Humble Pie X

“All flesh is edible smiling like a bite in an apple going brown Well how do I look?”

– Denise Newman (excerpt from the poem “Disaster Services”)

California College of the Arts Spring 2014

HUMBLE PIE X STAFF Caroline Goodwin (Faculty Advisor) Colin Partch (Managing Editor) Z. Darr Tuck (Creative Director) Nikita Schoen (Fiction Editor) Kevin Demery-Raien (Poetry Editor) Marléna Mendoza (Visual Editor) Kay Cullinan & Rayniel Estrella (Graphic Designers) Debbie Nyamuame (Webmaster) Jillian McCann (Creative Consultant) The staff of Humble Pie would like to thank Caroline Goodwin for her guidance, encouragement, and the many strange and wonderful moments in which she made us laugh. Here’s to good ol’ CG; without her, this celebration of creativity in all its myriad forms would founder and flag.

Cover & Back Illustration by Kimberly Gonzalez

Humble Pie is CCA’s biannual undergraduate literary arts journal. The publication has a rich history filled with work from emerging contemporary artists and writers and dotted with luscious blueberries. We are thrilled to continue this tradition with Volume X.

CONTENTS

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Season Riede Faires

Daniel Graham Holoch

Last Night, The President Jeffrey Bussey

Hibernation Michelle Lagasca

Entomophobia Alisha de Souza

Empty Houses Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo

myloveisthick Ceci Miras

Untitled Melody Webster

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12

15

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21

23

25

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The First Rule Is Zoë Ozma

22222 Elliott Cost

Angkot + Street Musicians Lia Tin

Dear Lanie Alyssa Montantes

The Carpenter’s Daughter Laura Stevick

Untitled Talia Frank

Electric Touch Vanessa Hernandez

Buck Michael Gallagher

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38

41

44

47

52

54

57

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MORSEL Willie Young

Kevin Andrea Cazares

Anschlussflüge Imani Hadden

Self Discovery Colin Andersen

Avo Alyssa Montantes

Mother & Child Alex Coppola

A Poem That Hurts Zoë Ozma

Big Brown Bags Bonny Nahmias

Remote Control Laura Stevick

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39

43

45

50

53

56

58

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Salted Nathan Gale

Lost in Space Woodrow White

Untitled Melody Webster

Dots Riede Faires

Light Cameron Price

It’s a Small World Rachel Acord

6:03 Allison Chalco

Alice in Mordor Kyle Prusa

Netflix Leah Dubuc

SEASON

by Riede Faires I want to die while I’m young, not while I’m old and I do not wish to blow my nose.

The change of season makes water stagnant-makes Khafre look like Hades yet makes my nose a river: one nostril Tigris, one Euphrates.

Can’t I be Tut, tucked away for a time?

Am I not so gloried, sarcophagi?

To be with those that are just like me, 9

yet sleep in bunks built separately.

I wish I’d died in innocence, oh now too much I know My prideful leaves are turning, my nose I have to blow.

THE FIRST RULE IS

by Zoë Ozma 1. THE FIRST RULE IS YOU WILL FIND WHAT YOU WANT TO FIND

in the blood work, in the gesture, in the recollection 2. SO WHAT DO YOU WANT TO FIND?

a taxonomy of dirty knees, the grid of the tile floor a city plan, a base from which things may crystallize i put lamb’s ear in my pocket i avoid the gaze of buildings i bury a fork in my grits like a boy 3. IF YOU ARE A BOY HOW DO YOU DRINK THE ORANGE JUICE?

diamond. you have only to reach. if you had been born a different boy you would still have stacked branches in the corner of the school yard, you would still not find trinkets in the sand, you wouldn’t ache for the trinkets, you would still pick the cinnamon sugar from the scone you wouldn’t ache you would still have chalk on your shoes 4. THE SECOND RULE IS MIMESIS

i touch without looking. i put the lamb’s ear in my pocket. to study is to not yet, right? right. i have conducted a study of oily marbles 5. SO WHAT DO YOU FIND?

i don’t know yet ask me on monday

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forget teeth, corner of the lips, straw. belly is a baseball

DANIEL (OBSTRUCTED) by Graham Holoch (Archival pigment print)

22222

by Elliott Cost Black screen. The crushing sound of a waterfall.

Reflection of man in white t-shirt wiping window with intensity.

Four strangers laughing at a round table in a stranger’s apartment black screen with text, “SIGNATURES” Reflection of man in white t-shirt wiping the building’s window vigorously.

Airplane interior: hand on tray table with glass. black screen with text, “SIGNATURES” black background with four glowing white rectangles.

Airplane interior: hand on tray table with glass, orange juice. amplified. black background with four stretched white cubes. zoom out: black pavement moving by. hand signing check on speckled countertop. sound amplified.

Black screen. The crushing sound of a waterfall. zoom out: black pavement moving by.

Four strangers laughing at a round table in a strange apartment.

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white hand signing check on melancholy countertop. sound

LAST NIGHT, THE PRESIDENT IN A PRESS CONFERENCE

by Jeffrey Bussey Last night, the President, in a press conference held in his bed, told the nation that he ate the face of evil at a new friend’s backyard barbeque over the weekend between some pre-dinner carrots and grapes, and a post-dinner cigar.

He didn’t give too much information, except that the overcooked portion of cheek and the undercooked forehead he received tasted, at first, like a spoonful of tang powder, but had the chew and aftertaste of a dried paper towel that’d been used to sop up

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blister puss. Also, that he felt bad for leaving the potato salad he’d personally prepared the night before in the White House fridge.

But noted that it did make a nice next day lunch and did not give him diarrhea.

He went on to mention that the portions of the face were presented to him on an ice plate with some challah bread and peach chutney. There was a pride in the way he said peach chutney, as if the specifics of it really mattered to the American people.

At one point, the President noted that he was beginning to sweat because of the reporters’ body heat. The room was as comfortable as any press conference confined to a bed would be. All the mics and camera wires crawling up, covered by the sheets as some of the reporter’s attention was jealously geared towards the big spoon and little spoon reporters sandwiching the

President. The press conference had become a cuddle puddle in the bed Nixon nightmared in. The space on the outskirts of the presidential bed was jockeyed for as the President, at 7:47 pm. declared, officially, that the carpeted floor was lava.

Tired of the childish nature the evening had taken, one veteran reporter got up out of the presidential bed like a father and asked, “But what did the chef do with the rest of the body?” The big spoon reporter confidently put his lotion hand on the shoulder of the President and hushed him like a lover. Then big spoon raised his lotion hand from the President’s shoulder and sassily shooed the curious reporter to leave the room for standing up and subsequently dying from the carpet lava.

The big spoon went on to tell the rest of the reporters how the a body in such a condition. And at first, he wanted to smoke it like a whole hog, but due to time restraints he decided to cut the most convenient and tender parts of the corpse– buttocks, eyeballs, breast, abdomen, shoulders, calf and thigh muscles– into two-inch gobbets, placed them on brochettes, interspersed with sweet Vidalia onions, and cooked them over an open fire to a presidential level of doneness.

Then the little spoon chimed in, “And about the lungs, tell them about the lungs.” “Ah yes, one lung.” Big spoon remembered.

“One lung was supposedly passed around and eaten raw, seasoned only with the First Lady’s mucus and secret service blood and a little sea salt and cayenne.” But that was a rumor.

And the President had no comment about the presentation of the lung or the amount of cayenne.

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chef cooked the carcass. He said that the fat chef had never seen

ANGKOT + STREET MUSICIANS by Lia Tin (Acrylic gouache)

HIBERNATION by Michelle Lagasca (Mixed media)

DEAR LANIE by Alyssa Montantes

DEAR LANIE

by Alyssa Montantes THE DALMATIAN NEVER WEEPS, Over being born spotted Doesn’t howl to the moon To be some other breed I was thinking of this, and you This and you With your kinky perm With your dyed scalp and fingernails All your attempts At changing shape A ball on the bathroom floor Deflated by your own self The ineffectual longing I shift from shoulder to shoulder, along my path, and yours as well. The internal struggles and inhibitions.

My tawny brown skin in summer will make boys shout señorita when I’m walking in the Pilsen in Chicago. My tongue rolls Rs, but without a fluent language to put them in. I want to dance fluid salsa and merengue, but my hips and feet don’t have any rhythm.

This morning I was listening to a Spanish audio book halfheartedly, hoping some words would stick, while I got ready for class in my basement bedroom. Your room next to mine, blasting some new music and shouting to me through the wall to come see what you got. I hopped through the hallway, pulling on blue jeans over a pair of sweater tights and knee high socks. The snow outside was packed up against my basement window so I decided ‘layers’ was the only fashion trend I was going to follow.

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It comes in waves

I peeked into your room and look around for something new.

Finally you opened your eyes as wide as possible and placed your open palms on both of your cheeks to draw my attention. Your

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DEAR LANIE

beautiful coffee-colored eyes, you put blue contacts in them.

ENTOMOPHOBIA - FEAR OF INSECTS by Alisha de Souza (Black star ink)

THE CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER’S SONG

by Laura Stevick I tried to make a home Out of you. I tried but I didn’t realize I’d have to gut you first Out of you, I tried To build a house I’d have. To gut you first Would take more time than I took To build a house 21

Takes patience and planning, it Would take more time than I took To see at what was in me It takes patience and planning I tried to make a home To see what was in me But I didn’t realize

EMPTY HOUSES by Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo (Lithograph)

UNTITLED

by Talia Frank He wore a mustache, long and groomed out like a summer dress. He wore dresses, sometimes, when the rains returned and no one would look sideways at him from under their umbrellas and rain slickers.

He needed to dye his roots again; the light, sunshiny red he’d last used was fading like brown fields barren of potatoes. He’s heard that lemons worked as a natural dye, but he only had a carton of Florida orange juice, which he set outside in the birdbath for 23

scrub jays. He caught the train, locks flowing out behind him; he decided to wear only light.

MYLOVEISTHICK by Ceci Miras

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ELECTRIC TOUCH

by Vanessa Hernandez WE WANT MORE ENERGY SO WE STAND OUTSIDE during thunderstorms and wait to be electrocuted. Grandpa is first to get hit. Most of us are resting before work when it happens, but I am awake and see it clearly. We are standing outside in a circle.

Grandpa’s face is folded in with rest. He has to wake up early to go to work as an ATM. Processing checks and handing out money in a small box is tiring. The rain is falling in a soft patter, drifting lazily onto our heads and slowly saturating our dresses and suits.

First there is a distant rumbling of thunder and stillness. Then a stream of light flashes down and hits Grandpa directly on his toes, shooting him into the front porch swing. We wait for the sparks 25

to settle, wrap him in a blanket, and carry him inside to recover from the shock. We sit by the fire quietly and listen to the news, wondering who and when the next storm might hit.

Since Grandpa’s shock, Grandpa has more energy and works longer hours. He’s been promoted and can now distribute stamps.

After dinner we sit around him, rocking in his chair, and ask to see his toes. They are purple and ripe like figs seeping gold pus.

“You see how it changes colors?” asks Grandpa “The energy’s in my bloodstream.” He jumps up from the chair and grabs his walking stick. He snaps it in half against his knee and tosses it in the fire. “Y’all get hit and we can pay off the mortgage and maybe start making some money round here.” He stands tall and rolls up his pant legs to show us the scars that expand up and out from his toes, webs of misty purple and desert blue. We are flies stuck to them.

I want so badly to be struck by lightning that when nobody is looking I eat as many metal objects as I can. Spoons are my favorite to swallow for how they feel when they slide down my stomach, how they curl into my insides. My second favorite object to swallow is hair pins since they tickle on the way down. I don’t like necklaces. While everybody is resting during the storms, I watch them or read Benjamin Franklin. One of my cousins almost drowns from sleeping with his head bent back. Water filled his mouth so high that he fell over, coughing until he shriveled up.

Neighbors who were also hoping to be electrocuted looked over from their circles with concern. None of them bothered to leave their positions in fear of losing their chance at electrocution.

Since that evening, there’s been a drought.

Grandpa is not home very often. He works as much as possible before he qualifies for health care. For the hour he is house to increase its value. The house was built by his greatgrandpa by hand and at this point falling apart.

“Y’all need to get electrocuted,” Grandpa says while pacing around the house, inspecting the cracks in the walls and taking note of them in a spiral notebook. He says, “I’ll be damned if I do all this work for nothing. If we never own this house that ain’t worth shit.” That night he fills the cracks in the house, all onehundred and forty of them, with rubber paste.

It’s been so hot that steam puffs out of our pores. We wear long sleeves to hide the steam, despite the heat. The steam reminds us of the drought, of the fact that there won’t be any more lightning anytime soon. Grandpa walks around the house and inspects it, tapping on the walls with his fingers, searching

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home each night, he does not sleep but works on improving the

for weak spots. “This house will last longer than any of us will,” he says. His body has blisters scattered around it like boiled Easter eggs. I’ve learned to fall asleep by counting the blisters and listening to Grandpa pace around the house. Once you get over the initial thuds, they are calming.

News reports recommend we stay indoors to avoid heatstroke.

ELECTRIC TOUCH

We go to work anyways. I get paid to give lonely people affection.

I dress as a large pillow, have them wrap their arms around me and whisper in their ears. I tell them, “You are valid. You are wanted. I am with you because you make me happy.” They squeeze me and cry, thinking the steam puffing out my body is their insecurities evaporating.

One night we come home to to find Grandpa sitting in his 27

rocking chair. His notebook is gripped between both hands, and his eyes are wide open staring out the window. There’s an opened envelope resting on his lap. He’s rocking fast. We ask, “Grandpa, what’s the matter?”

He looks over at us and says, “Nothings a matter. Can’t a man rest? I’ve been working for three weeks straight.” We leave him alone and eat dinner, but when we are finished, he is still rocking.

We sit beside him on the floor.

The cousin who almost drowned says, “Neighbor said there might be a storm soon. Her cows have been acting weird.”

Grandpa keeps rocking, and chews on his bottom lip. “If a storm hits one of us then you don’t have to work as long. Might be able to retire in your life.” Grandpa grunts.

I scootch closer to him and ask, “Can we see your scars?”

Grandpa’s face turns red and he looks down at me. His hands are shaking. He says, “Leave me be!” and a tooth flies out of his mouth. He kicks me in the arm. We listen and leave him alone.

My arm is fine. There’s a bruise on it, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Once Grandpa got so mad at me that he accidentally made my lip bleed. Bruises are better than blood. They don’t taste bad and look like galaxies. Later that night, when Grandpa is gluing the loose parts of the roof, I sneak into the living room and look for his notebook. It’s sitting on his rocking chair, wide open.

I pick it up and flip through the pages. Some pages are scribbled themselves. The last page says, Place would sell for less than what went into it. Where is the worth? Need to Fix: Leaks, creaks, get dead rat off roof, and landscape. Need to find worth. Check the attic. Folded in one of the pages is the envelope that Grandpa had

VANESSA HERNANDEZ

and hard to read since they are written and re-written over

earlier. The envelope is addressed from the bank with a big red stamp saying Final Notice. I begin to open it but hear Grandpa’s ladder crack with his weight. He is coming down from the roof set it back down.

To make more money, I pick up extra shifts at my job. I fill in for my coworkers who dress up as beds. Most clients are similar to the ones who want pillows since, they too, like to lay on top of you. One client is a boy my age with thick black curly hair, and beautiful eyebrows. They are raised and defined with only a few stray hairs. He doesn’t tell me his name, instead, he lays on me and stretches his arms out as if he is going to be dissected. He falls asleep. I want to reach out and play with his hair, run my fingers over his eyebrows but I can’t. I’m stuck in a mattress, and about to fall asleep myself. Something about the heat makes me tired. A few hours later the boy wakes up with a small strand of dried saliva on his chin and some crusties in the corners of his

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outside. Quickly, I slide the envelope back into the notebook and

eyes. He finds his jeans on the floor, reaches in the back pocket, tosses a handful of crumpled cash onto my pillowtop, and leaves.

He doesn’t bother looking at the hole where my face peeks through.

After a few more meetings, I build up the courage to talk to the boy. He is on his back staring at the ceiling, eyebrows more beautiful than ever. I use my best line on him.

ELECTRIC TOUCH

I say, “I’m yours.” He looks down at me without moving his head and then rolls over, putting his back to my face-hole. He doesn’t visit again. I miss him but don’t tell anybody. How do you explain missing somebody that you hardly know?

I come home and Grandpa happens to be there. Crouched down, he tosses ripped up paper in the fire. He’s muttering to 29

himself and quickly tapping his foot. His feet are bare and I see them for the first time since the lightning strike. The toes are black and curled under the ball of the foot. They look like overgrown thorns on a rosebush. Grandpa stops muttering and looks up at me.

“What?” He asks.

I step back and reach for the door.

“What is it?” He stands up and falters a little, grabbing the mantle with one hand to steady himself. His feet hit the floor with a heavy clap. My mouth opens. It wasn’t the sound of his boots I was falling asleep to but his burnt feet. “For fuck’s sake, what is it?” He yells, eyes bloodshot and wild. I run into my room and hold a pillow over my head, trying to muffle the image.

Grandpa looks like a giant blister now, bright red and about to burst. He doesn’t pace around anymore or do much of anything.

I reckon it’s because of the burning from the lightning-strike spreading in his body. As soon as he comes home from work,

Grandpa sits in his rocking chair with his eyes closed and rocks back and forth. The house has started to creak again and the floor cracks under the weight of his chair. Grandpa fixed what we could afford to fix in the house. He patched its leaks with tape. He got the dead rat off of the roof, but he says there’s still a lot more work to do. A lot more money to be earned to do it.

VANESSA HERNANDEZ

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UNTITLED by Melody Webster (Nikon D7000)

BUCK

by Michael Gallagher Buck died with his eyes closed crooks placed coins on his lids and every bandit bid farewell a priest said “Bury him with silver bullets so he knows the price of breath” a banker said “Gold! So that he knows the weight of debt” they left Buck to deal with death who usually took 90 percent of interest and invested in content sleep a scythe that cut bonds from his heart a toll for the entrance to the underworld skin like frozen broken bread steam rose from the carcass as tears dropped paper trails running down their faces dark streams dotting giant boots that danced in gunfire crossing bustling burning bridges in a town where children gunned down weigh equal to the bounty where men snort gunpowder highs to settle scores payback stabbers who steal hearts from cracked chests pick brains like locks with tongues like skeleton keys hearts were the same as banks to Buck he’d speak openings into the minds of men with promises of mental reward with sour whiskey lips, cigarette wedged between callused thumb and index burnin’ bills quick to turn the wheels of economy the blood of victims were oil for that engine

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children throwing coins into fountains

if he ever finds heaven then he bribed God with false recollections he didn’t throw fights for passive alibis whispered into ears by dead men his deals with Satan exchanged by hands at crossed roads were paved in paper he chose to sidewind the grind eyes dead and wide bandits still bet on what he saw seconds before his demise a man who drank his bottom dollar attached to this town like a

BUCK

barnacle to a pirate ship’s underbelly his soul became a mirage in the deserts of poverty missing contracts written in devil tongues played for keeps by piano keyed mouths bading lone shark smiles making deals with poverty to keep his belly full 33

gambling live die with rolling eyes and a crooked wrist In God We Trust is a guarantee we would buy it Buck accepted the terms and signed in blood ink blind to the fine print imaginary value was the trap in which he dived in but I admire risk in being bold amongst false finances and Buck you’d make the most beautiful homeless shelter for me to rest my hands in but I’m done counting on monetary value to express the sound of death and its volume cause a rich man only finds darkness in his solitude this poem is a present from you to me buck wanted you to know that it’s a gift to be free

M O R S E L (FOR NATHAN GALE) by Willie Young (Mixed media)

SALTED

by Nathan Gale BOI Do what I say not what I do. I turn myself into food. Knife is one way. Singe is another. This is my privilege. I turn my hair into wool. Shrouded by this you itch. From that shedding I stir the skin flakes in milk and eat the swelling. You’re the only trick I can do.

GURL

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Lost my virginity to a mouth in the dark. I swallow what I can.

BOI I open a sex in my mouth and choke on the pit. This is how I make my pain come true. Baptize me in salt. You watch me swell in milk. You can eat with your breasts, brown nipples stained white. Her breasts eat milk from my hands with goodly snout.

GURL Beg to be kneaded. I stich a ghost to my body, an extra breast.

The one you can’t touch. The one I suckle grease from like a dark bag. I hear the ghost scream “Eat me, Eat me” but in a whisper.

Thick mouth of lips, bite me in the breast.

I lie on my stomach at night. The ghost is now a stain on the sheets. It’s spreading to the cushions through carpet into the couch. I rub your face in it. What’s mine is yours.

BOI Ghost must be sexed around with before they can be devoured.

Unsexed ghost cause puking of hair from ears and mouth. Eat every pool of hair you puke and ball. Or hair will grow from every skin. I have a hairy glove that breathes. I put myself in it, I take myself out. I rub my face in it, I scream “Bad dog, bad dog.” This is my privilege.

The ceiling grows hair that twists like hands. When we kiss we swap the same ghost mouth to mouth for months. First one to swallow is the first one to die.

BOI I smell sun over pig bodies and hair. When was the last time you cleaned your mouth like you clean your plate. This is a good day to cut the hair that grows in my mouth. Yours is long and white and hangs all the way down to your belly. Tucked into your nightie at night. Pigs can eat just as much hair as fire.

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GURL

GURL Ghost sucks me out of my breasts. Empties me of blood and turns into a glom of meat. The room smells smaller than it is. I slap the ghost against the walls, anoint walls with blood. Keep your house warm. Under the bed licking the floor.

SALTED

BOI Rub you down in stomach acid. You shrink and shrink until you stain the bed sheets. I rub my face in the stain, I feel godly again.

Salt my body until I can’t grow anymore. When I play with

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myself all that comes out is hot breath. I’m afraid of doing wrong.

KEVIN by Andrea Cazares (PaperMate ball-point pen)

LOST IN SPACE by Woodrow White (Oil on canvas)

ANSCHLUSSFLĂœGE

by Imani Hadden

"Just go. It's ok" Our group leader urged.

I led the shuffle of brown and black bodies towards TSA. My waistbands, chest, and crotch violated by white gloved hands in and over my clothing.

Flug nach Los Angeles Abflug in 8 Minuten.

Don't move away she'll think you have something to hide.

White gloved hands go for another round.

Don't seem suspicious, she'll detain you.

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Another round.

I want to go home.

I made the mistake of wincing.

Her hands stopped roving, resting between my legs.

"Hold still"

Another TSA checked the male travelers.

"Next" I couldn't help but walk with a wide gait away only to turn and see similar defilement happen to others of the group.

The Aryan passing student ambassadors looked sheepish.

Yes you witnessed black and brown bodies treated as

the "other". Yes you were spared because you were their

"ideal" white person. Tan white people got defiled too.

Farbdynamik.

I want to go home.

To the country where my I’m mentally defiled almost every day by aversion to my black presence, my black body, my black essence.

Amerikkka.

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UNTITLED by Melody Webster (Nikon D7000)

SELF DISCOVERY by Colin Andersen (Ink)

DOTS

by Riede Faires did you see the daughters leafing on the park? on a high rise?

I saw the daughters Linens, precious dachshund and she looked like a locust in a cinnamon diplomatic trade she saw olive pupils with lapis walls —chopped the grapevine in the hall.

She asked questions like, 45

what kind of tree bears this fruit? and what kind of love--trapped in a zoo?

Did you see the daughters, in the garden above the bakery? chard-greens, wasted away under Egyptian tapestry Did you catch a glimpse? with a foot in the Bergamot, every —step was a trip when the strawberry, plum rots For thy trophy chopstick scream, fingers in the gears of a royal red sea, daughters moved in ones, twos, and threes

Darling, your own meal—and aural trust grew the tea, grew the trade.

Do you see them as you graze?

O’er the azure we built a truss Did you see the daughters?

Have you seen their glory boughs?

The scene became a sheen embroidered with my vision.

I was in a garden asking, screaming ‘now, have you seen the daughters?’

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AVO by Alyssa Montantes

AVO

by Alyssa Montantes KNOCKING ON THE STAINED GLASS DOOR, my grandma’s shadow is small and ominous just before she opens it to let me in. I’m a good foot taller than my grandma is. She pulls open the door and I notice that her hair is not just white or gray, but a blend, no one strand is the same. She calls me by the names of my cousins Vanessa, Sonia, and Sabrina before realizing it’s me, Alyssa, who’s come to visit her.

“Oh, Alyssa!” Her Portuguese accent is thick and her cataracts is persistent, but she puts both of her hands together up to her mouth and gives a little smile. Of the thirty plus grand children and great grand children that are a product of her seven kids, I’m the only one who speaks enough Portuguese, which is not very the first thing she does is turns to put on a pot of coffee.

I can hear my grandma, who I call Avo, singing Palminhas, Palminhas on a home video tape playing somewhere in her little garage-turned-house- she has a total of four television sets. After my grandpa passed away my uncle built an insulated garage in front of his house for her, so this is where I come to visit. The singing on the home videos took place on the other side of town from where we are sitting down to coffee right now. …Bate-palminhas Palminhas e mais Palminhas...

Avo’s singing me the Portuguese version of pat-a-cake, clapping her hands on the screen, and I’m clapping too. The gummy grin of a chubby-cheeked one year old wearing a robin’s egg blue bonnet, bouncing up and down while Avo’s singing away. Her

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much believe me, to come and visit her on my own. Like always,

song trails off, the scene cuts to several shots of her garden, and I can picture her walking through the aisles of lilies and hydrangeas with her hefty video camera on her shoulder, naming each one.

But this is all background music, this is just the soundtrack to me visiting with my Avo today. At least one tv is always playing a home video whenever I come over, they keep her company now that my grandpa isn’t around. In real time she’s sipping at her mug, blowing away the coffee grounds that got through her make shift strainer. “Você gosta da escola?” Do you like school, she asks

AVO

me. I grit through it and swallow the grounds for good luck. She always asks if I’m still writing, I always say Sim. She asks if I like my sogra, mother-in-law, if she’s nice to me, I say Sim. Como esta? is a loaded question between us, but I ask it. My grandma will never lie, never say she is Bom, good, like most 49

people. Within minutes my Avo is crying, and I’m crying not even knowing what she’s saying anymore. All I know is my mom told me last week that my uncle found her outside in the middle of the night looking for pigs. She said she woke up and heard squealing and went to look and see what it was. The doctor says her hearing and her vision are deteriorating, but she thinks the doctor put sounds in her ears. My mom and the rest of her kids all think she’s crazy, but I know she’s just scared.

“No mais a llorando,” my Portuguese and Spanish blend together, telling her no more crying. I get up and grab a photo of my grandpa at her bedside. It’s the one of him in military garb, he’s twenty-one staring confidently out of the black and white photo. I ask my grandma “Quem é este?” Who is this? That puts a smile on her face, and she tells me all about the photograph- that this is my grandfather when he was just twenty-one, he was in the military, and doesn’t he look handsome, and how the first time he looked at her he loved her.

LIGHT

by Cameron Price The illness left her beautiful and useless like a cathedral in the wilderness.

50 pounds lighter, 10 years older, full of all the refracted light that a fragile body can hold: her legs were tree roots without water.

Her changing seasons made no noise: her island stretched forth a weary arm of sun, reaching into darkness.

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The lightness of her bones crumbled like table salt and somewhere between the hills and the sea, her dark river is still flowing.

In secret places she runs through a wood, decay stumbling hopelessly behind her like a ragdoll.

In her mind she swims upstream with the salmon, swallowing the bitter lively water.

She dries her body in the sun before dozing on a green-gray shore, dancing into vivid dreams.

But her shade falls fast and the human fire of her breath sources not from the wood ferns but from a steel machine.

Her ocean dries up and the paths that her mind wanders grow narrower.

A desolate night falls around her body made so delicate

LIGHT

by stillness, so cramped by the tightness of flesh.

Outside her window, streetcars assume extraterrestrial poses against the night and factories give new life 51

to dark skies with silver floodlights.

Somewhere grain will ripen and someone will bake bread.

But here, tonight, a light is fading and night descends upon the wilderness in her head, and the woods go to sleep.

MOTHER & CHILD by Alex Coppola (Oil on canvas)

IT’S A SMALL WORLD by Rachel Acord (Photograph)

A POEM THAT HURTS TO BREATH IN

by Zoë Ozma a poem that hurts to breath in i sit up in the cork tree and smoke a cigarette even though i do not really want a cigarette i ask “are you from here?” “are you full of holes?” i treat this city like a different city i think to be the most summertime i must take a lover my most perfect dress i bought in sweat soak portland, just before the lake these florals have been watered with body i stink in my sneakers to bisect the lake it will take a body i cannot replace the water with the green flesh of my recent i think “to concur” “to coincide” it’s funny, i have attempted to climb into other bodies that is to switch selves that is to fuck and to wear disguises city as in a verb as is “i city” “they city” “together, we city” we i use as adjective as in “this city is we now” as in “my body is soft and we” what i mean is, the lack of traversing before, on bike, foot, the cork tree i try to stop things up, grind comfrey a garment that hurts to breath in the looseness of the dress a glamour as in “slight of hand” as in “touch me where it hurts” as in “come over and try on my clothes” i have kissed for tonic

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homeland

to absorb one must be sensitive to be sensitive one is in need of grey salt and raw oils it is hard to be good to my insides by “my body” i really mean “my sides” A POEM THAT HURTS TO BREATH IN

i really mean “i have become flawed” as in “i have grown into flawed shapes” fit into an upside down bottle, i have broken like a ghost might be broken, like lake water might be broken in july the hills are maybe a silence in division, a sequence, a strand, cellular. i smoke a cigarette in the cork tree to try to visualize the ways in which i am absorbent. i am porous and so must take a lover to plug up the holes

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to make city a palatable action the impressions on the back of my legs, pink but not yet we

6:03 by Allison Chalco (Etching)

BIG BROWN BAGS by Bonny Nahmias (Brown paper bags and glue)

ALICE IN MORDOR by Kyle Prusa (Ink)

REMOTE CONTROL

by Laura Stevick Elizabeth sets her alarm every night for 6:28 AM. Every morning, after she swings her arm across her body to muffle the vibrations, her other arm would start searching for the TV remote, which she clutches as she drifts into sleep—a remote that used to be her dead grandmother’s, a remote that is see through so you can watch the lightshow of surging electricity. She would press that big button right in the middle. The one that turns the TV on. She’s pressed it so many times the blue ink is wearing off. She likes to rub her thumb on its smooth, rubbery surface.

At night, Elizabeth sets her TV set to Channel 21, which ran a 59

local weather report a few times an hour. Elizabeth liked to be prepared. Sometimes she would leave it on while she dressed in case the report changed. What if Elizabeth decided to wear a skirt but it ended up being a windy day? Elizabeth knew she would have a miserable time with her hands glued to her skirt, preserving her dignity. I should mention Elizabeth wasn’t very good at holding her skirt down.

When Elizabeth was sick, she would put on the weather channel to compose herself. She was sick a lot. She felt sick, anyway. No one ever really knew what was wrong, not even the doctors. I could never understand that because she really did seem sick, and she was just a kid when it started.

Elizabeth liked knowing the weather. It calmed her, gave her a leg up in the world. She didn’t often feel like she knew what was

coming her way. If there was some way of knowing, I’m sure she would’ve put her alarm to whatever time it was on TV, on whatever channel. She’d probably leave it on all day.

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NETFLIX by Leah Dubuc (Pen and paper)

CONTRIBUTORS

KIMBERLY GONZALEZ is a 19 year-old student at California College of the Arts who dreams in different shades of pinks. She likes talking in Spanish ‘cause it seems more energetic and fun and romantic. She can be really ditzy and forgetful but makes up for it by paying attention to all the wonderful little parts that people usually don’t notice. Maybe that’s why she puts so much love and detail into her paintings. She says she doesn’t like people but it’s really a facade because in reality they’re all the bright and 63

shining stars that make up her universe.

RIEDE FAIRES (21) is a student at the University of Arkansas. He studies English and Art History. Even more than writing poetry in his downtime, he writes songs for his music projects: Water Walk and Basic Racquet Science. Some of his writing can be seen on his blog, basicracquetscience. He is currently in Fayetteville, AR, but his hometown is Paris, TX. Z. OZMA’s moon is in aries, but don’t let that scare you off. they are working on a bfa in community arts from cca, currently focusing on trans witchcraft, auto-geology, and the auto-séance. their recently completed chapbook 24 hauntings is available if you ask. z. ozma has loved three (3) deserts, but the forest is home. they co-edit The Mommy Issue with Nora Pellegrino. last summer, they performed at Manifest Reading

Series, and in a patch of nasturtiums at The Lake House for the Tender Hearts and Puking Friends tour. you can see (some of) their invocations series in the back of Terror Matrix by Zoe Tuck, available from Timeless, Infinite Light.

GRAHAM HOLOCH is an artist residing at the Claremont Ave, Hudson Street intersection. He can see a dog park out of his window as well as a casual carpool pick up site. He really doesn’t use either because he walks to school and doesn’t own a doggy.

Woof.

ELLIOTT COST, a troubled child who summoned the courage to help a friendly alien escape Earth and return to his home-world.

J B was birthed in the waters of lake minnetonka.

LIA TIN is a freelance illustrator currently working in the Bay Area, native to West Java, Indonesia. She creates colorful and upbeat illustrations and has a great attention to detail. Her main medium is gouache but she also enjoys getting her hands dirty with other mediums. When not illustrating, she enjoys channeling her creativity in hand-lettering and typography as well as cooking accompanied by her dogs. She enjoys working under her own pressure and limitations and believes she produces her best work through that.

MICHELLE LAGASCA was born in San Francisco and is currently an Illustration senior at California College of the Arts. She recently illustrated interiors, spots, and the front/back covers for

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and since can be found elsewhere.

CCA’s official magazine Glance (fall 2013). When not at work or in the studio, Michelle can be found in her backyard tending to her organic garden and chilling with her flock of chickens and dogs.

You can find more of her work (and the occasional blog) online at www.michellelagasca.com!

ALYSSA MONTANTES is 20 years old from the town of Manteca, California. Alyssa is majoring in Writing and Literature at California College of the Arts. She writes both poetry and prose, and is interested in blurring the lines between genres. Alyssa’s main themes deal with the Self, the Other, and whatever else may fall in between.

ALISHA DE SOUZA currently lives in San Francisco and is 65

completing her third year at CCA majoring in Illustration. She was born in Bombay, India and snatches any chance she can to go back and visit her large and crazy family. Like any true Indian, patterns and bright colors are her forte, she can usually be seen doodling all sorts of critters and creepy crawlies. Her dream illustration jobs involve working for the big guys (The New Yorker, Penguin, etc.) painting animals all the live long day.

LAURA STEVICK is a corner-dweller. She has recently become infatuated with book art as a way to calm her hands and her mind.

An advocate for healing through storytelling and ritual, she is currently finishing up her BA in Sexuality Studies at Mills College in Oakland, CA. LUKAZA BRANFMAN-VERISSIMO makes lithographs and etchings, handmade paper, natural dyed environments, projects

about public crying and grapefruit cake. She loves everything desert-related and is currently working on a long term fieldwork project, examining a tiny desert town in Southern California. This will be her second time having work in Humble Pie! TALIA FRANK is entering her final year in the Printmaking program at CCA. She started actively writing poems and stories after an impromptu session with a couple of singer-songwriters in the school cafe. Talia has started reading her work during Open Mic nights at a small gallery near San Francisco’s Ocean Beach; the community there has inspired and delighted her with poetry, songs, raps, and jokes.

CECI MIRAS is a writer from the Bay Area, where you can find her driving in her van taking the long ways home. She likes The Secret Garden and know how to build a fort out of blankets.

Her work is rooted in the idea that everything is connected and nothing goes without a trace.

VANESSA HERNANDEZ believes that mermaids exist and are just weird-looking fishes. She enjoys spending her free time watching cheesy television shows like, “Ghost Adventures” and “Ancient Aliens.” Vanessa has never been on a plane and hopes to ride one in the near future because that would mean she is traveling somewhere new.

MELODY WEBSTER is a 20 year-old student at the Peralta Community College awaiting transfer. She almost attended CCA but unfortunately could not. She works full time and is studying

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persimmons and laughing. She believes everyone should read

psychology while doing photography and journalism on the side.

She lives in a small attic in a large house in Berkeley with her two Siamese kitty cats. She posts her photographs to her blog on Tumblr: melodyrosephotography.

MICHAEL GALLAGHER is a 23 year-old Writing and Literature major at California College of the Arts. His main concentration is poetry and the spoken word. Michael has traveled East Coast to West Coast reading and performing poetry as well as music in his band Beerwine King. He hopes to one day live off of his artistic endeavors so he can quit his pizza job.

NATHAN GALE lives eats sleeps writes breathes in oakland ca.

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ANDREA CAZARES is a young professional artist living in the Bay Area and has devoted her entire life to capturing the intricacies and details of the human form. While also attending California College of the Arts in San Francisco, Cazares enjoys studying Illustration using various mediums including ballpoint pen. The challenges brought to her by using ball-point pen have pushed her to grow and develop as an artist. With the combination of time and patience, and not being able to fix errors, Cazares has mastered drawing what she believes to be the most beautiful faces, capturing the essence of each subject.

WOODROW WHITE is a painting student from Los Angeles in his final semester at CCA. He enjoys the hunt of the thrift store and watching bleak Cold War thrillers. He also loves a good UFO story every now and then.

COLIN ANDERSEN is a self-proclaimed “art wizard,” originally from the Northwest United States. Now in Oakland, Colin enjoys cartoons, tea, comics, sweaters, and metal. Currently, he is practicing his two favorite mystical arts: freelance illustration and comics. If you brew a cup of Earl Grey and play a Motorhead song backwards you will summon Colin from his dimension to your doorstep.

CAMERON PRICE is a senior in Goddard College’s BFA in Writing program. He currently resides in San Jose, CA where he works at a Vietnamese restaurant. Besides being able to make a mean banh mi, he is the design editor of Duende, a national online journal of literature and visual art.

ALLISON CHALCO is a printmaker based in Oakland California.

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BONNY NAHMIAS is a human being fueled by the sun. She was born and raised in Tel Aviv, Israel and spent five years of her life living in Brooklyn, New York. She moved to San Francisco after she found a loving community which she now calls family. She is a Sculpture major, currently exploring her first semester at CCA. In her free time she likes to listen to music and dance or quickly make up songs. She gets nostalgic at times over a past that she never had, and with that her imagination travels through the present and into the future with new ideas and thoughts.

KYLE PRUSA is a 21 year-old Illustration major, currently a junior moving on to senior year. He is interested in not only Illustration and Drawing, but also Writing (both stories and poetry), Photography, and the Dark Arts. He loves his video

games, his cats, and going on magical and fantastic adventures.

From Wonderland to Middle Earth to the bottom of the Sea, all shall know his wonder, splendor, and true majesticality!

LEAH DUBUC is an Oakland-based filmmaker and occasional cartoonist. She is the creator of After Lunch, a series of auto-biographical comics that can be viewed online at >>>afterlunchcomix.com<<<. Print editions are available at

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Needles & Pens in SF.

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