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Volume 1.08 2 April 2011

“Loud and Quiet Things”

A Tasty Variation on Literature, Photography, Food and Music


Slice It Up

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Letter from the Editor

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“Complaint” (John Grey)

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“It’s the Moon...No, Make That the Man” (John Grey)

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“The Mermaid Bracelet” (Casey Holman)

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“Mile 1” (Ivy Page)

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“Reach” (Ivy Page)

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“Dueling Machos” (Pedro Poitevin)

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“Who’s He to You” (Stephen Krauska)

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Sfinge di san Giuseppe: a Recipe (Joe Krauska)

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About our Authors & Artists


Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, The world is a loud place lately; bombs in Libya, boisterous politicians in DC, rainstorms across the country, earthquakes across the globe. Poetry is both a loud and a quiet thing. The genre houses everything from revolutionary chants to breath-length observations of a snail climbing a mountain. Poetry is based so much on the senses, particularly sound. It is funny that we ever practice it quietly. With the world as it is I am a man of two halves. Do I take a moment, turn down the volume and read Yeats silently by a single bulb, or do I slug back a whiskey and shout D.A. Levy’s poems and at the consumerists and autocrats? Tough call. Lots to be mad about, lots to seek respite from. If I know anything, it is this one thing: the answer, under uncountable layers of congressional bills, desert sand, oil soaked swamp lands, bullet pocked mosques and our personal quibbles, must lie in poetry. The songs we sing when happy and sad are extensions of old ballads. The pictures we take of the first signs of spring are not like the 1000 words they are supposed to be, but more the five, seven and five little sounds that make a haiku. We surround ourselves with poetry we may not even be aware of. It is an extension of the human condition, how we relate to each other and how the world relates to us. A poem is successful when its author and its reader or hearer has the same thought. It is a conversation in the most artful form. I hope the poems we have this month will move you to either silence or shouting. There are pensive ones and passionate ones, but hopefully you will agree that there are no lukewarm ones. That is not what poetry does. If this poetry does not convince you of something new or reaffirm something you already believed, do not sit and complain. Protest! Protest and write something better. That is the only reasonable complaint we can make against a wrong, the willful attempt to do something better. Best, Stephen Krauska Managing Editor Cannoli Pie Magazine

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Complaint Poetry by John Grey Nothing’s been good since forty years ago. I’m damned if I know the songs anymore. I’ve lost more jobs than I’ve had sex, been downsized so often it’s a wonder I don’t lose myself inside my shoes. And everything is computers, it’s others’ information clogging the air. Nothing comes from me. I’m just this wandering satellite dish picking up signals, confusing them for thoughts. I watch television so that, at least, something will happen inside me. I walk outside in the midst of summer just to check that God’s still on the job. There’s some sumptuous foliage but there’s also malls, many, many malls, whose only seasons are their phony sales. I thought I’d get wisdom at least by this age but instead I just suffer through the body’s revenge for the binges, the craziness, the rowdy nights. I can’t burst out of the starting blocks. I can’t sweep the latest lovely off their feet. There’s nothing in my life worth wasting tears over. Sure, people die but now there is no shock. It’s all on cue, no overdose, no one car smashup on a drizzly country back-road. Turn on the radio but nobody sings my grief. It’s all bling, guns, life in the ‘hood. Life’s over before it gets started. No one’s making contact. I stare at the dumb speakers and they don’t even stare back. Today, it’s all mp3. Can’t grip it to your chest. Nothing to feel when there’s nothing to feel. If I had a kid, he’d say I was getting old. If I had a kid, he’d be like an old guy telling me this.

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It’s The Moon...No, Make That the Man Poetry by John Grey So you think that’s the moon. Think again. The great yellow orb is really a lover’s eye. You’re not staring out the window. You’re bunkered down beneath a man. It’s supposed to be pleasure but he’s so heavy on your chest you can hardly breathe. And down below, his penis is humiliating you with its swordsmanship. Your hips tap limply against the mattress like that defeated wrestler you saw on TV. But you thought to yourself, at least there’s the romance. Like that time you walked with him beside the river and he showed you the moon as if you didn’t even know it was there. And truth be told, you didn’t. At least, nobody had ever pointed it out to you before. You felt so light then like you feel so heavy now. Maybe it’s the moon that takes away the weight. And its imitators that put it back on. And you almost had yourself convinced that eye was the-moon. Great yellow orb. It should have told you every night was the eclipse.

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The Mermaid Bracelet Poetry by Casey Holman the bracelet that as a child i loved so deeply and devotedly was white and coral pink, strung with beads carved into roses from the delicate bones of seashells. its geriatric clasp was faulty and parted at whim but i wore it anyway and was imbued with the sea when i did, chosen by the ocean as its wild girl goddess one day i ran, skipping through the late afternoon sunlit air, thick with mist and salt at the pier over the sea. the planks under my feet were sturdy and thick, timeless like a grandfather. as i jumped and twirled, dancing just to feel my feet on wood, the strand around my wrist passively slipped apart, dividing the circle into a string and falling down into the gap between one board and his brother. I blinked and my treasure hit the waves with a splash and was gone, lost forever to dark water. my mother hushed my gutting distress, promising me that a mermaid would ďŹ nd what i had lost and wear it thankfully as a gift from the world above.

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Mile 1 Poetry by Ivy Page Jesus ate my Buick, so I might have to walk miles to find the parts, spread like pieces of the shroud, but then I could reassemble them and have myself a down-right Holy, Jesus blessed, touched by the son of God vehicle. I might have to order the book on how to reconstruct it and wear a hazmat suit, and make my garage a temple but it would be worth it. I would build the car that Jesus shat out, ‘blessed divinity” I would call it. The T.V. crews would show up and ask me about the Great Prophet, and how I knew it was him. I’d sit back and smile: “Ain’t nobody else could shit a Buick out made a pure gold.”

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Reach Poetry by Ivy Page Thinking I had some power outside the walls of my body, to carry both of us — wooden men who dance on boards with dowels sticking out of their backs. I can’t animate you. All I know of peonies scatters like marbles on the floor. Peonies. Peonies. Floor.

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Dueling Machos Poetry by Pedro Poitevin He peeled the lemon with a knife, then quartered it. The seeds slid off the silver blade. His mouth seemed rife with expectation: not enough to scare me, but enough to show he meant to take a bite. Then -- bam! -two quarters in his mouth, and, no-no hint at all of squinting. Damn, this guy was good! He shoved the plate across the table, right at me, expecting I would hesitate. The stakes were high: I had to be impassible, to show no fright. I smiled, then slowly took a bite.

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Who’s He To You Flash fiction by Stephen Krauska Rubama is making jack off motions with his right hand around a sleeve of saltines. “This is for those fucking cops that pulled me over last week.” He’s referring to one Sunday past when we got pulled over at the corner of Castleton and Broadway. We were ten minutes late for work already. Before I even rolled down my window they were rapping on Rub’s for him to do the same. I handed over my DL and registration. I was told I was stopped because they officers could not tell where my plate was from. Gave me the usually routine, and I gave them all the right “Yes, sirs” and as much eye contact as I could manage. It got weird when they asked if I had anything in the car that they “should know about.” No. Rub read a text message on his phone and snickered under a breath. The cops searched Rub and my car. Sifted through empty coffee cups, too many grocery receipts and too many forgotten jackets and socks. Propped Rub up, elbows straight, palms on the roof of my car. Felt him up and down like two teenagers in a movie theatre; patted his butt, sized up his junk, made his stomach whimper and that hot vein in his temple pound. I could tell by the stagger in his breath even from five feet aft of the car. They said it was because he laughed. They found nothing in the Honda or on Rub, not even ID, all he had was a paycheck from two weeks out that he was planning to cash at one of those speedy-loan rip offs. They ran his name and address off of that and my DL. Nothing on me, but said they could write a summons for my out of state plates. Rub had two warrants according to one computer but a differ9

ent search found zero. No arrest, no citation. We don’t want to make you late for work. Have a nice day. It’s nine thirty four. I’m on time for once this Sunday. I apologize, anyway, for almost being late. “Took nyquil last night, barely got out of bed this morning. Hit me hard. Still a little out there.” I do this convulsive muscular movement where I flex all the tendons in my forearm and shins; something I picked up in high school during a brief affinity with an OTC drug habit. It gets me sore pretty quickly. “Still a little tripped out from that shit.” “You feel like you walking on the moon?” “Something like that.” I laugh, he puts it better than I could. “Get the fuck out uh here wit that. No walking on the moon in my car, aright?” We’re in my car. “This is my car motherfucker.” “Today you my nigga. Now shut deh hell up and drive me to work, and change this damn song please.” “Who’s he to you?” They asked when they couldn’t find Rub’s ID. “He is Rubama Opuri, lives at174 Prospect Av. he works with me.” Didn’t even ask me to empty my pockets.


Sfinge di san Guiseppe Recipe by Joe Krauska The weather took a turn the last few weeks. We almost had spring, but Old Man Winter apparently has a little unfinished business. Oh well, it might warm up next week. The weather does not really matter to me, as my family has already started going through our spring rituals; evening walks, yard work and sfinge di san Giuseppe, though I suspect most people do not usually think of Italian cream puffs when they imagine spring. For many years my family has made these in March, predictably around St. Joseph’s day. We don’t have an Italian heritage, so a good explanation of why we do this is lost on me. I assume my mother did it when I was a child to encourage me, as the saint and I share the name. We do have Irish blood, so perhaps we should celebrate St. Patrick’s day with more gusto. However, wanting for a decent reason has not stopped me from making these delicious cream puffs. I cannot be certain of a traditional recipe for these, though I suspect it was not a typical baked French pate a choux. This is the style I use, however, since the idea of frying choux pastry is far too much work. Most of the modern versions of this dessert use this method, though the filling is probably traditional, given that early bakers likely used a variation on cannoli filling that pastry shops already had on hand. You could add a few tablespoons of diced dried fruit

or honey to the mixture and still be well within the spirit of this pastry. Also, while most chocolate would be fine, please refrain from trying to use up your unsweetened chocolate. Even with all the creamy cheese, it is far too bitter. If you don’t have a food processor, chop the nuts by hand and just use a mixer. Right out of the oven, the cream puff shells will be hard and crunchy. Once they have cooled, you can place them in an airtight container or bag, and they will soften slightly. Sfinge di san Giuseppe Makes about 20 Adapted from A Continual Feast Pastry shell (can be made a day or two ahead) ½ cup unsalted butter 1 cup of water 1 cup of flour 4 eggs

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Sfinge di San Giuseppe cont’d A recipe recommended by Joe Krauska Preheat oven to 450. Heat butter and water over medium heat until gently boiling. Turn off the heat and stir in the flour with a wooden spoon or stiff spatula and let cool for 3-4 minutes. Quickly mix in the eggs, one at a time, until each is fully incorporated. Drop by heaping tablespoons onto a parchment lined baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes. Lower the oven temperature to 325 and continue to bake, 15-20 minutes more. Cool and then store in n airtight container until ready to fill.

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Filling 15 oz ricotta cheese 4 oz cream cheese ½ cup powdered sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla ¼ teaspoon cinnamon Pinch of fresh grated nutmeg 2-3 tablespoons pistachios 2 oz finely chopped chocolate (or mini chocolate chips) Pulse the pistachios in a food processor until coarsely chopped. Add ricotta, cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg and process until mostly smooth (you’ll never get ricotta to be completely smooth and those nuts should still have some texture). Transfer the mixture to a bowl and stir in chocolate. Refrigerate, covered, until ready to fill.


To fill, cut cream puff shell in half and spoon 2 tablespoons of filling into the cavity. You can also use a wide pastry tip and puncture the side to fill without cutting them. Sprinkle with powder sugar and serve.

Photos by Joe Krauska

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Whodunit About our Authors & Artists

Janet Krauska is a “finally emerging” artist. With no prior experience she started painting at age 50 and just finished her first show this past week after three years of preperation at age 77. The cover print is a glicée of an original 11 x 14 watercolor on Arches 140. Titled “The Time is Now,” Janet painted it “in ten minutes.” Janet’s recent show was held at Wauwatosa Public Library in a suburb of Milwaukee, WI. Reprints can be purchased by contacting the editors.

Pedro Poitevin teaches mathematics at Salem State University in Massachusetts. His book of Spanish palindromes Eco Da Eco de Doce a Doce was published earlier this year by Ediciones La Galera in México City. Previous poems in English have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine, Foundling Review and Four and Twenty. Joe Krauska is a family man and engineer. He cares for a lovely wife and daughter who look a lot alike. Joe is a devotee of wholesome cooking. He abhors both artificial ingredients and those he did not buy with a coupon.

Claire Suellentrop is one of Cannoli Pie’s Co-Editors and works as Assistant Promotions Manager of 89.5fm WSOU. She spends John Grey has been published remost of her time listening to music very loudcently in the Talking River, South ly, reviewing said loud music and critiquing Carolina Review and Karamu with work upcoming in Prism people’s grammar. We would be lost without her. International, Poem and the Evansville Review. Stephen Krauska is Cannoli Pie’s other Co-Editor. He is a Kansas expatriate living in Casey Holman lives in Long Beach, New York. He pontificates at http://unronic. California, where she will soon be blogpsot.com. He is Assistant Editor of The turning twenty. Her work has previCollege of Staten Island’s Caesura, swears ously appeared or is forthcoming in oaths by The Outlaw Bible of American PoVerdad, Carcinogenic Poetry and etry and is a fan of Scotch. MediaVirus. Ivy Page Ivy’s work has appeared in journals nationally, and anthologized. Her first book Any Other Branch, will be available through Salmon Poetry of Ireland in 2012. Her second book, Elemental, will be out with Salmon Poetry in 2014. She is the editor and founder of Organs of Vision and Speech Magazine. For more about Ivy, see www.poeticentanglement.com.

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© 2011 All content is copyright Cannoli Pie Magazine or the respective owners. Cannoli Pie retains first electronic serial rights to all work.


2 April 2011, Volume 1.08 http://cannolipie.com

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