tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24962400187914245192024-03-12T16:43:33.000-07:00Slices at Florida A&M UniversityAn online supplement to Cake, a journal of poetry and art.CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-65344999157404105452014-04-11T17:06:00.003-07:002014-04-11T17:06:42.244-07:00Cuban's Sweet Tooth by Maritza Soto<div class="MsoNormal">
mr. Goodbar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At least in my eyes I’ve been conditioned to never taste
his<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
bad side. The true richness of his soul and his chocolate
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
covered protection plan over the family always kept us
alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now we’ve let him rest in peace, expired May 2010. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Tic Tac<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Was like a time bomb counting the seconds it would take
my <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
father to split an argument with my mother. Walking
through<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the living room, you can smell the vents of an angry man
mean<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
mugging while washing clothes. Exchanges of dirty words
betw-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
een him and them lasting minutes before they would take
their <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
next breath, mint.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Ice Breakers<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Your undivided attention was all I needed to break that
silence <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
between my mom and my sister. Little miss me governing
the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
post across our bedroom door, finally, to catch on to the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
disturbing pauses of inflictions demanding love from her
little <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
sister. Withholding a bond from a 3 year old baby sister
causing <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
unwanted space to be broken. Healing was needed, and
soon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Life Savers<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Me and God restoring our custom made family tree from <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
destroying life boats. Sinking deep into depression,
unable<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to connect to their lack of motivation. Crossing from
seas<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
far away, why allowing the waves along the way distance <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a story that almost cost them their life? They’ve come a <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
long way from black destruction. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Atomic FireBalls <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Communist presentations, advertising false declarations,
all <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to prove proper insanity. A country so far from its led,
protesting, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
pitching to leave. You got micro-managing favorites and
women force<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to give up their own babies. What’s the point of delivery
if we can’t order <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
in self-made equality.
Sticky leaves and ditches, rocks and metal detectors <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
formulated together by innocent women trying to make a
day. Time Is clicking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Starburst <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s my country crying out for victory, Por favor!
Someone please come <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
help me. Screams of unfairness is under the tone of men
and women <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
struggling. Volunteer to unleash those things that’s
baking in my bones,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
seeing my family without a home is bursting the blood in
me. Roots<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to vain, tears to pain are being built to re-create a
history that’s misused <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to gain burst of color entertained. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Twizzlers<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My twist in pop culture. Magazines couldn’t describe the
sounds of Latin<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
drinks. Mojitos, Cuba libre y café con leche is a mixer
that no one can ever<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
forget. The music bouncing off your rear view mirror, a
flavor to strong for<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the beats to surrender. African drums with big cigars,
only a Cuban man’s jokes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
can make-up a song following the rhythm of Pit bulls
international lyrics. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
AirHeads<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Free lancing in the drug business worse than Tony
Mantana’s last history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
constantly tripling money exchanges overseas isn’t going
to satisfy Cuban <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
refuges from smoking the dealers hand out of his last
penny. Bills to pay,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
houses to reframe before the government takes them all
away. There’s<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
too many airheads in this company to draw a case in
Dade-county’s public <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
scene. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
LemonHead<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Theirs danger behind the brains in Latin country compared
to the way<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
physicians handle hard heads in America’s industry. One thing this state <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
seemed to had caught on to was how immigrants with white
coats manage<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to squeeze sour
filled knowledge into America’s system, yet
who considers <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
their license to be revoked and out of date too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
3 Musketeers <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Siblings: Queen, King, and a princess. Amazingly in the
same order <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
is how my mother and her mother birthed three children in
this family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
often the order of reality never really mattered though,
the respect <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
tended to follow the individual who had more taste in the
work field. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Milky [Cuban]Way<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Are the ways of a Cuban, bad habits. Loud talks, “OYE!!!
ACERE!!!! QUE <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
BOLA!!! While grocery shopping, kids along the waist and
accompanying <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
slight comments about the woman who’s slowing pacing her
way to the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
next ale. Not to mention the priceless moments when mommy
opens up<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
a pack of Cuban
crackers as she scratches out items off her list. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pop Rocks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Showing off our funky dance moves, eating pan con lechon
y un batido <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
De papya con azuca, celebrating the days of the week is
the energy we<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Latin American family’s can relate to. Flashy thick 14k
gold jewelry is our<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Model look for most Cuban women who enjoy spending money
on objects<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That defines us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Gummy Bears<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We stick together like glue and paint. Carrying each
other’s<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
last name is a legacy never unclaimed. Though we fight
and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
fuss to steal the final word, the meaning of family is
much <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
stronger than a trunk rooted in dirt. Mama bear, papa
bear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
and little bear is all who we got in our generation, so
we must <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
fight the battle of our make-up against hatred
people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Butterfingers <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Deserted feet’s planted on a farm, unable to hold its
balance <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
from its awful, painful stokes. It seems like every five
minutes <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the sun comes out, their hands melts down. Fingers to
thumb, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
all strengths are being used to eat one food. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
WarHeads<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My brother and his selfish ways. The battles he would
fight against<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
his PS games. Never understanding who was our enemy, him
or the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
strange looking animals on mama’s old antenna screen.
Accidently <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
touching a button was like going to war. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now and Later<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="ES-US">Con el
tiempo más tarde, el cariño de una madre nunca se pone vieja. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="ES-US">Su
sueños se sienten como rosas y su ambiente como el sabor de una<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="ES-US">fresa. Tranquilamente
buscando el sol que alumbre su corazón. El amor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="ES-US">de una
madre, un espacio sin límites. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mike and Ike<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Come in a distinctive shape and sizes yet in different
colors and flavors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
this too is to be expected in Latin culture. Although we
are all Spanish <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
speaking countries with similar homes built in, what sets
Cubans apart<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
from Puerto Ricans is our diverse language shredded into
street Spanglish. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
our shades in skin complexions can’t pole us apart if we
head back to Africa<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
where our ancestors were originally from. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Red Hots<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Impossible to disclaim this tropical environment. Less
winters and long <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
summer is just about what you can imagine when you think
of an island<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
that burns hot suns 95% of the day. Sweat that heat up
double the temperature<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of grandma’s easy oven bake. Take them out, hats,
sunglasses and screens but it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
will only do the bare minimum on a skin that’s not use to
boiling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Jelly Beans<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Hard headed on the outside Lil Eli, ignores the cares of
his steep falls but the softness<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of his insides triggers the deep feelings of his heart to
cry. Quickly holding him by <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A skin that’s only grown 6 months, hoping he soon
understands the love of a <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
concern mother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sugar Daddy’s <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Were more like cheap tricks on half Price books for
dummies. Tendencies <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
of raggedy old men chasing after women with low-priced
lipsticks last <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
only, but a minute while the women in my country learn
how to switch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
salsas with men whose pen no longer strikes zeros at the
ends... <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">-Maritza
Soto<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-56249568119759378072013-03-03T17:32:00.002-08:002013-03-03T17:32:37.440-08:00Abandoned Train by Pamela Kaiser<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
An artistic photo taken by Pamela Kaiser. What do you interpret from this photo?</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNwWhixFyxbyGRJgFccpRXYD9fBK0fbbLfYy9y1Y4wCJU9SeW8RuYRfc-DiiY_bFcY3w0_DFSuhdnP9WhyphenhyphenLpibkHr4tF68jH_H46_VSw3rytKJWG7Xa5eznPJxmidnYKXb4Nq5T50bFrLs/s1600/GRCOSPR+abandoned+trains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNwWhixFyxbyGRJgFccpRXYD9fBK0fbbLfYy9y1Y4wCJU9SeW8RuYRfc-DiiY_bFcY3w0_DFSuhdnP9WhyphenhyphenLpibkHr4tF68jH_H46_VSw3rytKJWG7Xa5eznPJxmidnYKXb4Nq5T50bFrLs/s1600/GRCOSPR+abandoned+trains.jpg" height="197" width="320" /></a></div>
CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-22052462837938697332013-02-13T12:56:00.000-08:002013-02-13T12:58:54.458-08:00The First and The Last by Malcolm McFarlane<b id="internal-source-marker_0.2345099151134491" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On streets made <br class="kix-line-break" />golden by the broken boot-straps <br class="kix-line-break" />of those under, stood upright he amongst the money plates <br class="kix-line-break" />of such man’s lineage. Born into money, <br class="kix-line-break" />work was a foreign concept; No need for righteousness, <br class="kix-line-break" />for such was glory found in the hearts of men.</span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beneath streets of gold, <br class="kix-line-break" />sat fetal a man hunched over, <br class="kix-line-break" />of no wealth or creed.<br class="kix-line-break" />Humbled by life, but made <br class="kix-line-break" />with eyes held low. Such man’s righteousness <br class="kix-line-break" />was not enough, work that did<br class="kix-line-break" />not satisfy. In something more<br class="kix-line-break" />such a man’s heart rested in, <br class="kix-line-break" />as he strived through rocks damp<br class="kix-line-break" />with tears.</span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Times told in such men past, <br class="kix-line-break" />rendered crucial in this coming age. Fortitude of class, <br class="kix-line-break" />shrouded in clandestine servitude, <br class="kix-line-break" />was now tarnished with the hoofs of Faithful and True. <br class="kix-line-break" />A man of no wealth found stature in eyes aflame. <br class="kix-line-break" />Inconceivable glory and beauty rested on this man of no appeal, <br class="kix-line-break" />Left despised like the sun that seemed to have died. </span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The last made to be first, <br class="kix-line-break" />Spared from judgment and<br class="kix-line-break" />Wrath. Trial had reached its end, <br class="kix-line-break" />Suffering now made complete.<br class="kix-line-break" />The man of no creed, <br class="kix-line-break" />Inherited eternal wealth; <br class="kix-line-break" />A heir to a divine dynasty, he was<br class="kix-line-break" />Left upright by the treasures of heaven.</span></span></b>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-72421664652172264392012-11-27T13:40:00.002-08:002012-11-27T13:40:57.461-08:00"Too Creative" by Propaganda <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/OW7Chs7K0Ac?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-21316023038779127432012-10-24T18:47:00.001-07:002012-10-24T18:48:18.104-07:00Call for SubmissionsGreetings Ladies and Gents,<br />
<br />
It's that time of year again! The "Call for Submissions" for our literary journal Cake!<br />
Make sure to send your most impressive works that you would like to see added. It grants you a chance to be a featured writer or photographer in the journal! However, we would like to see one central theme for all the submissions. That theme being CULTURE! What does culture say to you? How does the society in which you reside affect you? Let your imagination blossom and let us know! For more details, take a little look below! :)<br />
<br />
Guidelines:<br />
<br />
Poetry - Submit up to five poems of your choosing.<br />
Prose- Submit up to fifteen pages of prose.<br />
Book Reviews- A minimum of 250 to 300 words.<br />
Interview- A minimum of 500-700 words.<br />
Photos- Black and White, send as JPEG.<br />
<br />
Along with your submissions please send a brief bio, phone number and mailing address in which we can contact you. All submissions are to be submitted to cakepoetryandart@gmail.com.CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-68282323952720692572011-11-28T16:38:00.000-08:002011-11-28T16:38:00.163-08:00Endure by Stephanie BaptiseEndure<br />
<br />
"You are not good enough," he said.<br />
<br />
An utterly grotesque submersion of my mind into the acid drenched memories made me cringe as the words stung my innocent insides. I pulled my frigid body away, turned and hid my eyes within pillows of hair. I stared at the morbid drawing which reminded me of the failure I subconsciously thought I was. The drawing was an insipid fruit; orange, lonely, inert in a dim light floating within the atmosphere of the canvas. Drawing and painting were a release for me. Strokes of divine colors interpret my emotions well. My delicate fingers at work filling each significant interstice on a barren canvas are exhilarating. But still the reoccurring echoed words, "you are not good enough" was heard. <br />
<br />
Far and distant within those tormenting thoughts, my husband comes to hold me and asks, "What’s wrong?" <br />
<br />
I shook his hands off and with my all struggled to get the words out. I stammered in a low frightful voice, “You said ‘I'm not good enough.’” <br />
<br />
I ran to the bathroom, my refuge. I slammed the heavy, pale blue door shut. My husband then came knocking on a barrier as solid and impenetrable as my heart's past. I slid down against the moveable wall, feeling vibrations down my back as my husband knocked authoritatively. I sat on the floor with my knees propped up, my arms resting on them and my hands on my face crying. His voice so transparent, I looked up at the rusty, golden knob to make sure the door was actually locked. His continuous knocking was annoying me to the point where I couldn't stand it anymore. I shouted through my young weak fingers, "What?!"<br />
<br />
"What's wrong dear?" he asked soothingly. Suffocating silence answered him.<br />
<br />
"Christine, if it’s what I said, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."<br />
<br />
Soft moans of hurt fought him, leaked though the other side and launched straight into his soul. <br />
<br />
He pleaded with me, "Christine, please come out, you're a wonderful artist but it's just not what I was looking for to put in my presentation." Another pause. “I am looking for photography.”<br />
<br />
I heard this and tried to register this information with my unbalanced emotions that I let take control of me. Pulling myself up I held my husband’s words into account. Russell listened to my timid movements. I took conscious steps to the sink, looked at myself in the somewhat dark clouded mirror. Pink eyes lined with red streaks leading to black pupils stared back. A round brown wet disgruntled face and a weak heavily breathing creature appeared as a result of my reflection. Astonishing it was that I was able to see myself without having to climb on the toilet. I flushed my face with water but my puffy red eyes stubbornly remained. Walking dreadfully toward the door with a posture stained with aggrievement I knew the meeting with his quizzical face was inevitable. I opened the door and slightly peeked through the space exposing the tip of my face and one eye. He stood there waiting. Thoughts of escape to my room and becoming lost within comforting covers entered my mind. He stood there and the memory of my room being his room was brought back. I slid the rest of my body, closing the bathroom door slowly behind me. My eyes concentrated on the suddenly interesting red carpet beneath my bare feet as I attempted to avoid his questioning gaze. Russell went up to me and without saying a word he pulled me into his wide chest and rubbed my back lovingly. His rhythmic strokes along my vertebrae temporarily melted away my tensed scared muscles. Submerged within his embrace I kept on reminding myself, it’s just Russell, no one else.<br />
After those few moments, Russell had to leave. Alone again, haunted by the demonic thoughts of the past, lights off as I was locked up in the bathroom and thought about those memories. Memories of the evil manipulation I endured at the tenderly impressionable age of eight. I remember being attached to the wall by a leash around my neck. Like a harmless puppy in bondage, little Christine stood there nowhere to go and nowhere to run. My stepfather hated me, put me on the leash and I endured verbal abuse. He sent blows, punches, and slaps to my self esteem. I had no voice, I was unloved, a nobody. He said with his devilish shots of torment, things that would remain with me until I perish. My young soul bore the undeserved pain. Those words stayed fixated in my mind "you are not good enough" and "you are nothing." I pleaded with my all to use the bathroom; anything to get away from the immortal monster my mother married. I ran to the bathroom, my refuge. I slammed the heavy, faded blue door shut. My stepfather then came knocking violently on the impenetrable barrier. I slid down against the thick wooden wall, my whole body shaking from the deep and loud vibrations. My little body grew more and more afraid. I tipped into the cold, frozen like the blue tub, and laid there. I cried profusely but silently only hearing my own little echoes at the bottom of the drain. The hot tears ran down to my arm, then the tub, and traveled to the drain. In my memories, I fell asleep until my mother came home. <br />
I was sitting on my bed, crying feeling abandoned and afraid. I got up, went into my tub. Feeling the weird comfort of the tub I fell asleep just as I did when I was a child. When I awoke, I was surprised to see my husband looking oddly at me; I thought to myself it used to be my mother I found. I opened my mouth and began to stammer out a lie. <br />
<br />
But Russell helped me up and said, "We need to talk about you and I brought your mother." He paused and went on, "I spoke to your mother about what happened and she’s waiting out in the living room with someone else."<br />
<br />
"Who?"<br />
<br />
"You'll see." Russell whispered.<br />
<br />
He brought me into the living room and there my mother sat with her hands shaky, looking in the direction across from her. I followed her line of vision, there he was, my stepfather. I ran back into the bathroom in confusion. This time my husband was there, sat in the tub with me, and held me as I cried.CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-54163487810099410162011-11-23T17:08:00.000-08:002011-11-23T17:08:00.167-08:00Culture Consumption<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKfrI240fjZT3R0J5WJZ8fU8-PxAeiRSFBWk8M8XSdeNZTxDH6U021P8WKo7ek9vI8xOTBFel5QHO0pbEUc6pXEt5ZYEKWOCA1lGd_bSIMOaROqkgSHOF4SKJhrHuKLyOtwaCZG7iO8-B/s1600/nadia-plesner-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKfrI240fjZT3R0J5WJZ8fU8-PxAeiRSFBWk8M8XSdeNZTxDH6U021P8WKo7ek9vI8xOTBFel5QHO0pbEUc6pXEt5ZYEKWOCA1lGd_bSIMOaROqkgSHOF4SKJhrHuKLyOtwaCZG7iO8-B/s640/nadia-plesner-9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Nadia Plesner's piece Darfurnica - <a href="http://nadiaplesner.com/">Nadiaplesner.com</a></div>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-55370648009500943392011-11-21T11:57:00.000-08:002011-11-21T11:57:00.642-08:00The Quickest Way to Success by Yvonne Battle-FeltonThe roast was in the oven and, after the news, he promised himself, he would boil water for the instant mashed potatoes and frozen mixed vegetables so dinner would be ready when Shelby came home. Shelby had planned for Nick to spend the day painting the shutters, raking the leaves and fixing the broken tile in the bathroom. Like he did every day since beginning his first novel three years ago, Nick had spent the day waiting to be published. <br />
<br />
Later, when Shelby came home sullen and sweaty from work, Nick had been on the couch, feet propped up, asleep, as he’d been all afternoon. Nick never knew when to expect Shelby. He hated after-hours staff meetings, so unpredictable. <br />
<br />
“Did you get the mail.” Not a question, but an affirmation of the suspicion that Nick had been in this house, in this position, all day. If he had sent off his manuscript like he said he had, of course he would have gotten the mail. He would have rushed to tear the rejection letter from its gummy envelope, absorbed every word, thrown the crumpled letter in the waste basket, and whittled the rest of the day away sulking on the couch. Getting the mail was only a formality. <br />
<br />
She hadn’t asked him how his book was going, or if he’d heard back from any of the twenty five agents he had told her he’d sent his manuscript to. What do you think I do all day? He wanted to ask her, to demand an answer. But the cool stare, not at him but at the couch –as if it, not he, had let her down and the toneless, question, the accusation—had scared him. <br />
<br />
Shelby forgave him between bites of tender roast beef and mouthfuls of buttery mashed potatoes and vegetables—over buttered the way she liked to compensate for their being instant and frozen. She had accepted dinner as a domesticated apology, and so decided to be cordial—perhaps even optimistic—for now. <br />
<br />
“We should plan a vacation soon, like the ones we used to take,” she said and meant.<br />
<br />
“Before I stopped working?”<br />
<br />
He was defensive a lot lately, she thought, wiping her mouth delicately before taking a long sip of wine. “Remember hopping in the car, not caring where we ended up? Nothing planned, just unadulterated fun,” she sighed deeply, remembering.<br />
<br />
“That reminds me, Dillon called.” <br />
<br />
It was a lie. Nick knew Shelby wouldn’t believe he’d just remembered the son of a bitch calling his house, asking for his wife as if he didn’t know why the son of a bitch was calling in the first place. He hated pretending not to know Dillon wanted to sleep with Shelby. He hated the way Dillon didn’t even try to hide it. Nick wondered how Shelby didn’t know, didn’t feel the son of the bitch coming on to her. Unless she did know, he thought before stabbing a tiny pea with a salad fork.<br />
<br />
This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. <br />
<br />
When they married five years ago, Shelby had accepted the fact that Nick’s dreams of becoming a full-time writer would always be supplemented by the reality of his having a full-time job. Nick had reached no such conclusion. Ever since quitting his job over a year ago, he waited word after word to finish a novel with a first line he was too afraid to write: the story of their lives. Shelby didn’t plot well. Nick didn’t like Shelby on the page. He had changed her name, her career, her location. The only way the story worked was without her in it. And so, he wouldn’t write it.<br />
<br />
“What did he say?” She hated hiding her affair. She hated not being able to say, “I’m having an affair.” She wanted to punish Nick for making her sleep with Dillon in the first place. If he had been a writer and she Mrs. Shelby Kennedy Whitby, wife of Nick Whitby, writer; she wouldn’t have had the affair. She wouldn’t have needed to. If he had been driven enough to become what he had promised her—someone—she wouldn’t have been driven to someone else. Well, maybe not driven, she thought. Shelby fantasized about confessing. Instead, she forced herself to swallow bite after bite and prayed she wouldn’t throw up. <br />
<br />
“He asked about my book,” Nick answered, pushing his plate away and grimacing as if the trail of peas tumbling from his plate was as distasteful as the broken circle of condensation, a broken wedding ring, he thought, that lay stark where his plate should have been.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Why do you do that?” She later asked, breathless. Shelby had raced from the house on the pretense of a barely plausible, highly unverifiable office emergency. <br />
<br />
“Because I can,” Dillon said with the confidence of a man who had earned the respect and admiration of the award-winning staff of the corporation he headed. He was right. Under normal circumstances, Dillon would expect his corporate staff to be available, on call, at all times. If there was an emergency, and you were the best person to take care of it, specialist or not, you could expect Dillon to contact you—and Dillon expected you to come. <br />
<br />
This should be different. Shelby wasn’t corporate and this wasn’t the windowed-corner office of a multi-billion dollar facility. This was a penthouse apartment overlooking Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. It was just the sort of place Shelby had envisioned when she thought of herself having an affair. Dillon was just the sort of man she imagined herself with. He was everything Nick could have been. She didn’t mind that Dillon was manipulative and egotistical; she wasn’t trying to be his wife, just his—it never sounded right when she thought of what she was to him, so she seldom did. That was for other people to wonder. And, they did. Her colleagues wondered, Dillon’s partners wondered. With Shelby’s golden, brown skin; long legs; and high cheek bones, people were pretty sure they knew what Dillon and Shelby were doing. But few people knew exactly what it was or what to call it. Shelby knew that whatever she had with Dillon was not love, and if it was, she wasn’t in it. <br />
<br />
Shelby had expected an affair to be liberating. Nick had expected an affair to be something other people had. <br />
<br />
Hours later, Shelby’s skin still tingled wherever Dillon had touched it. Tonight there had been the same sense of urgency that had inebriated Shelby the first time she’d slept with Dillon almost a year ago. It lasted through the hours they lay together, the hour washing one another in the shower, and the half-hour drive home alone. She felt his touch as she pulled into the driveway, crept in through the front door, and tiptoed past the sofa. Her skin cooled as she slid between warm sheets.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry for letting you down, honey,” Nick whispered, one hand sliding to cup her breast, the other timidly touching her inner thigh, the soft patch of skin still scorched by Dillon’s touch. <br />
<br />
To Nick, Shelby’s gasp sounded like pleasure. Shelby, traces of Dillon dotting her flesh, stared blindly at the wall behind Nick’s head, marveling that her body could respond to him, in awe of its betrayal. <br />
<br />
Shelby spent the next day forcing Nick to write. She lay on the couch, with a book in her lap, her cell phone cradled against her shoulder, while Nick sat at her feet, pecking belligerently on his laptop. <br />
<br />
“Why don’t you come home for awhile?” her mother asked from her perch in New Jersey, 125 miles away.<br />
<br />
“I can’t just pick up and go any time I want,” Shelby explained while wondering why she bothered to call.<br />
<br />
“It’s not like you have kids to think about, a dog, any sort of responsibility.” Her mother had made this same argument any number of times for any number of reasons: Why don’t you move back to New Jersey? Why don’t you visit for the holidays? Why don’t you go on a couple’s retreat? Why don’t you come home until he finishes the book? But this time was different. “I don’t see why you don’t just leave him. If it’s obvious to me you don’t want to be there…”<br />
<br />
“His book is coming along, mother.”<br />
<br />
“I see.” To Shelby’s mother that was as good as admitting an affair—something she’d never do, though she’d had a few. <br />
<br />
“I have a job, mother. It’s not like I can pick up and just go where I want to go.”<br />
<br />
“That’s right; there are no jobs in Jersey.” <br />
<br />
The volume on her cell phone was set so low Shelby could barely hear. Still she wasn’t certain snatches of conversation hadn’t penetrated Nick’s sudden writing euphoria.<br />
<br />
“No.” <br />
<br />
“He’s right there, isn’t he?”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Shelby pretended to read for an hour after Nick pretended to write. She fidgeted while Nick’s head rested heavily against her thigh, his cropped hair pricking her flesh. Finally, she extracted herself from the couch to find somewhere to be alone. In the shower, hot water cleansing raw wounds, Shelby wondered at the choices she’d made and where they would lead her. <br />
<br />
The quickest way to reach success is to marry it; she had thought when she didn’t make VP five years ago. And so, she’d say yes to Nick. Nick was not a writer: Nick was barely even writing. She had known this for a while. It wasn’t until other people noticed it that it had begun to bother her. So she slowly adjusted her thinking. The quickest way to reach success is to sleep with it. And so, a year ago she had said yes to Dillon. But these last few months she had been thinking, a lot, and fallen in love with her body, with herself, again. She had been applying for new positions. She had been writing, exploring. The quickest way to reach success is to work for it. A few days ago, Shelby had been offered a VP position for a company half way around the country. Today, she said yes. <br />
<br />
“I’m having an affair.” <br />
<br />
“What’d you say, honey?” Nick had slipped into the bathroom and quietly sat on the closed toilet lid watching Shelby’s silhouette lather and foam.<br />
<br />
Sheltered behind a thin, shower curtain, Shelby closed her eyes, rested her wet hair along the cool shower tile and imagined the next ten minutes of her life. <br />
<br />
I don’t love you, Shelby imagined herself saying.<br />
<br />
Let’s make this work, Nick imagined his reply. <br />
<br />
I want a divorce, she mouthed. <br />
<br />
Let’s make this work, he mouthed. <br />
<br />
I’m having an affair, she whispered. <br />
<br />
Let’s make this work, he whispered. <br />
<br />
Four words, ten minutes, one choice that could plot the rest of their lives. <br />
<br />
Shelby turned off the water. <br />
<br />
“We need to talk.”CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-4294114962356681372011-11-19T17:29:00.000-08:002011-11-19T17:29:00.798-08:00Culture Consumption<a href="http://www.opendemocracy.net/od-russia/danila-rozanov/voina-artists-at-war?utm_source=feedblitz&utm_medium=FeedBlitzEmail&utm_content=201210&utm_campaign=Nightly_2011-02-19%2005:30">On 1 May 2007,</a> the art collective known as Voina (‘war’) announced its entry to the world by lobbing stray cats at the counter staff of a McDonalds restaurant. “We wanted to carry out a wild action, with an emphasis on wildness, rather than illustrating an ideology” was how the group's founder Oleg Vorotnikov presented the action. - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voina"><span style="font-size: large;">Voina</span></a>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-25274670625719872952011-11-14T11:49:00.000-08:002011-11-14T11:49:00.117-08:00Truth or Dare by Michael ChinHenrietta’s—the big red brick building at the corner of Charles and Main--had become a demilitarized zone. On any given Friday night, the college kids crowded around the bar, the townies had their tables, the hippies passed a hookah around their bohemian corner, the wannabe bikers crowded the pool tables. All of these different types coexisted under the common interests of 10 cent chicken wings after 10 p.m. and cheap draught beers; a shared disdain for the old time country western music piped over the sound system.<br />
A clatter disturbed the normal Friday night din, as one of the tall, heavy wooden tables flipped, shattering beer steins on the ground. The pair of bouncers faced a guy, early-twenties, deep stubble across his face, tight black t-shirt. They set up their wall of humanity to block him off from another guy, around the same age, sandy blond hair, who he insisted had provoked him. All of 30 seconds passed before they told him to scram.<br />
“Come on, we should go.” A friend put hand on Tyler’s shoulder.<br />
“Listen to your buddy,” the bouncer on the left said, a bald, fat guy with weight lifter shoulders.<br />
<br />
“Do you have any idea who I am?”<br />
<br />
That same bouncer offered the requisite shrug.<br />
Tyler pointed a finger in the bouncer’s face and grinned. “You will tomorrow morning. Hope you’re ready to find another job.”<br />
Outside, it was humid enough that a guy couldn’t breathe without sweating. The smell of cigarette smoke and a hint of mesquite from somewhere down the road permeated the air.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t until they had reached the parking lot that Classic dared speak to Tyler again. “What was all that about? That you ‘do you know who I am’ stuff?”<br />
<br />
“The dickhead didn’t know who I was.”<br />
“So?”<br />
“So I could be owner’s son for all he knows, or the sheriff’s nephew, or I could be fucking the mayor. Point is, now he’s got to worry about that the rest of the night.”<br />
Classic chuckled awkwardly. Everything about him was awkward, from his mop of brown hair, to his pallid skin, to his oversized, bright green hockey jersey, the likes of which Tyler reckoned no one with any sense would be caught wearing unless he were actually playing hockey.<br />
Maybe Tyler was distracted with the jersey, or the confrontation at the bar, but whatever the case, he didn’t see Lizzie coming. She stopped right in his path and crossed her arms so he had no choice but stop, if just for a second.<br />
Tyler recalled the first time he had seen Lizzie, about a year before. Short shorts, short girl. She had reddish-brown hair, scattershot freckles against tan skin from her job as a lifeguard, and small, vaguely Asian eyes. He initiated the conversation that night, leaning over her at the bar in such a way he could flex his triceps. She had seemed cool that night.<br />
“Hello, Tyler.”<br />
He made a move to step around her but she slid to the side to cut him off.<br />
“What’s going on, Lizzie?”<br />
“You haven’t returned my calls.”<br />
“After people break up, they don’t have to return each other’s calls. In fact, it’s a little weird for you to call to begin with.”<br />
“Truth or dare, Tyler?”<br />
“I don’t have time for this tonight.”<br />
Classic elbowed him in the ribs. “You know the rules. The game’s on, anytime, anyplace. You can’t pass.”<br />
The game had dominated the lives of everyone in their immediate social circle for the last year, its play more ubiquitous, its rules more acute with each passing month. Lizzie tilted her head and flashed the smile that, in better days, Tyler found sexy as hell.<br />
“Fine. Dare.”<br />
“I dare you to go back in there and have a drink with me. Just the two of us, so we can talk about some things.”<br />
“I’m going to refer to the rule book again,” Tyler said. “Cameron, if you would?”<br />
Cameron spread his hands open in front of his face, to look as though he were reading the fine print of a book. “A player reserves the right to reject a dare in the case that it will result in a probable arrest.”<br />
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lizzie asked.<br />
“It means I already got kicked out. Have a good night, sweetheart.” Tyler side stepped her and used an old football juke and spin to get ahead of her and back on the path his Thunderbird.<br />
“Fuck it, Tyler. We need to talk.”<br />
“I’m sure.”<br />
“I’m changing the dare. Tomorrow night. Stillwater’s. Eight o’clock.”<br />
The door to the Thunderbird groaned on opening. Tyler kept forgetting to grease the hinges. He reached across to the passenger to side to unlock the door for Classic.<br />
“Do you hear me, Tyler? Tomorrow—”<br />
“Eight. Stillwater’s. I’ll think about it.” He slammed the door shut and revved the old engine. Lizzie jumped to get out of the way as he fired the car into reverse and covered her with dust from the gravel lot.<br />
<br />
Tyler had given Classic his nickname back in high school. The guy would say the goofiest shit, and Tyler had declared every sentence he uttered to be “Classic.” The name stuck, but as the years went by, Classic’s manner of speech lost its charm. Particularly, when the guy got fixated on a topic, Tyler felt as though he could very easily ram Classic’s head through some drywall.<br />
“Lizzie is fucking hot, dude.” Classic batted the orange rubber ball from side to side with his hockey stick. “I don’t know why you’d split on her.”<br />
Tyler sat behind the counter staring at the sheet of paper in front of him. That watermarked sheet of paper had cost two dollars in and of itself, ten bucks more for the design and the color print job. If it worked, that sheet of paper would make him three hundred dollars, cash, before the day was done. “I told you. She got weird.”<br />
“I’d be all right with Lizzie getting a little freaky on me.” Classic started in with the pelvic thrusts, extending the hockey stick forward. “You know, a little freaky on my genitalia.”<br />
When Tyler bought The Coach’s Corner sports memorabilia shop, it seemed like a dream come true. At any given moment, he could surround himself with classic baseball cards, signed footballs, game-used basketball jerseys—all in the name of business. And he’d have sports fans in and out to shoot the shit all day, reliving the game from the night before while they bought a few packs of trading cards from whatever sport was in season and opened them on the spot. Once the business took off he’d get a big screen plasma TV for the store and show all the big games there. The thing would probably pay for itself.<br />
The problem was, when Tyler bought Coach’s Corner, no one told him about the way in which the economy had affected sports memorabilia. No one told him that when a working stiff had to choose between a pack of baseball cards and a pack of cigarettes, he’d choose his Old Golds every time. Forget about the plasma. Covering the rent on the shitty little building proved hard enough. Never mind that the shit-colored carpet ought to have been replaced long before he bought the place, and Tyler could swear those big fluorescent lights on the ceiling emitted toxic radiation.<br />
Tyler had had to start buying all of these stupid trading cards with elves and wizards. The nerd crowd out-bought the sports fans three to one.<br />
Classic tapped the rubber ball forward, slow and steady. It rolled right through the little slot at the bottom of the cardboard display of a goalie. Tyler set it up so customers could pay a dollar to take a shot. If they scored, they were rewarded with a randomized pack of 20 hockey cards (full of no-names, cards were, cumulatively, valued at approximately a dollar). If they missed—well, they were welcome to play as many times they liked.<br />
“Want to speed up that slap shot, Gretzky?” Tyler cracked his knuckles. He had assigned Classic the task of shooting at the goal himself whenever customers were around to show how fun and easy the game was. With those granny shots, the game didn’t look fun at all. Hell, it didn’t even look like a game.<br />
“If I shoot it too hard I’m going to miss.”<br />
“You’ve got to make it look easy.”<br />
“I’ve got to practice so I can make it look easy. I shoot slow when no one’s around so I can shoot it fast when we do have people here.” Classic leaned behind the display, and knocked the ball back through the slot, out into the open. “So what do you mean Lizzie got weird?”<br />
“She just got clingy and stuff. I could see the signs, she was going to be more of a hassle than she was worth.”<br />
Classic batted the ball back and forth, working his way back down the center of the store. That was one of the design flaws of the game—the shop was small enough, just one aisle, such that anyone playing the game couldn’t help but interfere with anyone actually trying to shop. “I don’t think I’d mind a girl like Lizzie getting clingy. Would give you the upper hand, wouldn’t it?”<br />
“I’m always in charge.” Tyler fingered the edges of that sheet of paper. He wondered if she should have had it laminated.<br />
<br />
“So are you going to Stillwater’s?”<br />
<br />
“If I’m going, you’re coming with.” Tyler sat up straighter, looking at his certificate of <br />
<br />
authenticity from a little more distance. “You’re not gonna sit down with us, or nothing. I just need to you there to pull me out if I need it.”<br />
<br />
“You think you’ll need it?”<br />
<br />
The little bell over the door rang. As if on cue, Classic fired a slap shot at the cardboard goalie, hard and wild enough that the ball went airborne and ricocheted off the cardboard into the magazine rack.<br />
The man at the door way had wavy grey hair, a grey moustache, and a gray blazer on to match. His chest swelled from underneath it with the build of a guy who had worked out his whole life.<br />
“Would you like to take a shot, sir?” Classic reached out both arms, the hockey stick laying flat across his hands like he was offering up some ancient sword. “Only costs a dollar.”<br />
“No thanks, Junior.” The man, Marty Fullerton headed straight for Tyler and extended his hand.<br />
Tyler wiped his own palm against his jeans to get the sweat off before he met Marty’s. It was the same all-business handshake the old man offered him when they first met two months before, when he introduced himself on his first stop at the store and gave him his business card. “Mr. Fullerton, it’s a pleasure to see you.”<br />
Men like Fullerton were a rare find in that town—a serious collector with particular tastes, established goals. He had let Tyler know in no uncertain terms he was looking for a mint condition, autographed Patrick Ewing rookie card, and that he would pay book value for it. He told Tyler to call the minute he so much as heard or saw of such a specimen, then left without taking a second look at the store. Tyler doubted he’d just stumble upon something as specific and hard to come by as what Fullerton was after, but he held onto the business card just the same. It couldn’t hurt to connect with a guy like that.<br />
“You say you’ve found what I was looking for?” Fullerton planted his hands on his hips.<br />
Tyler removed a brown paper bag from beneath the cash register and extricated the screw-down glass protective case. It was a 1986-1987 Fleer basketball card—the stuff of legend, the first major basketball card release in a five year span, such that it could lay claim to printing the first cards—the rookie cards—for a range of guys from Isiah Thomas to Michael Jordan to Karl Malone, none of whom were actually rookies that season.<br />
This particular card was different from all the rest, of course. Though the photo of young New York Knicks center, Patrick Ewing, remained in the confines of the ugly red, white and blue borders, the picture had another layer on top of it—the blue sharpie scrawling of the man’s name.<br />
Fullerton held the case in his big right hand, turned it upside down, then held it at eye level, and looked at the edge of it. He held it up to the light, then held a hand over it, casting a shadow on the face of the card. <br />
At last, Fullerton flopped the card down on the counter, not like a treasure he had sought for months or years, but a scrap of meat he would throw to his dog. “All right, kid, let’s see the certificate.”<br />
Tyler had meant to have the sheet of paper waiting in a manila envelope to demonstrate he had taken care of it, to make the presentation look professional. He had forgotten to stow it away after the last hour of staring at the thing though, and found it lying, non-descript, behind the counter. He picked it up, and tried to smooth out a newly wrinkled edge in the same instant he handed it over.<br />
Fullerton held the certificate of authenticity between a thumb and forefinger on each hand. “All-Star Sports. I never heard of them.”<br />
Tyler had made up the name of the authenticating agency on the spot at the print shop. Fullerton seemed like the kind of guy who would have a collection of such certificates, so it seemed safer to invent, rather than counterfeiting a real company’s certificate. “I haven’t seen a lot of them either. They pass through every now and again, though.” He ran a thumb over his lips. “I saw one recently for a signed Donovan McNabb jersey. I think they’re a newer company, but, you know, on the rise.”<br />
Fullerton exhaled long, hard, and audibly through his nostrils. “Never heard of them,” he repeated.<br />
Tyler’s shifted to the wall behind Fullerton, a cardboard crate of sports posters with model copies hanging over it—Tiger Woods, LeBron James, Alex Rodriguez. Growing up, Tyler had covered his bedroom walls with posters like that. He couldn’t remember the last time he sold one from the store. How did kids decorate their rooms now? Probably just got the same posters from Wal-Mart. The bottom corner of the crate closest the doors was badly dented. At least one out of every three customers would trip over it on their way in the store. Tyler always meant to move it.<br />
“Sorry kid, I’m gonna pass.”<br />
Tyler cleared his throat. “Mr. Fullerton, I paid top dollar for this at a card show out in Elmira because I knew you were looking for it.”<br />
“What did you pay?”<br />
“Two hundred fifty dollars. And I’m willing to let it go to you for two seventy-five. Factor in gas to and from the show, the time it took me to find it, a little convenience charge—you won’t find a better deal.”<br />
Fullerton placed the certificate on top of the card. “If it’s the real thing, you’ll find a good home for it. I’ve gotta feeling somebody defaced a perfectly good card there, though. I just hope it wasn’t you.” He pulled a pack of cigarettess from an inner pocket of blazer and deposited a smoke in his mouth.<br />
“Two twenty-five.”<br />
The bell over the door rang again. Fullerton was gone.<br />
Tyler turned the certificate in his hands and held it up to the light, inspecting the watermark. “Truth or dare, Classic?”<br />
There wasn’t much point to even asking. Classic was always too chickenshit to take a dare, though, had he grown a pair in that moment, Tyler was determined to have him run outside and key Fullerton’s Mercedes.<br />
“Truth.”<br />
“If you were me, would you meet Lizzie tonight?”<br />
Classic leaned on the top of the hockey stick. “I think I would.”<br />
Tyler slid the certificate into its envelope, slid the card back in the brown bag. There would be other customers. He would wait a couple weeks, then put the card on display, list it at a hundred bucks. Someone would bite. “We’re going.”<br />
<br />
They headed out to Stillwater’s at 6:30—a full 90 minutes ahead of when Lizzie was supposed to come. “It’s like I always say—home field advantage is the greatest x-factor in a game,” Tyler explained. “Stillwater’s is neutral territory, but I get there early, make myself at home, and all of a sudden I’m in control.”<br />
Classic gazed out the window, the glass rolled all the way down so the breeze plastered his face. The Thunderbird didn’t have air-conditioning.<br />
<br />
While a place like Henrietta’s prided itself as a melting pot, Stillwater’s was decisively more of a yuppie joint. From the wall to wall glass exterior to the imitation marble floors, to the neon-backlit bottles over the bar, the place was desperate to be hip, just like its skinny jeans, blazer-sporting clientele.<br />
<br />
Tyler made a point not of wearing an old Guns N Roses t-shirt and jeans that were worn at the knees, and didn’t put in any hair gel that night. He advised Classic to dress in kind—the best he could wrangle up was a plain white t-shirt and jeans with frayed cuffs.<br />
Classic scooped up a mint from the maitre de’s station as they made their way in.<br />
Tyler felt eyes turning to the two of them—mostly himself. All the while, he locked his eyes straight ahead. He spotted the redhead and the blond from 20 yards out and made no bones about pulling up a stool beside them at the bar. “Excuse me girls. If you don’t mind my asking, what are you drinking?”<br />
The redhead looked him up and down through the lenses of a pair of glasses with thick black frames. “Vodka cran.”<br />
“Bartender.” He brandished a fan of bills. “Four vodka cranberries.”<br />
“We just started these.”<br />
“Yeah.” Tyler watched the bartender pour a steady stream of cranberry juice down one side of a glass, a trickle of Smirnoff’s down the other. “But I have a feeling we’re all going to be here for a little while, so I figured I’d might as well get us started.”<br />
The redhead smirked. He didn’t have her in the cooler yet, but she nipped at the edge of his hook. “What did you say your name was?”<br />
“I didn’t.” He reached out his hand. “Tyler.”<br />
“I’m Willow. And this is Carol.”<br />
Over the hour that followed, Willow and Carol revealed themselves as community college girls, friends from high school. Willow studied psychology and aimed to go on to a four year school the next fall. And Carol—well, Tyler lost interest in Carol after the first ten minutes, and after several not-so-subtle gestures, Classic got the hint to switch barstools and chat her up.<br />
Tyler explained their identity for the night—members of a rock and roll band out of New York City. They had chosen the less than obvious path of moving to a small town, figuring they would save money on rent, and build a fan base over the Internet. Classic played drums, and Tyler sang, of course, but no, he’d be too embarrassed to sing there in the bar, without his band. And of course, they’d had no idea Stillwater’s was a fancier bar, or else they would have dressed more nicely. Tyler didn’t like to stand out.<br />
It all went swimmingly until Tyler felt a pat on his shoulder. Lizzie didn’t acknowledge any of the others, and didn’t even speak a word to Tyler—just made her presence known. She asked the bartender for a Sprite, then walked over to a table across the way.<br />
“Excuse me, girls. That’s Elizabeth—we’ve been working with her to get a gig at The Hog’s Haunch.”<br />
“They get some pretty big acts there.” Willow played with one of the ends of her hair.<br />
“Here’s hoping we’re next.” Tyler raised his glass to them all as he stood.<br />
Lizzie sat with her hands gripping her seat, her thumbs beneath her butt. Her shoulders rose to a pair of peaks just below the bottoms of her ears. She sat that way when she was stressed or angry. Tyler had seen her in such a condition plenty.<br />
“That girl with the glasses is pretty.” Lizzie sucked up Sprite through a little red straw. “You just meet her tonight?”<br />
“It’s a long story.” Tyler lied.<br />
Lizzie nodded. “Why have you been avoiding me?”<br />
“We aren’t together anymore. I’m not avoiding you any more than any I avoid any other ex.”<br />
Lizzie wore a black cocktail dress that left her shoulders bare. Her skin was spotted with freckles from the sun. She got a job as a bank teller last fall, but he supposed she probably still lifeguarded weekends to bring in a little extra cash. He had liked the way she looked in her black one-piece last summer. Had liked the way the young boys ogled her from the side of the pool, affirming her as an object of desire.<br />
“Then why did you break up with me?”<br />
“You can’t ask me that.”<br />
“Why not?”<br />
“Because I already broke up with you. It’s done. And if I have to have the talk with you a month after, it’s like I’ve got to break up with you again, and I’ve got better ways to spend a Saturday night.”<br />
“I think it’s because you’re scared of getting too serious with anyone.”<br />
“You’re gonna psychoanalyze me now?”<br />
“And maybe you’re scared of having to grow up. Scared because you don’t have a real job.”<br />
“I own my own business.”<br />
“And how much money has it made you so far?”<br />
“Most businesses lose money over the first couple years.”<br />
“I think you’re scared of being a man.”<br />
“Are you done?”<br />
“Truth or dare, Tyler?”<br />
“You’re kidding me, right?”<br />
“Truth or dare?” she repeated.<br />
Tyler sighed and gulped down what was left of his vodka cran. “Dare.”<br />
Lizzie rolled tongue around, over her teeth, so it bulged against her skin beneath the cover of closed lips. “I dare you to tell me why we started playing truth or dare.”<br />
“Sounds more like a truth.” He swirled the half-melted ice cubes around in his glass. “All right, you started it.”<br />
“And why is that?”<br />
“How should I know?”<br />
“Because I told you, and I know you remember.”<br />
Across the bar, Willow directed traffic. The bartender laid out a row of three shot glasses, and she pointed at the liquor bottles behind him.<br />
“You said I lied so much you couldn’t tell when to take me seriously.”<br />
“And yet, since we started the game, I don’t remember a single time you haven’t picked dare.”<br />
“You started the game.”<br />
Lizzie took a deep breath and folded her hands on the table. She’d nibbled her nails down shorter than usual. Sometimes they’d bleed after she bit them that short. “What’s my usual drink?”<br />
“Malibu and Sprite.”<br />
“Good. And has it occurred to you why I left out the Malibu tonight?”<br />
“Why don’t you enlighten me?”<br />
“I think you know why. And I think it’s why you left me in the first place.”<br />
“If you already have all the answers, then I’m not sure why I need to be here.”<br />
Lizzie brushed her hair back behind her ears. Her hair was longer than it had been since they met, and when she moved it, Tyler could help thinking how much older she looked. More than a year older. Decades, a lifetime. She moved her hands down to her stomach and looked down. “It’s funny how you imagine something’s going to be a certain way. And then, when it comes, it’s nothing like that.”<br />
Across the bar, they all sucked on lemon wedges. The girls giggled and Classic squinted his eyes. “Are we done here?”<br />
“I really thought I loved you.”<br />
He got up. Lizzie didn’t say another word he could here, didn’t get up to stop him. He made his way back to the bar, conscious of people watching him again. The Guns N Roses t-shirt didn’t feel so unique or cool anymore, though—just out of place. “I think it’s time we head home,” he said, upon his arrival.<br />
<br />
Willow’s head flopped down on her hand, leaning against the bar. Her cheeks had turned pink. “Kind of an early night, don’t you think?”<br />
<br />
“You misunderstood me.” Tyler glanced to his side. He almost looked as far back as Lizzie’s table, but pulled himself back to the moment.“I’m suggesting we all head back to my place. The night’s just getting started.”CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-8325034884225589422011-11-12T17:22:00.000-08:002011-11-12T17:22:42.625-08:00Culture Consumption<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEuBFTVBu7UHbyf7VxDpbc8Al3TPrL-YQ2ekibGifVBJYw7usDhlwSGk5beWHw6y4uP2Kvy6RQzLzEnH79NxYC9hKTbKbKdUx3o0IClao71aIjUMFL75Axdgud8CgfYxPDDTtJiubRZdaT/s1600/banksy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEuBFTVBu7UHbyf7VxDpbc8Al3TPrL-YQ2ekibGifVBJYw7usDhlwSGk5beWHw6y4uP2Kvy6RQzLzEnH79NxYC9hKTbKbKdUx3o0IClao71aIjUMFL75Axdgud8CgfYxPDDTtJiubRZdaT/s320/banksy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Banksy, artist of Graffiti - <a href="http://banksy.co.uk/">Banksy.co.uk</a></div>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-51682670274287801182011-11-07T11:40:00.001-08:002011-11-07T11:40:29.008-08:00Worker Ants by Basil RosaKJ and Scotty didn’t pause along Lyons Avenue, the main artery through Fortune Hill, its dividing lines painted red, white and green after the Italian flag. Hands in pockets, heads down into lancing wind, they made their way to friend Orbit's apartment. Scotty remarked that for as long as he could remember, it had been gustier on Fortune Hill than in other parts of the city. <br />
<br />
The signs of three old, established restaurants with awnings embellished the street: Masarino's, Cecilia’s and Pino’s. Masarino’s sign, scripted in neon, stood out most, bordered by chaser lights that blinked on and off. Scotty stopped to admire it. His eyes roved down Lyons and he told KJ to check out how the lights blinked in time to the neon of Vito Marulli’s Old Canteen two short blocks away. KJ did so, noting that Vito Marulli’s didn’t blink, but Old Canteen blinked light-green first, then pink, followed by scarlet. The blinking carried him away, and for a moment under a gray sky, he loved Lyons Ave with its black lampposts and clustered globes of lights that shed a romantic glow over the red brick sidewalks. <br />
<br />
Why romantic? Because he’d been thinking of Bree. They talked every day now, during and after work. Something he couldn’t define was happening between them.<br />
<br />
Scotty was talking. KJ listened half-heartedly, and heard his comment that one day Lyons and this neighborhood would be more than a ghetto for pauper Italian immigrants, and a playground for Made Guys with big appetites. It would be a destination for tourists. <br />
<br />
He admitted to KJ he wasn’t original, that this was the same dream Mayor Grifasi had of a renaissance, a new city. “It’s gonna be so much better one day, you’ll see.” <br />
<br />
At The Forum, a new name for a restaurant that had recently changed its identity, they stopped to read the menu board posted in front. The twenty-dollar price for spaghetti and meatballs surprised KJ. <br />
<br />
Scotty said, “That’s because the joint is mob controlled. Thing is, you should always judge an Italian restaurant by its Veal Marsala.”<br />
<br />
“Marsala?”<br />
<br />
Scotty laughed. “Remind me, next time we eat out together, I’ll order you some.”<br />
<br />
They strolled past Anthony’s New Colony Food Shop in its little brick building. Scotty read its sign aloud: Salumeria Italiana. He said to KJ, “All these languages. A beautiful thing, ain’t it?”<br />
<br />
“Americans I meet only know one language,” said KJ. “What do they study in school?”<br />
<br />
“They don’t,” said Scotty. “That’s the problem.”<br />
<br />
They approached a narrow brick building with a smoked glass globe attached to each side of its high entranceway. It looked solid and had once been a bank. Above its door hung a yellow sign for the Dante Cassaretti Institute for Martial Arts. <br />
<br />
Next to Dante’s building slouched modest Almonte’s five and dime, the pale-green tiles of its front glazed to look like Bakelite painted with the store’s big-lettered name above a street-level window. They gawked for a while at espresso makers, ceramic figurines, baby clothes and other mostly Italian-made goods. <br />
<br />
Scotty said, “Wouldn’t it be awesome one day to meet an Iranian woman. You know, get married and have a family. You ever think about that? I do. I want to meet a real Italian woman.”<br />
<br />
“Not now. I can't,” said KJ. “Maybe not ever. But I do. I think about her all the time. But maybe she is American.” <br />
<br />
“You got someone in mind?”<br />
<br />
KJ pointed at his head. “She lives here. I see her in dreams when I work, I sleep and I eat. Always, she is with me.”<br />
<br />
They passed Simonelli’s, where the window display featured a gigantic ceramic of the Virgin Mary. <br />
<br />
“There is English word for these,” said KJ. “But I cannot remember.”<br />
<br />
“Statuary,” said Scotty. <br />
<br />
“It’s funny to me. I like them when they stand inside bathtub on the grass in front of people’s houses.” <br />
<br />
“So that’s it,” said Scotty. “You have a deep secret interest in Christianity.”<br />
<br />
Scotty laughed. KJ didn’t. He looked across the street at the Spirito Sewing Center, its Necchi sewing machines in the window, and a sign: Tailor on Premises. <br />
<br />
Scotty looked, too. He said, “Miss him, don’t you?”<br />
<br />
“My father? Yes.” He turned to Scotty. “He was a tailor.”<br />
<br />
“You told me that.”<br />
<br />
KJ paused a moment.<br />
<br />
“At least you have a father,” said Scotty.<br />
<br />
KJ nodded. He thought Scotty sounded grim. He spoke quietly. “He didn’t like the clothes here. Every morning, he would dress in tie and black jacket and soft hat. I see him now. He steps outside and breathes cold air. He walks a beautiful and clean empty street. Never goes past another person. Never has place to smoke and play Backgammon and drink tea with other men. Always, he comes home with long face. He asks me, ‘Where are the people? What do they do here? They make a country, but they don't live.’"<br />
<br />
Scotty shook his head no, as if he’d heard this lament before and still didn’t believe it. “If you stay here, you’ll live. You’ll make money and send it home. Your father will never have to mend a suit again.”<br />
<br />
“But to make money, is that all? My father likes to fix suit. Not just for money. Because he loves his work.”<br />
<br />
“You’re talking in circles. You need money to live.”<br />
<br />
“Money,” said KJ. “Right. We buy gift for Orbit. Bring him something good.”<br />
<br />
“That’s the plan.”<br />
<br />
They headed to the Fortuna Cheese Company. Entering the shop, KJ paused a moment to breathe deeply, drawing in the smell of wedges, tubes, bricks and wheels of Parmesan, Asiago, Fontana and Romano. Thanks to Scotty, he had learned these cheeses by name. Waxed tubes of provolone wrapped in string hung from the ceiling. Tubes of sausage, prosciutto and salami hung laced inside string wrappers. <br />
<br />
KJ took his time observing herbs that dangled by strings along with the meats and cheeses. “Dill, tarragon, rosemary and oregano. I learn their English names.”<br />
<br />
Scotty, smiling, clapped him on the shoulder and moved him to the pasta section. “If you can swing it, always buy your pasta fresh, made to order.”<br />
<br />
KJ nodded as he mumbled under his breath, "Ravioli, manicotti, cavati and gnocchi. Ravioli, manicotti, cavati and gnocchi." <br />
<br />
Scotty glowed. “You remember. That’s good, really good.”<br />
<br />
“You teach me more? I use at restaurant. They help.”<br />
<br />
A female clerk asked if they needed help. Scotty smiled at her. “Do I know you? Linda, right? Ronnie Vinzi’s wife. From Saint Anthony’s, right?”<br />
<br />
Linda Vinzi, looking defensive, didn’t smile. “Yeah, so. But I don’t remember you.”<br />
<br />
“Not a problem,” said Scotty. “We’re just looking. You tell Ronnie I said hello." <br />
<br />
Linda smirked and bustled off to take care of someone else. KJ couldn’t recall when he’d last seen Scotty in such an upbeat mood. He said to him, “You know everybody.”<br />
<br />
“It’s a curse sometimes,” said Scotty. He blocked his mouth and whispered, “Ronnie Vinzi hates my guts. I beat the crap out of him when we were kids in the schoolyard behind Saint Anthony’s. That’s why I didn’t introduce you.”<br />
<br />
“I like the way you say, ‘Just looking.’ Very American.”<br />
<br />
“Just being polite.”<br />
<br />
“But I ask,” said KJ. “You look, but do you see?”<br />
<br />
Scotty remarked, “I’m just looking and it kills me. Pasta makers for sale, but too expensive. All types of flour and cheeses and meats and green and brown and black olives, all so nice, but what I see is that I need a woman that can cook. A real old-country woman with long hair and child-bearing hips.”<br />
<br />
“I think with the real food, you find the real woman,” said KJ. “But I smell the fried fast-food oil everywhere. My first American smell. Not really food. Here, I smell earth. I like this. Maybe your woman smells earth, too.”<br />
<br />
Scotty asked, “Are markets like this in Iran?”<br />
<br />
“No. Not so pretty, but food has real taste. Not from machine. There, we have bazaar, many people in the street. A lot of dust and noise.” <br />
<br />
“Dust on the food?” <br />
<br />
KJ beamed. “It is like energy. I so miss it. Here, for me, too clean. I see managers, everybody so polite, but no love.”<br />
<br />
Scotty rubbed his chin, looked at KJ as if offended. <br />
<br />
“In Iran,” said KJ, “the women wash clothes and plates, knives and spoons, and they wash in the waters that go across and under the streets.”<br />
<br />
“So water must be scarce there,” said Scotty.<br />
<br />
“A garden is where you find water and the shade. And where you find garden, you find family, friends.”<br />
<br />
“You can find that here, too.”<br />
<br />
“When will I see home again? Do you know? I ask myself this every day.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe this will become your home.”<br />
<br />
“I hated Khomeini,” said KJ. “And all the mullahs that hate the West. These men are all the same. They want nothing of peace. They have oil, power, and the greed. All of life is their game. Who am I? No status, no home.”<br />
<br />
KJ sighed and looked at Scotty as if asking for an answer. Scotty, unable to meet KJ’s gaze, looked away, so KJ wandered away from him toward flowers and strips of marzipan, oranges, lemons, pears. Scotty wandered in a different direction, and fingered onions, shallots, red potatoes and zucchini. <br />
<br />
When they met again in the little store, Scotty said, “It does smell good. Gotta admit that.”<br />
<br />
“It’s just okay.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry you don’t like it.”<br />
<br />
“No, but I like,” said KJ. “Thank you for showing me.”<br />
<br />
As a gift for Orbit, KJ bought a dozen chocolate-coated anisette biscuits. He bought one for Scotty to snack on, and he insisted on paying.<br />
<br />
Scotty, eating as he walked, said to KJ, “I really like Orbit, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t care about fitting in with his entourage. They’re gonna be dressed up tonight.”<br />
<br />
“You didn’t tell me this,” said KJ.<br />
<br />
“You want to wear a costume?”<br />
<br />
KJ shrugged. “Not so bad.”<br />
<br />
“Next time,” said Scotty. “Orbit’s always throwing theme parties. This one is Animals Out Of Hibernation Week. Here, I’ll show you.” <br />
<br />
Scotty took a folded invitation from his pocket; a lime-green photocopy with black letters crudely pasted together that read: ItS WinTER Get Out OF The CLoSeT!<br />
<br />
KJ smiled as he looked at the invitation, which pictured Orbit with his arm around a cut-out of a skinny man in sunglasses. <br />
<br />
“That’s Andy Warhol with Orbit,” said Scotty. “But not a real picture.”<br />
<br />
“I think this is funny.”<br />
<br />
“Keep it.” <br />
<br />
“I want to.” KJ slid the invitation into his coat pocket. “Thank you.”<br />
<br />
“Should be fun. Just watch what you say and who you say it to. They’re art crowd types.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t think art is work?”<br />
<br />
Scotty laughed. “I didn’t say that. Most of them are students. Fortuna State. Squared Circle Theatre. Orbit’s an acting student there. That’s where we met.”<br />
<br />
“So isn’t Bree,” said KJ.<br />
<br />
“Creative sexual orientations. All misunderstood genius.”<br />
<br />
“And you’re not?”<br />
<br />
Scotty said, “I’m different. At least I know I haven’t lived long enough to prove I have any talent. You and me, we’re the worker ants. Leland should be with us, too.”<br />
<br />
“He is away to his mother.”<br />
<br />
“He’s staying away,” said Scotty. “Has to, probably. I asked Lucio about it, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”<br />
<br />
“I thought so,” said KJ. <br />
<br />
Scotty stopped. He took KJ by the wrist. “Bree. I knew it. You and Bree. Makes sense. She’ll probably be there.”<br />
<br />
KJ withdrew into silence. Scotty, smiling at him, nodded and hurried him along. “Don’t worry, man. I got your back. We worker ants gotta stick together.”CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-90151418084290682192011-08-28T17:45:00.000-07:002011-08-28T17:45:51.314-07:00Chris JoynerThe Moon Agreement<br />
<br />
<br />
-The Moon and its natural resources are the common heritage of mankind.<br />
<br />
United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs<br />
<br />
Mother says our bodies are primarily aquatic. 70% water to be exact. This is why the tidal Moon takes hold of us: pushing, pulling, crocheting. We maladroit ballerinas disposed to the dream recitals of an orbiting godhead. Oceanography:<br />
<br />
the study of humans falling and rising, lapping the shore but never conquering, atomic, axiomatically in flux, transient electric blue lava lamp globs. Manchurian Candidates of gravity’s government. Mother Moon, wash over me. I yield to your lunacies. Be kind. Soften your pocked skin. You are not so alone<br />
<br />
I think afloat in the amniotic shallows of Key Biscayne, sweat beading from every pore. I am permeable, osmotic, quite possibly soluble. 70% of the Earth is ocean. <br />
A family does submerged handstands and converses in Spanish; I hear water. Seagulls propel in contrails overhead, squawking their birdsong; I hear water. Mother Moon curls herself into a conch shell and listens. CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-67306470399573417432011-08-28T17:38:00.000-07:002011-08-28T17:44:02.218-07:00Chris Joyner<div style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">unrequited loaf]</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bread heels are the bastard children<br />
of the loaf: not given a fair shake <br />
from doughy birth, baked <br />
to bear the brunt for their<br />
brother and sister slices<br />
who are more revered,<br />
slathered with jelly<br />
or matched up for deli sandwiches,<br />
like teens at a hoedown.<br />
<br />
No, the heels are hardened,<br />
and they must be, they are but crusty bookends,<br />
no feeling of destiny or divine favor,<br />
but as the loaf dwindles, finally<br />
the counterparts meet, heel to heel, and the old wounds <br />
begin at last to heal.<br />
<br />
Once united,<br />
they let down their crusts and embrace <br />
with the inner softness that secretly longs<br />
to be eaten, to be kissed and savored, and on occasion,<br />
they‘re stowed in the freezer, frozen<br />
as prehistoric lovers in an avalanche until<br />
a grander fate is revealed:<br />
<br />
<br />
[meatballs] [bread pudding] [croutons] [love] [purpose].CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-9742968749347565142011-03-15T08:36:00.000-07:002011-03-15T08:36:51.930-07:00Natasha Trethewey #2<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5uvxkO4SeVs?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-55988181246214789312011-03-15T08:22:00.000-07:002011-03-15T09:21:29.983-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>i called you my butter cookie</b></div><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">i know them way back, packed</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">in the supermarket, stacks after stacks</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">labeled blue, each blue can</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">our big city's favourite, wrapped in red</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">spring's warmest gift. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">it must have been your baby blues, or me</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">overwhelmed in a scent</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">so flattering, in a way</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">so sweet, it caters my court, </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">your ship.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">crunchy touches, sugar on top, taste</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">on my tongue, the best flavor</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">unlocked - the best thing i know from you country -</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">all these golden pieces of loveliness</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">sink in memories.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">cherry rao</div>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-20575278271804234982011-01-25T07:22:00.000-08:002011-03-15T08:26:16.018-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Contact, A Conjecture</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Contact graphs</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">of intermediate packings</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">represent</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">disk-disk; disk-boundary</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">We all desire contact:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">online companions;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">better, the hug that maps</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">an other’s boundary.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">In the same domain</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">an alternative</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">conjecture</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Wake up</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">"Who are you?"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Carol Dorf</span>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-15097474917875476032010-11-16T12:46:00.001-08:002011-03-15T08:26:44.907-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<div class="MsoNormal"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u>Troubling</u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>in times</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>of drought, should we</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>water the annuals,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>or only the perennials?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>should we manipulate</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>outcomes, or be</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span>like rain?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span email="cris.staubach@sbcglobal.net"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span email="cris.staubach@sbcglobal.net">Cris Staubach</span></span></div>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-53901365223657480062010-11-02T13:32:00.000-07:002011-03-15T08:29:37.410-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<b>Beauty Mark</b><br />
<br />
God decided I would be beautiful<br />
at 6 years old.<br />
My mother made this discovery<br />
in the bathroom<br />
as she took my face<br />
between her thumb and forefinger<br />
and exclaimed<br />
"You have a beauty mark!"<br />
<br />
This can't be a bad thing<br />
my 6 year old self thought.<br />
A well placed, overabundance<br />
of melanin that said<br />
"I'm prettier than you."<br />
<br />
But God said<br />
"All my children are beautiful.<br />
I just left my signature on you."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anitra EllisonBreauna Lareasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14246522018896934049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-2441436721575440162010-11-01T21:28:00.000-07:002010-11-01T21:28:51.556-07:00Patricia Smith - Blood Dazzler<object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/ZXMI5UhpFL4/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZXMI5UhpFL4?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZXMI5UhpFL4?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Breauna Lareasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14246522018896934049noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-25345993531878809972010-10-19T13:54:00.000-07:002010-10-19T13:54:43.061-07:00"The The Impotence of Proofreading," by TAYLOR MALI<object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/OonDPGwAyfQ/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OonDPGwAyfQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OonDPGwAyfQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-77331995184417126692010-10-17T22:23:00.000-07:002011-03-15T08:31:41.386-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<b>Missionary</b><br />
<br />
as they parted ways like oceans being pushed apart by hands of Moses, <br />
she became one in her own, <br />
trembling with tremors of fear and anxiety <br />
anticipating another round of scorned emotions, <br />
although this time, the present was on her good side, <br />
but her thoughts took hold of her oxymoronic realizations, <br />
present cannot be "was", but the past can be "is" <br />
and today, she came to the conclusion, that "is" is the reason dwelling perpetuates; <br />
so she went on a mission, <br />
eliminating failures like child-ridden games of eeny-meeny-miney-mo, <br />
in search of a satisfying perfection, <br />
making choices appearing selfish to some, <br />
but in the eyes of a higher being it was a selfless endeavor, <br />
creating personal catechisms on love and life, <br />
struggle and strife are simply accepted as if proposed by politics in election years, <br />
and through the hardships she removes her tears, <br />
<br />
days passing and of course she contemplates her purpose over reasoning, <br />
what took her so long to remove her pride from the concrete? <br />
when did this journey turn into a saunter of exploration? <br />
she is barefoot to feel the temporary pain of perseverance, <br />
enlisting in lifetime sororities called education, <br />
the motto being "it can free you", <br />
her mantra saying "it can be you", <br />
and the excursion of pursuit for the people,turns into a self-voyage<br />
<br />
and ends. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Keila DumasCaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-22823337177879997482010-10-17T22:12:00.001-07:002010-10-17T22:12:33.944-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhL2H1Cll0TXAKRii4b-JSc8McpPzEf_59gDhfLGhE8XZSvHt-1LE2KE7RH5iANHxCllWhM5lGyilqxfxFNpXckRXYgCuzzX2wKW13U3SNqG5aQhLspQA4oCWfJ5zGo7kWWRDev4itmNM1/s1600/Cape+May+shell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhL2H1Cll0TXAKRii4b-JSc8McpPzEf_59gDhfLGhE8XZSvHt-1LE2KE7RH5iANHxCllWhM5lGyilqxfxFNpXckRXYgCuzzX2wKW13U3SNqG5aQhLspQA4oCWfJ5zGo7kWWRDev4itmNM1/s320/Cape+May+shell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-81268930264304433372010-10-02T01:08:00.000-07:002011-03-15T08:33:10.271-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<b>Our Lady of Parmesan</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Our Lady of Parmesan,<br />
<br />
Oh Blessed Mother of Cheese, pray for us.<br />
<br />
Pray for us sinners, who lick the pot of the sugga, the sweet sauce of the tomato.<br />
<br />
In kitchen where olive oil splatters the ceiling o’er the stove, pray for us.<br />
<br />
Where she re-heats leftover spaghetti in a frying pan with butter.<br />
<br />
Where we are urged to eat and eat and eat again.<br />
<br />
Pray for us,<br />
<br />
Mother of all Artichokes, pray for us.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh Song of Tocchu, hear our prayer.<br />
<br />
Food that we bleed, dreams that we crave, the blessings of salt and wine,<br />
<br />
May they dust our foreheads, may they grease our lips.<br />
<br />
Invoking your Saints, Nonna, and Nonu, and Great Aunt Mable, Mary DePiero and her husband Albert, the Converted, who bring us this meal in the blue light of Uncle Joe’s fish aquarium.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Savior of toast and tea, bring us peace.<br />
<br />
Where toast has four eyes in four pats of butter, the way a father makes breakfast for his girls the only way he knows how. Give him knife but he does not spread. Forgive his error, oh Lord.<br />
<br />
Velveeta dreams with rye bread slices crushed thin as communion wafers from the bald weight of telephone books. May we swallow the digits transferred to the bread we eat, may we number among your chosen.<br />
<br />
Oh Mother of Peasants, lift up our hearts, cut the crust from our bread and the fat off our ham.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Remind us of Lenten Fridays and tuna with endive and oil.<br />
<br />
Oh Blessed Mrs. Paul, rectangle fish of box and oven, of the soggy and the dried out, of citric overdose squirted from a plastic lemon with a green screw-on lid, where, underneath in the grooves, the crust of sleep grows.<br />
<br />
Oh Saints Dorothy and Richard who toil for the fish sticks, who kneel us before the crucifix mantled in purple in a church money basket.<br />
<br />
Let us pay homage and kiss the cold feet of the Lord.<br />
<br />
Watch over us. Pray for our bloodied hearts and Our Lord’s sad, sweet eyes.<br />
<br />
Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, Good Friday.<br />
<br />
Pilgrimage, behind our mother, to the candy counter in Shillito’s basement, choosing pastel chocolate in the shape of cross and egg and rabbit. Oh share your blessings in our Easter baskets.<br />
<br />
Come, let us adore you. Let us wave our palms and then lay them at your feet. May you walk on us, exalted in food glorious.<br />
<br />
Come offer psalm and song and Hosanna.<br />
<br />
Food of our mothers, pray for us,<br />
<br />
Lift a cup to our thirst.<br />
<br />
The milk of salvation, delivered, pasteurized, this morn to our doorstep in the cold metal box on the side porch.<br />
<br />
Of breaded porch chop and pot roast with gravy and lauded fried chicken, we sing.<br />
<br />
Of the Christmas spritz cookie and your pies of Thanksgiving we sing.<br />
<br />
Oh Mother of Stomach ache,<br />
<br />
And Mother of Heart ache,<br />
<br />
Pray for us,<br />
<br />
Guide us,<br />
<br />
Amen. <br />
Donna Vitucci <br />
<div align="right"> </div>CaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2496240018791424519.post-75371003828962721382010-09-20T22:42:00.000-07:002011-03-15T08:33:53.137-07:00POEM OF THE WEEK<b>Pansies </b><br />
<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we are seeding flowerbeds back to back in the windowbox. In the ranch Mother’s paming in a red sweater, figure eights crocheted on its front, cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches for lunch. It’s October. Grandfather turned ninety one three days before today on the twenty seventh of September. After he puffed the candles, he asked what the date was. “It’s your birthday” I told him. They will bloom until Thanksgiving always on a Thursday yellow pansies dark middles outside second-floor glass I am standing in front of the mirror in my underwear, holding the skin on my chest on top of my heart. He tells me I’ve lost weight. He is smiling from the other side of the duvet cover. It’s hot still. It’s oven and Mother’s in a manic to unbox our winter clothes. I am crème. Have lost my freckled spots, just a thigh bruise dark from seeding backwards on the sills. <br />
<br />
<br />
Nicolette TelechCaKehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01943642940872961702noreply@blogger.com0