Shakefist Magazine started out as an idea between a couple of like-minded friends. Putting out a zine for artists to contribute to without any judgements. They can put in what they want and share it with everyone. Realizing what a good idea it was, we worked hard to make that idea something real. In March, 2009, Shakefist Magazine was born. The idea proved to be a success. Shakefist Magazine got a huge response from the artist communities in Boston and New York. They practically flew off the racks wherever we left a few copies. Now Shakefist Magazine is getting bigger and has proven to be something more than just an artist magazine. It helps inspire those who are usually timid about being creative to write a story or paint a portrait. It helps motivate artists to work harder at getting their work out there. It helps connect artists with each other so that everyone can help each other. Shakefist Magazine has become about community.
So pull out your notebooks and your sketchbooks and your paints and camera and whatever else you have lying around. Open the flood gates and let the waves of creativity wash over you. Make some art and share it with everyone. It can be poems, stories, photographs, songs, jokes, recipes, essays, paintings, limericks, videos, etc.
I'd rather die enormous than live dormant. - Jay-Z
CONTRIBUTORS ARTWORK & PHOTOGRAPHY RENE PORTELANCE DEREK BOGSLEY SUSAN HOULDIN BRITTANY BLASETTI ADAM O'DAY ROSITA ADAMS KRISTEN RECKER DOUG GATELY ED STICKY
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POETRY/ PROSE WASONI JON TODD BEN NARDOLILLI MARC BOTELHO PAULINE BADAMO
STORIES ”FLYING SOLO” BY PHILL GELINAS
“PAPAYA PRINCESS” BY KIKI BLACK
“THE SECRET WILL OF A MISANTHROPE” BY PIETER Van NOSTRAND
“MUSIC TO FIGHT SHARKS TO” BY DANNY MELENDEZ
FOUNDER /EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: DANNY MELENDEZ CO-FOUNDER: DEX TER MANAGING EDITOR: KRIS KEENAN LAYOUT DESIGNER: OZZIE LEVINE RESEARCH ASSISTANT: TRICIA MILNAMOW
FRONT COVER BY WALTER SICKERT BACK COVER BY ROSITA ADAMS
Phill Gelinas FLYING SOLO Jim led a solo life. Not solo as in solitary or lonely; he had plenty of friends that accompanied him wherever he went, but in the sense that he carried a guitar with him everywhere, soloing all the time. A portable amp on his belt was his voice box, and a blistering lead line in E Harmonic Minor was his answer to all questions. The louder his friends cheered him on, in as many facets of life as there are faucets in the White House, the crazier and more relevant his soloing got. He was solely responsible for the violently fluctuating energy level of his posse. They thrived on bends, trills, dive bombs, two-hand tapping and pinched harmonics like one depends on water, food, oxygen and not being stabbed in the heart with a giant pike. Don't get me wrong, these were not 80's music fans, not Berkeley College of Music students, not Warrant groupies, not Kirk Hammett's siblings, no, these weren't even music fans per se, just your average, run-of-the-mill friends, bar-hopping, enabling, fist-pumping, high-fiving, down low, too-slowing BFF's. All of them were the best. And they wanted Jim to succeed; and to solo constantly. Jim didn't even necessarily enjoy playing guitar. These friends of his were persistent however. In fact Jim didn't even know how to play guitar at all. He was simply awful at it. But he was here to please, and asked that everyone please hear him out. He was only doing this for the women. Job interviews were more than easy for this Jim. What prospective employer didn't like a cheerleading group of maniacs and face-melting axe-barf sandwiched between a work history and personal reference breakdown? No employers, that's how many. The same amount that didn't hire Jim after one of his gratuitous displays. And ironically, the same amount of these positions that Jim actually accepted. It wasn't about the guitar solos either, since he didn't really know how to play the instrument coherently. It was about the fucking glory. There was simply nothing else he needed, not food, not air. Just air guitar, which is what Jim could be seen playing on the dirty streets of Allston just before being carted off lifelessly by paramedics, from what was officially and accurately described as an irreversible state of malnourishment. The End
Jon Todd Flathead Flathead What to say of this nature? Paddled to the middle of this self, Water lapping at stone, Immovable and time bent, Breathed in obscure color, Snow capped laughter, Pine and sun/affected and unmoved. The water churns and rises, never halting. I fix myself against the backdrop of Heaven As if cloaked by the very thought, These dusty places give birth to every breath and bone. Skimming the surface, Every drop of water, Reflects and returns. Find no clinging! This moment will soon disappear: Have you swallowed it’s fatty juices? Rising over each crest, Every bang whipping us out of our monkey minds, The bell at the beginning and end. Soak the dust, And it becomes mud & sticks to our bones, Forms us and breaks our flesh. I am dieing quicker than this scene. How wonderful to know It will be here long after I am gone! Roots stretched over, Grains meditating in the wind: What secrets do they know?
Death You slow moving creature of strings Vibration of eternal nothingness, Skin that I felt. The kind of drip which exists in The mind. You were a bodhisattva, I wouldn’t know this until much later, My only experiences with death, Showed great confusion for the sounds And scents, Like Carlin once said “Why send flowers When you dead? You can’t enjoy them” Now at twenty-two Death is an abstract thing, Musical, Some day I will die, and If nothing else it will be a chance to slow The hell down. You focused on the breath, I am now learning, These sentences one long Uninterrupted chorus, Mingus playing, I lie below naked paintings, I want to believe there is a connection, But I just can’t fear death, Because it’s just sleep, It’s just sleep, It’s just rest. But the mechanic who hacked his lungs Making the end of his Lucky wet With spit and phlegm, said he was dieing, And I believed in him then, As I do sometimes now. God damn my logic, Preventing me from knowing it, The more silent I try to become, The less I understand.
Brittany Blasetti is nineteen and a local photographer based out of Boston who works better with inanimate objects than she does with actual people. Check her out on facebook!
Kiki Black Papaya Princess A stegosaurus hatched out of the rotten papaya on Deborah’s kitchen counter. The yellow and purple polka-dot newborn looked up at her with big cat eyes and wagged its plated tail. When Deborah gave the dinosaur a lemon detergent bath in the sink, the baby splashed and gurgled. Deborah set up a litter box under the sink and dino-proofed her apartment. She played fetch with her prehistoric pet and walked it around her rooms because her co-op had a no-pet policy. She loved the welcome snorts as she unlocked her door evenings. One night when Deborah crouched down to fill a bowl with wheatgrass and mice steak for her pet, the hungry reptile speared her in the butt with one of its pointed plates. When the dino twisted its beak with a little whimper and looked at her with those yellow eyes, Deborah could only mock-scold her. “You’re one sorry dinosaur, a regular pokasaurus—I’ll call you Pokey now.” Deborah stuck ping pong balls on every point of the armored Mohawk and a bell on the tail so she’d have some warning. When Deborah put Pokey to bed beside her, she placed her stuffed reptile collection—tyrannosaurus, brontosaurus, dragon, iguana, and pterodactyl—between them in case Pokey had a nightmare and thrashed her. “You’re my yiddle dino-mite, my luvyoualottapus,” Deborah cooed as she tucked Pokey in.
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Ben Nardolilli Skeletons Twisting About
Straight Electric Safety
I can say that I’m getting fit, Jumping up and down Over a sound wave rope,
The great wheel of misfortune, I know it spins and can land On a great calamity or an absurdity, Yet I know most spots are reserved For those unoriginal deaths That come from common killers, Stoppers of circulation and breath.
The lightning strikes twice here In rainbow strobes I’m dazed but know the song, Or know its source, The words have changed, Or maybe others are singing, In the mirrors I hope Those others see me spin With free arms and neon, It makes me a better dancer, All by myself to move, To groove with an easy pill, No one has to be asked, No separate body is needed, No one leads the way but me, Who will take me home? Who will I allow to follow? The faces all face the mirrors, The old childhood lessons, Cotillions and cha-cha, It’s all gone now, I grind.
The small engine buzzing in my hand Prevents death by a single cut From the older metal model, The chance of bleeding to death Has been nearly abolished, Though there are risks from electricity That the simple blade could not bear. Possibilities of strangulation are present Whenever the chord is out, Even if I take the vibrations And gyrations of the hidden blades Through battery powered supplements, Some risk of electrocution remains Ever-present in my hands.
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Pieter Van Nostrand The Secret Will of a Misanthrope “I don’t understand,” protested the waitress. “He used to come in, and sit in that booth right over there. His name was Raymond, I think ... or Robert maybe. We used to talk some, he and I. How is this possible?” Tobin the lawyer fiddled with his napkin uneasily, and adjusted the thin wirerimmed spectacles he was wearing several more times before answering. “I must admit ma’am, the boys down at the firm and I are as befuddled over this as you are,” he explained. “This is a strange case, but all the paperwork is in order.” “I mean, we did get along well,” said the waitress, “and, of course, I realized he was homeless, although I never spoke of it with him.” “Of course not,” replied Tobin. “I just ... well, it’s just that ... we weren’t that close,” the waitress explained. “I mean, he came in here a few times a week and we talked a little. I knew he liked me ... he said I made him feel human again. I felt bad for him at first, because a couple of the other girls used to call him a bum and make fun of him behind the counter. They would call him ‘weird beard,’ and you should have seen the way they treated him: like he was an animal, like not even worthy of eye contact while they poured his coffee, which, by the way, he always payed for and always left a tip.” “He was very clear in the written instructions,” said Tobin. “You are to receive the entire estate, totaling roughly $1.2 million give or take.” “It doesn’t sound any less surreal the second time hearing it,” chuckled the waitress. “Where on earth did he get all that money from, and if he had it all this time, why live the way he did? I just don’t understand.” “Like I said, we know very little about this man,” Tobin sighed. “All that I can tell you is some time ago, he set up his will, and that three months before his death, had it amended with you as sole beneficiary.” “I wonder who he was going to leave the money to originally,” asked the waitress, almost rhetorically. “That’s another strange twist to this story,” said Tobin, putting down his fork, and wiping his mouth with his napkin. “The original will dictates that all his assets be converted into cash and cremated.” “Cremated?” Asked the startled waitress. “Yes,” replied Tobin. “He wanted it burned and cast into the harbor ... just like one would a dead person. He was very precise about that last bit. I bet the boys at the firm would have pulled their hair out trying to maneuver around that one. Imagine, destroying all that money! It would be a sin!” “So what happens now?” Asked the waitress. “All you need to do is come by the firm and sign some papers and it’s all yours,” explained Tobin. “They’re already drawn up and waiting for you.”
Marc Botelho EVERYTHING Sitting atop this perch, watching a small, insignificant patch, A meaningless area, really, though one can observe everything from here. All that needs to be observed, from this insignificant patch.... It is alive! It converts, it breathes, In and Out In and Out.... This patch grows, It expands with every moment. Giving, Taking... Energy bounces everywhere. It passes through, gets caught, sent out, in new directions, out to infinity... Into sugar, Hydrogen Nitrogen Oxygen Carbon.... dancing, kissing one another, trading parts, becoming something better. This patch strives to be better, bigger, like everything inside of it. Everything, Vying for position, getting ahead, winning the race Bigger, Better, Faster, Intensify, make something of nothing, break it down again, life from death, light from competing molecules. Repel, attract Propel, extract, Attack, not a moment to spare. There is constant struggle, work your way up, toward the sun, and ultimately to nothing, giving up everything for the start of something new.
SINGLE FEMALE LAWYER THE HUSH NOW
HALFWAY TO AVALON LIGHTS RESOLVE
Pauline Badamo "Dear Allie, 108th street" Warm asphalt road lit orange by towering streetlamps any time of the non existent night usually beginning with "cinco punto nuevo La Mega Mix" blaring culture out the window from the window pane belonging to the always crowded quaint kitchen, Uncle Joe laughing out smoke from the cigarette dangling off his lipquestioning whether it'd had been sewn on by the way it always sat so politely between his moving lips all the while-supervising smoke clouds coming off the barbeque grill and masterfully engaging in conversation with Daddy, Uncle Rob, Bernie and Mom- speaking secret codes I could never understand so rapid and eloquently, Elsie would gather the rascals together always smiling always kind all the time knowing of her fate not giving in but giving up arms to hug and embrace us, such red lovely perfect hair I'd always thought to myself also knowing sadness behind all the soft tender smiling eyes, here we'd go running under the table jumping off couches swerving in and out bumble bees in fury never out of breath tag you're it hide and seek life so carefree, knowing the tall legged people would never in a million years find us if we stood behind a plant chair or door Time to eat! Oh what heavenly words, rushing out the kitchen door to the backyard a mess of tall wild grass with a splash of cement every few meters Delicious rice and beans, barbeque chicken,corn on the cob, platanos, and of course ice pops or ice cream because grandmother's always understand the desires of a child's stomach and the inner workings of our minds The sky now a brilliant blue, not quite navy but long past the pink purple orange hue of sunset running wild like free animals to see who can catch the most fireflies before it comes time to get inside so the mosquitoes do not eat us alive although all four are covered with mounds of inflammation from our adventures in the wilderness created within imagination Blaring music no longer emitted from the light filled kitchen window because neighbors who can see cleary into the house may begin to throw a brick or that is at least what our Moms tell us The lit ends of cigarettes belonging to the men in deep conversation are smushed into clear round dishes on the white plastic table Laughter and shouts continue to come from our mouths but eventually the chase ends as we are encouraged towards the kitchen's back door Sky above us now a blue so deep it could almost be black much like the shade of ocean when no one is around to see but the stars have all come out to witness the bubbly foam kiss the sand Our family never really had true good byes but instead hour or so long stalling sessions consisting of kisses hugs and unfulfilled intentions of parting-continued conversations while us babes would begin to fall asleep standing or lean into hallway walls knowing the regular routine of the tall legged people.
HEY EVERYBODY, THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT SHAKEFIST MAGAZINE ISSUE #6 MAKE SURE YOU GO TO OUR WEBSITE WWW.SHAKEFISTMAGAZINE.WEBS.COM THER YOU WILL FIND ART AND WRITINGS FROM ALL OF OUR SHAKEFIST MAGAZINE CONTRIBUTORS. YOU WILL ALSO FIND LINKS TO ARTIST'S WEBSITES AND NEWS OF THE GOINGS ON IN THE ARTIST COMMUNITY
WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTRIBUTE TO SHAKEFIST MAGAZINE? WE ARE ALWAYS HAPPY TO SEE WHAT YOU GUYS HAVE TO OFFER. SO PULL OUT THOSE NOTEBOOKS AND SKETCH PADS. DUST OFF YOUR CAMERA. GRAB THOSE PAINT BRUSHES. SHAKEFIST MAGAZINE ACCEPTS ALL ART MEDIUMS INCLUDING STORIES, PHOTOS, SONGS, RANTS, ARTICLES, POETRY, ESSAYS, DRAWINGS, PAINTINGS, GRAFITTI, PROSE, DOODLES, RECIPIES, REVIEWS, AND SO ON. JUST NOTHING RACIST AND NO GRAPHIC NUDITY. SEND YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO SHAKEFISTMAG@GMAIL.COM
Published on Mar 18, 2011
Shakefist Magazine is an artist and music magazine dedicated to promoting the works of the Boston and New York art scenes. Featuring a cover...