New York and we point to all the places we want to go in South America and I am trying hard to understand how I feel more at home in this strange room with him than I have in my own skin for years and he is an atheist, never baptized but I swear I see divinity in the Birthmark next to his left eye

Nicole Grennan

Amanda Jerido-Katz

The Hook Marie Pruitt The worst decision I made was placing my desk by the door. The sounds of the fourth floor coursed down the hallway like a river, carrying all the dishonored secrets kept by ghosts of freshmen past. The walls became thinner and thinner with each wave until all gave way and the sounds emptied into my bedroom. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t mind hearing other people’s lives, but not now.

My room at the end of the hall was next to the stairwell door and the boy with the charming, asymmetrical smile lived only two above, rarely taking the elevator. Every single time the slam echoed through the hallway, I’d hold my breath and stop whatever I was doing, no matter how focused, and wait for the four knocks on my door.

Always four knocks. Usually, it was the girl with the pink hair at the end of the hall or the stoner on fifth. But sometimes, it was him.

Does my hair look okay? Did I put on deodorant in the last few hours? Was I wearing this shirt last time? Suddenly, I was in fifth grade again, crushing on the chubby boy from math class. How the hell did I end up back here?

I thought he carried the sun, and he knew it, making us destructively uneven. I was the one waiting up until two in the morning, checking my phone, holding my breath for those four knocks. I knew I could only do this to myself for so long. And it turned out, so did he.

It’s hard to say what kept me. Some days, I would think for too long and the memories would start to burn. I knew I needed to cut the tie. But even with the string cut, the hook remained. And his was the kind too painful to remove. It was safer to simply let the wound heal around it and hope it didn’t cause future complications. I got used to the metal trap that held me in place.

One day, I tried to tell him I couldn’t do it anymore. I thought I could survive with his hook removed. Turns out, I wasn’t equipped to stop the bleeding.

The days that followed proved that. I couldn’t help but hold my breath every time that stairwell door slammed. I longed for those four knocks.

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Of course, his asymmetrical smile came from the scars left by another’s hook. I was on his, but he was also on hers. The girl like flowers, whose name would indeed sound as sweet if she went by any other. The only person I envied and admired at once, she was able to control the one person who controlled me, as if she were the rose that commanded the beast from the fairy tale. Perhaps, one day, the flower will wilt and the spell will be broken.

But until then, I’ll just sit at my desk and listen for the door. Listen for him.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I Do

Fortunate Ekwuruke In my early years, I never really understood what hate was I knew when I disliked something or someone, but I never knew what qualified as being labeled “hate” Even in my adulthood, I still lacked clarity of the word Until my wedding day —— I knew what hate was as I stood there In my beautiful lace white dress With my hair as free as my heart With my eyes plaited in gold eyeshadow With my lips shaded in a deep brown With an ocean of faces shining smiles of anticipation With parents and their high chins of admiration With my heart pumping as I gamble with my freedom I’m losing myself but it’s worth it Then the time goes by 10 minutes late Okay, that’s not so bad 30 minutes late Okay, he’ll be here any moment now 1 hour late Smiles are fading My cheeks are aching from pretending to be happy My foundation is starting to crease My laughter lines are bulging But I’m not laughing —— People start to walk out “Black people are never on time,” they mutter “I only came for the food,” they hiss “What happened to her hair? She’s never heard of a flat iron, or a perm relaxer? No wonder he didn’t come!”

——

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The vipers exit, but I’m still there Wondering Hoping That he would be the next face that I see But I would have sooner died with that hope than watch it bloom into reality Because he never came And I realized I’d been a fool to believe a heartbroken man could ever love again That’s when I knew what hate was It’s that implantation that’s so deep that you revolt on innocent hearts It’s purposely seeking wounds in order to increase their diameter It’s premeditated murder of childhood desires It’s saying the truth so blatantly that you almost seem like a liar “I hate you” I thought you really meant I love you Like how people joke around and say “You’re so ugly” to their friend, but they really don’t mean it… do they?

—– I never found out what happened Why he didn’t come I never saw him again Until the funeral Where I watched as the vipers came to weep at his casket As stiff arms patted my back in condolence “Sorry for your loss” What have I lost?

My blank expression hurries them out of my presence —— On my wedding day, I knew what hate was I knew he hated me He had to At least that’s what I tell myself After all, it’s easier to lose someone who hates you instead of someone who loves you Life is all about coping mechanisms anyway So I’ll keep reminding myself that I hate you, but I really don’t mean that… do I?

Galapagos Joshua Melendez Dapper down in a vintage Versace silk shirt, an aficionado basks in the glistening sea tapering his shins.

The complexion of magnolias, passion flowers and cherry blossoms pique his interest.

“Mangos, peaches and lime.. sweet life! Sweet life! Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet life!” The guy brings a cocktail of ingenious and misleading standards we so tastily indulge.

I wish to isolate, gravitate, levitate... away bummy, crummy, whack rules, monotonous nine to fives and ominous allegories.

The tender sound of waves, crashing The tropical wind grounds me.

I am infatuated with the warm embrace and how it sways me in a soothing way.

I sink, quickly interpolating, beginning to feel myself transcend, a dismantled paradise of once upon a time’s and happily ever afters.

“If a flower bloomed in a dark would you trust it?”

“Bathe in your body, you’re wet and warm like our bathwater can we make love before you go?”

“To kiss the Earth that birthed you” A kaleidoscope dream, an amalgamation tied together like wedding bands inside this little black book.

These shearling memories keep me warm at night.

Ignited all by Kuumba sticks, burning, In sense: “Why would I want to see the world when I have the beach?”

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Numbers Jessica Drigun

The numbers we remember, Etch into our memories.

Onto our skins, forever burned into us.

What are we to do, when the people, Whose numbers we remember, are gone.

When the numbers remain, always.

The person fades away, forever.

The pain, it remains, while the memories fade.

What do you do, when the numbers stay?

But the person is gone?

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Monica Saw-Aung

My Hair S.R.B. Look

Do. Not. Touch.

This is not a petting zoo No matter how many times

It may change Just know

It’s never for you Ask why I don’t let it grow And I will Cut It All Off

What happened To my pressed hair?

It wanted to be Freed

Short puffy Long braided Black, brown, or red I will do what I want

Guess what?

It’s my head

Aminah Granville

If you don’t like it

Or it makes you confused I’m not obligated

To explain it to you

A Raisin in the Sun Fortunate Ekwuruke What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore— And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

-Langston Hughes

When I was younger, around 6 or 7, I used to enjoy putting grapes on the heater and watching them scorch into raisins. When the weather was hot enough, I would put them out in the sunlight and anticipate the same effect. I honestly believed I had made a groundbreaking discovery. I knew how to make raisins!

From there I would enjoy eating my own created raisins, and any other raisins I encountered. Fast forward into the present day, 15 years later, and I realize: I am still obsessed with grapes, but I no longer eat raisins. I cannot remember the last time I even saw a raisin, both within my home and any other location I have been. The scorching process no longer appeals to me. I can no longer bear to witness a beautiful grape in its prime be roasted by heat and sunlight into a deformed object that we call raisins and enjoy as a snack. You see, people don’t consider what the grape has to go through to become the raisin that they savor so much.

Thus is the plight of African-Americans.

When Langston Hughes wrote the poem “Harlem,” commonly known as “Dream Deferred,” in 1951, he was reflecting on the limitations of the “American Dream” for African-Americans during the time period. I’ve read this

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poem before, but reading it recently took me back further than the 1950s. It took me to the beginning, the 15th century, when Africans were plucked like beautiful grapes from their homeland and shipped to America. Here, these Africans were scorched through slavery: hard, vigorous labor with no mercy offered, in order to produce beautiful economic growth. (It is no secret that the American economy was dependent on enslaved African labor for over 300 years. Or maybe it is‌) ************* These Africans in America became the raisins: sweet and satisfying for the purpose, but rather deformed and unpleasant looking in comparison to the smooth round nature of grapes. These are the raisins that America has been built upon for centuries.

We call America a great nation, and in many ways it is, but what do we do with the scorched grapes that have become raisins? Do we keep them in more heat and sunlight through systemic racism, infrastructural violence, and police brutality? What is the portion of the African American people who have been scorched into raisins and discarded by those who created them? When they have been systematically denied the sweetness that lies within them, the sweetness that they have been forced to use in building a foreign land? When they have been permanently cut off from their ancestral grape vines of their various African countries? What does their American Dream look like? Grapes can become raisins, but raisins can never be turned back into grapes.

When you keep a raisin in the sun for too long, it gets harder and harder and harder.

After a while it may lose its sweetness.

After a while it may no longer be pleasurable as a snack.

Then people start to resent it.

Then people start to find ways to get rid of it.

Then it becomes a problem.

Then it explodes.

America has scorched its grapes.

At least let them be sweet as raisins.

Take the raisins out of the sun, and let their sweetness survive.

Or be ready to clean up the explosion.

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

Brandon Gorton

Dreamland Christopher LaSasso 1.

Imagine wandering into your sisters room where the wall to discover a vast polaroid mosaic filled with unrecognizable faces. For some reason, you’re absent from all of them. You convince yourself that it’s because you were holding the camera.

2.

What do you remember? You’re sat in the backseat of a Ford Focus speeding down the Belt towards Coney Island.

3.

A lot of people don’t think so, but it’s worth it to take the train, especially at night where you can see Luna Park ablaze with neon lights that flare up against those dusky waves. “When we see the ocean, we figure we’re home,” (Hill, The Warriors).

4.

Coney Island is a time capsule, buried too soon and opened too late. You peek inside anyway but all you find is a nostalgia for days where rats policed the streets and ethereal elephants trumpeted along the boardwalk.

5.

Someone asks: You want to ride the Cyclone?

6.

Didn’t you hear that a kid died on it? You know that bar that holds you down? Well it popped open and the kid flew right out of his seat. He hit the ground with a splat, bones crunching and innards exploding from their fleshy-casing.

7.

Someone: screams. But it’s just a kid who regrets getting in one of the Wonder Wheel cars that swings back-and-forth. You always wait in line for one of the non-moving cars because they’re safer. As the wheel turns, you see two guys - or rather, two shapes melding into one in the back-seat of the car below. Arms coil around bodies and lips press together. You’re afraid to watch, because that’d be gay.

And you’re afraid to look away, because that’d be homophobic.

8.

Now Moses was tending the flock of Coney Island, the edge of New York’s harbor, and he led the flock to the far side of the borough and came to Brooklyn, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in the flames of fire from within Luna Park. Moses saw that though the park was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, “I will go over and see this strange sight 34

— why the park does not burn up.”

9.

Whatever Moses found, he immediately bought the park.

10. “In May 1911 the lighting system in the devils that decorate the facade of Dreamland’s End of the World short-circuits. Sparks start a fire that is fanned by a strong sea wind,” and Moses plants seeds in the ashes. Soon, they’ll grow into great big concrete trees (Koolhaas 76).

11. Eventually, the Old Testament comes to an end and Moses sells his property to the prophet Fred. Fred sees the future from the shoreline, one where the more money talks, the less meaning words have.

12. Look! It’s King Henry! Supposedly we’re past monarchies but King Henry is different. He’s the “King of all things silly, and funny” (Facebook). He does this amazing trick where he makes a middle-class man into a king.

13. King Henry struts across Keyspan Field with his scepter raised high above his oversized crown, a plump hotdog in his other hand. He leans over the railing and takes a selfie with a kid, but quickly pivots and starts to hit on the kid’s mother. What a lady’s man, “Divorced, beheaded, died. / Divorced, beheaded survived.”

14. Customized and modified, the hot dog was invented in Coney Island; a “mass produced object,” that naturalizes “mass culture items into new systems of meaning and activity.” Kings are always hungry and never full. Scraps trickle down into the grinder and you eat it up until you’re lethargic, swollen, and you’re skin is stretched and ready to pop. And when you do, you feel empty and soon you’re craving a hot dog too (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett).

15. Racing across the field, King Henry cheers as a parade of condiments runs by. “Mustard passes Relish! Oh no, Relish stumbles and hits the ground. Go Ketchup, Go!” Nothing beats a Nathan’s™ hot dog with spicy mustard (My Dad’s only input when I asked him about Coney Island, 2017).

16. “Coney Island is the incubator for Manhattan’s incipient themes and infant mythology. The strategies and mechanisms that later shape Manhattan are tested in the laboratory of Coney Island before they finally leap toward the larger island” (Koolhaas, 14).

17. Umbrellas y sombrillas, a man sells his wares along the beach before he walks into the sea. There’s always sun beating down on the Place without Shade.

18. How long since you’re last meal? Somewhere your mother gasps for air. A lifeguard says with a laugh, “This isn’t going to end well.” There’s a lump in your throat. Now you know why she never let you eat hot dogs. You’ll choke on the skin.

Someone drags her onto the shore and soon her silence turns to coughing, as chunks of coral and water sputtering past her lips.

19. With shame, you still eat hot dogs every now and again. They’re hard resist. It must be that they are a “paste-like and batter-like meat product produced by forcing bones with attached edible meat under high pressure through a sieve or similar device to separate the bone from the edible meat tissue. In 1982, a final rule published

by FSIS on mechanically separated meat said it was safe and established a standard of identity for the food product...However, mechanically separated pork is permitted and must be labeled as “mechanically separated pork” in the ingredients statement.”

(Department of Agriculture) 20. Every year the country gathers to celebrate its independence with the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest™.

21. July 4th, 2001 — a date which will live in infamy — the United States of America was defeated by Takeru Kobayashi who ate 50 hot dogs in 12 minutes. We enter a war that we have no part in and swear we won’t do it again, that we will never forget. As the Wonder Wheel rolls forward and summer turns to fall, you are told to never forget what comes next.

22. You’re sat there, clinking together old, dusty bottles of Coke waiting for your friends to come out and play. Somewhere there’s an explosion and as your body jolts, you bite down. Teeth break skin and your tongue goes heavy in your mouth.

Are you bleeding? There’s a weird taste of iron(y) in your mouth. Gripped with fear, you chew what’s left into bits and swallow your tongue whole.

23. Everytime the Cyclone makes a turn, bodies are launched out and rain down on Coney Island. You wish you bought that umbrella y sombrilla. Huddled under an umbrella, you watch as a Nathan’s™ manager collects the bodies in an industrial garbage bag.

24. “Meanwhile, five animal-rights protesters were arrested just a few feet away...”

But what about the bodies? (New York Post) 25. Originally, the plan was to hang Topsy the elephant, “Once her reluctance to go to the scaffold had been overcome by bringing the scaffold to her, the tragedy went on to its climax with almost startling suddenness. With a turn of a switch, 6,600 volts of electricity were shot through the huge frame. It stiffened, swayed and stood rigid for ten seconds. Then the current was turned off, and ever so easily, before the watcher’s fully realized that life could cease so suddenly in so strong a brute, Topsy toppled forward, dead” (New York Press).

26. In 2006 a video leaks of Saddam’s hanging. You’re told to never forget. A year later, in 2007 you’re on a line buying the first iPhone, a “‘revolutionary mobile phone’ and a ‘breakthrough internet communications device’— with a camera. It was certainly not the first phone to have a camera — and it probably wasn’t even the best camera available in a phone at the time — but it certainly was the best camera in my phone” (The Verge).

27. That same year, Joseph Christian Chestnut from Kentucky shows the world what the United States is capable of when he ends Kobayashi’s reign. “At the end of the day hot dog eating challenges both my body and my mind.”

28. The hot dog was invented by those cultural Marxists over at the Frankfurt School. Walter Benjamin says, “any man might even find himself part of a work of art… Any man today can lay claim to being filmed.”

29. But what about the bodies? Does Nathan’s™ grind up the meat into a fresh batch of mechanically separated pork? Ketchup and mustard hides the taste. Don’t worry, it’s just imitation meat. When you bite into it, the skin still has that snap you’re looking for.

30. I was born here in the city / With my back against the wall / Nothing grows, and life ain’t very pretty / No one’s there to catch you when you fall / Somewhere out on that horizon / Faraway from the neon sky / I know there must be somethin’ better.

Works Cited Benjamin, Walter. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. 1969.

Hill, Walter, director. The Warriors. 1979 Koolhaas, Rem, Delirious New York: A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan. Pirated. 1997.

Henry, King. Facebook.

Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara. 1983. The Future of Folklore Studies in America: The Urban Frontier. Folklore Forum. 16(2):175-234.

U.S. Department of Agriculture.

Valentine, Leonica. “Joey Chestnut wins another Nathan’s hot dog eating contest.”

New York Post, New York Post, 5 July 2017.

Bad Elephant Dies by Shock, Electricity Kills Topsy at Coney Island, New York Press, January 5, 1903.

Trust No One Maryam Choudhary

Our hero, Mrs. Baig, hated many things. She hated lasagna. She hated boring people. She hated the grass of baby hairs on her forehead—that even at the age of sixty-three had failed to grow out properly. She hated noisy utensil chatter, and people who listened to music in public without headphones. She hated non-silent chewers, and incessant complainers. Most of all—she hated to consider the deficiencies of her own children.

When Mrs. Baig found herself in need of a life-saving operation—she asked the nurse to hasten in bringing her the appropriate paperwork.

“Now—here’s your consent form. Just sign once here—and once over here.

And this is for insurance. And this section is for references.”

“References?”

“Yes, ma’am—hospital policy. All individuals needing costly surgical intervention must provide no more than three references to speak in front of our human merit board—and at least one must persuade the board to authorize your procedure.”

“And what kinds of things does the board want to hear?”

“Could be anything, ma’am—just something that indicates adding some years to your life is worth the trouble.”

And with that—Mrs. Baig called each of her three daughters—hastening them to come to the hospital and provide their reference.

The eldest—Sophia Baig, arrived first. Sophia functioned in a state of girlish naiveté—quick to jump from the precipice of a theatrical romance, as was her wont.

“My mother wants me to be alone forever,” Sophia said before the board. And thus commenced a five-minute detailed recount of last week—when Mrs. Baig forgot to load the dry-er, leaving her daughter no choice but to wear a different, substantially less-appealing top to work that day, and as a result give a markedly less-impressive first impression to a gentleman she made eye-contact with while exiting the elevator.

“It’s safe to say—my mother ruined my chance at happiness,” she concluded.

The youngest—Dunya Baig, arrived next. Dunya compensated for her angst with ingenu-ity, providing a solid justification for every cynical musing, as was her wont.

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“I’m confused as to why my mother even wants to live,” Dunya said before the board. With a dead husband, and a life of eternal homemaking for ungrateful children—Dunya ques-tioned why her mother bothered to stick around.

“And overpopulation is something to consider, too, mom,” she concluded.

The nurse offered Mrs. Baig some advice before her final reference spoke.

“Ma’am—I know we give our kids a proper education and hope they’ll end up clever—but it doesn’t work that way.”

“What should I do?”

“I know.”

The middle child—Amira Baig, arrived last. Amira exhibited the pseudo-maturity of an individual of substantial age, but incapable of substantial independent thought—she oscillated between simple pleasantries and excessively wordy innuendos—each one adopted from majority opinion, as was her wont.

“Sorry, honey—your mother changed her mind,” said the nurse, “I’ll be speaking in-stead.”

Amira looked at her mother.

“But mom—she’s not family.”

“Exactly,” replied Mrs. Baig, grinning triumphantly.

The nurse appeared to be of a warm-hearted disposition, but her acute boredom was una-bating, and she employed deception as a means of relief, as was her wont.

“Mrs. Baig has three daughters,” said the nurse, “—and they are wretched.

These apathet-ic, pitiful individuals exist in society, and it’s all her fault. This is her contribution, or rather—her disservice to society. She deserves nothing.”

And with that, the board promptly denied Mrs. Baig the lifesaving surgery.

Our hero—jaw dropped, and with one more thing to hate—was sent home.

City Speed Limit Lora Pavlovich We’re going twenty-five miles per hour and I can see half-moons in your eyes, baby crescents shining forth recalling the half-moons of your smile which the traffic has melted away.

We’re used to twenty-five on the other roads, but the highway speed here is fifty and I keep tracing the verticals of the skyline as I ease on and off the brake again.

About a third of the steering wheel is peeking above the dashboard, its gray silhouette against the illuminated streets and cars in front.

We’re going twenty-five miles per hour and I’ve recently decided that it’s my least favorite speed limit.

You’re sitting close to me in the car — called shotgun despite there only being the two of us — and this is your first time in this new car since my old one was crashed.

I frown at your full cup of coffee barely balanced in your hand and try to remember other things.

Twenty-five miles per hour is not slow enough to avoid getting caught at the yellow lights once we get off the highway, and I look back at you each time the reflection in your eyes changes from red to green

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Amnesia Vicky Lee

Your infectious laugh is still ringing in my ears everytime I cruise down highways whipping through the wind I can still feel your hair lingering on my fingertips running through my palm whenever I lay down on grass catching wisps of light The gentle caresses of your hands still smoothens across my chest with a richness like the freshly brewed saturday morning coffees we sipped sitting on the fire escape There’s still the weight on my shoulders from the times you would rest your head on me securing me from drifting away farther from where I am now

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I can feel the cold air replace your toes and how it electrified me with life when your legs tangled with mine and soothed me with rhythmic rubs side to side side to side I can’t differentiate burgundy from oak anymore because I still see them blend together in your tired eyes whenever there’s a warm glow that barely make its way through the window and finds a way to rest on your cheeks I wish I could forget all these things about you.

Just so I can fall in love with you again.

East 73rd M.C Miller

A Song in D minor—like a warm whiskey Drifts asleep through the body.

I only dream of old homes, counting sheep in the woolen rug While the minors switch keys, Keys that unlock rooms in my mind.

Grass stained plaids washed out

By God’s crying hands—memories Of cherubs frolicking the urban mores Blocked wall to wall rain quenched The wild and thunder shouts, “Be afraid!”

Always back for more, Til one was no more.

The cat hops in and out, out to the garden and into my arms—nurturing the wildness In childhood innocence.

Blooming hydrangeas purple buds ripen To the hum of midsummers humidity.

Never wanting to leave, I packed the cat —the last thing—into a cardboard box.

Looking back, I wish I had fought.

Onur Ayaz

Wild Wintry Mix M.C Miller

A moment of Silence Rests in a Sight— A Red Robin Perched Up top a Snowy Suburban fence.

The Violet Seeks to Vanish

Yaffa Ilyaguyeva

Meri Halabani

Your petals are wilting Which is odd for such a strong flower With a supposedly long life span “You should be grateful,” they say But what if it’s not something I wanted?

What if it’s not something I asked for?

Why waste it on me?

Why waste anything on me?

Why not waste away?

Why not decay?

Frances Shnaidman

copper curls

Sophie Shnaidman heavy lies the head which wears the metal crown to this I can attest for my hair is a copper wreath to which my soul is bearer

Frances Shnaidman

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Aminah Granville

Staircase Onur Ayaz

I sat by the staircase one day and saw faces hollow and sunken, headed down the faces of 11am students headed to class, the faces of mothers and fathers dredging on as they tell you it’s all fine.

I know it’s not, That our coffers have run dry, our pockets hollow and sunken, as they tell you it’s all fine - the bursar emailing you pay up, your fines are overdue.

They all look drained, their precious blood so thinned and drained down to the last dregs in them, as they tell you it’s all fine.

-I sat by the staircase one day when I could not keep going down anymore, and would tell myself it’s fine when I knew it’s not, Till I found You sit down next to me, telling me it’s not fine, like Jasmine you held my hand and took me back up, away from this shit-hole hell that is hollow and sunken, Into a whole new world.

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51

The Human Tangerine Margaret Iuni

Anna Gugeshashvilli

Sometimes I think I am the human equivalent Of a tangerine Skin just thick enough Until some thumb pokes through Exposing a softness underneath Pretty prepackaged slices Torn too easily apart Digested with the immediacy of hunger The ugly ones left Wishing that sometimes They looked sweet enough for their consumer Instead of the well known ritual Of being disregarded and discarded while Clinging to an otherwise eviscerated citrus carcass

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Lora Pavlovich

Weathering the Storm Margaret Iuni

Our feet walk the well-trodden path.

You, With your umbrella Perched on a shoulder Reminding us of The possibility of rain, And me, In a white shirt Untested by water Desperately hoping It won’t matter.

Monica Saw-Aung

A Poem About The Word That Starts With ‘C’ That We’re Not Allowed To Say Marie Pruitt Words should give you power, Instead you make them foes You glower and cower, but give me the hour You’ll holler “cunt” like a pro

Claim “bitch” and “slut,” But never “cunt.”

It’s far too fun to say.

It makes me gay, This curse balletFor cunt is here to stay.

I hope this ode will make you see How words can be the fix.

It’s funny how great words can be With just a few cunts in the mix.

A one-act play, A compact display, Cunt is cocooned this way.

Consonants collide, But never frayConcocted, created to stay.

Jameela Thompson

Why can’t I say “cunt?”

Sorry, was that too blunt?

You’re getting the brunt of my affront, But the world I must confront.

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Jameela Thompson

The Violet Seeks to Vanish Meri Halabani

Anna Gugeshashvilli

Your petals are wilting Which is odd for such a strong flower With a supposedly long life span “You should be grateful,” they say But what if it’s not something I wanted?

What if it’s not something I asked for?

Why waste it on me?

Why waste anything on me?

Why not waste away?

Why not decay?

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Anna Gugeshashvilli

Let Me Crawl Into Merav Kraitenberger Let me crawl into This sacred place Of marble things And faded lace Let me feel the roundness In my hand Of cool glass beads And endless sands.

My open palm is a wrinkle in time. My tipsy tines of tepid wine. I craft and clutch and love and kiss. A velvet bag of colored wishes.

The silver circle A slivered moon But sunned and warm But light and cool.

A faded picture A tatty book A palimpsest of newer scriptures Tintinnabulation of talismans. Erstwhile I wear what I once hid. I am a being of many thoughts. I am a bag of marbles. I am marbles lost.

I am found I am a moiety, A lilting mondegreen Whispers to me We are in the offing Of an infinite life Let us sit together And hold it tight.

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Patrycja Miller

The Pier Pat Wadolowski

The pier, an oceans altar The offering...people.

The glory of far oceans silence The glory of its glimmering surface.

A group of birds submerge for the hunt and end up On its surface in a different place.

A sun shining brilliantly into the depths of the water.

Thoughts are clear here, Thoughts are pure.

Shore Theater Pat Wadolowski

Amanda-Jerido-Katz

On a broad intersection It watches over Empty it seems All the scenes of a place The joy, the light The ugly and pain People come of all places Can I love them?

Can I exist undiluted?

And accept the workers of day the roamers of night.

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Lora Pavlovich

“Pressed for Time”

Christopher LaSasso

Amanda-Jerido-Katz