pcrmLtrr rsMagazine Arts Literary Spectrum [Spectrum] pig2009 Spring
SpectrumLiterary Arts Magazine Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine [email protected] www.spectrum.neu.edu 328B Curry Student Center Mailbox: 434 CSC
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine showcases the talents of the writers and artists at Northeastern University. All members of the Northeastern community are encouraged to submit works of original poetry, prose, and visual art. For more information, please visit www.spectrum.neu.edu.
Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine, Fall 2008 edition. Copyright © Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and respective authors. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication, including the signatures, may be reproduced without the permission of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and/or respective authors.
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Any references to people living or dead are purely coincidental, except in the cases of a public figure. The views and opinions represented in this medium do not necessarily reflect those of Northeastern University or the staff of Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine.
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Special Thanks to Phil Cara Executive Staff Editor-In-Chief Abby Zorbaugh Layout and Design David Nadeau Financial Manager Michelle Alexander Advertizing Manager Josh Olejarz Secretary Diana Mai
General Staff Willow Goldstein Abby Hawkins Miriam Laufer Michael Ogulnick Christie Perkins Magdalena Szalowski Carli Velocci
Cover and theme art based on “The Truth About Strawberries” by Adam Simone, found within this issue of Spectrum. From the Editor
As the cover image suggests, this is one tasty, juicy uit of a magazine. Hidden inside these luscious pages are the voices of Northeastern. is issue reveals students’ secret lives: the feelings best shared through poems, the moments captured by a lens. All over campus, nestled next to the Huntington News, our issues are ripe for picking. Don’t be aaid to open this issue and take a bite.
-Abby Zorbaugh Table of Contents
2 “It’s e Simple ings” - Allison McKenzie 26 untitled - Cindy Yexing Qiao “Eyes Revised” - Shane Fulton 28 “Boston Love Story” - Allison Smith 4 “Split Second” - Jessica Moog “Red Line” - Diana Mai “If I Were Still a Virgin” - B.R. 30 “3:17 a.m.” - Ella Devine 6 “Schoolyard Love” - Ryan Michel “New York Plays Itself” - J.M. Olejarz “I Rule e World” - Adam Simone 8 “Brick With a Rose” - Carolyn Meers “Blacktop Queen” - Miriam Laufer 32 “Blast” - Shane Fulton “Caution” - Diana Mai 10 “Princess Latte” - Alison Smith “Summer Poem” - C. Maie Waugh 34 “e Truth About Strawberries” - Adam Simone “e Hills Are Alive” - Kristin Salomon “Berry Berry Land” - Carolyn Meers
12 “Epitome of Ephiphanies” - Allison McKenzie 36 “Hot Apartment on 98th Street” - Christie Perkins “Supporting Up-Stares” - Jason Jedrusiak “Maid in La Casa de Diaz” - Christie Perkins “Brownstone” - Laurel Schultheis 14 “Culture Capitalist” - Christie Perkins “Borrowed Time” -Gina Bollenback 38 “Beauty, For Once” - Allison McKenzie “Little Metaphors” - J.M. Olejarz untitled - Michelle Catagnus “Under Grey Skies” - Lauren Chapman 40 “Windows to e Past” - Nachiket Rajderkar” “From Slip 87” - Stuart Peterfreund “Shelter” - Mark Hevert
16 “Fiy isn’t old” - Brad Vandehey 42 “summer nights at the institute, and it’s untitled works - Jessie Carroll raining” - Rachel Zarrell “Waiting” - Erin Costello 18 “Closure” - Ella Devine “Self Portrait” - Megan McCormick 44 “Communion” - Ben Landsberg “Apocalypse” - Glen Chiachieri 20 “A History” - Nikki Frankel 46 “Babel” - Alison Smith 22 untitled - Michelle Catagnus “Limbs Grounded” - Laurel Schultheis
24 “Friday Night” - Diana Mai 48 “Doppelganger” - Tara P. Vilk “In silence the gray beard” - Robert Gewirtz “Vandalism” - Jessica Moog “Demolition” - Olivia Pascoe “It’s e Simple ings” by Allison McKenzie Eyes Revised
Most people can see A gnarled, fractured man Cup in hand, grasping at coattails Grubbily pleading and snatching
Or the finely sculpted curves of a woman In a Michelangelo or Raphael Or even a golden winged ship Passing overhead
ey see what they are expected to see Like statues Monuments Cathedrals And anything else too shiny to ignore
But what most people don’t notice Is the green shadow behind the bold suit of a businessman Or the closet he stands in front of Guardings alway
ey don’t see the subtle twinkle in the eye Of a husband aer his wife departs And the postman arrives e tiniest flash of revelation
Most never know the monumental minuteness of Ants in the woods e crooked smile of Aunt Sandra Feeding thrushes Graffiti on old railway cars, or “Fuck you” carved into a wooden desk
And if you tell me that the beauty of human potential Can be found in the carvings of the Coliseum I will show you the white, wispy hair Of two balding old men sitting in the park eir slow drawls faintly heard by any other
Or the magnificent simplicity of the first falling oak leaf Set ablaze with transient passion
Perhaps in another million years We will all see it all
ey say the eye was the last organ to evolve.
Shane Fulton “Split Second” by Jessica Moog 4
If I Were Still a Virgin
I’d probably have had sex with a tree by now. Because aer 21 years of abstinence, I’d definitely have a woody. Holding my genitals to a higher moral standard sounds loy and good. But orgasms are celestial. So like any decent renaissance theologian, I’ve counted the number of angels that can simultaneously fit on the tip of my penis. (So far I’ve managed only one at a time.)
If I were still a virgin I’d never masturbate for fear that a single seamen might go to waste— mutiny upon the very Arc of humanity.
If I were still a virgin I’d never know the warm magic spells cast by the wand that lives in my pants: e Original Prestidigitator. Nor would I know hers: the sweetest strangest looking best tasting lunch and e Original Bedtime Snack.
If I were still a virgin I’d philosophize about the grander order of love; I’d expound upon the history of pubic pogonotrophy; I’d explore the deeper meanings of humping.
If I were still a virgin I would never know what I’d been missing and probably wouldn’t even care.
B.R Schoolyard Love is was schoolyard love.
I’ll send her a note, Pulled out of my Scooby-Doo lunch box. Jinkies..! I wonder if she would want my chocolate milk Or juice from my sippy cup? e exchange of desserts; I was her Oreo, and she was my sweetest by the foot.
is was schoolyard love.
I’d tell her that I was not just infatuated, but more so captivated by the way she wears the mittens on her sleeves. e glow-in-the-dark Barbie band aides when she bleeds; From the fact that she’s been circling replies to my countless paper messages; “Yes, No, Maybe Tomorrow?” All archived in my roll-ly-poll-ly backpack; e luggage I carried on our trips to the jungle gym. My giant utility belt; I was her Batman she was my Batgirl, Halloween was special because her trick was to treat me.
is was schoolyard love.
Circles, squares; lines so narrow; Hearts pierced by Cupid’s arrow. I now had the Smilies. e sickening giggles; Bitten by the smitten kitten; that grasped my tongue, and passed it aro und the four square court.
is was schoolyard love.
We go home to talk on the phone, hiding our love through words like “Ditto.” Mimicking mommy and daddy, to prove to them that we’re just as capable; to share a profound conversation. Maybe about video games; virtual reality is what we played, and she was good at pushing my buttons; 7000 points just for saying "Hi..."
is is schoolyard love.
I want to take you to on a "date-date", and break my adolescences to tell you that “I like-like you” Where we can go to the diner and sip on one milkshake with two straws. en I can then play it back old school and take you to the sock hop, As we swing to the upbeat sounds of the trumpets, And twirl in a daze from the spiked punch, thanks to the football team.
is is schoolyard love.
Pep rallies; she was the cheerleader And I was the lil’ slugger hitting the home-- Coming throne was our destiny; she was my voted bride-queen to be, and I her king. Basking in the glory of our cliché high school fairy tale.
is is schoolyard love.
A rude awakening of a good-bye, as she fills up the U-Haul with the last wooden box. Draped in Power Ranger stickers; Reminisce of the moments we shared. A true time capsule containing all our childish secrets. A portal that allows us to go back to our Sand box gaze, Two -slice Fridays, Knee scabs, And Valentine's Day bags.
Boy how I miss that schoolyard. Where it truly was simple to tell you that I loved you.
Ryan Michel 6 “Brick With a Rose” by Carolyn Meers 8
Blacktop Queen
“You’re not very talkative, are you?” he He does not realize that none of this activ- asks, facing me, his brown eyes full of my rumpled ity can take place without me. I cannot hate recess; hair and blotchy skin. My shoulders shrug in their I am its heartbeat. No one else is consciously pre- gray sweatshirt prison. I feel my shoulder blades serving these memories of sky and grass and wind rub against the scratchy cinderblocks of the wall for future confinement in foreign castles. ese behind me. players moving across the grass, these so and gig- He hesitates. I have never really looked at gling braiders, do not exist without me to observe him before, but his mouth is very small. His lips them. When I am not here, none of them exist, are pink and a little chapped. I feel the heat radiat- not even this smallest supplicant who distances ing off his skin, hear the conflict in his mind himself from the balance of my universe. (Should I stay or should I go, will she miss me, will Again, I shrug. e fabric of my sweatshirt she know?). I wrote a poem about it once. Tohim, catches on the brambles of the wall behind me, I am just a lonely girl on the blacktop. Tome, he is and slowly the molecules release each other. “I one of many knights fawning on his queen. guess it is nice to be outside.” He searches for He offers me a handful of pebbles he has words to impress me. “e sky is so blue, you can gleaned from the concrete surface, but is too shy get lost in it sometimes.” He looks hard at me. to say so. e pebbles fall between us, with a so “Sometimes I feel like I don’t exist.” whoosh of landing. Now the shield of the pebbles e heartbeat of recess is suddenly pound- separates us, he again takes up his lance of courage. ing faster, and I am not controlling it. I hear “Do you like recess?” He glances around. Wishing shouts in the field. “Hey, isn’t that Shrimpy talking to keep his secret for my ears only, he leans for- to Weirdo Queen?” e giggling in the dandelion ward. “I don’t.” chain circle stops then grows louder. I close my I look at him, communicating my regal eyes, feel my velvet chair behind me, see the ar- understanding. A queen must sympathize with mored heads bowed at my feet. I, kind majesty her subjects. “You don’t have to like recess.” I allow that I am, scent the fear of my smallest knight. I him this freedom. stand, face the shouts, the giggles. “Do you want “But you like it.” He does not understand to play with me?” I ask. He looks up. He glances me. He sees the other knights in the field before around. He readjusts his armor and he stands. me, vying in sport for my approval. He sees the “Yeah. What do you want to play?” We maids to the side, making dandelions into garlands walk off toward the pine tree next to the blacktop, for my hair. In his eyes, those are rough boys being where I suspect a dragon laid an egg. e baby will cruel to each other. e circle of girls making require a lot of attention. It is a task only for a flower chains is closed to him. He assumes their queen and her knight. As I knew they would, the exclusivity hurts me as well. He is unaware of how other knights and maids cease to exist. insulting it would be if they offered me a place there. Miriam Laufer Princess Latte
Garbling on and on; not unlike the droning of Charlie Brown’s school teacher posing gum-smacking delirium.
I do knot care about whosaidwhatzits or whokissedwholits. Let drunkenness be drunkenness and soberness be drunkenness.
And you’ve told me this before! You, stealing my harmonious life of hateSpace frappuccinos and painted lines of Team Lampa, and scaling the ceilings of a bangling and unterrific story; teasing the peonies out of their buds and traci ng your hot air balloons of filth.
I then fulhazardly resort to swallowing the musicless martyrdom only to escape the disinterestedness that I cannot swim about you.
Alison Smith 10
Summer Poem Nice days tease the cold a s anticipation builds Birds chirm outside the window. Summer has been hibernating Beans sprout and flowers bloom. Deep within the Earth’s womb Grey morphs into blue as brown matures to green. Laying dormant all winter long Colors so long disguised by winter gloom Teasing us with glimpses of sunlight Can once again be seen. As her reign approaches. Summer births across the horizon Like a mare with foal Drying the dew upon the grass Summer swells against its restraints of flesh Making red mercury rise Stretching, growing, awakening As the sun shines and sizzles across the sky. Summer plays a game of hide and seek behind the clouds. Warm days to come. I long for summer days; I welcome summer days, My arms outstretched to greet the rays Her water breaks in April showers My feet naked and wiggling on the lawn. Where children stomp in pink galoshes My being soaks up the sun, And vegetation takes a gulp As warmth pours over me like honey. Of saturated earth. Summer returns once more.
C. Mae Waugh
“e Hills Are Alive” by Kristin Salomon “Epitome of Epiphanies” by Allison McKenzie 12
“Supporting Up-Stares” by Jason Jedrusiak Culture Capitalist
We wear the tie; why? e collar and the cuff - itchy, horrid stuff. Sweaty feet in slick shoes, hands clutch the Daily News.
Early morning; solemn face, a quality leather briefcase, stomach full of egg, bacon, toast, two porcelain mugs of French Roast - a business man, lurching train, America the Insane.
High heels, smoky stocking feet, toes crunched like packaged meat, eyelashes stiff with thick clump; quite glumped. Too many cocktails last night, Too many supervisors to fight.
Christie Perkins
Under Grey Skies
ese days it seems my head is filled with inclement weather. High pressures mounting, throbbing, thunder at my temples. My eyes are always raining; it’s a wonder how you navigate through my storm.
But then I am reminded how much you’ve always been fascinated by lightning.
Lauren Chapman FROM SLIP 87
Tostarboard, Wood Island, the lighthouse, Stage Island with its stone daymark, obelisk to lumber schooners, coal carriers, draggers, and packets. Toport, the inner harbor, Biddeford Pool, the yacht club. And off the beam, two suns—the source and Its reflection—approaching one another, as e upper one descends toward the headland hills. I am rooting for the lower one to leap up, to master and overcome the source, although I know how this will end: the source, the red aerglow of a striper’s gills, backlighting those headland hills, and the reflection, a dark and brief warm current in the Gulf of Maine below.
Stuart Petereund Photo by Michelle Catagnus 14
“Borrowed Time” by Gina Bollenback Fiy isn’t old
I. “Have you ever liked an older woman?” she asks. “Yes, of course. Who hasn’t?” I say, knowing I am two months older. I wait for her reply, fearing the twenty-something manager at Fashionable Male who wants to do it in a very uncomfortable place.
How do I respond to “He’s 53”?
He is the neighbor whose yard made soccer balls his own. Or, I II. picture Woody Allen. I took an online quiz, it said I’d live ‘til 63. I wasn’t disappointed.
Age scares the hell out of me. My nightmares are filled with octogenarians on flights for Ft. Myers in August. I dread the day I ask for assistance with overhead luggage.
Upon arrival, Deimos and Phobos, sons of Aphrodite, meet me at the airport. Ink-and-cardboard script read: Mr. Vandehey.
My bags squeezed in the back of their white 1989 Toyota Camry, they take me to a diner for the Early Bird Special, order ham steaks with decaf, black.
Art by Jessie Carroll 16 Art by Jessie Carroll
III. Her man’s idea of a good time is a cup of pudding and e Price is Right.
On their first date (at four in the aernoon) he’ll wear black socks, fake denim, use reading glasses for the senior menu.
She will love it.
Brad Vandehey Closure
I dreamt a crooked smile Shaking the surface of my skin Felt ocean air escape through Reverberating in my brain New York prison pavement An empty echo in an empty room Heard the purr of a Cheshire cat You were gone from this place too Under the hard surface But my blood was still running It sent me across the country My heartbeat indifferent Chasing an elusive trail of your freckles So I stripped your walls of my memory A map I found imprinted on the shoulders of Claimed every piece of me strangers at I deemed salvageable Found your address scribbled into trees Balled it up and swallowed down Where leaves fell around my feet Bursting into flames Fell asleep in a new city Soon I felt the creak of your door She looked me in the eyes And made peace in my bones
Ella Devine “Self Portrait” by Megan McCormick A History
Red ringlets twisted around dirty fingers Pressed too hard, cried for hours A fist shoved in mouth Admired teeth marks across knuckles
Blacked out in the boys’ room Second floor near the Math wing Head against the toilet paper littered tiles Spit up mixture of vomit and cum
Trapped against the pool table Green felt scratched palms Football player hands underneath shirt Wrestling moves sprained wrist
In a foreign country traveling alone Watched from the corner of the bar Arm around waist from behind Against the wall, beer stained lips approached—I freeze
ese boys/men/monsters Are who I run from in my dreams
I never get very far
Nikki Frankel
22
Photo by Michelle Catagnus “Friday Night” by Diana Mai 24
In silence the gray beard
In silence the gray beard of a German man, his glasses a reflection of the tree’s green blending as they go by, teaches a lesson on thought. How pensive he is over a young girl's breasts - white cream collecting at the causeway of his lips. A bloody robin in his eyes; caffeinated and heaving. A man so silent and calm. You appear more suited to a hazel seat beneath a willow tree. Not a focus behind which passes polluted estuaries of graffiti – artists coming and going into the sea and hiding in the leaves – I see the dagger in your tongue drawing irrigation canals across the roof of your mouth, the red in your veins. What would you have me believe? Fresh blue rivers? Indeed.
Robert Gewirtz Demolition She crept to the large set of ornate shelves along the wall opposite the door. ick glass protected what was e house was sold just three days aer the fu- hiding within, and Janie’s fingers lingered on the tiny silver neral. While other lawns in the area hosted lonesome For latch before she released it to reveal her grandmother’s treas- Sale signs for months on end, her house was sold within the ures. Rows of antique Madame Alexander dolls were lined week of its listing. A corporation bought the house and the before her and she gazed tenderly into each of their somber developers were going to send a bulldozer through it on faces. Although her vision was blurred by the tears that Monday. threatened to spill down her cheek, she managed to find her Janie stood on the sidewalk and studied her grand- favorite and cupped the doll in trem bling hands. Janie mother’s home. Her father and cousins were already lugging rubbed the blue satin of Cinderella’s glistening dress be- broken-down cardboard boxes through the front door, but tween her le thumb and forefinger and squished her sandy she couldn’t yet force herself to join in this sick ritual. Janie nylon curls. always thought the color of the house looked like sunshine. Holding the doll to her chest, Janie flung herself She couldn’t imagine a happier color, but now the faded and on the double bed near the window. She rubbed her face peeling yellow taunted her. e paint looked brassy and it across the cool pillow and breathed in the sweet, clean per- was crumbling into the tangles of the overgrown yard. Para- sitic vines reached to pull down the roof. Everything was falling apart and melting together at the same time, and Janie was horrified. “Jane-o! Are you here to help or what? You’ve got the guest room upstair s,” her father called from the brick stoop. “How come you and Uncle Ted didn’t paint the house in the spring?” “ings were busy, we couldn’t get a week together to just do it. We would’ve done it next year.” “Did Bobby stop cutting the lawn? He always did it for her. Why’d he stop?” “Come on in, we don’t have time to worry about that now. We’ve got all this work to do.” She watched him turn back inside and made her way through the grass. She slowly climbed the steps leading to the front door and struggled to control her breathing. Her stomach twisted and she felt the same wave of nausea that had broken upon her when they lowered her grand- mother’s coffin into the ground. is was the last day Janie would be able to spend here, and on Monday the house would be gone. e smooth knob felt cold in her hand as she opened the door at last. Janie fixed her eyes on the old wooden staircase in front of her and reminded herself not to shi her stare. e house still smelled like the lila cs her grandmother religiously gathered and kept in the kitchen throughout the spring. e airy fragrance licked at her back as Janie ran up the stairs and into the guest room. With eyes closed, she slammed the door and tried to shut out the familiar scent, but it saturated the room. She listened for a moment to muffled fragments of the conversa- tion from downstairs and then popped open her eyes. e room was exactly as she remembered, unchanged from her childhood. 26 fume of her grandmother’s soap. No matter how carefully tened and she dried to sleep. she did her laundry at home or at school, she could never e heavy pounding on the door wrenched Janie match the freshness of her grandmother’s linens. She from her dream and she looked wildly around the room. wished she had asked for her secret before moving away. She saw the gilded shelves and the dolls and the blinding Janie lied her head from the pillow and rotated light pouring through the window. She couldn’t identify her body to face the window. Warm light filtered through the sharp noise that had woken her, but she could only the green of the leaves outside and sprawled bright patches think of bulldozers. She pushed past her father in panic, across the bed’s quilt. She soaked up the rays and, still and her vision faded in and out of blackness. She saw the clutching the Cinderella doll in one hand, she reached to- floral wallpaper ripping away and the stairs were crumbling wards the floor and swept her fingers underneath the bed. beneath her feet. Janie clenched Cinderella in her fist and Her hand met the stack of children’s books and she pulled she ran from the house and the boxes and the rented mov- one beside her. Leafing through the book’s dusty pages, ing van and the shaggy lawn and the peeling paint and the Janie heard her grandmother’s quiet voice reciting the words fractured memories of her youth. of the story they both knew by heart. Like countless times throughout her childhood, her eyes grew heavy as she lis- Olivia Pascoe ht yCnyYxn Qiao Yexing Cindy by Photo Boston Love Story eyes with the light that shined behind her eyes that hovered above her signature smile. And in that moment of bar chaos It had the makings of a great Boston love story. and utter clarity, she knew this had the makings of a classic Boston love story. Always a sucker for the tall and skinny, she picked him out from across the bar. Different from any other kind of mind-numbing and nause- atingly perfect stories the movies inundate helpless girls with It was more of an accident than a greeting. She was attempt- from a young age, Boston allows for flaws and mistakes and ing to steer clear of the game of grab-ass that had com- insecure imperfection. It leaves room for drunken messes menced with the 30-somethings who were previously and pointless arguments. It thrives on cheating and lust and pouring shots down her throat, and managed to mindlessly great sex and bad kissers. And while it always unfolds in a bump into him. is tall glass of water, in an unmistakable classically unstable manner, the possibility of the priceless blue shirt, ran his hand through his floppy dark blonde hair connection holds together the minds of the participants in a and smiled at the pretty urban girl while she attempted to bond that only New Englanders have the capacity and fight off one of the 30-somethings. She felt an unwanted wherewithal to feel. And nothing more than a mere glance hand first mussing her light brown hair and then slapping of his blue eyes triggered a whole flash of their unfolding her bum unsolicited. She shot the tall one a look of help- love story. And she could feel it beginning at this very bar. lessness, purely for show. She could really just send the old one on his way faster than you could say “Another round of Journey, ACDC and Michael Jackson swam through her al- shots for my new friend here!” And as the older one lost in- cohol-flooded veins and the drunken jams only ignited her terest to a younger, blonder version, the tall one locked his utter assurance that this thing, this connection, this not-yet- love just had to happen. at even if she tried, she herself couldn’t stop it. She was drawn and willing to feel that per- have Mormon families. She had no game, no tact, no rea- fect imperfection that holds two people together like compli- son to impress this one; it was all fun. And he liked her this cated puzzle pieces. way. Every time she made a comment that was so classically her, he would clobber her with a bear hug and tell her how And then an unknown force stepped in and spoke through much he liked her. the boy. e inevitable, the first problem in the laundry list of what may potentially be many: “I’m not gonna lie to you; I And all of a sudden, it was last call. ey had to leave. She have to go back to Utah tomorrow. I live there.” offered him a place to stay and he declined. (A move he would later on regret.) He got her number, promised to And all at once, her idealism was shattered and she could no text, and he did. longer stand to want anything more than what may happen in the next 2 hours. But then – it was over. Just as quickly as she had clumsily bumped into him looking for a place of refuge, he was ere was no PDA, no sweet nothings whispered anywhere. gone. On a plane. Back to where he came from. e two were bouncing around and dancing and drinking and telling jokes. From the outside, they looked like old friends. And that was that.
e hip girl had not planned on tonight. She was not done up, she had no game plan. She was merely being her black- Alison Smith rimmed glasses, untamed hair, jeans-and-a-white tee-shirt self. She imagined that he was like her best friend from high school. Both were named Kenny, both live in Utah, both RdLine” “Red yDaaMai Diana by 3:17 a.m.
Sleepless Walking slick streets I discovered a city changed No longer teeming bustle Just palpable silence So as steam Rising from soaked pavement
Time temporized Breath suspended in my lungs As my body fell into a place Where I willed every raindrop Tohover in thick air I choreographed them through the rays Pouring out of streetlights and stars
Sleepless but triumphant Standing on the pavement Peering through a wormhole
Ella Devine
New York Plays Itself
in real life as in cinema, **NEW YORK** plays itself it hangs, like a scrim, in the darkened corner wings of spotlit manhattan, waiting to be cued up and summoned, called into use – and, repeatedly, it is: you and I have this city in common, we know it even if we don’t know it, even if we’ve never been there. it’s a universal shared experience from its life on the stage, on the screen, in our minds the dream location where we shoot adaptations of our own biographies. everyone’s a director when out for a stroll, imagining old friends reuniting in times square, or lovers being wooed atop the empire state building, (sprinting for that vital train at grand central?) or any one of a thousand normal happenings given credence by a heavy dusting of magic from hollywoodland. in olden days it, possibly, was just a city, but now it’s hardly seen as anything other than the chameleon backdrop for whatever you, or I, or anyone else, ever to come, need.
J.M. Olejarz “I Rule e World” by Adam Simone Blast
I’ve sat in this black room for a thousand years —An eternity of non-existence Not moving. Not thinking. Not Being. No time or cause to care
But ever so suddenly, so slyly A shotgun is raised to my non-existent ear BANG In a blinding cacophony of rage and beauty, I am thrust out of the phoenix’s heavenly womb
I blaze along, among the other pellets In an ephemeral crescendo. Soaring through worldly depths, In a horrid fit of passion, rage, and lust. Strangely, Being.
But for all my fuss and fight I hit a wall, and in a brilliant flash It’s over almost before it began.
Now, back again, to the humble melody of silence. —No longer confined by my room, My world, Or words.
Being, What a curious occurrence.
Shane Fulton “Caution” by Diana Mai “e Truth About Strawberries” by Adam Simone 34
“Berry Berry Land” by Carolyn Meers by Laurel Schultheis “Brownstone”
Hot Apartment on 98th Street
“Callate tu boca” she shouts at the small boy taunting his little brownie eyed sister who dances Meringue in the living room and sings to herself as she swirls in her sister’s too big tutu, oblivious to her brother’s insults. e baby is crying in his crib, teeth clamped on the bars, and the twins are playing their own version of checkers on the coolness of the kitchen floor. Outside the window sirens wail by and older children shout in the streets, racing by the colorful fruit stands among the charcoal gray of the Upper East Side streets where the same leather colored, saran wrap faced venders shout out their bargains thirteen hours each day. She stirs the pan of arroz con frijoles with a large wooden spoon, she wipes sweat from her smooth forehead, pushing back the curling black hair that escapes from the thick single braid and sings to herself soly, “Mi hombre me ha salido, el hombre que me amaba una vez, un dia, muchos dias pasados.”
Christie Perkins 36
Maid in La Casa de Diaz
Back flat on a cold tile floor in Mexico.
Hands elegante, fingers made for weaving through the loom, resting, one on each hip bone: triangular mountains that sink into a rice bowl stomach with the pale skin stretched tight.
A ruler placed from bone to bone would make a projector.
e ceiling is rough corn colored plaster and the blue of hot aernoon sky framed by a buttery window frame breaks up the empty plaster wall.
Laundry to lug, dough to knead tortillas to make, infants to tend, todos espera para a moment to lie, braid splayed to the side, out of the scorching scorpion sun on a smooth cool tiled floor.
Christie Perkins “Beauty, For Once” by Allison McKenzie 38
Little Metaphors for Rebecca
there are beaches long sprawled on siesta coast where small life metaphors are quick happening by: at the undecided wet line, thumbnail shell lifeforms are le refugees in the wake of constant, intentless tide. they appear, again, en masse – a chance collection of beached microcosms, (translucent penny legs waving tiny panic high) stranded and exposed on the o-relenting sand. in the overwhelming face of the larger machinations that dominat e their world, they singleminded defy the currents, ocean, and relative tidal waves that will unearth them every time. is all this outside their comprehension? they burrow and are uncovered, and burrow and are uncovered again, again, and the tragedy is not their endless futile pursuit, but rather that their purpose remains a mystery. safety is so close, in the white sand farther up, where water cannot reach. but the undiscovered sand, mere inches from home, is as stark alien as snow.
J.M. Olejarz “Window to e Past” by Nachiket Rajderkar 40
Shelter “You doing a study on homelessness or some- thing, man? Like some research or something, He stood smoking a cigarette in a darkening corner man?” He spit on the pavement with surprising of the universe. In a cold brick right angle in a filthy vigor. Here was no rookie to the great American t-shirt and dirtier mind, he flicked his ashes uncere- pastime of spitting on sidewalks. moniously onto the still-hot pavement. He sneered as if he was breaking a death bed promise and de- I told him I was not. I told him I was here on a cided that a should-have-been loved one’s remains college internship. will enjoy the view as well from here as from some soothing eternal harbor. He asked me why I chose to come and work at a shelter, man? Was I studying human services, I was watching the ashes fall when he spotted me. man?
“I ain’t poisonous, man,” he slurred through missing I told him I was not. I told him I was studying teeth and liquor-loosened lips as he motioned for English and philosophy and wanted to become me to join him in his corner. an English professor.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I thought as I approached. Why was I here then, man? Keeping my distance, I stood close enough to en- gage but far enough to avoid engagement and I stepped a little closer and joined him in setting prayed that this man would not become a usual my back against the cool sandy bricks as I took a member of the group here that sees my youth and deep breath. e truth was that to some extent I newness as a sign of potential weakness. I half-ex- felt as if my world had stopped turning, that pected a request, with sad eyes and filthy cupped there was little happening for me, that I had hands, for fiy cents. Or, pointed complaints about fallen into mental stagnancy and my develop- his stay thus far at the shelter. I had been called into ment into something bigger was being squeezed similar situations. I kept my distance. by the relentless hands of everydayness. I needed to do something different and I told him all of “What you doing here, man? Like, you work here this in plainer words: “Just needed a change, I or something?” guess. See another side of life, I guess.” I shrugged, knowing I have offered my best an- A little surprised at the generality of the question swer. and its apparent sincerity, I answered quite plainly, “I work here, man.” He took another drag of his value-brand men- thol and gazed straight ahead. He nodded slowly. “You look young, man. You a college student or something, man?” “You know,” he began, “sometimes moving’s the only thing that keeps you from standing still, I told him I was. He leaned against the cold blood- man.” red bricks and rolled his enormous hands across his mostly-shaved head. His sincerity seemed weightier than the hun- dred-brick backrub I was receiving. ignorant in the eyes of my drunken partner in conversation. He continued as he reclined with greater dedica- tion against the wall. “I studied English as an un- He closed his eyes and slowly wove a languid dergrad, man. I loved all that shit. You know that stream of liquid smoke. dude who wrote that book about that old man who’s trying to catch that fish, man?” “I been chasing fishes my whole life, man. I’m tired. I know what that old man’s all about, man. “e Old Man and the Sea? Ernest Hemingway is Chasing the dream, watching your grip get tighter one of my favorites.” I smiled the smile a lover of and tighter as the line cuts deeper and deeper into books wears when a kindred spirit is found in the your skin.” He gazed into the quivering palm of least likely of places. his unoccupied le hand. “Out there by yourself, man. If you ever even get anything out of it, the “Yeah, man. Well you know how the old man damn sharks come and rip it right out of your spends the whole damn book trying to catch that damn hands.” fish and the whole time he’s talking about how he and the fish are like brothers or something be- His eyes began to tear as he focused all his bodily cause he’s trying to kill the fish and the fish is energy into steadying a trembling bottom lip. going to die or something like that, man?” (You may find his manner of speaking repetitive, but let “Chasing that fish taught the man one thing, me assure you he was startlingly articulate for the man. One thing. You know what that thing is, extent to which he was visibly drunk. He swag- man?” gered even in his leaning.) He was looking right at me. Into me. His cigarette “You know that old man knew that either one of was out but he continued to pinch the filthy butt them could have died, man. at fish could have between his thumb and middle finger. For a dragged that old man way too far out there, man, minute I stopped breathing as my lips moved or knocked his boat over or something, you without my consent. know? And when the dude finally got that damn fish back and everything and the sharks or some- “at he was going to die,” I offered in a half-ask- thing had already eaten the whole damn thing, ing-half-telling near-whisper. man? at old man didn’t even care that much. He just went home and kicked it with his little He smiled as he cast his cigarette into the wilder- buddy, you know?” ness of the parking lot’s limit.
I nodded in near astonishment. Tobe entirely “at’s right, man. I’m going to die too. It’s as sim- truthful, I did not expect this man to have even a ple as that, man. You know, man, I caught one or hazy grasp on the story. I had not read the book two little fishes early (hiccup), early on in life. I for years and fished through my own mind for the thought they would be enough to live on forever story’s key details. I was determined not to appear 42
so I stopped trying. By the time I needed bigger horrifying instant he yanked me inches away from fishes I was too tired to catch ’em, man. And if I his face and half-screamed, “No, man. You are did catch ’em, the damn sharks tore ‘em apart be- going to die. Don’t wait until you’re old and tired fore I could even bring ’em home to my family. It’s like me. Go get your fucking fishes.” been so long since one’s made it home that my family doesn’t even believe I try anymore. I’m too He was practically panting when he released my tired, man. at’s why I’m here, man. I just want shirt. Our eyes held each others’ for what seemed to die, and this place gives me somewhere to be like an hour before he returned, relaxed, to his until it happens. I ain’t asking for much, man. Just previous stance against the wall. He took a final somewhere (hiccup), anywhere (hiccup) to wait.” drag of his cigarette, dropped it onto the pave- ment and ground it out with his muddy pre- “You really want to die?” My heart pounded as he owned boot. “Listen, man, I’m gonna go get a half-chuckled through cupped hands. His lighter bed. I’ll see you, man.” wrapped its arms around the head of a new ciga- rette and quickly choked out the oxygen. And with that he picked up his bag and half- stumbled into the men’s shelter lobby. When the He exhaled. “Yeah, I do, man.” door was safely shut behind him I walked the two feet to where he had just stood and leaned my I looked at him with longing eyes, searching for back against the same bricks on which his had anything to say. I wanted to tell him that it was just rested. I wondered what was the real differ- worth the fight and he could win back his family’s ence between me and the now-homeless former trust and he could find a job and re-climb the English student who so loves Ernest Hemingway rungs of the American Dream. and had just wrinkled my shirtfront? Could I, too, overestimate how much time and strength I wanted to say these things, but I could not. I had the universe has given me? “Perhaps I already no idea if anything would ever get better for him have,” I thought as I shivered on the cool bricks. or if he could ever make it better for himself. Maybe he was right and his life had nothing le Maybe someday I too will be homeless and drunk but the long slow chewing, biting and ripping on a fading summer evening. I hope that if it ever away of happiness and hope. comes to that, I will be drunk enough, or brave enough, to invite a stranger into my cold brick “Listen, man.” He tilted back his head and offered corner of the universe and share with him the one God some nicotine. “I’m going to die, alright. I’ve thing about which I am certain, if I should ever be accepted that, you know? But you are also going lucky enough to be certain of anything. to die.” Either way I plan to get my fucking fishes. “I know,” I said.
Suddenly he turned towards me and shot an enor- Mark Hevert mous hand towards the front of my shirt. In one summer nights at the institute, and it's raining huddled on a carpeted floor, our clothes soaked and spread out like fingertips, while the rain pounds the windows of the little classroom where we're sleeping.
I think guiltily of the tents we abandoned; how they must flap helplessly in the downpour. As I'm aching but dry on my makeshi bed of couch pillows.
In the dark I can feel your familiar body lying next to me, your breathing light and sleepless, a breeze through the screen door liqui d nitrate in my bones while I shiver like a teacup dog. and my body moves toward you, I don't mean to but I feel my arm liing my comforter and tucking you under it. still, my limbs shake and so I push myself against your chest, the tattered cloth of your t-shirt, and suddenly we are kissing and kissing, surrounded by the sleeping, cocooned bodies of our friends and some strangers, dark heaps in the shadows, pushing our mouths together silently like fish, drying, unable to breathe, or maybe like two people who don't even know each other anymore, and I am still cold. and it's unrelentless, this water, drowning the grass, all sounds of summer, as I wake up aching on our classroom floor and realize the room is completely empty, except for you and me and our backs clasped together like hands as the day's gray light floods onto us, and i think about how you look like a photograph of a sleeping child as I quietly slide on my damp clothes. so I step into the quieting rain and leave you there, no more to me than a memory.
Rachel Zarrell “Waiting” by Erin Costello “In Communion” by Ben Landsberg 46
“Apocalypse”by Glen Chiacchieri
LmsGrounded” “Limbs 48 yLue Schultheis Laurel by
Babel
An elated, sedated, overmedicated virginity Compromises a perfectly good drunken state For an attractive, heartless, tactless exhibitionist. Unmindful of the hurt and insecurities induced by hands and lips. And a kissless goodbye that will never leave her fractured and vacant heart.
Alison Smith Doppelganger
Doppelganger wanders here with risky acts, ashamed to flank, afraid to move, curled lashes blink made darker with each sharpened ink.
e wind which moves upon her waist cinches into hips in haste, claret surrenders where she hides amongst blank faces worn with pride. Creamy apricot and sun beckons paces, one by one, oval burgundy untamed through glass of wine tinted the same.
Layers peel; translucent lens focus in, you’ll see her then, a shade of peach and skeleton.
Could you recoil from heat too bright? Or does her death revive your life? Swarm of bees from gulp of bronze fly unrelenting; lack of pause; you seize her generosity with startling reciprocity but ponder as the gi unwraps, (can’t help but feel a bit detached) If under all delighted sighs, there is some sadness to her eyes.
Tara P.Vilk “Vandalism” by Jessica Moog
For more work by:
Gina Bollenback bolenback-g.smugmug.com
Ben Landsberg http://mlaconsultants.com/ben
Diana Mai http://dianamai.webs.com/
Megan McCormick www.flickr.com/photos/megem519
Michelle Alexander www.m-alexander.deviantart.com Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine Spring 2009