What it does.


 By Shanita Bigelow


               I am not a man.
               Were there a place for this kind of truth, it would rest like a hand at rest, only as heavy as
it tends/needs to be.
There are numbers and signs and bedposts and other treasures left for streetwear.
            In your mouth I found a mound                          and in time it will uncover itself, reveal
the buried, your ancestry kept beneath, sublingual and integrating, sublingual and dissolving,
sublingual, making its way through your vessels, shining light in new space, building mounds of elbow
and knuckle, pancreas and gallbladder, your eye.              It is not what it does,
not the purpose of a purpose anymore; rather, a guise—calm teeth compelled to mercy and
your eye, the one made of dried tubers               and plantains, the one well versed in the forsaken,
the sacred. In your palm a repository for yes.
                                                                                                                      Yes.                              Yes.         Yes.
There is a shaker being shaken at this very moment and could you hear, you might dance or fright,
you might swallow or listen.              Shake then. The answers you seek exist not in the cumbersome
notes, the copious, not in all those hands, your eye, but in the flavor, the flavor of yes and/or
thank you.               Yes, thank you.
                   If salmon were a gun and smoked, how would you maneuver                        the catch, gesture,
maneuver fork and knife through barrel and flesh—scaled is the freshness of our decrees for the
sanctity, for the answers.                     And life can exist in new measures, line after line after line after. Do
not forsake the smoked gun, the smoking salmon, the smoke.
                                                                                                                    What you’ve left of me today is more
than enough for two. Maybe, I said. Maybe.               Keep in mind what you keep in isolation. There are
carts for this kind of mercy. Call it fear or something like it or not. Call it anything but sorrow
because sorrow does not exist. Not as it should.                                                                    Instead
we are left to want for more and watch the bleeding, the smoking, crying out for another and
another and another, our tongues lost in a cannon, combustible and ugly, grimy like how you said
you’d be there.                               Watch as the pain rejects any exposure to this that does not exist.
Have we forgotten? Again                         and there is another line, more/mere mercy and other things
like webs or candor or a golden rhyme.                                                      Memories are stacked, steeped
                                                                          in what we know of it and then.




Shanita Bigelow, originally from North Carolina, currently resides in Chicago where she works and writes. She has work published or forthcoming in the DAP Journal, NAP and African American Review.

The back door.

By Erica Manolith.

I don’t understand,

your life.

The sick look by the back door,

porch screen, flapping in the wind.

You don’t seem to notice the human,

of the humans around you.

Perhaps this makes you vomit?

Where are your skills?

Where is your voice?

It’s a vapor,

it’s a screen in the wind,

it fades,

it aches,

it has nothing to say,

and from nothing,

there is born,

nothing.

 



Erica Manolith is a writer living in Northwestern Pennsylvania. She is currently finishing her degree in France, and is home for the summer writing poetry for sport.

A Desert Poem.

by Jane Macavay

If this were the desert,

a separate sea,

what then of that drum we left sitting on the bench that day in Tyman park?

Do you think it decayed?

Broke down,

skin first,

then the bells?

Did anyone try to save it?

Who cares?

 

Left over: a feather, slick and a little greasy,

rested on the edge of that sad instrument,

trembling in a hasty breeze.





Jane Macavay is an musician and writer born in Baton Rouge. She now lives in New Orleans with her sister and three parrot’s. She has been published in various small reviews and magazine’s and her forthcoming book of poetry “If it’s not for Breaking, Is it for Smashing?”  comes out in the Summer of 2013.

Volume 3: Writers Deadline Extension.

A little update on Volume 3 of The 22 Magazine, we are currently still in the process on deciding on contributors for Volume 3/III/Three. As always the decision has proven to be twice as hard as more and more talented folk submit. That being said, we are still looking for the perfect pieces of written word (particularly fiction or nonfiction pieces) to accompany most of this beautiful art and music. We will be extending the deadline for writing submissions only to June 12th. Included below is a list of “inspiration” or ideas about what we are looking for in a story. Good luck and thank you for all the amazing submissions so far. Truly an honor to review them all!

HOW TO SUBMIT.

Inspiration list:

Geometries
Car Crash
Math
Numbers
Arctic or “Hidden” worlds
Plants
Monsters
Birds
Evolution
Mutation
War
Maps
Deconstruction

love letter in prison code by Steven J. Fowler.

dear Honzo

I came home & opened the bay windows

that appeared over our garden

the grass was cut

the treefruit bulbed

but a wounded horse was left behind and abandoned

please come and fetch it now

lest you forget to do so

and I am left

to clean up its mess

after all

Sophia is pregnant

and my other son is using a new razor

he is ready to ‘take care’

of your horse

STEVEN JOHANNES FOWLER (1983) is the author of four collections Red Museum (Knives forks & spoons press), Fights (Veer books), the Lamb Pit (Eggbox publishing) and Minimum Security Prison Dentistry (AAA press). He is the poetry editor of Lyrikline in the UK and 3am magazine. He is a full time employee of the British Museum.

THE WEEKEND: MARCH 30-APRIL 1st.

EDITOR’S PICKS:

Drew Maillard Solo Show: “Living In Interesting Times”
http://www.mfgallery.net/DrewMaillard/DrewMaillard.html
03/31/2012-05/05/2012

MF Gallery, fine purveyors of the eccentric and bizarre, are proud to present the collected works of one of their own. “Living In Interesting Times” is an exhibition of the drawings, paintings, prints and sculptures of Drew Maillard. There is an ancient Chinese curse that goes “May you live in interesting times.” Drew Maillard was born and raised in America in the last quarter of the 20th century… A fascinating era to be sure. He is a product of his environment. Nature and nurture; habitat and conditioning combined. Drew’s adolescence was divided between comic books, horror and sci-fi films, and fantasizing about girls he didn’t talk to. Also there was Punk Rock and L.S.D.. After spending some time in the army and leaving his hometown in upstate NY, he received his Bachelor Of Fine Arts degree from SVA in 2000. His life experiences and travel, as well as an interest in scuba diving and ju-jitzu is what informs Drew’s crazy crazy artwork.

Continue reading

Cafeteria, State Street.

by Frederick Pollack

Salisbury steak with a thick
vinegary gravy, stringbeans with the sodium
of preservatives still on them, jello –
could it be jello? – for dessert,
or apple pie I was supposed to like
but never liked, attempting
to cover every part of it
with ice cream. Meanwhile
talking – I remember talking, not
listening (to anything), or silences
(though they must have existed),
or even how Mother looked.
And one decoration, fading orange-red
on a grey wall, three medieval jongleurs
in motley, one with a lute,
their smiles wrong, their dance improbable.

I still don’t understand
why divorce required
the privacy of a honeymoon, sending me
to the apartment of an aunt
on the South Side or one
on Morse – other places
where the Thirties endured the Fifties.
(I’m sorry if, over time, that’s become
obscure.)  Was it to give him
the wherewithal, the “space”
(as people said later) to begin,
as he did once, to choke her?
Other times she accompanied
me overnight to these outposts,
whispering in kitchens
while I watched Victory at Sea.

She wouldn’t have written this
but, could she see it,
she would question the tight-lipped style.
I would explain that it augments, rather than deadens,
the emotion and focuses
the reader.  And she would say,
You’re protecting yourself.
  As on his deathbed, Father –
handing me an envelope
containing, essentially, money – managed
to gasp, You have to be protected ...
(It was dreadful how much I agreed.)


Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, The Adventure andHappiness, both published by Story Line Press.  His poems and essays have appeared in Hudson Review, Southern Review, Fulcrum, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), Representations and elsewhere.  Poems have most recently appeared in the print journals Magma (UK), The Hat, Bateau, and Chiron Review.  Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Snorkel, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire  Review, Denver Syntax, Barnwood, elimae, Wheelhouse, Mudlark, Shadow Train and elsewhere.  Pollack is an adjunct professor of creative writing at George Washington University, Washington, DC.

The Week/Weekend IS BACK.

We are pleased to announce, The Week/Weekend, an inclusive list of shows and events going on around NYC and Brooklyn has returned and is better than ever.

How so? For starters, we’ve got a brand new input page. This means that folks have direct access to getting their event listed. While we will still retain the right to editorial discretion, the process is now easier than ever. You also have the option to submit your event for review, or to be an “editor’s pick.” Events will be listed on the blog as usual on Monday’s and Friday’s.

To get your event listed for The Week you must submit by midnight Friday.
To get your event listed for The Weekend you must submit by midnight Wednesday.

To get started visit: http://www.the22magazine.com/EventSubmission

Submit your event by filling in all the fields in the correct format and follow up with an image by emailing images directly to the22magazine (at) gmail (dot) com. Images will be chosen for use at the discretion of the magazine. Do not send more than one image. Please do not send enormous images.

We hope you are excited by this new streamlined process and thank you for your continued support of The 22 Magazine! If you see any hiccups as we finalize this process, please email us at the22magazine (at) gmail (dot) com and let us know what the problem is.