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Volume 1.04 6 November 2010

The Faces of Places

A Tasty Variation on Literature, Photography, Food and Music

“Untitled #1,� Denny Marshall


Slice It Up

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2

Letter from the Editor

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“Death By Doughnut” (Elizabeth Hein)

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Hiding Behind a Smile (Denny Marshall)

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Untitled #1 (Denny Marshall)

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Fighting With Good and Evil (Denny Marshall)

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“Chronic Drunk” (Mike Berger)

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“Hoping Against Hope” (Mike Berger)

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“On The Williamsburg Bridge” (Ben Nardolilli)

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“Fenner at Rest” (Ben Nardolilli)

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“Dark Irises” (Ben Nardolilli)

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“Empty” (Joe Bussiere)

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“Joker” (Joe Bussiere)

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“Fuori” (Joe Bussiere)

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“Words” (Joe Bussiere)

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“Words” (Joe Bussiere)

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Festive Corn: a Recipe (Joe Krauska)

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About our Authors & Artists


Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Allow me to humbly present yet another issue of Cannoli Pie. I have noticed that this issue contains many East Coast contributors, and recent conversations about social stigmas have inspired me to once again advocate for acceptance. New York City has just about everything (case in point, I recently dined at an Italian restaurant owned by a Japanese woman). One thing I am not so proud to say we have here is bigotry. Not necessarily ethnism or sexism, rather we suffer from Boroughism; the lack of acceptance of those from across this bridge or beyond that subway stop. For those who may not know, New York City is really made up of five “smaller” communities: Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, Staten Island and The Bronx. Each Borough has its own politics (president and all), style and attitude, which work together to make New York City what it is. If you frequent websites that feature information about New York, especially food or sightseeing, you will undoubtedly see many contributors pass unfair, pre/malformed judgments on others from neighboring Boroughs. However, New York City is made of more than just geo-political borders. People who work and play in “The City” come from New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania and beyond, every day, and they bring their “places” with them. There are so many communities nearby that, really, New York City is a seamless metropolis across state lines rather than just a handful of zip codes. Many jokes and biases are passed on about people from different areas; in reality, though, we all share the same things. This issue of Cannoli Pie has a nice body of work about “place,” both physically and socially. Some of our contributors name the places related to their identity, others, the foods and body images as well as aesthetics, but it all amounts to a vivid collage of individuality and unity simultaneously. All from different places, ages and mindsets, all with the same intentions: creativity. What I hope you come away from this issue with is a profound affection for both the place you are in and the places around you. We may live on the same blocks and walk the same streets or we may not, but in the end we have both endearing differences and deep rooted similarities. Finally, the value of “place” does not depend on where you are on the map. New York City has been a fine example, but there is intrinsic value in the places we make for ourselves if we choose to understand that value. Best, Stephen Krauska Managing Editor, Cannoli Pie 2


Death By Doughnut Short Fiction by Elizabeth Hein

Arlene was fat. Not one of the gargantuan souls featured on the evening news that need a wall torn down to remove their corpses, just fat. At thirty-eight years old, she was resigned to never having children of her own and acted the beloved aunt to her six nieces and nephews. The wrinkles on her face and the sagging folds of flesh on her belly were regrettable but did not weigh heavily on her mind. She looked forward to leading her tour groups through the local art museum two Saturdays a month even though she got winded walking up the wide central stairs. Tight airline seatbelts did not stop her from travelling the world visiting the great art museums and enjoying local cuisines. A fresh baguette with a piece of runny Camembert eaten in the shadow of the Louvre Pyramid was orgasmic. Touring the Goya galleries then stopping in a bar along the Paseo del Prado for a glass of sherry and some squid in its own ink would be her perfect day. She reveled in trying the house specialty wherever she went be it deep fried guinea pig in Peru or bouillabaisse in Marseilles. Food was adventure. Food was entertainment. Food was fun. Food was also comfort. Arlene’s world was unpleasant and swallowing her emotions, sumptuously coated in sugar, allowed her to function. Sweet tart lemon meringue pie soothed hurt feelings. When her boss assumed she had nothing better to do with her weekends, she reworked her married 3

colleague’s accounts with a smile and box of Krispy Kremes. A pan full of chewy brownies enabled her to put up with her sisters teasing her about being alone. An apple tart could alleviate the frustration of being ignored and fluffy chocolate cake was good for both celebrating a birthday and forgetting she was getting older. Negative emotions were unacceptable in Arlene’s world. She had been taught that a good girl is polite no matter how offensive people are. She smiles even if she is unhappy and at no time does a good girl show anger. Eating sweets allowed Arlene to keep her rage at a slow simmer deep beneath her thick fatty crust and still be as sweet and flexible as a marshmallow on the surface. Arlene had made a clumsy detente with her belly; she would not diet and it would not get in her way. She took pride in her appearance. She was impeccably groomed with polished fingers and toes and smelled wonderful – a blend of Chanel #5 and mocha latte. Shopping in the frumpy “women’s” department was tiresome, as if only married women wore a size fourteen or larger and everyone else were Misses, but she managed to put together a wardrobe of black pants and smart jackets that she expertly accessorized with an extensive collection of silk scarves and statement pins. She spent considerable time each morning setting her hair on hot rollers and sprayed it within inches of its life. Arlene liked herself; it was other people that had a problem with her weight. Eating her way through life was working for Arlene, until it didn’t anymore. First she waited over an hour to take her nephews on The Big Bomber rollercoaster only to not be able to pull the restraining bar over her belly and have to wait on the platform for them to


finish. Then, the zipper in her favorite pair of crepe pants let go. When she tried to replace them, she discovered they were not manufactured in a size large enough to span her girth. She went home with an empty shopping bag and a dozen cupcakes decorated like spring flowers. That night in a fit of desperation, Arlene found Adumbral Weight Loss’s website. She knew better but she was tired and sugar crazed and the website guaranteed quick dramatic weight loss. “You must have a death wish, because you are killing yourself by getting so fat,” the diet consultant said on her first visit. “You are at risk for diabetes, heart disease and arthritis. At 240 pounds, you are morbidly obese. Do you hear me? Morbid - as in deadly.” “Oh give me a break.” Arlene snapped. Arlene knew she was overweight; her mother had reminded her of the fact every time she lifted a morsel to her lips. “I’m not so bad. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink to excess. I don’t do drugs. I’m not so self-destructive. I like to eat – so what?” The consultant threw a folder of rules and restrictions at Arlene. “Well! If you don’t follow this diet to the letter, you will die within just a few short years.” Philip Kista, president of Adumbral Enterprises, would defend his company’s methods as “tough love” for people with too little willpower to help themselves. He maintained his slight frame by subsisting on nuts and berries and obsessively running five miles a day. It worked. Arlene was scared. She didn’t want to die. She had known fat people who died of heart attacks in their forties. She didn’t want to have to give herself insulin shots or possibly lose a foot to diabetes. She took the folder of restrictions, went home and emptied the cabinets. The next morning, she stumbled into her sparkling kitchen and was dismayed by how

little there was left to eat; no orange juice, no toast or bagels, no cereal, no milk, no fruit. She lifted a carton of eggs out of the nearly empty refrigerator and put on a pot of water to boil. Day One of the diet allowed her a single soft boiled egg and a handful of supplements. There was nothing special in Kista’s yellow pills. He sold his clients a standard multi-vitamin with a mega-supplement of fear. Arlene diffidently ate the egg from an antique egg cup with a tiny silver spoon while leafing through the paper. By lunchtime, Arlene was glowing with pride. She had forgone her usual venti cinnamon dolce latte topped with whipped cream and chocolate nips for a cup of herbal tea. It was difficult to not reach for the tin of yogurt covered pretzels in her bottom drawer midmorning but she felt virtuous as she threw them in the break room trash. She ordered a salad with no dressing and was gratified to be proactive about her health. Self-satisfaction carried Arlene through the evening and a dinner of steamed broccoli florets. The next morning Arlene felt like a truck had run her down, stopped, and backed up. A single boiled egg would not make a dent in her hunger. Her head was pounding, her breath smelled like death, and she was desperate for a chocolate croissant. Everywhere she looked was food. There were bagels and danish at the morning meeting. Sandwiches were brought in for lunch but she was only allowed two cups of undressed lettuce on Day Two. The instructions said to drink water if she felt nauseous; she had been glugging down bottle after bottle of water 4


Death by Doughnut Cont’d Short Fiction by Elizabeth Hein

and still could not drown the sensation that she was about to vomit. She opted to forsake food entirely. By four o’clock her headache had progressed to be a railroad spike driven into the base of her skull. She may have abandoned the diet and lost the $300 non-refundable fee had she not spoken to her mother on the way home from work. Her head was pounding and her entire body was screaming for fried chicken and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. She was fragile, just ripe for Roseanne to poke at her daughter’s weaknesses. “Arlene? Is something wrong? You didn’t ask me how my hair appointment was.” “Sorry Mom, I’m not feeling very well. I started this new diet and it’s making me feel lousy. I should just go to bed early and hope I feel better tomorrow.” “Oh Arlene.” Arlene could hear the disgust in her mother’s voice. Her mouth began to water. “Why bother? You know you won’t stick with it. What makes you think this time will be any different?” Her mother’s lack of faith in her stung. A quart of rocky road ice cream would have been a fitting balm. “Why put yourself through all that? It’s not like you’re going to find a man now. By the time I was your age I was looking forward to grandchildren.” Arlene’s mother measured a woman’s success by her figure and her husband, 5

neither of which Arlene possessed. Education, business acumen, social prestige meant nothing; they were in the realm of men. “I don’t know, Mom. I think it might just work this time. This Kista guy guarantees results. I need to hang up now. I’m going into a valley.” Talking to her mother frequently made Arlene run for a Hawaiian pizza. The sweet pineapple and salty bacon on a soft cushion of melted cheese could blunt her feelings of rejection, but she resisted. She would see this diet through if only to show her mother that she could do it. The next morning she still felt nauseous. Arlene wanted to stay in bed but she needed to get to the grocery store before work. On Day Three she was allowed to add three ounces of roasted chicken to her salad at lunch. Never had plain chicken seemed so enticing. She ran into the grocery store and picked up a bag of lettuce and a whole roasted chicken. Walking through the grocery store was torture. Each aisle posed a trap. The center aisles had crackers or cereal or chips on them. If she went around the side through produce, she would have to pass the bakery section where the fresh baguettes and cupcakes mocked her but frozen foods had ice cream and, her favorite, the Pepperidge Farm coconut cakes. She hurried through cleaning supplies to the express check-out line, hoping to get out of the building quickly, but all the self-service lanes were in use. Arlene would have to wait. The smell of baking bread wafted over from the bakery. She clenched the muscles in her legs to keep from running over and biting the crunchy crust of a baguette and into the soft satisfying center. The grey haired woman in front of Arlene was dithering with her wallet trying to find


her shoppers rewards card to begin the automated process. Arlene itched to rip open one of the candy bars offering themselves up to her from beside the registers. Chocolate and caramel and nuts could allow her to wait patiently. The woman carefully lifted a jill of cream from her cart, slowly twirled it on the scanner until the machine let out a beep, then slowly picked up the cream as if it were a bomb and placed it in a plastic bag by itself. Arlene turned away in disgust. Her head was beginning to pound again. A refrigerator of Coca Cola hummed a siren song. She longed for its sweet syrupy relief. How much damage would just one Coke do? But then Arlene remembered the diet instructions saying that if she cheated, she would have to go back to day one and start over. As bad as day three was, it was better than day one. Arlene pulled her eyes away from the bottles of temptation and looked up. The lane was clearly marked ‘10 items or less’ but Arlene counted fourteen items in the cart in front of her. The woman was turning a box of Bran Buds over in her hands like a new and alien object. Anger rose within Arlene like bubbles in gravy. She stepped forward and grabbed the box. “The UPCs are on the side, you old troll. And you just wave it in front of the scanner thingie. If you can’t hack modern technology, let one of those half-wits over there check you out. Better yet, go back to the five and dime!” Arlene threw the box of cereal back at the stunned woman, shoved her purchases in her giant purse and stormed out of the store. The teenager overseeing the self-checkout aisle let her go. He was not about to risk confronting a crazed fat woman over a bag of lettuce and a roast chicken. As she squealed out of the parking lot, Arlene saw the older woman cautiously pushing her cart across the parking lot and was tempted to turn around and squash her under her bumper. She needed a straw-

berry danish. After the grocery store, Arlene had just enough time to run into the bank. Adumbral Weight Loss did not accept health insurance and insisted she pay with either cash or a cashier’s check. The skinny receptionist, Molly, had hinted that they asked for cash payments because so many of their clients had put stop payments on their personal checks. Arlene wanted to back out of the program too but she wouldn’t give her mother or Adumbral Weight Loss the satisfaction of seeing her fail. The bank was lit up like a birthday cake. They were promoting their newly extended morning hours with balloons, chances to win a $100 gift card for opening a new account, and food. The bank manager was working the long line of customers shaking hands and offering people coffee and free pens. A door opened to the left and the assistant bank manager backed into the lobby balancing a heavy tray loaded down with apple fritters, blueberry muffins, croissants and doughnuts. The smell of freshly brewed coffee overlaid with baked apples and cinnamon was intoxicating. Arlene’s heart sank. She thought the bank, of all places, would be a safe zone away from the temptation of sweets. Her head was pounding so strongly she could not see straight. She considered leaving but she had already been waiting ten minutes to withdraw some money and was not going to be run off by a breakfast platter. A man in paint covered overalls brushed past Arlene to reach for a sticky glazed doughnut. It was a strug6


Death by Doughnut Cont’d

to look fierce. “Give me my money, bitch!” That was it. Arlene was not about to be held up by the antics of some two-bit hoodlum, not Short Fiction by Elizabeth Hein with that doughnut taunting her. “Hey, leave the teller alone,” she shouted. gle not to snatch it out of his hand. The boy spun around and glared at her. One by one the other patrons descend“Shut the hell up or I’ll cut your fat ass.” The ed on the tray and reformed the line painter snickered into his sticky sweet treawith their treasures balanced on paper sure. napkins. The sounds of chewing and Arlene lunged forward. “The girl said you slurping made Arlene feel faint with don’t have enough money in the account.” desire. She hit the boy with her massive hand bag. There was still one Bavarian crème “Now get the hell out of here.” The force of doughnut left on the tray. Cool smooth her inflamed rage, and a whole roasted chickcream filling peeked coquettishly from en, slammed into the side of his head. inside its airy raised ring and chocoTime stood still. She was suddenly powerlate frosting ever so slightly dripped ful. Her splitting headache was gone. Her down its sides. It was taunting her. vision sharpened. She could see the outline Arlene wanted that doughnut. Every of the cute teller’s tinted contact lens as she neuron in her brain was screaming for screamed but the sound was muffled by the her to eat the doughnut. She needed blood beating in Arlene’s head. She felt huge to get out of that bank, soon. She and buoyant as if she were a bubble floating couldn’t refuse the temptation much in a sea of satisfaction. longer. Then her bubble burst and, as if time sped The line was long but it was moving up to make up for lost ground, incidents until a baby faced boy with his pants moved at lightning speed. The security guard hanging down to his knees started pinned the boy’s arms behind his back leavarguing with the teller. “I don’t want ing an oily smear on the safety glass. A bloody to deposit it. I want the cash!” The blade clattered to the marble floor at Arlene’s boy pounded his hand on the security feet. She slumped in front of the counter like glass separating him from the young an overripe melon. The painter ran out as the teller. The manager put her coffee cup police ran in. No one ran to Arlene. A woman down and the security guard stood at screamed. Blood seeped from a hole in Arattention, but no one acted. Indignalene’s side like juice from a split pomegrantion percolated up from Arlene’s belly. ate. Wasn’t anyone going to say anything? The doughnut was still there. A sweet “I’m sorry sir,” the fresh faced teller mouthful of happiness, just out of reach. said. “You don’t have enough in your account to cover this check. You can only withdraw today’s available balance. It usually takes three days to clear. I’m sorry.” He leaned over the counter and tried 7


Hiding Behind a Smile Artwork by Denny Marshall 8


Untitled #1 Artwork by Denny Marshall 9


Fighting With Good and Evil Artwork by Denny Marshall 10


Chronic Drunk Poetry by Mike Berger

The DTs are hell; coming down from a week long drunk. Checked into rehab when my money ran out. The first few hours were agony, puking and squishing bugs. Fiery pokers jab, and you can’t control the shakes After the shakes subside, they torture you by making you attend group therapy. Some mousy guy with big glasses and tweedy coat tells you what it’s like to be a drunk. You don’t hear a word he says. Your thoughts are focused on the next bottle of wine. Your mouth drools as you think about it. You laugh at the thought of a demon lurking inside the wine bottle.

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Hoping Against Hope Poetry by Mike Berger

Chiseled in Stone Hurry, hurry I’ll miss the train. Fire searing the soul; anguish reeks. Invisible tears splashed down on stark images of her mutilated naked body. Savagely raped; battered and strangled. They caught the bastard, but that doesn’t bring her back. Taking the slow train trying to leave the ugly scene behind. Haunting images of her battered body and bloody face are chiseled deep. Shimmering specters spattered with her blood refuse to fade. Boarding the train; the train to nowhere, hoping against hope to arrive before I left.

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On The Williamsburg Bridge Poetry by Ben Nardolilli

You were the bookend to my days, In morning, there you were, by the window, Loyal and holding up trafďŹ c, And at night, you were a glowing epaulet Over my shoulder, strings of pearls Were your lights, and you were always welcome To shine inside my room. I looked out at you leaving Manhattan, And thought, if this place does not work, Then like the millions who crossed you From shtetl, from ciudad, from mountaintop village, I would cross over too, and take a life In your attached borough. This is what I thought, in any case, Never imagining I would lose sight of all of you Passing under the Holland tunnel, Not to go to a newer Amsterdam, but back home.

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Fenner at Rest Poetry by Ben Nardolilli

Memories of the Blue Ridge fading As he enjoys the rainbows ying, Fenner is free to be a stereotype Or to talk about the Zollverein With Germans as foreign To this neighborhood as he, today Fenner strolls along Christopher Down to the docks where he sees Uncovered classical art, still breathing.

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Dark Irises Poetry by Ben Nardolilli

We look at the Georgia O’Keefe From our different positions, Though we occupy separate angles, I can look at the reflection In your eyes and know we see The same painting in this gallery. We look at the work until the folds Of color turn into bright lips, The flower, if it was ever there, Disappears and again, I am surprised, I look over to you, then nod Suggestively and give you a smile. You stand and look back at me, The stillness on your face Makes me turn to face the picture, The lips turn to folds, then petals, Meanwhile you walk away And gaze at a composition in white.

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Empty Poetry by Joe Bussiere Pall Mall, Balantine, Schubert, white walls. I have my mind stuck on a girl again. Some of the time. It’s all something. I don’t want to debase it its all tricky business. Cars go outside I hear them. Cars people all vague and unknown. 12 notes octaves everything working fine like a good motor. Bricks bricks glue pieces of it is everything all stuck my eyes darting about looking something something it is this absurd business all busy, all busy to look answers answers results not to be troubled to fit the pieces together and make it wonderfully new to just curve smooth sweet a comfortable blue a warm body things making sense no boss everyone I meet with eyes seeing like me it fits suddenly and then to go all gone absurd moments seconds go by the next thought the next thing I thought to blur together sweet eyes sweet moments the absurdity of fruit white walls empties

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Joker Poetry by Joe Bussiere

Thoughts compressed into words, words expanding thought. Breathing, in and out. I could be drunk all day. I could get sucked down into that hole that I imagine they’re in. Everyone’s looked down into the hole like a well because everyone needs water that sort of simple logic. I saw a picture of a dead elephant in a magazine, and it moved me, it was a true story, that life was like that. And it moved me to think that life is not like that either, you are not an elephant. Awkward funerals, it isn’t about you. On an infinite plane, every point is the center. Can I compare everything to everything and be correct like saying 2 = 2 and 2 does equal 2 because I have two hands and my hands equal my hands how silly that I can get so scared and then forget it once again. The weight of existence, where can I witness this. I looked and didn’t think all day long. Kelly, you are soft and far away. How absurd I am at my most grandiose, reading Yeats while pooping. I used to have to go to a Catholic Church and try to understand the latin on the books, try to understand the emotions expressed by the characters illustrated in colorful stained glass windows. Vague silly narratives, bewildering in contemplation.

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Fuori Poetry by Joe Bussiere

Birth raisin fates peopled,

I’ll stand

you’re not misplaced, Because I Remember, yeah

and and magnificent rocks pile up, my beautiful landscapes scope, pictures on walls all stem somebody what bark

think of you, what does matter much to me. What do eyes do to me? Steady walking down the streets

I’m Not Afraid, understandedly like bathroom stall what to look at. I was looking for you ooh ooh. My eyes, shitty ocean. Fart cops, stupid bark & coughing whatever. Look at this, buttn pressn. I know everything what do you know? Stupid water, looking around and it feels great, in the sun, with arms up. Dumb sun all warm. Fat folks at the beach. Contrast my haunches. Smells like piss. Thats half the block, I don’t have a quarter so there. Open mouth stuff yup thats it open mouth stuff, carved in stone, words for those alive to visit okey dokey whats going on in the news how many syllables does this sentence have I’m putting on my nikes they dont even pay me to say that) seems nice outside.

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Words Poetry by Joe Bussiere

I look again somewhere else, someone’s eyes hoping to see something I am seeing. Do I really mistake everything so often. Everything again and again, all a vocabulary to choose. Am I talking about choice, which is to say is this what I am choosing. Do I see you in mind’s eye, where everything is blurried as usual, usual sounds and movements, is all this wrong, am I forming shapes, skipping smooth rocks at old beach. I am trying to find shapes, that is it. I am forming old shapes, I am picking up little stones. functions Remainder fingers moments I know that I won’t see some people any more Rainy day wet coat shoes dirty socks skewed it is good to be breathing the rain has passed and it is sweet to do telephones socks books tattered Ebonics is not a question of language what meter to think in what feet to walk with these two yes I’ll choose to be right I am briefly proud as the sun appears I set a point to quit at it is nice to up and go, the times happened and the air is moist as me

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there are still traces of them


Words Poetry by Joe Bussiere

Bed nearby bed nearby better wait. All the time all the time I can imagine. Ah some religiouslike chants, sonorous smooth like waves wet clean smooth. The weather is perfect. Wet clean smooth wordless and vast. The sky wide inconclusive blue white yellow inbetweenness. White walls paper bed room better imagine wet air skin humid bored ache about eight o’clock. A heavy weight all thoughts cumbersome, thoughts are money an attention economy expansion of theories. Hands arms parts of wholes divisions in mind in sky, everything spewing questions like crazy. Genu-ine you there in my eye you’re in my eye I’m in yours simple enough still I question like crazy crazy weather crazy thoughts they’re all mine.

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Festive Corn

what I had that day. With tex-mex being on the menu, that meant peppers and some fresh Recipe by Joe Krauska summer corn. By combining different pepSummer is a long-gone memory pers, corn, butter and just a little seasoning, I now. We had a hard freeze last night had a wonderful dish that tasted like corn, but and the wind is blowing stiffly out of with lots of extra color and none of the extra the north. It is a pity, then, that I took ingredients that come with prepared foods. so long to share my recipe for festive Please feel free to incorporate any vegetacorn, great for picnics, barbeques or bles that you desire in this dish. It goes great any time you need a great colorful dish with a can of drained beans, onions or diced to serve as a side. Thankfully, it can potatoes (sweet potato is especially good). easily use frozen corn and be modified Raw vegetables should be added at the beginin every way imaginable. ning so they can soften, cooked or canned When I first went hunting for a vegetables can be added with the corn until good side dish for my dinner, I found they are heated through. One key part of this a lot of over-done recipes. Most of is the butter; there isn’t much, but it adds them had too many ingredients, rea lot to the flavor of this dish. If you decide quired canned sauces or salsas and you want to cut it down, you can use olive oil usually were underwhelming to look to saute the peppers, but be sure to add the at. I just didn’t want to use a premade, butter at the end. I know that you will be glad canned side dish! I decided to just use you did.

Photos by Meghan Krauska 21


Festive Corn 2 cups cooked corn, 1-12oz bag of frozen 1 red bell pepper, diced 1 jalapeno, diced with ribs and seeds removed. 2Tbs butter, divided salt ground black pepper Over medium heat, saute the peppers in 1Tbs butter. Once they have softened slightly, 4-6 minutes, add corn and continue cooking until the corn is heated through. Turn off the heat and stir in the remaining 1Tbs of butter, season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve as a side or as a topping for tacos and fajitas.

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Whodunit About our Authors & Artists

Elizabeth Hein lives in Durham, NC with her husband and two wonderful daughters. She is currently working on a novel exploring the issues of Weight & Losses. Denny Marshall lives in Nebraska and has NOT been published in hundreds of magazines. Since the end of the world is in 2012 and that seems to be the talk on many online sites, he would like to say hello to all the readers and contributors now. Mike Berger is the author of two books of short stories. Three humor pieces have won awards. He has been writing poetry for two years. His work has or will appear in forty-five journals. These include AIM, Still Crazy, First Edition, Stray Branch, and Mid West Quarterly, Evergreen and Westward Quarterly, Stray Branch. Berger has published two chapbooks, Raw and Lighten Up, through CC&D Press. He has been the winner of several poetry contests. Ben Nardolilli is a twenty five year old writer currently living in Montclair, New Jersey. His work has appeared in the Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, One Ghana One Voice, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, Scythe, Anemone Sidecar, The

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Delmarva Review, Contemporary American Voices, SoMa Literary Review, Gloom Cupboard, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Black Words on White Paper, Cantaraville, and Mad Swirl. In addition, he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot. com. Joe Bussiere is a 20 year old poet living in Brooklyn, NY. Joe Krauska is a working husband and father of one. His hobbies include cooking up storms, burping his daughter, quoting Futurama and laughing at tea parties. Claire Suellentrop is one of Cannoli Pie’s Co-Editors and works as a radio host for 89.5fm WSOU. She spends most of her time listening to music very loudly, reviewing said loud music and critiquing people’s grammar. We would be lost without her. Stephen Krauska is Cannoli Pie’s other Co-Editor. He is a construction worker, artist, writer and advocate of all things interesting, organic, whole, caffeinated, American, liberal and equal. Cover art by Denny Marshall. © 2010 All content is copyright Cannoli Pie Magazine or the respective owners. Cannoli Pie retains first electronic serial rights to all work.


6 Nov 2010, Volume 1.04 http://cannolipie.com


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