Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, dan, hedges, magazine, poem, poetry, the
Dan Hedges has been teaching English in private and public schools for the past ten years.
He is the editor of HUMANIMALZ Literary Journal. His poetry is published in over one hundred
online and print journals. He has been nominated for awards, including the Pushcart Prize.
His poetry embraces the topics of synchronicity, singularity, animal spirits, perennial philosophy,
lucid dreaming, shamanic journeying, bio-energetics, transpersonal psychology, mysticism, the
so-called avant garde, and field-guide aesthetics.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, AJ, amy, as, brooklyn, her, huffman, magazine, new, of, portrait, purse, the, woman, york
Red enameled alligator encases three
cloth sacks of unified survival. Beneath zipper
#1 waits five nickels, bottle of glittered nail
polish, miniature journal, handful of pens, only
one still wearing cap. Skip #2, it is stuck
shut and whatever is in there has been labeled
unnecessary and forgotten. #3 never closes,
most-used, most-important, must remain
accessible, always. Checkbook teeters
against tightly-capped Crazy
Glue, shades sunglasses from potential scuffs
from engraved silver cardholder, coupon folder, ring
of 37 keys, only 3 having known locks or ignitions
to turn. Ringing requires perimeter check. Pockets
bulge, aspirin and birth control semi-hidden
in tightly-snapped front pocket, portable
hard drive and note cards on Roman Architecture
threaten to spill out of left side pouch. Right
must be the never-ending musical bleeping,
incessant blipping of latest high-tech, supposedly
miniaturized, iPhone, trying to pass itself
off as both computer and lifeline when it is really
more crutch and anvil. Last stop, strap with photo
keyring dangling attachment. Favorite snapshot
of herself smiling at the world, makes everyone wonder
who or what was making her laugh that hard.
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She has is the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press . Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, art, artist, artists, arts, biblical, brooklyn, david, Epic, magazine, mastication, Moody, new, night, ny, nyc, on, one, poetry, stand, writing
By David Moody
Lord, forgive all my foxiness. Remember us humans, us cruising
to nightclubs and not braking to dead stop, us stepping—
no hand rail—in black pumps and boot-cuts up to the slut box
then forgetting to dance. Us keeping secrets. Our leaving no tip.
Sometimes in a good fuck I speak carpentry—spackle and jack
tape, Jesus rib, caulk. I awoke this morning naked as a jay bird. Buzzed,
wearing glasses, I held on to no one but my body pillow, Sacagawea,
keeping her warm. Almost a godsend, God, almost.
I confess I want guidance. Guide me to the country of Charity,
that hard-knuckled woman, her deep ankle boots. Can she have red
hair or is black a must? I imagine her hips as I often do hips—chisels
and axes that hack at a crowd thralled to some DJ.
This woman shapes through body’s rhythm her own thrumming
god. Fox beast, incisors, torso warped thing. Its own twisted shape a way
of confessing. To choke without a throat, slowly, on praise.
From what is this thing we have gnawed happiness? How
has it tasted all of our lives? God of Smudged Chins. God of
Half-Virgins. We wedge fingernails into the gaps between backboard screws
and corner beams. With a wonderful quickness we know bed as world.
God, what I’m saying is that I suspect heaven
was planned with a right hand drawing blueprints on napkins,
the left hand still-buried in some idle fur.
Forgive me but nightclubs are like your mouth, like my bedroom
with its ceiling too low. The off-kilter whir of fan blades replace
any belief in collar-starch morals. Forgive the room’s stucco.
Forgive the drunk nothings this tile floor revibes. No,
nothing’s wrong with yesterday’s meats. Sometimes, though, I am
little more than gaps found between words—good and then
morning. A click-click that lingers. I cannot tell if its high heels or teeth.
If I am flea, Lord, and not a fox, I insist one thing: you must bite, hard.
David Antonio Moody writes out of Tallahassee where he pursues a PhD in poetics at FSU. Former poetry editor for SawPalm and Juked, David is production editor of Cortland Review and Southeast Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sweet, Eleven Eleven and Spillway.
Filed under: ART, MUSIC, The 22, VOLUME FOUR, WRITING | Tags: 22, 30th, brooklyn, collage, four, January, magazine, new, the, volume, york
Well folks, it’s nearly that time. How do we know? Our inboxes are full, our eyes are strained, and our tentacles are a quiver with pure excitement for what is shaping up to be one of the most amazing volumes yet. As for you, oh dearly talented creative procrastinator, we still cannot wait to see what wonders you shall send us but please keep in mind there are merely ten days left to submit your work! As always submission is 100% free and we are thrilled to meet new amazing people who will always be considered for both the print volume and the blog. Thank you to the wizards of scissors, the mind melting soundscapers, and the scribes of clipped reason who have already sent work and thank you for keeping this project chugging along with your amazing talent. Now go submit!!
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: $80, assorted, cliff, dan, fiscal, hedges, plots, poem, poetry
dispersed irregularly across
generalized narrative suspense
lead to uncanny sensations that
humans are a fixed point}
Dan Hedges is the editor of HUMANIMALZ Literary Journal. His writing appears in The Monarch Review, The Apeiron Review, and more than ninety other journals. He writes out of a small white house in rural Quebec. He teaches English near Mont-Tremblant, Quebec, Canada.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, brooklyn, Chang, grass, jamez, magazine, new, the, untethered, york
by Jamez Chang
Jackie Stewart relaxed past death
on racing tracks heightened
by speed and violence.
He elevated his senses higher
than the rise of the road,
breaking hard third gear
underneath a viaduct
across gravel stretch and paddock,
Stewart advanced—past zebra crossing, past short dirt,
along a fast bend in a windrush of earthen electron.
His motorcar spun loud,
Front straight faster and spinning through a funnel,
Stewart sloughed off his body’s vehicle
and allowed for this: a blade of grass to enter his world.
As he dripped inside double layers of fire-proof Nomex,
Stewart caught a whiff of freshly-cut grass around the bend,
A leaf aldehyde stain, wet-pulp mist somehow untethered,
loosened from its topsoil.
In accident and in happening,
Stewart mastered his craft at Monaco,
trusting his senses.
Alive and mechanical,
writing the next turn.
On macadam road,
a car had skidded outside a curb and clipped a barrier,
releasing the blade’s germ adrift.
upon oil, steel, and the scatter mass of tire grit.
Stewart pulled back from the swarm.
The maestro touched lightly on his brakes,
and fed them out with a soft whistle.
Never jabbing a foot to answer,
but steering a motorcar docile:
angry insect allowed to fly,
eased into a coverlet of sunken metal and music.
Stewart skittered the right-hander on the edge of adhesion—clean,
past pile of racing cars crashed along steel barriers uprooted.
Raucous debris, too thick for a clogged helmet’s consumption,
but of thin data, the faint smell of mowed lawn at 175 miles per hour was
And the mind became faster than the car.
On racing tracks heightened
by speed and violence,
Sir Jackie Stewart whistled by in accident,
shifted pedals on the piano and
glided through chicane and into third, and fourth, and into fifth gear:
turning the atom-soaked sun into a mechanical happening.
Jamez Chang is a poet, writer, lawyer, and former hip-hop artist living in Englewood Cliffs, NJ. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in FRiGG, Prime Number Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine, Subliminal Interiors, and the anthology Yellow Light. After graduating from Bard College, Jamez went on to become one of the first Korean-American to release a hip-hop album, “Z-Bonics” (F.O.B. Productions, 1998), in the United States. Jamez currently works in the video game industry in New York City.
Filed under: FILM/VIDEO, POETRY, WRITING | Tags: aquatics, awautics, brooklyn, david, fish, mantis, new, poem, poetry, richardson, shrimp, the, york
Filed under: ART, WEB/NET/INTERACTIVE, WRITING | Tags: 22, codes, digital, flong, for, golan, Levin, magazine, nomad, qr, the
ABOVE: “Worth Saving”
QR Codes for Digital Nomads: QR_STENCILER and QR_HOBO_CODES are homebrew “infoviz graffiti” tools, intended for civic markup and in-situ information display. QR_STENCILER is a free, open-source, fully automated software utility that converts QR codes into vector-based stencil patterns suitable for laser cutting. The QR_STENCILER software was used to create the QR_HOBO_CODES, a collection of 100 stencil designs which, deployed in urban spaces, may be used to warn people about danger or clue them into good situations. Inspired by 19th Century “hobo symbols”, these stencils can be understood as a covert markup scheme for urban spaces — providing directions, information, and warnings to digital nomads and other indigenterati.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, flordia, freshwater, mabrouk, magazine, nadra, poem, poetry, the, writing
by Nadra Mabrouk
You wanted to use a caterpillar as fish bait.
The soft fuzz of its pinky-long body
squirmed as though in slow motion
and you, not able to cut into its mouth, shivering,
threw it back in the grass.
And I thought we could take this bike anywhere -
Instead, we stop,
lay it on the ground near my chalky ankles.
a half naked woman’s shoulders near us, tanner than us — she is a bear:
waiting for the small gloves of fish
to tug, then grabbing them off the hook with large fingers
and swollen palms
as though her growth depended on them.
And what does our growth depend upon?
Exoskeleton? Thin needles inside fish?
The sturdiness of understanding the variations of the skeletal system?
I turn to prickling hairs on your thin-skinned elbow
and rub my cheek against your ribs.
You place your fingers on the sinking earth of my face
as though tracing hunger on the cheekbone
as the woman limps away.
She leaves with a basket of fresh bodies.
Something to slice open, squeeze lemon on,
cradle in your mouth and feel whole.
In a thought made of silk,
I am cutting softened peaches into puddles of vanilla,
a dessert, after salting the center of a cut salmon:
pink tongues on a refrigerated platter.
After we eat – a marinated silence
and hands, smelling of the river,
something swift to salvage us.
You fill your hands with the grainy metal of the handlebars
and walk ahead of me,
footsteps slow and dry in the heat.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: change, of, Owen, piper, poem, poetry, season
By Owen Piper
It’s times like this,
I think we are changing like the season.
that strange spice you found near 82nd.
What, was, that?
I’m yellowed as paper for the phone.
I think I should call you.
Every few seconds the wind takes hold of my time,
stirs it all clean again.
Owen Piper is an artist and writer currently living in Paris. He works a day job and writes when he is not doing that.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: Forgotten, graveyard, of, poem, poetry, rena, rossner, the, things
By Rena Rossner
It’s a minefield of regret
strewn with corpses of thought
a place where time
gathers in the hollows
and tattered curtains hang
in neglected corridors
the leprosy of cracked wallpaper
afflicts the mind
a piano with a broken leg
the loneliness of a smashed vanity mirror
it rains in eaves of light
downpours in the stairwells
derelict inner doors to the sanctum
beauty in decay
a momento mori of matter
I mourn myself
Rena Rossner lives in Jerusalem and studied writing at Johns Hopkins University and McGill University. She is currently a literary and foreign rights agent. Her work deals with the place where Jewish themes meet magical realism, mysticism and sex. You can see more of her work at www.renarossner.com
Filed under: FICTION, WRITING | Tags: 22, brooklyn, excerpts, lubitz, magazine, new, rallou, the, vessel, york
by Rallou Lubitz
The archaeologist rows to shore. At her feet lies a clay tablet. The wreck where it was found exists only as an indentation in the sand, way below the waves. Even now, as they row back, it grows less.
She lights the lamp at her desk and makes her first sketch of the tablet. It seems to have writing on both sides. The script shows itself only as a pattern of hollows. It exists in the same way the wreck does.
She begins to translate.
We arrive at the harbour with a stone at its centre.
All night she has worked for a single line. Now almost dawn, even the sea has become silent.
They row out past the mouth of the anchorage, following a warm current, past the sea caves. There are two fishermen, one turns the pump providing her with air, the other places a hook in the water until his turn comes. It is hard to see the shapes beneath the boat as naturally occurring. Each mass of seaweed waving slowly in contrast to the waves above, each mound of sand in the shape of a listing hull is a language. It speaks of others.
After dinner in her room, she attempts another translation.
We arrive at the shore of stones, cypress the shapes of the wind.
How could it be so different, this translation from the previous one? She thought the script was made of phonetic symbols. Turning it over it seems instead she has attempted to translate endless tides engraving each pull of the moon; or the traces of a hermit crab as it has wandered back and forth. She closes her notebook and looks out at the square. Until her eyes adjust to the dark it is as if this place does not exist. Then, slowly, a tree separates itself from a wall. Clouds hovering low in the square become each a mass of leaves. Though there is a moment before each shape becomes more than its outline, when they appear as if they could be read.
She waits as dawn picks out the shape of each fishing boat at the wharf. When they cast off the light is barely on the water. The older fisherman smokes as he rows. The other, who is a similar age to the archaeologist, has gone into the city to buy supplies to repair the nets. Each summer he does this. Each winter they go further out until the shore is not even a dark line on the horizon. His departure to the city means already it is half way to autumn. When winter comes she will have no more money and must leave the village. The older fisherman has brought a coin for her to examine. This is how her evenings used to be spent before she found the tablet. Looking at the finds of the local people, at a statuette with the horns and muzzle of a bull. Turning over a bronze cup that leaves a green imprint where she balanced it on her palm.
Drawing a line through her previous translation, she begins again.
We arrive at the harbour with its baskets of sponges.
… possessing it they never thirst. Neither over long sea journeys where salt glitters on the waves and the air sticks; or in the marshes. Another animal builds its nest atop veins of gold, bronze and iron. Tear down this nest and it will lead you to other riches when it seeks a new site. We destroyed many nests. Dug beneath stones in the desert. Our hands brought forth only water full of creatures with white eyes that writhed on the surface. We followed the birds and lizards circling, rushing back, forwards, calling to their mate. They led us back only to broken eggs, half formed young gaping, hairless. We drank the last of our fresh water. Unable to dig new names for ourselves from gold, bronze, we cannot return. Our old names would fasten to us. We must set out…
Departing, thick stalks of seaweed curl round the helm.
She closes her notebook.
They row out, past a mass of seaweed circled by grey sea birds. Past the rocks that rise in a line from the water. Past caves where the sea rushes in to echo deep within the cliffs. The older fisherman rolls himself a cigarette at the rudder. They let down the nets. When they return it is already dark.
Lighting the lamp she begins.
We arrive at the ruined temple, a few stones frame the sea.
… an endless mass of waves. At dawn they resemble land. Beneath its light we saw red cliffs. Faint yellow harbours unravelling. Before the storm a rolling darkness surged up. We turned towards what must be mountains, hills thick with trees immense above the shore. Breaking, it becomes stinging salt. Again we are on the open sea. Dragging our ships up on to the sand we saw what had marked this shore like a knot in a rope, was ash. Another village burnt. Its people, carvers of ivory, fled. Or we find the white buildings of the port cannot be told from other ports. It seemed all was made of salt water, lost in its constant rise and fall. Years passed. I expected to find only a mound for my village of white houses. Apricots soured on the branches, for the bee filled orchards. Instead how solid my village walls. All intact inside. The stones passed the sun’s heat into my fingers; their breath, all who remain alive.
Departing, the long sea grass on the shore, closes over the stones as a wave.
It appears two phrases remain constant: ‘we arrive at…’ and ‘departing…’, though they do not seem to match the place described within.
Again she begins.
We arrive at the tower of stone in the desert, hollow for hunters to sleep inside.
… drifting we hear a voice lament: to be undone, made nothing. Rows of the dead pulled up on the shore. The inhabitants gather wood. Smoke shrouds the water. We crossed the sea a year ago to trade combs, sweets and garum. Driven back by contrary winds we passed by. This city moves as the tide does. A mirror of the currents. The remaining boats are upside down. Appearing as mound after mound of earth among the waves…
Departing, the clouds low in the sky, shifting from boar to lynx, are the only ones that leave a trail.
She closes her notebook. Each attempt has a sense of arriving at a new destination. As if she has journeyed to five islands along the coast, each an entire day’s rowing from the other. Beginning each translation she feels she sights land suddenly on the edge of a wave; or the imperceptible thickening of clouds into city walls. Closing her notebook there exists the pull of a harbour receding. These places appear to return. They echo in each ridge of lights picking out the spine of an island. Or she hears them described by one of the shepherds forcing his goats through the narrow streets either side of the square. In the way a life remains not only in traces of bone and hair, but in its resemblance to other lives.
The younger fisherman still has not returned from the city. He should have gone by sea but instead decided to walk. This way he will not return for another two or three days. The boat is silent without him. Listening to the waves it seems if she pressed the tablet against her ear she would hear the sea wearing the vessel. If she placed her head against the vessel she would hear the words within the tablet. She may not be able to tell one murmur apart from the other.
… I came to sell cloth. Much time has passed since first setting out. Though the harbour appears to me, little by little; built of thyme exhaling beneath the sun, or from light reflected off the waves at the prow. It builds itself out of sand as I approach the city and pass through the sting of it, to find it fade behind me. I look for it reflected in the water by the roadside. On the city walls the laws are written, the script is familiar but not the sounds. It seems these glimpses are fragments of my return, which being scattered through different lands has ceased to be. I should have been gathering and keeping together all these pieces, to sail into its harbour. Or perhaps its outlines have become blurred with those where they were glimpsed; and returning I will not be able to know my own…
Departing, there are mountains behind the city, pass through.
She makes a note that compound words are born trying to convey something that has never been described before. How few names enclose their subject, rather they sit as a mask laid on a rough sea.
We arrive at the waters of gull coloured clouds.
… the axe is lifted, the branches cut. On the shore, towers of kindling lengthen their shadows. Messages of red cloth are tied to the mane and tail of a mare, in the language of the gods. She is let loose on the first day of harvest. Her ears pricked for their footsteps. Fires are lit. Fragrant smoke billows up to draw the skies close. The ash spread across an ox skin, its pattern read. On this lake I wait. On the first day of harvest a city beaten from gold rises to its surface. Rippling with the arduous rising. Some say it is the reflection of the fires on the water. Others, the shadows of gold cups and cattle thrown into the lake. It has the pattern of silence, an uninterrupted wholeness. All year I wait to learn it. To witness its unfurling within the lake’s sigh. The clarity of these patterns, like understanding the progress of a knot. I have seen it cover the lake…
Departing we race against our reflection before the wind.
She closes her notebook. The translation may be incorrect as some words remain untranslatable, becoming instead a reflective surface. In the way the bottom of a well returns the face of who ever gazes on it. All the lights in the village are out. The square is empty. It seems each evening is an echo of the previous one. She goes down to the sea, following the ripples left by the tide. Inscriptions echoing from shore to shore. If she were to copy these patterns into her notebook would she discover the words of the tablet there? In the house closest to the sea, the window of the younger fisherman is lit. He returned yesterday. On the ground outside a net is sewn by his shadow. There is so much to make ready before autumn.
Rallou Lubitz lives in Melbourne, Australia where she runs a small secondhand bookshop with her husband. She is currently at work on a novel.
Filed under: BOOK REVIEWS, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, brooklyn, burns, by, for, HEAVY, jeff, kites, magazine, new, rain, the, to, york
Read all about in this NYT article.
A Rain to Heavy for Kites chronicles the story of Sidney Shoemaker, and his battle to succeed as a “man,” a golfer, and a lightning knight. When his younger brother is killed in a playful “robotics” experiment gone wrong, Sidney takes to road while his father stays home heading the call of the almighty to build an ark in preparation for a coming storm. Life, love, ensues in only the most interesting way.
Pick up a copy here: http://www.amazon.com/Rain-Too-Heavy-For-Kites/dp/1477509283
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, bocher, brooklyn, flames, flattens, joshua, magazine, new, poem, poetry, that, the, wind, york
by Joshua Bocher
“All have one breath”
“They fade like fall and winter”
To a place
Where the wind
Whirls about and
I’ll stay behind
Carving and polishing
Say no more
Who wants for nothing
Whose life was spent
As a shadow
Of the wise,
Only the songs
The man fell
He tosses and trembles
On the cold ground
As death draws near him
His disposition once fiercer
Than a lion’s,
The crumbled grass
After sweet sleep
With a start
I will wake,
Feeling great glee
In the return
Joshua Bocher is a graduate student at Harvard University, where he researchs Chinese poetry. Before attending graduate school, he lived in Taiwan for over two and a half years. His poems and translations have been published or are forthcoming in several journals, including Spinozablue, Illuminations, Full of Crow Poetry, The Brown Literary Review, and Issues.
Filed under: FICTION, WRITING | Tags: 22, alaska, and, bortoni, brooklyn, carlos, kamei, magazine, new, Smoke, the, toshiya, york
by Carlos Bortoni (translated by Toshiya Kamei)
Without telling anyone he celebrated the smoking ban in closed public spaces. After putting up with his old comrades’ smoking for years, he would be able to enjoy his coffee without being exposed to tobacco smoke. Never again would anyone blow smoke in his face, stinging his eyes and aggravating his heartburn. Never again would he be forced to inhale smoke from others smoking around him. Never again would anyone contaminate his coffee with smoke and ashes.
He had spent all his exiled life – more than sixty years – breathing in secondhand smoke without doing anything about it. From the time he stepped on Mexican soil until now, he hadn’t stopped hanging out with his comrades in defeat at different cafés around Mexico City. They always did the same thing: they talked about the Republic, their enemy’s victory without ever mentioning it, their escape through the Pyrenees, and their days in exile while smoking and drinking coffee. Every day he showed up on time, even though he didn’t smoke. About ten years ago their meetings took place at a small café in the Colonia de Valle and around the same time they began to get together every day from eleven in the morning until three in the afternoon. All of them had retired, so they didn’t have to go anywhere and spent their days meeting up with friends, eating with their families, and sleeping in front of the TV before going to bed. Monotony no longer mattered to those who had failed miserably in life.
The news of the smoking ban took everyone by surprise. No one believed it, not even he himself. After developing a vice for decades, they would be forced to improve their physical, mental, and social well-being, as well as that of their families and friends. But only he understood it that way. His comrades took it as the last humiliation they had to suffer before death. There wasn’t any other choice: they would have to break their routine and quit smoking while drinking coffee and brooding over the past…or give up getting together.
He never imagined they would abandon the café. Even though he didn’t say anything either in favor of or against it, he was sure they would accept the ban, that they would refrain from smoking from eleven until three. But the opposite happened: one by one they stopped coming to the café.
It began when they read the sign for the first time: “No smoking in this establishment for your sake and your family’s.” The small café in the colonia, despite its five tables on the sidewalk in the style of a terrace and its large windows, which were open all the time, fell into the category of closed spaces because the air didn’t circulate freely. That day he thought some of them would leave cigarettes alone. And it was not easy to stay put for four hours without taking out their lighters and opening their cigarette packs. In fact, most of them left before three o’clock. Individually and as a group, they had decided to stoically resist the urge to smoke. They resisted, as they had done all their lives. One of them even made a joke: ordering only a glass of water, he said he would embrace a healthy lifestyle from then on.
But the next morning the mood was different. The absence of those who were not present was strongly felt. At the usual table of nine, only six old men were seated.
“They’re probably sick,” he said.
“They decided to stop coming,” someone responded. “Yesterday they said it wasn’t the same.”
“They will shut themselves in their houses,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
Every day someone else was absent.
“I saw them on my way here,” one of them said.”Smoking on the benches in the park.”
“So they will come later. After smoking,” he said.
“I don’t think so. In their other hands they held thermos bottles.”
Two days later only three old men came to the café, which was beginning to fill with a new type of clientele: women who killed time between dropping their children off at school and picking them up.
“We should go to the park.”
“What for?” he asked.
“To smoke,” they answered.
“I don’t smoke,” he mumbled laconically. Then he stared at his cup.
That Friday he sat alone at the table. He never bothered to find out, but obviously his comrades were in the park, talking about the Republic, their enemy’s victory without ever mentioning it, their escape through the Pyrenees, and their days in exile while smoking and drinking coffee.
He kept showing up at the café every morning. He kept sitting at the same table. And he kept asking for cup after another until three in the afternoon. In the eyes of the waiters and new customers who frequented there, he was an artist who fell on hard times. He, who recovered his right to breathe fresh air, spent four hours drinking coffee in silence.
Never missing a single day, he went to the café. Even when it became obvious that none of his comrades would come back. Even when he admitted he missed chatting with them, and now instead, he would ask for another coffee, ignoring the heartburn it gave him. He drank cup after cup of coffee when the silence at his table became unbearable and the conversations around him turned lively and animated. So he took unhurried sips, but without interruption. Nothing stopped him, not even the gastric reflux burning his esophagus. There was no reason to put down his cup before it reached his lips, laugh or disagree with what he had just heard, much less forget about his coffee in front of him, which would get cold while he remembered, with the others’ help, how they managed to escape the enemy’s siege.
One afternoon, at a quarter to three, he began to throw up blood. While someone was calling for an ambulance and others were trying to help him with napkins that were soon soaked red, he died with his face pressed against the table next to his cup.
No one smoked at his funeral. His old comrades went outside for a cigarette. His wife and children decided to cremate him. But that was another decision made in the name of coexistence: cemeteries take too much space. And ashes, which are easier to handle, can be scattered easily or placed inside a small urn.
Carlos Bortoni was born in Mexico City in 1979 and still lives there today. He studied history at the Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia. His books include El imperio soy yo (2007) and Perro viejo y cansado (2007). English translations of his fiction have appeared in In Other Words and Johnny America.
Filed under: ART, BOOK REVIEWS, WRITING | Tags: 75, artists, books, chronicle, How, Illustrate, Mysteries, of, science, the, the wondrous, where, why
A rather beautiful art object (and read) from Chronicle books, The Where, Why and How: 75 Artists Illustrate Wondrous Mysteries of Science brings together 75 artists with 75 academics and scientists to contribute short synopses of the mysteries of science including things like, “Are there more than 3 dimensions?” “Why don’t animals atrophy during hibernation?” “Do rogue waves exist?” and more socially prevalent questions like “What Causes Autism?” and “Is Sexual Orientation Innate?” Each image is paired with an illustration or artwork by professional and emerging artists. Though not much variety in artistic styles, the penchant towards illustration was interesting and the design itself, done by ALSO (the designers of The Exquisite Book and Drawn In) is truly impressive. Some of the standout pieces include John Hendrix, Lauren Nassef, Ben Finer, Dave Zackin, and Edie Fake.
Check out some photos below and pick up a copy HERE.
Filed under: FILM/VIDEO, POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, brooklyn, made, magazine, man, perkns, RW, Sun, the, under, videopoem
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, a, brooklyn, christpher, citro, i, Indiana, keep, list, magazine, Must, new, of, poem, poetry, the, university, what, york
by Christopher Citro
By the bed and last thing at night, first thing
in damp daylight, I consult. On rare occasion
I might add. Making love in the long grass
near the river, a vulture’s shadow crept across
her face while I was in the middle of it,
and I looked away. That went near the top.
Those afternoons with everything crashing
around me, watching through café windows—
when I stepped outside, the smell of wet streets
and dripping trees. I did not inhale enough.
Years later, trying to recall it is like reading
through water. So I’ll have to forgive myself
for that, for letting the domino rally lull me
asleep. I saw a woman on the street yelling
at a man who did not step back. He opened
his arms, I’m a lover not a fighter, and hugged her.
Both drunk as September. Most of October,
me forgiving myself for being surprised.
Christopher Citro’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in Salamander, Cream City Review, Los Angeles Review, Southeast Review, The Minnesota Review, Poetry East, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. He is a past recipient of a Langston Hughes Creative Writing Award for poetry. Recent broadsides of his poetry are available from Architrave Press, Broadsided, and Thrush Press. Christopher is currently completing an MFA in poetry at Indiana University. Find him at christophercitro.com.
Filed under: FILM/VIDEO, POETRY, WRITING | Tags: I-poem 6, jordan, LOPEZ, pablo, Video
‘I-poem 6′ from Pablo on Vimeo. WEBSITE.
Text: Vangelis Skouras
Sound & video: Pablo López Jordán
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, carol, hamilton, magazine, maxim, the, thomas, wolfe's
By Carol Hamilton
“That’s why I’d never go back — because I can‘t bear to think
of the way it is now.”
Ruination! That is why Captain Cook
was appalled on his return — saw how
his touch was like that of King Midas.
The Greenlanders carried home cases
of beer with every kroner once Denmark
ruled. St. Andrews, so cold, so gray,
so poor when we looked out the windows
of our third floor flat, when we shivered
as North Sea air slipped around the polythene
we had taped over the windows to
keep it out. Prosperity ruined
my return there, with hotels lining
the beach, jagged monoliths cursing
the coast near the Royal and Ancient.
I did return to Bolivia, returned
nine months later. That is safe.
And Italy, Spain. They bear their
confidence like tall and straight
native women, water pots balanced
on their heads. I once thought
Thomas Wolfe wrong when I fell again
into the beloved life of our tiny
Appalachian college town. But I was
still too young then. Now my friends’
old faces shock at first, after all these years.
If you wait, Elizabeth, you get used
to it. But you are probably right.
Find a new place, a new face to love.
We must manage our pasts
with the fine gloves of a curator
drawn over our fingers before we dare
touch such relics.
Carol Hamilton has recent publications in South Carolina Review, Poet Lore, Tulane Review, Slipstream, River Oak Review, Tar River Review, San Pedro River Review, Willow Review, White Wall Review, Bryant Literary Review, Tulane Review, U.S. Newsletter, Poetrybay, Ellipsis, and others. She has been nominated five times for a Pushcart prize. She has published 15 books of children’s novels, legends and poetry, most recently, Master of Theater: Peter the Great and Lexicography. She is a former poet laureate of Oklahoma.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: AJ, beach, daytona, feathers, flordia, forgoing, huffman, kind of a hurrican press
by A.J. Huffman
Pickles and glitter crunch. My eyes,
sanely soft (the glowing is tasteful
ly toxic) in the moon. Light falls
on salted kisses. Too tight[ly strung]
together. We are a visual meal.
Viscous and vital. And blatantly bold
in our organic alchemy. We shift
and shatter. Re-forming layers:
in rock and bone. We break
boundaries with our fingers. And feeling
the aurorial edges (soft, what colors
lead the f[l]ight), we underestimate
only the flow. Of information.
And informal misogynistic mind
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: Barnes, by, christopher, coup, poem, poetry, second, the
by Christopher Barnes
Three shivered in grave clothes.
We were bent
Upon the noiseless foot of time,
Whispers under a kitchen table-cloth, repulsed
By a snigger sounding crystal, hail.
Vaporous sunset behind curtains.