em:me
issue one: spring 2012
[table of contents] cover art: by jason page pages 2&3: table of contents page 4: a small letter [from the editor] pages 5&6: two poems by gina inzunza pages 7&8: visual art by josh coolbaugh pages 9-13: three poems by sarah certa pages 14&15: black ink poetry by ocĂŠano [rodolfo rios] page 16: one poem by laura behr pages 17-20: visual art by jason page page 21: one poem by bill roberts pages 22&23: visual art by colby kent
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pages 24-26: one poem & two photographs by bronwen durocher pages 27&28: visual art by viktoriya samoylov pages 29&30: contributor notes
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a small letter. boston, ma march 2012 dear readers, Winter’s gone. During the last couple of years, I’ve moved from Pennsylvania to New York to California to Pennsylvania to Louisiana and then to Massachusetts. This time, headed north, I taped, thumb-tacked, and left stacks of em:me magazine flyers in the following states: Louisiana, Alabama, Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. The flyers are purple and some of you saw them and submitted. My hope is that this first issue is a small embodiment of the physical wildness and beauty that happens when the body is in motion— on a road trip, while writing, riding the subway, painting, or sitting relatively still tapping your foot against the kitchen table leg. The following twenty-some pages house visual art and words that I find gorgeous and I think you might, too. I am honored to be able to pull together the work of old friends and new friends. Happy reading and looking.
yours, emmalea russo editor, em:me magazine 4
grief cleaning I climbed out of the heap today neatly folded my crazy quilt and straightened up my vertebrae. I sorted all the lights and darks and grays bagged up sheets of papered guilt and climbed out of the heap today. I fed my bones fresh calcium and rays, watered every limb threatening to wilt and straightened up my vertebrae. I scrubbed my skin with sea salt paste combed through tangles, brushed off silt and climbed out of the heap today. I squared my chin and lifted up the shades righted frames from all their tilts and straightened up my vertebrae. I filled my lungs again, turned on a gaze restoring the body my parents built when I climbed out of the heap today and straightened tall my vertebrae.
gina inzunza 5
birthday ripe as a lilac a sudden quiet, then a bird’s trill a flash of heat, racing squirrels the time of my birth hops on dripping dogwood, redbud, honey combs of crabapple blooms a ginger gust shakes fingernail petals onto wet dirt fill an enormous breath I grab dried nettle and ragweed yank loose albino roots clutch and claw away debris grasp clods, churn the worms dirt cakes grow on my knees sprouts stretch toward shinning threads I plant all my worth, I plant pumpkin, sunflower, corn, handfuls of magic beans sprinkle rows, stems shoot up racing like sap runs and complete as rabbits who litter the lawn munching, munching green
gina inzunza 6
ness
josh coolbaugh 7
plum
josh coolbaugh 8
anxiety: evacuate when you feel like a sofa in a house that is flooding (which means you will soon be a soggy sofa, which is to say you are being ruined) it is time to get the fuck out call a friend, see a movie, get outside of yourself because you don’t have much time before it all spills into you, fills you like air like when the cold wind blows and pushes your breath back 9
into you as if to bury you inside yourself as if to say
don’t speak—
sarah certa
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he used to write her poems She used to keep them in an old shoebox at the back of her closet. Until she didn’t. Until one day circa 1993 when she decided to toss them out with yesterday’s dinner scraps and this morning’s banana peel—an afterthought. They haven’t spoken in years. What she doesn’t know is that he still writes her poems, still thinks about how when she smiled it was like morning even when it wasn’t. How when her hair touched his skin it was like birds singing. How she never let him see her cry. How the thought of her crying feels like a pillow in his throat, a thousand birds eating him alive.
sarah certa
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because my brother joined the army my heart is a fistful of leaves shaking in the wind. I can still hear our candy wrappers on Halloween ringing like gold, like our silver laughter floating up into the trees behind the field behind the house where we built mini houses out of Legos, learned how to throw a football, hit a baseball, slide into home plate, how the word “fuck” explodes off the tongue when you shout it in the woods which we did because it was fun because we could because we shouldn’t, yes this was our secret, our sacred song of childhood. But we’re all grown up now, so in the morning I put my coffee beans in the grinder and try not to think about Johnny’s teeth in the night, his body on the metal bed creaking beneath his shifting weight as he sleeps a restless sleep, the big room alive with the hot sound of a hundred other young men breathing, their breath now his breath. His duty. And it’s easier if I don’t think of my little brother’s eyes as the laughing blue stars that they are, although there’s nothing else they could be. And I’m not too worried
about the miles he’ll run, the dirt he’ll swallow, or even 12
the blood he’ll bleed—I know he will not be safe— and so this is the part where I pretend God is real because I need to say to someone, please, let at least the smallest most inner atom of him remain unscathed, so that when he does sleep his dreams are the dreams of emerald kings, bursting forth from the pearl of his being all baby-blue and bright like the moon and the planets, like the kaleidoscope of ocean waves that is my love for him, yes, give me nightmares for the rest of my life so that he may have only the sweetest of sweetest dreams, the dreams that put heaven to shame.
sarah certa 13
a little rest ocĂŠano 14
lovebirds
ocĂŠano 15
60% of life is absurd mystery Swimming in a public fountain in a Grecian chiffon ball gown blue after hues of the ocean, I see the world in numbers. I tell the truth in proofs, the part I have the heart to tell. The rest of it is supposition. The smallest numbers have the largest impact. And, gravity is simple. It comes down to matters on watches. You were pulling breadcrumbs out of your pockets and dropping them in well-spaced intervals. There was a flashing illuminated sign over your head. You were advertising something. I had a Swiss army flashlight and a ruler for measuring your intentions. I followed. You were the carrot, the bright shining object in the room. Getting myself caught in your net was an accident. I was wearing x-ray glasses, so how to see you as I see you wasn't hard. Looking into a mirror.
laura behr 16
jason page 17
jason page 18
jason page 19
jason page 20
getting stoned It will be his high honor to cast the first stone from a marker halfway to the target -his lustful, unfaithful, irresponsible wife, unfit to be wed to any exalted man of this country. Others will cast from further back, according to custom, but may their stones be as true and hurtful as his, for all have been practicing, awaiting this luminous day of vengeance. They do not tolerate dishonor, disgrace, disloyalty to their fair nation, punishing those who break their laws of family tradition -the blasphemy of laying with another man. He is young, some say attractive, half his age, exactly her age -- too young to know better they've been told but do not believe -- they know from the very beginning the right ways. Please do not dishonor him further, unfaithful wife, by weeping and cowing as they riddle you with their sharp instruments of punishment -you have disgraced them enough already.
bill roberts
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colby kent 22
colby kent
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the coin her fingers gripped and held. brown eyes, opened to Man, white robes, crying for Shame but never knew her— milky white ankles clicked, and she felt cold for the first time the little girl! Had she, too, seen and recognized—weary eyed—like the mother? who had carried it in her bosom and loins (and combed and pleated and washed and scrubbed it) comforted not the little girl. smoke pillowed from the aisles and clouded her sight the girl squinted but no longer saw him—only felt creeping up her stockinged thighs a settling in to her yet-sleeping flesh this did not frighten her. No. it was His constancy that struck: Humility! Sacrifice! Instead she saw music: Always Coca-Cola! a screen that sang sex kneeling on her skirts, she reached and dropped a coin—not hers—(willingly) into velvet. Later—counted by wrinkled hands of men who no longer could decree “Life!” And have it be— the talisman cooled, no longer warm, nor at all wet as it had been in the tiny clenched fist of she who had released it.
bronwen durocher 24
bronwen durocher 25
woman riding bike in fur coat in the 42nd street station
bronwen durocher 26
dress
viktoriya samoylov 27
compass
viktoriya samoylov 28
contributor notes Laura Behr has published in Numero Cinq, The Café Review, The Cortland Review, and Sense Magazine. She has recently completed her first book of poetry, titled: Cave Diving with Einstein. Laura lives in Montgomery, Alabama. She is the mother of two girls, a psychotherapist, and founding partner in the business consulting group Mettle Kardia, advising business, and its leaders on mental health and wellness from a combined Neuroscience, CBT, and Psychoanalytic approach. Sarah Certa is 24 years old and pursuing an MFA in Writing through the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She lives in central Minnesota where she spends most of her time making art projects and traveling to the moon with her almost-three-year-old daughter. Her work has most recently been featured in Mud Luscious Press. Joshua Coolbaugh frequents businesses in search of perfect hot fried dough. He enjoys rhythmic processes be it listening to the ocean or sweeping the porch. A reader of alternative metaphysics, Joshua practices being. Bronwen Durocher received her M.A. in English Literature from Fordham University. Her short story, “The Birds” was published in a student anthology in the spring of 2010. She now works in advertising at the New York Review of Books. Gina Inzunza's play, Inside Voices at the Girl Auarium, was produced at the 2010 Midtown International Theatre Festival. She recently completed a book of poetry, Definition of a Teenage Girl. One of the poems from that book was previously published in The Portable Boog Reader 5. She lives in Manhattan and works in advertising sales. Colby Kent is 20 years old and resides in Philadelphia. He attends Temple University where he is studying Marketing and Graphic Design. He enjoys football, lacrosse, and philosophy. His greatest conceptual influences can be attributed to Buddhism, Ancient Egyptian beliefs, and a myriad of other philosophical/religious/scientific constructs. Oceano [Rodolfo Rios] (Mexico City, 1946) is a self-initiated artist with a charismatic and clean style that can probably be characterized by the appearance of cartoon-like characters that boldly explore topics like the claustrophobia of intellectual undevelopment, relationship issues, and mental disorders, among numerous others.
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Jason Page is an average man who’s friend recently described him as a guy who makes sushi and apple crumble. He is fickle. He propagates his thoughts whether it be object or writing or a strange sound. He does not take design/art/life seriously, but at the same time he is extremely critical of his own/others intentions. Have I mentioned, that he is fickle. His only weaknesses are girls and dairy products. He is also studying at the Design Academy Eindhoven. Bill Roberts has been nominated both for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes. His first poetry writing group has just published an anthology, "la forza di vita: caffeinated poems," available from Amazon. He hosts poetry readings in Colorado to revere "Strong Voices, Strong Women," to benefit Safehouse and battered women. Bill can be reached at marcorosie@comcast.net and more of his poetry can be found at billrobertspoet.com. Viktoriya Samoylov is student at Blue Ridge Community College with her next step in life being to attend the Academy of Art University. She enjoys illustration and is fascinated by digital artwork and the tools you can use to create. She is currently pursuing a degree in Graphic Design, and secretly wishes to live off of illustration alone.
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