This summary provides the key details from the document in 3 sentences: The document features various creative works including short stories, poems, essays and photographs. The creative nonfiction section includes a piece titled "The Magic of Her Name" which summarizes the story of the author's mother immigrating to New York City from Cuba and her experiences learning to read, sew and adapt to her new life. The poetry and essays sections include over 50 individual works covering a wide range of topics from nature to relationships.

1. issue eleven
february 23, 2013

2. issue eleven I february 23, 2013
CREATIVE NONFICTION
The Magic of Her Name - Miguel Gardel
His Seat - Jody Seidel
Leather Bound - Alexandra Booth
Scratch Paper - G. David Schwartz
My Dinner With Barack Obama - Joel Patterson
POETRY
Veins – Alexandra Booth New York Soliloquy – Exene Karros
Late-Night Elusion – Alicia Lai The Horses Are Dead, But Still – M.A.
Chrysanthemum Concept – Alicia Lai Schaffner
To Love a Natural Disaster – Alicia Lai Mollusk on the Verge of Retirement – M.A.
We Lived on the Sidewalk – Briana Stelzer Schaffner
A Million Rowboats – Stephen McClurg Ozymandias, Losing Parts – M.A. Schaffner
maroon – Dani Blum Reflections on a Palm Desert Dinner Party
hide and seek – Matthew Henry – Isabel DeBre
little red – Matthew Henry Taripay Pacha: The Age of Meeting
my third grade teacher – Matthew Henry Ourselves – Gloria Dyc
Hair – Sarah L. Webb Singapore – Mary Jane Roberts
Our Feet – Sarah L. Webb Cream – William Harney
Color Blindness in a Canadian Hospital – Rusty An able bodied linked team of rivals –
Kjarvik Matthew Harris
Homeless – Denise Mostacci Sklar I Netted Mosquito Magic – Matthew Harris
The Impressionists – Denise Mostacci Sklar Lady in Red – Matthew Harris
Winter Island – Denise Mostacci Sklar Ode to Freedom – Clemencio Bascar
Buddha Nature – Denise Mostacci Sklar The Bite – Tatjana Debeljacki
Veteran’s Day – Denise Mostacci Sklar Water Drawings in a Linked Maybe Haiku –
WINDOWS – Denise Mostacci Sklar Michael H. Brownstein
At 15,000 Feet – Exene Karros
PHOTOGRAPHY
The London Tunnels - Michael Wasney Winter in The Lower Galil, 3 - KJ Hannah
Power Lines - Michael Wasney Greenberg
San Francisco at Night - Michael Wasney Winter in The Lower Galil, 5 - KJ Hannah
March to the Sea - Michael Wasney Greenberg
Crane Fly & The Rain - Michael Wasney Winter in The Lower Galil, 1 - KJ Hannah
Head in the Seed - Alison Stewart Greenberg
2 - Pete Madzelan Lavendar - Isli Sarai
3 - Pete Madzelan Cerulean - Isli Sarai
6 - Pete Madzelan Cyan - Isli Sarai
Winter in The Lower Galil, 2 - KJ Hannah Nude - Isli Sarai
Greenberg Malar Butterfly Season - Gwen Mercado
Reyes
PERSUASIVE ESSAY
Visiting From Out of Town - Patty Somlo
Embracing Our Youth’s Creativity - Ben Kelman

3. [1]
creative nonfiction
The Magic of Her Name by Miguel Gardel
On her second day in New York my mother was taken to Twenty-something Street in the garment
district. She later told me toys for her kids were the first thing she bought with her first paycheck.
The second most important thing was for her vanity. A little defect in the right eye she had to
correct, something called “lazy eye” in English. The solution to this problem turned out to be not
as complicated as she had imagined. In fact she never believed a real solution was possible; the
sense of insecurity attached to her poverty and physical imperfection prevented her from
imagining a complete way out of it. But the operation was a success and relieved her of one of
many of her inferiority complexes.
My mother had “bad hair.” This invention of Spanish slave owners had tortured her all of her life.
But as a seamstress in New York she could now afford “the good American products for bad hair.”
My mother once told me she started sewing at the age of thirteen. Then she told me she had
started at seventeen. She once told me she had started to learn to read at the age of ten; that
she had walked with her brothers to school carrying a little wooden chair. Each one carried a
chair. And that the school was under a mango tree. The mango tree was the school; it protected
them from the sun. “I remember that,” she said.
When my mother was seventeen she had had an abortion and had left her husband, or boyfriend
(this has various versions), and she found herself back with her aunt in the city of Santiago; which
is where she learned to sew and to read. She never liked the campo and always dreamed of living
in the city.
She learned to sew and to read at her aunt’s and became a good costurera but a very bad reader.
Her Tía Francisquita taught her how to sew and told her, “You are a natural.” And my mother was
pleased and knew it was so.
The boy who taught her how to read was her cousin and he was in his first year of college. He was
going to be a lawyer. His father, Tía Francisquita’s husband, was a lawyer. When my mother said
to him, “Do you think I will learn?” He said to her with a shy smile, “Sure.”
She said to me that, though he touched her a few times under the dining table where they had set
up their little school, he never forced her to have sex. He was aroused by just knowing she had
slept with a man but was afraid of her for the same reason. He wanted her, after a little prodding,
to initiate the second phase. But being in a house where she felt socially insecure, her mind was
always on her shame, how to lose it, how to make it disappear. They were both uncomfortable
and hot under the reading light. He wondered if he was wasting his time teaching this yokel how
to lose some of her ignorance. And she, through the learning process, focused on leaving behind
the shame. At least getting in front of it to obscure it, dress it up, keep it cover, whatever she
could do to be free of it.
The boy did succeed in teaching her how to read and write her name; and in the future she would
have fond memories of that boy and that house whose occupants were so sophisticated and where
she had felt so awkward. But she left there as a costurera, one with natural talents. A talent that,
she would later find out, was not necessary in the garment district of New York. But, God, she had
learned the magic of reading and writing her name.
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His Seat by Jody Seidel
“One more glass and I’m done.” He mumbled with glazed eyes.
The bartender hesitated for a quick moment but grabbed the two bottles and messily poured them
into the glass.
“I wonder if he’ll actually be done after this,” the bartender snickered to the group of girls next
to the drunken twenty two year old clean-shaven man.
“Here you go captain! The last one for tonight and you’re done!”
“MmmmYesIwouldthinkso.” Slipped out of his mouth
He sat there slowly sipping what would be his eighth round. Staring at the neon lit clock, the
bright lights were blurred and poured together. He was confused and amazed at the simplest
things, and for him this was paradise from what he usually felt.
Night after night Aiden would find his way to the bar around 9 pm with some friends. It was
usually light out, because summer in London meant the sun only set around 9:30 pm. He would
walk into the bar, with a fake smiled plastered onto his face, alongside his manly and loud mates.
Inside, he was sad as a puppy dog left alone. As his friends would split up, to go challenge some
girls at darts, or attempt to chat up the others, he would slump into his usual seat in the corner of
the bar. He would ask for the same drink, a gin and tonic, with a bit of ice. The first few he would
sip, and talk to the bartender, but the last few he would just slick back as fast as he could and
mumble a couple of drunken words, hit on a girl or two, and sometimes he would get lucky and
hold a conversation with the female bartender without pissing her off too much. It was a simple
cycle, Aiden was content with his blurry nights, and it was better than being sober.
Tonight was different. The bar was busier than usual. It was odd. A buzz crept out of the door
onto the busy street. When Aiden eventually squeezed his way through the container of sardines,
he realized someone else was sitting in his usual seat.
“Damn it.” He muttered
He squirmed in between a couple and some girls, and decided he would stand tonight. Once he
was next to his seat, he caught the usual bartenders attention and gave him a nod.
“The usual?”
“What else would it be?”
He chuckled and looked around. He was really curious as to who would have the audacity to steal
his and only his seat! By now, the seat probably had the design of the pockets of his jeans
permanently imprinted. He surveyed the crowd, realizing how odd everything seemed tonight. But
he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a far more crowded than usual, and someone had taken his
seat, but that wasn’t it.
He leaned forward to see if the bar tender was pouring his drink, or if he was too busy chatting to
the young and ignorant high school girls. The bar tender finally came over with the drink and slid
it down the counter of the bar right to Aiden. He came over to have his usual chat with Aiden,
about the latest football game, or what his band’s next plan was. They yelled over the loud
chatter that settled just below the dim and low bar roof. By the time the conversation was over,
Aiden was ready for his 7th drink. The bartender slid the drink over, and Aiden, being sozzled,
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5. [3]
missed his drink. He watched the drink sail by and crash into the girls arm, and spill all over her
summer dress.
“Shittttt Shitt Shitt.” The girl muttered as she quickly took some napkins and wiped off her dress
frantically.
“Im so sorry,wow.”
She looked up, and directly into Aiden’s eyes. A combination of deep brown and soft green.
“No… no… it’s okay!” She said as a shy smile brushed across her face.
After a couple of seconds of solid gazing, Aiden’s face drained of color, as he chocked a bit.
“I’m, I’m sorry, but you look exactly like her.”
“Like who?”
“Her! You look like her!”
“One more time, like who?”
“I, I, I gotta go, I cant do this, I really can’t,” backing away and wiggling through the crowd.
Ruby sat in Aiden’s seat, confused, but excited. There was something there. She felt something as
they locked eyes. Maybe he reminded her of a past friend who she had feelings for, or maybe it
was because she was a bit tipsy, but she felt it. This was something new. She was so bored with
her life, and here was someone who was different. She got up, and stood on her tippy toes to try
to scan the crowd to find Aiden.
Aiden made it outside into the warm breezy air and just sat on the curb.
It had been over a year since he’d been happy. A whole year. He could have had a family,
children, a son to play catch with, a daughter to have tea with. He could have been happy. Maybe
it was just that he was left with nothing, no reason or at least an excuse as to why she left. He
thought it was him, he has said something, or done something. They had planned to be together
through shit and the good times.
As Ruby peaked her head through the doors, looking left and right, she spotted Aiden.
“Excuse me? Hi I’m the girl from the bar who looks like ‘her’,” approaching the curb to plunk
down next to him. She had practically sobered up.
“Uh, Hi. I’m sorry about your dress.”
“It’s fine, I told you. But may I ask who I look like?”
“My ex-fiance.”
“Oh.”
With a shrug, he began to explain the story of how he met his ex-fiancé, fell in love, and how he
proposed. And after what seemed to be a century of silence for Ruby, he explained how one day
she just left. His friends thought that she cheated on him, but he really did not know. He began
to go to the bar at night a week or so after she left him, mostly with his friends, who simply went
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6. [4]
to blow off steam after a long day of classes. It was his way of blurring the pain, and mostly to
shut his friends up about how sad he was. But eventually, it turned into every single night, and it
became seven or eight drinks instead of one or two. Alcohol was his stress reliever, it took him out
of his confusion, out of his sadness, and it fuzzed his ex-fiancé. Nothing could fix what he felt, or
get him out of his funk. But tonight was different.
“Wow, that’s crazy.”
“Yup…. I never got your name. I’m Aiden by the way.” He said with his hands still on his eyes,
sobering up a bit.
“I’m Ruby, lets start off fresh, no drink spilling on my dress or anything.”
With a little chuckle Aiden shook her had, and stood up from the curb, and stretched out a toned
arm to help her up.
“Wanna grab a bite down the road?”
“Yeah sure!” Ruby was excited, a bit nervous, but excited, she just felt something.
And there they were, in the middle of London, on a warm night, two total strangers, who had
met, because the bar was packed, and Aiden was drunk as usual.
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Leather Bound by Alexandra Booth
I open the leather journal on my son’s new marble countertops. His wife, Laura, marvels at them
with enthusiastic eyes, proud of their new home accessory. “I found it in a box in the storage
space during the move.” She begins to stroke the smooth surface, oblivious to my curious state. I
recognized the dirty spine and the worn cover flap like the features of an old friend’s face.
There’s no reason for me examine it. I know the pages like I know myself. They smell warm and
welcoming like they know who I am, like they want me to reabsorb their experiences. I pull the
book open and hold it gently as if it could crumble spontaneously. Well who needs them anyways?
I read in the middle. It’s a single sentence, alone on a page. I had been laid off from the rubber
factory and spent the rest of the year begging friends and family to help me connect with
employment somewhere in that wretched city of Detroit. I scan the next few pages and find a set
of words arranged in fragments just as lonely as the first. My life could end now and it would be
simple; I was born in a factory by a hopeless polish immigrant woman and left to starve in this
heatless town by a dominant American company owner. I laugh. I thought that was the end. I flip
back towards the first quarter of the thick book. When that house burnt down, a part of me
wanted her to burn with it, free me of her poverty and let me live like the rest of the country.
Shame courses through my fingers as I pull them away from the journal where I had written such
horrible things. My mother barely survived that fire. I remember being a teenager: wanting comics
and girls. I thought my mother had held me back. I suddenly feel tired of my past, eager to put
the journal back in a storage space somewhere but before I do, I turn to the final page. He’s
beautiful. I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful little boy and even though he isn’t made of my
parts, he is mine, he is me. I look over at Eric and Laura, happily watching television on this
Sunday evening. Laura now strokes her pug, her adopted child who she loves more than anything,
more than those marble countertops. I close the leather bound pages and push it farther from my
body. “How will it end?” I say loud enough for the journal to absorb my thoughts, loud enough to
understand that I don’t have long, but never loud enough to disturb them, the ones I love.
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Scratch Paper by G. David Schwartz
I was walking along a short isle in what I would call a junk
store. My daughters who are artists, call it a most creative store. It
was a store which has all kinds of, well crap.
If you have never been in one, imagine an isle which have empty
glass bottles all all stacked, right next to a row flow of continuers
which contain -- doing their job -- different colored what the use to
call Bobby Pins.
Bobby pins use to confuse me when I as a kid, out playing football,
crookery and archery and other deeded worth getting done. There was a
neighbor who had the name Robert. I guess you see why this confused me.
Rob hatred when people called him Bobby, which, of course forced everyone
to call him Bobby.
The other thing which confused me besides the typical normal things
like why my sister was going around with that clown James, Jim, or Jimmy
and why chocolate was not healthy or why, why why math was so idiotic.
I was not thinking abbot that fat ugly idiot clown James, Jim, or
Jimmy, nor his brother Robert, Bob, Bobbie, nor his sister Susan, called
short Sue and never because she hatred it Susie, nor was I thinking about
math (promoting itself as Arithmetic (A rat in Tom's house might eat Toms
ice-cream -
an interesting memory trick which I have always remembered
to trick my stout stupid sister, but never the stout stupid government
(please forgive that momentary anarchistic moment).
So (an interesting word to us to both change the subject and make
listeners, and occasionally speakers pause to remember what they were
thinking ((or trying to think (((there is a big different between these
two )))))).
So, there I am walking though the supercilious (nice word. I'll
have to use it later!)) junk store when I come upon a row which says, (in
a whisper, really) scratch paper.
Now I am not one to do what I am told to do, ask my wife, but I
wondered what would happen if I did. I have never seen a genie (except on
the Barbara Eden show.) So I scratched the pad of paper.
Noting happened.
No genie appeared and no rat in or out of Toms house … hey cool
Tom, Thomas Tommie…
So what… I feel myself slipping (not sinking) into a philosophic
moment ponder what good is scratch paper?
Now I conclude this essay not to insult or other-ways annoy my wife
who hates when I carry them around in my back pocket, I do not usually
purchased scraps of paper because I locate plenty of scraps by cleaning
up the house. (And she says I never clean) old notes whiten in my darling
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9. [7]
children's high school (they have all now gone to or still going to
college) sheets of one side printed information about who to vote for
because he or she is the best fiscal conservative and bills not yet paid
so why ought I ever pay them
Paper is an interesting phenomena. Most all paper has two, not one,
not three or more sides. And when they have finished using the (onside)
of paper (if you, a wise person write a letter you typically use each
side, for better reason than that because "its there!"
[In March of 1923, British mountain climber George Leigh Mallory
was touring the United States to raise money for a expedition to Mount
Everest. Asked straight why he wanted to climb the, to that time know,
world’s highest mountain, Mallory utter these three elegant and important
words, Because its there. So it was, so it is.]
Exactly like scratch paper! You don't really use your finger to
scratch it, although the name suggest that, you scratch notes on it.
This reminds me, notes are useful to remind.
I always carry plank, empty paper so if I emit a thought I can
write it before it gets forgot. My son, who has a great funny humor made
a note in my note book, D minor a deceit note.
Anyway, but to my thoughts on scratch paper. You write scratch
notes so I think (and I have found written on a piece of paper) they
ought be called thought but in fact, thoughts are things which erupt and
emit from your mind which, if you wish to remember (or actually if you
wish to recall) you write them down on some paper. It need not be said
but here I will write it, not say it that you write down, not usually up,
on paper or keyboard occasionally on cardboard.
Thus said, because it needed to be said, (or is it this said,
because it needed to be said [said, because it needed to be, by someone
who was not me, but here repeated or quoted, because quotations are not
copyright in the United States, so someone can actually make a fortune
by making a book of quotations for everyone to enjoy because quotations
are very enjoyable and memorable -- "Ask not what your country can do
for you; ask what you can do for your country", (John F. Kennedy and, or
"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose, All we love deeply becomes
a part of us. (Hellen Keller) and Go to heaven for the climate, go to
hell for the company (Mark Twain).
It is nice to end with Mark Twain. An american author who even
wrote his own name.
So be it! (I'll take credit for that one)
I end on the note that this now essay was written on twenty piece
of scratch paper, which then were assembled in an order to create this
creation which I hope gives the reader toughs which are good to think
about, not just remember and recall but to ex-climate on and the reader
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10. [8]
finds them interesting and projective.
Scrape paper! Useful for thoughts and thinking. Useful for noting
and denoting as well. Scrap paper. I just hope I remember to take it from
my pocket before I wash my pants.
Idea! Make a note to do that!
Sign of relief at having a good thought, (Ahh...)
That didn't really need to be written but what the heck, It may
come in useful for someone.
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My Dinner With Barack Obama* by Joel Patterson
The Secret Service man introduced himself as Don-- I knew this was not his real name (surely-- a
secret?)-- and invited himself in to have a look around. Jen had spent the entire week in a
cleaning frenzy, shampooing the carpets and swiffering the walls, and it was beautiful. We were
living on the set of a sitcom. Eventually Don/not Don handed me a schedule. "Do I need to eat this
when I'm done reading it?" I asked. He slapped me on the back.
The Service guys showed up around noon, and set into drinking shots from a bottle of Scotch.
When the motorcade arrived, all flashing lights and blaring police escort, they snapped to
attention. I saw the limousine door open and out tumbled Barry O, as I've come to call him-- "el
hombre del barrio." He was still glancing over a clipboard which he handed off to a prematurely
balding aide and strolled up the drive. He's a very tall and lanky guy, a basketball player.
"You'll never make it in this business if you're not tall," he confided to me after a few bottles of
wine. "Short, stubby city bosses? Thing of the past. TV shrinks you down, man. Damn TV-- there
are people in this country that sit glued to it, GLUED TO IT I AM TELLING YOU--" he spit in my face
a little-- "GET OFF YOUR ASS!" I was finding I liked this guy, whatever his connections to global
imperialism and warmongering. "What about all this, you know, brutality?" I asked him. "Do we
really belong on the other side of the planet?" He grew serious and sighed. "Somebody's got to run
the world, baby. If we don't do it, someone else gonna. Life's a bitch, you know?" We pondered the
essential truth of this observation. "You got any… " he lowered his eyes and glanced side to side…
"any weed, brother?" I peered at his arching eyebrows. He peered back, which is how we found
ourselves an hour later on a street corner in Albany. It's amazing how little he resembles himself
with a hat on-- and the "diesel" we scored was excellent. "You would not believe it, Joel, I am
telling you-- you would not believe it." "But do you actually really ever get to decide anything? You
just take marching orders from sinister unseen forces, right?" "Not unseen. There's limits." "But so
essentially, you're a totally hypocritical fraud, right?" "I have a JOB, Nixon-- not sure why I just
called you Nixon-- I do what I can DO. What's possible-- which is not 'everything.'" "But-- the
backseat. That's what I worry about. Who gets the backseat?" "You're lucky to be on the bus. That's
really how I feel about it. Mud huts. That's where I come from." "You are the Roger Mudd of mud
huts!" I screamed. For the rest of the night, the Service guys kept saying "roger" back and forth in
their walkie-talkies. By the time we had to bid our goodbyes, we were hugging like old chums.
Man I am going to have a hangover tomorrow.
*previously printed in Fear of Monkeys
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12. [10]
poetry
Veins – Alexandra Booth
Henry pushes his finger forcefully against the Asian map.
“Yellow,” he says. His mother confirms his answer with a
proud nod. “Mekong,” he points west. The phone rings
and she hurries down the hallway, leaving him alone in
his makeshift classroom. He lowers his arm and holds it
perpendicular to his body, studying his own rivers. “Nu,”
he mumbles, giving himself a satisfactory head bob. He
shifts his gaze to the right. “Yangtze,” he says, nods,
“Yangtze.” His mother returns. Henry, what are you
doing? He traces the rivers of his arm the color of the
pacific, a deep greenish blue. “Yangtze,” he repeats.
Late-Night Elusion – Alicia Lai
we are cowards; inhabitants of a non-reality
the fear lining their veins like broken mortar,
the frost-bite resolution, burden holders for
the memory-less and the shadows between
cracked highways and road-side diners—
fleeing, breathing, remembering; only
a gunshot
assumption
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13. [1]
Chrysanthemum Concept – Alicia Lai
It feels like old Beijing
and a pigeon-scratch story
with the underbelly of the horizon complacent
and quiet,
gone pale like a legend
told with too many tongues.
We sat at his river and discussed
here and there and the queer things that happen
between crossing Pacific. The sky is red and the earth
is red here and I am told it’s a good thing
to lead in a new year by the hand,
but my hands
are small
and his are large
and I’m afraid mine aren’t enough
to contain them. All the same, I’m holding onto the boat
by the figure-head, bring-me-home,
a dragon’s serpentine sort of blessing or
a nomad’s steel anchor. There is rice wine on my tongue,
an orange peel between my lips,
and I do not know the old song in my throat,
secrets dovetailing;
its ribs wide in a city with neon signs,
its moon as white as a promise
of returning.
My Mandarin is broken but
my heart is not and they told me
turn off the lights,
to set moths free to their own return home.
The fruit vendor has a crooked grin
and a hoarse voice and a knack for juggling exotic pears;
there are new people with old masks
and tired people with new skins
and a man who sells luck on a cord. One jade for six
yuan or two for ten, but
don’t look back. A meteor shower
tempers behind me and a galaxy
suspended soon learns it was finite afterall;
everyone is watching the sky’s panic
but I know the dancing people
are bearing witness to
the wrong miracle.
Turn a corner or turn around; there’s
a whole city here for dragons
and travelers.
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To Love a Natural Disaster – Alicia Lai
at fifteen, bystanders watched
his feet half on air, seeing
in advance the way his body
would crumple when he reached
ground, the ghosts that would follow
that was when he cared
whether he lived
or died
it started with him letting himself
go cold. the blood rushed to his
veins, the ice slowly replacing
oxygen. he had come into
the world lacking breath; now,
he was again
naive
and young
understand now that his mother
was a sequioa redwood and his
father had birch arms and ash logic,
so he learned to build pyres
on cities
with his own wit
he is most alive
with the needle to his skin,
the empty barrel to his cheek,
on a collision course
“to prove i’m human.
i only know for sure in the seconds
before impact.”
he has a good imagination and
every time he’s next to the curb
he will smell smoke and when he
passes the window he will see the
bullet coming through and think about
the times he lost. he will think things
like,
you can’t be brave when you’re indestructible.
he smiled
casualty one
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We Lived on the Sidewalk – Briana Stelzer
We were less than kids back then
A bottle-cap battle
with shards of glass underfoot.
Who only had wind guns,
and tinted green glass shields.
But that was before,
before the weeds overgrew the grass
and glass.
Now dogs bark much louder,
and stranger’s children brave
our mistakes.
The bees trill
birds buzz.
I remember that battle,
the sanctity of
our father’s beer choice
and the fenced sides.
We were less than kids
back then,
we were men.
A Million Rowboats – Stephen McClurg
(found poem on pg. 2 of Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food
Nation)
The twists and turns, like James Bond
driving little vans from cavern to satellites,
the tracks that orbit the heart,
power millions of rowboats, a barbershop, and a
cafeteria.
The men get tired of the King.
Every night a man winds past
the checkpoint, chain link, and barbed wire.
The deliveryman collects his Armageddon.
The whole continent entombed with comic books and
Bibles,
future clues to our civilization,
crusts of red, white, and blue.
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maroon – Dani Blum
you
had a knack for labeling us
you
said you were November
and I left it at that,
because I couldn't handle how true that was,
how you were grey—grey—and I wanted you to be silver
how blurred your outlines were, until I saw nothing but
your dip-dyed hair
and you crept at me until I broke you into boxes.
you were the kind of girl they'd write poems about.
you
were some sort of era;
you defined us all—us sterling, slip-lipped city kids
we were an "us" because
of you, not a set of poorly plotted points
you
didn't bump into me, you collided
you didn't speak, but you declared
you were mist and mourning all at once,
you
were tea time, always;
different than me,
separate from me.
you said I was maroon
the day after I knew and
you called me wise
the day after That Day:
such a boring stretch of time
with your face like the bricks on the
city street until I saw I hadn't
tugged at you
like you tugged at me
—and oh, how well I dealt with that.
I tried to be grateful for maroon
but you were woefully specific
I wasn't saturated to you
I wasn't full
I was
a dwindling color
that could be replaced
and confused with burgundy
and misused by pretentious wine tasters.
you told me I was your maroon
and to me,
you were as emerald as your hair.
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17. [5]
hide and seek – Matthew Henry
in time she ran before the counting began
sensing her uncle’s shout. the warning ahead
of screeching tires—
screams of children. so
she hid in the bathroom.
the closet was no good,
too easily found within thin walls.
the tub’s chipped porcelain could stop bullets
with the name of her brother
or mother.
little red – Matthew Henry
rides through her hood
her mama’s words in mind:
keep to familiar, well lit roads,
and don’t talk to strangers.
wolves wear any disguise that fits –
a badge, a stiff white collar.
if she gets close,
enough to notice the seams,
to see eyes, ears and teeth,
it’s already too late.
my third grade teacher – Matthew Henry
explained skin
the undercurrents
of blood and how
my face lacked
the ability to bruise
or blush. i tried
to show her a patch
darker than the rest.
she nodded, explained
it was harder to see
on my skin.
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18. [6]
Hair – Sarah L. Webb
Irreverent maleability. A wire with the
aspect and tensile strength of blown glass.
Diasporic tales telegraphed on its circuits.
Our history extolled on its scrolls. Spiraling
up and out to its highest self, inward to its Our Feet – Sarah L. Webb
origins. Reborn with every revolution. The real cause of this misery
Embodying the helix of my DNA. Twisted into is not flesh.
fists. Uptight. Easily and often convoluted. Vainly maintaining the erstwhile
Entwined, entangled, and braided into struggle with Eye,
sisterhood. Breaking and reinventing the fight with Nose,
cycle. Hoops, piercing and adorning. battle with Lip,
Crowning the head with a million halos. war with Hair,
Gyrations that stem from the mind and we long to shed our blood –
flower in my hips. Fibers of my being in lines.
sinuated existence weave this paisley fabric Shed Skin.
that I wear. These are the fringes of my Shed Origin.
thoughts. You see. A quirky, kinky, fringed, We hate our feet,
knotted, difficult, bushy, complicated, designed so that
bristling, peculiar, luxuriant defect. My shackles cannot slip off.
cirque du soul.
Color Blindness in a Canadian Hospital – Rusty Kjarvik
A welcoming young girl, with poppy shoes and tasteful jeans
Friendship’s smile, bursting forth with radiance out of sight
A blind man enters, cane pointed at the unmanned desk
She takes his arm in hers, as a family couple, spirited with gentility
The blind man sits with an Ascot capped, sun-glassed young man
Both looking straight ahead, they sit, one next to one
The room is sparse, of relatives and individual patients
Waiting lone, a grandma softly stares with wooden nose ring
Early morning’s branded caffeine monotony
A teenager skips madly, mouth spouting, stimulant-sugar-conditioning
The surface-level skin of the page follows early English thought
Reading Shelley’s Rosalind and Helen to Portuguese folk soprano
My wife turns the bend, healthy from the office, a petite lovely
Her smile burns away the predawn clouded sky
The blind man now sits lone, anypatient, eyeless
Midwestern glare reflects the young man’s eyewear, seated lone, looking East
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19. Homeless
– Denise Mostacci Sklar
Just moved
to New York City
waitressing I ran down the
at Fiorellos broad museum steps
after work late to the coffee
walking CPW shop on 72nd
home to my apartment, and Columbus,
something drew me all night and open,
up those long the one where the chandelier
steps dark full of shiny glass dangling
empty night with and cheap dropped out
street lights shining. of the ceiling
I saw you sleeping one night smashing
in shadow, doorway alcove to the floor almost
of the Musuem skimming the shoulder
of Natural History of a long, tall black
as if on exhibit woman smoking a cigarette
after hours. I paused with coffee
dared to look at your at the counter- her
plaid shirt, kahki glancing down
pants dirty, grey then away continuing
beard large arms legs face to puff undisturbed.
fingers puffy,
still and resting I bought an egg salad
cardboard on concrete sandwich and cup
no hand held out. of milk thinking
that you would prefer
a few bucks or
a bottle of something.
I placed the brown
bag next to you
quietly and went
home hoping
you would see it
when you woke up
and that the milk
would not spill.

20. [1]
The Impressionists
– Denise Mostacci Sklar
People stand in maze
of lines, buy tickets
check coats, enter
doors of glass,
walls white with art
leading down halls
wide stairways, clusters of I sit on stream- lined
rooms all sizes open leather couch cream colored,
notice young student as
I've been here before, she sits in corner
another city, country floor of room sketching, while
the guard wearing black,
hushed whispers the circles panther-like, stops
sound of heels hitting floor under archway, his
parental eye discerning
In gold frame
she sits thin lips In dream
on couch and cloth maze I walk
with blue sky floating toward exit, gentleman
behind. Venus entering passes by,
on pedestal stands student
small bodied naked, off to the side, I
her clean shadow stop in front of
cast on white wall portrait of man his face
vibrant staring out with black
as the aging bronze lines electric marking
sits heavy, his grey green hair, nose and chin
toes large and thick his circle eyes- spinning
grab rock pink neck naked-
red face burst
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21. Winter Island – Denise Mostacci Sklar
Light house white
with rust no longer
in use, balcony
black circles the top
now dark abandoned,
soul grey ocean with
sailboats rocking.
Young actors
in distance creating
“Tempest”, the voices
of Prospero, Ariel,
Caliban resonate
behind bushes, “This
is the stuff that dreams
are made on…”
The bleach blonde lady
sings on rocky shore,
dares with arms wide open,
“I’m in love, I’m in love,
I’m in love with a wonderful
guy”—an end shimmy as her
white blouse flutters
with breeze and sea gulls
sore in perfect flight,
air cool, campers, cars, Buddha Nature – Denise Mostacci Sklar
kids, bright bathing suits, In a tee shirt
wet towels hang loose. that says, “This body will
be a corpse’’ he walks
Here is the Island that the street I imagine
once housed a lone coffee cups
Coast Guard base, where mass produced
Jack was stationed-our friend handed out
and ticket to run free a holiday gift (but not
teenage nights exploring old for the old) bumper
and crumpled buildings, stickers on cars (but not for
bare feet on grass mysterious, the young) too much
cold ocean shiver, sharpness feeling how this world
of rocks, rolling on hills means everything and
breath hot, mouths full nothing… And if
of whiskey and kisses I could step
evaporate in cool night air, outside
arms and hands searching this world
clumsy as eyes fixate on a friend
stars. look upon it’s
roundness
In dark we climb ALL
steps stumble up- I would think
top of light house how….lovely
shining, faces
red with youth.

22. Veteran’s Day – Denise Mostacci Sklar
(11/11/2012)
pick up pancakes
from crowded
diner buzzing- Thin boy
Sunday morning free back from college
of crowd, I take out, stands in jeans, white
drive Bay road sweatshirt bare feet
long, round curve on dried leaves orange,
smooth, reservoir young hands lifting
yellow opening camera to eyes.
Sunday sermon Through car radio
radio, organ music bugle mourns cold
begins, silent wind clear distant, president
blows grey past Obama speaks
American flags …and the town
lining road. fire alarm
muffled drone
(11x) calls out.
WINDOWS – Denise Mostacci Sklar
Banque Nationale of Canada...mountainous skyscraper wrapped with windows shining
reflecting City of Montreal alive--cars, concrete, sky, clouds, people. The French
businessman banker exits, slick black shoes, dark suit, cell phone, hailing cab hurried he flicks
his cigarette, slips into back seat...closing door.
I want to ask him about that building- so many windows hiding thousands of people, to count
money, keep track and figure out ways to make profit, build more buildings in other cities
that he travels to, to meet other businessmen who sit at long tables in large conference
rooms with papers and numbers electronic, walls of windows in clouds.
Later to meet in night restaurants with windows dark, order drinks like scotch and ice,
then slip again into taxi, mysterious , rolling up window, going somewhere...
I want to ask him if there is another window he sits behind when he is not making money ,
wearing black shoes, dark suit, closing cab doors, flicking cigarettes...
I want to ask him if there is a different window, a window he looks out of, what he sees,
thinks about, looks like inside, without his suit, when he is alone.

23. [1]
At 15,000 Feet – Exene Karros
Mexico City
Covered in a layer of smog so thick
It seems drowned in a puddle of grim.
Hidden in the waste of its own overzealousness
Smothered in mole poblano
Like a succulent chicken breast with vegetables on the side
Bitter and thick,
Just how they like it
Rico,
Hecho de chocolate.
Concentric circles, geometric patterns
Mountains piled high like chunks of chocolate
And little hairy patches that
Signify trees.
The green fields and the brown ones,
Combined and cut
Beautiful windows.
Even from up here, the tin roofs
Shine and twinkle
Like cut diamonds (proving the glory
Of man and his creations in the midst of the
Creeping
Climbing
Mountains)
Roofs that wink at you and seem to say
Aquí estoy, te espero. Aquí, en la tierra, te miramos; queremos que nos
veas igualmente
Here I am, I’m waiting for you. Here, on earth, we’re watching you; we want
You to see us too.
A deep ravine in the earth’s crust cuts like a
Welt, an open wound,
A crack in the abyss that slithers,
Cut by a child’s scissors.
And then, the mountains,
Wide and high
Keeping and controlling
Dipping and rising
Like the tangled spines of many lizards
Like the rough hide of a rough country
Mexico’s sign and Mexico’s seal
Mexico’s mother
Wash your hands of the country that scared you
Wash your hands of the country that bore you
Wash your hands of the country that loves you
And return when summer comes.
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24. [2]
New York Soliloquy – Exene Karros
Plastic progressive flesh has melted,
safety evaporated and fizzed itself to bone,
O that we had not fixed
our cannon to self-slaughter! O God, God,
how futile, deflated, tin-foiled, and trinket like
seem to me the pre-anthrax joys of this world.
Damn it! Damn it! It’s an ever-fuming ash grave
that spouts out present life. Phantom movement and clogged tear ducts
possess it merely. That it should come to this:
but three weeks obliterated—no, not so much, not three,
structured monolithic colossuses, spines straight compared to this
apparition; so stable and placid
that they would not let the winds of elsewhere
burn our faces roughly. Heaven and earth
how long must we remember? Why should we hang on them?
As if indigestion for appetite grows
with each movement of CNN? Within a month
we have been proved to be only frail skeletons,
a little month, before our thoughts scorched,
following wide-teared and tar-eyed,
like the tower itself, all bones—why they
(O God, a beast that lacks the instinct of love
would have thought longer!) Married hatred,
something familiar, but no more like the known
than a frozen medieval holiness is to the present. Within a month,
before tears callused and turned
burnt eyes to paralyzed ducts of cast-iron,
something married unexpectedly. A strange pair, wickedness
dexterously traveling from the pulsing wounds, turning to candled heat!
How strange that there could be a small reaction of good,
as the world, broken, showers us with ash and sun
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25. [3]
The Horses Are Dead, But Still – M.A. Schaffner
So you want to be a commissar well
we all want to change the world and this day,
which we can never see as just Tuesday,
especially when it’s not, just changes
spots like a camel. Oh, it was so long
since the fighter-bombers left to wreak justice
like teenage girls at the wheels of SUVs,
I no longer know what to want from the world
but the daily ration of analytical sport.
Come what June, September is always there,
seasonal rains that break for skies so bright
the best of us turns round. Here, take my hand,
walk me through the love songs of our past.
So many die so young it hurts to laugh.
Mollusk on the Verge of Retirement – M.A. Schaffner
The other fish own this sea. They know how
and when and whether or not to. It has
neither bottom nor shore, only meetings
scheduled around the dates of quarterlies
and systems only so in name. The tide
brings wave after wave of new appointees,
and each discovers a world that no one
had previously imagined. What they touch
turns to exquisite coral, what they see
at the edge of the reef by the abyss
is a trivial waste of phytoplankton.
All over the saline planet, kingdoms
as insular and self-satisfied as this
rise and fall with the same betraying moon.
Ozymandias, Losing Parts – M.A. Schaffner
Not an expert but someone you can ask
and knows a place where you can get the parts,
also someone who will do it for cash,
so finally you can feel smart for a change,
apart from the ripped-off crowd. All over,
the old factory towns lie derelict, the farms
homogenized or cleared off for sprawl, the waste
of infrastructure never debited
against the touted miracles behind
the yachts appearing on the Potomac
against a backdrop of immigrants fishing
from dangerous banks, the sagging ramblish
wrecks of public boathouses, and new bike paths
leading from suburbs to the city’s edge
and stopping at the first hint of decay.
More lives come to depend on cobbled piles
on the edge of an emerald city,
a government of witches, some called good.
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26. [4]
Reflections on a Palm Desert Dinner Party – Isabel DeBre
I. VII.
it’s the twilight of that final spring, They do not see each other,
when the smog tastes darker— and prefer to watch the palm trees
in sullen valleys, gaunt like her daughter, waving wildly,
in vast California supermarkets, by the shrouded in clay,
watermelons. urging them
somewhere,
they live. anywhere
or, more specifically: but here.
they watch people walk
with an inner peace, VIII.
and envy them. On the drive home
the traffic is heavy and the hot wind blows
II. sand through the windows,
they squeeze through the screen door, He sings,
half-broken, and She listens,
with Coexist, an Ojai wine, but only because She knows Marvell well,
exchange limp hands and “The grave’s a fine and private place,
stand by the couch, but none, I think, do there
watch condensation stain a vase. embrace.”
III. IX.
She presses a tiny dog to her breasts, when it’s too dark to tell,
“someone might as well feel them,” and she can sense thirty miles of
She says, dust creeping through the door cracks,
her husband stares She touches his leather seat,
out the window and lets her fingers hang
at rocks, heaped in the dark backyard. —just for a moment on the seam.
She breathes, then pulls
IV. away.
“All marriage is suffering,”
He says to the desert wind, because that is enough.
the night smells of cigarettes,
She X.
swallows smoke, and has nothing to say. in the distance,
a diesel stack warms and flutters,
and She watches,
knowing.
There is no other life.
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27. [1]
Taripay Pacha: The Age of Meeting Ourselves – Gloria Dyc
1.
Christmas Eve in Cusco: At midnight the stalls close
in the square of the stately the wet streets are thick with refuse
Spanish cathedrals young men in jeans and tee-shirts
people move with joy share cd’s of American music
fluid as fish or birds Families who hitched a ride to the fiesta
to the music of the zompanas settle uneasily on the cold pavement
a light rain heightens the aroma up against the walls of hotels and shops
of greens, steamed corn in the square where their last rebel
alpaca grilled on the streets Tupac Amura was beheaded
In stalls white satin clothes are sold A grandmother stirs for a sale
for the naked doll of the Child Please madam, I work for two weeks
hats sweaters blankets
The cathedrals built by the Spanish children offering finger puppets
were meant to equal in wonder This is our plaza: no hamburger for me?
the temples created by Inca genius 6 sols 20 sols 30 sols
stones interlocked so tight Next me madam, please
earthquakes lasting days
could not bring them down 2.
The foundations remain Brother Adriel with his ojos de lux
stripped of gold coating holds my hand in the darkness
melted down for currency his daughter hold my son’s
along with tons of silver and we descend rock by rock
for a tabernacle so heavy when to a sacred lagoon where (it’s said)
the Quechua could no longer gold and silver hoarded by the Spanish
carry it on their shoulders were mysteriously swallowed
it was installed over a motor On this night of the summer solstice
to continue in the processions the paq’o lights two candles
A life-size Jesus with human hair For his mesa he lays a white cloth
wears the skirt of a royal Incan etched with the four directions
Still at midnight mass there is and creates a circle of coca leaves
devotion in the lowered heads we add all that sustains life:
the soft Latin of the priest lima beans corn quinoa flowers
is barely audible as the panpipes fat from the alpaca
resonate in the vastness a splash of beer
of a cathedral open by day for a fee We hold coca leaves
Overpowered by steel and clear our minds
the worshipers of the sun the paq’o whistles to his spirits
recruited to paint the Last Supper a response comes in the darkness
on a scale to mimic Rome He sings an icaro and calls
placed fourteen Inca kings out to the sacred Apukuna
around the figure of Jesus then asks for the names of our
and offered guinea pig in place of bread mountains in New Mexico
The descendants of the royalty as we are borne to hanaqpacha
can still recite the names of Sapa Inca The medicine bundle is tied
indelible as the etching on the round stone and prepared for burial
where the sun pierces a needle’s eye we drink the last of the beer
between two sharp Andean peaks After our climb back we embrace
marking the solstice at Machu Pichu Tukay manayniyok
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28. 3.
La Raya at 4335 meters: place
where the peaks are best viewed
toilets can be used for a donation
A young boy with bare feet
flushes with a bucket of water
At Puka a matachina dance is underway 4.
sitting on the steps of a church Smugglers have seized Puno
a hundred chiseled faces under drugs cars petrol
black hats and blankets face us off products from Bolivia
Men in sateen purple suits particle board furniture
play trombones and guitars televisions and boom boxes
masked dancers in bishop hats This can and will happen
make their way through narrow streets abandoned housing projects
a teenage girl in yellow butterfly wings buildings with barred doors
and a mini skirt steps carefully scrawled with Sinoloa Cartel
from one of the few cars in the village dogs roaming mud roads
In a small unlit museum in back Vacant stares of Los ni ni
a stone phallic icon holds the hands in pocket waiting
head of a sacrificial victim Plato o plumo
capococha: hundreds of children This can and will happen
a thousand years before Christ No tax base no police
As we leave the village No fresh food no water
an old woman cries, “Mama, Papa” many chollo taxi drivers
and desperately throws her tricycles with canopies
black felt hat on the ground shelters of salvaged tin
With a sharp stone blue tarps to cover leaks
my heart is crudely gouged An old Quechua woman
and thrown steaming with burlap bags
on the earth between us. of plastic bottles
and soda cans
standing next to the road

29. 5.
Some Quechua fled the war
into heights of the Apukuna
took refuge on the floating islands
of Uros where totora reed and fish
were enough for survival 6.
A refuge on the island of Taquile: Before the stars moon sun
the people ascend the rocky there was Lake Titicaca
paths with the grace of alpaca breathing, breathing deeply
Water flows next to the trail her song is at a frequency
the terraced fields yield corn humans are unable to hear
quinoa beans and potatoes the divine ring behind silence
In this sublime order she is the source of water
shy young girls cover their faces at the temple at Tambomachy
with black wool cloaks no one can identify
The designs of the woven hats She named a dolphin pink
show the marital status of men and it became so
the placement of the tassel her designs are in the Milky Way
to the right or left Chewing coca leaves
signals their mood: serene clouds so close to the lake
or thinking through a problem morph into alpacas of the sky
Once married a woman cuts her hair The land undulates with the
and her husband weaves it into grace and purpose of a serpent
a coarse belt sewn to the female side the eyes of the puma open
silky blue and red sash in the green fur of the muscular hills
with the icons of island seasons She called the First Beings
If I could know such love… from springs and caves
The elders worry the young and told them where and how to walk
will leave for the seduction Pachamama rolls the lake
of Puno where Inca music so we see nuances of topaz and jade
is played on electric keyboard and moves again so we see
and the girls spin in bouffant sapphire and emerald
skirts showing young legs and more She moves all pachamama
She calls us to Taripay Pacha
zompanas: panpipes
ojos de lux: eyes of light
paq’o: shaman
mesa: altar
icara: ceremonial song
Apukuna: Sacred Andean mountains
hanaqpacha: refined energy of upper world
tukay manayniyoc: We are all one in divine consciousness
matachina: Dance introduced by Spanish held close to Christmas
capococha: The practice of human sacrifice
los ni ni: lost boys caught up in drug trade
plato o pluma: silver or lead, associated with drug culture
pachamama: Female earth
Taripay Pacha: The Age of Meeting Ourselves

30. [1]
Singapore – Mary Jane Roberts
1
singapore
the city is safe
the city is safe
ancient women
faces brown, backs bent
stoop over gutters
clipping blades of grass saris and business suits old trees making their roots
with scissors third-eye jewels and covered known
snip, snip, snip hair
one blade at a time Chinese collars, western ties stories seep out
they keep the jungle at bay all crowding the MRT at dusk dengue fever kills hundreds
a girl is murdered on
the city is safe the city is safe Sentosa,
crocodiles in the reservoir
traffic signals no gangs no drugs no graffiti dine on the unsuspecting
alight with stick men
red man green man pay politicians the city is safe
walkers wait not to speak
walkers cross impoverish dissenters shopping centers stretch
no one disobeys bug telephones from sea shore to straits
deny work permits high-rises of glass and steel
channels for walkers to those who speak out marble cement
for cars ban foreign presses buyers crowd cool corridors
for water that criticize jostle and push
but cracks in their rush to gather
in the island’s edges be vigilant Calvin Kleins Nikes
let in sea tides always vigilant Esprit Valentino Armani
that rise and fall for the cause of the whole Hermes Gucci
bloat with bottles is greater than its parts no lines
broken durian shells no passing lanes
stench, disease the city is safe just will and desire
the city is safe the drug of desire
the city is safe
a woman can walk the city is safe
airwaves controlled alone by the lake at night
tv shows edited singapore
websites banned no warning signs camelot of the east
newspapers censored beware of snakes where gray-haired women
straits times praising in the jungle clip grass from gutters
their benevolent tyrant cobra venom blinds keeping the green
Camelot of the east pit vipers kill the deep dark
a harmony of religions warnings would be bad for creeping green
and races tourism of jungle at
Muslim working beside bay
Buddhist there are cracks in the
Christians honoring Vesak day sidewalks
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31. 2 3
singapore river drought
(sculpture in a Singapore park—carved stone
singapore river from zimbabwe)
lush with
paper cups, plastic bags, bottles spirit woman
muddy brown water prays for rain
transformed by night her neck a long
alive with wind-blown stars tall glass
light cast by lanterns of yearning
slung from wooden junks smooth and green
tourists lazing within chiweshe stone
lulled by the silent flow cool to the touch
of litter to the sea the hollows and hills
of her face
serene:
the gods will provide
shower her lips
fill her throat
soften the jagged kinks
of her rough, green hair
turn it smooth
as the stream
that flowed once
across the stones’
deep heart
green as the fields
she sees in memory
fields full with wheat
and yams
if she holds still
and waits here,
waits for rain—
sends her prayers
to the cloudless sky—
memory may become
the moment,
the future more
than a slim, green neck
yearning, yearning
for food for her child

32. [1]
Cream – William Harney
I have stopped at the deli in Prides Crossing.
It’s early Fall, early morning.
Two Mexican kids, workers for a landscape business,
Have stopped for coffee. Jeans, grey sweatshirts with the
Outfit’s logo, and faded red ball caps. One has a wispy, kid’s
Mustache. They are squat figures, just over five foot,
Bent like stone masons.
The one with the mustache asks the proprietor for two coffees, one with cream.
You help yourself to the cream he’s told, the owner pointing
To a dispenser with a stainless steel lever you pop up and a
Drip tray underneath, then going back to his prep work.
The boy guesses how the machine works, puts his cup underneath
And plunk, plunk. Then it occurs to him, he’s on his own,
The cream is free, plunk, plunk. He looks up at his
Compatriot, taps the lever an extra tap (Oops!) and smiles.
Nobody stops you here, take all you want is how it works.
They’re grinning now.
They see me. Sixty-three. I could be one of those people
Angry they’re here. They don’t know. But the boy gives me
The same smile and I smile back. Today, we can have all we want,
Free cream for everyone. I like the joke as much as they do and I like
Them for supposing I would.
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33. [2]
An able bodied linked team of rivals – Matthew Harris
This democrat feels much relief that Obama da man within his barrack
Sans capital hill – amidst the leprous creatures fomenting din and clack
And I evince a stronger president viz his second term in no mood for flack
Though recognize that late night comedians will rile the audience with a hack
Towards said storied leader of these United States possessing grit and a knack
Whose aura, charisma, dogma, and persona no match whence nation on the brink
Of frightful mailer daemons (that howl yahoo) conspiring to induce at least a chink
In the salutary merits of white house lord, who maintains an amazing cool
Understandable if temptation finds him imbibing for ale or brewed drink
While casting those buck eyes upon portrait of sixteenth – the land of link
Con, the most exemplary over-seer of American nation who transcended a bar
From frontier, which physical distance to honored roll to guide union
Birthed then four score and seven years prior – under this present star
Now, a plethora of gummy gooey grimly gook extant like global pitted with tar
Yet…this chosen feted industriously limbered oh reverent unpretentious vet
Adroit with skilled qualities of noteworthy political statecraft art
Exudes confidence toward barrage of ceaseless invisible arrows he does dart
With progressively honed practice in tandem with a sensitive heart
Will does his level best to hammer out solutions quieting secessionist rumblings
That will pre-empt this county by nailing resistance that doth tear us a part
And against this analogous trackless unfettered train
Can implement progressive measures securing rails during his reign
To avoid veering off that “fiscal cliff” invoking all to invoke “Hussein”
As nearly omnipotent and more powerful that any industrial crane
A prince gifted with magical powers within that time-tested brain
So, I forewarn any boisterous crowd of naysayers to beware and take flight
Cuz this African American – about six foot two inches in height
Possess acumen and women to deliver light
From out this darkness per assuaging, budgeting and massaging might
To conquer economic, geographic, and pacific size plight
Delivering like Abraham his people to an idyllic sight!
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34. [3]
I Netted Mosquito Magic – Matthew Harris
No sooner that getting a welt after getting bit
From the female blood-sucking insect
(Which critters actually considered little flies?
Comprise the family culicidae)
A most amazing extraordinaire inoculated me
With a short lived surprise talent
Which got this American male infected
With three hundred seconds of super human impeccable skill
Short-lived feat found body, mind or spirit
Capable to transcend the natural
Limits of my usual skills, and infusing this ordinary guy
With an unpredictable
Supreme titillating, stupefying, resounding, hair-raising, glorifying,
Fleeting, entertaining, daunting, catapulting, bedazzling,
Amazing stints possessing thy being sans from an invisible source
Thence when expending said burst of tremendous spurt
Per awesome bout of mental, physical or spiritual bags of tricks
Eclipsing any mortal prowess with stratospheric wow fear less factor
Ultimate fatigue found this bloke supine
And unable to summon forth one iota of strength
Nor remember how that pestilential sucker inculcated you
With a combination of Godzilla, Tarzan, superman, Spiderman,
Jane Austin like powers
Whereby a bare willow the wisp o some fictional idée fix
Gripped hold thine fertile gray matter –
Wherein dwells the imagination
To attempt (albeit futilely) communication (on a wing and prayer)
Of what could only be considered a new sense fly by night dream!
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35. [4]
Lady in Red – Matthew Harris
chorus::
she danced with a feverish spring and stepped as if in the air
no worries existed for whose well being she did care
with eyes of sparkling emeralds with a shimmering flair
amber waves brought serenity from her flowing glistening hair
attracting like a magnet every person she that came near
spreading infectious contagion of happiness every where!
tossed out the fashion boutique on a cushion squarely led
this lady in red
with her snug outfit against her slim body did wed
pizzazz and personality that bred
this well healed nanny with high street cred
made sure charges looked spiffy and well fed
chorus::
she danced with a feverish spring and stepped as if in the air
no worries existed for whose well being she did care
with eyes of sparkling emeralds with a shimmering flair
amber waves brought serenity from her flowing glistening hair
attracting like a magnet every person she that came near
spreading infectious contagion of happiness every where!
atop shoulders bounced a well coiffed and adorable head
drawing followers wherever she led
and listened to her sexy voice no matter what she said
chorus::
she danced with a feverish spring and stepped as if in the air
no worries existed for whose well being she did care
with eyes of sparkling emeralds with a shimmering flair
amber waves brought serenity from her flowing glistening hair
attracting like a magnet every person she that came near
spreading infectious contagion of happiness every where!
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36. [5]
Ode to Freedom – Clemencio Bascar
In utter darkness, my ancestral share of the future is being auctioned
at a price way, way below its real current value; worse, frenzied negotiations
have been clandestinely going on outside the borders of my thoughts…a flagrant
corruption and betrayal of my sense of honor, legitimacy, and worth. All the time,
in my primal innocence, I thought I was a lone victim of this denuding conspiracy
which causes immeasurable and irreparable degradation of my faith and trust in the
traditions of civility, liberty, order, and power; oh, how wrong could I be!
Just across the thin strip dividing our fuddy-duddy life space,
Is an enraged soul whose audacious pre-disposition to rebellion
And violent reflexes, is as excitable and instantaneous as the
Rattle-snake’s instinctive assault;
Our intimate parallelism of predicament, we both realize,
Is not a case of isolation, but widespread and pervasive,
Reminiscent of times of terror and oppression which stirred
The passions of nobility, gallantry, idealism, and solidarity of
Our forebears whose common aspiration was the complete
Recovery of their sacred liberties and the total restoration
Of the reign of justice and peace plus the full recognition
Of their human dignity;
The commonality of our personal circumstances, the consciousness of our
insignificance, and our feeling of unworthiness and hopelessness under the
burgeoning regime of force and perpetual domination, offer us only two
contrasting options to destiny: one, the torturous course of heroes; the other,
the redolent but dehumanizing sanctuary of cowards.
My friend quickly takes the up-hill road to valor
Not realizing that in the standard of heaven, no hero
Is ever proclaimed in war, no fighter is bestowed honor,
And heroism in the battle fields is just the ideal of fools; in
His heart though, firmed is the belief that dying for one’s
Country is the highest form of sacrifice, patriotically worth
Repeating, mystically inspiring, more so, when peace eagerly
Awaits at the enemy’s last frontier of defense.
Under a thick clump of vines, I proudly watch my friend’s
Final rendezvous with freedom
Into the redeeming caress of
Silence.
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37. [6]
The Bite – Tatjana Debeljacki
The trail
emergency
of vocals sounds
explained certainty
equipped intolerance
paid the air with inconvenience
if he had given it because he has the way
speaks flies away politely totally the face blood
Infinity penalizes increases dissolves knowledge
Snatches the offers lively intentions necessity of rapid
Unknown drive revises distance takes the rest close or not
torn apart were stacked in doubt chooses something a warning
clearly forgotten tightens the wound the time occurred close passengers
the future in front of the turning moody warm words hiding smell of sweat
exist lunch together magnificent orgasm romance the spare key the month of May
ripening carefully bravely he climbs up daydreaming he is proud no failure for sure
knowing nothing persistence stubbornness the heat of planets Venus the symbol of taurus
the skill the strength the temper punctuality burning imagination surrounds the arms
and its strength realization trust inaccessibly inaccessible totally realistic tourist
Intelligence and the ability for having the knack and interests and judgment
hospitality with understanding the feeling importance discreet personality
The weapons of the characteristics of these relationships significant strong
Continuation fidelity definite inseparable commitment strain the point
cheerfulness with aim conquering combinations understated combining
the senses active and intensive tempting red silk wine look eyes
focused on the sign of uncertainty original line analyses
always analyses good and planned misunderstanding
the point thinking wanted restless movable pleasing its
originality fertility reserved ability realization
of ideas the base for strong long-lasting liaison
Participates in the experiment curiosity challenge
Power for all different phenomenon in shades
Undertaking complications in pair principles
the line procedure is different only deceiving
The benefit war egoist solid state staggering
the possession psychological defiance
Artificially cautiously tested often
Nightmare the arrow wilderness
bulls eye brain the rules govern
routine sleepwalker ideal
balance peak the zone
The trip sexual power
Morning France
damaged liaison
mending hmm
Erogenous –
Platonic-
empty-
liaison
night
day
THE STREET
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38. [7]
Water Drawings in a Linked Maybe Haiku – Michael H. Brownstein
water fills me with you
actuaries of mist and drizzle
Christmas light in prisms
listen to the water fall
the edge a pool of glimmer
smooth skinned and happy
when I drink this water
I wear your hand in my glove
your impression on my love
God created life out of water
good from the earth
you because he knew of me
water silvers the skyline
the city and town
the branch you sit upon
because of you
even water
is more beautiful
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39. [8]
photography
The London Tunnels by Michael Wasney
Power Lines by Michael Wasney
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40. [9]
San Francisco at Night by Michael Wasney
March to the Sea by Michael Wasney
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41. [10]
Crane Fly & The Rain by Michael Wasney
Head in the Seed by Alison Stewart
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42. [11]
2 by Pete Madzelan
6 by Pete Madzelan
3 by Pete Madzelan
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43. [12]
Winter in The Lower Galil, 2 by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Winter in The Lower Galil, 3 by KJ Hannah Greenberg
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44. [13]
Winter in The Lower Galil, 5 by KJ Hannah Greenberg
Winter in The Lower Galil, 1
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
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45. [14]
Lavendar by Isli Sarai
Cerulean by Isli Sarai
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46. [15]
Cyan by Isli Sarai Nude by Isli Sarai
Malar Butterfly Season by Gwen Mercado Reyes
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47. [16]
persuasive essay
Visiting From Out of Town by Patty Somlo
He reaches into the garbage can with one clean punch. Face darkened by dust, his tan suede
jacket shiny in places and black as a crow, the man looks as if he’s come up to the light from a
coal mine. I assume, as anyone would, that he’s fishing for bottles and cans, which he’ll toss into
a shopping cart and wheel away to turn in for change. Instead, the black hand emerges and shoves
a slice of French bread between his thin gray lips.
The cloudless sky is drenched a primary hue I have only seen in Northern California. Tourists sit at
round tables sipping wine. A white and green boat edges up to the dock and men with briefcases
hung from long shoulder straps sprint past the man at the garbage can, in hopes of reaching the
gate before the ferry steams off.
Prior to walking out here, my husband Richard and I were in a shop nestled on the bay side of the
remodeled Ferry Building behind us, admiring a pale yellow antique porcelain ladle imported from
Paris. We entered the shop after strolling the wide walkway lined with oranges and avocados piled
atop wooden stands and bottles of wine cradled in round holds, cheese shops and tea stands, and
places to buy Italian gelato and local Marin County oysters. The blood reds, greens and nearly
black purples, and sweet and sour scents, and even the arrangements of objects were so alluring I
wanted to buy, though I’m visiting from out of town and don’t have room in my suitcase for one
extra thing.
Late afternoon, and shadows nearly cover the pier. The wind has picked up and the thought of
eating the sorbet I’m holding in a small pink cup makes me shiver. Regardless, I slide the plastic
spoon, shaped like a miniature pink shovel, into the frozen fruit and lift it to my mouth.
There is something so sweet about San Francisco it hurts. I felt it when I moved here thirty-four
years ago and I feel it today. Especially on these sunny cloudless days, the city beckons, like a
young man with dark soft eyes. The air and light samba in a coupling so exquisite neither can
believe it, and the colors of water and brick, wood and trees seem squeezed from Picasso’s
twisted tubes of paint.
I used to gaze out on this view over San Francisco Bay -- the Bay Bridge to Oakland on my right and
the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin headlands to my left -- while riding a stationary bike in front of
the window at the YMCA two blocks behind where I sit. Twelve years ago, though, I stopped.
That’s when I was forced to move. San Francisco had attracted too many newcomers in a modern
Gold Rush of high tech. For us longtime San Franciscans, the city suddenly soured. Rents and
housing prices soared, while ordinary salaries refused to keep up.
A native San Franciscan, my husband had only left the Bay Area once in his life, for a four-year Air
Force stint in his early twenties. At the age of fifty-five, he could not afford to stay. An adopted
child of this city for over twenty years, I was forced to leave with him.
Until I saw that grimy man reach his hand into the garbage and pull out a chunk of bread, I was
feeling sorry for myself. It’s not easy to leave a place you love in middle age. The move north to
Oregon came with benefits. Richard and I were able to buy a Victorian house. But along with the
good I was forced to grieve the loss of my beloved San Francisco, while trying without success to
find something to replace it in my new home.
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48. [17]
I had to find a doctor, dentist and hairdresser, and make new friends. I had to take the written
test for an Oregon driver’s license. I even had to learn the correct pronunciation for rivers, such
as the Willamette, and for towns like Tigard. And of course I had to get accustomed to endless
dark days of rain.
I wasn’t able to create a history for myself in the new place. I also didn’t have the luxury of
recalling what happened at this café or over there when I hiked up that hilly street. In short, I
couldn’t re-create that most necessary aspect of home – memories from years living in the same
place.
I am shivering now, having slurped through the first scoop of lemon sorbet down to the second
scoop which is coconut. The appearance of the dirty man has caused me to notice the shopping
carts parked along the pier, like cars jammed against the curbs on San Francisco’s steep streets.
The longer I look, the more shopping carts I see, as if they’ve been reproducing themselves like
bunnies. I’m left with a strange buzzing in my head, as I turn and notice the people behind me
drinking wine, wet raw oysters gleaming in their shells at the centers of several tables. I can’t
help but see the French bread, sliced, and waiting for someone’s clean fingers to lift it to a mouth
containing all its teeth.
Moments ago, for days really, I had been consoling myself as the victim of a terrible crime,
perpetrated by the suddenly wealthy, young high tech invaders who stole my city and turned me
out. I was acting as if I had no home.
But there is a different crime here and I am not so easily its victim. The crime is that we sit
sipping our wine, eating our oysters and slurping our sorbet, as if the dirty man eating out of the
garbage and the people whose lives are stuffed inside one single grocery cart do not exist.
I’m not sure how or when we quit noticing. At one time, the sight of people living on the street,
their parked shopping carts stuffed with belongings or their bodies framed by doorways as they
slept, would have been shocking. Now it’s as commonplace as newspaper skidding across the
street.
When I was young, it was not this way in any place we lived, and my family moved around. My
father was a career Air Force officer, and every two years he got assigned to a different base. We
lived on military installations surrounded by farms and within a short drive to some small town. A
longer drive got us to a major city.
The cities were where we shopped for dresses and shoes and sometimes watched Broadway shows.
Whenever we visited the city, we passed by an area known as Skid Row. In Philadelphia, St. Louis,
Trenton and New York, Skid Row was where the bums hung out. The bums, I knew, were
alcoholics, who sat on the sidewalk and drank.
I can’t remember when Skid Row started to spread. All I know is that one day Skid Row bums
became street people, and in San Francisco they sat on sidewalks and slept in parks and doorways
all over town.
I’m also not sure when the term street people went out of style and we started using the single
word homeless. Street people had the connotation of choice, something the word homeless
decidedly lacks. What started as a small group when I was a child, concentrated in the seediest
part of a city, had now grown into battalions of people scattered through neighborhoods in cities
and towns all across the country. And for many, their homes on the street were now permanent.
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49. [18]
In my Portland, Oregon, I recognize the homeless. Because it’s Portland, we smile and say “Good
morning” or “How are you?” I assume they are homeless, because they lean down hard against the
curled bars to shove their loaded metal carts forward, like determined housewives resentful that
their husbands never help with the weekly food shopping. The moment I put my garbage out on
Sunday evening, I hear the whir of the shopping cart wheels, spinning closer to my house. Then
the glass tinkles and aluminum cans clatter as they fall.
I’m not in Portland now but on vacation in San Francisco, sitting on this pier eating a small cup of
sorbet that set me back four dollars. People are gathered around tables sipping wine from bottles
that might be priced as high as fifty or sixty dollars apiece. We are enjoying a shamelessly sunny
day in a city where the average price of a home is just under one million dollars. And we act as if
the man eating out of the garbage and the people sitting next to their grocery cart homes are not
our problem or fault.
I can’t help but ponder the plight of the homeless. As a city dweller who walks the shopping-cart
littered streets every day, I am aware that the numbers and reach of the homeless keeps rising,
like an insistent tide eating away at the shore. I am also aware that it’s become unfashionable to
care about the less fortunate, especially the homeless, whose descent to the sidewalks appears to
have been their own fault. The idea that there should be a safety net to keep so many people
from falling so far is also not popular. Safety nets, many say now, are for sissies. You have simply
got to have the balls to make it across the tightrope without a net. This has become America’s
message.
Most tragic of all, as we entered the third decade of homelessness for thousands of Vietnam vets,
the United States got involved in two more wars. Death can be one suicide bomber or cheap,
crude explosive device away for our soldiers, which is breeding a whole new generation of the
emotionally scarred, many destined to be homeless.
There have always been societies where a small number of the powerful and greedy held out
against an army of the poor. In Nicaragua, the wealthy once lived behind walls topped with broken
Coke bottles. That is, until the Sandinista guerrillas marched into the capital city of Managua, and
poor people started dancing the cumbia around the swimming pools of the rich, most of whom had
fled the country for the United States.
What if, like the young Sandinista guerrillas, the homeless in America rose up in some unstoppable
natural catastrophe? What if one morning people living out of shopping carts exploded like Mt. St.
Helens from the very heart of addiction and pain, spewing their hot lava of sorrow onto the
streets and alleys of every American city? What if the burning liquid of their anger covered the
freeways and coated the stores and the wide bland suburban avenues? What if they obliterated
McDonald’s and Denny’s, Applebee’s and Sizzler, and even Home Depot and Wal-Mart, with their
vomit and blood, runny stools and loose teeth?
Or if it’s not within their power to erupt, perhaps they could learn another language. They could
speak English with a lilt, the hint of Bombay and scent of curry emanating from their lips. They
might darken their skin, grow exceedingly thin and dress in bright yellow, red and green clothes
wrapped around their bodies and knotted at the waist. We would then know what was expected of
us, as the homeless were transformed into tragic Indians or Africans with huge eyes, their hands
reaching out in an eternal and familiar gesture of suffering.
This is, after all, America, where having refugees of small towns, suburbs and dusty reservations
panhandling on our streets doesn’t sit right. In America, it is cowardly and shameful to ask for
help. Africans, Indians and Central Americans evoke our pity. Americans, in their soiled,
secondhand shoes, light the spark of our anger.
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50. [19]
More than anger, the homeless hit a raw nerve. They brush our bodies a little too closely, as if
they’re planning to take advantage of us in a terribly unseemly way. They rub the sensitive ache
lying under our hearts, the I could be there too place, where we shove breast cancer,
Alzheimer’s, MS and AIDS.
The sun has sunk further down in the sky and I am cold. My four-dollar sorbet has melted into a
pale yellow puddle.
The last year I lived in San Francisco, a small apartment building filled with old Chinese renters
was sold out from under them. The aged tenants of this prime real estate in the heart of North
Beach, once home to Beat poets and strippers, suddenly had no place to go.
The day I read about the old Chinese in this building, some of them having lived there for fifty
years, I saw myself. Without children, a pension or a house to call my own, I looked ahead twenty
years and there I sat, staring out the window of a rundown apartment onto a city where I couldn’t
afford a single other place to live.
Even now, having left San Francisco and having had the immense good fortune of being able to
buy a house, I still stare into the future with fear. Nearly every Sunday evening when I set my
bright yellow plastic recycling bins next to the curb, a thin older woman – last week she looked
Chinese, the week before that I thought she might have been Russian – comes by to collect. The
moment I see her I have to look away, even as she’s asking if I have more bottles and cans she can
take.
I walk as quickly as I can through the wooden patio gate, shut and lock the gate behind me,
certain if I don’t that she will follow me into the garden, pad up the back stairs onto the porch
and slide through the door. I am sure she will be there in the morning, sitting across from me at
the kitchen table, waiting to be fed. I know she will expect me to empty her bedpan and change
her soiled clothes, when she is no longer able to take care of herself.
But when I lock the gate, I see that she is no longer around. And I think, She has to be someone’s
grandmother. I am sure of it. Just as I am sure she must be someone’s mom.
She is, in truth, no one I know. Yet at the same time – and I am certain of this – she is a woman
who could never have imagined the place where she has found herself now.
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51. [20]
Embracing Our Youth’s Creativity by Ben Kelman
Student individuality is becoming a mirage. Most people dismiss the idea that young children's
minds are flowing with impressive creativity rather than simply immature hyperactivity. I believe
the former. I believe because I’ve seen that young children seek multiple solutions to any obstacle
they face, presenting early signs of divergent thinking that is re-introduced to graduate students
in the most respected universities. This early talent is mangled and stomped on by years of a
right-or-wrong public education. Harnessing this talent with a more flexible education system is
the key to a successful future for our country.
At any rate, I am aware how complicated the topic of a feasible public education can be, but the
fact of the matter is that our educators are attempting something impossible right now:
Attempting to teach children how to adapt to our ever-changing economy ten years from now
while our best economists cannot predict what it will look like ten weeks from now. This mindset
is a dead end. If we can instead teach children to be adaptable and follow the Boy Scouts' motto
“Be Prepared,” the future for our country would look much brighter.
When broken down to the core problems, it's easiest to view the teaching and mentoring of
students as a manufacturing process. As cold and heartless as it sounds, that's the way it is. This is
because when products are mass-produced, a margin of error always needs to be taken into
account. As production rates increase, that margin of error should increase proportionately. A
manufacturer of thumbtacks will not investigate every single thumbtack made if they are
producing thousands per day. Sir Ken Robinson, a famous speaker on the topic of public education,
presented the idea that high schools all over the country are even run like factories with ringing
bells, “batches” (classes) of students, and other very systematic features.
When the connection is drawn between schools and factories, the issue is quite apparent. Even
yearly, classroom sizes are increasing, and a greater number students are left in the dust. As
population reaches these dangerous extremes, individualized learning becomes less feasible. Just
like thumbtacks, it is starting to become impossible for children to get the individual attention
they require, and students are becoming marginalized for the greater good of the entire
classroom.
The bright students are pushed forward and the distracted ones are given drugs with possibly
dangerous long-term effects such as Vyvance and Adderall. Of course these students are only
distracted by the most intensely stimulating age of media our world has ever known, with a new
iPhone every year, a new video game every week, and a new song every minute. Today's
taxpayers, voters, politicians and teachers have never tried learning in an environment as
aesthetically stimulating.
Moreover, we cannot forget layoffs within the past few decades due to Artificial Intelligence
replacing low-skill workers with higher production rates and fewer errors. On paper, these
machines appear the answer to mass production, but no machine can yet match the creativity of
the human brain. That is, until that young creative brain mentioned earlier is compressed into a
perfect cube to take its place in an assembly line in which it is no longer needed.
Above all, the imagination of the young brain is endless. One Wednesday evening at my synagogue
when I was only in the seventh grade, our religion teacher told us to draw our interpretations of
the word “love.” My peers and I all had pathetic drawings: pictures of hearts and cupids,
occasionally names of girls from the class. The following Sunday when I came back to tutor the
toddlers at my synagogue, the same activity was conducted by the teacher, and the results were
astounding. Pictures of basketballs, game controllers, parents, uncles, pets, even dinosaurs
littered her desk, juxtaposed to our dull, lazy seventh-grade images.
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52. [21]
In my eyes, this symbolizes conformity. Teachers, coaches, and mentors have all taught me one
universal truth to individual success: to be successful, I must prepare to fail. In the likely event
that failure occurs, preparing for it makes moving on to another attempt easier and the process
continues. The younger children were okay with failing while the older ones were scared of it even
without a grade being dangled over our heads. In kindergarten, we had our own Lego towers, Play-
Dough creations, and drawings of love. All of this is promptly forgotten when the child begins to
learn how to spell and read, and are given bad grades that don't even mean anything when they
fail. These are very important skills to learn, but the style children are taught them is carried out
to many future subjects, such as literature and the arts. Finding the tone and the theme of
various lyrics of The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix that were written under the influence of LSD seems
pretentious and simply a waste of time.
Nevertheless, there is a solution to the muzzling of our children's creativity, and that is to redirect
this mass-production mindset towards the production of some of the very impressive technology
that is already on today's market. Educators can use this technology as an oracle for students to
use so that they can learn on their own time and in their own environment. By stopping black-and-
white topics at an earlier age and allowing students to use their basic skills to express themselves
through sciences, dance, or mathematics, we should see students who are much more passionate
about their learning as we see today at the collegiate level.
With all the new technology entering high schools, I believe it is once again feasible to allow
students more options with their learning styles as well as content. Giving students these options
of learning styles, such as different times of the day and in large or small groups, will teach them
adaptability, allow them to fulfill their own potential as individual people, and maintain the
creative minds needed to solve our future problems.
Drugging these students is not the answer. Instead we should teach the media, allow students to
embrace it. Like I said, by ignoring it, we are attempting to teach children how to fit into an
economy ten years from now while we can't predict what it will look like ten weeks from now. By
breaking the already leaking dam of media into schools, we can inspire students earlier and truly
prepare them for life after high school. This would entail fewer dropouts and greater academic
success.
Using technology to embrace the creativity of the young mind is much more promising for the
future of our country than reprogramming it to today's issues. The kind of imaginative and
divergent thinking that children possess is the kind of thinking that has the potential to be molded
into saving our planet one day.
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