Collage 2012 Volume 42
Collage 2012 Student Magazine of the Arts
To Dan J. Schroll 1947 - 2011
Photograph by Stuart Thomas
â€œThe art of salvation, is but the art of memory.â€? John Donne
This publication is dedicated to a beloved teacher, colleague and friend who has touched the lives of many through his personality and astounding visionary gift in the arts. A year has past, but the memories we shared remain in our hearts. With much love, we remember Dan J. Schroll.
Design Team Annabelle Fallarme Editor-in-Chief Martynas Siuksta Creative Director Shanon Manzella Design Editor
Literary Team Matthew Przywara Editor-in-Chief Grace Madigan Articles Editor Courtney Wright Articles Editor Co-faculty Advisors Marie Maber Faculty Advisor Michael Broek Faculty Advisor Special Thanks Richard Pfeffer Acting Dean of Enrollment and Student Affairs Robert Quinones Director of Student Life and Activities Barbara Peterson Associate Director of Creative Services Anthony LaGaipa Graphic Artist/Design Coordinator
Brookdale Community College 765 Newman Springs Road, Lincroft, NJ 07738-1543 Tel. 732.224.2345 | www.brookdalecc.edu
Collage 2012 Staff
Contentsâ€‚ Collage 2012
Jaclyn Sovern Heath: A Portrait 10 Michelle Estevez Manifold Vault
Lisa Montalto A Long Way From Home 14 Kelly Benyola Manasquan
Reservoir 16 James Shaw Fading Time 18 Mike Hyatt Final Wish
21 Olivia Portegello Dancing With Myself 22 Mike Hyatt Vertigo 24 Matthew Risberg Track 1, Newark, NJ 26 Larry Russo Work and Play 29 Michael Nathachack Blue Shoes 30 Bill Schroeter Fillet to the Bone 32 Loriann Yee Giraffe 35 Billy Swift Greatness is a Must 36 Olivia Portegello Artist’s Platform 38 Matthew Risberg Griptape 41 Terence Donohue Speed Dial 43 Christine Barba Sloppy Joe Sunday 44 Larry Patterson Native New Yorkers 46-49 Natasha Hunt Colors 50 Erric Emerson Department of Motor Vehicles 52 Deahna Campbell One Cup at A Time 54 Ayla Nucum Panda Tea 55 Erric Emerson Solidarity 56 Allison B. Kolarik The Sea & Soldier 58 Andrew Dudek Poland, 1939 60 Ryan Arnold Apt-sitting in PK Slope #1 62 Barbara Strauss Song Misheard 63 Travis Peitz Scruff 65 Melissa Resto Spoon in A Cup 66 Erric Emerson A Word in Passing 67 James Shaw Figure Drawing Exercise 001 & 002 68-71 Candice Brown The Dude in the Pool 72 Allison B. Kolarik Rachel Carbone Asbury Park Skeleton Building, Take II
Visual Artists Writers
There Are Bigger Things 74 Christine Barba The Girl Outside the Square
Robert Scott To the Society Satisfied Living on Their Knees 76 Larry
Patterson Teen Angst
Melissa Resto Delilah’s World
79 Mike Hyatt Chinatown Ninja 81 Correy Dewindt Forgotten Window 82 Larry Patterson The Toon Hood 83 Allison B. Kolarik I Love You The Most 85 Evan Parrott Fade 86 Evan Parrott Clear Gaze 87 Tim Hart Barrel Fired Pottery 88 Erik Hanson Colored Still 90 Larry Russo Man on Fire 93 Ayla Nucum Panda Picnic 95 Julia Guerrero A Gift 96 Janelle Wilson Untitled 97 James Shaw Corto Maltese 98 Matthew Risberg Untitled 99 Evan Eastmond 4 Skulls 100 Janelle Wilson I Spy With My Little Eyes 101 Erik Hanson Swan Lake 102 Evan Parrott Water Nymph 103 Ayla Nucum Warm Harmony 104 Rosemary Wright Traveling Light 106 Natalia Wybraniec Metamorphosis 107 Melissa Resto Delilah’s Sneakers 108 Olivia Portegello Jersey Girl 111 Larry Russo Kika 112 Victor Venokur Butterfly in the Frost 115 Erik Hanson Female Figure Studies 116-119 Marquise Williamson Girl Sketch 120 Michael Nathachack Towel of A Lost Lover 122 Christine Barba Converse 124 Andrew Dudek Old Magazines 127 Moon The Cartographer’s Daughter
Visual Artists Writers
Collage 2012 Contents
Heath: A Portrait Jaclyn Sovern
Michelle Estevez Manifold Vault
A Long Way From Home Lisa Montalto
Manasquan Reservoir Kelly Benyola
Asbury Park Skeleton Building, Take II
Dancing With Myself
Track 1, Newark, NJ Matthew Risberg
Work and Play Larry Russo
} I shine these shoes ‘til they’re sparkling blue, evicting the poor dirt, dust, and grease from their high-rise suites because they can’t pay rent on these shoes. This prime real estate is too much for these lowlife molecules, who now attach themselves to anything that passes them by, relenting it is just a low point in life and they will bounce back, just like the basketball for which these shoes were built.
They can’t win that game. What matters is whether they get blown out or put up a fight; there is something to be said about their effort: it is a pain in the ass and not worth it. But as much as I shine these shoes, the neighborhood is still the same. Cracked sidewalks, unkempt lawns, and broken fences make living lavishly never quite the luxury it is meant to be. FOR RENT signs ferment in the gum stuck in the sole of these shoes. A cleaning crew would cost too much. Nobody looks in the basement anyway. I stopped shining these shoes ‘til they’re sparkling blue because I can never get them clean enough and nobody lives here anyway.
The white crescent on my right thumb Was sculpted by a bluefish. He discovered more enjoyment Chiseling me, than the plastic eel That enticed him like marble Must have called to Michelangelo. Hooked together we fought An inter-species tug-of-war.
On a night bluefish boat. Leave the dock at seven Due back at two in the morning. The jaws hit my lure Of a thumb at eight-thirty. Our bloods seeped And mingled to the deck Like tributaries meet, Then head seaward. I wanted to lie down On the deck with him, Flop around in unknown space; Wide-eyed and accusing, Both of us indignant Snapping instincts; He would only surrender When death unhooked him.
He released me then. The bone within my thumb Grinned as if freshly filleted, Ready for the flames. Five hours still to fish. Like a sailor of Galilee, The Captain commanded, â€œContinueâ€?. Pleadingly I pushed the split Thumb together, wrapped In a tight and filthy swaddle. The skin halves welcomed Each other, a melding embrace; As soldiers amazed after battle. Both pieces refused to die Still-born on the deck of my hand. Now, the ripped right thumb That had re-grown together In a bloody cloth Reflects other works, Masterful joinery within me.
Interior artwork, Deep-sea suturing Recessed screw-heads Plates paired delicately together Like masterpieces Of colonial silversmiths. These words seem Harder to pull forthThe fish get weightier, The wounds deepen. As if scar tissue can only Release its stories by exploding Like a bluefish teeth-first; Seeking my own flesh To be cut up for bait.
Fillet to the Bone
Loriann Yee Giraffe
Greatness is a Must Billy Swift
We sat there Watching the guards As they got fat, And stupid. Carefully, We planned The greatest escape Our minds could possibly Comprehend.
There’s no reason To feel guilty. We’ve warned them Many times That the building is going to Collapse! And yet The guards continue Remodeling, And buying furniture; Wasting time, Money, and space. I know It’s starting to look Beautiful Gorgeous Italian Marble floors,
And a fridge filled With Tenderloins. Although, our masters Treat us kindly, Giving us everything In this place. We are still Slaves. Not to mention It Will soon, be gone. So TRY! To see Tomorrow And not be distracted By delicious meats. I know it’s hard Especially when We’ll probably Starve. Just like The Dead Bodies Thin, frail, and rotting, Right by the Exit Sign.
Artistâ€™s Platform Olivia Portegello
Matthew Risberg Griptape
My ten-year-old son sits in the passenger’s seat, playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. The little guy is so good with that thing; I swear he’ll grow up to be the next Bill Gates. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Maybe he’ll buy me a condo in the Keys. We drive past a Sonic. He loves that place. “Daddy,” he says, pointing out the window with my phone in his hand, “Can we get a hamburger?” “Hey, be careful with that!” I snap. Then, something whizzes past on his side of the car, and I hear a thump and rattling sheet metal. It was a stop sign. My kid’s eyes and mouth bolt wide open, and he pulls what’s left of his arm back into the car. Crimson ribbons pump out into his lap and onto the seat and floor. My son begins to cry. It’s not a frantic shriek, but a drunken, low-pitched moan. It sounds like a cat giving birth. I stomp on the brakes and jump out of the car to call 911. My son’s arm lies on the sidewalk about thirty yards back. The splintered nubs of his radius and ulna stick out from the end. My brand new iPhone is still gripped in his tiny fingers. I pick it up by the wrist. My screen is shattered, but don’t worry- I’m due for an upgrade anyway.
Sloppy Joe Sunday Christine Barba
I need a Sloppy Joe Sunday. The kind of Sundays where Our only vehicles are shopping carts and our company The neglected women at the checkout line who we like To pay extra attention to. The kind where we run our Gasoline dry and are wearing pretenses of Sunday Bests. One where the kids beg us to buy calories from The freezers at the supermarket, and we smile because We know that when we say yes, weâ€™re being selfish, Not good parents. I need us to get angry at one another Because we are frustrated from long lines and drives And simply aggravated because we think this is not How we want to be spending our Sunday. And I want all Of this because I know that someday we will look back On these days as happy memories, as pictures frozen In time, ones that can generate a good laugh on one of Those Sunday afternoons in the future when the kids Have magically become taller than us and we no longer Live in our big yellow house by the beach, but one of Those developments for people who are sixty and older, Our reward for making it this far, where the people with
Jobs are not allowed to enter. Weâ€™ll sit by the window Looking out at the public pool and wonder why time Is a sprinter, and not a slow and steady distance runner, Like our eldest son was, and think about how now, instead Of running from one mile to the next he seems to run from One state to the next until we can no longer see him from The other side of the map. And I know that I will need some Horse-and-buggy type of Sundays too because someday When we are sitting next to each other in our rocking Chairs, that will try and make the Sunny Village Adult Home Appear welcoming, we will look back on these Sundays When we sat looking at old photo albums on our floral couch With our arms around each other, because we were the only Ones who seemed to remain from these photo memories, in our newly Renovated empty house, and we will remember how happy We were then. I need these kind of Sundays because I know That one day when we no longer remember them, other People will look at us and know that there is still a reason Why we are clinging onto one another in the midst of it all.
Native New Yorkers
Native New Yorkers
I see shades of gray. I don’t remember the last time I saw colors. The pink that used to line the sky at night is gone. The gold that used to flicker and sparkle in his eyes is gone too. Now the trees change from a medium gray to light gray and finally to a dark gray before they fall to their fate. Some of the colors I don’t remember the name to. I’ve given names to the varying shades of gray, because that’s all I can do. I’ve never asked anyone if they’ve lost sight of colors. What if they never saw colors in the first place? The name of the color alone is an interpretation. Purple to my former self might have been blue to my neighbor. If I asked him the color of my shirt today, he would only give me the color that he thought my shirt was. No one has the same interpretation when it comes to something so intricate. When I was a teenager I remember the first time I lost my sight of colors for a
brief period. I was standing at attention in the platoon for what seemed to be hours. I had picked a spot on the wall to stare at and slowly the colors would fade. I blinked and they came back, but not for long. It wasn’t until I had resumed moving that I started to see the spectrum for what it truly was again. If someone had told me then that a few years later I would never see colors again, I would have appreciated them more. I would have never let go of the image of my mother’s blonde hair. I would have watched a thousand more sunsets. At least I think I would have. Maybe I wouldn’t believe them. Maybe I would have adopted the typical teenage mindset and pretended not to care. Color was something that was always there. It was not something death could touch, and it was not something that could expire. I would like to believe that I would have appreciated colors more had I known my fate. I think of this often. Now I am more adept at noticing
the scent of things, who knows how long that sense will last. I’ve heard that vision, hearing and taste starts to deteriorate with age. I would have never guessed that color was part of the vision that would fade. Back when television kept me interested, TV Land used to play re-runs of I Love Lucy. Every kid I knew thought that life back then was in black and white. This never made much sense to me until Science class. They taught us why we can see colors, something about cones and rods in our eyes. I believed them then, but now it is another story. How can an eye be examined for a cone or a rod? It isn’t like a traffic cone where you can hold it, an eye is just dense material crammed together. It never made sense to me, and now that I no longer possess these so called “cones” and “rods” I am positive that I will never understand colors.
I will never forget the ocean in September when it takes on the color of royal blue, which now in my grayscale state gives the same relaxing effect. The color of the leaves in April alerted me of the onset of spring. Now I rely on the sound of birds and the calendar, which aren’t nearly as accurate. I have little remorse now. I’ve grown used to not seeing colors. If someone were to ask me if I would take my old vision back, I would say no. When something is taken away, people tend to appreciate it more. The memories I have are far more pure in hue than anything my eyes could capture. The best part of it all, my mind plays dirty tricks on me and sometimes I really believe I can see colors, until I blink.
Department of Motor Vehicles
To say the DMV is a hellish place would be a cliché and a damn fact. I almost pity the things that work within its confinement. Almost, because they aren’t quite people, so I can’t pity the aren’t quites. And it’s always the same, same aren’t quite people working there. Every, let’s say 6 months, or year, you go, Only because you have to, And it’s the same damn excuse of a man, With his bland dress, and lazy speech, Telling you to go to this window or that. Then it’s the same damn excuse of a woman Who was pregnant when you saw her last year, And she seems to be at the same stage, So this must be number two, And she asks for your papers and your I.D.’s and what not. It turns out your tax record is two months, too old To use, and she sits there asking for something newer, As if you might not exist otherwise.
Next Window There’s gotta be a guy behind me coughing into thin air. There’s always someone, somewhere coughing, polluting my oxygen. People come when they are sick, And they always come in when something’s wrong. Some bad mother always brings her pissy kid, And scolds him for living. Always some impatient guy standing there, huffing and puffing, Like the audible exhale’s gonna speed the whole process up. I wonder if those aren’t quites in the windows Can actually see through the glass. I wonder if they don’t simply See past us, standing around, To the sun glinting off of windshields, And the trees waving at them.
One Cup at A Time Deahna Campbell
The chill in the winter air is freezing my lips together there’s snow on my boots which I stomp off like an angry giant relieved, as I enter through the transparent glass doors like many a time. As I descend on my journey taking notice of the dim glow warming the aisles as I pass and the hint of fresh croissants baking, distracting my senses no temptations through the market I go. Faster, wanting it so badly nothing will get in my way dodging carts and the frail old woman with her caffeine-deprived glare and the stock boy who I almost had to jump over.
There is the sign pointing me to my second home long awaited like a kid in a candy store I take a slow breath and begin to see what I came here for. The buzzing of the grinder and the scent of warmth, the richness I can almost taste, and the pride gleaming from the cup, I sip the goodness and slowly, take it all in. Joyous cup of java symbol of happiness and simplicity I conclude my journey and I found you now my soul is complete and this coffee is the key to my heart.
On November 15th, at one in the morning, at Liberty Park They came like thieves and cowards The dark blue like collected shadows An army of the law They came at our hour most dire When we sang songs and read poems Shared stories and lent a hand When it was colder than it was when we started They came bearing the words of a billionaire Echoing his friends and buddies on Wall Street The drums roared, the people’s voice were heard But they watched down on us and waited They came from behind the blue code of silence While the brothers and sisters wait for Scott Olsen While Denver is ravaged and Oakland taken Two months, two days away, too late
They came with bulldozers and helicopters They closed Brooklyn Bridge and the subways They shouted on bullhorns “The city has determined...The city has determined”
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They came in riot gear, bearing shields and batons Wielding pepper spray and zip cuffs Resounding in our ears was the sound cannon Burning in our eyes was the tear gas They forced the 99% to retreat in numbers over 500 To Foley Square. They destroyed the OWS library 5000 books thrown into dumpsters Along with all that belonged to us They approached us as we linked arms together singing “We Shall Overcome” As we strapped ourselves to trees with bike chains As we stood in solidarity They surrounded us as we barricaded Liberty Square kitchen Using wooden boards we slept on and signs we carried The last 99 of Occupy Wall Street stood together In the seconds before we were beaten, battered, and arrested
We came on September 17th to Zuccotti Park 1,000 strong calling out to America “Mic check, Mic check” “We are here to Occupy, and reoccupy”
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The Sea & Soldier Allison B. Kolarik
61 I sit on the haggard old workhorse, He’s a farm animal, not a cavalry charger. But he’s what I have. My fist curls tightly around the hilt of my father’s sword. The blade is barely sharp enough to cut bread and it is spotted with rust. But it’s what I have. My friends and neighbors spread out in both directions like an eagle’s massive wings. None of us are really soldiers. But we’re what we have. We were ready, we were sure we were. This was our home and we could defend it. Would defend it. Then they rolled over the hill under the cloudy sky like a column of steel elephants: The swastika emblazoned tanks. And they tore through us like paper.
Apt-sitting in PK Slope #1 Ryan Arnold
The two cats were invisible but their shit piled up and you could smell it from the hallway, exaggerated by summer sweat and ripe avocados. You left me by the sink to turn up the voices in the living room, shaking the walls. I uncorked two bottles of cheap champagne with a stranger’s dish rag, and looked at an avocado –
(I see us, five-or-six-years ahead, and it’s our kitchen. We sleep in a bed not on a sofa. We have jobs and parties and laundry; we’re like the two cats, domestic and domesticated, but safe and loved and sated.) The apartment was empty and could’ve been anything, the way kids turn swings into airplanes. It was weird to have drawn blueprints for a life unconsidered; strange to have paired myself with you; bizarre to know I could love you but not yet know how to do it. I reached out and touched you, pulled your flesh against mine, surprised as always by its warmth.
Song Misheard Barbara Strauss
“Handicapped cries for a wheel-chaired God” They give me sharp stares I can’t climbInside their minds. Why do they want me victimized? I don’t walk the same path. But neither do you? Stop expecting me to need you. “Do I need help?”- NO! You just want to feel strong. I got a song, the blues. But stop needing me to want you. If you need a victim I see one inside you. Dedicated to a nontraditional hero: Izzy
Travis Peitz Scruff
Spoon in A Cup Melissa Resto
A Word in Passing Erric Emerson
There’s no bridge here. Though I can see why you’ve come, traveler. This would be the crossing, and once was. You can see the stumps across the way. The two wooden ones, where the rope looks like thick vine. See it? That used to be the other side. It was a marvelous road of wooden planks, held together by fat, twisted strings. It had hung there, over there, with its belly dipping in the middle, since before my time. And it’s been a while, traveler. Too many passing through. And the weather to be considered. You’re too late though. It snapped right in two, I heard, with the big winds and rain last spring. Drowned the little town across the way there, remember? You probably don’t, traveler. There’s no bridge here.
Figure Drawing Exercise 001 & 002 James Shaw
The Dude in the Pool Candice Brown
He closes his eyes and tilts his face towards the sky, momentarily soaking in the warmth of the sun. It is a moment of tranquility, the simplicity of which he can only appreciate now in a way that he couldn’t before. He wonders, even though he will never know, if this appreciation would ever be possible if not for the current state he finds himself in.
Miguel sits at the edge of the pool, at the shallow end, though he knows that small effort he’s made towards compromise won’t stop Kayla, his wife, from taking a step off of her constant carousel of worrying, hovering, sheltering; mothering. Married for ten years and, suddenly, in one night, with the turn of a wheel, through the mistake of a drunken stranger whose face Miguel has never seen, Miguel can’t help bat feel as if he has become another one of their children. He looks down and rests his hands in his lap; his legs are pasty white, paler than he’s ever remembered them being, the shade of the Elmer’s glue Miguel’s younger brother used to eat by the handful whenever their mother wasn’t looking when they were little. He remembers tanned and lithe muscle. He
remembers motion. Now, he sits, motionless, and watching the ripples of pale blue water beneath his feet. In the recesses of his mind, Miguel knows that the water is cool to the touch and has always made his toes curl. But, today, with the sun beating down on his back and the warm air surrounding him, when he looks down, over the pool’s edge and past his knees he sees his legs but feels…nothing. Miguel closes his eyes and sees himself so clearly—in this very same pool, no more than a year ago, swimming with the speed and precision that earned him the scholarship that put him through college; watching his kids have contests about who could spend the longest time floating on their backs without sinking; games of Marco Polo with the kids and Fourth of July family barbecues. Time spent when he felt whole; useful. He’s
grateful for the memories, but she tries to hide it, she isn’t very successful. looking back now, at the swift and “How did you even get out here?” smooth way his legs would glide through the water, the thoughts “Angelo helped me.” can only be tinged with a taste She firmly shakes her head, fear and concern that is bittersweet. evident in her eyes. “He shouldn’t have done that,” Kayla insists. “You could have fallen He opens his eyes again, and or—” presses a closed fist against his thigh, just to be sure. Nothing.
“Miguel! What are you doing?” Kayla is by his side in an instant, her brown eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed in worry and confusion. He’s surprised she didn’t come out here to get him sooner.
“It’s okay; I asked him to. And I didn’t fall.” “Where’s your chair?” “Somewhere.” Miguel shrugs, knowing he’s sounding glib even though that’s not exactly his intention. “Come and sit with me.”
“Miguel…” “Are you hurt?” She brushes her hand across his forehead, almost “Sit. The water’s nice. I think.” It’s a terrible as if she’s checking for a fever attempt at a joke, but he’s out here for the or any other sign of defect other first time since the accident, sitting by the than the obvious. Miguel sighs, pool—where he used to practically live— when he could barely even look at the water and gently pulls her hand away. a few days ago. He is trying and he thinks, “It’s a nice day out. I wanted to that’s why, when he tugs on Kayla’s hand to enjoy it.” pull her beside him, she nods slightly and sits beside him. She looks surprised and though
There Are Bigger Things Allison B. Kolarik
The Girl Outside the Square Christine Barba
I think, that there is a reason that the majority of photographs are square. Many photographs contain four points, cryptic, but there. That our photo has four, I am aware. At first, point one, I may have missed. For I was captured in our artificial abyss. Point one: Your affected smile? Mistaken for bliss. And the second point was unclear at first: That your eyes had contained a carnal thirst. Directed at the photographer – for I was cursed. At what point (three), had you two conferred? Yes, your arm encircled me, I must concur. Hadn’t I noticed your arm outstretched towards her? I missed the final point; your heart wasn’t there. In loving you I had been so unaware. You love the girl outside the square.
To the Society Satisfied Living on Their Knees Robert Scott
I’m afraid I will have no other choice Maybe I should be like everyone else I have lived in this shy-but-talented damnation for long enough Surrounded by this accursed knowledge that improves the world Given this annoying fixation on one subject that I excel in I should be out there throwing tears at parents That deal with the experience of an intelligent offspring Let me contribute to educating our society with The “right” way to look at people like me Every contribution these “victims” make Is just another meaningless cry for attention? Ah, no. I should be just like everyone else I should party and be baptized by Bacchus’ influence I need to be over-exercising my right to socialize just like society wants it I need to be loud, obnoxious, and out of control How about I get a bad record for frustrating people I don’t like? Surely, I would be a role model for all the young people This is where I end my sarcasm. Overall, it would be better to say Nobody’s perfect and there’s no remedy for it.
The Cartographerâ€™s Daughter Heidi Moon
I am an antique map. Take me out and unfold me. I want your hands to move over me and follow line and curvature to find your way. I want you to kiss compass rose lips and I want you to wonder what strange lands and bright treasures hide in the deep of the sea behind my eyes. The kinds of things that spurned my maker to guard me with scars of ink and tides that tear and sealed my heart away in red signet wax. I want you to tear open the wax that has sealed me in and unfurl my body until every fell scrawling and scribing and the memory of the touch of every fell pen has gone. Until I am becalmed. Let marvel at the beautiful places on me and find fair winds. I have led many to distant shores, and I became the one who was lost. But you have your journey. I accept that you donâ€™t need my guidance. But here, in a world of satellites and interference, I offer you parchment and the nakedness of stars. I offer you beauty and rarity. Treasure me. Do not shun me for the strangeness of the sea monsters I wear on my vellum skin, or the distance between happiness and heart. It is a voyage I have made many times. Do not use me to take you there; for it is a place no map can lead you. Love me because I am a map that will never be drawn again once I have faded away. I am not the portrait of conquest. I am a picture of personal discovery. It has taken me so long to find myself, that I have become an antique map.
Mike Hyatt Chinatown Ninja
The Toon Hood Larry Patterson
I Love You The Most
Allison B. Kolarik
Barrel Fired Pottery
Man on Fire
I Spy With My Little Eyes
Swan Lake Erik Hanson
Warm Harmony Ayla Nucum
Traveling Light Rosemary Wright
I have learned to carry nothing on the beach at sunrise. The ever-vigilant gulls see every bag as full of bread. Screeching scavengers they circle and dive at any hapless fool. I am learning to carry nothing on the beach at sunrise. No thoughts or cares, swirling and turning, louder than gulls. Now empty handed I walk at dawn, the birds at rest on silver-lit sand.
Delilahâ€™s Sneakers Melissa Resto
Kika Larry Russo
Butterfly in the Frost
“I’ll make it through the frost. I’ll sleep through it all and not feel a chill. When the warmth comes I’ll be beautiful. It’s time to slumber.” The wind is brutal and it shakes the branch. The slumber remains undisturbed. The cold gets worse and worse and the cocoon cracks. The frost makes its way in. The slumber remains undisturbed but death is coming peacefully. The Spring arrives but a butterfly doesn’t emerge just death escapes in the form of a blue caterpillar. It was brave and had a dream but unfortunately it wasn’t enough. Rest in peace fallen dreamer.
Female Figure Studies
Mucha “Dance” Erik Hanson
Mucha “Pond” Erik Hanson
Girl Sketch Marquise Williamson
Towel of A Lost Lover Michael Nathachack
“I am not dry”, I had heard the towel say. But it was drying, drying, and now had dried. I could have given it water, buried my face in its folds, but solace would not sprout so easily, we would not forget.
“Make me wet again”, the towel had screamed. I didn’t listen to its dry, brittle call as it hung on its hook, voice hoarse and heavy. Fibers bristled against my fingertips half-forgiving, never forgetting my drought. “Please, please, spill water on me, let your tears ease me for a moment.” I could not grant its request, same were my eyes and itself. The other bathroom found me frequently within. I had never talked back. “Make me wet”, the towel had lamented. Its cry reaching throughout the house, the deafening silence destroyed my facade of progress. I stayed with the towel for days. I dared not leave, dared not weep. When finally, it told me, “Let me burn if I must be dry.”
Today my teacher informed me that my essay has no Content, How I felt when I told her, your point is Invalid, Like my great uncle in the hospital, and your arguments Minute, But personally I prefer seconds. While your insults were Multiple, This is not math class and there is no way I can Polish My essay as I am German and Swedish. She said, “feed your essay to the Sewer”, But I have never even learned to knit. She threatened to Tear It; I don’t see why this is a crying matter for her. She said this paper’s August; A month when we’re not in school. I said ten pages is silly; she said it’s the Converse But I left determining there was nothing left to converse about, I hate sneakers.
The pop singer stares at me from the cover Of a six month old “Rolling Stone”. Her beautifully airbrushed eyes drill a hole into me, saying, “What, you have some kind of problem too?” I flip her over And look across the waiting room. President Bush chimes in from “Time” on a nearby table: “It’s always some kind of losers that show up here.” I look away as last year’s “Sports Illustrated” cover model And the previous pope start to discuss Exactly what mental deficiencies I might have And which one has brought me here.
Submissions of studentsâ€™ writing (poetry, essay, short story, drama) and visual artwork (photography, graphic and interior design, architectural design, drawing and painting, sculpture and ceramics, jewelry, digital art and 3D modeling) for Collage 2013 may be e-mailed to email@example.com
Collage 2012 funded by The Associated Students of Brookdale Community College Volume 42, ÂŠ 2012
The Contributorsâ€‚ Collage 2012
Jaclyn Sovern Michelle Estevez Lisa Montalto Kelly Benyola Mike Hyatt Bill Schroeter Rachel Carbone Evan Eastmond Olivia Portegello Matthew Risberg Heidi Moon Larry Russo Michael Nathachack Terence Donohue James Shaw Christine Barba Larry Patterson Natasha Hunt Tim Hart Erric Emerson Loriann Yee Deahna Campbell Ayla Nucum Allison B. Kolarik Andrew Dudek Travis Peitz Candice Brown Robert Scott Melissa Resto Correy Dewindt Evan Parrott Erik Hanson Julia Guerrero Janelle Wilson Rosemary Wright Natalia Wybraniec Victor Venokur Billy Swift Ryan Arnold Barbara Strauss Marquise Williamson Michael Nathachack Andrew Dudek
Collage 2012 Student Magazine of the Arts
Brookdale Community College's Student Magazine of the Arts.