Work That Throws a Punch by insertlitmaghere

issue three//August 2014

insert Lit Mag Here

Work that throws a punch

From your new art editor I was so excited to join Julia to help her out with ILMH! This is the very first issue that I helped edit and I have to say that I had so much fun selecting work! I have had some work in previous issues but this is a completely different experience. I’m so honored to be able to see all the amazing work, seriously, you guys blow me away. I was so happy to join the team because I think this magazine should really showcase the highest quality work possible, so that unfortunately means work has to be denied sometimes. Although this process is hard to do and I hate to let people down, this is essential to make the most amazing group of work possible. With that being said, keep making art, whether you do it with imagery or words, KEEP MAKING IT. The one thing I want this magazine to do is to be a standard of quality. I want this magazine to make other artists aspire to make work seen here, and most of all I want this magazine to make you all aspire to be even better than you were the last issue… if that’s even possible. I’m so excited to receive more entries and I hope to see all of our amazing artists improve as time goes on as well as new artists who want to throw some punches as well. -Kayla Savage (yesthisiskayla.tumblr.com)

From your Literary editor First, our third issue is full of work that throws a punch. The work that was selected for this issue was work that we thought would stick with you. We looked for work that really hit us in the guts, and while it left us gasping, it also left us asking for more. As this project continues to grow, I pride myself in knowing we give a diverse range of people the opportunity to be a part of the ILMH family. Some of our contributors have books out while some of our contributors have never been published anywhere before. Regardless of their past experiences and successes, all of our contributors kick ass. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m happy that you, our readers, have helped create this space for people with amazing work to share. Next, I am proud to welcome the new ILMH art editor, Kayla Savage. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been friends since middle school and have grown together as people and weirdos and artists and hooligans ever since. We share a vision as to what should be in this magazine. She brings a huge amount of knowledge on visual art to the table that I frankly do not have. I think you will all agree that adding another set of eyes to the editorial team has made a huge improvement in the overall quality of our publication. Now we can move on to the good stuff. I proudly present to you Work That Throws A Punch, -Julia Alexander (juliaalexanderpoetry.tumblr.com)

insert lit mag here is presented to you by chipped tooth press

ARROWS & ARROWS & ARROWS & ARROWS William james & this one points straight out of your neck like a flag, like some body planted it there to say this is mine & only mine & this one is in each of your fingertips & then this one sticks from your flank, plays chopsticks on your ribs, rings dinner bells or makes cold foghorn sounds with your lungs & this one shoots all the way up to the sky & trails your veins like radio wires dangling the whole way all the way up to the sun.

William James writes poems & listens to punk rock, though not usually in that order. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a two-time Pushcart nominee whose poems have been welcomed home in places like Radar Poetry, Potluck Magazine, Freeze Ray Poetry, Word Riot, and Radius. He currently lives in Manchester, NH where he pretends to be older & grumpier than he really is.

Nicole Prisco Good good goodnight I heard you breathe warm and humid the curve of your arm cradles index finger pointing pushing hair away in darkness so that eyes can see eyes and I and I and I could live here could love here under this sheet there is only yes unraveling loose spines fitting.

Nicole Prisco is a senior studying Music Education with a vocal concentration at New York University. She was born in South Korea, but grew up on (not in) Long Island, NY. She aspires to be more than her accent, to continue to sing and study German Lieder, and to write creatively in her spare time. You can read her work online at: http://alwaysi-nbetween.tumblr.com/

A Short List of Excuses for Bhopal, India 1984 Jenna Rodrigues

1. Because supervisors drank too much tea someone should have watched the tanks. 2. Because tanks held excess chemicals they weren’t supposed to be overfilled. 3. Because overfilled shacks surrounded the plant slums had no shield. 4. Because they don’t breathe like us sleep like us dream like us 5. Because farms need chemicals do you want to feed the world? 6. Not our fault. Jenna Rodrigues is a storyteller from Westbrook, Maine. Her poems appear in The Blue Route, Oddball Magazine, Insert Lit Mag Here, and Word of Mouth, Hartwick College’s Literary Magazine. Follow her work at jennarodrigues.tumblr.com.

RefLection jake Giddens

Jake Giddens is an illustrator.

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Dan Wright I rolled around in bed following a full moonlit night the Sun crept in but my subconscious rattled against light There was no bed then. There was no pillow. I fled into a parallel and tossed and turned from the shamble I saw common elements from my waking life. They were prominent, for sure. A narrative played out without inhibition. I saw a vision of a life that I created accidentally. I felt emotions and once, when I fell off a bridge overlooking a highway, I felt myself hit pavement and die. My soul escaped me. It scared me and changed the way I thought about life awake, even just a little back then. Dan Wright is a person living in Massachusetts. He will occasionally sit down with a fine point Sharpie and write about the things he wishes he had.

Notes in my Phone: 10.18.13 Christina Scott

I threw out half of the rot because one half of it is yours and I only care enough to clear MY half. This is not the first time, nor is it the last. This sports bra was $2.99 and has no support but it’s okay because I’m used to it. I was covering a live action role playing class once and some kid told me a rock was gonna explode and kill me, and only me, no one else in the class… he interrupted me to tell me that I was going to die so I said no and he started crying because I didn’t follow the “yes and” rule but does he realize how important it is for me to live, that rock cannot blow up, I cannot die, I am here in this moment, and I will stay in this moment, I am a college graduate, I don’t need some snotty 8 year old to tell me my life is ENDING when I’m already WELL AWARE I just need TIME My senior year I kissed My junior year of college I smoked 4 out of 6 lavender cigarettes I bought from a website My sophomore year I puked in three trash cans and all of them were my trash cans My freshman year of college I broke up with a boy who told me he wouldn’t be able to go down on me because it wasn’t “clean”, I know he was just sensitive and scared, and I know he’s wrong because the vagina is self-cleaning aLSO, because the boy i’m seeing now goes down on me a decent amount, he’s a very honest guy i’m sure he would’ve let me know by now that I have a PROBLEM don’t bite down on your fork it makes my eyes water these pants fit so well standing up and when I sucked in my stomach and looked in the mirror back at my house but here at this restaurant my muffin top is a lot more prominent when I’m sitting

and I can feel the tension of the denim and because of this I sit on the edge of my seat, as close to the damn table as possible so no one can see what’s happening Your chicken pot pie sucks and I don’t want to look at it Your phone is out and it doesn’t even have rhinestones on it, but I want to say its bedazzled because i’m sure you bought it from Charlotte Russe so lets just stick to the stereotype, I have recently accepted that my nipples point slightly south I HAD TO GOOGLE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SIMILE AND A METAPHOR VERY RECENTLY DON’T TELL MY ATTRACTIVE ENGLISH MAJOR BOYFRIEND OR MY NOT AS ATTRACTIVE ENGLISH MAJOR EX-BOYFRIEND OR THE HONORS ENGLISH MAJOR I DATED BEFORE THAT OR THAT POET I ONCE WAS WITH… OR THAT MUSICIAN….THE ONE WHO WROTE SONGS……. DO YOU SENSE A PATTERN??? WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS both POSITIVE and NEGATIVE SOMETIMES THE POLIWRATH DOESN’T BEAT THE CHARIZARD, RYAN, SOMETIMES THE CHARIZARD WINS.

Christina Scott (You can call her Tina) is a person who draws. She enjoys brush pen, comics, and printmaking. When she’s not making art, she’s probably curling her hair, writing haikus about people she’s slept with, or thinking about dead things.

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Kristi Nimmo

Kristi Nimmo is an artist, writer, and meditation instructor in Leesburg, Virginia. Her work has appeared in journals online such as Finery, Mouse Tales Press, em:me Magazine, Mandala Journal, The Weary Blues, Liquid Imagination, and Yes, Poetry.

Christina Scott

No Daniel Boone Wayne Burke

I hiked up to the base of the mountain while wearing a backpack and sat and drank 3 bottles of beer then hiked to the summit to live like a pioneer and did for a week then walked back down and got a room in a city strange to me and did not die even once though I passed-out one night while smoking in bed and in the morning discovered that the cigarette had burnt a fistula straight through the mattress. Wayneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poetry has appeared in The Bicycle Review, Bluestem, Red Savina, Black Wire, Locust, The Commonline Journal, Bottle Rockets, and elsewhere. His book of poems WORDS THAT BURN is published by BareBack Press (2013). He lives in the central Vermont area.

So You Want to Overdose Van Nguyen

The second time I overdosed, my body couldn’t handle it, and I threw it all up. I texted my dad saying, “I think I took a little too many pills”. And every time I’ve overdosed, I always downplay it. I’ve always tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal like having the urge to swallow a whole bottle of pills was something daily that normal people do. My dad hurried home and saw the empty bottle and he shook me to make sure I was awake. I kept mumbling “I threw it up.. I threw it up..” while I was drifting off to sleep. He had to wake me up every 15 minutes to make sure I was okay. The third time I overdosed, I slept through first and second period and passed out in the counselor’s office. I didn’t want to go to the ER. I just wanted to go home. All I wanted to do was sleep. Again, I just said, “I think I took too many pills this morning.” The fifth time I overdosed, my dad found the empty pill box.

hallucinated, I had a fever. I couldn’t move my legs. All I could do was scream, “Don’t take me to the hospital this time. I don’t want to go!” I became friends with a girl who had overdosed and when I heard she was hospitalized as well, it just makes me realize how real this problem is. A couple months ago, another friend of mine overdosed. Do you realize how fucked up it is, that I’ve done it so many times that I know the exact procedure that she’s going to go through? She messaged me saying, “I took a bunch of pills, but I just realized I didn’t want to die. I don’t know what to do. Help.” And I’m screaming at her over the screen that she should throw it up and call 911 because sometimes when someone you love decides that they hate the world, that’s all you can do. You can’t teleport through the phone. You can’t travel through the internet. You can’t be there to hold them and take them to the hospital. Your love is not charcoal that can

absorb all their poison in their life. I know, love that you would have done all you could. Sometimes words aren’t enough. Sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes a person needs to try dying to know that that’s not really what they want. There’s nothing you could have done. You’ve done all you could. Just keep loving them. But you see the thing is, I got lucky. I’ve made it back from 5 overdoses without a scratch on me, but that’s not always the case. My favorite teacher’s stepdaughter locked herself in her room and overdosed. To this day, her stepmother still has a scar on her heart. To this day, on the anniversary of her death, her stepmother still stays home from school on the anniversary of her death. Her sister is in a bad mental state, and so is her biological mother. Her family has fallen apart. You overdose because you think

you will get a peaceful release from death. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not peaceful. It is not like falling asleep. It is convulsions, vomiting, muscle spasms, fevers, and sharp stomach pains. An overdose is not instant. Hollywood has you believing, that an overdose is how a lady should exit the world. As quiet as she came in, peaceful and unnoticed. You will go out kicking and screaming and wishing you hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t taken them. Van Ngyuyen is a 16 year old writer from Southern California. She is over one year recovered now and writing has been her favorite tool in recovery.

Kiana Browne Kiana Browne has been a compulsive doodler since age six, and more or less an artist since age twelve. She enjoys bending reality, (she considers herself a surrealist) and finds it far more uplifting than sticking to the strict rules of realism. Her work generally consists of thick black lines, and is all free hand. You can find her blog/portfolio at fluentfather.tumblr.com.

Spooks Emily Corwin Don’t curse the girlish bones spilling under the blanket, the bowl of your hips pink like strawberry milk, like your sister’s crib. Don’t name this place “the nightmare bed”, don’t sleep with lions in your closet their black rubber gums coiling bloody on your Christmas shoes. Your mother finds, a plucked fang under your pillow. * My nightmare mother claws behind me in the hall, slinging maple syrup, popsicles, paint into my pigtails, the stork-bite on my neck opens fresh with blood sap. I make it out the front door, molasses legs gummy in the crabgrass, brambles catch at the ankles—fat stars with dark bitter hooks, Mother rocks in a chair on the porch her eyes shivering electric. I choke back the bold egg of a scream. * I am sitting in the red wagon with my sister, cotton pucker of her bonnet, wisp of the hand straw yellow and creamy, my dark

head whistles behind hers gremlin teeth, red yolk of the eyes glinting in the camera flare. I want to step there into the witch-grass of our yard, pick myself up gingerly, my own flesh and blood. White sugar ghost, I will take the bee sting from your foot I will ask about the bad dreams what they mean where you hide them. * Emily Corwin is a recent graduate of the College of Wooster, with a Bachelor of Arts in English and Film Studies. She has previously been published (or pending publication) in Split Rock Review, The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, Lipstick Party Magazine, Neat Literary Magazine, Bluestem Magazine and Scholasticâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s The Best Teen Writing of 2009, and was recently recognized with the Academy of American Poets Betty Jane Abrahams Prize. Currently, she works as a graduate assistant in Miami Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s English Department, teaching first year composition and literature.

Before Burning Down a House Shinjini Dey Your door will memorize the shape of bloody knuckles your welcome mat will be dripping, with the light ruby, Diluted with blood and tears, it’ll draw a march, like strong ants squished, lying stationary in regiments down the porch. The two stairs with their chipping edges like teeth – that once dug into my ass when we sat there (Certain things leave marks like you did, when our birth took its cry then when you cut the cord only to preserve it) There’ll be that gap through the window curtains A bedsheet wrapped goddess, with the taste of you between her legs the taste of her between your nicotine stained teeth Her smell, a smear on a manuscript written on crepe folded Wet, then drying stuck in parts, lost in washed out ink. And your stranger, your muse standing on gravel, raising stone And Her suspicious corridor eyes shattering framed photographs through the city smog on a windowpane.

Remember, remember how you lied about these stones being flint when we struck them. Shinjini is a stationary cardboad home but feels like a travelling caravan, she has words buzzing in a beehive inside her head, only sometimes a drone gets out. She studies Literature and currently lives in India.

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Kristi Nimmo

Betty Emily Corwin Take your dark hair down to the last bread crumb blooming bright cloth of your body drips rosy on the welcome mat. She’s lost her tongue, can’t remember where she placed it. The room opens gold like egg yolk, why don’t you come closer, step into the warm syrup, the water’s fine. She offers you the opal ring, crystal ball song brims on the bone, wants to know what happens next, wants to send her life away in sparks. Soon, soon. Her face slips away, watery. She thanks you for the tulips, brings a petal to her teeth. Emily Corwin is a recent graduate of the College of Wooster, with a Bachelor of Arts in English and Film Studies. She has previously been published (or pending publication) in Split Rock Review, The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, Lipstick Party Magazine, Neat Literary Magazine, Bluestem Magazine and Scholastic’s The Best Teen Writing of 2009, and was recently recognized with the Academy of American Poets Betty Jane Abrahams Prize. Currently, she works as a graduate assistant in Miami University’s English Department, teaching first year composition and literature.

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mitch westcott

Mitch Westcott is a central Connecticut based photographer who is working on his Bachelors in fine art photography. Though he specializes in modeling and portrait photography outside of the classroom.

Man Gives You a Cup of Coffee, Take a Sip Brian Strauss Thick beard that seems to callous his anxious face, A tender nervousness permeates his expression. Delicate drags of my cigarette that linger from his lips As he pulls the fag away- Arms outstretched then. Beside me another, slick haired, fast-talker with a rolling Sort of speech the way his tongue stumbles over itself to Push syllables out of his mouth. Parliament between lips. He reminds me of Ginsberg trapped in Gael Garcia’s body. Coffee cup sits on table, vapor lifting, still fullMan gives you a cup of coffee, take a damn sip , he says. So the beard smiles through the hairs fondling his face and says he did. No you didn’t, slick replies, seizing the cup for himself. ‘f you won’t drink it, I will. I light another cigarette, handing one to the beard as I do. You’re as ugly as you look, I thought Reflection in the handle of the rail beside me- Smiling placidly.

What is more important, he asks me, The poet or the poem? It depends on the nature of the poem. The poem. The work should stand as its own. Both wrong answers. It is the nature of the poet that matters.

There’s a right answer? Flicks cigarette ash into receptacle- cold flame burning beneath bit knuckled white Exclamatory gestures of poetic parables, he’s preaching the good word of unfold notepad Forget ful, nature that it is. Hollow, vapid, emptiness: synonyms Which is to say that he’s a dull boy leading an extraordinary life Kind of looks a bit the part if it weren’t for the fact that it’s fashionable now. Words beating themselves over the head with concrete bricks Immense in density, hallow emptiness pervades itself. I do not mean empty when I mean horrifying, But the two coalesce in his case. Lilac looking eyes, that’s all. This is Mia, frolicking in finagled fungus, constantly condoning consonance, Thick brush of curls sprouted from her scalp, con-cave cheeks seductively Begging me, With obtrusive eyes bulging loudly from her skull, Mismatched against the speck of her voice. Small, characteristically deep ridge in her left cheek, probably a scar. Unlike ring that pierces right nostril.

Smoke trails off tips of her lips, she’s burying fags in piles of ashed monuments Lips like mocha, sultry olive skin basking in the luminary ambiance of evening light. Meandering gaze split me in two- I thought I’d stay a young man Forever. Hair thins way lips pursed together fearfully wrinkle up Look at her laughing at the shape of his skull, head so big I’d like to kiss it before thumping it inward Shattered mess of ash and pieces. I’d told him I was gonna use that line, the one about coffee He shifts in his seat but I ignore him- After a long silence he finally speaks up,

It’s not a big deal, but when you take something it’s polite to ask. He looks sharply, offendingly at me. I can only laugh. Brian Strauss is a poet interested in exploring the emotional spatiality of poetry through the use of aesthetic narrative and metamodernist tendencies. His poetry is steeped in sincerity and detachment, oscillating wildly between the notion of self and implied author.

JellyfIshman

Kiana Browne

Kiana Browne has been a compulsive doodler since age six, and more or less an artist since age twelve. She enjoys bending reality, (she considers herself a surrealist) and finds it far more uplifting than sticking to the strict rules of realism. Her work generally consists of thick black lines, and is all free hand. You can find her blog/portfolio at fluentfather.tumblr.com.

One More

Keith Landrum

as this light falls and fades I remain caught between absurdity and sorrow defined refined this human form a box to carry tears in and tonight I hope like hell the devil forgives forgets my name my number my purpose because all I need is one more last chance and if Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m lucky thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be one more drink to polish my halo and return the darkness to heaven

Keith Landrum lives in Chattanooga, TN with his wife and 2 daughters. His work can be found in various print and online journals as well as the book Persistence which he co-authored with Stephanie D. Rogers.

Frag

Kiana Browne

Natalya Bakay Natalya is a recent graduate of the College of William and Mary and an artist working in the greater Philadelphia area. For more drawings and info please visit nybakay. tumblr.com

Shark jake Giddens

Jake Giddens is an illustrator.

Nothing's So Grand For Grandparents, Grandkids As Grandparents, Grandkids. Gerard Sarnat He’s almost four. She’s three. Helping a friend dress, Ell says he’ll protect her doll from pre-school punching, biting. Swinging down-up-down-up, so grounded, will it only grow less as they grow older? Just the fam celebrates on his birthday: Ell figures next month at the party he will turn five. * Sure to be picked early in the night pick-up game, I flew from the mall’s Adidas store puffed up in new ones then crumpled when my wife shushed me, Get off your high horse, put on that apron, fry up liver and onions for our lunch. After which I moseyed down to Simon’s second grade room to collect a bushed grandson. We schlep past the reek of brand new sneakers, through dry-cleaning miasmas to the funky sandwich shop for flurries of turkey and cheese sandwiches then our usual glazed snail donuts. Sugar-crystaled lashes and powdered cheeks, Nike sprinkles, stuffed silly – he’s glazed. I slip on his mitt as we pass the ball field, climb the hill home. Gerard Sarnat is the author of two critically acclaimed poetry collections, 2010’s “HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man” and 2012’s “Disputes.” His work has appeared or is forthcoming in eighty or so journals and anthologies. Harvard and Stanford educated, Gerry’s a physician who’s set up and staffed clinics for the disenfranchised, a CEO of health care organizations, and Stanford professor. For “The Huffington Post” review and more; visit GerardSarnat.com.

Water Beds Magdalene Taylor A few years of blood and milk were left in the sun until the day I could carry them with me to a bedroom where the moon couldn’t touch Later I’d question if time, too, could remove the branches from my back and I’d answer “No,” for time could only grant me forged iron and ovum And in nights of turned collars, I burned in the fires so that I might eat the ashes my offering to blessed crying flesh The 28 states of matter twirled my hair and kissed my forehead, trailing flower beds behind me as I ran to the shore, for the ocean asked for its daughter back Magdalene is a woman of 18, leaving her bedroom in the woods of Western Massachusetts for the coast of Florida to study inequality. She focuses on heat and flesh and what it means to be a teen girl.

Stupid Things I've Said To Girls Kevin Popovich “You’re the reason I did this.” “I don’t love you anymore.” “She’s too stupid to have written that.” “I will always love you.” “Can I have one more kiss?” “What happened to us?” “I really wanted to kiss you on the train platform.” “I love you, wait, no I don’t. Sorry, force of habit.” “I will quit for you.” “I read your texts, what the fuck?” “I can try to get past this for you.” “I still love you.” “What happened to dinner?” “I think I’m starting to develop feelings for you.” “I know it’s not your intention to lead me on.’” “We can pretend this never happened.” “I couldn’t hate you for this.”

Kevin Popovich can get very drunk very fast. He uses this skill to embarrass himself.

I Don't Need a Vice Corey Ayers

I hope his lips were stale, Void of the passion You always wanted. I hope his tongue was poisoned, Infected by the Lies he told. I hope his touch was vacant, Always searching But never discovering. I know you say Being with him helped You conclude you wanted me. But I never needed Anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s touch To help me realize I love you.

Since he was a terrified, unknowing 14 year old child, Corey Ayers has been on a journey to find his missing piece. Whether its through poetry, music, or art, he simply seeks to fill a void empty since birth

That Little Girl Navin Enjeti That little girl Born on a summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day She had that effervescent smile That lit up the skies She was like her mother With eyes that looked like black smoke And shades of brown oak in her hair Hidden away from others She looked to the stars She sought guidance from up there They smiled down upon her Offering her hope She dreamt of love, which blossomed in the spring Of traveling to lands she had read about That told her, her dreams could come true She dreamt of the stars That young woman Grew up in the spring Beginning her journey Blessed by the stars She travelled the lands Driven by knowledge And not success

Wise beyond her years She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t speak much Choosing her words carefully The only excess she indulged in Was that effervescent smile She found love in the winter The kind where souls meet In the eyes of a man Grey, like overcast skies She was consumed by him Her heartbeat in sync with his Her soul dissipated into his Her body moved to his tune This was love The one that overpowered her She gave herself willingly With the hope this would last She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need to look to the stars They had blessed her With love that transcended boundaries It was the everlasting kind Autumn brought unforseen change He left to the far-away lands Leaving her behind Broken and unassembled

The memories didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fade with her tears Her soul did not return Her heart beat fainter and irregular She hid in silence Her faith remained intact She looked to the stars again Seeking guidance And like all those years ago; they smiled Piece by piece, particle by particle She taught herself to breathe again For herself now Accepting love as lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lesson She found herself in that little girl With black smoke for eyes And shades of brown oak in her hair One that looked to the stars

Navin Enjeti; an author who writes about heartbreak and loss based on his own personal experiences from his childhood through to adult life. A firm believer in living life to its fullest, he draws inspiration from all that surrounds him.

Sadness Crawls In Dorian Hinkle Sadness crawls in on clammy dead webbed feet and roosts upon my heart, It slinks and slides leaving it’s slime trail across my mouth as it smothers me, Sadness curls its tail around my throat and squeezes me hoping to watch my eyes bulge, Sadness is a hateful little beast But I keep it close to me I’m afraid if sadness leaves me then I’ll be all alone. Dorian Hinkle is just another poet. When not writing poems, he’s busy overanalyzing music. He is not very good at either.

Making Margaritas in Mugs Jenna Rodrigues

That was the spring we never slept, saw too many shooting stars, ran our boats aground, colonized the island. We set our shovels in the dirt, sowed ourselves a garden, danced in front of a fire, Salemâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s witches, no trial. That was the spring we made margaritas in mugs, stomped through wooden floorboards, landed in the root cellar.

Jenna Rodrigues is a storyteller from Westbrook, Maine. Her poems appear in The Blue Route, Oddball Magazine, Insert Lit Mag Here, and Word of Mouth, Hartwick Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Literary Magazine. Follow her work at jennarodrigues.tumblr.com.

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Dan Wright Here I lay, veins running thick with coffee Some people care about others and some do not Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sick of commotion and ring-around-these-roses Fallen and made for us all to think about When we die we lose our faces They were never ours to begin with They change so much from start to finish and, too, stay so much the same Now the face of this man is a short summary on engraved stone block because weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come to learn that stone lasts longer than faces do Dan Wright is a person living in Massachusetts. He will occasionally sit down with a fine point Sharpie and write about the things he wishes he had.

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Lauren Burks

Lauren Burks is a 15 year old from the UK, aspiring to be a professional portrait photographer. All you need to know is she enjoys pretty architecture, indie music, breakfast cereals and interesting people. Keep updated at thewearyatlantic.tumblr. com

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mitch westcott

Beaten Gale Acuff When I die, please take care of me, I pray to God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost every Sunday School when Miss Hooker tells us to pray silently just before we all say the Lord’s Prayer together, she’s our teacher and 25 to our 9 and 10 so she’s old enough to know it all especially if it comes from the Bible, which I don’t read much of but then I’m barely passing third grade, I’ve got to save my energy for the real world although God’s pretty real, too, even if you can’t see Him. I’ll see Him one day when I wake up dead in Heaven, my soul will, to be judged and I’ll get to stay there or God will send me down to burn in Hell, too much sinning for one mortal soul. But I could die at any time, Miss Hooker says, whenever it pleases God though I don’t see how it could please Him but anyway that’s what I pray for, that He’ll forgive me and take care of me yonder but who am I to question Him so if He sends me down to Hell and especially if I deserve it then that would be a way of taking care of me, too, like getting spanked by Mother or whipped by Father or licked

at school by our assistant principal. This is hurting me more than it does you, he said last time. I didn’t believe him then but I do now, especially since I dreamed last night that I was paddling him and couldn’t stop paddling him to death as he looked up like my own son at me, not that I have one but I will one day if Miss Hooker will marry me and show me how. Or maybe it’s in the Bible and I can find it myself. That’s progress. Gale has had poetry published in many literary journals and has authored three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

The Strings That Weave Nicole Prisco You were born crumbling since conception a babe sewn with nylon string your mother pieced you back together again bandaged bruises with strands of crimson red. For years she lay bloody and battered her hands covered in crevices tied up with thread her needle -a loaded gun- held in feeble fingers firing rounds upon rounds on your flesh. She loved with a love that I never could feel she loved till she withered away, and you, with your glue molded yourself into a sculpture of constant decay. Your run turned to walk turned to crawl turned to roll skin and bones pulled me into your bed, with my gossamer string I tried everything to stitch you together again. After a time, neither your fault or mine your pieces and parts disappeared, “I can’t hear you, I can’t”, you would cry every night so I painfully chopped off my ears.

As I lie in your bed, with my needle and thread I keep giving, I give and you take no sight and no sound, my hands feeling around for the boy who was destined to break. Nicole Prisco is a senior studying Music Education with a vocal concentration at New York University. She was born in South Korea, but grew up on (not in) Long Island, NY. She aspires to be more than her accent, to continue to sing and study German Lieder, and to write creatively in her spare time. You can read her work online at: http://alwaysi-nbetween.tumblr.com/

Charred jake Goodman Charred sea flakes on the grain spilling sun blood worms combed by shadow turtle eggs like living sea shells, a dominion of dismal, deaf existential pity, hyena teeth rock tragic woe warriors at salty bath fire rims the curls edges o’ sea each slain coconut Canaan milk and a Married Virgin had crow lenses while baking sea blisters, an opinion of pistols, darling narcissistic city, solely bequeath to primitive batches of monads God hath gilded the foam sizzling during rainbow’s reign the nunnery of nymphs on divide’s sad glow as melting seconds lashed by a monk’s minion Drops of Neptune ribbed forever—in ethereal spirit Jake Goodman is going into his senior year in high school. He’s a songwriter, playing guitar for seven years, and poet. He is a huge fan of the beat generation and classic literature.

Christina Scott

C a a

Vice President Cheney Enters Hell Nels Hanson

Hail, Most Welcome Citizen! All awaits in detailed readiness your prophesized return: A mansion of blackest diamond

spacious as any tyrantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grave, for staff a hundred freshly hand-whipped minions vying to attend your least want, vice or petulant desire. Entertainments! Please suffer these 12 hearty bearers gathered in spiked harness and sporting polished hooves and horns to convey you straight to new residence. After tiresome descent from foreign higher altitudes rest deeply before you mount the monster terrifying as fondest weapons of mass destruction. Geryon who ages past carried foul Dante at your whim will lift his rider on wings luxuriant as richest casketâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silk, swifter than your private jet parting Red Sea of slaughtered innocents. Today the scaled steed delivers your soul to our Dark Lord impatient to acquire such wondrous gifts

as you display, cruelest expertise and fine murderous intent, rarest talents you alone possess with lies in quantity to hone and burnish the scarlet intrigue. O Bright Wit, you sparked from last ember a flaring coal, blue final wish a plan for constant torture. Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award, Pushcart Prize nominations in 2010, 12, and 2014, and has appeared in Antioch Review, Black Warrior Review, Southeast Review and other journals.

The Secret to the Perfect Something Howie Good We should have fucked when we had the chance. It isn’t just the feral cats, but they aren’t helping. Earthquakes keep happening. The talk at work has been all about how to be productive while depressed. Language itself is a kind of museum of crime, with skulls and nooses on display and replica murder weapons. Anyone who is a victim today may be a suspect tomorrow. My advice remains the same: tattoos on often-used parts of the body tend to fade more quickly. Howie Good’s latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work.

This Poem is About Reading a Text Message and You Can Fucking Deal With it Because That's How You Are Going to Find Out That Your Friends Died. (Involuntary) Kevin Popovich Heartbeat quickens Veins tighten Knees start to shake Muscles contract Involuntarily Involuntarily I didn’t sign up for this I’m not complaining though I could do this all night. It’s better than pointing out The pattern on my ceiling Or arguing about why I don’t love you anymore and no I don’t think I’m gonna be here when you get back because I will stop loving you, and I’m fairly sure I already have. Life is far better when I don’t have to do those things.

Id still be here Which is definitely not there And so My heart slows down My grip loosens And my knees stop wobbling Involuntarily. Kevin Popovich can get very drunk very fast. He uses this skill to embarrass himself.

The Patroness Offers You a Drink Jon Riccio

Mix me a Shirley Temple, teach ambrosia to swim, make it a Death Star of Detroit. My glowstick matches your bidet. Those anthills exhibit art. Oh, music. Yes. This close to a Strad. The Carnegie Hall of stupors. I thought they said twelve Mets, didn’t give it up so much as an ultimatum sauntered into my canal, had the equilibrium annulled.

Jon Riccio studied viola performance at Oberlin College and the Cleveland Institute of Music. An MFA candidate at the University of Arizona, his work has appeared in Small Po[r]tions, Plenitude, Bird’s Thumb, Blast Furnace, Your Impossible Voice, and Petrichor Review. Buy him a root beer and he’s your friend for life.

Andrew's Nines William C. Blome I think it may be good that he’s stopped now, but over the last month or so, Andrew lived to produce nines. I could just as easily say he lived to design, craft, and paint wooden number nines. I can still hear the jigsaw buzzing in the basement, and I can still smell the lacquer paint Andrew used to finish off each plywood nine. It seemed each was painted a different color, and each was large enough and thin enough for Andrew to easily slip his arm through and carry on his shoulder. Now and then—and sometimes for days on end—Andrew would lug several nines around with him at the same time, but you essentially had four things going on here: first sketching out the nine; then crafting or fashioning it from wood; then painting it; and then wearing it or carrying it about. Actually, for those of us who really know Andrew—for we who often see him in his briefs or hear him, say, lathering up or scrubbing in the shower—there was in fact an additional and less obvious factor at play: Andrew never “awarded” himself a wooden nine unless he had successfully corralled (or at least encountered) nine entities of the same concrete thing. (Yeah, I know, what the shit is all this, you’re wondering. Well, stay with me. An example might make it clear.) So, for instance, if Andrew came across nine dandelions thriving in a sward, that would qualify and be sufficient for him to sketch out, fabricate, paint, and then wear a wooden number nine. The same-same would apply were he to kick the tires on nine Packards or polish off nine hot raisin buns. Yet it would be no cigar if he merely thought about his elbow nine times of a morning or dreamt nine times in an afternoon about a yellow hippo. And I believe I’m right in saying that no “credits” were allowed to carry over one day to the next; nine folks seen

with a hangnail on either pinky finger, for example, all had to cross Andrew’s field of vision within a single midnight-to-midnight span in order for him to head down the basement, pull out a plywood sheet, and turn the jigsaw on. Okay, so much for the nuts and bolts of Andrew’s process. As I said up front, I personally think the key thing now is to realize that for whatever reason, he no longer produces any painted nines. But if you’re the person I think you are, you’re likely wondering whatever became of Andrew’s existing store of nines. Well, I know the answer to that, and I’m nothing if not a sharing person, so here it is: Within our small compound, we have several storage sheds. Most of them Andrew demands we use to house gardening tools and lawn supplies, but in one of them, Andrew’s neatly stacked his nines. And while I haven’t been privy to see in or enter this particular shed, I believe you and I together can picture that that’s where Andrew put his nines. For your part, you can envision them leaning against a wall as well as one another, while I’ll perceive them standing in nothing short of spectrum-color sequence. William C. Blome writes short fiction and poetry. He lives in-between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Laurel Review, The Oyez Review, Orion headless, Salted Feathers, and The California Quarterly.

Old Times In Old Rooms. jesse gebel

Eating spicy samosa and the blonde Says “Whatchacallthese?” Then soon sprints to the bathroom and takes a shower while blasting Britney Spears on the stereo, damn she was annoying at the best times of the day. She comes out-tall blonde, powerful body. She wasn’t mine I had another short pretty girl beside me my old “girlfriend” and they talk about everything in their own world Then comes the wine Flow it out, Make this cheap talk turn into raw ordeals of truth Raw speech from a woman is sexy. We are red faced drunk and I tell them “I want the world, Jesus this wine is giving me a belly.” “Shhhh” they say in a loud sarcastic tone. I’m pretty sure one wants to slap me, all of a sudden Someone bangs on the door. It’s the racist geek who has another cake for the redhead. “The redhead isn’t here.” The girls say but we’ll take the cake and they gobble it up.

The boy is in love with the redhead. The redhead is always with other men. Jesse Gebel sits in night rooms and waits. He waits until the blood flows into the tips of his fingers, and that is what gets him writing. He has finished both high school and college, and now seeks an deadly publisher that will publish his demented knowledgeable poems and papers of many topics.

Nicole Prisco

Hands in my hair, reaching bones creak and I hear them, singing â&#x20AC;&#x153;Glory glory, here lies Mecca!â&#x20AC;? the voyage made and I am sweating, dripping your hands gripping for nirvana swimming and I can taste desire and I can see the almighty and I can scream his name and I can cry and laugh about it the next morning wait, wait, and wait until I feel your callouses again.

fabio sassi

Fabio Sassi is a visual artist from Bologna, Italy.

Yeah Sure I'll Make Out With You Conor Harris I called all my friends from inside a bottle of rum last night– this was the good news. People go to the produce section of the grocery store and when the misters come on they stick their heads underneath. These very same living, breathing, rotting human beings practice their smiles in mirrors so that the rest of the population doesn’t see the alreadydying stars in their eyes. That was the bad news. Here is more news: I get drunk as fast as I can at every party I can go to and my friends don’t care about dying alone– How’s this for a headline: The Alcohol Makes Me Woefully Aware Of The Distance Between Myself and The Sun and by ‘sun’ I mean ‘god’ and by ‘god’ I mean your body, anybody’s body.

When I get fucked up I am obsessed with touch, an underground source reports. I hug myself in the shower. Leading statisticians say this happens often. When I am drunk and absent like always I want to kiss my friends because they probably smell like the roses in my backyard or clean sheets or sweat it doesn’t matter so long as we inhale each other– Reports conclude this is frequent and dangerous behavior. Studies find that I want to kiss you and your mom and dad full on the mouth in a way that causes scientists to report that the glaciers are coming back for their poorly made beds. I’ll kiss anybody if I’m dying hard enough. I’ll do anything to feel like I’m taking it for granted again. Scientists say the last time I went to grocery store I got lost. They say I asked for a ride home from the cashier.

They have graphs of my heartbeat that show improvement– I’m not sure what’s improving, but I want to kiss the scientists and reporters and other people’s dogs and we all will kiss anybody if we think we’re going to die in the next five minutes. Conor Harris is a real imaginary person from Boise, Idaho, which is not a real place. He has a dog that will one day rule the universe, and in his free time he eats waffles with his friend, Andrew Twopence.

suicidal Wanda Morrow Clevenger 8 thousand light years out star WR104 was suicidal close her unstable barrel aimed point blank it could have gone one of two ways 1 – no warning a brilliant gamma ray blast the last thing seen as your eyes vaporize 2 – no warning a brilliant gamma ray blasts the planet dark photosynthesis blocked plankton decimated ice age––the last thing seen as your eyes freeze the devout were rooting for the Mayan were dead set on revelation fire called it god using whatever evil he could find in his arsenal Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL – population 200, give or take. Over 270 pieces of her work appear in 105 print and electronic publications. For a brief look inside her debut collection: http://edgarallanpoet.com/This_Same_Small_Town.html

SILVERFISH

William james & how our gods eventually fade to gray, covered in scales of dead white fox-fur, raw meat & tallow dripping from their mouths, sputtering like candle-flame covered in wax & how we watch bones give way to dust, how we scatter the ashes, dance in the guttural roar – the throat of ruined engines toiling against rusted gears & how our glimmering failures shine like pyrite in a prospector’s tin, the cruel laughter echoing in our ears & the chimes ringing on forever endless analog waves of feedback, hum, spark, hiss, whisper, decay & how we fade, our eyes trailing into distance, the gold in our hands crumbling into lead

William James writes poems & listens to punk rock, though not usually in that order. He’s a two-time Pushcart nominee whose poems have been welcomed home in places like Radar Poetry, Potluck Magazine, Freeze Ray Poetry, Word Riot, and Radius. He currently lives in Manchester, NH where he pretends to be older & grumpier than he really is.

Christina Scott

These Days Nels Hanson

Star-shaped white blooms of jasmine from Madagascar burst earlier each year, now in July and not September. Large, paler doves arrived from arid South displace the grey, less vocal mourning dove. We keep blue basin wet for sparrow, finch, complaining scrub jay, more frequent, less wary opossum and raccoon. Endangered kangaroo rats sip precious moisture from seeds and soon should reclaim dry California plains. Winter months rain grows scarce, emerald hills turn bronze by March. Feathered clouds refuse us and we learn to drink more sparingly from dwindling cup, savor taste of water almost forgot, sweeter than oil drawn from far underground where ghosts of lakes and rivers fed once by storms whisper in the dark. Our lips tremble when beaded brims approach, half-pray for fatal Ice Age to return as days flare longer and we recall in snow no one dies of thirst.

Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s James D. Phelan Award, Pushcart Prize nominations in 2010, 12, and 2014, and has appeared in Antioch Review, Black Warrior Review, Southeast Review and other journals.

Woolfre jake Giddens

Jake Giddens is an illustrator.

Full Circle Evan Olsz

Wrapless colour tantalising Monolithic panel Satire Standing board, bored Nothing to stand for Except in opposition To the ground

Reflective tape also wraps The two-dimensional Painting on the sidewalk Autodefenestration, Falling down Framed lightly by the Audible trail left behind, Crystallised into a single instance Unique of all its kind Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only face-down Eating the dirt we were Born from over and over Our minds develop new theories But our bodies just get older Ashes to ashes Dust to dust Crave your existence And crumble like rust Evan is a student from outside Austin, Texas. Drawing his inspiration from his perceived absurdity of accepted nomality, he hopes to one day make a career of his writing. He maintains his blog, Precision Poetry, at www.definitely-evan.tumblr.com.

AS I WATCH THOSE I LOVE TURN TO SMOKE William james I do not plead with them to stay. I say there is blood on my tongue, say my mouth is full with meat, full of teeth that are not mine. Say I am lost in a field of ash. Say I can not stop bad dreams. I beg them to turn my eyes to glass. Stone. Mud brick. I say it is not some sad sound stuck in my throat like so much bad air, but a dark man with a gun and a black hat, say it is a crowd of trees, a thick wet thing with no name. Say I am out of voice, that I hide in the hush of night, quiet, choked with the taste of flies on my breath.

3 Nicole Prisco I have seen too many that look like you these days sullen eyes digging into broken skull I see it all mops of hair balding and falling I see you in the goddamn patterns of the cobble stones and with each one I walk on I see you crack. Nicole Prisco is a senior studying Music Education with a vocal concentration at New York University. She was born in South Korea, but grew up on (not in) Long Island, NY. She aspires to be more than her accent, to continue to sing and study German Lieder, and to write creatively in her spare time. You can read her work online at: http://alwaysi-nbetween.tumblr.com/

Artiste part two

peter lusher

two: Populism, Blank Space, Dream The voyeurs of the world were shocked as news programs slowly brought forth stories of art. There was someone, it said, recreating the works of the master’s, they claimed, on city walls. In spray paint or chalk. As wheat paste prints. They watched as the world’s cultural heritage was disseminated amongst the people. At first it was small-time, charlie-small-potatoes, news. The local section of a second-rate rag-sheet in the city. Then it was the AM conservative fear-mongers. After that the local news broadcast picked it up. The pieces didn’t stop going up. In fact there were more pieces. Faster and faster. It started with a singe piece that no one but the people in a particular housing project noticed. A few mornings later there were three, then four. Accelerating, always accelerating. Escalating. Moving from the housing projects one night, to the random inner city wall. The back-side of a high-way sign, to filling a random intersection the next morning. The art world couldn’t contain itself. Only the curators of certain museums seemed to enjoy the work. Their traffic increased in direct proportion to the number of pieces. People flooding their halls to see if the recreations were the same. To test the unknown artist-cum-populist-cum-art democrat’s ability. The conservatives railed that he was defacing their cities, the liberals lauded the artist’s idea and yet reviled his methods. The average citizen was not generally asked what they thought, much to their chagrin. A shock rippled through the nation in the form of high-art being discussed in the everyday. How would Vermeer have painted this? How would Michaelangelo depict that? What does art mean? What does society want with art locked away in dusty halls? Isn’t art a living thing?

It was night. The artist was leaving his workshop. His studio. His home. The artist had dropped his cramped apartment in a smart and young part of town for a rundown tenement building that was up for auction. It was in a neighborhood that many people of his up-bringing and education would have avoided in daylight, and only would go there for a truly special occasion, let alone live in it. He had bought the building after selling many of the trappings of his apartment and his car. Rarely did he have hot water. He built his own tables and a work bench out of two-byfours and plywood. He collected old beaten furniture. He remodeled the place to fit his own designs and desires. It was his. Here he is leaving the rebuilt bird’s nest of a home with a backpack in the middle of the night. He had taken a job in the early shift of a city maintenance shop. A place where the paint from his nocturnal excursions would not be remarked on or even noticed. A place where he could stash himself during the day and provide the money to buy paints, art supplies, and books. With whatever money he had left he bought food. Anything after that went to the utilities company. Tonight he was headed to a certain wall in certain part of town. It was well lit during the day and heavily trafficked, but at night completely desolate. His recreation this evening well planned and a copy of it stored in the only thing of great value he had left, his phone. He would show the people Katsushika Hokusai’s Great wave of Kanagawa. He would fill the entirety of the landlocked area with a depiction of the sea. He hoped the wave would wash over the neighborhood, bring a little color to the cement jungle. The artist looked from the fire-escape into the alley for the last time. Looked into the narrow strip of the neighborhood in the late spring afternoon. Looked at the light painting the bright blue siding of that building down the way. The tall maple that stuck up above the buildings, looking completely out of place in the city’s

sky-line. Watched the clouds throw silhouettes against the facades of houses. He turned inward and watched the empty apartment change with the dropping sun. The way the dustmotes danced now in the void, the negative space. Waited. Watched. Felt. Turned inward and outward at once. The narrow strip from the alley changing shape and different colors coming tot he fore as he sat. Sipped from a Styrofoam cup of cheap coffee, the scrap of wrapper from a candy bar tugging restlessly in his breast-pocket. Trying to blow with the wind rising from the alley. Waited. Watched. Listened. The old man had asked him, What do you want? I want to learn a new thing. What do you want to learn? I climbed through your window one night after I had painted on the side of the building. That was you? It was. Why would you do that? Do what? Paint on the side of this building. It was a giant canvas, everyone could see who I was. Is that what you wanted? To show everyone who you are? It was. What do you want now? I want to know why a man that reads Plato, Dostoyevsky, Cervantes and Gabo is living in a squat in an abandoned factory. The arroyo of concrete whistled and whipped as wind blasted through it. The air of the place reflected the stormy seas of the recreation. The artist worked until his fingers cramped. The massive amount ofpaint going up nearly ate his entire check this week. But, at the end of the night it would be worth it. There would be something new, something to break the monotony of gray walls in the morning. The spray of the wave might wash the

heat and humidity from the over-crowded neighborhood. The cans mimicked the sound of the spray, tasted like salt water on his tongue. The sodium lamps overhead tossed that weird light on everything he was trying to do. Showed him something that was not quite right, even though his work was almost perfectly laid out. The dawn light slowly chased the sodium lamps away as the project neared completion. He felt strong. He felt as though it was time to move forward. The old man continued, I sleep here because I choose to. What does that mean? It means that I don’t want to have to worry about anything. Here I don’t have to pay rent, don’t worry about utilities cost. Don’t care about politics. It is just me and my books. Why do you live in your apartment? The artist was waking up after sleeping the afternoon away. The newest piece was getting some exposure on the news at lunch. And he could hear it. He had left the radio on as he slept. He woke up and looked around his building. It was filled with things and memories. He had been here for almost a year, slowly putting his pieces up in the world. The conversation that he had had with that old man had guided him to this. He felt that he hadn’t gone far enough. He wanted to experiment more with the concepts that he had explained. You need to look into the negative space. You need to stop fearing it. I do not fear the negative space. I am a graphic-designer and that’s what we do. We play with the negative space. Yes you play with it. You do not understand it. How does one understand the negative space? He wandered the building. The floors that he had cut in half because he always wanted a balcony in his house. The work benches that spanned the entire length of the middle half floor caught his eye. Paint drips, depleted markers, scratches and gouges from knives cutting through poster-board, drops of wheat

paste. The detritus of his life in this building, filled with an artwork of his own life. A few days passed between pieces. The artist contemplating, poring over text books and art catalogs. Trying to find just the right piece to put up on some wall somewhere. He found that even in the massive space he had created for himself, he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think. When you have filled the space what does that leave you? A completed piece. No, it leaves you with no space to imagine what else is there. But the realism... No. The realism may leave you to wonder what is beyond the borders of the piece, but why not wonder about what lives inside the piece? More days pass. The artist just grinds his life out. The same thing, over and over. Over again. A drudge. His body performing a mundane task, leaving his mind to contemplate the negative space. A negative space in the city that he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to find with out looking to the sky. Between the building he could look up, and imagine what was there. He made some calls. Called friends long forgotten to see if any of them were interested. He finally found a friend that was. The friend came by to look and listen. The friend agreed. They shook hands. The artist called off from his job. It had been a week since his friend had been by and they shook hands. He had picked a project for the night and knew that he would be too tired to work after. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter, the piece mattered. He was going to recreate the sharp edges of the classic book cover. A question left in paint. His spot picked, and for the first time in a long while, he went after a public building. It just so happened that the parking-lot for city-hall face the main square. It was gray and cement, boring and drab like so many others in the city. In a space that should have been filigreed and exciting.

But it was a perfect negative space for him to work with. He started working in the wee hours of the morning. It was cool and the breeze blew gently passed him and through his hair. He hung over the edge of one of the parking levels, between cars. His fingers gripping the edge for dear life as he worked. A sharp black outline. Definitive. And then detailed. He would have to work in sections. Each level getting its own part of the piece. The gaps just operating as a play in the negative space. Forcing the viewer to think about how to reconnect the dots. But also the massive gray canvas itself to show that all there is isn’t inside the painting. His hands grew tired as he shuffled back and forth hanging from the edges, and he was very glad he started at the top and not at the bottom as he worked. The sections got their details and he felt like he was an inkjet printer. Moving side to side on controlled sections. Each level a line of ink. Each time dropping over the side to hop back and forth painting he felt almost mechanical. The dawn was fast approaching as he reached the bottom. Only a few more lines. Only a few more things to do. Scattered cans of black and orange rolling in the light breeze at his feet. Then the gray dawn light came over the buildings. People were soon to be headed into offices fronting the square. He needed to finish. He found himself rushing the last few feet. Rushing as he had never done before. People were now coming around the corner. Many were still half-zombified with last night’s sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. They didn’t notice him. He scrambled and got the last part finished. Done and done. The people came in force as the morning light filled the square and lit the edges of flames he had put up. Shone on the bald head at the top. People now noticed, but the artist had shoved his hands in pockets and moved away through the crowd, without so much as a glance at what he had done. On the five o’clock news that night, just as the artist woke up, there was a story on the vandalism on the square.

The massive piece of graffiti that went onto the parking lot over night has caused worry in the city. The prevalence of this vandalism has spiked over the past year. Graffiti is generally associated with drugs and gang violence, and according to The Broken Window Theory proposed by James Wilson and George Kelling, we can assume that there will be more graffiti and more gang related violence and crime in our city. The city council has announced...... The artist turned off the news at this point. Turned off the tv and grabbed his bag. In the morning this place would no longer be his. It was time to move on, time to go on a trip. Time to explore new spaces. He only hoped that the idea of leaving that piece of art, Joe Mugnainiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Don Quixote, which appeared on Fahrenheit 451, would send a message. Would remind people that there are great and wonderful adventures out there if you choose to find them, and not turn away from the myth and fable. That one should look for the place that isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shown to see how to move forward. The key clicked in the lock. The bag of clothes and sketchbooks felt weightless as he threw it onto his back. The pavement gave up its heat in waves to the darkening sky. His trainers felt the un-evenness of the ground, but they lead him sure and true to the train yard. His practiced hands pulled the barb wire strands down so that he could climb over. The experienced eye aimed him into the shadows and helped his ears find where the train yard guards were. He spotted a train that was moving out. A freight train that his phone told him was headed west. The trainers pounded into the gravel of the train yard as he ran to catch it. The hands performed a new task and pulled a car door open, instead of latching onto it to paint. His body leapt into the train car. He was off to find out about new spaces. His sketchbook bounced all over the place as another box car rumbled through another sleepy little rail town. It had been some time since he had been out of a major city. The rural rail

towns looked like picture post cards in some places, others looked like the remnants of apartheid Soweto. The one he rolled through he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even notice through the door. It was small and blinked past. There might have been one stop-sign. Maybe once it was lively and had people in it, maybe once it thought that the rails would bring commerce, that another line would intersect here. But now, it was a shell of what might once have been. Hey man, you got a butt? Excuse me? Do you have a smoke on you? Yea. The artist fished his pack of Parliaments out and handed one over. The little towns had gone past in Kansas, now he was somewhere in Colorado. The air was bitingly cold. But it was also early morning. The sky never seemed so clear as when he woke with the sun on the train. It was loud, but the air was clean. The blues covered him like a dome, the grays hung overhead like quilts. The endless cattle ranges created a sea of grass and a place where the mind could create monsters or cherubs. He had been on the rails only a few weeks, but he had learned some new things. First, never ever go to sleep when there were other people in the car. Second, never let the engineers stop with you in the car. Third, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get on the train if it is going down hill. Finally, a cotton ball, or fluff from his hoodie, could fill one ear so that he could sleep, but only use one ear so you could hear other people in your sleep. The last one he learned when an engineer found him and left him with a black eye. He once was a heavy sleeper, but in the last weeks that all changed. He had a loose plan. He was headed some place west. Some place that was open, a place that he could smell earth and see sky. He was looking for the perfect place to lay down a little art. His sketches were shaky again. The car was bouncing all over the place, and he had had coffee for the first time in awhile and drank too much of it. His hands shook as he tried to hold the encil lightly.

The old engineer had spotted him climbing into the box car and stopped the train. He came back along the line with billy club in hand, and the artist was too tired to run. He thought he was going to catch another beating, but the man had listened when the artist asked him not to hurt his hands or eyes. Hey man, I’m out of here. I’m going. You stay where you are ! I am leaving. I’ll just walk. No you won’t, you’ll hop the next train comes along. I won’t. I promise. Just don’t swing that thing on my hands please. Why not? What does a bum like you need hands for? I am an artist. I am trying to see the country and learn about size and depth. An artist? Yea. I was a graphic-designer and left it behind so I could do what I really loved. What? Jump trains and be a nuisance? No, travel the country and see what there is to see. To be inspired. They sat and talked like that for a few minutes, and the engineer brought the artist up front to sit comfortably and tell him about his plan. He gave him coffee and pork-rinds. He encouraged him. Told him that his deceased wife was a painter, and that she would have done anything to get inspired. He understood, even if he didn’t necessarily agree with the method. Told him that if anyone asked, he was the engineer’s cousin. Let him ride all the way to the split at the Black Hills. It took about a day. The engineer gave him a tub of coffee and a tin cup, showed him how to make coffee in it. The engineer was really a nice guy, and close to retirement. He said he’d look for the artist’s work when he was out and about. Now the artist was rumbling slowly through the Black Hills of South Dakota, drinking extremely strong coffee, trying to hold his hand steady and sketch what he saw.

Dawn was breaking on a Sunday. The artist had walked for a day or so. Eating the berries he found as he cut across the Hills from the train tracks. He had found the right high-way eventually and had gotten a lift at the end of the previous day. He was aimed to the monument in the hills. When he was there he found a thicket and slept on his paint cans and dreamed of the next day. He knew that no one would be around all the next day. It was July fourth and even the security guards had the day off. He found the path to the top of the monument, the one that was not used by visitors. He had exactly one day to finish this project. And he was alone. He wondered if he would actually finish. There was fear as he looked down and tied himself into a self repelling harness. He took a deep breath and stepped over the side. As he worked his consolation prize was that he could see the sketch of the completed vision, helping him to lay out what he saw. This is Morning Edition on NPR, the time is 9:05 and our top story this hour is breaking from South Dakota. Staff at the Crazy Horse Memorial in Custer County, South Dakota this morning were shocked this morning as they pulled into the lot. The monument to the Oglala Lakota chief is still under construction, but apparently a vandal decided to put his own spin on the unfinished project. The 563 foot tall project started in 1939 to commemorate Chief Crazy Horseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heroism in defending the Native American culture and way of life. The sculpture is still in progress. This vandal, or vandals, added to the existing work by painting the bodies of both the Chief and his horse. Clearly care was taken to hold to the vision of the sculptor. Done in shades of gray the vandal blended the stone at the base into the finished parts, creating a surreal vision that the Chief is riding out of the mountain itself. The Crazy Horse Memorial Foundationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spokesperson said this regarding the vandalism, We understand that the project is long running, and accept that people want to see it finished.

We also say that while this is a grand statement and appreciate the fervor of the artist, vandalism on our great monument is unacceptable. The spokesperson was unable to give an accurate estimate of the cost to clean the paint off the monument. If youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to read the full story and see images taken this morning go to our website at ... The artist never heard the story, never knew about the national controversy that he had sparked. He had an idea. He knew that what he had done would shock some folks. But didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find out that he had caused a blip on the national radar. He just wanted to make something beautiful, and help to tell a story. The artist followed the sun. He almost felt as though he was following the path of pioneers, but knew that he was only following the lessons of his art tutors. To make things more beautiful and to tell a story with his images. Long before he started this sojourn, he had become frustrated the modern art world. The language that artists had begun using was created to talk to other artists, not to communicate with people. Artists sneered at the people that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get what they had to say. What they had forgotten was that art was for the people always. That great art had something to tell the world, not just to be pseudo-intellectual masturbation. Hiding in the obscurity of obfuscating language was not the thing. Art should be where people could see it, and sometimes, art should just be. The artist had gotten a lift from a couple headed into Yosemite National. The artist was still seeking the right negative space. A space that could be filled. Having spent these several weeks alone with his thoughts, he had been analyzing what made him tick. His quiet manner was taken for shyness and nerves by the couple. What is eating you, man? Just thinking. Thinking about?

About people. About how the world works. About how we never choose to say anything. I see. And what can a man do about that. Well what have you come to think of that? It seems that the only thing that man can do is to step up. Make noise. Isn’t that what the extremists and fundamentalists are doing? Isn’t that what the radicals that would tear the world down are doing? They are. They have a message. It is more interesting to me that no-one is else is standing up. No one else has a mes sage they want heard. And what is a message that you want heard? There is still something to hope for. What is that? Love? Hope itself? Something beyond this plain? No, much simpler than that. Art. Beauty. Everywhere and where you least expect it. In the park he had met up with a group of climbers. They took him in at their base-camp and sheltered him. Off-beat characters from a story-book that he had never read, they were there to climb and find the joy in the climbing. They talked late into the night about things. From who grew the best pot to what was the best way to fix a growing apartheid in the nation. One morning they took him to a beginners wall and helped him climb. He found that some of the tricks he had learned in his youth and rediscovered in the city helped him here in the wilds. They strapped him in and sent him up the face. He climbed the face rapidly and found exhilaration in it and quickly discovered why people fell in love with the sport. He climbed the wall as many times as he could, as many different routes as possible. That night he told the climbers what he would like to do. Remember that out on that edge there are almost no hand holds. I know, that’s why I picked that area instead of the center line. Ok. Just be careful out there.

He climbed the wall. The bag of paint cans clanking and shaking, hanging off his belt. At the top he traversed over, a tricky bit. His palms started to sweat as he neared a jump. He fisted the crack and doused his hand in chalk. He was being belayed and it was broad daylight. He wasn’t worried about missing the mark, or not being able to see to finish the project, he was worried only that his hand would slip and he’d fall a few feet and have to reclimb that portion. The wind whipped the trees below him, he could almost taste the pine in the breeze. The trees sighed with him as timed the breeze just so that it wouldn’t push him too far off in flight. The muscles in his legs flexed, and his toes wriggled around on their tiny spur of a toe-hold. His pupils dilated, the wind stopped for a second, the muscles twitched and he was floating. He felt the weight of the bag drop away as he arced through the air to the hand-hold. To the climbers on the ground watching him time froze as he jumped. They could see the sun lighting him just so, his arm and leg outstretched to get the handholds and foot-holds they showed him. They reveled in his flight, he had done it just they way they showed him. His fingertips reached out through the void, and time accelerated to make up for the hours it had frozen in his leap. He scrabbled at the holds, the bag slapped the stone. His fingers latched on. His legs cushioned his impact, he rocked forward and let the momentum carry his body around to a perfect four contact position. There was a cheer from down below. He looked up at the perfectly blue sky. At the sun etching the puffy clouds in the distance. He could see the valley laid out before him like nothing he had ever seen, a sea of waving green crashing and swaying against the cliffs. His entire body absorbed the sun baked heat from the stone and the wind wrapping around him like a robe. His unkempt hair swirled around his head, the wind played with it as a cat plays with a feather on a string. He was alive, and excited. He was a child that had climbed to the top of the tree to see the neighborhood laid out before

him. He was a teenager that had just had his first deep kiss. He was a man that had just broken the one hundred mph mark on his speedometer, just to see what it felt like. He had done something daring and gotten away with it. Had faced death in a new way and had survived. Had the right motivation to show child-like delight in this piece. His hand made a grab for a can, and then made the first line. In black and white, a stark challenge to the richly colored world of the park, the artist was challenging viewers to adventure, to seek the playfulness of the wilds. Revel!, he wanted the piece to say. Live!, he wanted the piece to shout. His voice wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite alone in the wilderness. The climbers below oohed and aahed as his recreation came to life above them. They had an idea, he had sketched it for them the night before. But seeing it expand on the face, to see the icon smile at them from above the tree-tops was breath-taking. He had no idea how long his depiction would stand. He had no idea how long his challenge to never grow up and revel in the beauty that is would stay there. Wind and rain would erode the image, making it part of the land-scape. It might be there for generations becoming anattraction of its own. He worked harder trying to make it just perfect. Neither adding nor subtracting from the original image. But keeping it the way it should be. The only thing added to would be the surroundings. Surreality became a part of the piece. But it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t surreal because of what it was, but because of where it was. Finally at the end of the afternoon the piece was complete. The people on belay let the artist down. His fingers ached, his arms were screaming, his legs felt like lead, his head was giddy with experience. The piece was a new voice in the wilderness. As a group the backed away to a clearing on the trail where they could see the bluff. Kristi Valiantâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s depiction of Peter Pan stood floating above the tree-tops. Beckoning and encouraging viewers to join him in the revelry of Yosemite, encouraged people to enjoy

the Neverland of the park. A place that was the negative space to the world back in the cities. Back where things ‘were what they were’ people didn’t see that it was a playground to respect. Out here, out in the world left as it was, the diametric opposite of the hustle and bustle, the boy who wouldn’t grow up still wanted to hear stories. Still got to play. The artist moved on. The climbers gave him a lift to a set of train tracks. He thanked them and started hoofing it on the ‘hobo’s highway’. He didn’t look back. They drove on with smiles on their faces. He hopped into a box-car of a passing train. He had been walking for a day or so, living off wild berries, cliff bars, and peanut butter. The last two gifts from the climbers. He was out of coffee and out of smokes so when a town was spotted a few miles away, a town the train was not likely to go through, he hopped off and walked into town. The artist got to the town and the first building he saw was abandoned. He thought this was mildly strange. But a border town out in the middle of no-where might have a few abandoned buildings. The old highway that used to roll through here had been supplanted by the interstates and naturally some businesses would go away, but not all of them. He walked on and found his way into the town’s main street, over which billboards still proclaimed last gas for 100 miles. The dust and disuse of the town proclaimed otherwise. The gas stations and diners were empty. Their windows were broken out. The march of progress had left this place behind, and the people that lived here and fled to catch up. They had abandoned their town to the weeds and desert, which had moved in quite comfortably. This town was a memory, a memory of a place that was. He knew now why the train hadn’t come through town or stopped. The windows in the buildings around him yawned like the mouths of meth addicts. All broken and black teeth. He wandered through the town and soaked in its

memories. Absorbed its feelings. He cruised the streets in his worn sneakers looking at the cars left behind in gas stations and parking lots, trying to imagine what the streets would look like when those cars still ran up and down the main drag on Friday nights He slept that night in one of the store-fronts. The sounds of nocturnal animals didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wake him, even when they came to investigate what this two-legged creature was doing in their space. When he woke there was no sign of the animals. It was time to move on. He grabbed up his bag and took out the last can of paint. Midnight black it said on the label. It seemed appropriate, even in the bright morning. He walked along the streets to find a place for a word or two. Like an author going back through an essay trying to find just the place to stick in a punch-line, he wandered the few streets of Glenrio. Under the sole and still hanging stop light under the only major intersection he added the words with his last can of black paint, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;American Apartheidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. He walked south. Ignoring the desert and headed to the next town, he wanted to see what was on the other side of the fence. Not many people jumped the fence in that direction so he hoped he would be safe. The artist had never been to Baja, but wanted to go. Wanted to see the isolated, mostly deserted region south of the border. His walk, the trains, the occasional lift would take him through the deserts. The true negative space. It was late. It was dark. It was light. The velvet dome that covered him sparkled. The coyotes shuffled by. The night was the life of the desert. The silence was profound. The silence never was actually silent. It thundered in his ears, was punctuated by the chirping and hopping noises of the nocturnal animals. The gaps in the sound are what made the sound symbolic, the silences made the noises more than what they were. He had learned not to fear the silences, the blank spaces. In the silence you can hear for miles. In the empty places he realized that you

were safer. Danger is far between and anything coming you can know about it before it gets to you. Fear not, he would tell himself, for this is your space. His journey into the Baja had taken him across the border illegally, and through the deserts of northern Mexico to the Trans-peninsular Highway. A continuation of Californiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Highway 1 that runs the coast. He had gotten a lift to Santo Tomas, a tiny town in Baja, not much more than a semi populated stretch of highway. Here he picked up new cans for his bag, and a few cartons of powerful Mexican cigarettes,Clif bars, coffee and headed directly west until he hit the Pacific. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t his first time seeing the big ocean. It was his first time seeing it where it was devoid of people. Not a boat was to be seen on the water, nor a person on the beach. He imagined that this was a space that porpoises and dolphins would play with the seagulls for the pure and unadulterated joy of it. He sat on the beach and contemplated the sea. Soledad Bay would come up to cool his toes every few hours, at night the small drift-wood fire kept the sand fleas at bay. He thought about all the times that someone had written that the sea has no memory. He pondered. He swam in the sea. He felt the waters push him forward and back. He dove into the rolling waves. A baptismal feeling came over him. The artist slept on that thought. When he woke, the artist stopped gazing at his navel. He said aloud, before even bringing the coals back to flame for coffee, Stop contemplating your fucking navel! You are a part of this world, man! Artists do not travel through the world, interacting with it independently. They are intrinsically connected. The world is a part of them and they are part of the world. You are no different. There is nothing here to contemplate beyond the pure beauty of the place. And that can be enough! Enjoy the sea, it is here to be enjoyed. Enjoy your thoughts, they make you you. But always remember that you are not just passing through,

you are here. He fired up the coals and made coffee. He drank the bitter burnt brew and washed it down with cigarette smoke. He contemplated nothing, just enjoyed the sounds. A crackling in the ring of stones that was the driftwood, the slow roll of the sea in its tides. He absorbed Soledad Bay. He sat still and quietly absorbed the place and his thoughts of the morning. Internalizing them, separately and together. He realized it was growing dark, and built the fire up to last the night and rolled into his bag to sleep. The artist spent the rest of the next day thinking back to the adventure he had just been on. Internalizing those events too. Making sure that they were a part of him. Making sure that he understood that he was a part of that wall, and that the experience in Glenrio was his and he was the experienceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Thought about the huge depiction of Chief Crazy-Horse and the turmoil it must have caused. The artist was a part of the world, and never again would he let himself just pas through, to only be a mirror to the world, but to be a part. In the morning the artist sketched. And sketched some more. Finally he had a concept that he was proud of. A sketch that said it was ok to be zen about things, but to remember that you are part of the thing that you are contemplating. On the sands of the bay the artist began. He started far from the water and drew a straight line. After several hundred feet he turned ninety degrees and continued the line to the waters edge. He trotted back to the start of the first line and repeated the previous step. He jogged back to a spot just inside the line that ran parallel to the water. He started to outline the borrowed words he wanted to say. Flowing and organic lines reflecting the world around him. These would be the outlines in light and dark browns and certain shades of green. The artist had decided to surround the borrowed words with the sharp lines and hard angles of the city he had matured in. Remembering his friends and thinking

about what they might say if they saw this work going on. Imagining that Kay and Sa would joke to cover their nerves. Trane would be earnest and encouraging. Two-way would make wise-cracks to friends via that silly phone. Giant would simply smile. Jazz would probably be telling the artist to hurry before they were caught. P-funk, well. The artist was having a hard time putting P-funk in the situation. And then he was there. The artist knew that he wasn’t really there, but he smelled smoke and heard his friend’s voice, I tried to tell you. We were never separate. I know. We were always a part of the thing that we were doing, part of the city. I remember. I also remember bailing you out. I would have bailed you out. I would have welcomed your presence in that holding cell. I believe you. I am sorry that we fell apart. Funk. Relax man. I know. I know you know. I am in your head remember? Think anyone will ever see it but you? I don’t know. I hope so. But if all anyone ever sees of it is on Google Earth, or if only the birds see it, I’ll be happy. Will you? Yes. I thought you were done with navel gazing? I am. So is this an exercise in exorcising that particular thought process? No. This is a hope that when someone sees this that they come and play where I played. That their foot-prints become part of the art. That they are a part of this place. It is an exercise in

making the world a part of this art. Eventually it will all be washed away. Eventually a storm will come through, the seas rise, the winds will blow and it will be gone. But for awhile it will be here. You are coming home. Yes. A. I like this piece. The sunset came crashing down on him as he finished. The sharp background had faded with the sunlight from the colors of crashing waves in bright light to dark blues and blacks. The outline of the words blended right in. But in the gloaming the words themselves still stood out, “Most people are on the world, not in it-have no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them- not diffused, separate, and rigidly alone like marbles of polished stone, touching but seperate. -John Muir.” On the outsides of his partial box the artist had written in simple black, “Come Play!” in Spanish and in English. The artist was not separate. He walked away from the ocean without looking back. It seemed that the journey west took more than a few weeks, it felt like it had taken years. The artist had added a few scars to his body, a few more gray hairs, had worked off any of the flab that was left to him after working in the shop. He had added some friends to his world. They may never meet again but they were friends. It seemed as though he would never go find what he found, that he would be gone from the world that he knew for the rest of his life. But he had found it in a few scant months. That’s all, a few months. And now he was on his way home. Back to where the people were. The trip back was over quickly. The artist used most of his reserve cash to purchase a bus ticket. His ticket entitled him to go straight to the city of New York. He knew a few people there, struggling artists, graphic designers, a lonely grant-writer. With any luck he’d find a couch to crash on within a

few hours. Though how these individuals would take their long-distance friend calling them up and begging a couch was anyone’s guess. He thought he would try though. He had to try. He had to get back to where the people were. The artist arrived at the bust station and the lonely grant-writer was there to take him in. They hopped a train to Chinatown to the miniscule rooms that the grant-writer rented. They made small talk and tried to catch up. Can I have a key to the place? Why would you need that? Arthur, you’re a busy guy you know? And I need to find a job, which means beating the streets, which means having to get in and out of the apartment when you aren’t around to let me in. Fair enough. How long do you think you’ll need the couch? A few weeks, no more. Think you’ll have found some place by then? I really hope so. Where are you thinking? I’d love to live in Williamsburg, but there’s no way I can afford that right now. I’ll find a one room apartment some-place though. I meant for work. I know you aren’t asking to stay with me because you love me and miss me. Arthur, come on man. No seriously. Something is different about you. We’ve known each other since before college. We weren’t close through college, even though we saw each other and you were always a nice guy. Besides if you still had a job at that big shot design firm you wouldn’t need a couch. I quit that place. I thought you liked it there. I thought I did too.

The two got off the train and walked into Arthur’s place. It was tiny. Barely more than a closet sized bedroom and a kitchen. But it had a couch and it had a shower, that was enough. The artist took himself a long, hot shower. He needed it. A few days went by in this pattern; Arthur got up and went to work, the artist got up and went to look for work. Arthur ground out his research in an office, the artist walked in every door of every business that he felt he could work in and retain a somewhat loose schedule. Arthur would get home from work after the artist had gotten home from looking for work to find his friend was making dinner or sketching. Arthur noticed that his friend was sketching more than he worked on a resume. He didn’t understand, Why aren’t you working on a resume? Aren’t you going to try and get back into design? No. Well what are you going to do? The concrete canyons of NYC inspired the artist. It was strange he thought to see the glass and steel mountains rise up before him as he walked the streets. It shouldn’t have been. He had spent enough of his life in the city to be used to it. Should be used to it by now. The artist thought that maybe he was looking at it with new eyes, eyes that saw more of the humanity trapped behind the glass barriers than before. I found a job. Oh? Where? At a little place in Brooklyn. Bartender and barista. Oh. I also found an apartment. Really? Yea. Right around the corner from the cafe. It is not much but you are always welcome. I’ll take you up on that.

Artiste moved himself into the one room place. It took less than half an hour. His stuff mostly fit into the bag he had taken out west. The only pieces of furniture he had were an old desk and chair from Arthur’s office, and a futon gleaned from C raigslist. He didn’t need much more than that. Between work and sketching he didn’t do much else. The artist went back to painting at night. Running across roof-tops, jumping over fences, climbing billboards. He painted words. Clear representations of things he wanted to say. ‘Love’ he said over top a billboard that originally proclaimed Bvlgari was the place to get items. ‘I want you to be happy!’ he said on a wall in the Bronx. ‘Come play’ he invited people in Central Park, he had painted the words covering the outfield of a baseball diamond there. ‘Remember to smile’ he wrote on a subway wall. The words went up fast, multiplying. Always with the scribble ‘Artiste’ under them. Covering the city. He just wanted people to see the work. To think about why they weren’t smiling, or loving, or playing. He wanted to see the world happier. Every morning he got into his little one room apartment and scrubbed the paint off of his hands. He showered the sweat and grime off. He took naps, never really slept anymore. Waking up an hour or so before work, he would carve a new set of stencils from scavenged cardboard. Knives cut out the words that he would paint back in. The stencils stacked in the corner quoting everyone from Socrates to Banksy, images from the Mona Lisa to Sheppard Fairey-esque juxtapositions. Then to work to spend time with, talk with, the people he was trying to communicate with overnight. He gained insight and ideas based on what they told him during the day, helping to plan his next series of stencils that he would paint at night. He heard news stories again of his paint. The city government was anxious about the plague of graffiti that was going on, as were some people in the community. Others were excited

about the message if not the technique. Others still didn’t care. It was the standard story. He ignored them all, and just continued on, urging people to look at their better natures before they looked at their worse. It broke on the local news one afternoon. His name. His piece. Artiste was officially labeled a menace to society and that there was a reward for any information regarding his person or whereabouts. He went out that night without stencils. He went to an old industrial site and climbed onto the roof. He took a paint roller with him to broadcast a message in easy to read letters, ‘So I am a Menace am I?’ Getting that message out was more about finding the right place than about timing, or execution. This piece was on a rooftop next to a highway overpass. There was no way that a traffic helicopter would miss it. They would get some contact with the artist. It wasn’t a game any more. Somehow the artist was angry at the label, whether or not it was accurate. He knew that what he did was illegal, knew that it was costing people money. But was just as certain that things needed to be said. The question that the artist posed was shown on the morning news. He had had plenty of time to get home and turn on the tv, he wanted to see if the city would respond. They labeled him a menace, and now a provocateur. Subversive. The next night found him on a different roof-top, paint roller in hand, writing out a new question, ‘Would you like to see real Subversion?’ The morning news showed the image. They also interviewed people on the street. Some saying that the little messages asking them only to be happy and enjoy the people around them were positive and the person writing them shouldn’t be afraid. Some claimed that it was wrecking their city. One went so far as to quote the Broken Windows Theory. The artist absorbed. He went to work.

He sketched. A few nights later he went out. Instead of being armed with the normal paint cans or stencils this time with a roll of vinyl and some hooks. The roll must have weighed 200 lbs. He pushed it in front of him with a hand-truck. Even this late at night, no one questioned him. He thought, NYC. If you look like you know what you are doing people here will let you get away with anything. Disinterested interest is an art-form of its own here. They look, but they refuse to ask. He rolled his roll of vinyl to the top of a parking lot in the financial district. Artiste clamped the hooks in place and ran them through the grommets on the vinyl, and let it unfurl off the edge. Six feet wide and twenty long, he showed them themselves. Uncolored Mylar is very reflective, and strangely difficult to come by, but he had epoxied a circular section onto the vinyl, and painted an ornate mirror’s frame around it. Underneath that the question, ‘Who’s the menace?’ A comment raised by an art tutor came to him, Remember that artwork is not just beauty. It is the primary thing, but not the only thing. All art should tell a story, have a message. A message that people can understand. From the stained glass of the Cathedral to the surrealism of Dali. Art must say something. His little prank was not on the news that morning. His vinyl was not still up when he went to look that night. His art would need to change. His goal was not to provoke action by the municipality. It was no longer just to make things lovely. It had not been about getting his own name out there for sometime now. But what was that message? Art for art’s sake was too small. Love was too broad. It was about passion, about packing it in and doing what you needed to do for yourself. To love every second of your life, even the parts that hurt. Especially the parts that hurt. Love the emptiness as well as the filled space. To do those things that you were passionate about, and make the

life you can around them. Artiste stayed up late trying to determine just how to do that. He stayed up late for weeks. Not going out to paint, barely making it to his job everyday. Focused on the design and image that would tell his story better than anything else could. Finding just the right artistic phrase to do so. Sun chased moon overhead, Artiste spoke less. Wind played with leaves from the scarce trees on the street. He grew moody at his job, reaching the point where his boss told him to start smiling and being more pleasant lest he be asked to leave. The hands of the clock seemed to drag while he was working and race through his off hours. How was he ever to find that right thing? How was he to find that image. The word. That combination of pigments and forms that would scream his intent to the world. Finally one afternoon Artiste struck something he really loved. It was going to be an enormous undertaking. It really wanted five or six colors, but to save time he would only use three. He knew that it could work, if he could have the whole night to work in one spot. He scoured the city. Looking for a place that he could work in peace. A place that he would be almost invisible while he worked, but something that would be visible during the day. A location that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hurt the little guys but still give them something to look at. After a few days have searching he found it. He climbed up onto the rooftop. Fortunately there was a drain pipe the right size and shape to take him all the way to the roof. His hands hurt at the end of the climb, but he found that that was fine. He shook them out and began the lines. His rooftop had a massive blank wall on one side, facing the street. It was dark enough that he wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be seen but could still see. The first line was smooth, unbroken. Just an outline layer. The next line was wobbly, not from unsteady hands but for the design. Slowly a dark figure emerged from the lines. Stretched out with its hands

behind its back. Androgynous, it was everyone. Some bubbles sprouted from the head, skirting the tree trunk that he had outlined behind the figure. The bubbles grew until into them came a scene of wildflowers. Wildflowers and big open sky, lightly blowing. It reminded him of a meadow he had seen from the trains in Wyoming. The pollen was visible this close. He wanted it just perfect. No detail was spared though the night. The cans hissed and spat in mimicry of the winds in the character’s dream. This dream of calm, of beatitude. He was proclaiming that he wasn’t a menace or subversive, he was just dreaming about a life that was beautiful. The light came up on the artist’s piece. Largely ignored, and the local news didn’t even cover it. But some people on the street saw it, stopped to take notice. They enjoyed a brief respite from the heat and congestion of the city. They dreamed along with Artiste.

insert lit mag here is looking to publish work in our October issue that bares its teeth. the deadline is September 15. keep reading keep writing keep submitting