Collage 2010 Student Magazine of the Arts
Volume 40
Collage 2010 Student Magazine of the Arts
Collage 2010 Student Magazine of the Arts
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Brookdale Community College 765 Newman Springs Road Lincroft, NJ 07738-1543 Tel: 732.224.2345 www.brookdalecc.edu
Collage 2010 Staff Melissa Middleberg Editor-in-Chief Ana Borja Poetry Editor Rebecca Berkowitz Photography Editor Lisa Pepe Fiction Editor Martynas Siuksta Covers and Frontmatter Photography Department of Design – Graphic Design Production Brookdale Community College Faculty Advisors Geanna Merola Tim Burke Special Thanks Professor Dan Schroll and Mona Pollard
Note From The Editor For the 2010 edition of Collage, we wanted to make sure that the book had a great deal of variety in the works included. The students at Brookdale are very talented and we were very impressed by the submitted works, making it difficult to select the final pieces. We hope that this book gives readers a view into the creative minds at Brookdale and inspires the readers themselves to explore and utilize their own creativity.
Table of Contents Writers: Anthony Trujillo 15 Allison Gavin 23 Matthew Marchesano 24,75,106 Lisa Hartsgrove 37,102,111 Chris Calderon 38 Diana Seuffert 40 Eric Andujar 42,79 Lea Scordo 44 Jenna Bellagamba 45,73 Suzy DeVito 46 Andrea Mango 48 John Curcio 76 Gina Borruso 80
Michael Sutton 82,97,103,110 Michael Nanthachack 83 Jonathan Sorger 84,104 Billy McCabe 98,100 Rachel Bonett 108
Table of Contents Visual Artists: Amanda Maikranz 25 William Bruder 26,92,93 Allison Fingado 27 Ann Marie Suydam-Widmer 28,50,51 Bianca Nugent 29 Celeste Dowd 30 Dana Hauser 31,32,96 Mike Dimino 33,91 Claudia Acerra 34,35 Dunyia Tawil 36 Judit Papp 49,66,94 Suzanne Jones 52 Betul Hoscan 53 Pat Halsey 54 Gail Kakalecz 55,72 Saori Kurioka 56,58 Anne Marie Scarrone 57
Will Newman 59 Scott Hamilton 60 Sara Hanlon 61 Marion Z. Costa 62,63,64 Lynne Hollingsworth 65,87,88 Eugene V. Sisk 67 Jocelyn Rineer 68 Heather Chun 69 Fran D. Schier-Potter 70,71,86 Victoria Schlosser 85 Michael Benson Yurkow 89,90 Karen Martin 95
Dedication Collage 2010 is dedicated to Peter F. Burnham, President of Brookdale Community College.
Anthony Trujillo He Will He will kiss the foreheads of the poor Then he will wipe his mouth like he tasted something disgusting He will kiss the lips of the sick But he will place a transparent, plastic seal around their lips like a condom to restrain from disease Then he, he will grab the hands of some of those reaching out Then, when the camera is off of him, he will kick them as he turns He will grab a box of compost food wipe away its dirt and feed it to those who are hungry and say he is fighting world hunger He will put on a cape and save a man falling from a curb but place the camera at a low level so it seems like high ground Now he becomes the savior and the only hero around He will square dance around the truth but keep its facts on the tip of his tongue so he could prove that it’s true
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He will keep a handful of bullets that already left the gun escaped the smoke ran from the bang and hit the target He peeled it from the wall called forensics and said it was he who saved the day and took out the villain Meanwhile, there is a secret avenger concealing the weapon with an identity too strong to be revealed He will peel back bananas to feed to monkeys and say he funds science and humans even before they evolve He will stand under a cross with satanic red painting the nails that wrap around the hands in his pocket He will drink holy water with alcohol on his breath and if they breathalyze him, he will say he drank wine with Jesus He will put out a mat get on his knees and touch his forehead to the ground Muslims surround him, humming spiritual sounds.
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Then, when their eyes close, he will lift his head and check out the round physique of a man’s wife covered from the tip of the head down. He will bow to the Japanese and still cause war to the Vietnamese He will save a sex slave coming in a dark crate, he will give a little girl new life with a clean slate Then he will house her and make her his geisha He will go to the animal shelter hold and handle all of them, then he will wear mink and gator And all forms of leather He will go to Africa and bring kids back straight from the mine fields into an adoption agency Then he, he will buy his wife diamonds and enslave and strictly apply the craze of minimum wage That mostly not minor affects minorities goes against authority and segregates shades
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From color Yes, he will his will is strong but it’s the weakest of weak because it can’t survive the powers of deceit He promotes change and equality in an unchangeable and unequal world He will seal the deal and sound for real like a Neptune but he will be as disposable as the seal on the bottle that contains the truth, providing an one hundred-percent proof He will sing gospel while wearing self-protective, prejudice goggles so they can’t see where his eyes roam He will slap on the plaque of a Navy SEAL swim with marine biologists then kill marine life along with dolphins and seals to complete lab experiments learn biology and try to put an explanation to why we feel yet he will step and stomp on a homeless man as if he were numb He will bounce on the moon Yet leave a mess in the Hollywood studio And underpay the actor And put an American flag in the corner That has a spiritual swag Cause how can it move and sway There’s no wind coming its way
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He will break the backs of the Mexicans who swam Call them “wet-backs” Throw them away When dirty work needs to be done Bring them back Brake, collapse The ladders of their spines so thoughts of success can’t climb to their minds then he will over-charge the chiropractor with tax so they can’t fix that He will provide public transportation Then accuse the public for illegal transportation He will provide prescription drugs But he will prohibit the drugs that create public love Then he will commercialize the transit busses and trains Then he will refrain their funds to fund them And he will place a flame under the feet That run them across the marathons of the work force He won’t enforce work But post a print on the dollar That quotes the almighty force Then he will hold close those in pain Intoxicate them with his cologne That holds the fragrance of deceit And convince them he has remorse He will carry buckets of water Then dry the woods to create a torch Will he do it behind them? Of course
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He will walk behind them So their eyes can’t see him But he will say he’s behind them So if they fall, he will be their support He will create laundromats with low rates So everyone can keep their clothes clean Then, when they close their doors, He will use these facilities to extort And keep the raiders clean He will infest the neighborhoods with drugs Weaken the strong men into fiends Then he will intervene and clean Up the needles, drugs and all evidence from the scene now he looks like he’s keeping the streets clean He will get sex On his office desk Then enforce the protection Of sex on preteens He created the enforcement team What it means is that They’re a team of rapists Get it? enforcement team?
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They will enforce themselves into your privacy Without invite I’m not controversial I’m just here to give insight It’s in plain sight But most people are too ignorant To use their senses commonly That’s why common sense is such a rarity He will praise women Then praise purity Through the Virgin Mary Virginity Now every woman who has sex to give life Is possessed with a sickness called insecurity God is divine But the truth is divinity And he, he will not provide this… So, from a prince he will become A king.
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Matthew Marchesano Gurdin Gets colder here in the garden The sitter on the pad is off his rock again The beech tree lends a place to stand While daylight hangs above the land Still some sun. Quite mesmerizing. A nice day could be worth more than any If it marks when you discover what matters to you. The doe is a woman The climate makes her linger The garden, like real-life epicenter Has food she likes and samples never end-a. But short does she know, some see her as food. The weather A blur while I think quietly And laugh about quiet. On a rock, speak to things around me. I am In life.
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Alison Gavin The Life And Times Of A Crape Myrtle Tree I slowly count the days as they begin to grow shorter I feel the air grow cooler as the wind picks up My pink velour flowers are beginning to drop to the ground The houses that stand around me are packed and locked up And soon I too will be all wrapped up for the winter I wish I lived where I belong Where there was no winter A place where the warm weather lasts forever For every fall my remaining flowers and leaves, along with my neighbors are shaved off Our branches are cut short And we are enclosed in burlap From September to April Sometimes-even May We remain mummified alive in burlap cocoons Just waiting for the frost to melt For the strong wind to die down to a warm breeze So we can break free from our winter tombs
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Matt Marchesano Observation Middle aged barista, hands my caffeinated feast-a, early morning: 12pm, you ask me about the weather. (It appears to be a conversation you have a lot.) “The climate is warm, fresh like this drink, and the joy of outdoors flows like a sink.” I’ll take this cup outside, while I walk down that road, then Enter that library, where I’ll write this poem. Yet you care not of my day, you ask not of my mood; and had I asked of yours, my stay would be overdue’d. Plenty-a patrons proceed, with their orders to heed, to who she’ll ask some questions for answers she not need.
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Amanda Maikranz Coconut’s Shadow
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William Bruder Untitled
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Allison Fingado MGF2
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Ann Marie Suydam-Widmer Church 2
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Bianca Nugent Stippling
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Celeste Dowd 3 Horses
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Dana Hauser Emily
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Dana Hauser Fireplace
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Mike Dimino Untitled
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Claudia Acerra Joh
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Claudia Acerra Yulia
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Dunyia Tawil Broken Heart
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Lisa Hartsgrove Untitled I never wanted to hold his hand. It was so much bigger than mine and always covered in blackness. I remember him sleeping on the couch with me right beside him. I took his hand in mine and examined it, wondering how he could live like that every day without going crazy. The build-up of oil and dirt and what-haveyou from working in a body shop had not only gotten under his nails, but actually stained the whole color of them to a deep purplish-brown. He almost had no fingertips left to trace, but what was there seemed encrusted in grime. His knuckles were always cut up—but scabbed with black blood, rather than the deep maroon most scabs are made of. The only semi-clean spot was in the whites of the spaces between his fingers, but even those were spotted with browns and greens and car paint and oil. It’s funny how I remember those hands so vividly, as if it wasn’t so long ago that they were holding me up high and tickling me till I couldn’t breathe. I guess after five years they’ve grown dirtier than I remember them.
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Chris Calderon His Star He was sitting on a stump, that old grayed
parents had a lot of crap under their arms. Like she was moving furniture or something. I’ll ask her tomorrow in school what she’s up to. She’s always up to something seedy. I’ve never really trusted her. Her whole family…they act weird.” “How did she look?” “Fine? I don’t know. Wasn’t really paying attention. Why are you asking me all these questions, anyway? What do you care for some weird girl?” “It’s— nothing, never mind.” “Woah woah, seriously. What’s going on?” “I said nothing. Let’s forget the subject. How’s your father?” “...He’s fine. He’s been working all day out on the field. Something’s gotten in him, says he feels ‘ill wind’ approaching or whatever the hell he said. Keeps saying we need to stock up all that we could. He’s getting there. You know. Far past his prime and all that. Really just a matter of time before he starts wearing diapers and shitting out dust. Maybe you could tell him some things to look forward to, you remember anything back when you passed being useful? I know it’s been a long time, but please, for my father. ” “Hah, funny. Real funny. Listen kid, I’m just as agile as I was when I was your age, see these arms?” “If I squint my eyes just right...” “They could lift your cow of a mother clean over my head, and hold her there for days. See these legs?”
friend of mine. Sitting in the middle of a clearing surrounded by trees just outside of our town. He was wearing that damn necklace around his neck. I was looking everywhere for him that entire day. There was big news, huge news, from the capital, announced far and wide on the radio of every man in town. It caused something of an uproar, but I didn’t mind. It really didn’t have anything to do with me; maybe it was for the better too. At any rate, I knew my friend didn’t have a radio, much less a television, he was one of those ancient-types, so I wanted to tell him personally. I wanted to see the look on his face. He’s into all this kind of stuff, war and all that. “Hey! I’ve been looking for you since this morning! What the hell are you doing up here?” He said nothing, merely kept his blank stare on the ground a few inches from his feet. “Did you hear the things they’re saying on the radio? It’s insane; everyone’s insane! They’re getting really weird down there, in town. They’re getting really paranoid and antsy. Not that I care, I mean, it doesn’t affect me, or you for that matter. Wonder why they’re so resistant, who cares really.” “Did you see Alina today?” “Uh... Yeah actually, I did; only briefly though. She and her parents were hurrying down the street while I was going to the market. They were moving too fast for me to ask where they were heading. Seemed like she and her 40
“Which, the wooden one? Or...” “These legs could trample an adult elephant; could run me from here to Berlin and back again. See these teeth?” “Yeah, all three of them.” “I could strip raw flesh clean off the bone with these teeth. Crush brick if I had to. And, for your information, I’m still shitting shit you little shit.” “Hah! Good to see dementia hasn’t set in yet, your mind’s still sharp, friend.” “You better believe it.” I was looking up into the trees around us, at the songbirds fluttering away. They were startled by the thrashing branches, an ill wind sifting through the trees. “It’s getting late, we should get back to town before our shadows leave us.” “Go ahead. I’m not done here.” “What? What do you mean you’re not done here? If you stay here any longer you’ll be a feast for the wolves. Get off your bony ass and let’s get back to town. Besides, from what the radio’s been going on about, I doubt wolves are the scariest thing the night hides. We should go, come.” “Are you going to join the army?” “Huh?” “The posters are scattered about town. I’ve seen them. They’re looking for everyone willing and able to join the army.”
“Oh, right. Haven’t really thought about it. Father says they’ll get everyone they could into the army; it’s only a matter of time. Might as well start early I guess...Besides, wouldn’t be too bad to bang around a gun! Maybe hit a few people in the process, too, maybe. Hah! “Yeah, maybe. You look like those people in the posters, blonde hair, blue eyes.” “Yeah, I know. What can I say; I’m just blessed by a higher power. What, jealous of how I look?” He said nothing to my sarcastic comment, only peering down to the ground at his feet again. “Listen, it’s getting late. We really need to get back. Hello? You even listening to me?” There was something on his mind, something great and heavy. It didn’t take an education to figure that out, but it took me until now to realize what it was. That realization came in the form of a glinting piece of metal around his neck, a golden chain with a pendant. I sat down on the ground; I didn’t know what to say or what to do. I just sat there, looking at the stars taking form in the blackening sky, wondering why he was wearing his. He was sitting on a stump, that old grayed friend of mine. Sitting in the middle of a clearing in a forest just outside of our town. He was wearing that damn necklace around his neck. The Star of David.
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Diana Seuffert Epiphany Story I knew this man for many years. I was well aware of his beautiful temperament, his innate kindness but the more time I spent with him the more my senses were filled with bursts of unexpected joy. It’s always pleasurable to find new depth in a person when what you discover is even better than the layer that is visible. It is like a wonderful cream filled truffle that gets better as it slowly melts, exploring your mouth with a good sensation. It is like the sunset, you think it just can’t get any more breathtaking but each stage is like a snapshot with a new more intense beauty revealed. It is like great sex repeated only better the second time because your defenses have surrendered and melted away making room for you just to be as you are enjoying the moment without anything else to think about. Your senses are filled with each other and that is enough, more than enough. This is how it feels to watch a man that you admire reveal layers of himself that captivate you even further. I watched him witness the
worst travesty in America and I saw his spirit open up instead of close down. These types of things speak to the soul. They resonate with the spirit of every human being. Experiences that matter are the ones that bring timeless beauty inside your being. Sometimes this beauty comes in the form of a pleasant experience and sometimes beauty becomes visible to us in the midst of hell and heartache. I watched this man intently as the events of the day unfolded. I was living in my own slow motion experience clouded in disbelief as I witnessed the twin towers tumbling down. Barely any words coming out of his mouth just pure expression. His face was telling, complete shock and heartache for the people in the midst of the ruble. Utter disbelief that this could happen in America. The America that he so proudly became a citizen of. The Irish had dealt with their own terrorism and darkness within their own borders from their own countrymen.
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No, he said this can’t happen in the home of the free and the brave. I saw the sparkle in his eyes fade and fear start to begin. He looked panicked. You could tell that he was coming out of his skin because he wanted to help the situation. Not having the ability to run to the aid of these people was killing him. He was a person that showed what he thought by doing, by helping. He struggled to grasp the enormity of the news and I watched as he contemplated the situation. He commented about this being a life changing experience. He said that nothing would or could ever be the same after this and it wasn’t. September 11th changed many people but few did it change for the better. Many people became temporarily more loving and less self absorbed but unfortunately that wore off too soon. Similar to a new romance when it begins you are submerged in passion and a whirlwind
of emotion. Love can overcome anything but in time when it costs something of yourself and the newness fades we give into our petty selves and let everyday stresses consume us and were back in the grips of self centeredness. Not this man, he never let the lessons from that scary day leave his mind. He made a choice that day to live in the significance of what was lost. He said he realized how precious people are and he forever esteemed the men and woman who bravely sacrificed their lives to save others. He made a decision to always be kind and to always help when you can. Life is fleeting and people are important he said. Coincidentally his wake took place on September 11, 2008. I put his pin of the twin towers on his lapel and my father put his American Flag pin right next to it. God Bless America!
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Eric Andujar The Emperor Penguin charged began but on this battlefield there will be no victor. With the exception of a small portion of a concrete wall, the train station has been demolished. In addition to being a highprofile senator, he was also an avid fan of soccer. “Then what are you waiting for, SEND IN YOUR FLEET!!” said the worried president. All hail the bard rat kill and rodent bane that has once again made the cellar safe for drunken fools and buck some barmaids. Once he finds a decent looking house, the thief climbs through an open window to scout for some valuable items to steal. A ghostly shroud of mist covered the graveyard, and a man was kneeling at one of the graves. “Which way to the Manhattan Bridge,” asked the lost tourist. The bottle of pills had a warning to call your doctor if you have blurriness in vision. Sarcophagus is a very powerful word on the scrabble board along with chiropractor. The girl unwillingly drove all the way to her mom’s work
The emperor penguin is wobbling down the street at a slow pace. I bought a light blue shoe at a store once. I wonder if I can go to the movies today. Kindly advise me on the amount of money I need to bring to my closing. The pool water is clean and looks refreshing but it’s really rather cold. There was a man in the back and he told everyone to attack. “Actually why not a haiku?” said the boy as he wrote his strange assignment. Go. The cat is attacking with great speed yet managing to still look cute. He had grown tired of punching babies, the squeals they made had long ago become stale. “That reminds me of… Gay” said Jeremy as his brother was dancing. Multiplying the mass of an object and the product of the speed of light squared is the way you find the energy. The hero’s entered the doorway to the north in the dungeon and the pungent smell of mildew emanated from the dungeon walls. The bulge sounds and the
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to drop off something the mother had forgotten that morning. “So long as you don’t mind the rotting and the smell, it brings the dead back to life,” said the shady merchant about his trinket. After days of searching and research the woman final figured out what her family phrase actually meant. I enjoyed the music on the radio on my drive home. I enjoy Haikus But sometimes they don’t make sense Refrigerator Dex’s class walked with him to the train station to bid him farewell. I could really use more sentences on this paper. Use a mixolitian mode in an F scale to get the sound you are looking for. Come on down to Dorney Park and Wildwater Kingdom for a time you won’t soon forget! The man sat staring at his ceiling wondering when his love shall return to him. For
dinner this evening we will be having a filleted steak in a delicious Italian sauce with a twice baked potato on the side filled with chives and covered in butter and sour cream. As a man looked out his plane window he yelled “JESUS CHRIST” because he saw a giant shark flying towards the plane surly with intent on eating them all. Mein Mutterliebster den ich liebe aber treiben mich verrückt translates to my mother dear I love you but you drive me crazy. The world needs heroes: in a fantastic world of magic and monsters a new age of adventure unfolds. I saw an earthworm the other day it was brown and gooey. “What a stellar sale,” said the preppy girl as she walked out of the mall with her boyfriend carrying more bags then he had fingers. I was upset to find out that they were canceling my favorite TV show.
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Lea Scordo Wastelander “Hold it right there. Take one step and you’ll be food for the vultures.” Figures. I come all this way, traversed this dead land, and the moment I find one fringe of civilization, they have their damn gun barrels practically shoved up my ass. And I use the term “civilization” lightly; this settlement is just a bunch of rusty sheet metal and hollow broken cars surrounding two badly damaged buildings. Well, actually, now that I think about it, this place is pretty ritzy, compared to all the other shit holes I’ve come across. “This how you treat all your guests?” “Guest? Now how do we know you aren’t going to try and shoot us all dead right now? You certainly seem the psycho type. Or maybe you’re a scout for one of them raider gangs. Drop your weapon. Now.” They took steady aim at me. “Heh, what kind of security are you?” I slipped the rifle strap off my shoulder and put the gun on the burning sandy earth. “Scared you can’t take down one lone wanderer? Look, I don’t want any trouble, I need to trade, and I need water.” “Well, we don’t have anything for you… wanderer.” Liar.
“I’m looking for someone who goes by the name ‘Lockjaw Eddie,’ know anything about him?” The mood changed, I could feel it, hell even the rocks could feel it. They began to fidget, and sweat even more, if that was possible, must be over a hundred-twenty degrees out here. The head guard scanned me up and down with his eyes. I must have been quite a sight, covered in dust, clothes ragged and fringed by the elements. Well, they don’t look any better. He motioned me to get inside the junk wall. There was a rolling thunder across the wasteland. It wasn’t rain. I reached down for my rifle and headed toward the gate, but the thunder rolled in loud. It was an ambush; raiders riding on what few vehicles still actually work, hollering like a bunch of maniacs. I ran for the gate, someone yelling ‘Get down!’ while bullets filled the dead air. Safety in the junk village wasn’t far away, about fifty feet. I ran as fast as I could, the guards rolled the rusty sheet metal gate closed. I didn’t make it.
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Jenna Bellagamba People “The Show Must Go On.” LIGHTS. Not quite beautiful, but definitely pretty- she is an average girl, or so she seems. Dark brown wavy hair that she doesn’t do all that much to hugs her cheeks and just a tad of foundation and blush and mascara is all that covers her face. She’s always in a hurry, always has something more important to do than where she is right now. It’s like every time you see her walk she just got a phone call giving her news of an emergency in which her presence is needed right then and there. Her small eyes seem soft, but I can see right through them- CAMERA. Just a solid tight-fitting tee and some jeans and Uggs- a low maintenance kinda girl. But, there’s more- she makes it all so complicated. She is definitely lonely and wishes she had someone to be with, someone to love more than her brother who she taxis around and more than her parents who she reluctantly lives with as she attends college, but does anyway. She secretly wants to be accepted and longs for relationships, but distances herself. I can see what is the center of her every thought, her one and only, herself. She is complex, yet simple, but makes everything more than it is. ACTION. On the outside you would never see the coldness, selfishness, and cockiness that resides on the inside. She survives by living a lie. She feeds off of the sympathy others have for her, the envy others hold within, and the gratitude others show her. Her life is a show and she is in the spotlight.
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Suzy DeVito Fuck Fuck my heart. Fuck my head. Fuck everything I own. Fuck my right hand. Fuck this piece of paper. Fuck this pen. Fuck this desk. Fuck, there’s no clock. Fuck that kid and his quick fucking answers. Fuck that girl and her matching boots and sweater. Fuck math problems. Fuck Brookdale. Fuck a college degree. Fuck a career. Fuck that perfect house with the white picket fence and blue shudders. Fuck the flowers outside on the porch. Fuck the cute little dog running around the yard. Fuck that perfect husband and fuck those perfect kids. Fuck the perfect future. Fuck this train of thought. Fuck your pounds and ounces. Fuck your pints and cups. Fuck these white walls. Fuck these goddamn staircase lights. Fuck the overhead projector. Fuck the calculator. Fuck your Fuck the scarf on the floor of the car. Fuck
the little brown lead stuck to the windshield wiper. Fuck this book of poetry. Fuck the car in front of us. Fuck the speed limit. Fuck, I want a cigarette. Fuck trying to quit. Fuck you for making me want to quit. Well fuck, we’ve gotten to the root of the problem. Fuck love. Fuck freedom. Fuck phone calls at 5 in the morning. Fuck weed. Fuck beer. Fuck pills. Fuck your driving. Fuck your car. Fuck corrupt lying pigs. Fuck little boys with cell phones. Fuck every goddamn thing you said. Fuck whatever you meant. Fuck where you were. Fuck wherever you are now. Fuck your friend, I don’t want to fuck him. Fuck the turkey. Fuck the stuffing. Fuck carrots and peas. Fuck turnips and potatoes. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck today. Fuck this week. Fuck last Thursday. Fuck the front seat of your car. Fuck your bedroom floor. Fuck the
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backroom of your RV. Fuck the sand on the beach. Fuck the grass in the park. Fuck your living room couch. Fuck my bed. Fuck your futon. Fuck all those times we sat and watched cartoons. Fuck every time you fell asleep on my shoulder. Fuck the songs you sang to yourself while you fiddled around with cigars. Fuck your cats. Fuck your movies. Fuck your impressions and all your funny jokes. Fuck that band you told me to listen to. Fuck every ride home. Fuck the highway. Fuck the back roads. Fuck the gasoline creeping through your heating vents. Fuck every hug, Fuck every kiss. Fuck those late night talks. Fuck that smile on your face. Fuck every chuckle, giggle and laugh. Fuck your hands. Fuck your feet. Fuck your arms. Fuck your legs. Fuck every toe and fuck
every finger. Fuck each and every hair on your head. Fuck both of your eyes. Fuck both of your ears. Fuck your lips and fuck your nose. Fuck everything that happened. Fuck everything that never did. Fuck everything that will. Fuck everything that won’t. Fuck everything that should have. Fuck everything that never, ever should have. Fuck insecurities. Fuck odds. Fuck everyone that got in our way. Fuck you for not getting in my way. Fuck me for wanting you. Fuck you for not realizing just how much I want you. Fuck therapeutic writing. Fuck distractions. Fuck the water stains on my ceiling. Fuck the crumbs on my sheets. Fuck, I can’t get comfortable. Fuck. I really want you here. Fuck me hard for that.
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Andrea Mango Stream of Consciousness His hands softly grip that old, dusty book. Frank Sinatra is playing in the background. He always loved Frank. His head had dropped to his chest, tilted to the right. He won’t move from that old, ripped and torn Lazy Boy. It’s his favorite. I remember as a little girl he would put me in this chair and pretend it was my throne. Like I was his little princess. His glasses had fallen off of his lowered face and his shoes were still on. Should I take them off? Should I wake him up and help him to bed? He looks so peaceful and relaxed. I need not to bother him. His snores roar throughout the house, making it well known that he is in a state of mind one should not interrupt. He’s always snored. I notice more wrinkles. His hair seems whiter than I remember. I hear his deep breaths as he sleeps, but they are not normal breaths. It sounds like his lungs are moving in slow motion, like they are running a marathon and just were about to take a break from running. Between the snores he wheezes, breathing as hard as he can for as much air that he can intake. As I look at him in that old recliner, I remember the older days. The days when he was superman to me. When he would build cradles, rocking horses, and swings. When he’d drive us to the boardwalk and win us toys, buy us cotton candy and caramel apples, and smile ever so brightly when we’d wave and blow kisses after every round on the merry-go-round. I remember riding
the lawnmower. Sitting on his lap, feeling the warm spring air brush against our faces. Every time I smell the wonderful scent of cut grass, I am reminded of him. As he sits in his chair, his mind in a dream world, I remember all that has recently happened. The terror, sadness, relief, and love keeps replaying through my mind. I specifically remember one time I visited him. His skin looked so frail, he could barely keep his eyes open. He looked so weak with the oxygen tubes in his nose, his skin tone was as pale as Snow White’s. His belly has always looked like a big beach ball that was stuffed under his shirt, but even that looked like the air was let out. He lost so much weight. He was almost in the same position in the hospital bed as he is at this moment. There was no book, though. His fingers softly intertwined each other, as his chin rested against his chest. He had headphones on. As I leaned closer, I could hear Frank. That brought a sense of warmth to this cold and sad time. As he opened his eyes, I knew he was still so tired. I don’t know if at this moment he was aware of his state. His eyes slowly opened, he lifted his head and said, “Is that my princess?” I smiled at him as he smiled back. His eyes closed quickly as I walked over next to him, and kissed him on the cheek. As I stare at him now, I am reassured how strong he is. Sleeping in that old Lazy Boy; my king.
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Judit Papp Opportunities
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Ann Marie Suydam-Widmer Farm House
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Ann Marie Suydam-Widmer Flower with Trees
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Suzanne Jones Pigeon Pinwheel
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Betul Hoscan Shadows on the Leaf
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Pat Halsey Deepcut Tree
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Gail Kakalecz Digger
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Saori Kurioka Blue Petals Ranunculus
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Anne Marie Scarrone Pops Mask
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Saori Kurioka Tomatoes
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Will Newman Untitled
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Scott Hamilton Piggy-back on a Butterfly
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Sara Hanlon Self Portrait Painting
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Marion Z. Costa Asbury Park – Blue Field House
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Marion Z. Costa Asbury Park – Deal Senior Tower
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Marion Z. Costa Asbury Park – Carousel House
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Lynne Hollingsworth Cake Planet
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Judit Papp Robin
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Eugene V. Sisk Dead Leaves
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Jocelyn Rineer Reflections
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Heather Chun Awakening the Success Tree
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Fran D. Schier-Potter Art Deco
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Fran D. Schier-Potter Minding the Store
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Gail Kakalecz Virginia Creeper
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Jenna Bellagamba Woman Smelling good and looking pretty I’m thankful I get to be a woman when he leans in and his nose slightly caresses my neck when he tries to breathe me in the feeling that my scent pleases him is intoxicating the power I have he wants to touch me and feel every part of my body I have the power when he kisses me softly right on the top of shoulder I struggle not to show him how weak he makes me not who you think I am I want it bad I want you bad too but the power is too pleasing the begging and the pleading to make you wait is to make it better it’s always better that way high heels thigh highs pencil skirt that hugs the hips and a blouse that reveals the soft top of cleavage fashion I think yes but to please you more you could wear jeans a tee and a ball cap and look sexier than ever you hug me from behind wrap your hands around my waist slide them down around my hips you have no idea how you have me wrapped around your finger when you do that to me when I get home and all I want to do is take off my heels you can’t think of anything but to keep them on just for a while longer the hop on to the counter hand slip up the skirt soft skin and scented moisturizer
long eyelashes and thick eyeliner define a real woman beautiful gorgeous and sexy all worth it beauty is pain not at all beauty is power he follows my lead I have what he wants not that but I hold the key holding him when he awakes from the nightmares the images of death and fire to his heart to be the woman he needs when he’s broken and to be the only one he will accept a hug from he waits just for my hug I have the power the tears he reveals and I wipe away for him to be the woman who sees the soft side the silly side the side that speaks of God and of love he wants to play with me like I am his wrestling buddy his joking co-fireman I am the woman who is it all the secretary and the event planner the socialite the one who provides all of his needs I struggle to be it all the woman’s job to be it all is difficult but only we could do it we were built to do it sometimes he cannot be it all for me and only a woman could live a life like that he needs me to be it all as a woman I long to be heard I need to be noticed notice the little things that I do for you new dress new hair new eye shadow tell me that you noticed is all I need and that you like it be spontaneous with me kiss me out
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of nowhere when I least expect it in public and in private at the movie theatre like the old days on your bed like teenagers no clichés just be you sometimes I want more I want the unique romantic surprises but your mind can only go so far errands to run and things to do always moving waking up early getting to the gym to keep that tone make-up and hair start the day compact mirrors to reapply the gloss come home to a cup of tea soak in a bath read a magazine and paint my toenails oh how the feeling that getting things done gives the adrenaline of shopping walking around and walking out of place with full bags of newly purchased items only to go home and empty them out on your bed to try on everything you bought with the outfits you will wear to put on the little black dress that makes your boobs look amazing and that makes you sexy even when you ate too much the feeling
a dress gives me when I twirl around and feel the blow for the legs to show just right as it flies up the power legs have when they are in a pair of four inch heels and a tight skirt I step out of the shower and wrap one towel around my head in the twist and one around me he loves to smell me right then and there I love to smell him when he is in his suit all ready to walk out the door and his faint scent of cologne flows through the house on his way out I love to watch him shower not when he gets out I like to see him shower all quickly like men do and then almost fall asleep while he’s in there men are peculiar they only demand specific brand for specific things they like to make themselves seem less picky than women but they are just as picky his body wash has to be Irish Spring but you can get him any kind of gel that’s on sale it’s amazing men will be men I guess
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Matt Marchesano Things I Would Never Say to My Girlfriend after a shower when your hair is wet and you need to wear the black glasses before bed, or the exact opposite that I feel when I’m around you on P.M.S., because you tend to cry and nag while on the rag (I’ve been waiting for a bit to use that rhyme) and you don’t laugh at any of my jokesnot even the good ones, which seems almost out of spite, like your holding a smile back, and lastly as cute as it may be, stop trying to outdrink me at parties because you usually get sick and I don’t mind taking care of you but I like to have sex when I’m drunk and you usually crash like a hurricane into a fire pit, if you even last the walk back home and do not end up sleeping at your friend’s, who banned my friends and I from her house based on account of one ruined painting of hers which I fell onto when somebody pushed me over last year.
Three months already— wow, time can fly when your life is getting used to a new habit, but luckily habits for me are easily withdrawn from, so please stop planning ‘our’ future and think more about your own options in life because I’m not going to be here forever and I don’t want to be your roommate, so don’t plan on following me this closely forever, my love, and for the last time, I don’t want to be friends with your brother because he is a pretentious car-freak and we have nothing to talk about anyway, and you know how I hate forced conversation- also, stop being so restricting when we’re around my friends after you and I have sex, because I don’t owe you anything but honesty, which I politely agree too, so if I want to eat pizza and make dirty jokes with my friends, let me be and if you join in, I’d probably like you more, honestly- probably in the same way I like you
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John Curcio The Pleasantries Tom sits there as his whole family takes their individual turns. They kneel before the open casket, making the sign of the holy cross as they descend to the kneeler. A thought creeps into Tom’s empty head; they are most likely subtracting their age from my grandmother’s as they bend their knees. The simplicity of that smartass thought sparks a small smile in the corner of Tom’s mouth. Tom gazes at his grandmother’s peaceful hands, and recollects how many times she greeted him by putting her hands on both sides of his face before planting a welcoming kiss on his forehead. Tom scans the room, noticing everything in either beige or a rather dull tan color. Is this the color of death or just plain ugly? Tom has hated these family get-togethers for years, especially ones that involve such a glossing over of something awful. And, no matter how insignificant, he loves to point out any form of “bullshit” that he sees getting slung around. “I’m so sorry…at least she didn’t suffer.” This line will be uttered, repeated, and bullshitted countless times throughout the remainder of the wake, Tom thought to himself as he used a “car salesman smile” during a firm handshake to a family friend. His eyes revert
back to his default blank stare. The phrase still rubs Tom the wrong way as he ponders. She didn’t suffer? Well, how the hell do you know that? For all we know, she could have suffocated and struggled for air for minutes on end before finally croaking. But that’s an ugly thought, and we’re here to “celebrate death.” “I’m so sorry…I suppose it’s a blessing she is no longer in pain.” Another one of Tom’s favorites. “Thank you, you’re right”, he politely replies. Tom leans back into his slouched position, gazing at his little cousins playing handheld video games. Little shits have no respect anymore, do they? And a blessing? Did I hear you right? Yeah, I suppose being shot by a mugger after dealing with a broken leg would be a real Godsend, too, right? “I’m so sorry…everything’s so beautiful, she would’ve loved this.” This one Tom had to really wrap his brain around. She would have loved this? It’s her fucking funeral! How in the holiest hell could she have enjoyed watching people stand around
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being grateful for not being the one in the box? This “polite gesture” was definitely one of the most mind-boggling, yet entertaining, for Tom. “Yes, yes she would. Beige and tan were her favorite colors.” Tom lovingly replied.
done, dead and buried, Tom returned home from a long, exhausting day of pleasantries. Two months later, a family barbecue was planned. It would be the first time Tom would see his family since the funeral. Tom dreaded going to the gathering. With the barbecue only a day away, Tom prepared himself for a deeper dive into more ludicrous comments about his grandmother’s “new home in heaven.” He got ready for bed, but just before slipping into his lounge pants, Tom caught a glimpse of the Virgin Mary card that he took from the funeral home. Tom was struck by its image for a brief moment before slamming its imagery. A pretty painting… I’ve seen ones just as nice in old children’s storybooks, He thought to himself. While the card didn’t shake him, one thought started to wear on him. Every time the family got together, Tom would greet his family members in the same manner. Tom would peck his aunts and cousins on the cheek, firmly shake all of his uncles’ hands, and happily nod to all family members out of reach on the other side of the room. However, he would always make damn sure that he kissed his grandmother hello. She was always last. She was always at the far end of the home, in her favorite chair. Tom realized
“I’m so sorry…at least she is in a better place now, huh?” His favorite above all else. Tom really took that one in stride. He milked his response as if he were performing live at Madison Square Garden, packed house, with the President as the guest of honor. “Yes, yes. She is singing with the Angels now, Auntie. She’s looking down upon us with golden wings arisen. I only wish she were here…she would have love, just loved, this funeral”, he concluded as he retracted his hand from the “condolence handshake”. A better place? I would imagine a better place would not be in the casket. Oh, wait a minute. They meant the golden kingdom in the clouds! Gee, I sure hope she sends me a postcard from there. That way I can actually agree with this, the ultimate bullshit of polite condolences at a funeral. With this thought, Tom rose for the final closing of the night. Once it was all said and
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that tomorrow she wouldn’t be in that chair anymore. He brushed the thought out of his mind and forced himself to sleep. Not long after, Tom saw himself in front of the old house in Bensonhurst. He opened the door and saw his Uncle Tony in his typical stance; beer in his right hand, a cigar in his left. He reached over and firmly shook his hand. Tom then proceeded through the house pecking his aunts and cousins on their cheeks, and shaking all of his uncles’ hands. He then stood by his grandmother’s empty chair. He gazed at the always pristine seat, then looked up and asked, “Where’s Grandma?” Her bedroom door then swiftly opened. A beautiful, angelic woman appeared before Tom. She put her hands on both sides of his face, and kissed his forehead.
A familiar feeling of warmth came over him. “Everything is going to be alright, Tom”, she softly whispered. Tom opened his eyes and stared at his bedroom ceiling. He got ready for the family barbecue and was on his way. He stood before the old familiar house as his Uncle Tony, beer and cigar in hand, opened the door and welcomed him in. He firmly shook all of his uncles’ hands, and kissed his aunts and cousins hello. Tom finally made his way to the same empty chair. His Great-Aunt Kathy rested her hand on top of his. “I’m sure she’s in a better place now.” “Yeah. She is.” Tom replied.
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Eric Andujar A Nick Here, A Scratch There From a world away All seems perfect No flaws no mistakes Simply perfect Envy and jealousy fill the mind Why aren’t I so perfect? A step closer Reveals a new world Still grand and excellent Yet its secrets start to show A nick here A scratch there But still why aren’t I that perfect? Closer yet An even deeper look More secrets hidden from the world Skeletons
Mistakes Hidden Deep Where nobody can see Why do you still seem so perfect? Face to face No distance Looking Searching The truth is told Not just a nick Not just a scratch All the imperfects are shown The flaws The mishaps The secrets Yet you are perfect. Why aren’t I so perfect?
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Gina Borruso I’m Just Not a Good Judge of Character “Scuse me, do you have the time, ma’am?” I turned quickly and met his icy gaze. Those frosty blue eyes left me speechless and frozen in my tracks. They pierced through my stare and melted my brown eyes into liquid chocolate. I’ve seen them before, they were one of a kind, and not something you forget. The muscles in my face suddenly refused to move. My jaw hung open like I was trying to catch flies in my mouth. He spoke again, softly, “Ma’am, the time? You all right?” “Uh, um, I’m, um, fine, really. Er, I don’t have a watch, sorry.” I shook my head to snap out of this trance. He was stunningly beautiful. A southern belle in the big city. Where have I seen you? I thought to myself. “Ha! I don’t believe you’re really fine for a damn near second! Since neither of us has a watch, my stomach is tellin’ me it’s right around dinner time. Care to join me lil’ lady?” “Uh” My mouth was still hanging, dry, my
voice locked behind bars in my throat. “I ain’t know nobody in this here big city ya’ll live in. I just want some company, that’s all. No harm done.” His half-smile bore some of his beautiful pearl white teeth and in that instant I felt my knees turn to Jell-O. His hands went up in the air to surrender any thoughts I’d have of him putting me in danger. If I could just get it together I would never refuse an opportunity to be with a man so stunning. I studied his features and mentally reviewed everywhere I was this past week to scan for a match of this familiar face. His scent was funny, slightly invigorating, yet it made me feel somewhat nauseous. It made my head cloudy and confused. A beyond perfect jaw line graced his face, scruffy but presentable. Tall, dark, and handsome, except for those light eyes. There was nothing dark about them. He was purely perfection in human form. “Sure. I mean yes, I’d be delighted.”
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“Alrighty then, Amy! I’ll take ya down to a pub where they have the best damned barbecue ribs you’ll ever have! We’ll have a hootin’ tootin’ good ol’ time!” “Had I told him my name? It must have slipped out in between stutters.” I couldn’t help but trail behind him like a lost puppy as we made our way to this pub. We walked for a few blocks, he was doing all the talking while I tried to get myself together. My nerves were bursting with electricity; nervousness was streaming throughout my body. I could still hear him speaking, but really could not process a word. His speech became blurred, as did my vision. I was always a victim of getting jumpy and scared, but this has never happened before. The only reasoning I could find to be the cause of my body’s reaction was his seemingly supernatural beauty.
The world in front of me turned to darkness as my body collapsed to the concrete. I could hear and feel everything around me, but I could not speak a word or see a thing. My body was screaming with terror. I could feel him on top of me, pushing, pulling, scratching. What was happening to me? It could have been an eternity, or it could have been five minutes. Either way, I was oblivious to how long I had been in another state of mind. The color returned to my world as I lay behind a dumpster trembling with fear. The only thing I had as evidence that this was real was a tiny folded piece of paper in my jacket pocket. It was blank except for the six words that would haunt me for the rest of my life: I’LL ALWAYS BE EVERYWHERE YOU ARE.
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Michael Sutton I’m Allergic to Plums He tossed another plum at me with a smirk. That round hate-filled sack, I felt its purple face taunting me with every rotation. Just yesterday he tossed me a plum with that same smirk. “Thar ya go! How ‘bout a delicious snack aye? I sure do love plums. Aren’t they just so good? Reddddd on the inside. MmmHmm.” Catching the plum, I felt the fire steaming from my squinting eyelids. I looked him square in the eye. “Thanks Sir.” It was the same story the day before, and the day before that. For the greater part of the month my boss has been giving me his precious plums despite the fact that I have yet to eat a single one. “The little bastards must be in season,” I mumbled to myself. “No, no! This is the only season to be eatin’ plums!” He obviously didn’t hear me, but I nodded away, valuing my job over my dignity. I’ve actually made quite a collection of plum-o-
laterns though. Well I couldn’t just throw them out. Every day after receiving my little bundle of joy from the gracious hands of my boss who obviously thinks I can’t afford a twenty-five cent piece of fruit, I would go out the back door and pitch it into a brick wall. I know that isn’t your average Halloween lantern, but I enjoyed them anyhow. So this morning, just as every other, there the plum was, staring me down with its hatefilled purple skin spinning the distance from the inconsiderate swine’s hand to mine. By its grim expression alone, I swear it knows what I’ve done to the others. Just then I realized that enough’s enough. Instead of catching it as usual, I stepped aside, letting it smash prematurely against the cheap gray office carpet. His smirk was a full out chuckle now. “Havin’ an off day are ya, Steven?” “Actually sir…”
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Michael Nanthachack A Duel at High Noon Back to back they stand under the high sun. They count now. One. A step forward they take. Two. Again, as hands find his holstered gun. Three. Veterans, air they calmly intake. By the fourth second, they both turn around. Drawing their weapons with such speed, they shoot. In the fifth, passers-by dive to the ground. They know only death can solve their dispute.
At last, when the sixth second came along, And bullets lodge themselves in arms and legs The two regretted what they had done wrong: The law drowning in vengeance and beer kegs, Unwilling to spend the time with his bride; The lawbreaker without wife and child And the people whom by his hands have died. Seven seconds. Strangely both men smiled. In the eighth second, they see only red. The tenth second passes by. Both men fall. Heart and mind encasing metal, they bled. And one last memory they do recall— A hard day’s work for their respective job, A day long past, both had left their saloon. As they stared into the stars, their hearts throb— So pleased to die here, twelve seconds past noon.
They miss. Bullets dart cleanly through the air, Flying death so close to taking their lives. They begin to wonder, why are they there? The sheriff who has had multiple wives, And the outlaw, whose fault was affection. He may have stolen and he may have killed, But that caused no fear, for she was smitten— The sheriff never made her so fulfilled.
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Jonathan Sorger Lupanar I The frescos above the rooms are lavish and alluring They paint a vivid picture of desire, For they reveal numerous sex positions. To some clients, the art depicts a delicious menu of sexual possibilities It epitomizes quintessential lays. To most, the pieces illustrate an unknown grandeur, Never experienced. Oh, I forgot to do position 5 last visit I hope I remember that one for this throw Felix bene futuis, She told me. But Felix is not my name. The room was cramped The ceiling low, the bland walls tight around me A delicate moisture filled the chamber And there was a prevailing stench, Stout like whiskey, But as foul as decaying fish The bed was vexatious, For it was made of stone with a thin straw overcoat But what should I expect for 2 copper The deed was sealed rather hastily But what more could I afford. Besides, there were scores of anxious others outside the linen curtain, Like me 66 seconds ago, waiting to be serviced.
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Victoria Schlusser Sightless Sue
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Fran D. Schier-Potter Bread Basket
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Lynne Hollingsworth Matches
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Lynne Hollingsworth Vase
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Michael Benson Yurkow Windowsill
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Michael Benson Yurkow Long Shadows in Red Bank
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Mike Dimino 3 Times the Time
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William Bruder Untitled
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William Bruder Untitled
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Judit Papp Seagull
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Karen Martin Ansel Adams Focused Visionary
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Dana Hauser Locked
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Michael Sutton life among the snail Traffic is horrendous. food is too sweet, never any salt. my neighbors love, to climb on me. some stay for the night. it’s always slime. never a clean surface. dirty slugs, forever scheming. sounding alarms. “lock your doors. watch your things.” the shell-less are jealous, and on the move. some slow mornings, slugs and and surfaces aside, are smiles. stretched over a sunny leaf, enough nom’s for all, like a real family. snails and i dance ‘til the snow puts them to sleep.
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Billy McCabe Old Man I see the old man breathe I watch the old man chew his cheeks He sits in happiness of his knowing final days I wonder what thoughts are going through his mind full of haze My wonder will show in time He asks for trips to the market He cannot drive he cannot run He stares at the setting sun The chair squeaks each morning His alarm clock always alarming I do not know what this man knows His knowledge can only grow Each new day brings him life Each new night makes me wonder if his end is in sight The old man sips his tea The old man surely always has to pee He watches his programs on TV Day after day lovingly His grandkids are often around
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He loves to hear their innocent sound He loves to cuddle with them and hear their gentle hearts pound The old man he says to me Why don’t you come around more often? I say I have no time He nods his head, nor do I nor do I I wonder what he’s doing today Sitting in his chair or playing chess alone I do not know what to do today Maybe I’ll go watch him rest The day is getting darker The nights are getting colder His will to live is getting stronger The old man took a breath today
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Billy McCabe Blue Rock Round and round Darkness surrounds the round mass Life beckons at its every movement The light that shows warms each body Coming closer to each season The rate of speed is amazing The lives that live are astonishing The history is ancient The air crisp in the mountains Each new day starts with a dawn Each new night ends with a yawn The morning breakfast different in every home The bedtime stories told as a poem The constant daily bustle The stresses each day brings Lives often changed daily Lives wanting to be changed increases So much pain cannot be seen So much blood always being wiped clean The peace and love needs to come Each new leader promises a dove
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Mother is flying through the stars Passing cousins named Mars Venus often sucking up the rays As the moon man circles, keeping oceans at bay How long will she spin How long will the life continue Seems like it has been an eternity I guess it has, we have no certainty The cosmos only know what is in store They say space has no sound But every astronaut hears their heart pound When looking back at that big blue home No matter who we are or what we’ve done We are all the same inside No matter where we hide or reside We all live on the same blue rock.
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Lisa Hartsgrove And God Blessed Them, Saying, Be Fruitful and Multiply I daydream: it’s snowing out and two people, a man and a woman, make love upon the white pillows of flurries. Their fingers are purple and their toes are turning black, but their eyes remain focused on each other, as if whispering that there is nothing else in this world to live for. No such thing as love, just that one moment of euphoria surging down from one into another fighting its way to generate life for no purpose other than to reproduce again. And in this thought, half-fearing that it is the truth and half-hoping that it is not, I wonder, who does God pray to?
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Michael Sutton drunk eyes “This number is your lens color. It’s going to change.” — Sunglass Hut employee sands fall, hoisting up new suns with stressed, frayed ropes crusted by old, dead barnacles. alone, the bitter man on deck wears gray sunglasses, fitting for sea. rotting leg of wood, infested with squirms. they burrow deep and rot the core. breath like a thousand waterlogged corpses, he drops another bottle. many sands fell and flipped since he bought said glasses and fled onto the old ship. an empty captain’s heart breaks. his men are alive, but the man on deck suffers the burden of dying twice in one lifetime
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Jonathan Sorger Father’s Yang Zoom, Zoom Around the track, The plastic wings Of the plastic cars Nimbly fly around the track. Pinned up high in a corner, Trapped. The hand of the clock rotates As my shirt is clenched by his rugged, large fingers Zero seconds left. Palmed is my head, Like a child holding a grape. Shrieking shrills from my mother, Father is in a rage. Father is going to kill me. Zoom, Zoom Around the track, The plastic wings
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Of the plastic cars Nimbly fly around the track. Burning plastic tires, Whooshing plastic wings, Ten second lap time, Nine second lap time, Track record—eight seconds. Happiness was short lived. Tick’ tock Tick’ tock Time was due to expire Purchased only an hour, not long enough. Large, hairy knuckles Pound into my arm, Repeatedly smash against my flesh. Crack. Did my bone snap? No. It was the large, hairy knuckles.
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Matt Marchesano Seized Seized by large hands that suspend me, Above a hospital bed with no mommy, My first sense of the world unfurled, and I’d like stay back in there, curled Up where it’s warm, Not this horrid rainstorm. A place where it’s calm, Or just back to my mom. People around say that I’m useless, and hang kids like me in nooses, Measuring our intellect of its tightness And looseness, By their rights as supreme humans And their beliefs, which are truthless. These doctors, no better than the soldiers: blood-letters. These doctors know best, These hands toss me into a bin of broken things like the rest. This is not how my life was meant, I should grow up, get old, Hold thoughts of places I went.
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I’m not made to be destroyed, Nor is any other girl or boy, By protocol of an ulterior ultimate ploy. I should not have been born under attack, By no less, a pawn of a raging maniac, Just see me as a fish of no worth to you, The water: my life, those hands: throw me back. I deserve to have my first kiss, My first make-believe friend, Have old friends to miss, And wisdom to lend. I want to play games, and feel how to laugh, See what I’ve become since my first photograph. I have the right to a family and the safety of kin, Live to my fullest potential within, The right, if I want to leave Berlin. The strangers have these hands, With danger in their plans, To a helpless newborn, my ears not yet dry The only solace I know of is to cry.
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Rachel Bonett Mine I want black leather pants. I want them skinned and shiny I’ll wear them with my red stilettos, the ones with dagger heels. I want those black leather pants the ones that hug the leg till they suffocate the ankle, the ones that turn your toes blue and keep your thighs attentive. I want the black leather pants with seams about to bust and hardly bendable knees, those are the leather pants that I want. I want the black leather pants that make you wonder
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if they’ve lived a day without my legs. Those pants that go hand in hand with my watched, and watched figure. The ones that breathe with me, and make me sway when we dance. I want those black leather pants, the ones that were made for me and my leopard-print coat. The ones that lead you to believe I invented red lipstick and lace. I want a pair of black leather pants that convince you the word vixen was breathed in honor of my presence, tonight.
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Michael Sutton mine. i want what no man wants. i want the other one. the one no one else wants. abandoned, neglected, broken and shamed. it will be mine. it will need me, though it does not yet know. i want it. i want to fix it. it will make me feel irreplaceable. not like grandmother’s priceless vase, but like your favorite green sweatshirt that is out of print. I will fix it, and want it no more. everyone will want it.
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Lisa Hartsgrove Elephants are the only mammals that can’t jump. (I wonder what they do when they’re frightened.) The apocalypse is nearing. Will they join arms and pray for a future? They have no arms to join. We will scream, “CHEERS TO THE LIFE WE’VE LIVED!” Lift our glasses up high, and never once think of the elephants. And the elephants will lift their noses to the sky, toot trumpets in harmony, and lift all four legs off the ground at once. The world will cave in, our drinks will spill, and the elephants will have a hearty laugh. Elephants are the only mammals that can’t jump. (I wonder what they do when they’re frightened.)
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Writers’ Notes Andrea Mango My grandfather has been one of the most inspirational people in my life. Throughout my education, he has been the inspiration for many of my collections of writings. When given this assignment, I knew that there was nothing else to write about but him. Creative Writing opened up a whole new world of writing for me, and I look forward to continuing on this journey.
Eric Andujar My name is Eric D. Andujar and I am currently majoring in Liberal Arts. Creative writing was always something I enjoyed. The poem I wrote was originally a writing I did as a response to going to an art gallery as a class assignment that lead from writing about a picture to writing about a loved one. The seemingly nonsensical paper was random thoughts that popped into my head from what was on TV at the time to weird phrases to video games.
Billy McCabe Poetry is something that has always been a hobby for me, I never took it all that seriously. The poem which is being published “Old Man” was based off a painting entitled “Bernie” that I saw at the Monmouth Museum while visting with my Eng 221 class.
Jonathan Sorger I was born and raised in Millstone Township, New Jersey. I attended Allentown High School, and after college I want to go to law school. I use poetry to express myself and my point of view.
Diana Seuffert My name is Diana Seuffert. I began writing this year as a way to release the pain and despair I have felt from the sudden death of my loving companion - Luke Walsh. Writing has enabled me to carry on by giving me an avenue to express my deepest emotions and to keep our love story alive. I would like to dedicate this story to him, because he is my hero, and to all the heroes that sacrificed their lives to saves others on 9/11. Thank you for your kindness, we will never forget you.
Michael Nanthachack I’m Asian and poetry is my hobby. This poem was tough to write, but when finished, I was happy, despite not being able to escape numbers, try as I might.
Rachel Bonett 20-year old, second-year student. Loves and mostly writes edgy poetry and short-short stories. Developed a deeper appreciation and understanding for writing this past year thanks to the Visiting Writer’s Series guests. 115
Writers’ Notes Lisa Hartsgrove I’ve found that the best poetry is derived from human flaws. We were made to question the stars, not bask in their delight. Even at their brightest, we’re never content. So why not write about it?
Lea Scordo I’m glad you have chosen to read one of my writings. A little about myself: I like cats, and enjoy the musical works of Brian Setzer. This particular story (“Wastelander”) was inspired by my love of post-apocalyptic computer role playing games, such as Wasteland, Fallout, and Fallout 2.
Suzanne DeVito My name is Suzy. I don’t have a major at the moment because I change my mind too often. I have no direction and I have no idea what I want to do with my life. At this point I’m just winging it. I can’t say too much about my writing because, personally, I’m not a fan.
Tony Funfetti (Matthew Marchesano) Responds in moments rather than in time, Likes dissonance, seldom with chaos, And when poems choose not to rhyme. He finds life in death and hated to wake up only after the night his cat ran away.
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Visual Artists’ Notes Marion Z. Costa I enjoy documenting the environment around me and exploring new ways of seeing through my camera’s lens.
Fran D. Schier-Potter “Minding the Store” – This photo was taken outside of an ‘old time’barbershop in Red Bank where the owner’s dog is a welcoming sentry and playful hostess to their customers.
Victoria Schlusser “Sightless Sue” – I had taken a drawing class in Matawan Regional High School about 5 years ago. Everyone in the class had to choose a sculpture that we then had to reproduce using pencil. My teacher taught me shading techniques which I believed helped me greatly for this piece and my future artwork.
“Art Deco” – This photo was taken by squeezing through the iron bars at the housing for the former carousel in Asbury Park. I was intrigued by the interesting shadows the vintage (1929?) windows cast in the sunlight.
Karen Martin A value study of a master photographer.
Pat Halsey With my pictures, it’s always the light, coming through trees, through liquid, through mist. I’m working with transparencies now, but even in print, it’s the light coming through something.
Michael Benson Yurkow In this image I tried to capture the different ways the light was shining through the flower jar, the stained glass, and the window. I felt that the shape of the garbage can cast a shadow that seemed nearly 3-dimensional because of its shape.
Sara Hanlon I did this self-portrait in Sid Godwin’s Spring ’09 Painting II class.
Celeste Dowd The simplistic nature of my stable inspires me to the fullest extent. The day this photo was taken a storm was rolling in, however my horses seemed unphased.
Saori Kurioka The beauty of nature reminds me of the energy of life. It always brightens my day up.
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Collage 2010 funded by The Associated Students of Brookdale Community College, Volume 40, Š2010. Submissions of student writing (poetry, essay, short story, drama) for Collage 2011 may be delivered on CD and in hard copy at any time to Collage, c/o English Division Office, Larrison Hall, BCC. Editors will read all submissions from September through December. For visual artwork drop an original or CD (artwork scanned at 300 dpi) to CVA 116 or contact Geanna Merola in the Photography Department, CVA with submission questions after September 2010.
The Contributors Writers: Anthony Trujillo Matthew Marchesano Lisa Hartsgrove Chris Calderon Diana Seuffert Eric Andujar Lea Scordo Jenna Bellagamba Suzy DeVito Andrea Mango John Curcio Gina Borruso Michael Sutton Michael Nanthachack Jonathan Sorger Billy McCabe Rachel Bonett Allison Gavin
Visual Artists: Amanda Maikranz William Bruder Allison Fingado Ann Marie Suydam-Widmer Bianca Nugent Celeste Dowd Dana Hauser Mike Dimino Claudia Acerra Dunyia Tawil Judit Papp Suzanne Jones Betul Hoscan Pat Halsey Gail Kakalecz Saori Kurioka Anne Marie Scarrone Will Newman Scott Hamilton Sara Hanlon Marion Z. Costa Lynne Hollingsworth Eugene V. Sisk Jocelyn Rineer Heather Chun Fran D. Schier-Potter Victoria Schlusser Michael Benson Yurkow Karen Martin