Spring 2016 2 2 artifact nouveau

ARTIFACT NOUVEAU

SPRING 2016 VOLUME 2 ISSUE 2

A Writers’ Guild Publication

ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Volume 2 Issue 2

EDITORIAL TEAM Maggie Anderson Mikael Honzell Jennier Lausier Jaysyn A. McDaniel Agustin Rios Jr. Myles Salas James Shoemaker Vanessa M. Soto FACULTY ADVISOR Sarah Antinora FRONT COVER ART Mourvedre The Dancing Fox Wine Logo

by Rowland Hal Cheney BACK COVER ART Fantasy Creek by James Shoemaker Artifact Nouveau is a publication of works from the San

Joaquin Delta College community. It celebrates the artistic and creative works of its students, faculty, alumni, and employees. It is published by the Writers’ Guild of San Joaquin Delta College. The contributors certify the works are their own. The views of these works do not reflect the opinions of the administration or trustees of Delta College.

Artifact Nouveau copyright remains with respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent. ©2016

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SAN JOAQUIN DELTA COLLEGE Superintendent/ President: Dr. Kathy Hart Board of Trustees President: Steve Castellanos, FAIA Vice President: Claudia Moreno Clerk: Janet Rivera Student Trustee: Raquel Romero Dr. Teresa Brown Catherine Mathis, M.D. C. Jennet Stebbins Richard Vasquez

A Letter from the Writers’ Guild President This issue of Artifact Nouveau is both my second and my last as the president of the Writers’ Guild. For the past two semesters, I have had the privilege of working with a team of talented individuals who share my passion for literature. As I prepare for a new chapter in life, I cannot help but feel saddened to think about what I will be leaving behind and all that is still left to accomplish.

Some of you are reading this because we have accepted your work. For some of you, this is the second time I have had the honor of publishing your pictures, poems, and short stories. It is important to me that you are aware that I am your adoring fan, and I am so thrilled to have been one of the first people to see your masterpieces. Wherever our journeys take us, I hope to see you again on the pages of future issues, and I hope that you remember us when you become famous –I am sure that you will.

There is a piece of all of us in this issue: myself, the members of the Writers’ Guild, and those who have submitted their works to us. As you read, I hope you find that there is a piece in it that tessellates with yours, and that you find comfort in knowing that it will be here whenever you need it. This is truly an Artifact of one of my life’s best milestones.

Your President, Maggie Anderson “So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

–Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

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Table of Contents The Cry of the Dead by Jaysyn A. McDaniel .............5 Ode to London by Patricia Mayorga .........................7 The New Year’s Countdown

by Alyssa Palomares ......................................................12 My Own Little World by Jaysyn A. McDaniel .......13 An Old Volume by Jessica Driver ..............................15 Untitled Poem by Michael Duffett .........................16 Castaways by Alexander Chellsen .............................17 The Little Orphan Girl Who Flew

by Vanessa M. Soto ..........................................................19 Demand More than a Memory by Joy Neas ...............21 On Rediscovering Conscious Music

by Princess Aisha Cordero Ricacho .....................22 Holy Ground by Brenda Kay Ledford ..........................24 Sturm und Drang by Martin H. Levinson................26 A Term of Respect by Sofia Resendiz .........................28 Devil’s Knee Park by Louis Pantoja ...........................32 River Song by Jess Driver..............................................37 3

Table of Contents cont.

Untitled Poems by Seyed Javad Saberi ......................39 Love’s Carcass by Shokoofeh Jabbari ......................40 Inner City on a Saturday by John Grey ....................41 The Widow Spider by John Grey .................................43 Happy Anniversary, Beauty

by Stephen Knight ..........................................................45 Catching the Wind by Kathryn R. Walkowiec ......46 Woman. by Claudia Martinez .....................................47 Ladies: A Haiku Collection

by Peter Hawley ..............................................................49 Life’s Little Dagger by Daniel Moore........................50 The Right Fit by Mikael Honzell ..............................51 Excavation by Janet Veil...............................................58 Fairbanks 142 by Joshua Medsker.................................59 My Ticket Stub Said: Admit One to the Infinite

by Chuck Von Nordheim ...............................................60 Mom by Beverly Perry.....................................................61 Speak from the Whirlwind, Jehovah

by Sam Hatch.....................................................................63

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The Cry of the Dead

by Jaysyn

A. McDaniel

Their cries had always been in them.

For all who have ever committed suicide were afflicted to

their cores, With misery killing them day by day, piece by piece.

They searched for someone who cared; a reason to keep on living.

They showed invisible signs And though they tended to be mute about their feelings, They were always yelling.

And when the day came that they had been drained of all hope, They committed acts against themselves.

They weighed themselves down with the weight of the world, Drowning themselves in pools filled with tears of oppression.

They pierced themselves with the sharp knife of their own

harsh criticism, Because all they knew was pain.

All they knew was how to poison themselves with lies and

overdose in pity.

They grabbed onto the rope handed to them by a

neglectful society And strangled themselves with it.

All they knew was how to jump off of the bridge of

potential happiness, And plunge headfirst into the ocean of disappointment.

But their cries were let out after their earthly departure.

Their disturbing shrieks were heard out in the streets.

Then those screeches became the existing sounds in all of

the city’s nightmares, Stalking the people that knew them like paranoia.

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Searching for Something Magical

by Eva Martinez

Thoughts of the diseased haunted the people day and night.

They saw the faces of the diseased in the ghostly moon

during the blackness of midnight.

Remembrance and sympathy for the dead is everywhere now.

And it took all of this for the people they knew to understand.

Because when the door of a suicidal person’s life is closed, Others suddenly want in.

Why do so many awaken once somebody they knows goes

to sleep?

O, if only someone would have hearkened to them before

the time was gone!

If only someone would’ve listened to their silence!

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Ode to London

by Patricia Mayorga I went to meet a man at his home sometime ago.

Everything was laid so graciously for an uninvited guest.

The trees in his garden towered knowingly above and I could hear him whisper, “Please come for a stroll,” through the swaying of limbs brushing against a silent blue.

Spoken of as an adventurer a dreamer a sailor a philosopher, I’ll just call you, Sir. I imagine you to be, Sir, a man whose given time was to live as a brilliance of radiance burning passages throughout your journey.

As I climbed up the paths that you once rode across, I could hear the ghostly neigh of your riding mate that you must have stroked gently on the mane galloping to your dreams hidden past the creek in a crest of secret tales.

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Baring my feet to the singing creek softly caressing tender smooth pebbles long ago escaping the clutch of the sinewy boulder now free to lie within the pebbles’ own destiny.

Was that what you requested for man to break free, a pebble in the vast shed from boulders of wealth to pull the riding mate’s rein and take a rightful seat a spot in the wilderness small tokens of dignity to sustain life through adversity asked to face the turmoil with pride, not shame specks of dirt from the earth beneath the nails to become an honest day’s meal.

In your travels did you see the light of truth shine from the eyes of many shades absorbed into your pores compassion due the desperate soul whose bowl of nourishment served on wooden trays while serving kings whose bowls overflowed; such inequity.

Just past a lover’s meadow a butterfly decorates the blue I leaned against the moss rugged wall and watched her graceful dance 8

so perfect, so very much alone.

Did you lean against the mossy wall and watch the butterfly’s dance troupe just a short seventy five years before when they were allowed to live.

Were their costumes of assorted colors sprayed gently patterned on the wings while dancing in the meadow entertaining the God of nature and the little people of the earth watched in awe; the price one meager token of silence while the butterflies’ ballet accompanied by lyrics, sweet tunes of Mozart flowing from the creek.

Laws of morality, not so divine for those to be created by the strength of the strong.

The comfort of the clan not bound by kinship bands for necessity of numbers form notches on the rope.

Across the seas and desert sands the power of the laws did but prove the caveman wise; Oh London, Oh London, how well you knew the strength of the global tribe.

The word of the Master rings high above the valley for such a meager oil pence gatherers march across the fields and stomp out the enemy to carry out the Master’s will.

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Arranging a simple setting For a tasty midday snack by your golden pond where the youngsters giggled baring yearning legs to wade with the tadpoles as the sun sliced silver cuts blinding silent shadows from passing hazy clouds.

Here it must have been where your mind’s eye saw. entrees far too scanty being laid by a political chef while the gourmet trout upon its special menu set aside for the special few whose numbers never to match those who drop the nets into raging waters to be handed their reward; there shall be no welcoming band yet another passage to be scrawled into brave soldiers’ stained journals.

And, Sir, what was it that you shared with the mighty wolf; was he wiser than man?

Were you tasted in your journey, where blood mingled with the wolf and you became one in the spirit?

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Oh, perilous London, did you live short enough to discern the purpose of my being?

Is the answer to be found so simply as to love startling all to stillness and the purpose shall take its place in the rapture of one embrace that will save the human race in the belly of the storm.

Oh, London, Oh, London!

Dear Sir, is the riddle answered in your garden soft whispers of love to smother out the pain.

Dear Sir, Oh, London, I met a man at his home sometime ago.

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ma CrimÊe by Małgorzata Skałbania

The New Year’s Countdown

by Alyssa Palomares

Fifteen minutes to four in the morning, I count down the syllables in each line I write. How many words will it take to satisfy this Avarice, curled up and cozy, making home where my heart once reigned?

Twenty minutes to six in the morning.

I’ve found a specific contentment in watching the world awaken.

Most mornings, it is enough.

Some mornings, I swear that empty space beside me shouldn’t be.

There’s less than ten hours left in this year.

This modernized, old-fashioned type makes digitized mixtapes, but she thinks in scratched vinyl. The needle skips. I wished to make it big. I was your one hit wonder; I was hoping I’d be more.

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My Own Little World by Jaysyn A. McDaniel I am a riddle with few solutions.

Curious people wait at the gates of my reserve and expect me to open up so easily to everyone, but my spirit is most comfortable inside of the home of my body.

No one can understand me better than I do myself.

And because I make no sense to the world in reality, I create my own worlds.

I paint illustrations with my imagination.

I compare all introverts to sea shells.

We seem to others as hollow and quiet until you listen

closely…and realize that our insides are echoing Echoing ECHOING With the life and noise from the unknown.

My mind can sometimes be like a dark cave with many depths and crevices which no other man can see in nor enter.

Creative minds are like un-composed symphonies with each

thought serving as a note.

Again, my mind is like a massive cage teeming with birds that drop feathers here and there. But everyone has birds which they cannot let loose and notes that they cannot sing.

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for Paul by Małgorzata Skałbania

My mind is an unstoppable river.

My mind is a place where I laugh at jokes which have not

been told.

A place full of wonder.

A place where my emotions predict the weather.

A place where I can be free to experience my odd fantasies

over and over again.

A place where secrets are locked up and disturbing

thoughts are abundant.

A place where fears can capture me.

My own little world is my oasis of thought. It contains

everything that there is to know about me.

And then some‌ 14

Underwater Cave by James Shoemaker

Threadbare binding and brittle leafs, sweet, moldering lignin sheets.

A bug carcass flayed between the pages; I’m at home in these sallow creases.

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An Old Volume by Jessica Driver

Possessed, I thank God, of a library In which I can lose myself for the rest Of a life, I fear no fathomless abyss, No darts of daunting boredom. My days Will end, as they have proceeded though life Of consciousness, with thought, with engagement With matters that, since the passing of callow Youth, have kept me vibrating with a sense Of what it is to be alive, to be That “terrible thing” that has fallen “Into the hands of the living God,” To have been born with responsibility To rise or fall around the spectrum Of animal, vegetable, mineral matter.

Untitled by Michael Duffett

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Castaways

by Alexander Chellsen We catch our breaths and close our eyes.

Overboard, we hit the sea in a shallow dive.

Hopes of life rafts pass us by.

The bodies floating in the water cannot be revived.

I mouth curses and count my strides.

I find your pulse, unconvinced that I’m alive.

Shipwrecked dreams come in with the tides, They’re all that’s left of the castaways that survived.

Stranded on the coast, we were close to losing what we loved most.

I feel it in my throat when I note we never got off the boat.

We crashed when we made contact.

Driftwood is our only artifact.

Our past is the present amateur performers try to reenact.

We are islands Ruled by tyrants.

We’re scared to fall asleep and see who is behind our eyelids.

The horizon– Never widens.

If wisdom comes from pain, why are we not enlightened?

When we swim against the current, the riptide leaves us motionless.

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Lion of the Americas by Rowland Hal Cheney

Existential thought did not brace us for this kind of hopelessness.

Emotionally unstable.

Socially disabled.

Diplomacy is unable To show us how to coexist.

We shake when the ground beneath us shifts.

We dismiss lighthouses in the mist.

We both wish for more to life than this.

We always search for something else and never truly realize what we missed.

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The Little Orphan Girl Who Flew

by Vanessa Maldonado-Soto Once upon a time A long time ago There lived a girl who couldn’t stop feeling so low.

Her feelings were hurt and she couldn’t stop thinking

about the idea of sinking Into the depths of the earth where her parents are

dead, sleeping.

Every day you can find her weeping, Crying for a chance to feel the happiness her memories keep keeping.

One day, she just felt the need to go.

Her tiny feet took her to a cliff That made her body cold and stiff.

It took one jump to release and rid her of the feelings

of hurt.

She made a jump that released her breath As she continued to weep thinking she should be with

her parents sleeping.

With the wind combing her long hair, The water gave her an odd stare.

The girl is not falling into the water’s cool embrace, No, she is falling onto the ground’s hard base.

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All over the place Her blood is d r i

p

p

i

n

g,

Head snapped, Body strapped Against the rock’s edges.

Little by little, the water is trying to pull her down, Crashing and rising Though finding she can’t be moved.

Her eyes now gone, white, and distant, Hands are tucked beside her, Closed yet existent.

Visible enough for anyone to see, Despite how gory and painful her fall must have looked, She sleeps on the rock, curled in its nook.

The little girl, The little orphan girl who flew down a cliff is finally at peace.

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The Masters Revisited, Greco-Roman, Hermaphrodite

by Allen Forrest

Demand More than a Memory

by Joy Neas

I have chosen to preserve, save and restore That is what I’m here for Some people tear down all they see I demand more than a memory!

Keep the best of the past If we don’t, we’ll have nothing that lasts!

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On Rediscovering Conscious Music

by Princess Aisha Cordero Ricacho

I think I’ve found a new love, I think I’ve found out how to sum Up my desires and wire them into words That mean something.

Not that ignorant trash people fling about for cash and fame but words that sustain your soul.

I think I’ve found a new outlet, a new way to see the sunset, with beats in sync with my heart it’s through the art in a way I’ve never felt before.

It’s like I’ve been washed up onshore after being lost at sea for God knows how long, each song, each song playing a melody to awaken my soul.

Like air, like life, into my lungs…

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Shaman Elk Dance by Rowland Hal Cheney

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HOLY GROUND Brenda Kay Ledford Miss Katherine was part Cherokee, could find wildflowers like old friends as we strolled the mountain trail.

She showed me where the Dutchman’s breeches, bloodroot, and Mayflower grew.

She knew the medicinal use of each plant, treated it with reverence.

We left the trillium slumbering among pine needles, listened to Jack-in-the-pulpit, did not pry into the secret of Solomon’s seal.

The sun glanced off maples, found its way through the marshy meadow and splashed the lady’s slipper twirling pink petals.

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Pride by Roland Hal Cheney We are honored to feature the work of Roland Hal Cheney (1943-2015) throughout the pages of this issue. As the press release for a recent exhibition of his work at LH Horton Jr Gallery indicates, he was an artist, educator, father, husband, and horseman. He left an indelible mark on our community.

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Sturm und Drang

by Martin H. Levinson

The weather in the

living room is bad, drenching mockery,

claps of ridicule, derision, and contempt.

My insides are

icing up from the cold stares

I’m getting, flaps are stuck

saying sorry.

Shouldn’t have

called you lame when you told me

to get a life, should have just

thought it.

Body’s shaking,

big mouth’s buckled, clemency gauge

reading zero.

Looks like a

rough landing with a long layover

for repairs before we can fly again.

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Untitled

by Savannah Edgeworth

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A Term of Respect

By Sofia Resendiz

When I was in high school, my father would sometimes pick me up from band practice. It was predominately a white school, and I got my mom’s European features, so every time my friends saw my father’s dark skin and heard his accent, they would turn to me and say, “Wow, your dad is really Mexican”.

“I’ve told you a bunch a times that I’m Mexican,” I would point out.

“I know, but I didn’t know you were that Mexican.”

I’d look at my dad, wearing his sombrero sun hat and I would nod in agreement. It was understandable that they were surprised, especially given the fact that I looked more vaguely ethnic than I did Latin. Looking back at my childhood, however, I realize now that my dad really wasn’t that Mexican. We never spoke Spanish at home because my father wanted to learn English and coming home to a Spanish-speaking household would only make that more difficult.

We rarely went to the catholic church in town because both my parents had jobs that needed them on weekends. The few Chicano kids at my school went back to Mexico every summer, whereas me and my parents had only taken the trip to my dad’s village once. I was five, and I barely remember it.

My household was a pretty relaxed one. There were really only four things asked of me; be kind, be responsible, never lie and always pick up after yourself. I was pretty much free to do what I pleased as long as it fell within that code of conduct. About four blocks away from my house, however, was the house that my Aunt Angie lived in with her family and their place was like a different world.

When my parents had to work, I was always sent over to Tío Victor’s and Tía Angie’s. Tío Victor was my father’s brother and worked the graveyard shift at a local gas station. Since he was home during the day, it was usually left to him to watch us kids. On an average afternoon, Tío Victor was not only responsible for his two girls Araceli and Maribel, but also the next door neighbor’s eight-year-old son Oscar, the Hernandez’s twins Jennifer and Juan, myself and Bryan from across the street. Even though I am biologically an only child, I still feel qualified to say I grew up in a house full of siblings because of the aforementioned group.

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My Aunt Angie came home from her job at the electric company every night at six. This made for some interesting afternoons at Tío Victor’s because it was a self-evident truth that my Aunt held no affection for us at all. Every now and then, my Uncle would stop whatever he was doing and actually play with us. He’d take us to the park or he’d play soccer with us in the backyard. My aunt didn’t seem capable of anything like that. She barely spoke to us unless it was to reprimand.

During one of these afternoons, when I was about nine, all of us kids were sitting cross-legged on my Aunt’s living room floor, watching a re-run of Saturday Night Live. Tío Victor was getting ready to go to work.

Tía was cooking dinner. I was completely engrossed in watching Weekend Update when my aunt called me into the kitchen. Without a single thought, I responded with an annoyed “What?”

Suddenly, Araceli and Maribel gasped. I looked over and they were staring back at me in wide eyed horror. For a second, I thought my head had started rotating around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

Then, the TV shut off. We all turned around to see Tía Angie standing over us with the remote in hand.

“In this house, when an adult calls our name, we do not respond with ‘what’ ,” she said. “We respond with ‘mandé.’ Do you know what mandé means?”

I shook my head no. The entire room had gone still.

“Mandé is a Spanish term of respect. Mandé is the correct way to address your elders. When you say mandé, it shows that you have been taught manners. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied.

“Now, I want you to leave this room and when I call your name I want you to come back in here and address me the right way.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I got up, walked out of the room and headed into the connecting laundry room. As I stood there in the dark waiting to be summoned again, a memory suddenly hit me.

I remembered riding in the car with my father a couple of years back when I was seven. The car in front of us was going annoyingly slow, so dad got into the next lane and passed it. Suddenly, the driver of the slow car gestured for my dad to pull over. Obliging, dad pulled the car in, got out and walked over to the other driver, greeting him with a peppy “What’s up”. I sat in the passenger seat as I watched the seemingly calm

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exchange until suddenly the driver cursed, returned to his car and sped off.

“What was that about?” I asked when my father got back into the driver’s seat.

“He wasn’t happy that I passed him back there,” He explained. “I swear, sometimes I can’t believe the crazies they let on the road.”

“But why was he mad?” I asked.

My father shrugged indifferently.

“Because simple people get mad over stupid, simple things.”

There was something about the cheeky way my father walked up to the other driver that I had always admired. Something fearless. I hoped with all my might that I would grow up to be the kind of person who marched right up to conflict and said “What’s up”? I knew right then what I would do once Tía Angie called my name.

“Carmen?” her voice rang from the family room. I opened the door, walked out with a forced skip in my step and offered a confident “What’s up?”

I watched as the previously tense room instantly deflated into laughter except, of course, for Tía Angie who simply shook her head in disappointment.

“Go upstairs,” she said, giving in.

With a grin on my face, I climbed up the stairs and headed for my cousin’s bedroom where us kids were always exiled whenever we misbehaved. I grabbed Araceli’s doll from its spot on the bookshelf and started braiding its hair. I wondered how my uncle’s family and my family could be related yet still be so different. I thought about how strange it was that some families said mandé to their elders and others didn’t. It occurred to me then, that there are many different ways to run a family. I wondered which way was the wrong way. I decided that when I grew up and made a home of my own, I would run it the right way.

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Celebrate the Harvest by

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Rowland Hal Cheney

Devil’s Knee Park

by Louis Pantoja

“You know, at your age and in your condition, you shouldn’t be out and about anymore. It’s a miracle you haven’t broken every bone in your face, but the ones that did break will take some time to heal.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Stay at home and welcome death?”

“Well, not necessarily, but there are safer activities that you can do.

In any case, you’ll be staying here for about a week so that we can monitor your progress, and then we’ll discharge you once we see positive progress.

Just try and be more careful…okay?”

“Yeah alright! Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a nap.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll just send the nurse over to change your bandages and bring your medication… Oh, here she is now. Okay, Dolores you are in charge. His charts are over on the table. If you need anything, call me,” he said as he stepped out of the room.

“Yes, Doctor. Will do. So, how are you feeling?”

“Like hell, Dol, like hell.”

“Oh, here. Let’s start with the medication, so that the pain will start to go away as I work on your bandages. I have to clean the wounds, so you won’t be able to nap just yet.”

“No problem. I just wanted to get rid of the doctor. He gets on my nerves! I’m seventy-two for heaven’s sake. He doesn’t have to treat me like a child.”

The nurse giggled and said, “Yeah, that’s a doctor for you. So how did you end up like this?”

“It’s a long story Dol. I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“Oh, it’s no bore at all. Go ahead tell me.”

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“Well, if you insist. Many years ago my parents took me to La Rodilla del Diablo or Devil’s Knee National Park. You know the park across town?”

The nurse nodded affirmatively.

“The park was built around a fresh water spring that flows into a river named Cupatitzio. Cupatitzio means “River that Sings” in Purépecha, the dialect of the natives of the region. At the time of my first visit, I must have been around the age of six or seven, so naturally, I overlooked the park’s breathtaking beauty. Instead, I was only fascinated by the legend of the park.

According to the legend, during the early years of conquest, Cupatitzio was heavily depended upon by the people of the region. They relied on its clean water for cooking, drinking, washing, and irrigation. One day, the water source went dry and the people of the village went into a panic. They went to Juan de San Miguel, a Franciscan monk, and asked him to find the source of the problem. Fray Juan went to investigate but found nothing. So, doing what he knew best, he pulled out a crucifix and began to pray. Shortly after, he noticed the ground begin to shake, and then before him stood the devil, frightened by his praying. The devil fled in a frenzy. However, he tripped and fell as he tried to escape, leaving a knee print on a stone near the spring. From that day on, the spring was known as the Devil’s Knee, because of the knee print that marked a rock on the spring.

I had heard this legend many times before from my grandparents and could not wait to actually see the mark of a real demon. I walked impatiently through the park, guided by my parents, occasionally asking for a churro or a fruit treat. My parents, who were normally devoted to me all of the time, seemed to be in their own world, detached and reminiscent.

We walked through the water workers until, we finally reached the main attraction, and boy was it a big disappointment. It looked more like a hole in a rock rather than a knee print. It was too deep to even give the impression that it was really a knee print. After that day I paid less attention to my grandparents’ fables.

The second time I visited the park, I was in the company of a beautiful young lady, whom I was fervidly trying to woo. She possessed a tantalizing gaze capable of igniting even the most dispassionate of hearts.

Her hazel eyes and chestnut hair only added to her charm. Under her

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delicate nose were the most seductive lips ever known to mankind, full and ample, almost demanding to be kissed. I had met her at the academy a couple of months prior to our visit to the park.

We had been on a couple of dates before, but the idea of going to the park seemed to really excite her. I’m not sure why, because from what I remembered its main attraction had been a hole in a rock. I paid the entrance fee, and we commenced our walk through the park.

I was blown away by what I saw. I did not remember any of the majestic beauty before my eyes. I thought surely they had remodeled the park since my last visit, but she assured me the park had remained unchanged since its founding in 1938. Past the entrance gate was a vibrant plaza with a large circular water fountain adorning its center. Around it were benches where people could sit to contemplate the beauty of the park.

The moment we set foot inside the park, the sound of running water inundated the atmosphere. With sound reason the PurĂŠpecha people named the river Cupatitzio, for it truly seemed that the song of the river cleared the mind and left it in a state of peace and tranquility. The sound of running water was heard throughout the park because of two small steams that at opposite ends of the paved walkways. The entire park was paved with large river rocks that gave it a rustic and unique complexion. As we walked farther into the park, the sound of running water intensified, culminating in an intense roar.

The splendor created by the water was matched only by the landscaping. The park was adorned with all kinds of fragrant flowers and broad-leafed plants. Their divine scents mixed with the mist of the water penetrated the senses, impeding the recollection of the polluted city that lay just outside the park walls. If the trees could talk they would speak of the beauty they witnessed in this, their haven. Taking advantage of the moment, I reached out and picked a tulip for my Love. We became engaged that same year.

Twenty years passed before our next visit to the park. We both led busy lives. It seemed as if we barely got to see each other anymore. She spent most of her time at the bank, and I at the office. So, one early morning, we opened our calendars and set up a date. We agreed to meet at the park.

I could not help but think how things had changed between us. I thought about how everything had become routine and almost ritualistic.

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lookbook by Małgorzata Skałbania

We would wake up each morning and prepare for work. We would spend eight, sometimes more, hours at work and then come home tired and exhausted. Over dinner we would complain about our day and then fall asleep until the next day brought about the same routine.

As we walked into the park, hand in hand, I could not help but stare in awe at the parks unchanging beauty. It was exactly as I remembered it.

The scenery was as splendid as ever and the fragrance more divine than ever.

The only difference was that intense roar from twenty years ago had become more like a dim growl. This, of course, was due to the growth of the city.

As the population increased, people relied more heavily on the water of the river, diminishing its content at the park.

As we walked through the park I could not help but feel a little jealous. The park was for years capable of exuding life within its walls. It made me think how different our lives would have been if we had been capable of conceiving a child to brighten our days. But I didn’t contemplate the thought very long because even the river’s dim growl had the ability to clear the mind of all negative thoughts. As we walked, I picked a pink chrysanthemum and gave it to my Love.

35

“To make long story short…”

“Too late,” murmured the nurse.

“What?”

“What?”

“As I was saying…Today the water of the river escapes the park like sight eludes my eyes. I have but the memories of what it once was and what I used to be. Even my Love is gone, and yet like the river I keep on singing, ever so faintly but never missing a beat.

Since the loss of my sight, I have relied on my other senses to witness the beauty of the park. I feel my way through it, guided by its smooth river rocks. I have even gone as far as to taste it, not intentionally of course, but adjusting to the loss of vision is a difficult task. During the first stages of my blindness I tripped and fell and for the first time tasted the Earth. Even the soil of the park seemed to have a sweet and comforting effect on the senses. And like the devil so many years ago, I too left my face imprinted on a rock in the park, but I’m tired now. If you don’t mind, now I need that nap.”

“No problem that was the last bandage.”

Making Fish Sauce in Vietnam

by An Lee 36

River Song

by Jess Driver Water so cold it hurts the bone, climbing and crawling, and falling in song over the rocks.

This is the river.

Tastes so sweet it whets the mind, pouring and dipping, and trickling over the rocks.

This is the river.

Din so fierce it pierces the soul, slurring and swelling, and growling over the rocks.

This is the river.

Like multitudes murmuring and bombs falling, churning and crashing, and echoing through the woods, This is the river.

Luring toes and tongues to cool, cool rush of running life, of stinging, aching life, thrumming and humming, and whispering between the trees.

This is the river.

37

Koi

by Mary Carroll

Hunting Moon

by Roland Hal Cheney

38

Untitled

by Seyed Javad Saberi

1.

Heavy fog and clouds of turmoil, Depth valley, Wooden bridge swung in a storm and One cottage with flickering lamp...

2.

The city is dead And the wind in debris Screaming...

3.

Of this rain, Elusive; Peoples of famine overheated!

39

Love’s Carcass by

Shokoofeh Jabbari

It begins as madness When the first kiss of lust that stained Your eyes would push you over the edge.

And this is my last price.

The last peak is always a wish.

I love the carcass’s smell.

It makes me drunk Maybe God has gone to sleep.

The Masters Revisited, Delacroix, Portrait of Paganini

by Allen Forrest 40

Inner City on a Saturday

by John Grey Midday and voyeurs man the street-facing chairs at the restaurant, nibble on brie, sip wine, with eyes like sieves that strain the passersby, separate out the loveliest.

Customers, women mostly, haunt the strings of leeks, the fresh olives. at the back of the grocery store.

One scoops millet from a barrel.

Another bags kidney beans and onions.

All are watched over by the black-bearded Greek owner and his white-aproned wife.

On a sidewalk table, a game of dominoes prevails, old men. coughing and spluttering, clicking and clacking their matched numbers.

Boys punch bags in the last local boxing gym.

Skinny young girls skip up stairs to their ballet class.

It’s Spring - mating season.

Stray cats and dogs rise to the urge.

Walls and hydrants, baskets and fruit-stands. are soaked in come-hither spray.

41

Undergrads gravitate to the coffee bar for the latest in foreign blends and conversation.

A cop ambles by. A priest looks in. A car double-parks.

Nothing planned but everything as always.

If I were God engaged to make a world with just these ingredients I’m sure I could figure out something.

The Masters Revisited, Antoine Watteau, Mezzetin by

Allen Forrest

42

THE WIDOW SPIDER

by John Grey

What some folks around here think of as romance, I consider the lair of latrodectus, the widow spider.

Once, entering her house, I was immediately assailed by snarled sticky silken fibers, invisible but of such amazing tensile strength.

Others might refer to this phenomenon as open arms.

But I felt more than uneasy. Threatened more like it.

The more credulous refer to the next step as the warm kiss.

But, keep in mind, the large venom glands of the female, her skill in the art of injecting neuro-toxins.

Friends may speak all they want of tender lovemaking, but it’s the prevalence of sexual cannibalism that has me wary. They are so willingly captivated.

I put my state down to systemic effects like muscle spasms and abdominal cramps. All of which leads to an ultimate paralysis.

Yes, I realize these creatures are rarely fatal.

Yet I know plenty of guys who are alive as you or me but dead already.

43

The Virgin Mary by Rowland Hal Cheney 44

Happy Anniversary, Beauty

by Stephen Knight Walking out the back door on the day that we met, the first sight of you four hoping friends I would get What I wanted to show but our lives had to mend, your mind didn’t know that I’d be your friend.

This meeting by chance our past not too distant, just a bit of a glance; was your heart just resistant?

Something special that spring in the year ninety five, what you truly did bring made me feel so alive!

My love has grown stronger fifteen years as my wife, my dreams will last longer ‘cause you’re the love of my life.

I’m hoping our days will be absent of strife, and pray that I’ll always Be the love of your life.

Love, Steve 45

Catching the Wind

by Kathryn R. Walkowiec A wintery wind suddenly Blew forcibly round and round Leaves began thrashing With crackling sound.

Just then a green wooly mitten Flew through the air Chasing after it a little girl With curly hair.

The stripped scarf she wore Danced round her head, Her pudgy cheeks Turned cherry red.

Yet she laughed and frolicked Continuing her plight.

And her blue eyes twinkled when She caught the mitten with delight.

As the blistering winter wind Which had instantly started Had suddenly Somewhat Subsided.

46

Woman.

by Claudia Martinez

I have always tried to be soft and pretty like the rest Tried to sing like a canary, walk with grace, always

holding a smile.

I’ve craved perfection and softness for far too long I’m not soft nor gentle believe me I’ve tried to be But soft and gentle don’t suit me so well.

I’m hard exterior which sometimes comes off too strong, Much too harsh, I’m known to scare people off.

But I am woman Force of nature.

I will growl when being howled at, take what I’ve earned Mother didn’t raise me with the howl of a wolf for no reason Battle scars don’t come from nothing.

I no longer wish to be soft and pretty I only chose to be woman.

47

Look

by

Princess Aisha Cordero Ricacho

48

Ladies: A Haiku Collection by Peter Hawley Roxy Purple majesty Blending into the public Who we hardly knew

London One of a kind girl Who was beaten by some men But got back at them

Elizabeth Famous as the moon She went up into the stars But flew up too high

Victoria A rock star galore Using her anger for love Until she was gone

Alicia Selfish, yet loving Always going on a trip To find what she lost

Lucy The Master of Sex Her love went away too soon But life continued

Donna Funky to the beat And loving those who come in The Hype is real cool

Bella Montana woman As a Los Angeles girl Who needs to leave now

Amy Ran away at ten She was an object for men Until her dad came

Emma Emma is her name Man is Woman and she knows Peter loves her most

49

Life’s Little Dagger by Daniel Moore Dear Life,

Dear Little Dagger,

How strange, to see you sitting on the

shore last night held in the hush of those dying stars, the ocean licking your tired, cracked feet, hoping, as always, to touch the end of you, where suffering stops as easy as it starts, like jelly fish rehearsing the song of the sting.

Now I understand why my

clothes fell so freely, why the starfish on the rocks

spread my legs like scissors.

Bless you for your gaze in a world

afraid of seeing.

Bless you for the darkness that

obeyed the light’s last wish.

My eyes refused to leave you, like two old dogs standing vigil by the dead, howling at the moon for its white stoic stare.

Where would I be without your

willingness to need me, somewhere far way, abandoned

by desire, with only a memory of your

sharp blade teasing my skin with its view point?

As you slowly glanced back over your shoulder to see how far love could stretch, I let go of my handle and the blade, allowing it to slide into places unknown, like a blind, shriveled Yogi Forever Yours, teaching darkness how to feel.

Life Was it a needle of acceptance or a

thimble of denial, that pierced me back to you, which is

why you said, “Sweet dreams little dagger, don’t ever

sleep on your side?”

Tenderly Yours, Little Dagger

50

The Right Fit

by Mikael Honzell

Making friends has never been my strong suit. As a matter of fact, I stopped trying to make friends at the age of eight. I didn’t see the point in it anymore because every time I’d try making friends, I’d get the same type of nervousness people get who are afraid of public speaking, except in my case, I get that overwhelming feeling just from talking to one person. Small groups are much worse. It was, and still is in some cases, some scary shit.

I rejected invitations to family gatherings and plans with the few friends I had. I spent my weekends, summers, and Christmas vacations in my room, totally isolated from the outside world.

Many years went by, along with missed opportunities to make a positive change in my life. It wasn’t until I graduated high school that I had enough of the isolation and loneliness and decided to make a change for myself and, as my mom put it, “stop being so anti-social.” I then enrolled in Delta College here in Stockton. My first semester wasn’t any different than my years in high school. I still hadn’t tried to make any friends, and if I saw anyone I knew from high school around campus, I would do everything in my power to not be seen by them. This led to me walking behind people and sitting on a bench covering my face with a book to avoid being recognized. I felt like I was in an Assassins Creed game, blending in with my surroundings to avoid being detected.

Fast-forward to my second semester. I decided to take some chances and participate in the production of a play being presented by the drama department at Delta. I worked up in the dark, dimly lit room above the audience operating the spot light, while a woman (whose name I cannot remember) was in charge of light cues. And over on the sound board operating the music/sound effects cues were who we’ll call Joseph and Maria. Joseph and Maria seemed like they had a history. Maria would make fun of Joseph for the size of his dick and always give him a hard time about how he doesn’t talk to women. After a while, when Joseph got tired of hearing about the size of his dick and being punched in the arm by 51

Maria, he’d walk over to my area to have a change of conversation.

One of the first questions I asked him was what was the deal with him and Maria. He said there was nothing between them. Bullshit.

Her “thoughts” about him were very specific, as if she knew these things from experience.

As Joseph and I talked more throughout the rehearsals and showings of the play, I learned that there is in fact a history between Maria and Joseph. They had hooked up--in the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant after sharing twelve fifty-cent tacos. Apparently I was the only one he told about this.

Being told this secret led to more deep conversations, not just mindless small talk. We started hanging out on the weekends and I accepted invitations to parties he was attending. These were real Mexican parties, the type where guys and girls wear boots and cowboy hats, dancing around a bon fire drunk off tequila while horses and chickens wander freely around the party, mingling with the guests. And at one of these parties, I met a beautiful girl named Astraea (Star.) Unfortunately, she met the drunk me, who is more charismatic and free of anxiety.

I tried texting her a few days later while sober, analyzing every message for twenty minutes, taking things out and putting things in, trying to figure out which emojis to use and not use. We had some painfully bland, short conversations before I eventually asked her out to a movie. She replied saying, “Sure, let me ask my dad first. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” However, I never heard from her again.

My second semester ended and I had accomplished my first goal: make a new friend. It was now summer vacation and I told Joseph that my birthday was coming up and I would give him gas money to drive up to Santa Cruz for the occasion since I didn’t have a license. I also told him, “Invite some of your friends since I fucking hardly have any of my own.” Joseph agreed to the plan and we set the date for some time in late June. I was, for the first time in months, actually excited about something. I was going on a road trip with friends. I could already picture us driving down the sunny 52

coast, talking and laughing with Jefferson Airplane cranked up in the stereo, on our way to Santa Cruz. The night before the trip, Joseph and I met up to get some snacks for the road. Once we bought everything, we headed over to the levee by my house to smoke some cigarettes and talk about the trip. He informed me that he was bringing a friend along with us. “Maria?” I asked.

“No, I’m bringing my friend Matt. I’ve told you about him, right? He’s the guy I went to that rave with.”

Matt didn’t ring a bell. “No, I don’t think you’ve mentioned him before.”

“Well, he’s cool. He’s going to bring some weed, so I think you guys will get along. As a matter of fact,” Joseph pulled out his phone, “let me text him and make sure he’s still on for tomorrow.”

As Joseph texted Matt, I asked him where we would be sleeping during the trip. Still looking at his phone, he said, “Well, I was thinking that we could drive up to Half-Moon Bay, crash on the beach, smoke, and listen to music.” He finished his message and put the phone in his pocket, directing his attention back to me.

“Then we can go to Santa Cruz the next morning, spend the whole day at the board walk, and head home that night.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

We talked a little more, but I noticed that Joseph was getting a little antsy. He kept on checking his phone throughout our conversation, and after not getting a reply from Matt for twenty-minutes, Joseph decided to call him.

Matt didn’t answer the first time, or the second. A few minutes later, Joseph’s phone started ringing and he answered it immediately, as if it were the doctor’s office on the other line about to give him the results of an AIDS test. “Hey,” he said, “you still on for tomorrow? Yeah? Well, I’ll swing by your place tomorrow around ten, then we can come and pick up Mike. Okay, sounds good. Bye.” Joseph hung up the phone. “He’s still coming,” he said.

“Cool,” I replied. Joseph’s attitude was different; he looked nervous and tense. “You good, man?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

53

“Yeah.” We stood in silence for a few seconds. “I just gotta tell you something.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, uh,” he took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it, and then he said it: “I’m gay.”

When I heard those two words, I completely froze. It was so unexpected. But I had to come up with something to say, and quick, instead of just standing there like a damn statue.

But what do I say? How am I supposed to react to someone sharing something so goddamn deep and personal with me? I didn’t sign up for this. In a matter of seconds, I just said, “Oh shit, really? That’s cool, man.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not gay gay; I’m bi. And Matt is my boyfriend.”

“Oh, so that explains why you were freaking out when he took long to reply to your message, huh?”

“Yeah, I thought he was mad at me because I didn’t visit him today.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Joseph. We stood in a very awkward silence. I took some drags from my cigarette and pointed out a boat that was passing us by in the water. We talked a little more, and not once did either of us bring up the conversation we had just had.

After Joseph dropped me off at my house, I went directly to my room to try and wind down. It was hard to focus on a book, television show, or anything else that usually distracts me from my anxious brain. Nothing was working. I kept on playing the conversation over and over in my head, analyzing it. ‘Did I say the right thing, or did I sound like a dick? Dick, ha-ha. But seriously, did I act the way someone is supposed to act when someone is coming out to them?’ I tried to figure this out. I think I even looked up online how one is supposed to respond to a gay person coming out to them. But it didn’t matter; my brain found something else to dwell on: the fact that I was going on a road trip with two gay dudes.

Well, technically a gay dude and a half, since Joseph is bi. Panic struck, and I thought about canceling the trip. I tried to come up 54

with reasons for why I couldn’t make it, but no reason would be convincing enough to avoid suspicion of just trying to get out of going because of what Joseph told me. It would be too short notice.

Besides, how would that make Joseph feel? For all I know, I’m the first person he’s come out to. And if I were to try and get out of the plans we made, I could only imagine how much more difficult it would be for him to come out to anyone else for the fear of them reacting the way I did.

And now that I was finally going on a road trip with a friend of mine, I was going to throw it away because of his sexual preference? No, I had to go on this trip.

When I awoke the next morning, I reached for my phone on the nightstand. I unlocked it and checked my Instagram and saw these posts: a rainbow flag with a heart in the middle and the words ‘LOVE WINS’ in it. I scrolled down some more and saw similar posts. What is going on? I thought. And then I came across this post: “Gay marriage legalized. Supreme Court rules gay couples nationwide have right to marry.” Oh, the irony. Of all the days gay marriage could be legalized, it had to be the day I go on a road trip with a gay couple.

I got out of bed, took a shower, got dressed, and waited for Joseph and Matt to pick me up. The urge to send a text saying “I can’t make it, my entire family was murdered in a mass mall shooting” was strong, but I decided to stick with the plan. Plus the mall doesn’t open till 9:00 am, and it was only 8:30, so that wouldn’t work.

Joseph and Matt arrived at my house around 11:10. When I walked outside and tried to get into the passenger seat (which is my favorite seat in a car) Joseph signaled me to go to his side of the car because all of Matt’s shit was in the spot I wanted. So I walked over to the driver’s back side and got in the car. Then Joseph said, “Hey, Mike, this is Matt. Matt, Mike.”

Matt turned around and shook my hand. “Hey.”

“What’s up, man?” I said. When Matt turned back around, I decided to take a look at the seat I wanted and saw a duffle bag halfway open full of clothes, a backpack, a set of bongo drums and 55

a Frisbee. I then looked at the modern looking hippie sitting in the passenger seat and observed his outfit; he was wearing a fitted Hawaiian shirt, blue ripped jeans, black running shoes, crystals in the form of a necklace and bracelets on both hands, and a green bandana, which he took off and switched with other head accessories periodically throughout the ride--pretty much changing his head accessories every time we reached a new city.

On the drive up to Half Moon Bay, the three of us didn’t talk much. Joseph and Matt would talk here and there for a few minutes, and I, having a very low tolerance for pot, just observed. And with the legalization of gay marriage, I thought of asking if I was going to be attending a wedding that weekend. I thought it would be interesting--the first wedding I would attend being a gay wedding, walking Joseph down the aisle and handing him over to Matt saying, “You better take care of him, you hear?” But I felt it was too soon for that talk, and to my surprise, they hadn’t done anything gay yet. Not that I wanted them to, I was actually relieved.

We arrived at Half Moon Bay around two o’ clock. And though the original plan was to stay the night, we only spent two hours there before we headed to Santa Cruz because there’s only so much you can do on the beach for eighteen hours before boredom starts to set in.

Instead of going to the boardwalk, we ended up in the parking garage getting high before exploring the downtown area.

Whenever Santa Cruz pops into mind, I usually think of the boardwalk. But ever since that trip, I think of wide pupiled gypsies that travel around California, drifting from city to city, selling hand-crafted gemstone bracelets and Christians sharing the message of “Our Lord Jesus Christ,” while two men standing a few feet away from them play the guitar and sing about how they love to suck Satan’s cock.

After exploring the downtown area, the thought of where we were going to sleep popped into mind. We agreed to sleep in the car, but being late June, it’s nearly impossible to find a place to park in Santa Cruz. And due to motels being pretty damn expensive there, we ironically found ourselves parked in the parking lot of a 56

Mexican restaurant, but we were asked to leave. So we headed to Joseph’s aunt’s house in San Jose and crashed in the small room in the back. I slept on the chair while Joseph and Matt slept on the bed, hoping I could get a good night’s sleep without being interrupted by the sound the bed fame hitting the wall or gagging noises.

I woke up the next morning to a conversation Joseph and Matt were having. “Maybe we could go to Frisco today and go to the Pride parade tomorrow?” asked Joseph.

Still acting as if I were asleep, I strongly disagreed with the suggestion in my head.

“Maybe, I don’t know if Mike would be comfortable with that. We can ask him when he wakes up. I’m going to take a shower,” replied Matt.

“Can I join you?” asked Joseph.

“No, I’m going to be real quick.” When Matt closed the door to the bathroom, I acted as if I had just woken up and gotten out of the chair. Joseph was staring at the bathroom door with a smile on his face as I told him good morning.

“Hey, sleep well?” he asked.

“Yeah, man,” I said. I made some small talk before asking what the plan was for the day, hoping for Joseph to bring up the pride parade plan, so I could reject it. And after he asked me if I would like to go to it or just go home, I said I’d rather go home. By this point, I was already so mentally drained from traveling and just wanted to go home.

Having successfully gotten out of having to go to the parade, I agreed to make one last stop at the Great Mall of San Jose, and goddamn is it huge, filled with people of all ethnic groups. Mainly Asians though. Out of all the stores in that gigantic mall, we spent about an hour and a half in American Eagle, a clothing store where Matt was trying to decide which of three different sized jean vests fit him best. He needed someone else’s opinion other than his own, so he asked Joseph to accompany him in the dressing room. They took so long in there that one of the ladies that worked in the store asked me if they were okay. “Yeah,” I said, “they’re just trying to find the right fit.”

57

Excavation by Janet Veil To your left is where I dredge.

I bring the past, squalid and stinking, slobbering to the surface again.

To wretch it out would be too easy.

So I sit mired in the bilge, swimming in refuse waiting for it to trickle away.

But it never leaves, it only simmers, waiting for my next mistake.

A thick viscous sheen to hide myself away in.

Be to me my greatest savior, I will cower in your shade.

Take me from this fetid quicksand, take my breath, I’ll take your blade.

A Dragon Fruit Farm

by An Lee

58

Warehouse Cat

by James Shoemaker

Fairbanks 142 by

Joshua Medsker

(for Chris) Write the words then erase them.

They flow through my fingers, regardless.

Look at my hand. Look at it looping and straightening.

Look at the river. Look at it winding and straightening, rushing and impassable.

Write my life down then slowly erase it.

It flows through you, regardless.

This document is not all that you can know.

59

My Ticket Stub Said: Admit One to the Infinite by

Chuck Von Nordheim

I fell asleep in a movie theater. When I wake, the screen shows a black-and-white landscape of rounded tombstones. Time has weathered the markers until their carved epitaphs can’t be read, but I feel certain I’m buried under each headstone. Over and over again, my tired body returned to the earth, but I can’t remember what label it had worn. My eyes tensed when a monochrome image spews colors, when an effaced word slews to hard-focus. I could read what was written on this memorial and it is the name of the daughter I never had. Suddenly, I found her seated next to me with a white collar on her red velvet dress and with a green ribbon in her chestnut brown hair. “Fear not, Papa,” the girl said, “we’ve always spend recesses there.” She pointed at the cemetery world on the screen.

“When you find your way back after sleeping off the drunkenness of living, we’ll play Scrabble with the letters of our old names.”

60

Mom

by

On your birthday We celebrate Your passionate love for The earth’s shy creatures, Vulnerable as you, Whose call could beckon Them to your hand...

We remember this.

On your birthday We celebrate Your laughter so infectious, Your delight so obvious, When resistance To our silliness Was impossible...

We remember this.

On your birthday We celebrate The bluest of eyes discovering Tiny details unseen by others And, offering as gifts These intricacies To little gazes...

We remember this.

On your birthday We celebrate Hands complimented so often Whose calling was, we know, To comfort and create.

So eloquently they spoke of a Great tenderness--held captive by,

61

Beverly Perry

Yet flowing Through, a wall...

We remember this.

On your birthday We celebrate How discerning real wealth You did find grandness In the overlooked And we brought to you Those treasures--a mottled stone, An old toy A twist of wood...

We remember this.

On your birthday We celebrate The person You were Meant to be...

We celebrate The breaking of The chains That bound you...

And rejoicing in Your Freedom...

We remember.

We will remember.

62

Speak from the Whirlwind, Jehovah

by Sam Hatch 1 Jehovah, God of Battles, Lord of Hosts Smites His enemies hip and thigh Smote well-intentioned Huzzah once Whose clumsy hand Touched the holy ark a single time Then body, slack and ashen, Slid into Sheol’s darkness.

2 Did Huzzah’s sisters grieve for him As Mary and Martha for Lazarus?

Their dear brother already in the tomb, These presumptuous sisters reproached forbearant Jesus For coming too late to save the life They treasured.

3 And who treasured Huzzah?

Who dared reproach Jehovah, God of Battles, Lord of Hosts Who smites with shriveled tongue Stiff-necked blasphemers, Mourners rigid with grief who will not bow Before the High God’s Majesty?

4 Speak now from the whirlwind, Jehovah, To Huzzah’s grieving sisters, Summon Leviathan and Behemoth to numb their minds, Turn their bowels to water.

Teach them a creature’s grief, in the presence of the Living God, Must become abasement, dust and ashes, always, Teach them, Jehovah, God of Battles, Lord of Hosts.

63

San Joaquin Delta College Get Published in Artifact Nouveau Artifact Nouveau is a magazine of works by students, faculty, alumni, and employees of San Joaquin Delta College published by the SJDC Writers’ Guild.

Works by writers and artists unaffiliated with Delta College may be selected for publication for up to 40% of the overall content. We accept literary and visual art submissions year round. All genres and mediums are welcome. Submit to artifactsjdc@gmail.com.

Literary Submissions • Poem Length May Vary (limit 10 submissions) • Short Stories and Essays: Max 1500 Words (limit 2 submissions) Visual Submissions • Colored/Black and White • JPG Format at 300 DPI • limit 10 submissions

ADVERTISE IN ARTIFACT NOUVEAU Outside Back Cover: $300 Full Page Inside: $100 Half Page Inside: $75 Quarter Page Inside: $50 Send inquiries to artifactsjdc@gmail.com

Get Published in Poets’ Espresso Review Patricia Ann Mayorga invites submissions to Poets’ Espresso Review to be mailed to Patricia Mayorga at 1474 Pelem Ct., Stockton, CA 95203 or emailed to poetsespressoreview@gmail.com.

Free submissions can include poetry, artwork, and photography. All material must be appropriate for most age groups. A two to four line biography is required. Please include a photograph if possible, a return address, phone number and email address.

64

Featured Artists Mary Carrol

38

Rowland Hal Cheney

Front Cover, 18, 23, 25, 31, 38, 44

Savannah Edgeworth

27

Allen Forrest An Lee Eva Martinez Princess Aisha Cordero Ricacho James Shoemaker Małgorzata Skałbania

65

21, 40, 42 36, 58 6 48

15, 59, 66, Back Cover 11, 14, 35

Lonesome Field Mushroom

by James Shoemaker

66

Silver Fork Falls by Phil Reedy

www.deltacollege.edu/org/wrtrsgld/ artifactsjdc@gmail.com sjdcwritersguild@gmail.com facebook.com/SJDCWritersGuild www.issuu.com/thewritersguildartifactnouveau