Rewrites 2016

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Rewrites LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE Volume XXXIV, Spring 2016

Rewrites welcomes submissions of poetry, short fiction, artwork, and photography during the fall semester. Please note that only students, staff, faculty, and alumni of Atlantic Cape Community College are eligible for publication in the magazine. Please limit submissions to five per category. Submissions can be uploaded to http://rewrites.submittable. com Rewrites is a non-profit literary magazine published each spring by the students of Atlantic Cape Community College.

The editors and staff are solely responsible for the content and layout of the magazine, and reserve the right to edit any submitted copy. The ideas expressed in Rewrites do not necessarily reflect those of Atlantic Cape Community College.

Please address all inquiries to Rewrites magazine Atlantic Cape Community College 5100 Black Horse Pike Mays Landing, NJ 08330 rewrites@atlantic.edu All rights revert back to the author or artist upon publication.

Reproduction of any material must be authorized by the author or artist.

Magazine Staff Editor B.D. Edwards Managing Editors Fayo Mamme Delaney Alton Assitant Editors Eric Lui Jacob Ryan Sean James SGA Representative Camille Mitchell Staff Meggie Edwards Natacha Maxime Hana Nammour Ivonne Perez Andrew Rogolino Laura Six Faculty Advisor Rich Russell

From the Editor

I want to thank ya’ll for making me better.

I’d like to thank my officers (and Rich) for putting up with me. It was an honor to review the submissions and work with you all.

The highlight of the process was my interview with Joel Dias-Porter [begins on page 47]. That conversation opened my mind even further.

I am proud to present to you other people’s hearts and souls in literary form: Rewrites XXXIV. Have a magical day, Preach love, B.D. Edwards Editor of Rewrites

Table of Contents The Artist Born The Unknown Untitled The Improbability of Life The Bond Untitled The Dance of Salome and John the Baptist Godly Rain Part III. The Ghost The Dunst Not to Be confused with a Coward The Eve of New Year’s Eve The Expressway A Musician’s Ritual As I Drink From Thee I’d Like Some.

The Fire Engine Girl Through Girl Untitled A Long Time Coming: The Breakup

Adventures Sintrade Danica Tollinchi Madison Peteani Hana Nammour Lex Tracy Anita Brickley Delaney Alton Samantha LeRoy

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Hana Nammour Samantha LeRoy Alexander Webber

11 12 14

Samantha LeRoy Caitlin Cassidy Glasser Justin Perez Autumn R. Francis Danielle Monzo Lex Tracy Julianne HiltonMason Natacha Maxime Lex Tracy

15 17

Eric Lui Robert Benner Eric Lui Giovanna Nunez Eric Lui Sabrina Islam

27 28 29 30 30 31

2 3 4 5 8 9 10

18 19 20 22 24 25 26

Table of Contents

Killing Us Softly I Like It When the Screws are Turned on Me Prometheus and the Eagle My Brother’s Keeper Excerpt from ‘Watercolor’ Legend of the Fall Interview with Joel DiasPorter [Table of Malcontents] from “The Norton Anthology of Poorly Behaved Poems” SOLO (IN THE KEY OF NICOLE) A BOW TO SILKS AND HONEY The Van Gogh in You ADAGIO FOR VIOLIN AND VIOLA

Jessica Houston Kyra Huttinger Sabrina Islam Caitlin Cassidy Glasser Jordan Ellis Robert Benner Kyra Huttinger Luiza Zimmer Rebelo Sabrina Islam Sabrina Islam Haley O’Neill Autumn R. Francis John A. Guttschall

32 32 33 34

Dr. Alice Rainey Dr. Alice Rainey Krystal Spencer Joel Ollander B.D. Edwards

40 41 42 44 47

Joel Dias-Porter

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Joel Diaz-Porter

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Joel Diaz-Porter

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Joel Diaz-Porter Joel Diaz-Porter

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34 35 35 36 36 37 37 38 39

Table of Contents The Symbiotic Relationship of Love and Hate With Bell-Ringing Posture Red Swollen Eyes Marty Dream a Dream Childhood Never Ends

Kyle J. Schachner

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John A. Guttschall Maureen Kalman Claude Fortune Joseph R. Baker Eric Conklin

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Editor, Staff, and Contributor Biographies Cover: Sabrina Islam

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The Artist Adventures Sintrade Like a brush to the canvas She draws near and touches me.

I take her full force.

I absorb her and breathe her into my life.

All of my senses know her by name, None of my dreams will be the same.

But her light casts such deep shadows, perceptions are distorted.

While the hues are still tacky, silken and hot against me She steps back and observes.

Questioning, criticizing.

“No, that’s not what I meant at all.”

And I, still wet with colors running, smeared and murky, Get shoved into that thin slot between the table leg and wall.

In time the sun will dry and fade the marks.

The scars are from her caress.

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Born Danica Tollinchi Born into the world of unknown, accepting the path that’s given, Not having a voice, knowledge begins to form, A voice of its own time, may we listen, This lost soul is missing, speaking of the unknown, You live so you must think, you live so you must breathe, You live so you must know!

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The Unknown Madison Peteani In the depth of the darkness and in the dead of winter, there are words...phrases...life...the unknown. To say one is knowledgeable of such an obscure world is arrogant unless the reference coincides with knowledge being absent from the place where those dwell when there is nowhere else to go. In a world where the light overcomes the dark and the spring overpowers the dead of winter, the knowedgeable will always surrender to the ominous unknown.

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Untitled Hana Nammour My emotions are raging and turning into a monster I cannot handle to get in tune with them is what I’ve been trying to do At this point I feel everything around me is shedding and I’m the avocado seed I am a core of an uncontrollable situation called life I feel pressured, attacked, and disrespected To be perfectly honest I can’t say it wasn’t expected To look the world in the eye and feel rejected I stand on top of my mountain without being neglected I need to control this monster before it unleashes its anger and destroys everything I am the hero trying to save the world but everyone shows fears My problem is my comfort with the tears My pain anguishes all hopes of a happy ending, I just wanna get there An explosion in my head goes off and my vision is blurry I don’t know where I am or where to go I look around and as I stand there all by my self the most improbable ending is what comes next, I am the villain.

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The Improbability of Life Lex Tracy There’s a place deep inside of me that yearns for something more So here I lie sitting, waiting for someone to open a door The directions I could take are infinite but often unclear I’m travelling without a map – and getting lost I fear In fact I never really know if I’m going the right way And although it is said that, “not all who wonder are lost,” I often wonder what is the cost?

Whatever the amount I’d pay that fee If I knew it could solidify the most me of my mess Isn’t that what we all want?

To be our best selves?

Well I try that every day – and I can tell it’s not going well I feel as though there is something amiss A piece of the puzzle that I simply can’t list It’s almost like when everyone was handled their puzzle life game Theirs all neat, tidy and new – mine was old and worn already and missing a few

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I suppose it is fitting as often people would say, “You have such an old soul.”

And with my old soul and my old box of pieces I navigate this world haphazardly, until this deep down desire ceases I fear I may never find my place, That I’ll be forced forever to wander through life and then time and space Does my life have meaning that I don’t even know?

Are people affected but they just don’t show?

How many lives could I have possibly changed?

I want to feel of use, needed, loved and more Sometimes I wish I could just find a cure My desire is so uncertain – so drastically unclear, why do I have a need to simply be here?

I feel my purpose is to help people through For them to discover their youest of yous But for those things to happen My puzzle should click And I can feel time move so ever forward. Tick.

I should know all the pieces or at least have them in place 6

But time marches on, proving me a disgrace I feel so often lost in this foreign land It’s so hard to find those with a helping hand But when you meet those people like you – with a gentle soul They show you other worlds that you would never even know And those are the people I relish in so I get lost in them and the worlds they show I’ve walked through dark valleys where demons have lurked I’ve witnessed the wondrous beauty of earth I’ve walked through forests during a cold winter snow I’ve seen places in those where I never thought I’d go And much like this poem, which could go on Well make that choice whether or not to continue on And while I could keep going for another couple more I think it may be time to close these pages – and open my own door.

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The Bond Anita Brickley The love of a mother Etched onto your skin Spilling out devotion, Your hearts abode Constantly present With slight appearances In your demeanor.

Forever graced With the loving bond Showcased in proximity To your beating heart.

The bond you share Can never fully fade Unlike the gradient That stains your skin...

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Untitled Delaney Alton This delicate machine, this artful beast, her splendid mouth conceals her specialty.

When shadows grow she gently flies to feast, the prize she seeks; our sweet vitality.

Her needle carefully does pierce her prey, her point too fine to cause them any pain.

She knows just how to quickly fly away, and leaves no trace, a sore her only stain.

Not for herself she boldly goes to steal from giants’ life, and much too soon her spot is shown, a crushing smack her fate does seal.

Her nurturing and caring, all for naught.

Beside her lying wretched on the floor, Her gathered blood, her eggs, her hopes, no more.

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The Dance of Salome and John the Baptist Samantha LeRoy With hands made of shrapnel, I seal the door shut, Hide under the bed.

Gunpowder perfume and gasoline showers, When I was 13 I forced my way out.

I crawled back in, Driven by the sound of Cicadas dying.

They’re last will and testament sounding Too much like Salome.

Am I Saint John?

Summer is over, The hush of fall falls down Like the last veil.

I am Salome, You are Saint John.

Head sitting heavy on a silver platter.

My body is jeweled, The veils, The color of violets, Flow, swirl, part.

I reveal myself to the king, Gold melting down his face Like saturated sacrilege.

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Godly Rain Hana Nammour They say when It rains it pours At this point I don’t know the difference between mine and yours When bad things happen everything’s multiplies I keep saying bad is good but in disguise Little do I know I just lied The option of pushing to side is no longer available My ability to overcome obstacles is no longer obtainable The feeling of being crippled is a feeling wished upon no one As I look the devil in the eyes, do I run ?

After every storm comes a rainbow, well I just want to see the sun This battering of the mind is no longer fun As I enable the cable that fuses my will Before I feel the spark i suddenly feel ill As I climb the mountain with hope to reach the top I stand still It’s raining again, my arms are slipping off the rocks I fall, but someone catches me, it’s the son 11

Part III. The Ghost Samantha LeRoy He lives in shades of blue.

Blue lips, Blue fingertips.

He is a white sheet.

Pale waves rippling like wind on the water.

Laughing turns to Gasping turns to Gagging turns to Mourning over a skeleton Hidden in the wood.

His hands are cold.

Cold like a ghost.

Winter is a hush Caressing his skin to life.

He is glitter, Only shining in the right light.

His smile is a shard of mirror.

His laugh, The sound of windchimes. He is a chill Running up and down your spin.

He is a wisp of smoke, Translucent and afraid.

He is soft.

He is quiet.

Barely there at all.

He is sorrow curling around rib bones Like morning glory vines.

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The bed is empty.

So is the grave.

Pity the dead who feel no rest.

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The Dunst Not to Be confused with a Coward Alexander Webber You’re a callous on the foot of progress to which misery renders the advancement of all functions. An imbecile reckoning with a demi-god rationalizing against one’s mortality. To be fair, your determination is admirable to and is the only commendable trait you possess.

Perplexing at most is that you do not recognize omnipotent ability to collectively fail everything you attempt. What I am trying to convey is that above all is don’t undermine the fact, no matter what you attempt, its outcome will have equally had the same influence as a drop of rain to ever-growing raging fire. I am not ridiculing you to be mean or simply to satisfy my ego. I am just trying to keep you up to par with reality. To be frank if I may, why the fuck do you even try you goddamn idiot! There’s no fucking point.

He smiled at me and replied whimsically, “I may be inadequate but at least I’m no coward.” He paused as he turned his back toward me to confront his end and shouted “sedit qui timuit ne non succederet!”

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The Eve of New Year’s Eve Samantha LeRoy i.

How old were you when you first discovered your heartbeat?

When you opened your rib cage to reveal the carnage? How old were you when the vultures circled the roadkill of your wrists? When the sun kissed fire into your eyes? When you shriveled up and died? ii.

The epidemic got to me before you did. I peeled every layer of skin back for the mirror. There are rubies underneath, sealed into the flesh. Did you notice this when you took the meat cleaver to my skull? iii.

When you said ‘never’ I assumed you meant in a week.

Instead it happened in a day. A flash of lightning. A carton of blueberries. Eating dark chocolate on your back porch.

You never told me you liked them bitter. you spat out the sweetness of my skin and your saliva burned a hole in the pavement. summer was always my least favorite time of year. now i can’t even stomach winter. iv.

I forgot how to weave metaphors into tapestries to hang in museums. you have that power over me. the only beautiful thing about you is your frame. I carved it into the statue of David before you could say no. you hate the vain. that’s why you hate me. I never tire of looking at what you’ve made of me. I never tire of painting myself into depictions of the Birth of Venus. You only ever called me Venus between the sheets. v.

If you saw me on the street, would you remember me? would you remember the fly trap curls luring you in? a weak man and a pink skinned temptress playing doctor on the 15

bedroom floor. Would you remember the gray cotton panties you ignored? The blue bra you threw out the window? Would you remember the thicket of hair? The violins singing harmonies in the background?

Would you? Would you? Would you?

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The Expressway Caitlin Cassidy Glasser I have always heard the Expressway roaring from my house, maybe that’s why the silence of a snowy mountain strikes a chord with me. Don’t get me wrong, the experience of nostalgia is mysteriously satisfying, but why with the most unnoticeable details of our childhood? Why do our brains hide the knowledge we strive for but show the memories with no relativity? Is it that our own subconscious mind wants us to create metaphoric connections, to rely on self-found poetry because there’s no such thing as full understanding? We force ourselves to create nerve pathways with no guide, thinking we are the center of blurring, orbital creativity, when in truth all our pathways are connected metaphorically. That’s why nothing can be everything, because two individuals, all with different perspectives and qualities, are two opposite similarities. That noisy mountain is a silent highway.

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A Musician’s Ritual Justin Perez The Door closes behind him, the world shut Outside. This is his ritual alone, his meditation. The instrument calls his name; the strings beckon their master. He picks up his tool, this catalyst for his emotions. A flick of a switch, and in the chaos that ensues, he finds his peace; In the mayhem, his solace. Raw feelings given life through this medium. After being silent, he would now have his say, and those exposed would now be forced to listen. Now the door closes behind him, and with a breath of contentment, he steps out, knowing that he would soon return.

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As I Drink From Thee Autumn R. Francis I must say, you are quite alluring.

In night, in day, you never seem boring.

Your touch so cold, yet I kiss your lips.

For on you I am sold, so I take more sips.

You intoxicate me, as I take you till senseless.

Poison you are, a costly fee, leaving me with the consequences.

But I continue to sip from thee, until the bottle is all empty.

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I’d Like Some.

Danielle Monzo He steps into the corner of my eye.

I smell it before I see it, hidden from sight in his hand.

It fills my chest and I let the faint, foreign perfume infuse my lungs The skipping wind of the phlox-covered cliff blows my hair around my face.

It has been about a week since the nostalgic mint has touched my tongue, but I’m not counting…

I am all but executing the frame unreeling in my head where I smile and hold his gaze.

Where I coyly ask him with an earnest nod from my desperate eyes following his fingers to his face for just a little, I’d like some.

And he, charmed by my embarrassment gives me what I taste for.

The empty crook between my fingers filled and comforted.

Eyes succumb to rest, my chest is caressed with his thick beautiful air, and sun-warmed breeze finds my nostrils.

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When I lift my ennui lashes, my smoky daydream has dissipated and I have caught myself, like dreamers do when they realize, bodies slammed back into feathered ground, taken by their own trances, surprised and hoping it might have all been real.

And he touches his fingers to his lips once more and looks beyond the earth’s backdrop.

He walks away, behind the stone curtain.

I am alive, still mouth open and ready caught in between if only’s and one minute’s.

The familiar wind guides, its gentle hold of my chin.

Straightens my head, clears my mind.

Takes our last puff of expelled breath away and over the cliff.

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The Fire Engine Girl Lex Tracy She entered the room loudly. The door slammed as she leapt inside. She shook herself off like a dog shakes off snow – oblivious to those around. The professor was unamused as this girl hung up her large snow-covered jacket, smiled sheepishly and pulled out her textbook to cover her peach colored cheeks. I wondered if she was embarrassed or if the color on her cheeks were all attributed to the freezing temperature outside. I figured a bit of both.

It was hard to focus on the lecture as I watched her shed her remaining layers. She pulled off her gloves and set them aside on her desk. She settled her ear muffs around her neck, and loosened her scarf from the tight knot it was in. Her hair had bits of snow still left that had not quite melted into glistening water drops. It reminded me of rain trying to douse a large fire. Her hair was pompous with curly ringlets, it seemed to overtake her small face the more I glanced over her. I was afraid that her hair might just swallow her face, like the fire it resembled but it hasn’t.

Her sweater was a dark purple, which contrasted nicely with her ivory skin and fire-like locks. It was a deep V-neck that showed some cleavage and glossed over her curves nicely but not overtly. She wore dark blue jeans, that appeared skinny-ish but was hard to tell since her knee high boots covered a large portion of her legs. The boots seemed substantial enough to walk through snow but still fashionable with buckles and fancy looking stitching and a slight heel.

Her mannerisms struck me the most; she had a sort of nervous energy that always seemed right under the surface. It was like she was ready to burst. She always was moving or twitching. She bobbed her head or twirled her hair or twiddled with her pen in between her fingers or 22

taped her foot or crossed and uncrossed her legs. There was always something.

I watched her like that for the remainder of class – she caught me staring a few times, enough for me to be embarrassed. She never looked upset about it though. The first time she smiled. The second time she laughed a little and smiled, the third – and this was when I knew I had to know her – she made a silly face, stuck out her tongue like a child and winked. There was something special about this girl – I had to learn her secrets.

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Through Girl Julianne Hilton-Mason You leave a bad taste in my mouth like week old red wine I forgot to finish because I was too busy crying When all I want to be is loved but that’s somehow never up to me I was called a “through girl” the other day You know, a girl that gets a boy “through” a hard time The girl that’s funny and smiles proudly but is dying inside because no one ever chooses her. I was told that’s who I am That’s why I’m never fully loved Here comes a boy who tells me that isn’t true Am I supposed to believe him or believe the one you got “through” everything I chose to believe him And I chose to pour you down the sink like that red wine I forgot to finish One day I’ll find my “through” boy Except well get “through” it together And we’ll finish that red wine while laughing Because I am worth more than that bull shit And so are you

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Untitled Natacha Maxime Thank baby Jesus Finally – black emojis It is about time.

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A Long Time Coming: The Break Up Lex Tracy Empty promises fill my glass They taste like soured milk and old coffee Cutting silence is harder than cutting bread We stare off looking at each other but past each other somehow The cat meows for something to eat He lays her dish down, making sure not to spill.

Funny, how he’s careful with her dish but not careful with me.

We haven’t talked since that night.

Really, he should be gone. Or I should be.

I always figured if we broke up I’d get the house And now all I can think is, “Thank god we don’t have any kids.”

I sip my coffee.

I’m not even upset at the very probable end of our relationship I’m indifferent and cold.

Much like my coffee.

Much like the perfectly cold, unspoiled milk my cat is drinking.

Much like our relationship.

“It’s over.”

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Eric Lui

Eric Lui 27

Robert Benner 28

Eric Lui 29

Giovanna Nunez

Eric Lui

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Sabrina Islam

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Jessica Houston

Kyra Huttinger 32

Sabrina Islam

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Caitlin Cassidy Glasser

Jordan Ellis 34

Robert Benner

Kyra Huttinger 35

Luiza Zimmer Rebelo

Sabrina Islam 36

Sabrina Islam

Haley O’Neill 37

Killing Us Softly Autumn R. Francis The clouds cry acid, as putrescent poisonous vapors, infiltrate once blue skies.

The skies screech and beg, for a break, from the persistent pulverization, of deathly fumes of intoxication.

Making the winds exude sorrow, as they silently poison, our children, our families, our very own bodies.

Yet, we applaud these concrete structures of destruction, for the fumes they exude, runs our world.

And though they do, they will be the very thing, that one day, runs our world, into nothing; but obsoletion.

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I Like it when the Screws are Turned on Me John A. Guttschall Something about a pharmacy parking lot sunset reminds you of Montana or Reno but you can’t remember with your journal tucked away in the ether of a Subaru, or milk crate, or your ex’s step dad’s trailer You have this unrelenting desire to fall apart

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Prometheus and the Eagle Dr. Alice Rainey Darkness was a gift.

Eagles sleep in the night.

I could barely lift My eyes to moon light.

Stabbing pain, muscles cry Wounds again connect Dawn glares eye to eye – Its eternal prospect.

Light given in hope Survival power freed.

Endless range of scope Begins its search for need.

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My Brother’s Keeper Dr. Alice Rainey When I got home, dad broke off a hazel nut switch, flexible and painful, and told me Slick said he saw me break the gate and what did I have to say?

You know I hate liars and thieves, he said, but I didn’t say anything; he had made up his mind.

And though later my brother will say he is glad it was me and not him, I thought of Prometheus and the Eagle, the myth about fire and love our teacher had read to us the day it snowed and nearly no one had come to school.

So I just stood there and he beat the backs of my legs with the switch which was so thin it left welts, some of them bleeding so that after dinner, when he took me to the custard stand to get me a cone, I sat in the car as the red sores stung against the vinyl seat.

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Excerpt from ‘Watercolor’ Krystal Spencer By the time Laurel awoke, she found herself in some sort of a wooden shack. Light filtered in through the curtained window and through cracks in the walls. Her bed was a flimsy cot, and the blanket she snuggled under was hand woven and half-ragged. The dirt floor was dusty and worn flat, but the air was clean. Waking refreshed and rested, she hopped out of bed and surveyed her surroundings. The walls were covered with feathers and pelts, and to the side near a window, was a thin wooden structure bearing a flat board. All the more curious, Laurel approached it, but was intercepted by Cerras, who was checking on her to see if she was alright. Laurel assured her that she was okay, nothing hurt and she was rested, and then inquired about the board on the stand. Cerras, being an intangible ghost, hovered towards the board to see for herself, before motioning Laurel forward.

The board itself was a fine, grainy texture, as accentuated by the roughness of the lines drawn on it. But it was what was drawn on the board that interested the two. It was clearly Laurel, sleeping peacefully in the cot, and her four ghost friends surrounding her, either watching over her or resting themselves. “So that’s what he was doing,” Cerras muttered, and hummed in what sounded like approval. He was a decent artist, at the very least.

As Laurel stared in wonder at the drawing, a sound caught her attention. She heard a soft rumbling outside, but it was airy and seemed to grumble in a muffled and hushed tongue. She did not recognize this sound, and it drew her away from the drawing and towards the thin, rickety door.

She nudged it open, and it swung away from her touch with a slight squeak in defiance. What then shone before her was a sight she could not comprehend.

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There was water everywhere, as far towards the end of the sky as she could see, the light from above bouncing off the cranky ripples and nearly blinding her at times. And the sky, it drew her eyes in every direction; how vast and clear it was, there seemed to be no end to it. Whilst in awe, Laurel stepped forward, and quickly drew back in surprise at the sensation below her bare feet. Like crumbs on the floor of the local tavern, but something about it felt cleaner, and less stale. She nudged at it with her toes, before Cerras encouraged her to step out again. It wouldn’t hurt her, she said.

So Laurel stepped further out of the shack, her feet leaving prints in the soft ground beneath her. As she looked out and around where she stood, the water reached towards her, before pulling back in retreat when it could not touch her, over and over again, as if desperate. She watched as it slid and reached, the ground opposite it sparkling brilliantly. It was almost a complete white, but as Laurel looked closer, gathering some of it in her hands, she could see vague patches of the lightest color she could never have imagined.

What was this place?

“Home. At least, for now.”

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Legend of the Fall Joel Ollander The spiritual leader of Suburban Temple, a Reform Jewish Congregation in Beachwood, Ohio, was a man of deep religious conviction and strong moral character.

Although physically diminutive – about five feet, two inches tall – Rabbi Myron Silverman was a towering leader in the Ohio faith community.

I was therefore greatly honored to be invited by Dr. Silverman to present a special guest sermon at the synagogue’s Friday Night Sabbath Service in winter 1966.

I had recently been appointed director of the Cleveland office of a highly respected national human rights organization. Many of my volunteer leaders worshipped at Suburban Temple and would therefore have an opportunity to judge my oratory abilities at the service.

Naturally, I wanted to make a terrific speech, and to gain a good ‘first impression.’

The event being celebrated by the congregation was the eighteenth anniversary of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The document was adopted in December 1948, in those exhilarating and hopeful days immediately after WWII. Could the rights Americans enjoy take root now in other nations, and become the universally accepted way to treat all humankind? That concept and that hope were the foundations of my message to the group.

The Holy Torah Scrolls sit in an enclosed compartment at the front of the temple. The area before the Ark of the Covenant is called the bema. It is from the bema that the rabbi leads the congregation; and it is where he, other participants, and an occasional guest sit during the service.

Dr. Silverman and I chatted amiably in the temple that December evening. Just before the program was to begin, Myron cautioned me, “Joel, when you approach the lectern, please remember to step up carefully on to the small platform behind it. I need those extra eighteen inches to 44

look tall and strong for my worshipers,” Silverman chuckled.

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied, thinking of the adjustment the rabbi had to make to compensate for being ‘vertically challenged.’

And then the moment came.

I walked slowly to the lectern at center stage, speech notes in my hand; carefully mounted the platform the rabbi had warned me about; and began my sermon.

Most speeches end with some acknowledgement of the event or compliment to the audience: ‘I was delighted to join you today; thank you for being an exceptionally attentive audience; I hope you found my message inspirational,’ etc. I decided against such an ordinary conclusion.

Instead – in keeping with the subject of the sermon - I reached for the universal drama as expressed for the ages

by Shylock in the Merchant of Venice, and in a staccato-like rhythm, forcefully exploded my final words:“If you prick us, do we not bleed; if you tickle us, do we not laugh; if you poison us, do we not die?”

And it worked! There was a silence and a palpable rush of breath in the audience.

Success…the sermon was a hit! The entire congregation was caught up in the emotional and highly dramatic message. I stood facing them for ten seconds, allowing those silent moments to emphasize, underscore, and give additional weight to Shakespeare’s words.

I then turned, smiled at the rabbi, and started to return to my seat…forgetting completely that I was standing on a raised platform. Suddenly I found myself flying off in space, speech notes littering the air everywhere, as I crash-landed on the hardwood floor.

In the midst of my grand oratorical triumph, I now lay prostrate on the stage!

Neither the astonished rabbi nor the entire congregation knew how to react. On the one hand, they had just heard a very serious and moving message; on the other hand, they had just seen a grown man fall flat on his face directly in front of them. Do they express concern for 45

his condition, or do they laugh at the improbable scene just witnessed?

I endeavored to help them decide.

While lying on my left side on the floor, I raised my right hand and called out in a voice loud and clear, “And if they trip us, do we not fall?�

Everyone stood, laughed, and applauded for quite a while.

Epilogue: Somehow I was never invited to speak at Suburban Temple again.

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Featured Poet: Joel Dias-Porter Joel Dias-Porter is a poet who now lives in Atlantic City. His work has appeared in Poetry magazine, Time magazine, The Washington Post, and Best American Poetry 2014.

He gave two readings at Atlantic Cape Community College during the 2015-2016 academic year.

Rewrites editor B.D. Edwards spoke to Dias-Porter at the Atlantic City Starbucks in January 2016. The following pages contain part of their conversation.

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EDWARDS: How do you begin a poem?

DIAS-PORTER: Well, in terms of writing a poem, there’s no particular way.

My line is, I take them any kind of way that I can get them.

Sometimes poems are conceptual. I have two poems that I am working on right now that I’ll probably finish working on after we finish. One of these poems is conceptually naked.

I’m like, ooh this is cool, let me try this. I had an idea, so I’m playing around with a few ideas. Then the language comes out to kind of match that concept. I have a fair amount of poems that are conceptual. I also have poems that come out of emotional experiences. Normally the things that trouble you or bother you or don’t work out the way you want them to, so you write whatever you need to write about. It is in those situations you are writing as a function of your mental health to process something or work through it. A lot of times that’s how poems start out. Then the third way for me is when a poem comes of language. There will be a piece of language that I’m enthralled with. And these things can mix.

They’re not mutually exclusive but sometimes I’ll just hear something and it’ll catch my ear and I’ll play around with it. Then often times for me playing around or experimenting with language I’ll look up and I’ll have a quarter or a half or sometimes even a whole poem. Then the other way is through exercises. I’ll give myself exercises on a type of writing, creative writing, imagery. I’ve seen hundreds of writing exercises so sometimes I give them to myself. That’s usually when I’m not doing a lot of writing. A big thing for me the last couple of years, especially with the exercises, is that getting back to having fun with writing. When I do the exercises it’s not, oh let me copy how to write a good poem. It’s like, let me mess around and have some good fun. It’s like playing a game I enjoy that. So I have kinda gotten away from that, you know, just messing around and having good fun. Not 48

putting any pressure on myself to produce something, just to do the exercise. One of those four ways.Sometimes they mix and match. Sometimes I’ll come across a scrap of language and that piece of language sits in me because it relates to an experience that I had. Then that language can be a portal to getting into the experience. Or giving me a mold to pour the experience into. Sometimes it happens with an exercise. When I was a writing instructor, and I saw this a lot, you give kids an exercise based on whatever and then somewhere in there, they start writing about something that’s real and emotional for them. That exercise becomes a vehicle for them to express themselves. Whereas without that, they would not have been able to. Often times those poems are very good because the exercise allows you to control the emotion in a way that benefits the poem aesthetically but you’re not in control of it. So you get the rawness but it’s still an exercise that provides you with some kind of control. More importantly, it directs you from getting sidetracked. When you write poems that are very emotional or very traumatic, it is real easy to get caught up.

Then it is hard to see the poem as an aesthetic object. Political poems and love poems are often very bad poems. They are bad for the same reason, because they are so convinced of the truth of what they are writing that they don’t allow any questioning or any metaphor. It is also difficult for a poem to succeed as an aesthetic object if it begins in the middle and the end is always in the same place. There’s no journey, there’s no heart. So very often when you see the bad love poem and bad political poem, that once you get three lines into the poem, you know pretty much everything the poem is ever going to tell you. That’s one of the reasons why those poems can be bad. It’s the earnestness is what causes that and so a lot of times when you’re doing an exercise the dictates of the exercise will allow you to pass the earnestness of the emotion. But usually it could be any four ways. I’m not a process person in general so I don’t think that process is a very important thing. Sometimes people ask me, “Well what is your writing process?” And my answer is, “Whatever the fuck gets the poem done.” I don’t have routine, or anything like that. I have certain preferences, like I prefer to write in a place 49

where it’s quieter as opposed to a place that’s real busy. But if I have an idea, then it doesn’t matter. As long as there’s not screaming infants or people engaged in violence, I’m good. I prefer for the music not to be really loud, because as a former DJ, a person who loves music, it’s hard for me to not be influenced by that. Sometimes I can’t turn my ear off.

Aside from that, a place that’s comfortable: that’s it. I mostly write late at night. Sometimes I write anytime of day, but my preference is at twelve to three in the morning.

EDWARDS: How do you get into a poem?

DIAS-PORTER: It depends on if I am coming into the poem from a conceptual way or a scrap of language way, or an exercise, then how you get into the poem is dictated by one of those. When you’re coming from a raw experience and you don’t have those three things, the hardest thing is getting into the poem. Like finding those three first lines. Sometimes it’s the title or frame; very often it’s the frame. If you’re lucky enough, sometimes you get the title first. For me poems kind of happen in one of two ways. Either I have a blank language and I’m in search of an experience or emotion. Or I have emotion and experience and I’m searching for language. So when I have the language, getting into it is easier. When I don’t, I just have to write through it until you hit something, and then from there, you’re good. I learned that all lines in a poem are not equal. The title is way more important than any line, except the last line.

EDWARDS: Why the title?

DIAS-PORTER: 50

The title is the first thing that the person sees. It establishes everything. It’s like you never get a second chance to make a first impression. I’m not saying that titles always do that work, but they always have the opportunity to work. So even in the times that they don’t, something is missed. My title has the opportunity to be a friend, and so that affects everything that comes after it. That’s very powerful, there’s no other piece of language that can affect everything else that comes after it.

EDWARDS: And the last line?

DIAS-PORTER: The last line can affect everything that came before it. It’s the last thing that we take away from the poem, so that’s the single most important line. You can write a last line, and it changes everything. For example, the poet Jack Gilbert wrote “Alone.” In this case, the title is the frame. But the interesting thing about it is, you start off with “alone.”

You have this idea of a solidarity object. Then he goes, “I never thought Michiko would come back after she died.” We understand that this person has died and we understand that death is permanent. He is saying that as he’s speaking immediately to the permanence of death. “I never thought she would come back after she died.” So “Alone” has a frame that is a established. This guy is grieving; he lost this thing that can never come back. But she did, so immediately he starts working back into the idea of the permanence of death. I knew it would be as a lady in a long white dress.

That gives us a particular image, like more of a ghost if anything. He could be talking about reincarnating something, but he’s still alone. Now the depths of his emotions are kind of revealed in the sense that we understand some of his grieving. “It is strange that she has returned.” So now whoa, you set up two things. He’s alone and death is permanent, but now she’s back. Now it is working against the 51

frame. It established the frame but now she has returned.

So maybe it wasn’t permanent and maybe he’s not alone.

Then he goes, “as somebody’s Dalmatian.” That’s one of the most awesome line breaks in this poem. In a million years if you read these first four lines to somebody and you ask them what’s gonna be in the fifth line, no fucking body’s gonna have a Dalmatian. This is an amazing turn of phrase.

It jerks the whole poem to the left. There’s an awesome element of surprise in the poem. Then he goes, “ I meet the man walking her on a leash.” So now where are we at with alone? Now she has come back as a Dalmatian and he has met the man. Then he says, “almost every week.” So this is a regular thing. “He says good morning and I stoop down to calm her.” So she has returned, so he’s not alone. So then it goes, “He said once that she was never like that with other people.” So now he’s attempting to establish the realness of their connection. So this really is Michiko reincarnated as a dog? “Sometimes she is tethered on their lawn when I go by.

If nobody is around, I sit on the grass.” Now that’s an interesting thing, because it’s a kind of admittance that what he’s doing is a little strange or a little odd. But the important thing is that nobody else is around. Then the two of them are together but they are alone together. So that’s a different kind of alone. So then he goes, “When she finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap and we watch each other’s eyes.”

One of the things I guess he knows intuitively, that most people know, is that in research when two people fall in love or when they have a very intimate relationship, one of the things that they do is that they don’t do with other people but each other is that they sit and look into each other’s eyes for long periods of time. That’s not a thing people normally do, and if you force two people to do that, to sit down and look into each other’s eyes for a long period of time without speaking, they will form a bond. They will form an intimate bond whether they want to or not. When they look into each other’s eyes, he’s essentially stating that they have a very strong bond. This is exactly the kind of relationship that lovers have. That is such a powerful line. He says, “I whisper in her soft ears.” She doesn’t care about the mystery 52

of how she came back. She just wants to be with him. The main point is that he’s not alone. At this point he completely contradicted the title. He says, “She likes it best when I touch her head and tell her small things about my days.”

Once again, another thing that couples do that’s very intimate. “That makes her happy the way it always did.” At this point you realize that this is a man sitting on a lawn holding a dog, his neighbor’s dog. So let me ask you this: how alone do you have to be if you have that kind of relationship? Now we’re back at the title. It goes one way but then completely goes against it. By going against it, it completely establishes the fact that he is very alone. He’s desperately alone. But all of that is set up. If you called the poem “Dalmatian” it does not have the same effect. In this particular case, the poet just got lucky. “Alone” is a very ordinary word. But it turned out to be the perfect frame for his poem. This is a powerful example of how a title will frame a poem and affect everything that comes afterward. It ends in the same place where it started. I have written poems before where it was pretty much all about the title.

EDWARDS: Do you go to anybody to review your poetry?

DIAS-PORTER: Yes, I do. You have to have readers. For twenty-nine years, I lived in Washington, DC, and I was part of a writing community. A lot of the people I have befriended have gone off and become famous writers. For years we would go to little restaurant and critique each other’s work. But I can’t do that with some people because they’re famous now. You have to constantly find people. There was a collective that I was a part of called The Black Rooster. Gary Lilley, Vanessa Mercer Brandon D. Johnson, and myself. Every Monday we would meet and have a workshop. We did that for two years. A lot of times if I need an eye on a poem, I know I can go to one of them. We have a secret Facebook group set up, where any 53

one of us can post a poem and the other people can come and go and comment. Wherever I’m at, I try and find people who can help.

54

[Table of Malcontents] from “The Norton Anthology of Poorly Behaved Poems” Joel Dias-Porter Poem in which the Speaker runs (like a pair of panty hose) from everything, but the idea of escape.

Poem in which the Sub isn’t marined as a mail receptacle for seamen.

Poem in which I am too clever, buy Half & Half.

Poem with a bloody boxing ring in its right Nostril.

Poem in which one is condemned to hell for masticating with both hands.

Poem in which a foreign tongue conjugates a verb and all vowels vibrate.

Poem which strikes like a bowler on a picket line with haberdashed signs.

Poem in which the Green vehicle is a metaphor for an Irish whiskey tenor.

Poem in which a smile is a simile missing like Lisa, its left eye.

Poem in which Larry Levis is still alive (but digressing rapidly . . .)

Poem in which my Imaginary Friend has me blocked on Facebook,Twitter and Tinder.

Poem in which the Speaker is busted by cops for making treble outside a Basement bar.

Poem in which I have extreme sects with three different beliefs I’ve just come across.

55

SOLO (IN THE KEY OF NICOLE) Joel Dias-Porter She’s Miss Sweet Potato Brown a steamy cocoa statuette with caramel-colored eyes & mini mahogany hands And with pepper tongue twirling she sets whole rooms whirling her black tresses swirling so devilishly dervish and needlessly nervous though wordlessly wordlessly weird.

After kissing her I stumble into drugstores and desperately undress all the chocolate bars.

Though she refuses all flowers and will not hold my hand she naps with me as a knitted sweater cradling her in the cold.

But it’s not until morning cups of raspberry tea, that I eye in the corners of her smile that though she cuts the deck in quarters and deals to every chair the face up cards still find her fortune solitaire.

56

A BOW TO SILKS AND HONEY Joel Dias-Porter This is not a Red Wheelbarrow, not a rose by any other name, has never gone gently into any good thing.

This does not pretend to be Art, has never linked a letter, bets he can’t Reverse dunk or play the dozens.

This was cast in Benin bronze, and carved from mahogany’s grain.

This was born by the river, in a little shack, and just like the river, this knows running.

This is the son of a hoodoo hollering bebop ghost and has made banked fires blaze.

This was raised on fried guitar licks, and greasy sax riffs, seasoned with harmonica wails.

This never learned to swim, Couldn’t comprehend the rhythm of the stroke.

This is indigo outcome, a Bronzeville dream, Cocoa swirling round a marshmallow scream.

57

The Van Gogh in You Joel Dias-Porter steeps in starlight, fills with sparkled water free as a hand on canvas.

It bathes in dopamine until dawn.

A portrait wakes from its whispers, sits like sunflowers in the corner.

Invisible by day and radiant by night, its flame irises in every vase.

It scurries from the rough of young men’s mouths as the smote of opinion, a cloud of ash above a jagged cone.

When you hold your ear to its heart, there is no note of any unstarred night.

And yet it crows darkly, the freehand oracle of a traced song.

But this bandaged tune is impasto in its epistemology.

Both the ear and I gorge on frequencies while the fingers linger on whatever key depresses.

The lungs spill with moonlight.

The canvas recounts sheaves of wheat as a currant Coda.

Thunderheads haunt every horizon.

Doesn’t the stiff breeze of mania seize the sea like a watercolored deck of tarot cards?

Capsized then raffled, you lie still as a lily on an easel as the brush of silence renders every stipple real.

58

ADAGIO FOR VIOLIN AND VIOLA Joel Dias-Porter Under a duvet of darkness, ears piqued in silence, I speak, call you over.

Who could predict this command, a fingertip with the power to part lips?

Underneath, a school of tactile undertow that pulls or draws by softest sixteenths arterial eddies and swirls, candlelit flickers glancing a cheek, shimmerings that shape the banks of a river.

This isn’t tidal notation.

This is the trouble clef where everyone hears what they desire.

Always it is the same.

Purity in the longing, almost a tonic.

Yes and Yes in shivering breath, climbing the scales of the dark.

You are free to sigh.

I cannot of course read music.

Only the yearning curled like lashes around your eyes.

59

Listen.

A whisper’s siblingsvibrate into quick twitches and tightenings, condensing in saline beads, swirling sibilance in an unbounded bed.

I restrict your arms.

The stream spills its banks, pools itself, gleams abdomens and tangles legs beneath a blanket of heavy breath, whose tender weft reflects each wave.

60

The Symbiotic Relationship of Love and Hate Kyle J. Schachner “You don’t care,” she said.

“Yes I do,” Adam replied.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Whatever.”

“You stormed in here without even kissing me hello,” he said before she could respond.

“So?” she said with disgust in her voice.

“So, who are you to say that I don’t care?”

Silence was her response. And boy, was she good at it. She displayed her muteness—skillful and timely, over the last 3 months. Even at his best efforts, he could never break her silence—so he wouldn’t bother this time, either.

So he sat. He sat next to his distant lover, on what seemed to be the loneliest couch in the northern hemisphere. One of the two couch’s accompaniments was a 15-year-old coffee table, stained with years of messy television-watching-dinners and careless spilling. The other was a leather chair and ottoman, splitting at the seams from rough use.

Even with her presence, he could feel as lonely as the couch he sat on.

Adam looked at the splitting seams and couldn’t help but relate to their muddled wornness. He pondered: Why waste my time? We’re happy Monday, fight on Tuesday, ignore each other until Saturday, and make up on Sunday. I get two days of happiness with this girl. Is it worth the chaotic tension of the other five? Waiting around for her to get over herself and let me make her smile? She doesn’t realize that all I want to do is make her smile.

The problem was, those two days of happiness were beyond happiness—they were bliss. They were something scripted from a movie, something beyond the explanation 61

of words. Something the couple expressed in deep stares.

Words never quite served justice for those days.

There were highs and lows, waves and troughs. It was frustrating, it was exciting.

“Why do you come over if you’re just going to ignore me?” said Adam.

“Don’t invite me over then,” she replied.

“Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Why do you have to be so annoying?”

“Mature, real mature.”

“You’re never nice to me.”

“HOW DO THOSE WORDS COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH?! ALL I DO IS TRY TO BE NICE AND YOU DON’T APPRECIATE IT!” “Calm the hell down,” she said, as she scrunched her eyebrows and shook her head in disapproval.

“NO. I WON’T. YOU HAVE NO GROUNDS TO SAY THE WORDS YOU’RE SAYING.” “Just be nice to me.”

Adam took a deep breath, and pondered what he would say next.

It was like going to war when arguing with her—conversing with her, for that matter. He had to devise the correct response to her every inquiry. He tried so hard to say the right thing and it usually never mattered anyway. It never gets heard. If it somehow does, it gets disposed of soon-after, probably somewhere in the conscious-cleansing hours of REM sleep; where her brain decides what information is important—important enough to keep.

I've already been with you before. You had a different name, different face, different voice; but it was you. I already know you, I have already experienced what will happen between us. I've done it time and time again, chasing this half-given love that's only present some of the time; this love that is so freely given but vanishes in the blink of an eye; that is conceived in the infatuation of who I am, but dies in your inability to truly accept it; that is felt so strongly but is given no reason. Is it really love? Or lust? Is it the idea of what it could be, or what it really is? You say you want me to be your 62

everything, all the time, that you're ready; that these things that happen with no one else seem to happen with me... And happen rather quickly. But then there's your self-esteem, your prior treatment turned conditioning, and the harsh reality that you aren't as receptive to my charm as you thought you were.

I will not chase you, I will not throw myself out there into your open arms that seem to close so quickly. If you want me, you'll have to show it. I'll be here, but not forever. You change so quickly. I understand, I know it's not a game. You just got so infatuated. But as we grew, so did your reality.

But who can explain these intense moments where words cannot be expressed, where I can’t seem to look deep enough you’re your eyes? What are these moments? Do we love each other, or love what we have between us?

“You know I love you. And that’s why I get so frustrated.”

Silence. Cold, utter silence. Adam let the silence lurk for about 30 seconds before the silence grasped his vocal chords.

“Hello?” Adam questioned in impatience.

“You don’t really love me,” she said with a scoff.

“Yes, I do. Why else would I say it?”

“Because I said it first and you felt like you had to say it back.”

“That’s a four-letter word I don’t send out easily.”

“But you don’t love me as much as I love you.”

“Yes, I do,” Adam said with a sigh of exhaustion.

And he did. He was infatuated with her. And he hated it. No matter how hard he tried to refuse, and no matter how insensible she acted, he couldn’t help but succumb to her.

But Adam figured that his incapability to refuse her was love—it must have been.

“You don’t think like I do. I’m crazy,” she said, then looked down at her French manicure to hide her eyes.

“What do you think about,” he said with keen interest.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Just say it.”

“I see us in the future. I want you to come to Florida 63

with me.”

“You know that isn’t practical—I have 6 months left on my lease. And I have school—I’m already registered and paid for next semester.”

“So come after that. Spend the summer with me and see if you like it.”

“That is intriguing—Florida in the summer with a girl like you.”

“And in the meantime I’ll fly you down to me and I’ll come up when you’re too busy,” she said in complaining hope.

“I could do that.”

It was convenient for Adam to love her, to love someone that he knew would inevitably leave. It was safe.

“Do you think it’ll work?” she asked with sanguine naivety.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to come,” she said with eerie flatness.

“You can’t ask me to look into the future.”

“Why can’t you just say that you wanna be with me?” she cried.

“I do want to be with you. But I’m also not a fortune teller. I’m not gonna fill your head with false hopes and loose promises. I can’t tell you that we’ll be together in Florida next year. It’s just not realistic. Life can change.”

“Fine. I told you. You don’t love me.”

“I— I—” “You what?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Forget it.”

Adam did forget it. He had no words to say, no format in which to escape this incredibly uncomfortable conversation.

He won’t be going to Florida. But he’ll swear that his heart went.

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With Bell-Ringing Posture John A. Guttschall Each fondness shared like yarn unraveling Leaves my thread bare save for slivers of self cut with miniature sheers by enormous fingers digging in my skin for gems like hidden shovels.

A favorite phrase here, travels over there piled by the curator of relationship artifacts who wears a dusty coat, who walks with bell-ringing posture and innumerable grief mumbling archivist of now rotten relics He polishes the diamonds you pulled from each other's stomachs on the night you played her L. Cohen for the very first time When you lie awake in a jazz camper wrapped up like climbing greenbriers

65

Red Swollen Eyes Maureen Kalman Both parents and their son were American citizens even though they lived in Toronto, Canada. Their son was quite the athlete, tall, slender, and jogged two miles each day at dawn. He was nine years older than me and experienced the abusive relationship between his parents. That is where my sordid life began. The man who I thought was my biological father abandoned my mother and his natural son the day after I came into this world. You see, it was my entire fault; I did not keep the family together. My mother was pregnant, after a fling with another man. I was told about this when I was old enough to understand my mothers’ intent. If she brought another child into her miserable world, then her husband would stay in the life less existence. But it did not work out. Her husband did not want to be burdened with another mouth to feed. My mother borrowed money from her brother in law to finance the move to Whitestone, New York. When I reached the age of seventeen I discovered that I was living in the United States illegally.

But here I ramble about all the crap that was the essence of my being. My mother was a petite woman, with blazing red hair and donned herself with heavy makeup for a dramatic effect. My mother and her biological son physically fought; there was a lot of blood. I was like Cinderella; it was my job to clean it all up. I had many chores, waxing the floor, polishing the silver, cleaning the oven and vacuuming the carpet. I had to do all these chores on the weekend instead of going out to play because I was in elementary school all week. My mother would lounge on the large satin sofa smoking one cigarette after another and watched me to make sure I did not cheat. I cried most of the time in secret my eyes were often red and swollen. There were many times, I could not see clearly because they were so swollen. But, I was not allowed to cry in front of my mother. I would hold back the tears while I did my chores and when I was allowed to go outside, I would sit in the staircase and cry. If she 66

could see my red swollen eyes, she would fly into a range and beat me.

When her son was eighteen and arguing with my mother in the car, she stopped the car in the right lane and screamed at him to get out of the car and out of her life. He moved in with his Aunt and Uncle on Long Island. He was no longer there to defend me.

He was living in another world, encased in an environment of affection, dignity and respect. His defiance noticeably changed and they thought he was on the right track. But they were wrong. The intense inner feelings of the abuse growing up in a broken home never left him.

The scars were still within him. Yet he appeared to thrive in his new environment. He was an adult by now and his life dramatically changed. He was in a supportive environment while I stayed with my mother, defenseless. I was not permitted under any circumstances to call him or anyone else who lived in the household. He had a new life. He had another chance of living. He stayed there until he graduated High School. He chose to attend college instead of being drafted and serving in Vietnam. It was an unsettled time in the United States, peace marches, and sit-in demonstrations, because it was not our war yet a man had three choices. They were, serve in the military, relocate to Canada to dodge the draft, or attend college. He opted to become a lawyer. He was in contact with his father who, along with his aunt and uncle, put him through his undergraduate program and law school.

My mother did not provide me with adequate medical, dental care, and refused to take me to an eye doctor even though it was suggested by one of my teachers at school.

My teeth were rotting; I suffered migraines and often misjudged distance due to poor eyesight. She finally took me to a dentist who said I needed extensive work and told him that her husband would pay. The same scenario repeated itself with the medical doctor. Well, he did not pay because I was not his biological child. I went to the dentist, it was about my fifth visit and the nurse told me that I could not be treated because the bills were never paid. The eye doctor 67

said my eye condition could be resolved with eye drops, but my mother opted for surgery again, promising her husband would pay. The eye doctor said that surgery was not really necessary; the eye drops taken over an extended period of time would solve the issue. But, she insisted, promising her husband would pay the bill.

I awoke from the surgery to find my hands and feet were tied down to the bed. My eye itched terribly but I could not physically move. I screamed as loud as I could but no one came. I wrestled with the material used to tie my hands and feet to the bed, but zilch. I was at the mercy of anyone who entered my room. I was afraid that my mother would come in, but she never visited and the next time I saw her was when I was discharged from the hospital. Finally, a nurse came and told me that she was under orders from my mother not to undo the material that was tying me down. I never found out why I was tied down to the bed. After three days, I was discharged with a patch over my eye. The surgery solved the problem, but the bill was never paid. I had no peace; the bill collectors were calling every day. She gave her ex-husband’s name but was totally unaware of where he lived or if he was even in the country. My mother had told me the truth about my birth and I realized I was truly alone in this world. My eyes were red and swollen again.

I graduated Junior High School with my class, but when it came time for High School, I was truant. I just could not sit still in the classroom, it was too confining. Thoughts of my life swirled about my head, I could only hear her voice, not the teachers’. I thought that there was something wrong with me mentally because while my mother attended college to become a School Psychologist, she would practice the traditional psychological tests using me as the subject. I was so scared. I never really had any friends, between my chores and the parents of the other children who witnessed the abusive relationship in our household, told their children not to play with me. There was something wrong with me.

They said: “The child must be evil.” I cut school frequently and during school hours walked and walked just to feel free.

There were many times I sat in a deserted park and cried

until once again, my eyes were red and swollen. The administrators of the high school frequently sent letters home about my attendance or lack of it and called my mother frequently at work. She was a School Psychologist at the time employed in another district of the city. They finally tossed me out when I turned seventeen.

I had studied Ballet but the lessons were short lived because the bill for the lessons was not paid. I discovered, quite by accident the world of International Dance. I taught on Monday evenings at Columbia University in New York City. I lied about my age. They did not ask for credentials.

Tuesday evenings were in Greenwich Village. I finally found freedom still; my focus was about my past, a miserable place. I could not shake it; no matter how hard I tried.

I auditioned and was accepted into a professional dance troupe. We were scheduled to leave for Israel in June of 1972. I was not going to attempt to obtain my mother’s permission to leave the country. I figured she would wake up on the morning after I had sneaked out of the house and find herself all alone. I had access to my Canadian Birth certificate. I traveled to the Canadian Embassy in New York City to obtain my passport. I signed my mother’s name to the documents and told them my father was deceased. I reasoned: what’s the difference, I’ll never find him; I did not even know his name. I then went to the American Embassy with my New York Drivers License, signed my mother’s name to more documents and received my American Passport as well.

I shall now refer to my mother’s son and I will name him Michael. He held the position of the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney in Bergen County, New Jersey. He communicated with me once, I thought without my mother’s knowledge, and I was thrilled to see him even though he had abandoned me. I was so excited about my trip, I told him all about it.

That is where I made my mistake. You see, my mother knew I was up to something so she telephoned him and offered him a large sum of money to find out what I was doing. She told him I often came home well after midnight and that I always had money and thought I was a prostitute. He told 69

her the truth and disappeared out of my life again. I called his office and he would not take my calls.

He betrayed me. Now my dream was shattered. But I begged and begged and she finally let me go, with the promise that I would turn over the money earned by performing to her. I danced across Israel, Greece and Switzerland. My eyes were no longer red and swollen.

I returned to the United States but when I showed my two passports to the Customs Agent, I was deported back to Canada and I returned to the United States on a Visitors Visa. I had to remain in the United States for seven years to become naturalized. Even though my mother was an American citizen, I could not prove my natural father’s citizenship so I remained there for seven long miserable years.

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MARTY Claude Fortune In the mist of that faithful evening The Master of life, the Almighty Decided to turn off your light That September evening Words lost meaning In the wake of your passing But many find a way to say “… such a great teacher…. the best ever I have never met you… so I heard...You were a master… …you were my hero because you gave me confidence…oh…

I miss your voice…your impromptu visits to the office …Rest in peace and live on So they say,” and I say Within so many, you find your eternal residence Within so many, you live on Within you, dwell in eternal peace Just like a river flows To the endless oceans That’s how your life goes Through the heart of so many souls Through the halls, that’s how your voice flows And because of you, Marty has crossed oceans So I rhyme about you in the present Because you live your life for the moment For there is no past But only now For the soul that speaks about the past Only lives in the now.

For who you were, is And for who you are, were So you are our Marty forever May you rest in eternal peace

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Dream a Dream Joseph R. Baker Broken syntax words of my heart, falling so deep within, where there’s no inspiration only pain.

No violin or piano to play.

No concerto, nor even a guitar to sway, No childhood laughter or even a smile today, No hello or even goodbye.

No song or a melody.

No blue sky or even the wind to blow.

No green grass or even a flower today.

No shooting star or even the moon to see.

Eyes wide opened ears bent to hear, the sounds of life I know are near. I will be strong and hold on tight, and dream a dream of another life, Where inspiration is my heart’s delight and laughter and song and childhood dreams shine bright.

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Childhood Never Ends Eric Conklin I see Children on the playground almost every day Their laughs of joy sooth me All are cheerful as they swing, run, and jump, As I look at these children, I know that they will leave someday and never return, The sun is a clock to their fun, and to their time together, Around the sky it flows, marking another day gone by, The sun’s disappearance turns to days, then months and years Both my neighbor and I have aged, I find him outside on his trimmed lawn, with a smile on his face, His twins are playing catch, as he sits on the porch amazed Eventually, he decides to join in on their game, knowing the truth, That in life, there is no end to the fountain of youth.

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Editor and Staff Biographies B.D. Edwards would like to thank the most high basedgod.

He would also like to thank those who motivated him to be better unintentionally; “thanks, dad!” He wants to thank his father because he gave his mother credit for something she had nothing to do with. A personal statement: “I, Barry Demetrius Edwards, willingly chose to dismiss you from my life. Now, I am striving to be a better you. I graduate with my associate’s degree this year. Finally, Black Lives Matter. No, not ‘only’ black lives matter. Black lives matter too. IF ALL LIVES MATTER THERE WOULD BE NO BLACK LIVES MATTER.” Fayo Mamme has always had a penchant for creative endeavors, and is thrilled and humbled to be involved in published literature here at the college. Her major at Atlantic Cape is Liberal Arts, though she plans on majoring in Political Science and Spanish at Rutgers upon transferring. She has always viewed writing as a means to escape; a space to exert, evaluate, and conclude on ponderings and experiences as well as a platform to voice and articulate insights, criticisms, and reasoned judgments on important, pertinent issues in society and the world at large.

Delaney Alton is graduating after this semester and will be attending Rutgers University, New Brunswick in the fall.

Delaney’s dream job is “Opera Ghost”. Delaney watches 20 movies a day and is married to Count Dracula.

Eric Lui is a Jedi, like his father before him. He’s also a first-year Nursing student and an Emergency Medical Technician with a passion for helping others. He just so happens to have a strong interest in literature, poetry, and photography. He hopes you enjoy his work!

Sean James came into Rewrites and became a co-secretary in his freshman year. He is working towards a degree in Communications as his favorite word is create. Sean is a 74

delightful young man to have as a friend and an inspiration.

He enjoyed working on Rewrites and made friends along the way that he will cherish forever.

Camille Mitchell is a studio arts major at ACCC and a member of the Rewrites family. A few things she enjoys include reading dystopian novels, eating noodles, making doodles and binge-watching anime. She also occasionally suffers from spontaneous bouts of wanderlust.

Jacob Ryan was born to entertain and fulfill what most could never dream of. He likes food, cats, flannel, and coloring. Jacob refers to Wikipedia like grandma refers to the bible. If he could change one thing about himself it would be to stop looking desperately for change and to live confidently in happiness.

Natacha Maxime is the girl almighty with half a heart and no control just trying to make midnight memories. See what I did there? If not, you’re probably not 1D af. Going through some Zayn pain as we speak. #unapologeticallyblack. My melanin pops severely and yours don’t. Natacha: pronounced Na•Ta•Sha. 22, college student (double major: psychology & education, minor: literature.)

Hana Nammour, 20-years old, will be transferring to Stockton after this semester to major in speech therapy. Rewrites is something he truly enjoys, because writing is something he takes pride in. “Thanks and good luck to all.”

Andrew Rogolino is pursuing the English Option, Liberal Arts, A.A. degree here at Atlantic Cape. His last name is pronounced Rogo-lee-no, not Ravioli. “The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” –Gustave Flaubert Laura Six currently lives in Wildwood with her boyfriend, Jason, and their dog, Coco. She will be in the costume department at Cape May Stage for their 2016 season. She hopes to be accepted into a creative writing MFA program.

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Contributor Biographies Eric Conklin is planning on majoring in Communication once he receives his Associates Degree in Liberal Arts. An avid sports fan, who loves all Philadelphia sports teams (most of all the Eagles), he’s also a member of the school choir, radio club, and ACR. He won three state championships with the Holy Spirit Football team, and enjoys going to the beach, spending time with friends, various outdoor activities, and visiting his family, especially cousins Liv and Wes. Jordan Ellis is a 20 year old communication major from Egg Harbor Township, and has been doing photography for the past year. Usually focusing on portrait photography, he also enjoys nature shots. After ACCC, he plans to transfer to Rowan University to major in Radio/TV/Film.

Claude Fortune teaches mathematics at Atlantic Cape. It is often said to him, “I did not know if math people can write poems.” Professor Fortune proves that, yes, math people can write poems.

Autumn R. Francis has been writing ever since she was six-years old. She started further developing her writing skills when she reached junior high school. She also started to dabble in poetry and lyricism. Upon reaching college, she became a full-blown writer in every area in the writing realm. She’s written more than two dozen songs, a small handful of short stories, several poems, and each and every day she’s adding more to the collection.

Caitlin Cassidy Glasser was referred to as “Mini” in high school. She loves animals, indulging in sushi, snowboarding, embracing adventure and creating art, especially drawing creepy, macabre animals. The pursuit of happiness feels like a marathon, right?

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John A. Guttschall is the culprit behind Quone City Press, a small zine and tape imprint. He performs spoken word poetry, experimental music, and has toured the United States and Canada countless times via these mediums.

Jessica Lynn Houston is an English major who aspires to be a college English professor. Native to Atlantic County, Jessica chose to attend Atlantic Cape Community College because of its proximity and affordable education. Graduating from Cedar Creek High School in 2014, Jessica qualified for the New Jersey Stars Program which she is currently taking advantage of. Jessica is a Libra, a cat lover, a writer, and a talker. Graduating after this Spring semester, Jessica will most likely attend a New Jersey college in which she can continue on to New Jersey Stars II. The College of New Jersey and Rowan are her top two choices.

Sabrina Islam believes that art is a way to forget life and the only way to run away without leaving home.

Maureen Kalman and her husband are from Vineland, NJ. This is her first time submitting to Rewrites. She enjoys photography and takes primarily nature shots. She also edits her photos and shares them with other people. She is a computer science tutor at the Vineland Public Library.

Samantha LeRoy is a young, self-proclaimed poet from Southern New Jersey. She began writing at 13 but has always carried a love for the written word. She typically used biblical imagery and mythical references to portray what she is trying to say. Go to killbukowski.tumblr.com to read more of her work.

Joel Ollander will celebrate his 80th birthday in March... with the help of God and a wide array of excellent medical specialists! He’s learned that if you can’t laugh at yourself, you’re doomed to cry; and he hates to cry. So when you fall, smile and pick yourself up, and move on!

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Justin Perez is a full-time student and a musician at heart.

This is for the most part stepping out of his element: “I don’t often write poetry, but this piece was something personal, and I am willing to put [it] out there for others to see and critique, and if the reader finds that they can relate to what I have written, then I suppose that is the point of poetry, and that is something I can respect.

Madison Peteani has always loved writing. She writes on her own but only when inspiration hits, which is usually after midnight.

Dr. Rai (a.k.a. Dr. Alice Rainey) has been writing poetry longer than she wants to remember. She aspires to write and illustrate children’s stories and works on her water color skills to “make it so.”

Kyle J. Schachner is a Communication major and Pie Man at Manco and Manco’s on the Ocean City Boardwalk. His favorite quote: “Don’t be afraid to die on a treadmill.”

Adventures Sintrade was born in an electric guitar case, and is beginning to realize that sometimes we grab onto someone who is there, just to keep from going under.

Krystal Spencer is an aspiring novelist who got screwed over during this year’s snowless December and can’t drink her troubles away just yet. She always has trouble trying to find something worthy to submit that’s within the word limit and coming up with something at the last minute. No longer single, she’s found the logic to her imagination and is hoping to stay grounded long enough to figure out where her life is going after ACCC. Wish her luck.

Danica Esmeralda Tollinchi is a 23-year old female from a city named Vineland. She has been writing poetry since she was nine years old and has always wanted to share her work but never had the courage to do it until now.

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Printed by Omega Press, Turnersville, NJ