ARTIFACT NOUVEAU
FA L L 2 0 1 7 VO LU M E 4 I S S U E 1
A Writers’ Guild Publication
by Rebecka Skogh
Regards from the Editor in Chief
It’s come to this These moments where our paths happened to cross We chose to be here because we believe that words matter With the right combination of words they can mean something more When thoughts fail, I’ve had my words to help me Within these letters I can breathe To me, and I’m sure others, This is the truest for of ourselves My mouth never seems to get it right, Expressing my voice, that is I have so much to say And I wish I could hear you all, too I truly do I’m just not ready to say goodbye Letting go is not my strongest suit to wear I wish we had more time But these moments are a gift It’s come to this This moment where our paths may part Take these words with you And perhaps with the right combination of events, When thoughts fail, these words may help you.
Thank you to all the contributing authors and artists who comprise our Fall issue. Your works inspire and encourage us. We are especially grateful for the hard work of Patricia Mayorga, editor of Poets’ Espresso Review. We also thank all members of the Fall 2017 SJDC Writers’ Guild who worked with enthusiasm in selecting the works for this issue. Correction: “I’m Late” and “The Wooden Spoon” were misattributed in the first printing of this issue. Both poems are by Jasmine Castillo.
—Rudy Hernandez
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Table of Contents Tired by Ronald Godoy...............................................................5 The Atmosphere After Choking by antisomebody................................................................7 Some Afternoons When Nobody Was Fighting by Lyn Lifshin......................................................................9 Escaping My Dream by Marina Castillo.........................................................10 The Sink by Sarah White.................................................................11 Euphoria Is a Concept by Tamia Vides-Araya......................................................13 Last Poem by Ronald Godoy..............................................................15 Sense of Self by Jenifer Maghinay........................................................17 I Need to Feel Grief by Ronald Godoy..............................................................19 Hurricane by Faith Roberets.............................................................21 Fruitful Wine by Sarah Wilkinson.........................................................22 Growth by Maleeha Syed..............................................................23 It’s No Small Magic by Sam Hatch.....................................................................25 Portions by Haley Tonetti..............................................................26 A Soldier’s Wife by Sarah Wilkinson.........................................................27 On the Lake (After Su Tung Po) by George Freek...............................................................28 3
Table of Contents I’m Late by Jasmine Castillo.........................................................29 Fall Preview by Haley Tonetti.............................................................30 Casting Call by David Doyle.................................................................32 Villanelle for Lazy Bastards in Suits by Colin Dodds.................................................................34 The Wooden Spoon by Jasmine Castillo.........................................................35 Bipolar by Richard Lopez..............................................................36 Mary’s Last Chapter (1945) by Phyllis Souza...............................................................37 Take Me With You by antisomebody...............................................................44 Mom by Amos Togun..................................................................45 Blackout by Christopher K. Haywood.........................................46 Waiting for the Train by Michael Duffett........................................................49 A Poor Man’s Monologue by Faith Roberts...............................................................50 The Highway by Enrique Ramos.............................................................51 Mis Amigos (My Friends) by Joshua Castro..............................................................54 Written in Black by Benjamin Stroop..........................................................55 The Bandage Knight by Benjamin Stroop..........................................................59 Featured Artists ...............................................................................................63
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Tired by Ronald Godoy I am tired of these asymmetric forests, of these deer of sadness that fail to die everytime, Of these thighs of wooden women that cook the bitter sap of grief on their forbidden flowers, Of the quality of the raindrops detaching from the skin of the fruits to wet the back of the solitude of sleepless men, Of the rocks on the river that stubbornly play to deflower the pelvis of my recurrent silence, Of the pupils of the orchids watching the ritual concurrence of squirrels and tears that ruffle the hair of the oaks, Tired of the kayak choked by a shore of consequences that tells me agonizingly that I still can’t give up.
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by Rebecka Skogh 6
The Atmosphere After Choking by antisomebody
She has recently caught the breath in her choice She’s looking through broken glass to better days From the choke-hold love had, on her voice. Convinced that she intuitively annoys It’s hard to speak in the haze She has recently caught the breath in her choice.
Covering her ears as the echo of his words still foist She sees the world now in diverging ways From the choke-hold love had, on her voice. Head submerged, she tries to drown out the noise From an imbecile who left her in a daze She has recently caught the breath in her choice. She’s afraid of her smile or to rejoice Sometimes she feels she hasn’t completely left that place From the choke-hold love had, on her voice. 7
She’s moving along on nails to better poise Reconstructing her personal space She has recently caught the breath in her choice From the choke-hold love had, on her voice.
by David Rodriguez
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Some Afternoons When Nobody Was Fighting by Lyn Lifshin
My mother took out walnuts and chocolate chips. My sister and I plunged our fingers in flour and butter smoother than clay. Pale dough oozing between our fingers while the house filled with blond bars rising. Mother in her pink dress with black ballerinas circling its bottom turned on the Victrola, tucked her dress up into pink nylon bloomer pants, kicked her legs up in the air and my sister and I pranced thru the living room, a bracelet around her. She was our Pied Piper and we were the children of Hamlin, circling her as close as the dancers on her hem. 9
Escaping My Dream by Marina Castillo
Million thoughts run at once Hearts starting to pound So much anxiety and distress Realizing that there’s no solace around Negatively overthinking Intemperateness and incessancy Can’t seem to escape my mind Absolutely no lucidity Then abruptly, I wake up Still so tired, can’t go back to sleep Slowly realizing it was all a dream With no one to hear my out-weep Deliriously tossing and turning Trying to grasp my myriad of thoughts Can’t seem to compose myself For some reason, I do the sign of the cross Now I have this sense of foreboding The world and now sleep with unknowing
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The Sink by Sarah White The dizziness starts to sink Deep down into the darkness Back and forth up and down Like waves controlling my body The bed becoming a trap Drowning me in the blankets I never thought I’d hate blankets They have me captured in my sink I just want to escape the trap Of the horrible feeling of darkness I watch from above a limp body I can’t stop my stare, down Hatred toward myself, feeling down I just want to be home in my own blankets To have control of my mind and body I try to climb out of the sink Slowly I emerge from the darkness Only to be held by the trap 11
Scramble away from the self-set trap On the edge ready to jump down But the light starts to peek through the darkness Slowly lifting a light blanket And then I start to rise from the sink Finally I can hear my body This pain should be felt by nobody Will I ever be released from the trap I’m no longer lost in the sink I start to climb up from the down Chucking, across the room, heavy blankets The light has completely consumed the darkness I will never re-enter the darkness And if I do it will drain my body I’ll be soaked up by the blankets And will live forever in that trap I refuse to be so down Ever again, staying away from the sink Always live through the darkness of the blankets Keeping your body away from the trap And never sink down into the abyss 12
Euphoria Is a Concept by Tamia Vides-Araya
Escaping into my mind is something I do best. The axon in my brain sends messages to the synaptic knobs. I always imagine it to be so colorful up there. There are several things I can’t physically wrap myself around, But my thoughts wrap themselves around a concept called Euphoria. Inevitably I wonder just how these thoughts hold on so tightly to an idea they’ve created. It is intangible to the finger tips, but my neurotransmitters feel the warmth of chronic sun shine. I’d like to consider myself to be a spiritual enthusiast. An astrologist. A space traveler. Reaching a state of nirvana means voyaging into the most hidden parts of your mind and awakening the moon. The answer will lie amongst the starry waves of your grey matter. Tonight I’ve gone too deep. A neurologist could scan my skull and find that perhaps Euphoria is not a feeling but a sight. They’d look at the screen showing an image of what is going on inside my head. They’d see the starriest night lighting up the sky. 13
Activity all across the board. This is a concept — Ethereal eyes gaze upon it for just a moment. Euphoric chasms form in my retinas, leaving me in that permanent state I never wish to leave: a field of sunflowers of floating emotions and childish dreams.
Meaningful Ambiguity by Ali Nikzad
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Last Poem
by Ronald Godoy Your mystery haunts me, your mystery of tissues and nettles, your voice that fakes your voice from yesterday, your soul that hounds my absent light I love you between the bridges of your fingers, sometimes I step on their borders and I jump, I know that you can’t hear me, now you can’t hear me, you are from the wind, from the smoke, from the distance You are a traveler of a pencil that isn’t mine anymore, an empty boat arrives to the coast of no where while I decide to break myself from you, from your hours, from your letters, from the sun of your transient smile I am alone, alone in the morning of the inevitable world, alone, I am the scar of your name on the hand of time, a clock on the wall asphyxiates with a woman’s picture and the luxation of the door opens its path to your empty space 15
I am alone, in the geometry of your absent eyes floating on my silence, alone, I burn the storm of your banished gestures one more time, alone on the hill of your impossible mount of Venus, alone and a loop of your pearls ties my writing hand Traveler, of one word of mine and of ours, of a god, of a damned dough of mud and my left rib, of the gorge of the pause of your forehead and your mouth, of the restriction of the shine of your iris in your eye Traveler, from the distance of a grape and a star, from the bedroom of a man that cries headless, of my necessity to keep going, of crying, of walk ing up the stairs, from the ozone in the dry lung of this love that breaths no more Traveler, Your mystery haunts me, I hide a tear on a tissue of nettle, your voice of yesterday tells me fake words while your shadows start to devour my absent light 16
Sense of Self
by Jenifer Maghinay Remnants of shame underneath layers of rubbery gluey goo Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you Each layer holds a moment A crusty scab picked at Bleeding once again The wounds awaken sending pulses of uncertainty that are too heavy to stand on the weight of my petals Though my glass is half-full the water is murky Looking through the glass I don’t recognize the person on the other side drowning in this tall drink of memories A little girl lost A shiny apple fell from a rotten tree The roots were gnarled and protruded from the muck and mire that surrounded its trunk The apple rolled through the mud Bumping the roots Bruised Stream of consciousness, pervading thoughts, like a soundtrack replaying the narrative Rhythmically, day in and day out Was it a dream? I know her, she is in me, we are one, and we are divided Remnants of shame I own No impostors allowed
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by Rebecka Skogh
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I Need to Feel Grief by Ronald Godoy
I need to feel grief, I need to leave a suicide note to myself and caress the wet field after the rain, and feel grief. Erase the elms that silence when I stare at them and gain back the tears of rock that I lost, and feel grief I need to consider seriously the possibility of walking the long and querulous way of moving to a better galaxy, and learn about the bees, the flowers, and the birds that have withered in this one, and feel grief I need to speak with the mud and convince it to give me a woman, 19
and make her fall in love with me, telling her about the rain on the field of elms, and about the rocks that grow between the roots of my eyes, and about the bees that play on the flowers when the birds sing, and love her, and lose her (again), and feel grief
Religion behind Branches by Ali Nikzad 20
Hurricane By Faith Roberts
A wave Of disastrous actions Clashed onto our dry cleaned laps Ruining our wallets The pictures of our loved ones inside Soggy and crumpled Their faces fade away in the sewer green abyss No longer identifiable I tell my father “My family and friends have faded away” His response to me “Get a new wallet”
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Fruitful Wine By Sarah Wilkinson
Aged entangled vines Twists with leaves of autumn greens Hanging fruits of wine
Hairs on the Farm
by Yalda Mohammadzadeh
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Growth by Maleeha Syed It was immensely painful to let you go But I had to, in order for me to grow. More painful than one could ever imagine I was so numb to be even saddened. To emancipate my heart, I anticipated a long time ago. Oh! I was too optimistic to overlook the wrong direction of the flow. I am so fatigued from bearing this excruciating pain. Now, I have left the canvas plain. Eminently sad yet still happy to know. Oh! I’m finally letting you go. You were the ocean that I wanted to cross solely. But, the boat of emotions submerged and I ended up drowning. Why did I try to put my mind to sleep and let my heart lead? 23
When I knew that the function of heart was to only beat While the function of mind was to deem. It ate me from the inside like termite I couldn’t even suspect the damage. I realized when the devastation wasn’t easy to manage. Lived in moments from a decade ago. You were a part of me, how could I let you go? I fell headlong but stood up even taller. The pain now seemed significantly smaller. I’m happy to grow and glad to know Oh, I have finally let you go.
Blood in Earth by Yalda Mohammadzadeh
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It Is No Small Magic By Sam Hatch
It is no small magic To conjure atavism Where once ancient decencies nurtured the heart. To conjure threat Where once we saw only difference Of custom or cut of clothing, Of accent and color, of skin, hair, and eyes. To conjure away the wisdom We hoped was graven on the heart, Wisdom that made translucence of difference And revealed the indelible image of God. It is no small magic To conjure from Lincoln’s “Last, best hope of mankind” The demonic Other and the blind energy of apocalypse.
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Portions By Haley Tonetti
Vexed by a need to control Bite by bite, first and last Nothing yet, I feel full Blank forecast Bite by bite, first and last Carefully planned and set Blank forecast Another hour, another goal met Carefully planned and set Washing down this hungry ache Another hour, another goal met Water will do, a cleansing break Washing down this hungry ache Nothing yet, I feel full Water will do, a cleansing break Vexed by a need to control 26
A Soldier’s Wife By Sarah Wilkinson
He held his dog tags and went to war, Now I lay disabled on the floor; waiting
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by William Crawford
On the Lake (After Su Tung Po) By George Freek
Night suddenly falls like a steel curtain, and a cold wind rustles the reeds along the shore. Dying stars barely light my way, as dark clouds threaten rain. Like a guttering candle, the moon flickers above me. There is no sign of birds or of men. When I fished this lake and my father was alive, I felt secure. At sixty, cold and alone I steer my boat in a direction I pray will take me home. 28
by William Crawford
I’m Late
by Jasmine Castillo
I walk to class, the clock runs fast, my feet Fold back, my head tilts down, my hands reach out To catch the ground, get up, slow down, I’m late
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Fall Preview
by Haley Tonetti Soft rain, grey clouds, a timid breeze singing, My heart beats as the droplets are dripping. Brown strands sweep back and forth across my face, Close your eyes and feel every chilled embrace. Warm liquid coats my throat with spiced delight Cinnamon, oaky notes envelop my tongue. Skin cold to touch, I’m wrapped tightly in wool, Hugging me close igniting happiness. Peach colored leaves fall upon fuzzy cloth, The sweetened fruits of temperatures dropped. Coffee shop glass glitters with water beads, Puddled rain, light white skies, hinted winter.
by Celeste Masuda
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Post Colombian by Joe Mariscal, the 2017 Visions In Clay Exhibition, August 25 - 16, 2017. low fired ceramic, smoked terra sigillata slip 16” x 16” x 11” 2017 31
Casting Call by David Doyle She gripped my hand like a bite from a Great Dane, And I, a lesser Dane, squealed. Ascended the hill like Mont Ventoux
Dew frigid, dear friends, jumping like skydive leaf pilers
We were lost on Everest, and this should be our place of ever-rest
Looking down on the birds sneering, “do-ya even have wings?”
This was third grade, the one after second; and nowadays I can see
years like chalk outlines of seconds that were left to die but third grade crushes are still fresh memories fresh like oranges that fall on your head in the orchard or potatoes that you used for science fair galvanics or fresh like memories of falling upright, jaws agape, unhinged
or those of jumping—crushing on the dirt below
when she gripped my hand I laughed, jumped from that fort, thirty-six feet, edge
of the play yard
ten and four feet up.. woodpile basin below, landed belly up
signed her cast, with my only hand on call
acting adventurous, and acting tough, and all. 32
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by Celeste Masuda
Villanelle for Lazy Bastards in Suits November 10, 2016 by Colin Dodds Rent garments form a word The fraud may be immense, but it needn’t be your own even if it’s all you’ve seen and heard Another week, another curse incurred a tragedy-triumph we can’t condone or disown the way rent garments form a word Is it treasure or a corpse that they interred? The enemy builds his fortune in what you postpone He isn’t what you’ve seen and heard Could you prove yourself truly undeterred mouthing the alias of the one to dethrone the way rent garments form a word? How will they matter—those things you preferred? No one knows just when they’re fully grown It isn’t what you’ve seen and heard Now stand by a truth you’ve only slurred and give answer nearer a shriek than a drone The way rent garments form a word that’s never what you’ve seen and heard 34
The Wooden Spoon by Jasmine Castillo
In the kitchen drawer my punishment sits. The wooden Spoon, with a wide palm, Intimidating. Mother cooks, brings out the wooden spoon to stir broth. She calls me. I walk away pretending not to hear. There’s a sound of running water. I look back, Mother’s at the sink rinsing the wooden spoon, Glaring at me.
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by Kassy Menke
Bipolar
by Richard Lopez
I ignore you to forget you
I think about you every waking moment I need to move on with my life
I feel like I could die if I let go I won’t get involved anymore
I long to hold you in my arms again
I want nothing more to do with you
I don’t want to live without you
I saw you and I remembered I Love You
by Alex Nodopaka
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Mary’s Last Chapter (1945) by Phyllis Souza Like an army, the bacterium lurks, breaking down lung tissue. Its mission to kill is called “Consumption.” Mary, accompanied by her sister Ollie, walked into the pulmonary physician’s quiet office. In the waiting room, there were six straight back, wooden chairs pushed up against a wall. A brass lamp sat on an end table in the corner; the light coming out its pink resin paper shade cast a shadow behind it. On a low, long table in front of the seating area, the June 4th edition of Life magazine, with an aerial photo of bombed Germany on the cover, laid on top. Ollie sat down in one of the chairs while Mary walked over to the check-in window. “Hello, I’m Mary Souza. I’m here to get my test results.” “Have a seat, it’s going to be a while. The doctor had an emergency; he just left the hospital,” the receptionist said. “The doctor’s running late,” Mary said to her sister. Then she took a seat. “That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting,” Ollie replied. ****** Twenty minutes later…. A door opened. A nurse stepped out. “Mary, doctor will see you now.” With a stethoscope draped over the shoulders of his white 37
lab coat, the doctor leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands on top his dark wooden desk and looked at the young woman sitting across from him. “Mary, you have tuberculosis in both lungs.” Remembering her sister Laura’s death from tuberculosis… “I knew it when I coughed up blood,” she said. “Can I stay at home?” “No. You need to be admitted into a sanitarium. Olive View in San Fernando Valley is known for having the best climate and air in California.” “For how long?” “Six months to a year.” Mary got up from her chair, walked over to a window and blankly stared out of it. She felt as if she had just been given a death sentence. “Is there a cure?” “There’s a new drug, Streptomycin, that seems to have some benefits.” Mary turned and looked at the doctor, the skin around her eyes blotched and red. With a tear rolling down her cheek she asked, “When do I go?” “My nurse will call you tomorrow with an admittance date. Right now, go home and get some rest.” He got up from his chair and guided her down the hall way to the waiting room. When Mary told her sister she had tuberculosis, Ollie pressed her hand on her neck and swallowed. Then with her right arm stretched out over Mary’s slumped shoul38
by Brian Michael Barbeito
ders, they left the office. ****** Gently applying the brakes of his 1942 black Chevy coupe, Gene, Mary’s husband, drove on a winding road leading up to the sanitarium. Mary, sitting next to him, had barely spoken a word since they left their home two hours earlier. “Mary, you’re so quiet.” He reached over and put his right hand on her left knee. “It’s going to be okay.” “No…. It’s not.” He continued to drive for about a mile. Passing through 39
the entrance gate he searched for a place to park. When he found a lot designated for incoming patients, he pulled in and stopped the car. ****** Olive View Sanitarium: sprawling green lawns lined with colorful flowers, white buildings roofed with red clay tiles, a school and chapel, even a post office. It looked like a small city. With Gene by her side, Mary stepped up to an admissions counter. “I’m here to be admitted. My name is Mary Souza.” The receptionist looked at the check-in list. “You’ll be in ward 304. But first you’ll need to be seen by a doctor.” “Can my husband come with me?” “I’m sorry, he can’t.” Mary turned her face away from the lady and looked at Gene. Then she fell into his opened arms. He held her tight. They cried. ****** The doctor, middle aged, took down Mary’s life history in great detail, starting with her birth. After he finished asking questions and taking down answers, he called in a nurse. “Get Mary’s weight, then take her to her ward.” Mary followed the nurse into a weighing room where she took off her shoes and stepped on a scale. “One hundred and two pounds,” the nurse said. “You’ll be weighed once a week in the evening. Around here, we call it weighing 40
night.” She smiled. “Now, let’s get you settled in.” ******* “Ladies, I’d like you to meet Mary,” the nurse said. They responded with a hand gesture, a faint “hello,” or merely a smile. “I think your bed is somewhere in the middle,” stated the nurse. Then they walked halfway down the aisle in front of a row of white metal beds filled with patients. “Here you are, between Amelia and Emily.” The nurse handed Mary a white hospital gown and told her to get into bed and lie flat on her back. “There’s only one pillow,” Mary said. “I know. Doctor’s orders.” “Why are all the windows opened? It’s so cold in here.” French windows ran the entire width of the room overlooking an olive orchard. “You need a lot of fresh air to get better. I can bring you an extra blanket.” “That would be nice. Thank you.” ****** The next morning an orderly came in with a wheel chair and took Mary to X-ray where she stood in a dark booth while doctors looked at a screen and took notes. After the X-rays she returned to the ward. A robust looking nurse 41
by Frecia Chirinos
came in and handed her a sterile container, “You need to cough up phlegm and spit it into the jar for a sputum culture,” she said. “I don’t know if I can.” “Then I’ll have to help you. Get up.” She stood behind Mary grabbed her around the waist and squeezed. It hurt. She felt as if she were going to faint. The nurse held Mary, as if she were a rag doll, “Sit down on the chair and drop your head between your legs.” After a few seconds the light-headed feeling subsided. ****** Days, weeks and months passed…. Pretty, young nurses streamed in and out of the ward bringing clean handker42
chiefs and newspapers. Eventually, Mary got a second pillow. And, for an hour a day, she could sit in a chair, read a book or write a letter. Then the night before Christmas, Mary developed a 104 degree fever. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, her eyes became glassy. She coughed profusely. “Ring for a nurse,” one of ladies called out. When the nurse came in and saw Mary twisting and turning in her bed, she immediately called for a doctor. “We need to get her into intensive care.” The doctor shouted, “STAT!” She was rolled out of the ward on a gurney. She became delirious; she heard her name being called, “Mary… Mary…Mary.” Was it the doctor calling to revive her or was it an angel calling to take her? No one will ever know. Mary died at two o’clock on Christmas morning at the age of twenty-three.
THE END
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by Ali Nikzad
Take Me With You by antisomebody
I’m a boy with a shovel And a vast smile I cannot let her know Just how deep I dig her. I’m helpless steel To the magnets she carries I cannot let her know I’d follow her anywhere. 44
Mom
by Amos Togun Her love never ending it feels me up with happiness like a cup of joe on a cold winter morning it’s never empty it’s never half empty her love is overflowing
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by Kassy Menke
Blackout
by Christopher K. Haywood A Dark night, turned to drunken heights Climbed up a crane Blackout Reaching for the heavens Oh lawd, I hear the bag pipers coming Following behind the grim reaper Here to take my soul away Blackout Dear lord, if you hear... Damn why am I talking to myself I’m the cause and effect of my consequences I took those shots Climbed this bitch of a life Staring at the moon Wishing someone would save me soon I’m hanging on the ledge Thinking about my past How I put myself to bed How I was partying in college, letting life ride the bike, as I coasted on the pegs How I never asked for shit and I never begged And if you came to tear me down, better hope I don’t come back with a sledge Hanging off this crane weeping of my past Death is here now Ringing of bag pipers Screeching sirens down below Wailing alarms People scurrying the streets All eyes on me 46
Waiting to see me splatter Never, I yelled Looking crazy I know I do But who loves me, no one like you You is me, me is him, him is her, her is them , them is all The connection of atoms The dark matter we’re bonded by The energy is everywhere and everything That’s when darkness became colors Colors I was blinded from by my perceptional views of contradictions Everyone loved me but didn’t understand it ’Cause I am everyone, everything, and everywhere Understanding my awareness is the step above just being aware Understanding the link to all Understanding the DNA trails Understanding you share this place called earth And understanding each individual came from and is growing from the same soils of our mother I stood up and shouted I’m free! Pointed at the reaper and took his death Ran towards the end of the crane and jumped Blackout Blood everywhere Mysterious mists surrounds Beheaded pipers and broken pipes Silence 47
Blackout In the shower of a motel Blood down the drain News outside They want a show and tell Blackout Running through the woods Feeling free I’m free Written in Black
by Alex Nodopaka
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WAITING FOR THE TRAIN by Michael Duffett
- for Blake and Blaise
I have five hours to think about God When, according to Blake, I only need One, or to think about His primary Aspect, eternity. And, he tells us, Infinity is in a grain of sand. Now that our men of science have split Atoms more than mere protons and electrons, We have, we are told, neutrinos and There seems to be no end to it. Blake Seemed to know more than nuclear science And I sit here reading him with over An hour to enjoy, not just five times Eternity but the grain of sand And infinite spaces in my hand.
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A POOR MAN’S MONOLOGUE by Faith Roberts
I’m cold. My winter blanket, Woven with California apples boxes, Will not protect me From the open freezer, that is the night sky. Will you spare me a blanket? Your cheeks, like the apples imprinted on my pillow And your ego lying on the tip of your nose, Tell me no. You picture me a Neanderthal As if I am different to your present day species. My diseased hands Will shiver under dim nightlight in the sky As you worry about your chipped manicure. I will become happy If an eye meets mine And recognizes I’m human.
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THE HIGHWAY
by Enrique Ramos He couldn’t even kill himself. The third law of robotics didn’t allow him to. He had been created as the first robot with emotions and so far he was the only one. Everything had started out great. He was able to feel happiness and he was happy as he got to experience a lot of things for the first time. But, later, he learned of the other robots. Cold, unfeeling machines that just did what they were told. They did just what they were built for. And he learned that they were simply discarded to the scrap heap when new better robots were built to take their place. He felt sadness for them. He would’ve cried for them if they had built tear ducts into him. And of course, he was afraid. What if something were to happen to him? What if he were replaced by another robot with better emotions? What if he were sent to the scrap heap? But luckily for him, that wasn’t the case. His creator was happy with him and didn’t make another robot with emotions. However, that was then, this was now. Now, Rossum (that was the robot’s name) was standing on the side of the bridge watching the cars pass by. He wanted to jump but he 51
couldn’t. He was angry at the world. The other robots, they didn’t care about just being tools, and the humans had no intentions of making more robots with emotions. Rossum had gone to the authorities. He went along with Dr. Shaw, his creator. They wanted to mass produce robots with emotions. They were asked, why? What’s the point? They said that all Rossum could do was feel. That wouldn’t really help them with labor. That’s what robots are for, they said, to be used as tools. Rossum thought robots could be more than that. So he was angry. He didn’t want to live in a world where robots were just tools since he was more than a tool. And he decided to end his life. But he couldn’t. The third law didn’t allow him to. He couldn’t jump. He could, however, do something else. He stared at the cars driving past. Waiting for an accident. He had to help out humans according to the first law and the first law overruled the third law. If he were lucky, he’d get to sacrifice himself to save the humans. He stood there, looking at the cars driving past and waiting.
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by Brian Michael Barbeito 53
Mis Amigos (My Friends) by Joshua Castro I do try my best to respond to each request Mis amigos Photos, videos, and memes I’ll make sure each one is seen Mis amigos They hardly ever text Not sure when I’ll meet them next Mis amigos Tagged locations that are shown means another night alone Still, it’s all good... I’ve three hundred and ten who call me friend! I think, and yet never have met most of that set How did life become this way? Back in the day friendship was more than a poke Now, it’s just a joke People laughed, hugged, and cared That’s how real love was shared I should just delete them all Clear my whole wall of these fickle fair-weather friends …on whose attentions I depend So, although I’ll never win I’ll log in just as before
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Written in Black by Benjamin Stroop “Based on a True Story” were the words funnily penned under The Death of Effrontery by some early bird the Group Head had strung to myself, whom I will not name, but who has the kind of pen name procured from city intersections. The novel has enough foresight to carry two nouns to esteemed pick-up artists: “death” and “effrontery,” the former describing the reading experience and the latter attesting my foulest reaction that the ordinary bar patron would call, “insolent or impertinent behavior.” I’m an associate contributor for a publication called The Notice, aptly named for my eventual parole. My primary duty is writing the back-cover summaries to selections assigned. As the novel wasn’t giving me anything to work with, and seeing the start of a thirty-minute lunch, I decided to journey toward inspiration and warmth. It’s a story of family intrigue in a gothic setting, and let me stress my lack of bias against the gothic genre. It’s the word “intrigue” that offends me. I’m a passenger of a horseless carriage, a 1990 Cadillac Miller Meteor Hearse along the countryside. I’d been meaning to pay visit to my family estate overlooking the town from a hill. My first time, really. A manor that had been turned into a hotel due to a bastard. It’d been dubbed upon opening: Depuis Sept Jours. Driving up that rocky path to the dirt parking lot, I tried to remember that one Anthony Burgess carol. My suit contained my notepad, an assortment of pens, a voodoo doll of Christ, eyeglass cloth for my runny nose, and a wooden comb with a skewer-like handle. Upon entrance, I noticed how dark and uneven the lighting was for the lobby, like Gordon Willis was 55
nearby conducting a film shoot. Beside the lobby by contrast was the brightly lit giftshop on the right. To the left was the lodge and a staircase leading to the guest rooms; the stone fireplace was ablaze. The hotel had a dark green carpet overlaid with gold embroidered red rugs. There are black curtains hanging over every arching window. All the furniture in the building was made in cedar wood, thus, culminating in the quaint hominess of a ski lodge in the summer sun. I briefly greeted the connoisseur, told that I just wanted a layout of the place, and off I was. I entered the giftshop and found its selection to be entirely candy and crude knick-knacks appraised at “It’s Your duty” to “Give from the Heart.”. The displayed attraction was a haunted unplugged LED sign that foretold room discounts. I walked to the vendor behind the counter, an old lady with a ragged beanie and hands like paper mache. “Would you fancy a sample of the unknown?” she asked, pointing to a nearby sign labeled, “as seen on Isle 2.” Before I could say yes, she demanded one dollar, which I obliged. She held out a twig with one hand, releasing it to a noiseless thud. The feelings of the scammed contrasted with her amazement. “I did it without looking!” I ventured toward the ballroom past the giftshop, but halted entry by some framed memorial: Abraham 1, land lord and famed mime artist. He pantomimed the tango with an airy mistress, and fell into an acid vat. The connoisseur [dollar paid] tells me the mistress fell after her lover, though her body was never found. Wiping my nose, I sensed a decaying folly slithering down the hallway. I made like a roly-poly and rolled to a corner after the broken nightstand. I briefly peeked the eventual arrival, my comb with weaponized handle in an overhand arch. I took my 56
overhand stake toward that eye patched aberration and almost broke a penal code if not for: “You dropped your pen, sir.” A dollar shorter, I made toward the staircase in the lobby. A door on top labeled “Hall” in gold lettering was my entry. Each door wore a dark tint of woody textures. I entered Room 1 and was greeted by an Edward Gorey impersonator in a housecoat. I pressed for any peculiar activity he came across. He described an oil painting down the hallway of a marching band with two of its members carrying triangles. “Quite the spooky makings reserved for penitentiaries,” he bellowed. I accompanied the Gorey fella to the lodge and left him to the fireplace. Sadly, no lightning came to gloss his stoic frame in that moment. I decided to write down my overall experience and remembered that one Anthony Burgess carol, and wrote that instead. “Silent night, tropical night; Dogs howl, sandflies bite. Some are busy with bottles and knives, Others sleeping with other men’s wives. The mosque is losing its dome. There’s nothing to do but go home.”
Let’s go home.
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by Mary Blackford
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The Bandange Knight by Benjamin Stroop I frowned this mid-October for the continued existence of summer clime. The walk to the library was a harrowing ordeal. I blazed through a sidewalk made of adjoining pairs of squares, one after the other. Imagine, dear reader, being an ant skittering over Helios’s midriff. Now imagine that same ant having inept literary skills and the metaphor is perfectly apt. I submit my extreme fashion sense plays a role. The library I ventured was one of those “in place for a better one,” a pale portable with limited space and an interesting selection, aside from that foreboding corner of adolescent and housewife contrivances. Here, sound never travels but the flush of the toilet a few feet away [The poster among many I find little comfort in]. There was never a book without a crumple, dog ear, copper tint, or perfume of rank oranges. Office lighting, gray carpeting, an annoyingly tiny clock. The library was my only bastion from electronic distractions. I say “electronic.” Besides the weekends, the space was constantly breaking the occupancy limit. The mental miles I’ve walked to parrot the first “is” from a poem’s epigraph. My reading style represented by the Mobius Strip. I’ve written, I’ve mooched, I’ve drifted in different seats. The chaff of creased resolve that my eraser born on...nothing. Four-to-five-hours dignified that. 7:00 P.M. was my acerbic departure. I took the steel ramp down, remembering that one skateboarder and his envy over dysfunctional mobility. 59
My landscape etched an asphalt cul-de-sac, pearl sealed straws, and a twisting sidewalk beside a rancher’s fence of the golden steppe, full of squirrels and firm tumbleweeds. An unseen glossing over the landscape with few oil pastels: Vandalism! Yet, still the after-hours in midsummer. Hear the cricket choirs sing, especially to Jackie Wilson in 1960. The night seen from an ant had a predatory innateness. Each painted dot an owl eye if not fiery midriffs. Hanging bright balls that matched what the straws contained, illuming the squares. Taking in my informal hopscotch game, I spotted a spiffy fellow at a corner before a crosswalk. He seemed ready to investigate the foreboding section of the library, worn in his full-plated outfit of iron. From head-visor to metallic leggings under a lit straw. It had the full effect of a night light in a specific corner. Imagine this conspicuous figure brave a stage performance to the “cancan.” His edged brandishing held to his chest in a gesture of peace, I rescind to suspect of aluminum. “Salutations, nightly skipper!” catching the sight, the smell, and the human tragedy of a grown man skipping about. “Have about you good repute? I am Sir Pedalton of the Twin Blades, hailed from Cornwall, surveyor of Camelot, hand of Avalon, and seat warmer of the Round Table!” I refer to him as Greg. I spoke in the possession of nothing, much to Greg’s satisfaction. “Nothing to lose, but more to gain. Jolly I do, for pride kills many a-men—” “—And many a-stories,” I snorted. He turned toward the crosswalk again. “Without repute, Skipper, I require of you to quest with me for it was destined upon holy faith.” I was 60
by Brian Michael Barbeito 61
curious of the innumerable passersby at this corner who ran away in refusal, or the unavailing fastidiousness of tight-lipped Greg. Either way the quest assuaged my thoughts with or without suspicious persons (myself included) as warned by the neighborhood watch. “Walk with me,” spoke he who couldn’t skip. We walked. Over the asphalt and over the squares, did we walk. Walk like a metronome did we. Clingclang. Cling-clang. Cling-clang. For all the jangling, he might as well have worn a suit of cymbals. Five minutes this continued onto the next intersection. Imagine, precious reader, an ant, and a Goliath beetle, skittering about Nyx’s midriff. The ineptitude squared. “Wait here,” said Greg, who jangled across the asphalt, resuming his restful stance in his corner. “Now, Skipper, near you is an enchanted sword, historic peer to my own, planted in a dirt mound five paces to your left. Take it up, let ourselves pay homage to Arthur’s knights, and be famous in death.” Greg took up his longsword, which gleamed peerless over every plated fashionista, pointing it toward myself. “I the Balan to your Balin. Draw, Skipper, draw to the joyous demise.” “No,” I snorted in a huff. “The vitality of character is content. I rather would have dog ears, crumpled skin of copper, and blood of rancid oranges than play in your stupid tragedy.” Besides the silly moniker I gave the knight, Greg came up with one more rambunctious to court jesters. He called me The Bandage Knight and scattered away in Nyx’s midriff. 62
FEATURED ARTISTS Brian Michael Barbeito 39, 53, and 61 Mary Blackford 58 Frecia Chirinos 42 William Crawford 27, 29, and Back Cover Joe Mariscal 31 Celeste Masuda Front Cover, 30, and 33 Kassy Menke 35, 45, and 66 Yalda Mohammadzadeh 22 and 24 Ali Nikzad 14, 20, and 44 Alex Nodopaka 36 and 48 David Rodriguez 8 63
Rebecka Skogh 1, 6, and 18
Get Published in Poets’ Espresso Review Patricia Ann Mayorga invites submissions to Poets’ Espresso Review to be mailed to Patricia Mayorga at 1474 Pelem Ct., Stockton, CA 95203 or emailed to poetsespressoreview@gmail.com. Free submissions can include poetry, artwork, and photography. All material must be appropriate for most age groups. A two to four line biography is required. Please include a photograph if possible, a return address, phone number and email address.
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ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Volume 4 Issue 1
Spring 2014 - Volume 8 - Issue 34
EDITOR IN CHIEF Rudy Hernandez EDITORIAL TEAM Ronald Godoy Enrique Ramos A Writers’ Guild Publication
FACULTY ADVISORS Sarah Antinora Gabrielle Myers FRONT COVER ART by Celeste Masuda BACK COVER ART by William Crawford Artifact Nouveau is a publication of works from the San
fall 2012 • issue 31 • volume 7
Joaquin Delta College community. It celebrates the artistic and creative works of its students, faculty, alumni, and employees. It is published by the Writers’ Guild of San Joaquin Delta College. The contributors certify the works are their own. The views of these works do not reflect the opinions of the administration or trustees of Delta College.
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authors and artists. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. ©2017
SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE Superintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy Hart Board of Trustees President: Janet Rivera Vice President: Richard Vasquez Clerk: Steve Castellanos, FAIA Student Representative: Marlu Reyes Dr. Teresa Brown Carlos Huerta Catherine Mathis, M.D. C. Jennet Stebbins
by Kassy Menke 66
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