Humble Pie is California College of the Artsâ€™ undergraduate literary arts journal. We publish student work in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and visual art. Aiming to create a literary and visual art community in the San Francisco Bay Area, we are thrilled to continue this tradition with Volume xii.
Contents A 2 Inch Precipice McKenzie Toma
Thanks for nothing Liz Hernández
Crust Carter Steinmann
000.07 (untitled excerpt) Caroline Gorman
Black Pain No.1 Sequoya Akosua Lee
Pup George Two Horses-Christensen
Where I End and the Wood Begins Carter Steinmann
Untitled (u.s.s. Abraham Lincoln) Yesenia Lara
Essay #4 Yesenia Lara
Fayetteville Carter Steinmann
For Closing Michelle Black
Towards a more credible door and its weight Dylan Pliskin
Sticky Carter Steinmann
The Forming of a Vessel Liz Hernández
3 eggs, 1 meatball, and a graham cracker Jeffrey Bussey
The Murder of Arthur Espinoza Samantha Xochitl Espinoza
Boys Will Be Boys Camille Urso
Oya ‘14 Sequoya Akosua Lee
Sculpt in Time as the Male Lead of special ed as “joshua” Trinity L. Conley
Sleep Tessa Shimizu
untitled Anna Cornelius
what to lure Tim Barry
Toolbelt Carter Steinmann
Going Through A Gentle Winking At Distance McKenzie Toma
neb(sea); body Shushan Tesfuzigta
The Sycamore Fire William Ward Butler
Hands Feet First Carter Steinmann
A 2 Inch Precipice â€“ McKenzie Toma
i took a curling iron to an aloe plant and now she is ready to go dancing i work hard i pull toilet paper by the day through the kitchen
Liz Hernรกndez Thanks for nothing Ink and digital 13
Crust – Carter Steinmann
This is how we laugh: scraping bark off twigs with stubbed fingernails. Braiding and unbraiding long tangled hair. You call my mouth dead red. You think my respiration cycles backwards. We feel what weighs down the quilt: authenticity, a heap of dirty socks, and a moth wing. I catch you cutting crust off of bread. Find you with nail clippers, cuticles enflamed. You should know, as I strip the bed against the axis of our salts, that I am a bloodhound now. and this body commemorates scent. And that I am still callous, and still too flushed to be as rubbed raw as you’ve made me.
000.07 (untitled excerpt) â€“ Caroline Gorman
bubble gum soul
A mouth is not unlike an ache Fill er up up and she will weigh For times whur she dud participate one saw one saw only cunt wont wrestle fine fine her Mary wont wrestle So a ride up he said up buckled Set up and up pace make her Gargle too like she used Every Body Took between you The Father doth lik his kill Wont we wrestle likened More matter and much too Sorrysorrysorrysorry Madonna Wont Make Love a gain again Till u learn to smile
I cut my fingers and swallowed the river
Girls Like You Girls Like You Much too: So speak from which u leak from Soft fur like hate and Iâ€™m all ways No Thing For Weight Nothing For waiting Lost an Island I can drown Wearing U Kansas thins wall wont-
Wearing U Be bearing-
blondie my is name fathers son last call life like open candy wrappers wont the wind pick up Now the horses asking for it under saves saving moment unsay plead For the horses sunk loose balloon fondness falling for it every line Dial Dial Dial Dial ones for you
Lik and saw it searing cross Your money Sugar Less than how it made my teeth her
Fuck Boy Barely Bronze books Your Father never read Alone skin easier
facing page: Sequoya Akosua Lee Black Pain No.1 Screenprint 18
Pup – George Two Horses-Christensen
It was really quite awful. The guy must have loved sweatpants as much as he did dogs and the two combined to create some grisly feature of this or any world. He’d start in with the weather but always ended up staring right through you, carrying on about some long gone dog of his and work himself up until he had half a hard on, made perfectly visible by those goddamned sweatpants. He was younger and stronger than me and moved with a virility that made me nervous. He had sized me up and enjoyed exercising his power over my disgust. I’d look at his pink skin and blue eyes and curse him into the ground in my mind a thousand times and then be grateful that he or I didn’t have a dog or I might’ve got myself into real trouble, propelled by some sense of justice which has always undone me in the past. So I let it go, told myself probably nothing happened like that, and kept things cordial and distant, avoiding him or deftly slipping away or cursing my intuition when I bungled and did get stuck in his presence. That was the misery of piss poor financial planning, forced to live ever closer to others. I had imagined myself rich and alone with a lot of space around me, an eccentric recluse, driving everyone nuts with my reckless low stunt-flying and then showering them with hundred dollar bills as they all cheered. But here I was, in my golden years, stuck in a shitty apartment with shitty neighbors and still lonely to boot. Maybe someone would buy my likeness now that I was old and had white hair, I kept my teeth up at least. They could throw my grinning face on some bottle of horseshit and I could be the next Uncle Ben or Colonel Sanders, maybe there was some dough in that.
My name’s Old Kentucky Joe, I’m old and wise and figured it all out, buy my horseshit and the secret... A big fat regular check in my pocket, I’d go all out, buy the farm and seersucker suit, sit on the porch and sip lemonade with Mrs. Old Kentucky Joe or Bill or whoever the hell had a little patience they’d care to exercise around me. And there we go again, another fantasy gone by where I’m paid and laid and do they ever help?, at least this one was amusing. I had some great ones I believed back when days could feel long, now they rattle by and I spend most of the time thinking of the girls and women I’ve known and savoring those incursions on an optimistic heart. I’m staring out the window thinking of all of this, on the lookout for Mr. Creep, when there’s a knock at the door. Please not Mr. Creep. It’s not. It’s so and so from down the hall, I’ve always been terrible at names. Forgive me, in my age your name has escaped me. Caroline. Of course, Sweet Caroline!, how could I have forgotten? Her who had moved in with such fanfare and proper parents and no boyfriend! Now dreaming at her, I’m feeling like Mr. Creep, all her youth and hope and she really was gorgeous and goddamn I guess that this lust will chase me to the grave. Yes and how do you do and what’s the trouble? Have I seen your dog? Didn’t know you had one. Just got him. I see. A fine young pit bull. Three months old. Well shit. No I haven’t seen him, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out though and good luck. I shut the door and think this is gonna be the end of me. Someone put a quarter in the machine and it’s my turn to 21
stick my head up and pop goes the weasel...I did feel like a weasel though, thinking of her tanned skin. Maybe it was this lustful guilt that made me decide to do something, but also maybe justice could prevail? Could that creep would get what was coming? When does that ever happen but I guess you had to try, there was a poor sweet dog out there that needed some idiot to act so I acted. I went down the block to the house where he lived and banged on the door. Nobody home, no sign of the pup. I set up camp on my balcony and I’m out there til late, waiting for him to show up. He shows up. I notice he’s got the biggest jar of peanut butter I’ve ever seen and I’m alit at his door. Knock knock. Who’s there? Old Kentucky Joe. Who? Mr. Weasel for Mr. Creep. I don’t understand. Can I borrow some peanut butter? He cracks the door. I don’t… I kick the door the rest of the way open into his eyebrow knocking him down and I’m tearing around the place. Living room. No. Kitchen. No. Bedroom. No. Basement…. there’s the pup, his whole body wagging and full of life just happy to see anyone. I grab him and turn to leave and now here’s Mr. Creep, blocking the door with a bloody face and lamp in hand. Not so fast you wrinkled fuck. I don’t know if I’m glad he wants it or not. I’ve had so many daydreams where it’s me righteously beating down some deserving piece of shit, winning hearts and minds, now here I am and all I want is out. 22
It’s over man, you gotta know You’ll know when it’s over He leaps into action. The lamp comes flying and by the time I’ve ducked it he’s in front of me with a grin. I clutch the pup tight and with some mystifying grace I spin and grab the leg of the coffee table, bringing it up and down into his lunge and that is that, he is laid out. I kick him in the teeth to make sure and walk back to my building shaking. I circle a few blocks to let the sweat dry and steady myself before knocking on Caroline’s door. She’s relieved and grateful Where’d I find him? Just in the park over there. Well thanks and anything I can do? Just try and keep an eye on him, the world can be pretty rough on a pup with a heart that big. She smiles a daughterly smile at my cornball line and we say goodnight. The next day she made a Sunday roast and brought me a plate and has done so once a week for a while now. Sometimes we’ll eat together and talk and play with Roger, the pup. She’ll tell me about her day and her hopes, what her family’s up to and about all the assholes that grope her with stares, the half-witted attempts to get into her pants and how tired she is of being under siege just by walking down the street and I’ll listen. Reflect on my lifetime of gazing and wonder what effect it played and what it was all about. And she’ll listen. My off the rails hare-brained rants find her smiling and I think, this is it right here, retirement at last. And sometimes she has to work. When she’s not there I’ll sit out on the balcony with Roger and eat my roast dinner. If Mr. Creep walks by I’ll get up and point my steak knife at him and say, Watch out mister, it’s Old Kentucky Bill and he’s well fed and loneliness is a thing of the past! 23
Where I End and the Wood Begins – Carter Steinmann
Shoebox taped shut postage stamp unstick open tissue paper softs sees candy box single chocolate size light weight rattle crispy cicada corpse spills into my palm yip prod roll over black beads glossy glue eyeballs Louisville Kentucky to Oakland California cicada carcass finds me caffeinated and restless it’s nighttime I pry the skin around the splinter jammed padding of my thumbprint tweezers dig an ashy mine to find where I end and the wood begins exposed the sliver not there just a dark canal hollowed puncture now open wound larger wider more sore than before long to fill tunnels ring out my ears sing cicadas’ anxious song on loop rainstick cricket windchime gurgling
following page: Yesenia Lara Untitled (u.s.s. Abraham Lincoln) Inkjet print 25
previous page: Yesenia Lara Essay #4 Inkjet print 28
Fayetteville â€“ Carter Steinmann
Dig a hole twelve inches round, my hands tear, dry brittle. Gravel sinks into knees, flesh carves negative space in soil, organic form shapes. Mix powder and water from the spigot, one part to two, stirring til shaving cream consistency forms. Iâ€™ll pour white plaster, quick drying and thick, seeping slowly into earth like honey into cornbread. This land is not mine but my mothers. Vessel holds imprint of mines, a history to long for, to romanticize, to rub out. A history in my body. A site of erasure. The highway patrol man, the pincher, Emma in the kitchen. Somewhere in my body, insidious. Scrape the bucket clean. What has happened here? What has happened to the swings on the porch?
previous pages: Michelle Black For Closing Book/Interactive Installation 32
Towards a more credible door and its weight â€“ Dylan Pliskin
I go to Riolama without her. limb hold dandelion and the rose shudders with his kite, a wind under feathers. Let us discuss the appointment chair. It is a worthwhile flavor. Or red. Or salve, discovered ender in the form of favorâ€™s dusk. Welcome to the puzzled sunflower Oak square to the Strangity. Purple and sightless in a leaf. I pause on your walled in penitence, settled practicum; it is a child eating ice cream until his 42nd birthday. Decapitate the form and it will suggest some better head. perhaps black cauliflower and the sand for fires. We
I retreat: it was just my tongue,
closing whispers of unrecognizable devotion.
why you// on the drive back home after one beer too many like sticky[?]//four smokes too many I thought sticky like when you touch the bark of a tree// about going down on you on your period and the sap rubs off // if you came home with me you’ve punctured its shell and oozed it to palm// you told me of the pleasure that morning never come off not matter how you scrub// of bleeding on your fingers for the first time sticky like Elmer’s glue//in years that damn IUD been there since 2010 squeezed into the palm of your hand// driving past the lake I imagined you in my bed sticky like cum as it dries clear and crusty// I’ll eat your raw bloody snatch til it’s medium-rare to the peach fuzz on your lower back// think myself sick, salmonella sticky like tape that’s never sticky enough// when I got back home sticky like being on a bus in the rain// I found I was bleeding too windows fogged up seats slushy// subtle at first will be gushing by morning
– Carter Steinmann
bodies muggy beneath wool sweaters// in the VW bus staining my thighs at the sticky like the inside of a fig// gas station carwash bathroom no TP paper towels or trashcan sticky like dried apricots in a plastic bag// clots dangle sticky don’t ever look sticky like handles on kitchen cabinets// birthday girl gets what birthday girl wants sticky like babies’ hands// when I turned 21 we went to the ruby room too but after eating watermelon//everyone was too sober and sticky like molasses //there were too many bros and thick and slow//I was on the rag and sticky like tabletops at roadside diners //my girlfriend didn’t go down on me that get wiped down millions of times //not that I would’ve let her but yet still are always sticky //but that’s not the point
facing page: Liz Hernรกndez The Forming of a Vessel Acrylic 36
3 eggs, 1 meatball, and a graham cracker â€“ Jeffrey Bussey My dead great grandfather loved to scare me with stories of the bug people who helped him lose his virginity. His mouth waters when he tells me about the meal they made him before it happened.
Samantha Xochitl Espinoza The Murder of Arthur Espinoza Screenprint 41
Boys Will Be Boys – Camille Urso my name is HEY SWEETHEART and you lean out the window of your car and shout it again as if I didn’t hear you the first time but I am 11 and I heard you I’m just scared because I don’t talk to strangers and I don’t understand why you’re following me so I run into the woods and hide with your words still trapped under my skin like they’ve always been a part of me my name is COME HERE BABY GIRL and I am 14 and you are 25 and you later name me DRUNK ENOUGH right before they named me IRRESPONSIBLE and everyone cared more about what I was wearing and how much I drank then why you forced yourself onto a child because I was asking for it by being in your company my name is BABY DOLL and I am fifteen in the city with my friends for the first time and we take a wrong turn and pass you and then you follow us for 3 blocks as you name my friends PRECIOUS and DARLING and WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME YOU STUCK UP CUNTS my name is NICE ASS and it’s four in the afternoon and i can feel my stomach flip and my blood rush because I feel small and weak as you lean out the doorway of the bar revealing your immense frame and lick your lips at me and even though my mother pulls up in the car and takes me away I can still feel your tongue on the back of my neck until I get home my name is LOOK AT THOSE TITS and we are walking on the sidewalk and the boy I am with holds onto my waist just a little tighter while you drive up next to me, I give you the finger 42
and you laugh and speed off while the boy turns to me and asks “why do you let that bother you so much?” my name is DAMN GIRL and we are waiting in line there are eight of you and two of us you grab my friend’s ass when you think we’re not looking and you tell us to either come inside or there will be more where that came from and you all laugh because this is funny, and you are entitled to say things like that because you are a man and I am a woman and boys will be boys my name is PRETTY YOUNG THING, my name is LITTLE LADY, my name is CHILL OUT BITCH YOU’RE TOO UGLY FOR ME ANYWAYS , my name is LOOK AT ME WHILE I’M TALKING TO YOU, my name is STOP FROWNING, my name is SMILE, my name is WHY CAN’T YOU TAKE A COMPLIMENT my name is I’M JUST TRYING TO SAY SOMETHING NICE my name is GOD DAMN BABY, my name is WHATEVER, YOU’RE A WHORE ANYWAYS my name takes nice words and makes them suffocate my name is HERE HERE PUSSYCAT and no girl I’ve ever known has slept with let alone spoken anything but profanities to a man who whistled at her from a car window, my name is NICE TITS and how come I can realize but you can’t that when you shout things at a stranger they sound like sandpaper more than silk, my name is WOMEN LIKE YOU NEVER LEARN THEIR PLACE; IT’S A MAN’S WORLD and every single nice or pleasant thing you say to a woman is something you’d never dream of saying to another man because you know that it’s meant to demean and degrade, my name is PRINCESS, my name is WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM BITCH, my name is JAILBAIT my name is SEXY my name is KITTEN my name is I LOVE YOUR THIGHS IN THOSE LEGGINGS and every time i 43
hear someone raising their voice in my direction I am 11 again and I don’t know who you are or why you’re following me and I am running into the woods with weight on my shoulders and your words like needles under my skin , I am scared and alone and suddenly so fragile. Less than human, a plaything, an object - I am lost and stifled in a world where I have no identity but the one bestowed upon me by you or any other perfect stranger. Anything I accomplish or believe in will never be recognized and I will never get the respect I demand because you don’t see me as anything more than your ANGEL, HONEY, DOLLFACE - but those are just compliments, right? com·pli·ment noun noun: compliment; plural noun: compliments 3 kämpl m nt/ A polite expression of praise or admiration. e e
POLITE Compliments are supposed to make me feel good - not afraid for my life. A compliment is a way of saying “I appreciate you and I think you should know it.” If what was being said was really meant to be a compliment - then you would care how your comment was received. Women are just “too sensitive” and oh, you never mean it “like that”. You mean it to show off, you mean it to make us object. If we are all saying ‘that doesn’t sound like a compliment, it sounds like a threat” or “that makes me uncomfortable can you please stop?” or “please respect my space and leave me alone” - if you really wanted us to feel good - wouldn’t you stop doing it?
Sequoya Akosua Lee Oya â€˜14 Woodblock relief print 45
Sculpt in time as the Secondary Male Lead of Special Ed as “Joshua” – Trinity L. Conley
Character Background: YOU are a boy living in the second half of the 1970’s in the underbelly of Tinseltown, California. Your parents are ANONYMOUS A-List movie stars. For as long as you can remember, you have lived alone in a one-bedroom cottage behind your parents’ white and blue manor house. The only memories you have of them are from the educational films they produce and leave for you to view along the stages of your childhood. Surrounding the back of your cottage is a dense brush of pine. In the middle of that brush, you found a cabin. A young hippie couple: Cameron (Vietnam Vet) and Snowpea (Civilian Vet) Cameron are living in there raising their daughter, LENI CAMERON. You and Leni possess the looks and charisma to MAKE IT BIG but you are only eleven-year-olds stuck in an exclusively erratic CATHOLIC SCHOOL. You two will be partners. THE STEPS: 1. Remember to keep your breathing deep, slow, and steady. 2. Always act like you are NOT TRYING to draw attention to yourself. 3. Saunter to the desk with the Unofficial SPECIAL ED keychain on it and pick it up. 4. Attach the keychain to your body where it can be visible and easy to activate. 46
5. Act like you’re minding your own business (flipping through the nearest book, picking at something weird on the wall, adjusting your hairstyle). 6. When the clock strikes to the NEXT MINUTE, activate the keychain by pressing the tiny black dials next to the tiny tv-screen. 7. Wave at the teacher until he waves back. 8. Walk around your classmates; size them up while smiling politely. 9. Choose a student to talk to casually, but make sure they have something small that’s easy to steal. 10. Talk to them about your cool new keychain, let them hold it and press the buttons. 11. While they’re preoccupied with the keychain, steal their thing. 12. While slipping the thing in your pocket, politely ask for your keychain back. 13. Re-attach your keychain to yourself and wave goodbye to the chump you just robbed. 14. Take a brisk lap around the room, quietly congratulating yourself. 15. Choose someone you are comfortable with to PLAY LENI (girl or boy, don’t matter). 16. Introduce yourself to them as JOSHUA and give them a NICE HUG. 17. Have LENI activate your keychain while you slip the stolen trinket into LENI’s pocket. 18. Introduce LENI to each student and have them each shake hands with LENI. 19. Tell LENI to wave at the teacher until he waves back. 20. Show LENI Step 21 and tell them to do it just this time, it’ll be fun.
Step 21. Choose someone in the room that looks like they just woke up, pull out the stolen trinket and give it to them like a Shakespearian Duke would while reciting the following: “IN A WORLD OF SLEEPWALKERS, YOU’VE NEVER LOOKED AS SWEET.” 22. Clap loudly, applauding LENI’s performance, and don’t stop until the class joins you. 23. Pull LENI in front of the class with you and improvise a quick song and dance routine about SOMETHING YOU BOTH BELIEVE IN. 24. When it gets too awkward, take a big bow together hand in hand. 25. Keep holding hands and walk up to the teacher. 26. Thank the teacher repeatedly and shake hands with him. 27. Have LENI do the same. 28. Start walking out with LENI on your arm. 29. Wave goodbye to the class. 30. Blow kisses to the class before closing the door behind you and LENI.
Tessa Shimizu Sleep Gelatin Silver Print 49
Untitled – Anna Cornelius
vitamin D is more important said that article about milk my friend said he’s going to build a tiny sun to carry around maybe he can help my bones what do you think i mean when i say i’m aching do you think it’s for you i don’t even think it’s me something is separate me and my aching hips and wrists swallowing stolen medicine gifted to me through spoonfuls spoon fed minty blue knocks me out and i dream of being swung sweating swinging fighting centrifugal force you’ll throw the jawbreaker off the tower and if it breaks a window or caves in a skull you won’t care because you proved your point it’s bluer than anything else i know i can’t keep sleeping forever so I wake up for a second and move a little but it’s very dark and i’m always afraid of what i can’t see you said to me as i clung to the cat’s tail that you would cut it in half and drape ham over it and i thought that was a very good idea because you’re an artist and everything you do is interesting and the cat didn’t exist but in my mind neither did the jawbreaker but in those moments when i was awake i still worried that your point wasn’t clear enough so i closed my eyes again it is breezy tall dry grass itching my ankles everything gold and dry it is silent
if i concentrate on this place and put myself there i can feel the silence even though the sound of traffic and pedestrian arguments play around me i can feel the cold quiet air in this moment my hips are numb
facing page: Tim Barry what to lure Ceramic and wicker 52
Toolbelt – Carter Steinmann Give me a tool belt thick and heavy, these hips can open doors can support a tired crooked arm can jut out and sink in to women can rest an infant on one and a toddler on the other and these hips can hold a 15 lb. tool belt Wifebeater sports bra tightfitted pants my genderfuck free I’ll fix your leaky faucet lil lady be your firefighter-carpenter take you home sand you smooth extinguish your lungs Gentle swarm body pile of meat raw red thaw room temperature I’ve always wanted to be a butcher blue collar, male dominated, romanticized occupations that turn me on not like that like this starchy uniform drape my body loyal worker eroticized mailman firefighter carpenter construction worker handyman plumber truck driver butcher put my back into it dirty up my hands come home remove socks eat meatloaf 54
Going Through A Gentle Winking At Distance â€“ McKenzie Toma
a fact yes but now we alone i on couch juke in night window with me a me yes am i fact maybe along with with confidence i juke i juke confidence with listen alone it alone not that alone yellow crypt and brave fact very from the couch window i can see my own juke in the fact yes a brave clamber little chaste pear dying in my jazz bowl arose alone with me yes i am fact i am a drooping conical tit too brave that jazz my labored tar hack dying in my chaste bowl of my own confidence in the couch i believe about it at night in the window a trysting bowl turned over where the juke keeps confidence and brave that or brave this alone anyway it was a small unaggressive burn a wilting champagne derby juking in my dying wild plan
previous pages: Shushan Tesfuzigta neb(sea); body Acrylic gel medium resists of Eritreans in water 58
The Sycamore Fire â€“ William Ward Butler
When the ash covered us in the schoolyard, and stung our eyes, and lingered on our clothes, you turned to me and said, California is burning, as if I could do anything to stop it.
Hands Feet First – Carter Steinmann
You’ve got t’know th’mountains, piled up out there steep when daylight come. I’ll bet you never have seen th’mother in that kitchen, here on this creek. Quilts down in th’floor behind th’stove, she went off never found it and hollered. Back in th’bedroom, your water under th’bed, apple bark by th’feet. On our knees, laid her out. I’m tellin’ you she’d be hungry, a’ course. She’d climb that headboard took that milksick too. The farm in my lap, too soft-Fussed’em out, wet us way above our knees, settle on the vegetables. Tear th’woman. Took care, wash your cows to keep her hands feet first. There’s a place out of th’way, below the house, where th’water goin’ up th’hill. But when I build fences, she told me some things, wantin’ t’go eat some mineral. Come and sit on a pallet, and keep’em from tearin’ come that night. Some place hard. Her head against th’headboard, I don’t make’em hold back. It strangles, it’s bound. Y’know she was young, her mother. Built a shed, got an axe t’take care. Oh, she’s seen some sufferin’. Crawled clean around, you can smell it. And say, things are all right.
Contributors Tim Barry ID student 19 years old. I work with ceramics, wood, metal and leather. I do sculptures for fun. The piece I submitted was one of my first ceramic sculptures. Michelle Black Black is an Individualized major who was born, raised, and sought higher education in California. She wants to relocate, but worries she’s been too sheltered by the mild weather and immediate coastal access to successfully survive anywhere else. She keeps a pebble in her coat pocket from a beach on the west coast of Iceland that smelled just like home — I think she’ll probably be ok with snow if she can continue to have a west coast and a paper collection hoard. Jeffrey Bussey Bussey is a poet who does things related to that, as well as a lot of things not related to that.
William Ward Butler Butler studies literature and creative writing at the University of California, Santa Cruz. He is an organizer for the Kinetic Poetics Project slam poetry collective and an editor for Chinquapin, the longest-running literary magazine at UCSC. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming inTandem, NightBlock, and Weave Magazine. Trinity L. Conley aka Martinelli the Enabler Conley is a third year Undergrad Renaissance Babe who loves potatoes and confusing life with art. She wrote this piece as instructions for her sculpture class to try portraying the characters in a TV show she dreams of producing some day. Joshua the Tree Spirit RULES! Anna Cornelius Cornelius is an undergraduate at Mills College, studying creative writing. Her poetry has also been included in The Walrus Literary Journal. She lives in Oakland, CA.
Samantha Espinoza In an exploration of police brutality within her own family, Espinoza explored the murder of her great uncle Arthur at the hands of Denver Police. Note that throughout the entirety while finding remnants of the documentation of this murder, this piece stays a work in progress for the endless cycle of pain caused by these oppressive acts.
Caroline Gorman Susan Howe writes in My Caroline Gorman that the poetess has a “morally pink complexion” with “little interest in the truth of zero calorie”. Anthony Bourdain, after reviewing Gorman, California, concedes, stating ”She stumbled down the road less travelled. Uber-ed back, then raged, raged in the queer/ indie-electro/neo-bohemian night”. Liz Hernández Hernández is a designer from Mexico City who sees design as a method to ask critical questions about existing things, to introduce approaches that go beyond disciplines or simply to create an interesting everyday aesthetic. Her practice incorporates her drawing and ceramics background. She is always happy to collaborate, learn and cook with friends.
Yesenia Lara Lara is a Mexican-American photographer and artist born in Santa Barbara, California. Alongside photography, she enjoys bookmaking, screenprinting, and graphic design. She is in her last semester at California College of the Arts and currently resides in Oakland, California.Â Sequoya Akosua Lee Lee currently lives in Oakland practicing Community Arts at California College of the Arts. She has lived in upstate New York, Ghana and traveled around the world. Her passions lie in the blending of social justice work and art. The intersectionality of her life rooted in her African, and South American ancestry also influences much of her interdisciplinary practice. Dylan Pliskin Pliskin is a writing major at CCA. His main focus is poetry. He appeared in Humble Pie Volume 9 and is excited to appear in this semesterâ€™s print edition.
Tessa Shimizu Originating from California and Japan, Shimizu was born and raised on the border of Switzerland and France. She received her International Baccalaureate at the International School of Geneva in Switzerland. Having been exposed to and inspired by her father’s freelance photography career, she has been drawn to the art of fine art photography from a young age. Up to this day, she has developed great interests in the realms of portraiture, surrealism and the nude. Shimizu is currently an Oakland-based artist, pursuing her BFA at the California College of the Arts. Carter Steinmann Steinmann is a poet, sculptor, dancer, woodworker, and doula. She lives in Oakland, CA and will be a graduate of Mills College as of Spring 2015. Her poetry is influenced by her work in queer and disability studies. Shushan Tesfuzigta Tesfuzigta is an Oakland, CA based artist and designer. She will be completing her B.F.A at California College of the Arts this May 2015 as an Individualized Major. She has participated in group shows around the Bay Area and was a student artist at Recology SF’s Artist in Residency program the Summer of 2014.
McKenzie Toma Toma is a poet and artist working in San Francisco. George Two Horses-Christensen Two Horses-Christensen grew up in Long Beach, CA under the lush boughs of a maple tree and the chin in the wind of his mother. There he found many loving hearts, and with their help, on he stomps in search of grace. Camille Urso Sometimes, I feel the only reason I write is because it allows me to be a huge bitch in the name of ‘art’. What I really enjoy is power-lifting and sending elaborate hate mail to Chris Brown.
Humble Pie Volume xii Staff Carly McKown Creative Director Emily Smith Fiction Editor Kalyn Diaz Nonfiction Editor Solomon Rino and Becca Henry Poetry Editors Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo and Jack Bool Visual Editors Alexandra Phelps and Jin Ah Kim Networking and Publicity Alexandra Gilliam Managing Editor Caroline Goodwin Faculty Advisor
The staff of Humble Pie would like to thank Caroline Goodwin for her support, guidance, and all the wonderful and creative bursts of inspiration she gave all of us. Here is to our dearest and lovely, CG. We would not be here without her. Cover letterpress printed by Solomon Rino