ARTIFACT NOUVEAU
S P R I N G / S U M M E R 2 0 1 8 VO LU M E 4 I S S U E S 2 A N D 3
A Writers’ Guild Publication
About Time
by Kathlene Revie
Graduation
It’s the beginning Of another beginning We embrace, we smile by Mayonnaissa Arbuckle
Still Life in Green
by Chloe Mason
A Farewell Message from the 2017-2018 Editor in Chief
WRITE
—Rudy Hernandez
Thank you to all the contributing authors and artists who comprise this special Spring / Summer Double Issue. Your works continue to inspire and encourage us. As always, we are especially grateful for the hard work of Patricia Mayorga, editor of Poets’ Espresso Review. Her compassion, guidance, and poetry energize and ground us. We also thank all members of the Spring 2018 SJDC Writers’ Guild who worked with enthusiasm in selecting the works for this issue. A special thank you goes to Rudy Hernandez, who served as the SJDC Writers’ Guild President and Artifact Nouveau Editor in Chief this year. Under his guidance, the Guild reached new heights. We welcome Enrique Ramos as the 2018-2019 President and look forward to all that the new academic year brings.
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Table of Contents Graduation by Mayonaissa Arbunkle.................................................1 A Welcome by Michael Hackney..........................................................6 I Am by Sarah J. Wilkinson.......................................................7 Losing You, but Finding My Voice by Liandra Fleming.........................................................10 What Was by Thomas Piekarski.......................................................11 Swine by J. E. Ledesma..................................................................13 The Prehistoric Golden State by Yuan Hongri.................................................................18 Dance Class by Maura Atwood............................................................19 11 AM, on a Sunday Morning by Monica Leon................................................................20 Insomnia by Matthew Collins.......................................................21 Gaze by Sanjeev Sethi................................................................22 The Breath of Life by Mark Febre...................................................................23 Inside I Am Empty by Steffy Mena.................................................................28 Poetry Collection by Magdalena Abrica....................................................29 My Body by Alita Pirkopf...............................................................31 Cathexis by Sanjeev Sethi...............................................................32 My Cat by Mayonaissa Arbunkle...............................................33 Hackysack by Jonathan Alexander Velez.....................................33 Great Friend by Quay Stearns................................................................34
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The Giga Pet Drag by Joshua Castro..............................................................35
Table of Contents Garlic Boy by Jonathan Ferrini.........................................................37 Where Are the Hippies of Yesterday? by Jay Frankston..............................................................41 I Want/ Qiero by Jonathan Alexander Velez.....................................43 Life (That) by Arthur Charles Ford, Sr.........................................47 Death (It) by Arthur Charles Ford, Sr.........................................52 The Beginning of the End by Antisomebody..............................................................53 In the Tatoo Artist’s chair by Joseph Albanese..........................................................54 I Don’t Know What It Is I Exist For by Steffy Mena.................................................................55 Meltdown by David Bankson.............................................................58 Letter to Megan by Gigi Gaczewski............................................................59 The Child by Enrique Ramos............................................................65 Quo Fata Ferunt by Jack Harvey..................................................................67 Poetry Collection by Ronald Godoy..............................................................69 Holding by Mayonaissa Arbunkle...............................................80 Oatmeal by J. E. Ledesma..................................................................81 Harder Faster Deeper by Antisomebody..............................................................83 Rear View by Lana Bella....................................................................85 Poem of the Childless Couple by Joel Grey.......................................................................87 I Used to Carry I Love You by Jay Frankston..............................................................89 Mind the Gap by Steffy Mena.................................................................95 Sick by Mary Carroll............................................................100
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Swamp Goddess Ronica Arthur
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A Welcome by Michael Hackney
Spring is very much on its own: suspended, holding the green grasses of home hostage, the sun a red flame on road and pond alike. The glare brings blindness and turns the lilies. Yet, if you have come thus to her open arms, continue along the path that suits you best. And after a long sojourn may you find not the broken palaces of old kings, but rather the new thrones of the poets, whose songs bid you passage to the place of ultimate rest. May you find fresh flowers, too, staring back in the water’s reflection; for, this is the time of holding keepsakes and the gifts set upon your table. Welcome, friend. Welcome. Though the sunsets are long, be assured of salvation in the autumn of your days. 6
Peers laugh or mock Both seem all the same
b y
I A M
I am all work, no play Think life is just a chess game Take my kingdom’s pawns
S a r a h
Don’t worry, only my insecure flaws
J.
No, no, not the bishop
W i l k i n s o n
Kill my knights and king For I can’t have hopes or dreams Destroy my rook There goes my self-esteem My foundation on which I stand For God is in my darkness That leads me to the end The parents are wondering What were the “don’ts” in their daughter’s life? No why or how For now there is a ghost of her shadow now Grasping a letter of good-bye Yet, the end of the world Is not her demise For God told her Resurrection must come The Dead will rise Then the Living Even the Dead can’t sleep For the Dead cling to the Living
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Checkmate
by Rebecca Ann Small
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Break the Silence
by Dawn Basnet
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Married at Eleven
by Bonnie Barker
Losing You, but Finding My Voice by Liandra Fleming
When I found out I was pregnant, fear and panic struck me. Fear of not knowing how I would handle the situation. Panic of not knowing how I would tell him and my parents. Although I was scared, a part of me was also excited at the thought of being a mother. I have always wanted a family of my own, although I had played with the thought of not having kids. When I told the father of my child, he reacted in a way that I wasn’t expecting. Not wanting the child. Giving the child up was not an option for me. Things started happening and the thought of losing my baby scared me. When they couldn’t see my baby on the ultrasound, grief automatically struck my heart. I started thinking of everything I’ve done wrong up to this point and why I may deserve this karma. That’s what I thought this was: Karma. I always thought finding out you’re pregnant would be a joyful experience and not a dreadful one. Why me? Day after day, not knowing what would happen drove me nuts. In the end I lost my precious baby and it changed me. My baby took a piece of my heart, but gave me a voice in exchange. This is a touchy subject, yet it needs to be discussed because it happens every day and nobody should ever have to carry this pain. 10
What Was by Thomas Piekarski
Was it really a heron that winged over my head at what seemed warp speed, or was it merely a mirage that managed to escape from OZ and cross my space? Was it a garbage truck or bus that froze me the moment when its headlights blinded me while I walked the path toward Lovers Point, as the surf below curled and crashed? Was it drawing the conclusion that nothing gained ever can match the urge of my desire to acquire it that made me want to weep for all of the buildings demolished each day? Was the article I read about how the pollution in China has poisoned rice fields the reason for my sullenness, or something more basic like the right to remain silent? Was the discovery that both Dickens and Melville actually paid for rooftop seats to watch the hanging of a woman consistent with my opinion that they were great writers? Was the radiance of butterflies, so numerous and beautiful in my youth, the catapult to appreciation of art and science as the worthiest of all possible human endeavors or effort? Was it advisable that the queen demand the king grant clemency for the rabble that had been rounded up, tossed into dungeons, chained, tortured and maimed half to death? Was there a valid rationale for all the hubris being hoarded and stored in vaults made of pure gold for only the few to access and therein gain the purpose life would grant? Was that a bomb exploding on some distant continent I heard while I was making an entry in my log book, or Nostradamus nodding off and bumping his head? Was the lawsuit a straggler who gave it his all filed against the firm that fired him justified, or were they following sound logic and bowing to common sense?
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Cement Below, Sky Above
by Luke Conley
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Swine by J. E. Ledesma
Hanging above the brutish patrons hung garish signs and boards that almost seemed to taunt, but above all affirmed in bright red letters: EAT PORK. They continue down a line accentuated by hanging white lights and ornaments ranging from fishing bobs to greasy spatulas with signs claiming in blood red letters: ONLY THE FINEST SWINE CARRY LUCKY LOU’S DONOR CARDS. Or even better: EVERYONE IS LINING UP TO BE TREATED AT LUCKY LOU’S. There were individuals who knew this and carried with them sometimes old, laminated yellow cards that read LUCKY LOU’S - PROUD DONOR. The place was known for its legendary iron ovens where black, hot coal would be raked over and over, and then again, with the bright fires roaring inside the thick soundproof cauldron, with smoke stacks that jutted out from the top and emitted smoke from the roof of the building that told you: yes, we’re cooking. Other pipes came out from the top, but these pipes had smoke filters that would redirect back into the smoke stacks. These pipes were used for other purposes. The smoky coal-laden and spicy smell would travel back into the restaurant like a cloud much to the people’s delight as 13
they, with their yellowed teeth and brick-red gums, would pull and tear the soft and tender meat apart, chew, then swallow. But the extra set of pipes was cause for celebration for these people. When they would be led from the Basement Dwellings, as they were called, they would be ushered up a flight of stairs, taken from their dormitories in jubilant fashion. “Problematic” was the word that they would use to describe those who didn’t quite understand the way things worked. So when one of them was led out, he or she would be wearing an iron muzzle that was only reserved for the most selfish, never those who knew. Undoing the padlock the door would swing open and they would be greeted with cheers by the hundreds and the sounding of clinking glass and forks on plates. From down below,those who knew would be cheering out, crying about the honor and the privilege. Lifting the locking mechanism would open the gate, a wide and sickly sweet maw - a chasm that would lead from this life into the next. The muzzle would come off and, since this one required such restraint, they would say their final words. It was a buzz kill, this one. So he was met with heckles and laughs. He would be laid down onto a stretcher made of wood and then moved inside the great 14
cauldron of fire, his screams becoming muffled. This was how it always was. If he knew this, he would understand. The smokestacks would billow out puffs of smoky spice clouds. The second stack, the one just missing the ceiling, it played beautiful music. They can’t help it. It’s natural. So as they move, writhe, and struggle against the roaring fires, the raked over coals, the black hot metal and the searing stove sensation, their cries - eternal may they be - travel upwards. You cannot hear this. The oven is soundproof. But when the sound moves upwards, it travels through the various pipes that are constructed in different ways to split the sounds into separate pitches so that as the sound traveled up through the pipes, the pipes emitted an angelic sound and everybody would cheer. Lucky Lou would posthumously award the one with the best melody.
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Los Simples Cosas de Mis Recuerdos
by Mariana Rojas Zavala
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Cocky Rooster
by Krista Delgado
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史前的黄金之国 by Yuan Hongri
Wish my smile were a golden armour.
May the Sun’s golden mirror guard your chest. In the music of hundreds of millions of stars
Let your dreams sweeten like the wine of dawn.
The gods in heaven, the guardian of your soul
Out of the book of the giant bestow upon you a day When Mountains bow to greet you, and,
A golden country, in ancient epoch, the ocean confers.
愿我的笑容是黄金的铠甲 是太阳的金镜护卫你的胸膛 是亿万星辰编织的乐曲 让你的梦境甜美如黎明之酒 诸神在天堂把你的灵魂守护 赠你一部天外的巨人之书 高山让路向你鞠躬致意 海洋献出史前的黄金之国 18
[Dance Class]
by
Maura Atwood
music box pedals
turning the air into pink and blue sea shells floating by on parade sound that is to be ignored as bodies make linear patterns instead of cupping the chords we are too linear for this world of circles we break it, turn it into something angular and we only become a series of circles if we are cut into pieces. if you can allow yourself to fall and recover, it’s all in your core Can we have a waltz? A nice beautiful three. disturbing the space through fighting limbs although the limbs are bent, there is still expansiveness Swoosh, step, step, swoosh, down, up! becoming a circle as the arms and legs swing catch the air and make alive -- that was a laugh that was more round than anything it filled the room and the whole world.
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11 AM, on a Sunday Morning by
Monica Leon
I was looking At the way the sun was casting a shadow Of my leg on the ground Making it look like the trunk of a tree I was not looking At the way my mother was covering her face With her hands And sobbing into them I was holding the dog on my lap Petting its head I was not holding My mother Her head, or her hands I was listening To the birds singing In the trees
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INSOMNIA by Matthew Collins
Tired eyes, tired eyes,
In this place they’re no surprise. On the outside, an empty gaze,
On the inside, an endless maze. Quiet streets, empty sheets.
Blaring silence, loud and bleak.
What is true happiness, to live and love? I ask extended to the stars above. Am I even real, is anything at all?
Is everything built to inevitably fall? Alone I drift in my sea of thought, The only car in an empty lot.
Everything yet nothing, asleep yet awake, Trapped in limbo, how much can I take? ...tired eyes...tired eyes...
And now the sun begins to rise.
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GAZE by Sanjeev Sethi
Certain griefs are licit. You can be long-winded, loose-lipped about them sans fear of censure. Stigmata due to poorness is unheard of. There is no shame in paucity. It is acceptable as nudity in the locker room. Ritualization of shortage is a prayer. Anatomy has other urgencies. Gratification is a no-no. Howl of the heart has no hope when it is not molded in their meter.
Siana’s Nest
by Sabrena Sanchez
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h t a re
B e Th
e f i L of by
Mark Febre
(Inspired by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)
If y’all are down for authenticity Feel free to snap with me or you can laugh with me Put your floaties on because we about to get deep Here’s how God woke me up out of my sleep I was once infatuated with academic achievements So really what time would I have to figure out what I really believe in At the age of 18 a good friend of mine committed suicide I almost couldn’t breathe and I became dead inside Until I met a guy named Jesus who brought something new inside . To some of you this will sound like a whole lot of religious gibberish So back to the beginning Long before we entered into sinning God once breathed into mankind and said yahweh But mankind wasn’t so kind and said mah-way Out of the good lands, mankind was exiled Yet Good God still chose to follow them Isn’t that a bit wild? 23
Ain’t it crazy to think God’s spirit could live within me It says in the book of 2nd Timothy All scripture is God-breathed Yes my name is Mark Febreez Yet there are still times when I speak It ain’t so fresh and my own breath just reeks See that’s usually when the word of God becomes irrelevant Ya better throw ya boy hella mint I used to have a speech impediment As a kid I had a heavy stutter 5 year old m-m-me said b-b-be kind to one another Now I say what is this world we live in It seems to be that much of it is so money driven Black Fridays we buy designer bags In hopes they would redesign our eye bags Lining up for that Gucci Venci Prada We consumers overconsumed with market goods ‘til we got nada Plus, we all got beef like Kanye West Or should I say Kanye asada . I pray to God sayin’ just what are you trying to say to me ‘Cause these streets see more bullets than a John Wick movie Stopping at thoughts and prayers is overdone Especially when this country’s been overgunned I can’t hear his voice with the sound of the blaring sirens
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In the wake of chaos, my silence can be a loud violence Our society has a constant forming of alliances I know it’s a hard pill to swallow but here’s the reality We have made the world a sports venue with a team mentality We got Celtics vs Lakers. Chargers vs Raiders. Political Parties vs We The People. Rich vs Poor. Christians vs non-Christians Left wing vs right wing. Immigrants vs citizens. Light skins vs dark skins But really who is willing to listen? I could get all the education in this world, but I will still be askin’ what is this world we live in? Our perception of beauty has been distorted Aesthetics addictive like cocaine just that it ain’t snorted People’s worth measured by their melanin Fightin’ just to make people relevant History books said we livin’ in a postracial society Looking around why would they lie to me? Social media influenced our standard of acceptable The lies dig in to make us susceptible I could go on and on about these haters But why don’t we point back to our creator?
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The Goddess of Autumn
by Maggie Hodson
Each of one of us born with a privilege To go out and bear God’s image Sure we might not be able to take on his supposed whiteness But we can be remnants of his character, his likeness. Sometimes my ambitions are driven by frustrations my patience dries out like raisins And the only thing that’s raisin’ is this temptation to break this man to god relation. I forget these bless’ns And I cling to these questions But where else will I go? I’m searching for answers that only God would know.
The job of a modern educator Is not to be a hater Not to tear down jungles So I will sit down And be humbled To be a disciple for Jesus Is to be a student We learn. We pray. We love We fight for a restoration movement Through Christ, In Christ, and With Christ.
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Since the days of MLK No doubt we have come a long way Just lemme leave this word to you We still have work to do. Is God someone who watches over us like a vulture Or did he walk into our world to breathe life into our cultures? When Jesus finally returns it will be ultimate justice But until then friends it is just us.
by Liandra Fleming
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An internal monologue by Steffy Mena
Inside I am empty, and yet endless froth out-pours from me, words, to which I can hardly relate.
Who am I? What? An empty vessel?
An empty vessel that takes and takes but does not fill: it just gives another-nother reiteration of loves.
“Oh, my God, da f**k!”
Since when do I say ‘da’? Maybe ever since my man begged to be caffeinated and as I gave him his ceramic chalice of heated life-force I took from him his pronunciation of, ‘cwaffee’ “Cwaffee, cwaffee, I need some damn cwaffee.” What puppet is this and where do the strings attach? Who is it that pulls them? And in this new lifestyle I have fallen into impulse to maintain, am I truly me? –truly liked? –to whom do I connect if all that is seen of me is a puppet dressed in mirrors, showing others’ unknown reflections? For now, I guess I’ll never know more than, “Da f****, just give me some damn cwaffee!”
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Written Magdalena
Another Poem about Love You’re perfect because‌ Coffee twilights And tea dawns, Morning kisses that linger on. In your eyes, Undiscovered galaxies No astronomer could find. Within them, stars that tell our story, Of our madness. The past, The present, The future. Children running Painting the walls, Together we see their chaos And delight.. Cherry sweet lips, I taste for days. Honey drips from your eyes, Every tear, Sweet. Your love, Your soul, And you. Mine.
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Jordy
Lily Hak
Works by Abrica
The Girl Her green eyes are the sea. With a secret smile, With a purpose, With hope.
The Boy from Afar Self Portrait
Grace Shulz
I met a boy from Rio With eyes of gold, And a smile that made me dizzy. He was tequila to my soul, And I, his happy
The Phantom Valley In the phantom valley, Where shadows whisper your name I hear an echo in the alley. My heart grows wild. It cannot be tamed. 30
by Seigar
My Body
BY ALITA PIRKOPF
Touch my breast, in joy or terror,
contour’s smoothness chipped away. Mysteries change
from day to day. 31
I can’t, anymore, think it ugly, this body I failed to flaunt.
For now, scarred and medicated, it is my pride, my weathered proof,
of a life lately I am really learning.
by Sanjeev Sethi
I am a butterball. This hurts only me. Why do others twitch? Penetration of pain ended when I learned: afflicting others is easy, effortless as acne on oily skin. These lards were added as absorbers: my armor against emotional larceny. I have paid the price. This cadence didn’t come cheap.
by Seigar
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MY CAT by Mayonnaissa Arbuckle
I hold you gently You’re there when I need comfort You puke on my bed
— — —Hackysack— BY JONATHAN ALEXANDER VELEZ
Dear Hackysack, Is it true? That your colors melt Onto my jeans On a rainy day? That you sacrifice yourself To bring one or more together That your memory is flawless And I won’t lose
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What I have gained?
Great Friend
by Quay Stearns
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The Giga Pet Drag by Joshua Castro
Back in the 1990s when I was just a lad I had a T-Rex for a pet that nearly drove me mad It was a digital creature at first such a delight But soon it wore my nerves too thin when it cried out day and night Beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy Yes, Rex? What, Rex? Tell me what you need! Is it time to feed? Beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy Rawr! Rawr! That’s the Giga Pet Drag!
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Every cool kid had one those damn things were a craze Tamagotchi, Giga, Nano filled our summer days It was a big sensation the latest hip doodad But once the fun turned into work it killed that little fad Beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy Yes, Rex? What, Rex? Tell me what you need! Is it time to feed? Beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy Rawr! Rawr! That’s the Giga Pet Drag! Beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy Yes, Rex? What, Rex? Tell me what to do! Do you have to poo? Beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy-beedy Rawr! Rawr! That’s the Giga Pet Drag! 36
Garlic Boy by Jonathan Ferrini The screams and cries are loudest at night and aggravate the inmates who encourage the predators and fantasize about the fate of the prey. It isn’t long before “Om Mani Padme Hum” resonates throughout the cell block and peace replaces terror. It’s my final night after being incarcerated at Corcoran State prison for five years. The tiny plastic mirror above my combination metal sink and toilet reflects the transformation of a slightly built eighteen year old into a formidable man with prison tattoos. The tattoo on my forearm reads, “El Chico de Ajo” which translates into “Garlic Boy.” Soon after my incarceration, I visited the prison library and randomly selected “The Teachings of Buddha.” Reading it removed the hatred and vengeance consuming me. I wrote to the Buddhist publisher and thanked them for transforming my life and was forwarded additional Buddhist publications. The transformation I found in Buddhism spread throughout the cell block and I became a revered Buddhism counselor to the hardest of criminals and their jailers. Its daybreak and the Warden escorts me to the bus which will take me home. The only possession I took is my copy of “The Teachings of Buddha.” He hands me a pencil drawing of a family of spiders nestled in their web. The drawing is titled “Peace and Gratitude” and the Warden tells me “Charlie” meditated and gave it to me as a gift. I tell him to sell it and buy Buddhist publications for the library.
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Gilroy, California is a farming community known for growing garlic. Our family lived in a trailer home located downwind from a garlic processing plant and gave my family the permanent stench of garlic. There are two social classes of Latinos who live and work in Gilroy: wealthy landowners tracing their lineage to Spanish land grants and migrant farm workers harvesting their crops. My parents are migrants paying the wealthy land owner rent and a percentage of their crop sales. I’m an only child, and was a lonely, quiet, studious kid with dreams of attending college to study agricultural science and one day owning our own farm. My garlic stench made me an outcast teased and bullied with the exception of Andalina, a quiet, studious girl, exchanging loving glances with me in school. Andalina’s parents own a beautiful ranch home on hundreds of acres. A relationship was never possible given our economic differences. I received a postcard from Andalina in prison telling me she graduated from college and was attending graduate school. I was proud of her but too embarrassed to write back and tell her I earned my GED in prison. My parents often sent me to the only minimarket/gas station in our neighborhood to buy groceries and I welcomed the errand because they included money for a “Slurpee.” The owner of the minimarket is Ernesto. He was once a struggling immigrant but saved to open the new minimar-
Sea of Love
Erick Rodriguez
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ket/gas station. He’s considered a “Coconut” by Latinos and prefers to go by “Ernie.” Ernesto was politically ambitious and a “law and order” businessman with aspirations of running for mayor. His minimarket/gas station has no competition for miles and he charges monopoly prices. I entered the minimarket and dashed for the Slurpee machine. I poured a tall Slurpee and grabbed the groceries. As I approached Ernesto to pay, a Latino gang entered the store that was empty except for me and Ernesto. One gang member stood guard at the entrance. Sensing trouble, I hurried to complete the transaction and get out of the store. The leader of the gang passed me and, smelling my garlic stench, placed his arm around me saying, “You’re my garlic boy.” His grip was firm and he approached the counter with me in tow. He held a gun to Ernesto’s head demanding money. Ernesto opened the register and handed over the money, begging, “Please don’t kill me!” The gunman turned to me and said, “You stink man!” He hit me on the back of the head with the butt of the gun. I fell unconscious. I regained consciousness to find Ernesto standing over me. My arms and feet were bound and I was being photographed by the local newspaper. Ernesto assumed I was a gang member and used the robbery as a photo opportunity for his mayoral run. Ernesto planted the pistol dropped by the thief in my pants. I was arrested and charged with armed robbery. The Public Defender ignored my plea of “wrong place, wrong time,” and pressured me to accept a plea deal. I was sentenced to prison and Ernesto was elected mayor. The bus ride home feels like a prison cell as it crawls up Interstate 5 surrounded by Central Valley farms. I’m anxious and clutch the “Teachings of Buddha.” We pass a billboard reading: Next Services 8 miles. Ernie’s Minimarket and Gas Station The billboard reignites hatred and vengeance towards Ernesto but I hold the book close to my heart and chant, “Om Mani Padme Hum,” which calms me. I’ll get off the bus at Ernesto’s minimarket and buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate our family reunion and treat myself to a Slurpee which I dreamed about in prison. The bus stops in front of the minimarket. I enter and recognize Ernesto
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behind the counter. I pour a Slurpee and select a bottle of champagne. I approach the register and ask Ernesto, “Remember me?” to which he replies, “No. You all look alike!” The doors to the minimarket swing open and in the store mirror behind Ernesto, I see the “shark like” stare of a “meth head” quickly approaching the register determined to rob and likely kill Ernesto. I alone will determine if Ernesto lives or dies. I turn to the meth head, rolling up my shirt sleeves revealing prison “tats” criminals recognize, while giving him my “prison eye stare down.” I hold the bottle of champagne like a baton. The meth head stops dead in his tracks saying, “It’s cool man. No hassle from me!” He backs his way out of the store and runs to his car speeding away. Ernesto knows he “dodged a bullet” and holds out his hand to shake, saying, “Thank you. How can I repay you?” I hand him my copy of “The Teachings of Buddha.” I walk out of the store to my family reunion, sipping the Slurpee like expensive cognac. End.
Blanc
by Reyna Bei
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WHERE ARE THE HIPPIES OF YESTERDAY? by Jay Frankston
Where are the hippies of yesterday who burned their draft cards and chained themselves to the gates of the White House? Where are those longhaired, dope smoking demonstrators who shouted “Hell No! We won’t go!”? Where is the “counter culture” who sought peace and brotherhood and raised the level of hope for the rest of us? What happened to the brotherhood, the sisterhood, the activism that brought us all into the streets to protest an unjust, uncalled for, disastrous war? Have they all gone back to the fold? Do they march again to the drummer’s beat? Are they selling real estate? Insurance? 41
Margin buying on the stock exchange? I call upon you, hippies of the sixties and seventies to rise again from your long sleep, go down into the streets and shake the establishment once more to its senses that peace may have its day and, with hope renewed, we can all live our lives without shaking.
Oil of Water
by Jeffrey Desersa
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—I Want— by Jonathan I want to break the ground Take my hair out by the bunches To liberate myself of this weight. I want to ask the rain for forgiveness, Tell the clock to forget me, To get the gold out of life. I want a little bit of salt, And to love with an amputated foot, So that I could love for real. I want people to know, What the meow of a cat is, To appreciate the silence. Instead of wanting, I want to have it all, While I kiss the fire, And hug the moon. While I throw up what is dirty For an entire life.
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—Quiero— Alexander Velez Quiero romper el suelo Sacarme el pelo a los puños Para liberarme de este peso. Quiero pedirle perdón a la lluvia Decirle al reloj que me olvide Para sacarle el oro a la vida. Quiero un poquito de sal, Y amar con un pie amputado, Para amar de adeveras. Quiero que sepa la gente, Lo que es el gruño de un gato Para apreciar el silencio. En vez de querer, quiero tenerlo todo Mientras beso al fuego, Y abrazo la luna. Mientras vomito lo sucio Por todo una vida.
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Reflecting Us, Mostly me
Ashley Garcia
Gypsy Lady
by Yalda Mohammadzade
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LIFE (That)
Brought to us by frowns and laughter Pining love and lustAnd more of THAT thereafter.
Arthur
With smell and feel and sightTouch, taste and equilibrium Stuffed in a box of ce-re-brum. Let Life and Love be spelled the same The former is the latter- when there is no blame.
Charles
The Present is some thyme, That seasons Future wishes, The Past is a patient rope Life’s anglers saw brought fishes. Life complains- That it’s too hot-
Ford,
Life complains- That it’s too coldCreating a mental mania, Expecting the weather of Arizona While living in Pennsylvania.
Sr.
Brought to us by a baby’s birth Mamma, Daddy, full of mirth, Yes, we know THAT begs and bend
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Just promise us, THAT it won’t end!
Deconstruction by Leanna Nguyen
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Eternity and Fure Ants
by Ruth Santee
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DEATH (It)
Brought to us by living corpses Every second, every minute, every day,
No answers, come from thanatology We depend completely on thaumatology.
Sr.
Plants, even share IT’s seasonal way.
Life makes sure, that IT’s denounced
Sin and sorry, tend to be IT’s kin
War seems to justify, why IT’s a win.
Ford,
Living makes sure, IT happens only once.
The Past is the Future, as soon as IT arrives
On land, in sea, IT diets on us Whether long white hair or pubertal pus. Forsaken by Forever All groups, all prides, all flocks, This Rolex’s worth a million But Longevity Ticks and tocks. Brought to us by “Funerals”
Arthur
Charles
The Future is the Present, waiting to be deprived.
Please “Wake” us from IT’S sleep Cause IT gives us no fair warning, IT hid! IT crept! IT leaped!
52
The Beginning of the End As I suspectedShe did not kiss back. Still lips, why so shy, Nothing can ruin this moment. Let’s not think of how Everything will decay after this. I’ll close your eyes for you, Nothing can ruin this moment.
Aftermath: The Seekers by Christa Saenz
53
In the Tattoo Artist’s Chair by Joseph Albanese Sleeve rolled up. Designed and stenciled, It pokes against the skin. People ask, “Doesn’t that hurt?” “That lasts forever, you know?” “What will it look like when you’re old, when your skin droops and the color fades?” So I tell them, “I once wrote a suicide note signed with a jagged smiley face at the bottom and watermarked with my own tears, put a knife to my throat and drew blood.” Some thoughts hurt more than needles. No scar ever fades. Some people don’t worry about growing old.
54
ti
n’t KnowWhat o D I
is I
t is F
Ex
by Steffy Mena
55
Sometimes I let words slip From my mind off the tip of my tongue It is that tip that stabs And jabs with its venomous twinge Many do not understand I myself don’t either It is that confusion that sets me in motion Into an ocean of choked back tears I hide inside my slumber The doctors call it depression They give it a name, they give it a cure But I remain impure: an actor on the world’s stage I mime the others, I mimic the norms A bitter taste anchors me to reality I am not at home here Just a mirror of their existence I find a hole in which to bury myself It’s an abyss within my mind Empty but filled with doubt And I can’t climb out, I regret my decision Here I am for another day Another month, another year, I don’t know what it is I exist for But I’m sure it’s not for death’s inevitability Here I am for another day Another month, another year, I don’t know what it is I exist for I don’t know what it is I exist for
or
Priyanka Chopra Kong Hang
Depression
Vanessa Lerma-Felix
56
Erosion - Man and Nature
by Luke Conley
57
Meltdown by David Bankson
In the end, we return not to soil But to the water, as all things must. When we return, it’s because water Has returned to us, returned our marrow, Soaked our cells down to the electron. Stars glitter on lake skin. Frozen, It hesitates. Cracked, it self-castigates In hopes of returning to solid-state. Control, though, is a harness of denial, Whether imposed by Induction or instruction. Strangled is the flow of river From tributary, like the clouds strangled Of their rain by a military sun. Sometimes the direct approach Destroys you from the inside, out. Sometimes the lake Ebbs and flows In the face of being frozen; Ebbs and flows Until water and soil counterpose. 58
GiGi Gaczewski’s Dear Megan, I’m sorry. I only can hope that you understand, and you’ll let me come home. It’s a three-hour flight to my brother’s place, and that gives me three hours to explain myself and beg for forgiveness. It doesn’t matter to me if you don’t fully trust me again, I just need you to accept what happened. I’m actually in tears right now. The other passengers are looking at me strangely, and I don’t care. I love you more than anything. I want us to last, I want us to have kids one day, I want us to be like a fairytale. Do you remember when we first started dating, and we would snuggle up and watch Cinderella? I feel as if I am a prince, with no beautiful princess. Lost. Do you think Gary is going to make me this happy? He lives in an apartment. An apartment, Megan. Do you see me in an apartment? I’ve always hated Gary since we were kids, even though Mom seemed to love him best. Anyways, I digress, please let me come back home. Let me explain myself and apologize. 59
I’m sorry I got you a chocolate cake for your birthday. I know you don’t like chocolate, but I didn’t want you to be upset about not having a cake. I drove to the store, and on my way there some old bag cut me off. I was angry to begin with. Then, when I walked into the store, they asked me if I wanted a free sample. A free fucking sample? Do I look like someone that would take something for free? Megan, you know me. I’m an important asset to the auto company, you of all people should know that. I have more money than I know what to do with. I told them to go shove it up their ass, and I walked towards the back of the store to an assortment of beautiful, decorated, ornate cakes with little flowers delicately fashioned out of fondant. There were cakes with small faces on them. They seemed to be mocking me with their small black eyes. All too expensive. I went to the more reasonable cakes, and guess what? No vanilla. It was all that stupid grocery store’s fault. Not mine. I’m sorry I threw your wallet into the river. That night when you got upset with me over the cake it just sent me into this blind rage and I’m sorry. You made me angry. You told me that you loved vanilla and not chocolate but you’d eat it anyway. My hands started to shake, almost as if there was an earthquake starting in my very core. I’m sorry I threw the book across the room. I told 60
you I couldn’t take it anymore and I left—with your wallet. You didn’t know, but I wanted really bad to get back at you—and what did you say? You’d eat it anyway? How dare you say that to me? You should have said that you loved it, then maybe your wallet wouldn’t have gotten thrown into the river.
I’m sorry I crashed your car into the daycare down the
street. As you know, the next morning after the fight from the night before, I had asked if I could borrow your car. You even dared to ask what happened to mine, and I replied that I got a flat tire last night while driving and it was in the shop. Then you asked what happened to all of my old classic cars, my precious babies that I love more than my own life. I called you a silly bitch and said that I seriously can’t take those out of storage and drive them around. They’re only for show. I grabbed your keys off the counter while you screamed something or other to me as I walked toward the driveway. I backed out of the driveway, started driving toward the company headquarters, and that’s when I remembered what you had screamed at me. You screamed that I was the worst. Yeah, and I made a hard right, right into the daycare. I got out of the car and walked away, throwing your keys behind me as if I were Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in an action movie walking away from an explosion. 61
I’m sorry you drove me to the point that I had to fuck your best friend. I walked to Charlotte’s house. I rang the doorbell and sat on her front porch furniture and waited like a perfect gentleman. She came to the door, finally, and I said, it took you that long? She replied that she was just feeding her cats and that’s when I remembered why I hated her. The cats. Megan, you know I hate cats. I hate all animals. I hate our dog, Mr. Jingles, so much. He’s so loud and annoying. Cats are worse. Their screeching makes me want to vomit six times over. Anyway, I asked if I could come in. She asked why I was here, and I looked her dead in the eye with my signature charm and said, “Why, aren’t you married yet?” She looked very flustered, so I shoved my way in. The way she looked at me reminded me of what it would look like if you stuck a fork into an electrical outlet. Her eyes bulged in a very unattractive way. She implied that she would call you. I said, “There’s was no need for that. We’re friends.” Then I asked if she was still a virgin. She turned a shade of red some would call vermillion, and I would call ugly. I shoved her into what I assume was her bedroom, though it looked more like a closet, and we had sex. Basically, this is your fault Megan.
And I’m sorry you made me kill Wilson. I buttoned up
my shirt and pants while Charlotte stared at me with eyes that 62
reminded me of a fish. Her eyes are really disturbing. You need to find more attractive friends. I asked her who Wilson was. She stuttered and responded, that “He’s the ex.” I asked her where he lived and she told me. With my signature charm working again, I asked her if she had any guns in the house. She kept staring straight ahead at the wall and responded that her grandfather had an old gun cabinet that’s still in the basement. I ran down, grabbed one, yelled goodbye on the way out, then walked out the door. My next task on the to-do list was to visit your ex, Wilson. He was the one you dated before me, correct? I can never remember, and I don’t think you ever told me actually. I think I had to find out by reading your texts. But why’d you make me do that? I just wanted to know what was going on in your life, and now you’re texting this guy Wilson? During the long walk to his apartment, I just kept turning the gun over and over in my hand. When I got there, finally I knocked on the door, shoved the gun in my pants. The door happened to be unlocked so—I walked right in. He was sitting at his kitchen table, and when he saw me, he stood up and asked who the fuck I was. I very calmly stated that my name is Jim, and that I am your husband. “Why are you here?” he asked, and again with my signature charm, I very calmly stated again that I was just here to talk. He offered me a seat, but I shot him and walked out. 63
Sweetheart, maybe if you weren’t texting your ex, he wouldn’t be dead.
I hope that you can see that if anything, you’re the cruel
one here, Megan. All I wanted was for us to be happy together, but you had to go mess it all up. Oh, and I’m sorry you made me put Mr. Jingles in the microwave. Do I need to explain myself for this one? You wanted the dog, Megan. I was the one who took care of it. You’d cajole me into taking it out for walks against my fucking will. I hated that dog. The way it would stare at me with big brown eyes and bark. I hope it makes you happy that he barked the whole time he was in the microwave. You’re the bitch here. Forgive me, you know you want to. Love, Jim
Curious
by Angelique Torres
64
The Child by Enrique Ramos
I’ve done something terrible that I can’t take back. It was my fault the child died. They tell me not to blame myself, but I was the one driving the car. I don’t have the car anymore. I sold it. I will not be the cause of someone else’s death. I take public transportation now. I don’t know why I didn’t earlier. It’s a lot cheaper and I don’t have to spend as long looking for a parking space. My family says they don’t blame me, but I don’t believe them. I sometimes notice them staring at me and when I look at them, they quickly turn away. Or if I enter a room where there was talking, sometimes the conversation ends suddenly, and a new conversation starts as if they weren’t just talking about me. The worst punishment for my crime is given by myself. I remember the moment countless times often at night when 65
I try to sleep. But I remember too sometimes while I’m at work or when I’m out walking. That’s why I carry around my sunglasses. People think it’s for the sun, but the truth is when I wear them, people don’t notice when I’m crying. I think often of what a terrible thing I’ve done and what the child could’ve grown up to be. Have I caused even more deaths through my actions? If the child had decided to become a doctor when older, how many more lives could be saved? It doesn’t matter what the child could’ve grown up to be because the child is dead and it’s my fault. At work, I feel people avoid talking to me. I deserve that. It’s not fair that I got to live as long as I did, and the child didn’t. I often think suicidal thoughts, but killing myself won’t bring the child back and I don’t want to cause more heartbreak by dying. Killing myself would’ve only been a good idea if I had done it before I killed the child. I tell my story to people hoping that I could somehow prevent more death by telling my story. Hopefully, they’ll learn from my mistake and no more people will be run over. However, no matter what I do, the child remains dead. 66
Quo
Fata
by Jack Harvey
Ferunt
Kill tragedy, the significance of events in scenic magnificence leads to nothing. The world of mythology, of human history, blows up our scant landscape to a transient iridescent bubble; stories and fables, famous and fabulous as all get-out shifting and disconcerting, forever haunt our minds. Samson bulges straining, short-haired in Gaza; Theseus escapes the labyrinth, guided by a skein gifted by the love of a girl; the glass shoe fits Cinderella. Â The orchestra sounds a final note, signaling a change of scene and Venus, Bacchus and their followers troop in in scanty costume, casting doubt on the wisdom of the golden mean; on the purpose of modesty. Waiting in the wings, Cassandra and her crew crow out the dictates of fate; from the gods they know them all, so they say.
67
Lively, extraordinary, with remarkable gestures, under the cracking pillars Samson, unfazed, keeps at it. In another clime, a heroic battle; Beowulf kills a mother of a monster. Continuous counterparts, the bunch of them and others like them, meet their doom or find some salvation, some way out, in the last loud accident, the last catastrophe avoided or met head-on. The lesson is clear; at the end of our passage here, triumphant in the palace or among the ruins failing and falling, all will be well, as Oedipus said, or better yet, all will come to the same blessed close, the same unfettered outcome to be told and retold until we know that fate has no hand, no say in the claptrap way we save ourselves from the trouble of uncertainty, from knowing that in the end in this land of dreams our tragedies, our triumphs lead to nothing. Â
Originally published in Apricity Mag February 15, 2018
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All Works by ONE VOICE “Poetry is freedom. Nature give us poetry, we give nature a voice.”
-Guillermo Godoy
If I’m verse, I’m life, and if life, I’m free, I’m rising voice, shattered silence, in the violet mouth of a Peony.
Azurite Fish
69
Ronald Godoy INCA Haiku Tuta (Night)
We lie petrified, our mountain claims prophecies to the ripe quartz womb
Tutamanta (Dawn)
A milky light flow from the breast of our highland, we bloom and drink faith
70
La Marioneta by Ronald Godoy
Los niños del parque jugaban a perder la consciencia Mientras yo corría de regreso con el doctor Cuando corrió por entre mis oídos la punzante noticia de tu muerte, Ese ruido estridente que broto de las aceras de pronto, Y juró que en ese instante sentí entre mis raíces El dolor de la tierra. The children from the park played to lose consciousness While I was running back with the doctor, When the thorny news of your death ran through my ears, That strident sound that sprouted suddenly from the streets and I swear that in that moment I felt among my roots the grief of the world
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Maldita soledades, Maldita soledad, Clepsidra Infernal parida entre los muslos del tiempo Que te hizo con sus cuerdas su marioneta, Vieja, resignada al fantasma giratorio de la diaria faena. Wrecked loneliness, Wrecked be your loneliness, Ghoulish hour-glass born from the thighs of time That made you with its strings a marionette, Old, resigned to the spinning ghost of daily life
Marionetas también tus pensamientos, tus palabras, Un “Si”, un “no”, rara vez un “llévame a la iglesia”, cada vez más un “¿quién eres?” El hartazgo te acechaba detrás de las espadas del reloj Que amputaban tu vigor a cada instante, Flotando en medio de la casa en una niebla silente, estabas tú, Mientras el tiempo movía las cuerdas de tu mecedora seca. Marionettes your thoughts, your words, A “Yes”, a “No”, rarely a “Take me to church”, every time more a “Who are you?”, The jadedness stalked you behind the swords of the clock That amputated your vigor every second. floating amidst the house in a silent fog, were you sitting speechless, while time moved the strings of your dried rocking chair
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Vieja, anclada al invierno que torcía tus huesos consecutivamente, Un repentino “Me duele”, un devastador “Hijo, esto no es vida”, Marioneta, de la danza ritual de pastillas de colores que yo conjuraba Tratando de negar las oscuras garras del tiempo. Corriendo, buscando a un doctor entre las estrechas calles de este pueblo sin Dios, Mientras las cuerdas de la muerte y de la fiebre asfixiaban El debilitado tallo de tu garganta Marchitando tu vida.
Old, anchored to the winter that twisted your bones consecutively, A sudden “It is painful”, a devastating “Son, this is not life”. Marionette, of the ritual dance of colored pills that I conjured trying to deny the dark claws of time. Running, Looking for a doctor among the narrow streets of this godless town, while the strings of death and fever choked the weak stem of your throat withering your life
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Dios, patrón de la miseria del mundo, ¡Aquel que todo lo quita! ¡Aquel que todo lo arranca! No existe un vacío más profundo en este mundo Que el que me abraza ahora al intentar comprender Tu destino etéreo. God, patron of the misery of the world, The one who takes away everything! The one who tears apart everything! There is no deeper emptiness in this world Than the one that embraces me now Trying to comprehend your ethereal destiny.
A Matter of Perspective
by Leopoldo Marin
76
Que devastado luce el parque hoy, Me revientan los ojos de embarazos sucesivos de esperanza inútil de verte caminando frente a la acera, Caminando a comprar la lista del mandado, Caminando a rezar a la misa de la iglesia. How sorrowful the park looks today, My eyes explode of successive pregnancies of inutile hope Of seeing you walking across the street, Walking to buy the groceries list, Walking to the church for the morning mass.
Anoche, acabada la macabra feria de velarte, Me encontré solo, y se constituyó el cielo de nubles plañideras, Por fin sin familiares que pronuncien tu nombre, Por fin sin la agonía de simular siquiera.
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by Seigar
Yesterday, finished the macabre fair of your wake, I was alone, and the sky unleashed a flock of mourner clouds, Finally, with no people pronouncing your name, Finally, without the agony of faking a smile.
Hoy, sentando en estas bancas del parque, Una niña del parque se acercó sonriendo y me regaló una piedra, Me bastó sentir su peso en una mano para entender la sentencia del tiempo, Anclándome a la realidad con sus cuerdas, Haciéndome su marioneta. Today, sitting on the bench of the park, A child came to me smiling and put a pebble in my hand, I only needed to feel its weight to understand the sentence of time, Anchoring me to reality with its strings, Making me its marionette.
by Kassy Menke
78
Rosita
by Sabrina Sanchez
79
Holding by Mayonnaissa Arbuckle
When I held you I felt my face sink into your chest, and the silky hair draped down your back filtered through my fingers. When I held you I heard you tell me that you’re happy I exist. But to you I exist like a blossom exists on a tree surrounded by other blossoms. And having bloomed once, my petals basking in the radiance of your life, I begin to drift away. Having bloomed once, from the height of your branches I saw the world, I now wilt myself away so the world may enjoy the fruit of you. And having fallen, I see not the world’s grandeur, but yours. I am beholding the sunlight filtered through your branches, basking in the memory of you.
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oatmeal by J. E. Ledesma My dad’s been looking thinner than he usually does. He feels it in his chest, And when it all comes out: The color of oatmeal and flushed water. Just as sinister Or maybe foreboding As the cataracts earlier this year. My dad’s been looking thinner than he usually does. He feels it in his bones, And when he lays down at night to fall asleep He dreams about the future. His faith in God Keeps him strong and stoic, Like a burning Buddhist. My dad’s been looking thinner than he usually does. I can feel it sometimes, too: Visceral, surreal, and all of the above, 81
The sort of stuff you read in books, See in movies or hear in music. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder What He is trying to say. My dad’s been looking thinner than he usually does, And we’re trying to hold on. From order to chaos To order— Then back again, My dad’s been looking thinner In the dark outside the house.
My Sweet Boy in a Box
by Katelynn Castaneda
82
Faster Such a pathetic desolate whore A worm squirming up for more Inviting anxiety to his bed As the blood rushes to his head. This is not about sex, but a teaser This is just the tip, it gets deeper. Relies, to get by, on his inner course Replacing morning coffee with remorse. Depression creeps in to join, too Holds him tight until he turns blue Strokes him closer to the edge Just enough to where he sees off the ledge. Spitefully mouths on to the rum So cautiously—Not to get numb Just enough to make it last He wants to feel everything from the past. 83
Peeking around, anger churns in the sheets His voice gets drowned in the heat A riot of lust and decadence He warns them not to leave evidence. Doesn’t matter how much skin he hides in He’ll suffocate, just a matter of when Truth be told, this is getting old His emotions refuse to be controlled. They pull out and hand him a gun Tell him to cock it just for fun He wants them to suffer for their lies Put it in, shoot them from inside. Granting admission to attention shows Is a seven-day job which blows. When they are done they’ll stand and moan He fears the part where he’s left alone. So desperate that even in his sorrow Looks forward to them coming tomorrow. No one is around when he wants the help Guess he’ll just have to go fuck himself.
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by Briawna Freeman
The heart stops. The dark stark up
R e a r
V i e w
wrecks on water, frost smoke
glows through lonely. Island and underskirt press into thick hips, lending to the reverie of the last
a na
L
by
from beneath her fingernails like
B el l
girl on earth. Periphery loots from
a
her to meet the artifice of wind,
rustling all memories and miseries pistilled with roots for the scrawl of elegies. Nocturnes of the sea
spend ripe in her mouth cooling to
relic of things wild and doomed,
cadence of sounds holds eventides as she holds jetsam to her chest.
Heartbreak
by Briawna Freeman
The pain behind every tear that falls down my cheek just reminds me how much I miss you. You were my first love, Everything happened so fast and ended so quickly. You said that you would never lie to me, you did You said that you would never leave me, you did You said that you would never hurt me, you did You said that you would never break me more than I already was, you did I trusted everything you said so I guess it’s my fault My heart still breaks whenever I think of us without you My mind still plays our moments in a continuous loop that only makes me cry whatever tears I have left I want you happy but it crushes me to think about you with someone else Smiling at someone, kissing someone, holding someone that isn’t me I wish we never ended the way we did Did we still have time? Did we end it too soon or just the right time? Is there still hope for us in the future? I ask myself these questions as I see your life continuing without me and mine is standing still because you took it with you when you left I miss the way you made me feel. I’ve never felt so special You made me feel pretty and wanted, now all I feel is numb pain I will always love you though, I’ll just never say it out loud.
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POEM OF THE CHILDLESS COUPLE by John Grey I tell you, “They’re doing all they can,” as you imagine your belly filling with their efforts, if not your dreams. The latest is something called progesterone, another wonder drug that makes you wonder. For a man, it seems, not having babies means hiring somebody to tell you why not. To you, it’s a flat stomach that refuses to inflate. We see pregnancy on television all the time. Couples do it accidentally. Some of them don’t even like each other and still they procreate. We sign up for the hormone steroids, more invasion by science, more treatments throwing up their hands. At night, in bed, you curl inside my shoulder, weigh my chest down with a certain sadness. 87
We love each other sure but our eggs have their reservations. Meanwhile, your sister’s with another child. You remember, in your girlhood, how everything was divided up equally. It’s no longer the case. Fallopian tubes see to that. Our hopes are as low as the heads of cows in fields. It looks like, for the long run, we will only have each other. And sometimes thatvs bonny and bouncing. Other times, it’’s up after midnight and crying.
Tired Man
by Kathlene Revie
I Used to Carry
I Love You I used to carry I love you
by Jay Frankston
in my childhood and blow it like soap bubbles to my mother sitting on the bench in the playground I used to carry I love you on my belt like a toy gun in a holster and shoot it bang-bang at the friends I didn’t have I used to carry I love you in my satchel together with my school books an autographed picture of Lana Turner and a poem by Alfred Tennyson and I took it out when the girl with the blond curl walked by me in the hall 89
between classes
I used to carry I love you with the picture in my wallet and wrapped it around the lamp post at night waiting for the one that didn’t show up I used to carry I love you in my mouth words I was hungry to say to her, to you, to anybody who would listen and I’d open it hoping the butterfly would flutter from my tongue I used to carry I love you in my heart knocking at the walls of Jericho looking for a door, a window a crack in the ceiling praying the walls would come tumbling down
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Now I carry I love you in my dreams and take it dancing every night when the moon is full and the streets are empty in the twilight of my life  And as I’ve carried it it has carried me and covered my canvas with splashes of color and put sugar in my coffee and syrup on my pancakes roller blades on my feet and wings on my days to soar above beyond and be free.
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Battle of Wounded Knee
Jeffrey Desersa
92
Visual Interaction Gallery by Seigar
Mind the Gap by Steffy Mena
Her surroundings seemed fuzzy, like the familiar carpet she caressed with each step of her bare feet. Well...familiar, but foreign too; what was once a lush brown field of shag, with congregations of ill-textured communities of coarse paisleys and sticky revarnishing, is now a wasteland whose only sign of inhabitants is the ancient war stains of emptied beer bottles and blood red wines. It was an empty home; the only difference now is that its residence and belongings are truly gone. They had moved just a week before; she only returned to the empty carcass of misfortunes to retrieve what she had left behind: her baby teeth. She did not understand why she wanted them; they meant nothing more to her than impatience, condescension, and the gaps that stretched wide and measured, not the distance between teeth, but between the connective relations of words said and common sense. No, she did not comprehend her need for them; she only knew deep within her that she did in fact want them. She scuttled along. Though her six-year-old body should have been relatively weightless, it seemed as though it took the might of a stampede of bull to reach her destination: a meager five steps from the front door to the living room window. Her tongue anxiously traced the back of her teeth and flicked itself repeatedly through the still sore openings as she reached her hand into the reservoir of dust that was the windowsill. They had been left there, the calcified remnants of an act of violence, drying of blood and collecting the decay that accumulated when flies died from the exhaustion due to their incomprehension of the force field: glass. Reaching into the crevice of the murky, plastic basin, she retrieved not teeth but the pane of transparence itself. Though her arms should not have been long enough to have held it so comfortably, she shifted the glass away from the window, letting a breeze, as warm as blood and as noxious as the taste of pennies, lose its way in her forever knotted hair. Turning, shuf95
fling, then sitting, her body was cross-legged and tight like the ironic monk who keeps his body stiffened in order to release. Beneath her was the coffee table, older than she was, perhaps even older than her sisters, and approximately ten times her weight despite their similar size. No synapses in her mind sparked in any way, shape, or form, to tell her this was wrong, that she was sitting on an object that had been moved already to another hallow shell of a home. She simply sat in a meditative stance, holding the glass like one of the sandwiches with sweet little notes that her classmates brought to lunch from home and had always made her jealous. “Have a great day.” “I love you.” “Good luck on your quiz.” The taste in her mouth was bitter before she had even taken a bite… Wrap, tie, slam! Wrap, tie, slam! Wrap, tie, slam! She could see herself sitting there, panoramic, as if this moment was the most dramatic scene of a suspenseful film. Biting into that glass pane, she relived that afternoon, biting in time to her mother’s actions. She had lost four that day, but it took more attempts than that. Wrap, tie, slam! Wrap, tie, slam! Regret had immediately consumed her as she exclaimed with exuberance that she had some teeth that were finally loose, that she was growing up. There was no waiting for them to fall out on their own though, for she would definitely pester the growth of her new teeth with her anxious and fidgety ways. No, no waiting, and afterwards not even the tooth fairy that her classmates would boast their loot from would reward her for her pain, and her mother’s failed attempts to stop the excitement she had “mistaken” for whining. Wrap, tie, slam! She had not felt the glass or the blood fill her mouth until reality set in and slowed her fast-forwarded emotions. The world had come to a halt, and with that final bite, she heard the shatter and felt the shard take the place of what she had originally come here to retrieve. Then there was just darkness. A teenage girl jolted up from her bed, drenched in sweat and 96
anxiously traced her tongue along the back of her teeth and attempted to flick it through empty gaps that had grown new tenants since then. She never did retrieve her teeth from the windowsill; her mind wanders to that fact frequently, but at least she had never eaten a pane of glass either. Her mouth was still bitter and inside there was still a soreness, but from where she had bit her tongue whilst in her sleep induced panic. This was not the first time she had this dream, nor the first time she had woken up with sweat-soaked pillows and a bruised tongue. It has been recurrent ever since the final wrap, tie, slam! She understands with fear, why she kept her loose teeth a secret from her mother from then on, and she understands with resentment why the tooth fairy pays generously when teeth became fugitives from her gums whilst in her father’s household. What she could not understand was the glass. To the best of her ability, she would search for answers; she scoured dream dictionaries and researched symbolism, but could never find a more specific answer. The results of her research remained vague. “To dream of eating glass represents your vulnerability and frailty. In regards to emotion and identity, you are easily shattered and usually by your own actions.� If only her dreams could tell her something she did not already know.
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by Kassy Menke
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.
ADVERTISE IN ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Outside Back Cover: $300 Full Page Inside: $100 Half Page Inside: $75 Quarter Page Inside: $50 Send inquiries to artifactsjdc@gmail.com
San Joaquin Delta College Get Published in Artifact Nouveau Artifact Nouveau is a magazine of works by students, faculty, alumni, and employees of San Joaquin Delta College published by the SJDC Writers’ Guild. Works by writers and artists unaffiliated with Delta College may be selected for publication for up to 40% of the overall content. We accept literary and visual art submissions year round. All genres and mediums are welcome. Submit to artifactsjdc@gmail.com. Literary Submissions • Poem Length May Vary (limit 5 submissions) • Short Stories and Essays: Max 1500 Words (limit 2 submissions) Visual Submissions • Colored/Black and White • JPG Format at 300 DPI • limit 10 submissions
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ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Volume 4 Issue 2
Spring 2014 - Volume 8 - Issue 34
EDITOR IN CHIEF EDITORIAL TEAM
A Writers’ Guild Publication
Rudy Hernandez Ronald Godoy Enrique Ramos Vanesssa Rodriguez
FACULTY ADVISORS Sarah Antinora Gabrielle Myers FRONT COVER ART
Mind on Stockton by Orlando Jose
CENTERFOLD ART
Wild Red Sumac by Brian Michael Barbeito
BACK COVER ART Gemini Twins by Ricky Sanchez
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.
Artifact Nouveau copyright remains with respective a writers’ guild publication
authors and artists. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. ©2018
SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE Superintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy Hart Board of Trustees Vice President: Steve Castellanos, FAIA Clerk: Dr. Teresa Brown Student Representative: Marsha Fernando Carlos Huerta Catherine Mathis, M.D. C. Jennet Stebbins
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Serenity
by Tomas Zendejas-Medina
SICK by Mary Carroll Cool breeze slides across hot head held in sweaty hand Heat runs down back of throat kept out of mouth by vigilant tongue Dry eyes half closed need sleep to recover
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www.deltacollege.edu/org/wrtrsgld/ facebook.com/SJDCWritersGuild
artifactsjdc@gmail.com www.issuu.com/thewritersguildartifactnouveau