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ISSUE NO. 7 S U M M E R 2 O17


From the Editor

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Dear Readers, I’m writing this in May 2017. Like most of you, my attention for the last few months has been dominated by the news and the infuriating actions of the Trump administration. By the time this issue is printed and released, I have no idea where we’ll be. Right now, any talk of plans for the future seem to be accompanied by the addendum, “if the world hasn’t been destroyed in a nuclear apocalypse/burning hell trash fire.” Most of the wonderful work in The Bushwick Review VII was made prior to the election. I think a lot of people are still figuring out how to justify making art, especially if the work doesn’t directly engage with a political issue. It can seem trivial, or make you feel guilty, or maybe you simply don’t have the heart for it. It feels increasingly lucky to even have the freedom to ponder these questions. Yet at the same time, people are still insisting that art is important somehow, even if they can’t pinpoint why. I don’t know if this is the answer, but I think one reason is because all humans deserve to have room for joy and wonder and beauty in their lives. Without it, I know I, and anyone else who does not possess an infinite amount of resilience, will burn out. If we continue to head in a direction where the fight for each other’s basic rights and safety is so dire that the idea of making art is a complete absurdity, then that is a very grim world indeed. So keep protesting, keep resisting. Write poetry about everything going on. But also write neurotic poetry about dating and relationships. And write poetry about social injustices that existed long before the election. Call your local representatives. Talk to strangers. Create characters and stories of wild imagination. Draw that illustration that is nothing more than a pure display of your stunning skill and talent, because you are at the height of your powers and know it. Take selfies cause you look amazing. Give your money and time, but keep some for yourself too. Speak up, but also know when it’s your time to listen more than talk. When it’s time for you to read more than write. Take care of each other. And thank each other for existing. Thank you, I see you, I want to know you, you are good, you are doing such good.

EDITOR

Kristen Felicetti DESIGNER

Tim Vienckowski COPY EDITORS

Joel Alter Alison Breaden Michele Rosenthal WEB DESIGNER

Drew Gardner © 2017 The Authors

A meteorite found by NASA’s Curiosity rover on the surface of Mars in October 2016

Love, Kristen bushwickreview@gmail.com thebushwickreview.com THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


Contents

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FAT H E RS E N T R E PR E N E U R I A L S PI R I T

DEAD PEO PL E THE PA S S AG E OF TIME

6

52

IDENTITY 3O

41

43

53

6O 11

46

26

12 54

38

56 19

R E L AT I O N S H I PS

CELESTIAL BODIES

57 45

24

39

28, 29

DEAD ANIMALS DRUGS & A LCO H O L

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


6 11

Only the Gentle BUD SMITH

SPECIAL ADVER TISING SEC TION sp o n s o r e d b y A DA M J . K U R T Z

6 11

12

Adventures in Faceblindness MICHELE ROSENTHAL

12

18

And as Honeysuckle Is Sweet, So Is This Flower Salt

18

19

In Which We Attempt to Steal Our Neighbor’s Kidney

19

Dead Ass Birds

24

eternity

D E X T E R C I PR I A N

K E N TO N D e A N G E L I

24

KRISTEN FELICETTI

26

O SC A R D ’A R TO I S

26

PHOTOGR APHS  PH I L PI E R C E

27, 29

27, 29

aperol angst

28

O SC A R D ’A R TO I S

30

CO R L I S S E L I Z A B E T H W I L L I A M S PH I L L I P D . W I L L I A M S , S R .

The Light of Day

38, 41

ILLUSTR ATIONS  Z E B A D I A H K E N E A L LY

39

G E N I S E PA I G E D E A L

42

S H E RY L O PPE N H E I M

43

G E N I S E PA I G E D E A L

45

TAY LO R YAT E S

46

30 38, 41

Robin

39

Sarapnel

42

Black Listed

43

process

45

First of the Month

46

1997

52

When They Died

53

ghost love (for bowie)

54

The Engine

56

Our State of Being

57

THOM SMITH

52

S A D I E R E B ECC A S TA R N E S

53

SARAH JEAN ALEXANDER

54

S A D I E R E B ECC A S TA R N E S

56

CHRIS CHAI

57

28

A L I SO N B R E A D E N


Only the G ntle by

BUD

SM

ITH

e


My father was an autodidact. He cut his own hair without a mirror. Good too. He was also a self-taught criminal who liked broad-daylight-breaking-and-enterings; slips, falls; tumbles in the minor rough; squeaky supermarket scams. The crimes got worse as I got older. A bogus check for my 7th birthday with Clarabell Simpkin’s name forged on it. A disassembled revolver found in his spare boots when I was ten. My freshman year of high school, fires were lit in the dark, making money rain from the branches of well-insured trees. I was able to get a drum set. Mom left. Well, I mean, Mom changed the locks.

ISSUE NO. 7

One snowy af ternoon, during his visitation, we took a foggy bus three towns over to his new place. He pointed at a little brick house and said, “Run inside and grab the salt and pepper shakers off the table, I’ll wait here. Want to show you something.” I refused, suspecting it wasn’t his house.  And I was right.  Later, same day, he taught me how to drive stick shift in a stolen Chevy rack body. Joke was, “If you can get good at this, you can be my getaway driver.” Other joke was, I did want to get away. Once, I found a photocopy of my father hanging up in the post office and so for Christmas I bought him a shaving kit and a pair of spectacles without a prescription lens. If it could work for Superman, it could even work for my father. When he got the job on the movie set, as a stuntman, he said he was finally straight.  Crime hadn’t freed him. His hair was long now, down past his shoulders. He liked the sense of adventure on the film set, the risk, the cash, invisibility in a different way. Sometimes Mom would go to the backlot for snacks and soda at the craft service table. As far as I know, that was the extent of her alimony. I think she was just trying to catch a glimpse at a movie star, or maybe have one notice her. But that’s a life. Mom bloomed. She went on a date with the milk man. She went on a date with a cop even. Then another cop. A firefighter came to Easter dinner. On the TV, I saw my dad fall out of a window

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fifty stories up. He free fell towards safety. And no longer did I have to settle into my predestination as mere accomplice. I was materializing. I brushed my teeth through a grin. The university applications went out en masse. Not a single response came to our crooked mailbox. I straightened it in superstition. Still nothing. I held my breath as the bus thundered past the cemeteries of my grimy hometown. I lifted my feet crossing every train track junction. My guidance counselor said five Hail Mary’s, punctuating it with a shot, “You won’t need to worry about loans if you’re an ace safe cracker.” But I had tossed my stethoscope into the ocean, a trip with my mother, for her birthday. A gray day. We ate cotton candy and she told me about the first time dad had brought her a gift. One thousand red roses, filling up the entire bed of a pickup truck belonging to who knows. It was love right away. One rainy night Dad showed up to Mom’s house in a red hatchback I’d never seen, flames and skulls on the side. “Stunt car,” he said. “Borrowed it. Let’s go.” I thought he meant, go and keep driving and never come back … But added these instructions, “Drive us to the Parkerstown Bridge.” It was almost midnight. I had school in the morning. As I drove, the lights flashed across his face and I saw his teeth for the first time. Mouth vulnerable. His nose looked fake. Same with the chin. Who was this guy? We got out and stood on the bridge. Leaning over the railing. Looking down at the water—river rushing away from us.  “Heard you got accepted to a school,” he said. “News to me,” I said, stunned. “Intercepted this the other day …” He held up an envelope that looked like it’d been ripped apart, burnt, then reassembled with scotch tape.  The letter inside said I was taken by my top university. Way on the other side of the country.  “Probably won’t see you again,” he said. Figured he was right, so I shrugged.  “Help me with a job before you leave.”



look with this


g

He pointed to the hatchback. I followed him over and we popped the hatchback. Inside was a black bag. Oblong. Lumpy.  “What’s that?” “A dead body,” he said. “Have to throw it in the river but it’s too heavy. Need your help. Big strong youthful brawn.” He unzipped the bag and I could see a man with blood caked over his face. The eyes were wide and like the surface of the moon.  “Will you help me?” I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed one end of the bag and he grabbed the other end of the bag and with all our strength we hoisted the body over the

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S U M M E R 2 O17

His  nose ed fake. Same the chin. Who was uy?


railing of the Parkerstown Bridge. I watched the bag slap the water. I watched the dead man float out of it.  My father grabbed my shoulder and kissed me on the ear so hard it rang for days after that. “I’m so goddamn proud of you.” It was the first time he said that. It made me feel so loved, that all I wanted to do was commit crimes with my old man, go from bank to bank, go from murder to murder, be together. Torch houses, collect insurance moola. Boost tractor trailers. Hijack planes. Blow up buildings. Run. I felt a tear rolling down my face. I lowered my head, embarrassed. I looked again at the water below. There was a problem. “Hey Dad …” “What.” “The body isn’t sinking …” “It won’t,” he said. “It’s fake. Got it from the set.” “Oh.” “Dummy.” I looked at him with rage. “Polypropylene.” We got back in the hatchback, he took me home.  My father was coated in a chemical jelly, lit on fire by the stunt coordinator, urged into a beautifully choreographed jog that would be fixed to proper speed in post. He moved gracefully—arms pumping, head up, chin up—pushing down an artificially-happynuclear-family street on backlot number 9. The cheers of the extras, paid just fifty dollars each for the day and given sandwiches, were his true family. Manufactured onlookers who loved him. Save for one, my mother, at the catered booth sinking her teeth into a bagel with hot pink lox. “Quiet on the set!” the assistant yelled. Into the bullhorn the director said, “Action!” Off I went to college. My father moved into my old room. He began cutting his own hair again, and then hers. The firefighters went back to the firehouse. The cops went back to the station. The plastic dead man we tossed off the Parkerstown Bridge was pulled deeper out to sea, eventually becoming its own small island. ◆

sp e c i a l a d v e r t i s i n g s e c t i o n sp o n s o r e d b y A DA M J . K U R T Z

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Adventures Adventures in Faceblindness By Michele Rosenthal in Faceblindness

Rachel! Oh my god, hi!

Oh, hello.

Haha, yeah. Have you met my friend Lauren?

by MICHELE ROSENTHAL

How’s it going? It’s so funny running into you.

Hi, I’m John.

John? John? John? John? John? John? John? John?


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So what are you up to, John?

Oh, just running some errands. Old coworker?

The guy from that party?

Yeah, totally.

Cool, I’ll text you. Bye, Rachel!

College housemate?

Bye, John.

UNKNOWN SENDER See? I was serious about hanging out. What are you doing this weekend? I’d love to catch up.

S U M M E R 2 O 17

Actually, this is my stop, but we should hang out sometime.


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I still can’t believe we ran into each other like that! How long has it been?

Childhood friend? Haha, I don’t know! Too long.

I sure am.

Are you still freelancing?

Man, I’m jealous!

How about you, are you still...at the same place?

Yes! I know exactly what you mean! I thought you might.

I’m at a different nonprofit now, but it’s still the same sort of work.

From the internship? Cool. Tell me all about it.

I’m just so glad we bumped into each other the other week. Former neighbor? I am too, John.

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


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Tinder Tinder swipe? swipe?

Second Second violin? violin?

Teaching Teaching assistant? assistant?

Landlord’s Landlord’s nephew? nephew? Rival Rival trivia trivia team? team?

Bartender? Bartender?

Moving Moving company? company?

Ex Ex therapist? therapist?

Dental Dental nurse? nurse?

Friend’s Friend’s doorman? doorman?

Online Online gamer? gamer?

Veterinarian? Veterinarian?

Book Book club? club?

ISSUE NO. 7

Oh Oh John, John, yes! yes!


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Thank you all for beingThank here you on all for beingday. here on this special this special And thank you, day. And to thank of course, my you, of course, beautiful wife to my beautiful wife Rachel. Rachel. Just in case there’s Justwho in case there’s anyone left hasn’t anyone left who hasn’t heard the story... heard the story...

When we first metWhen five we yearsfirst ago,met I five never years knew ago, I never it would leadknew would lead us onit this us on this journey. journey. Rachel and I first met on a Rachelas and I firstpulling met on a science vessel it was science vessel it was pulling away from the as dock. away from the dock.

But I didn’t get to know her until But didn’t get to know her until the day of Ithe storm, when I was day swept of the overboard. storm, when I was verythe nearly very nearly swept overboard.

For months we were inseparable, It was Rachel who saved my life, For months webeing wererocked inseparable, collecting data and was risk Rachel whoown. saved my life, atItgreat to her collecting and being rocked to sleep by data the ocean. at great risk to her own. to sleep by the ocean.

Rachel wanted to come with me, It was paradise until the message Rachel wanted to come with me, It was paradise until the but her work was still on that arrived from my brother, and message I but Iher work was still on that brother, and I ship, and promised we would had arrived to hurryfrom backmy to shore. ship, I promised had to hurry back to shore. soon be and together again.we would soon be together again.

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


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How was I to know that I would be forced into hiding? When I finally returned to New York, I assumed Rachel had forgotten all about me.

But fate decided to bring us back together, on a Tuesday afternoon on the A train. And now, here we are today.

Of course, I had a beard back then. S U M M E R 2 O 17

Ohhhhh. THAT John!

The End


s cu l p t u r e D E X T E R C I PR I A N s to ry K E N TO N D e A N G E L I

I.

IN WHICH WE ATTEMPT TO STEAL OUR NEIGHBOR’S KIDNEY Priya and I had filled the bathtub with ice and water an hour ago. I was still cold. I thought Priya was too; her lips looked kind of blue. We were crowded in the bathroom with our neighbor, John, who seemed distracted. “What are you celebrating again?” he said. He looked beyond us to the

door. It was cramped in here. “John,” Priya said, “we just need you to lie in the bathtub for a couple of hours and then tell us how you feel. It’ll take no time at all and you’d really be helping us. Didn’t we collect your mail that one time?” I was pretty sure we had lost it, but there was no way for him to know that.

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We’d been in here for about twenty minutes. My face was starting to ache with the friendly smile I’d been keeping on it. John leaned over the bathtub and looked in. The radiator rattled and hissed to life, thank god. “John, just get in! This is important. Here, have some more cider.” We raised our glasses. We were losing him, I could feel it. “Don’t be a baby,” I added helpfully. “Lots of people live long, happy lives with only one kidney.” John had forgotten about an urgent appointment. Priya closed the door behind him and glared at me, then walked across our small living room and fell onto the couch and sighed. I sat in the chair we had. “What are we going to do?” she asked. It was a late winter afternoon, and from the window a soft rectangle of light crept across the apartment, just beginning to reach Priya’s shoes. I watched it from the other side of the room; I liked how diffuse its edges were. Our living room didn’t do well in clear light. “Do you have any money?” she said. “I don’t get the check from Cain’s until Monday.” I looked at the crack in the wall that had been behind our TV. Priya turned her head and looked at me. “What’s Claude doing tonight? He owes us.” “Claude’s been at that Grindr dude’s place for like three days.” I took a swig from John’s glass and contemplated our options as warmth tingled into my body from the back of my neck. Priya reached out and I handed it to her. There wasn’t much to look at. Last month, we’d decided to simplify our lives by selling all our distracting clutter and appliances on Craigslist. It had been transformative, we had told

all our visitors, most recently John. Priya started to roll a joint on the hardbacked Steve Jobs biography our old roommate had left behind. No one had wanted to buy it. “Codeine’s nice,” she said, not looking up. “They put something in it so you don’t get nausea.” “What if,” I said, “we aren’t thinking big enough?” “What do you mean? We couldn’t even trick John into the tub.” “No,” I said, pulling at the thread of an idea, feeling it come closer. “We’re thinking too small, from one pickup to the next. We gotta think like Steve Jobs.” “I sold my iPad last month.” “No no, I mean—not Steve Jobs, like, selling John’s kidney is too small. What if we could sell everybody’s kidneys? “We’re going from one week to the next, getting enough money and spending it all each week. It’s small-time. Let’s think like ambitious participants in the worldwide economy. Let’s go from one year to the next.” “Isn’t the international organ trade like, heavily regulated?” “Probably, but let’s just do whatever Uber does. Their entire business plan is based on violating regulations.” Priya pulled her crossed legs up to the couch and leaned forward, sitting straight. “All right.”

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


II.

A w e e k l a t e r I was holding a bouquet of bodega flowers and explaining the plan to our drug dealer. We were at a quinceañera reception space next to a Crown Fried Chicken; when I’d called to pick up he’d invited me to his girlfriend’s baby shower. She was bedecked in all manner of pink and balloons, and fairly glowed among her guests. “You’re going to make an app to help people sell their organs?” he said. “It’s the new sharing economy.” I shrugged, the paper around the flowers creaking. “People will give you millions of dollars for just having ideas like these. We’ve been trying to think big these days.” He looked at me. Then he said, “Good luck.” We walked over to the chocolate fondue fountain. I dipped a strawberry and took a bite while he looked around and reached inside his pants. It was delicious. He gave

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WE GET TO WORK, A COLOR SCHEME IS CHOSEN

me the drugs and I gave him the money. I took another strawberry and waited in line to deliver the flowers on my way out. His girlfriend accepted them with a beatific smile. When I got home, Priya looked up from the PowerPoint she was working on. “Holy shit,” she said, “have you ever googled organ trafficking?” I shook my head and sat down, taking out the drugs and pouring a bag onto the Steve Jobs book. “It’s so fucked up. Basically, rich people who want organs take ‘transplant tours,’ where they travel to a poor country and get an organ transplant. It’s an all-inclusive package, like a vacation. The organs are sourced from some impoverished native who doesn’t have any other economic options, and usually they are tricked and intimidated into selling them for, like, the price of an iPad. It’s so fucked up. One of the local ads I found literally says, ‘Donate a kidney, buy the new iPad!’” I finished cutting up a line and snorted it with a straw I’d taken from the Crown Fried Chicken. She turned the laptop around. It had a picture of a terrifying old white man. “This is David Rockefeller. He had his sixth heart transplant last year when he was 99 years old.” “He looks like a Sith lord,” I said. “He literally looks scarier than Dick Cheney.” The drugs made the elegant leap across my blood-brain barrier and spread into my body a delicious liquid warmth. “Wow, this is really strong.” Priya did a line. “Wanna hear the presentation so far?” She brought up her PowerPoint. “The international organ trade relies on thousands of well-funded brokers, predatory acquisition agents who trick people in poor countries, and hospitals too willing not to ask questions about the


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origins of a donated organ. “Our revolutionary new app, OrganGrinDR, cuts out all those dangerous middlemen, and puts the commodity value of your own organs where it belongs: in your hands.” I applauded. “How are the mockups? I’ve been thinking about our color scheme.” We spent the next hour and a half discussing colors, and finally determined that the background should be almost black, but not, the closest you can get to black while still not being black. The text would be a pleasing orange, and the highlights a nice contrasting blue. Colors were important. We gradually nodded off, her on the couch and me on the chair, glowing with the future of OrganGrinDR. I floated past the ceiling, our sleeping neighbors, the roof of our building, just missing the bulb of a streetlight, past the windows of taller buildings, breaking from the skyline into the horizon, sinking into the soft wooden chair, my head jerking for a moment and propelling me faster, moving towards the true night of the dark sky, the atmosphere thinner and thinner. (This is true: the sun, seen from space, shines pure white. The short blue wavelengths get lost in our atmosphere, spread out over the sky, leaving the sun only its greens and reds, which in the mathematics of light combine to create yellow.) I fell asleep looking into space from the thin edge of the atmosphere, right there, where I could still breathe, just barely.

III. WE RUN OUT OF DRUGS AND GIVE A PRESENTATION Two weeks later I woke to Priya’s shaking. “What?” It came out as a rasp. “Get up! We have to be at the Javits Center in two hours.” I rolled over and groaned. The Red Bull-Lyft New York App Convention was today. We’d spent the past two weeks frantically preparing. Five days ago, people had broken into one of our dealers’ apartments and THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


‘OrganGrinDR.’ We found a bench near the conference hall and Priya dry-swallowed the oxycodone. I lifted my eyes. There were misspelled words and tech bros everywhere. I groaned, and a young libertarian startled, looking sideways at me before moving on. Priya hit my shoulder. I recoiled, she did it again. “Look at that dude, shady as fuck, wiping his nose near the bathroom. Go, follow him in.” She pushed at me until I stood, and dizzy, I walked towards the bathroom. I opened the door and it looked like there was only one closed stall. I knocked. “Hey man, can I get some? I’m not a cop,” I added weakly. The stall door opened. He handed me a clear bag. I slumped back onto the bench next to Priya. “It was just coke.” I twitched through Priya’s presentation, taking bracing gulps of a flask and trying to ignore how much it hurt my hands to clap. Afterwards, she made her way back to me, her progress punctuated by hand-shaking and conversation. By the time she made it, her smile was fixed in place. “Everyone completely loves our idea,” she said. “What is wrong with these people?’ I stood up slowly, gingerly un-bending my legs, and just kind of moaned. “I don’t know. Everything is horrible. Can we leave?” I’d picked up that guy’s wallet from where he’d dropped it in the bathroom, and we used the cash to take a cab back home. We slept for three days, and woke to news of an IPO for Organizr, the sharing economy revolution for saving the lives of those in need of organs. Priya was pissed for about a day. I did not care. On Thursday, we went for margaritas. “Let’s make money in an ethical way,” I say. “I have a great idea about robbing some banks.” ◆

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ISSUE NO. 7

shot him during a robbery. We were two days into withdrawal. I slowly rose from the bed and found my shirt, wincing at the way the cloth felt as I buttoned it up. Every nerve felt like an exposed tooth, overbright and jangling. I put on my pants in the style of ripping off a bandaid, and then lay still, waiting for the terrible shivering feeling in my legs to pass. I carefully walked to the kitchen. Priya gave me a handful of Imodium A-D and I downed them with a glass of disgustingly warm water. I stood very still, breathing carefully, concentrating on not throwing up as the liquid hit my stomach. As good as heroin made you feel, not doing heroin made you feel ten times worse. On heroin you can only feel one emotion: delirious pleasure and beauty. You only ever have one problem, Do I have enough heroin? But when you run out, you start to feel all the other emotions, you start to realize you have numerous and varied problems, you have to deal with tens of issues instead of just one. It’s terrifying, the way they all crash in at once. I wiped away some tears and straightened myself. Focusing solely on this conference was the only thing keeping us going. We were going to see it through. We had an oxycodone for Priya to take before presenting and then, who knows? Maybe we would die. Oh, I hoped we could collapse and die. We walked to the subway like a pair of geriatrics and slumped on the seats, saving our energy. The entire three avenue-block walk to the Javits Center I felt like Liam Neeson in that movie where he wanders through a cold wilderness but is super tough and brave. Eventually we were in, lanyards around our necks identifying us as


Cat food

2

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Stephens Island Wren Traversia lyalli

LAST RECORD: 1894

1

Dodo

‘Disgusting bird’

Raphus cucullatus LAST RECORD: ~1681

When you hear the word “extinct,” chances are, you probably think of the dodo. In pop culture, the dodo is depicted as a fat, rather gross looking bird, with a grotesque hooked beak. But most of the artists who drew illustrations of the creature had probably never seen a live dodo, and since no complete specimen of a dodo exists, the accuracy of this unflattering image has recently come under fire. Dodos lived peacefully on the small island of Mauritius, until around 1600, when Dutch settlers arrived on the island. It wasn’t unanimously called a dodo right away. There were several names going around, in different languages. Dronte, taken from what is now an obsolete Dutch word that meant “bloated” or “swollen,” possibly even “drunken.” Also walghvogel, which means “disgusting bird” (lol). The word dodo derived from Portugese sailors who called it duodo, or “idiot.” Only 80 years after the disgusting bird was first discovered, it was extinct. Traveling Europeans hunted them, though apparently they didn’t taste great. But what really did the dodo in was not the sailors’ appetites, but the rats, cats, and vermin their ships brought with them. Over the years, this would be the cause of extinction for many birds (see sidebar). It’s hard to imagine a rat taking down a dodo, but the dodo’s eggs were definitely vulnerable to these new predators. by KRISTEN FELICETTI

In 1894, David Lyall, a lighthouse keeper living on Stephens Island, off of New Zealand, noticed his cat Tibbles had been killing and presenting him with the same tiny little birds. They were unlike any bird Lyall had seen before, so he sent them off to ornithological experts, who declared it was a new species. The Stephens Island wren was a small flight bird, yellowish-brown in color, covered in a dark spotted pattern. But no sooner had the bird been discovered than it was rendered extinct. When Tibbles stopped bringing the dead birds to Lyall, it was concluded that the cat had the unique honor of decimating the entire Stephens Island wren population and single-handedly sending the species into extinction. In more recent years, a few ornithologists have tried to vindicate Tibbles by making the case that it was actually several cats on the island that did in the Stephens Island wren. But still, the legend remains that this bird was the only species eliminated by the actions of one creature.

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The Great Auk Pinguinus impennis LAST RECORD: 1844

The great auk was an impressive bird that resembled an oversized penguin. Before they went extinct, they were commonly found on North Atlantic shores. Rats can’t be blamed for this one, excessive hunting Mistaken for witch


OH, RATS. Rodents arriving off ships spelled doom for these extinct birds:

Tahitian Sandpiper, 1777 • Raiatea Parakeet, 1777 • Kosrae Starling, 1828 • Kosrae Crake, 1828 • Kittlitz’s Thrush, 1828 Huppe, 1840 • Tahiti Parakeet, 1844 • Samoan Wood-rail, 1874 • Hawaiian Spotted Rail, 1884 • Auckland Islands Merganser, 1902 • Piopio, 1902 • Robust White-eye, 1918 Slender Bush Wren, 1972 • Barred-winged Rail, 1973

Died alone in cage

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Passenger Pigeon Ectopistes migratorius

L AST RECORD: 1PM, SEP T. 1, 1914

Many extinct species were exotic from the beginning, seen by only a select few who had the ability to travel to remote islands. Not the passenger pigeon. In the mid-1800s, the passenger pigeon was probably the most abundant bird in the world. The estimated population was around 3 billion, and in North America, they made up more than 1 out of every 3 birds. By 1914, the number of passenger pigeons alive was zero. So what the hell happened? True to their name, these birds traveled in massive flocks. When they migrated, a flying black swarm might darken the sky for hours, even days. When such dense flocks passed overhead, hunting them was popular and easy, since it was nearly impossible to miss. Local shooting competitions offered prizes for people who hit 20,000 kills in a day. But even at those numbers, considering how many passenger pigeons existed at the time, it’s unlikely hunting killed every last one. There was something else at work, but exactly what is still a mystery. Theories include deforestation, avian disease, as well as overhunting coinciding with a natural dramatic fluctuation in the species’ population. A fourteen-year-old boy possibly shot the last wild passenger pigeon in Ohio. A few more held on in captivity. The last living one was named Martha, held on display at the Cincinnati Zoo. For such a social species, it must have been a lonely existence to be Martha, the last living passenger pigeon on earth. Eventually, she succumbed. It has been falsely reported that she took her last breaths while being observed by a hushed team of ornithologists. In truth, Martha died alone. On the afternoon of September 1st, 1914, one of her caretakers returned to find Martha dead in her cage. ◆

S U M M E R 2 O 17

is what did the great auk in. And no, it wasn’t simply sailors enjoying some auks for dinner, they were being hunted for their feathers and eggs. Their eggs were some of the most beautiful eggs of any species. They were large, oblong, with a light color covered in a dark Jackson Pollockesque splatter. Hunters often stripped these birds of their feathers and then left them to freeze to death naked. Other auks were clubbed and beaten, and then, sometimes while still alive, tossed into vats of boiling water, which had the effect of loosening the feathers off their bodies. If you want to paint an even bleaker scene, the fires that heated those vats of boiling water were fueled by the fat and oil of auks that had already been plucked and slaughtered. The ways the last few great auks came to an end were deeply fucked and graphic in their violence. Some locals on the island of St. Kilda captured a live auk and put the bird in a cage for three days. When a storm blew up, the islanders naturally presumed that the auk was a witch and beat it to death with stones. Gerfunglasker, a small island off Iceland, was one of the great auk’s last refuges. Its steep siding and rough surf made it off-limits for sailors. But it was also volcanic, and in 1830, an eruption sank the entire island and with it, auks. A few of them managed to escape to the nearby island of Eldey, which was unfortunately more human-accessible. Fishermen searching for auks landed there in 1844. Predictably, as soon as they saw two auks, they attacked. The auks tried to escape, but were both seized and strangled to death. The female had been sitting on an egg, but a sailor crushed that too. And this was the last record of the great auk ever being seen.


eternity b y O SC A R D ’A R TO I S

as a 7 yr old i pictured heaven as a library an enormous blueish-blackish corridor lit all around by stars when u got to the room where god was god (who didn’t have a face) pulled out a long list & asked u what animal or plant or whatever u felt like being reincarnated as this time needless to say i got beat up a lot by the other kids in school

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p h o to g ra p h b y PH I L PI E R C E

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ISSUE NO. 7

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aperol angst

p h o to g ra p h b y PH I L PI E R C E

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b y O SC A R D ’A R TO I S

confessing to a poet friend on a trip one summer where we drank a lot that in spite of everything feeling so pleasant i couldn’t stop thinking of ‘how quickly reality can be inverted’ a car could run over someone’s foot say or isis abduct us on the bus i wanted him to think i was interesting i think but he said ‘o, i don’t like that i don’t like that at all’ a year later i read somewhere that ‘always imagining the worst’ is the definition of anxiety according to freud

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S U M M E R 2 O17

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THE

31

LIGHT

A photographer’s daughter unearths a trove of images and a unique glimpse into Detroit’s Black history.

D AY

words CO R L I S S E L I Z A B E T H W I L L I A M S p h o to g ra p h s PH I L L I P D . W I L L I A M S , S R .

ISSUE NO. 7

OF


My father was a teacher, and Department Head of Business and Accounting for Detroit Public Schools for 39½ years. He was also a photographer who took his passion for photography as seriously as his full-time teaching job. Until now, many of his photos lived only in basement boxes. This photo 1 and the one of my mother (opening spread)

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1

are from his experiments with multiple exposures, which was the style he had the most fun producing. I came across a bag of super old photos that must have been my mother’s from college, and this particular one 2 had a note written to her. People don’t write enough notes in the world that we live in now—but when you come across one on the back of a print, it just seems to take you back in time. There is a certain beauty in that. I can tell you that my parents are the most social people that I know. I have no idea who this is 3 , but the picture clearly captures a performer at what was probably one of the most awesome disco parties ever. This print I came across 4 is not only a beautiful object; it also serves as a reminder to me that my dad’s pictures must be preserved—because several of his prints have fallen victim to water damage in the basement.

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2

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S U M M E R 2 O 17


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These are my grandparents, Mabel and Richard Lowry. My dad would often have us sit for him and he’d do different variations of studio photography. This series captures their profile and the back of their heads, but he also did ¾ turns as well, creating a 360° rotation.

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ISSUE NO. 7


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2

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For more, follow @mydadspictures on Instagram.

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4

My father shot portraits for his students on their lunch breaks. He always had fresh ideas for fashion backdrops—as well as ones for special occasions like Halloween, Prom 3 , Christmas, and “Sweetest Day” (a Midwestern Valentine’s Day). The students looked forward to it; they dressed their best and I could see how empowered they felt in the final prints they received. This particular

portrait 1 is dear to me, because the guy on the left was one of my dad’s favorite, most accomplished students. He also was, and still is, my hairdresser whenever I come home My dad also admired lovely ladies 2 . A bunch of photographers and models would descend upon the local Michigan lakes and other areas, for what would now be known as “open call” modeling. All the women photographed had a natural beauty and confidence. Since my dad is usually the one behind the camera, there aren’t many pictures of him— but this one 4 captures him at his best—in his words, “The Michelangelo of the Lenses.”

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S U M M E R 2 O 17


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Robin

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b y G E N I S E PA I G E D E A L

How to ask a them out on a date: Send him memes, light pink candles, like all of his recent pictures,

I am tamed, fresh breath, my larynx is lubricated, obnoxiously high,

i l l u s t rat i o n b y Z E B A D I A H K E N E A L LY

Each moment has happened ....already happens... ...ubiquitously happening... Hoarding the rental space I’ve made it special for you for my night to stare at the ghost haunting you and the divinity that keeps you safe it would seem archaic and male body of me to immortalize your beauty by painting you like one of my French girls to Robert Browning your beauty in common meter thank you for the cd, and the chap book, and the sticker, the tape for my dusty tape player

ISSUE NO. 7

Read your horoscope Dream doubtfully, but believe in them. Castle those beliefs into towers, high. Especially the hopes that have already died …will die… ...are dying... Hands can pick the right words, foot knuckles claw to touch daring to motion closer, to mortal knees bent backwards on the kitchen sink. Squinting to count the coals dripping off of coffee grinds.


How many basements between us, 40z and rolled cigarettes Friends that have lost kinship, lovers like streams passing their bodies carving a flood in and through our memories ...how much of a drought has there been since My friend Phill wrote a poem about memories once, Do you remember the first time you wanted to remember? When it was apparent, those markings in the nursery memories glued with chopstick and colored pencils, memories that beg you to never forget them Till they pleaded in the quiet wind under a bridge at 2 am Walmart spray cans make everything smell like sitting in your moms car at the gas station Under a bridge, I am intoxicated by gasoline, fog, wonderful people, painting. Waiting ...while I wait... ...have waited... the weighted cars wear out the pavement, above our haggard heads, under the bridge watching, purple blacks splat on white Remembering, being remembered, I remember the last

i l l u s t rat i o n b y Z E B A D I A H K E N E A L LY

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m a rb l e d d raw i n g b y S H E RY L O PPE N H E I M

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Black Listed b y G E N I S E PA I G E D E A L

Darkness is black, because To be dark Is to shade into neutral value To be black Black then turns to seek definition or to accept submission having already been defined Shoes can be black, So can ice but your shiny black shoes can’t protect you from the slippery stains of black ice Under the pretty white snow, so tell your children to beware Of black streets that color will stain concrete Cause even trees look black in the light, mimicking a silhouette through the window during the day times sometimes the Black tree dances for you If you pay it enough attention You may see these beautiful black silhouetted leaves pirouette, from the black finger like twigs twirling vigorously with the wind

ISSUE NO. 7

What is Black? Black Bears, Black Cats


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Black Like these black ankles I have significantly darker than brown Like my black elbows and black knees And I barely notice until I’m tangled with the one I love And he’s white all over Then I notice how black, is my black Like my scribbles on random white pages in notebooks: Distant from each other in space and time, that speaks of my distorted truths Birthed from infectious lies that sound so good in my head But couldn’t come out and wouldn’t die in So my dark Black lies spin impurities Aching to the core defecating insecurities Vomiting intense feelings of love that I didn’t want to mean Because I am black Not like: Rainbows or birthday clowns Or skittle bags, or spring cardigan sweaters Or Martha’s Vineyard in July Black like old bibles in Catholic churches, Black headdresses on nuns Black like the blood of Jesus Christ on the third day Like suffering from sins craved from your first birthday Black like no favorite color Black as the hair that grows from my roots, Roots Black like the soil settled into the earth Trampled over by obnoxious color Black like ink stains on your pants That you kept close for when words danced or Spat from mouth Through black gums Before using your smoking tongue to kiss your lover Under this black like night Lit by balls of light to brighten tonight now I see this phrase with spite Everything is beautiful in a metaphor Except for black Converted catachresis that tells me my skin’s always under attack But it remains black Like my subconscious existence, To be dark is to be black is to be black is to be black is

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3. this wanting, arms reaching out, stretching out, greedily— give me more than what I’ve got

Process

2. I’ve been seeing dead rats on the road on my way home from work, my little stretch of Hart St. eventually of course it’s just the same dead rats over and over again in different states of decay, a little flatter, edges curled, tail sickeningly thick. a new necrotic creature every time, victim of a more gruesome but highly effective form of pest control. I see it coming.

1.

do you remember to laugh in the small moments that remind you that your gut is usually right that you know much sooner and better than you see that maps are built within you every time you make a choice that only you can tell?

I still remember the dogs I would see along the 110 on my way to work in Torrance, tiny pups on their sides like forgotten stuffed animals, not one ever looked real. too many to dismiss as coincidence, they were a sign of things ending, I knew it even then. bad omens shaking you awake even though you were sure, so so sure. but when did certainty ever promise permanence? a reason, a season, a lifetime. the poison comes out as an act of desperation that always leaves a bad taste in my mouth, even just being complicit. a necessary betrayal. there is a guilt, it hits as he surrenders. but you need your peace, you are both entitled to your peace.

—a declaration so bold, so troublesome and what is it indicative of? an actual void or a perceived one? an external need for satisfaction or an invitation to observe within? desire, what is your motivation? what am I to learn here? “we are the same” soft tongue on an old wound, a warmth unexpected it’s true we seek each other a perpetual rough only soothed by its own kind a longing to be recognized

b y TAY LO R YAT E S


First of the Month

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by

THOM SMITH

THE BUSHWICK REVIEW


Long before the word “selfie� reached ubiquity, a 22-year-old student set out to photograph his face every month for as long as he could. Ten years in, he takes a look back.

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ISSUE NO. 7

10 . 2006


THESIS

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12 . 2006

1 . 2007

2 . 2007

3 . 2007

4 . 2007

7 . 2007

8 . 2007

9 . 2007

10 . 2007

11 . 2007

12 . 2007

3 . 2008

4 . 2008

5 . 2008

6 . 2008

7 . 2008

8 . 2008

11 . 2008

12 . 2008

1 . 2009

2 . 2009

3 . 2009

4 . 2009

A

D

JU

S

T

IN

G

11 . 2006

W E N OB J O T VE IM R E

HEARTBROKEN

7 . 2009

8 . 2009

9 . 2009

-ISH

10 . 2009

11 . 2009

12 . 2009

7 . 2010

8 . 2010

NEW CAMERA

3 . 2010

4 . 2010

5 . 2010

6 . 2010

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GRADU

AT ING

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5 . 2007

6 . 2007

CARNIVAL

1 . 2008

2 . 2008

RE

TU

R

IN

G

10 . 2008

IN LOVE -ISH

5 . 2009

6 . 2009

1 . 2 010

2 . 2010

9 . 2010

10 . 2010

S U M M E R 2 O17

9 . 2008

N

I started taking photos as a hobby while in architecture school, and after a while I noticed a pattern of self-portraits, made roughly once a month. So I decided to start a project: schedule a picture of myself regularly on the first of the month (yes, inspired by the Bone Thugsn-Harmony song), and continue for as long as possible. I wondered how I would change over time. My goals were simultaneously objective and subjective—to document my physical appearance and environment while also creating a visual narrative exploring my identity as a young adult male. I sought to capture a range of locations and moods, but I also took the photo when it was convenient, in places I would normally experience, with the clothes I had on. I wanted them to show my routine, my adventures, and my life as it looked at the beginning of every month. Ten years later, I’m surprised that I can still generally remember what was going on behind every shot. The consistent format and pose belie the excitement, confusion, heartbreak, happiness, exhaustion, calm, or chaos I felt. Some details in the frame give clues, and I also deliberately played with how to represent myself in different ways. Ultimately, these photos are useful to me—by going back to remember who I was and who I’ve become, I think of how I can keep exploring with every shutter click, each month, for another ten years and beyond.


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L

M

O

S

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11 . 2010

IN LOVE

12 . 2010

1 . 2 011

2 . 2011

3 . 2011

4 . 2011

OVERBOOKED

11 . 2011

12 . 2011

1 . 2 012

2 . 2012

3 . 2012

4 . 2012

4 . 2013

•A

NG

11 . 2012

PT I

CE C

1 . 2 013

2 . 2013

3 . 2013

12 . 2013

1 . 2 014

2 . 2014

3 . 2014

C

12 . 2012

A R N IV A

F

IL

T

E

R

IN

G

L

4 . 2014

N JO EW B

11 . 2013

T

R

11 . 2014

12 . 2014

1 . 2 015

YI

NG

2 . 2015

3 . 2015

4 . 2015

2 . 2016

3 . 2016

4 . 2016

RESETTING

11 . 2015

12 . 2015

1 . 2 016

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L O N G DISTANCE

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IN LOVE

6 . 2011

7 . 2011

8 . 2011 U

S

9 . 2011

10 . 2011

D TE

K

E

N

EX

H

A

5 . 2011

9 . 2012

10 . 2012

8 . 2013

9 . 2013

10 . 2013

R

8 . 2012

A

7 . 2012

IN LO

H

E

6 . 2012

T

B

R

O

HURRICANE

5 . 2012

5 . 2013

6 . 2013

VE

7 . 2013

ISSUE NO. 7

LICENSED

OVERWHELMED

5 . 2014

6 . 2014

7 . 2014

8 . 2014

9 . 2014

10 . 2014

PROCESS -ING

EXPLORING

5 . 2015

6 . 2015

7 . 2015

8 . 2015

9 . 2015

10 . 2015

ANTICIPATING

5 . 2016

6 . 2016

7 . 2016

8 . 2016

9 . 2016

10 . 2016


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1997 tex t & i m ag e b y S A D I E R E B ECC A S TA R N E S

chicken bits after sunday service grandmother won’t cook since pop pop passed we order by the pound or by the heartache luxuriant in our cotton patent lycra sets doctor finds mother and I a bit soft in flesh and in teeth in wet eye and german foot water on the knee and on the brain dead beat father maimed I’m feeling like I’m looking for a child born under The sign of november and beau-jangles

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When They Died

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by SARAH JEAN ALEXANDER

Capitol to lie in state. I felt excited because it was a school night. We stood in a line that snaked through multiple parks and made acquaintances with the people near us. Over a hundred thousand people made the same trip that we did, and we all waited for hours. We drove back to Baltimore the next morning and I showed off to my friends, telling them I never went to sleep once the night before. I was 20 years old when Bernie Mac died. My cousin and three of our other friends and I were camping somewhere in the woods on the Mason-Dixon line. My sister texted me that Bernie Mac died. We were fishing and everyone caught multiple fish. I couldn’t catch any. I was 27 years old when David Bowie died. My light-blocking curtains were drawn and I was lying in the dark next to my boyfriend, beginning to wake up. He was looking at his phone already, his face reflecting its bright, blue light. He said oh no quietly, and I felt scared right away. He said David Bowie died and I reached for my phone too.

S U M M E R 2 O17

I was 8 years old when Tupac died. My older sister came home from school and said a boy named Jermaine was on the school bus walking up and down the aisle, holding his head, and repeating Tupac’s dead, Tupac’s dead. That boy grew up and now he’s the rapper J. Cole. I was 9 years old when Princess Diana died. My best friend Natasha had spent the night and in the morning we were in my mother’s bedroom, hanging out on her bed while she got ready for work. My mother told us Princess Diana was in a car accident and died. The first thing I did was smile, in the way that you know something is awful, but you feel nervous and can’t stop smiling. Natasha said why are you smiling? She was smiling too. I said I don’t know, why are you smiling? And she said I don’t know, it’s not funny though. I was 12 years old when Dale Earnhardt died. I never watched NASCAR racing but I happened to stop the television on FOX because the announcers said it was the final lap. I watched him crash and then he was dead. I was 13 years old when Aaliyah died, and I cried a lot. I was 16 years old when Ronald Reagan died. My father drove my mother and me to D.C. to attend the viewing of his casket a few days after when his body was flown to the


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ghost love (for bowie) tex t & i m ag es b y S A D I E R E B ECC A S TA R N E S

when fermenting space across a season and keeping a loved one’s death in your pocket on the key rings of Saturn while fingering the souvenirs of developing countries do look towards the telly under two feet, under 6 inches, oh boy the static news comes they broke the speed of light to fling us at that god-faced planet nine science pets our broken hearts with 1500 years of dark matters, so blue lash’d are these measures looking for harmony undone, it does seem a bloated compensation of an invisible mass ten times hungrier than earth yet is it not just a hole in the star bucket we’re tossing our wishes into : plutos and pennies, dimes and dead pop stars belvedere’s tummy grumbling at me those 20 years you’ve had it wrong, you know isn’t that ghost a love?

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Our State of Being

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b y A L I SO N B R E A D E N

There is a figure in the distance sailing toward me. I will receive this person, but I will not speak first. When they call out, “Do you know the Sun?,” I will reply, “Yes, I know the Sun.” I make my way to the peartrees, where I experiment with which pose will best convey my goodness. I inhale and exhale the air that I will soon be sharing.

We will look at my crystals and eat fruit together.

S U M M E R 2 O17

I will invite this whoever onto my island and be gentle with our state of being.

i l l u s t rat i o n b y C H R I S C H A I


Contributors

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SARAH JEAN ALEXANDER

is an American writer from Baltimore. She is the author of Wildlives (Big Lucks Books, 2015) and LOUD IDIOTS (Second Books, 2016) and has been featured in The Fader, Noisey, The Quietus, Dazed Digital, Lenny Letter, and other places online and in print. She is the poetry editor of Shabby Doll House and tweets @sarahjeanalex. ALISON BREADEN

left Vermont for New York City in 2001 to study graphic design at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Today, she lives in Brooklyn and works for the experiential marketing firm, HudsonGray, where her design and printing expertise are required. Alison is the winner of “The Red Fern Award” essay contest, for which she received a Treeing Walker puppy, a NiteLite® helmet lamp, and a signed copy of John Wick’s Walk With Wick: The Tree Dog Encyclopedia.

Alison is not a hunter anymore, but feels at home in the woods. CHRIS CHAI

(B. 1987) is a full time practicing illustrator and artist and a graduate from the School of Visual Arts Illustration Program in New York City (2013). He often incorporates geometric shapes, decorative ornamentation and repetitive, patterned elements into his imagery reflecting the artist’s perpetual investigation of spirituality. Through his work Chai hopes to expand both his awareness and imagination by creating fictional worlds where gods, men, monsters and all manner of being exist on a unified plane of existence. DEXTER CIPRIAN

is an artist living and working in Brooklyn, NY. His work has been exhibited at The Bronx Museum of the Arts, The Vazquez Building, Myrtle Light Studios and The Angel Orensanz Foundation, and has been featured

in Hyperallergic, The New York Times, New York Magazine, and ArtNet Magazine. He received a Masters in Architecture from Yale University. OSCAR D’ARTOIS

was born in 1989 in Paris, France. He is the author of Teen Surf Goth (Metatron, 2015). He is currently on the lookout for an apartment in Seattle. GENISE PA I G E D E A L

is a New York, Lower East Side native, and is temporally hiding from the world in New Brunswick, NJ. In New Jersey, she studies English with a concentration in performance art theory at Rutgers University. Currently, Genise’s focus pertains to: becoming a better writer, starting the hardcore band of her dreams, meeting as many beautiful people as possible, and capturing simple happy moments. But as the Friar says, “The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb.” Genise’s only hope, in this life, is to give her

grandmother’s last name the grace and remembrance it deserves. Love you, Addie Deal. KENTON DeANGELI

lives in Brooklyn and will pay good money for spare organs. KRISTEN FELICETTI

is a writer, filmmaker, and the editor of The Bushwick Review. She also is a VJ who does live analog visuals for bands at venues around the country. kristenfelicetti.com ZEBADIAH K E N E A L LY

(Hamburger Vampire) is a transmedia artist working in Brooklyn. He has performed at Mixed Greens, the Wassaic Project, and on the Manhattan Neighborhood Network. Recent works include production and costume design for Mike Doughty’s rock opera, REVELATION, which premiered at WNYC’s Greene Space. Keneally’s drawings, paintings, sculptures, and books have been shown in New York

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Contributors City, Los Angeles, Detroit, Ho Chi Minh City, and Kuwait City. His books and publications are in the collections of the MoMA Library, the Thomas J. Watson Library at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Whitney Bookstore. A DA M J . K U R T Z

is an artist and author of 1 Page at a Time, which is barely a book. He enjoys eating bread.

was raised in Orlando, Florida, and lives and works in Brooklyn. She is a painter and self-taught marbler who took an interest in the craft after encountering marbled paper at her first job in New York City, at a bookbinding and paper supply house. Her work is in the collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Watson Library, Walker Art Center, the New York Public Library, and the Brooklyn Museum Library, among others.

as the editor of The Bushwick Review have visited, and he recommends that you do too. For larger self portraits, visit flickr.com/ photos/tomtomklub.

MICHELE ROSENTHAL

is a freelance illustrator living in Brooklyn. She blogs about film and queer history, and she is mildly self-diagnosed faceblind. michelerosenthal.com BUD SMITH

is the author of the novels F250, Tollbooth, and I’m From Electric Peak, among others. He works heavy construction in New Jersey, building and maintaining power plants and refineries. budsmithwrites.com THOM SMITH

is a licensed architect who lives in New Orleans and designs urban environments, learns from cities, and lives with water at the multidisciplinary firm, Waggonner & Ball. He arrived on the bayou to serve in AmeriCorps and rebuild Katrina damaged houses, fell in love with the place, and stayed. Several contributors as well

Born in the American South, SADIE REBECCA S TA R N E S

is a writer and painter. She regularly exhibits artwork in New York and Tokyo, and publishes with magazines such as Art Critical. After 3 years in Japan, she came to New York to reflect on seismology, radiation and hemispheres from a less volatile continental plate. Starnes is continually negotiating disparate cultures, (psychic) cartographies and Southernisms to understand each according to their negative space. She continually returns to Tokyo—her vibrating second home—and is working on a film-essay to explore why. TIM V I E N C KOW S K I

is a graphic designer in Brooklyn. Ask him about his dog! timtimtimtim.com

CORLISS ELIZABETH WILLIAMS

was born in Metro Detroit and is a graduate of Pratt Institute. She worked for more than ten years in editorial art direction and design at publications like Bloomberg Markets, TIME, and The New York Times Magazine. In 2015, she founded The Lowry Estate, selling exceptional vintage clothing. She currently resides in the peaceful midwest with her husband, daughter, and fat surly ginger cat, Pozzo. thelowryestate.com PHILLIP D. WILLIAMS, SR.

bought his first Pentax in 1973 and has practiced photography for over 40 years alongside a career in education. He maintains that his wife is the best model he’s ever had (see p.30). TAY L O R YAT E S

is the editor-in-chief of Selfish as well as a writer and bassist. Her work has been featured in DUM DUM Zine and the In Full Color Anthology.

ISSUE NO. 7

S H E RY L OPPENHEIM

PHIL PIERCE

is a musician and songwriter who’s one half of the duo Buffalo Sex Change. buffalosexchange .bandcamp.com

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“When my husband, Fred, died, my father told me that time does not heal all wounds  but gives us the tools to endure them. I have found this to be true in the greatest and smallest of matters. Looking to the future, I am certain that the hard rain will not cease falling, and that we will all need to be vigilant. The year is coming to an end; on December 30th, I will perform ‘Horses’ with my band, and my son and daughter, in the city where I was born. And all the things I have seen and experienced and remember will be within me, and the remorse I had felt so heavily will joyfully meld withallothermoments. Seventy years of moments, seventy years of being human.” —Patti Smith, The New Yorker, 12/14/2016


F E AT U R I N G C O N T R I B U T I O N S BY

Sarah Jean ALEXANDER Alison BREADEN Chris CHAI Dexter CIPRIAN Oscar D’ARTOIS Genise Paige DEAL Kenton DeANGELI Kristen FELICETTI Zebadiah KENEALLY Adam J. KURTZ Sheryl OPPENHEIM Phil PIERCE Michele ROSENTHAL Bud SMITH Thom SMITH Sadie Rebecca STARNES Tim VIENCKOWSKI Corliss Elizabeth WILLIAMS Phillip D. WILLIAMS, Sr. Taylor YATES

Profile for The Bushwick Review

The Bushwick Review—Issue VII  

Issue #7 of The Bushwick Review, an art & literary publication created in Brooklyn, New York, published in June 2017.

The Bushwick Review—Issue VII  

Issue #7 of The Bushwick Review, an art & literary publication created in Brooklyn, New York, published in June 2017.

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