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VIATOR SUMMER 2015 WASHINGTON, DC

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Editors

Carolyn Supinka Zenon Zabinski

Cover art

Clare Welsh

Š Viator Project 2015. All work is copyrighted to the author or artist. All rights reserved.

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VIATOR | washington, dc


VIATOR SUMMER 2015

From the editors Dear Reader, You are holding the first ever issue of VIATOR. Inside you’ll find writing and art about spaces and places all over the world. But VIATOR is also about what’s outside of its pages. It’s about where you are. Where are you? Standing on the sidewalk in the middle of rush hour, flipping through this weird journal you found on the ground? On a bus? On the metro? Waiting to meet a friend in a park? Is it night or day? Is the place familiar or new to you? After you read this sentence, take a deep breath, look up, and absorb your surroundings. Recognize where you are and who you’re with, how you feel in this place, at this time. [ space for breath ] The artists and writers whose works fill these pages were inspired by the places they encountered in their own lives —possibly like the one you’re inhabiting right now, possibly wildly different. VIATOR is trying to build a bridge between those spaces and yours. We’re sneaking in crazy drawings into the everyday, squeezing in a poem to break your routine. We’re engaging in this artistic covert operation to try to make you look at the world around you, the people around you, in a different way. Enjoy the journey. Carolyn & Zenon

ISSUE 1 ∙ WASHINGTON, DC VIATOR | washington, dc

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TAYLOR BOND Untitled Georgetown Canals Washington, DC

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Man Biking with Tuba Clare Welsh Where are you going, friend, with your hair combed over like not-enough-butter on toast? Your back is straight despite its weight, your loaned instrument whistles in the wind. The most beautiful music comes from hollow pipes and bones, the empty echo in beat things. And your streets know empty: Mineral stripes left on houses, stale river water, rings around drains, the rusty smears of shipwrecks that scraped music from cafĂŠ walls, carried it away, almost. Remember the deck of the Titanic? The band played, tarried as the new electric lights snapped black. This brass defiance. This shine in the abyss.

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Opals Clare Welsh Not white, but light, the eyes of the underworld, of dead foxes. When strangers say, “you are too beautiful to trust,” what they mean is your eyes shine like teeth so don’t blink. Be a staring prophecy. Surpass that old Delphian Oracle who saw opals only in the gaze of gyrating women. Find the opals buried under concrete, the opals clutched in the roots of palm trees like candles jabbed between water washed graves. Love, these instructions are as much for me as they are for you. Ancient minerals shoulder our highways. Vrooming down the I-10 with hands out the window, we paw at light pollution, the city like Constantine’s opal crown. So what if he was another asshole in a fancy hat trying to take our money? We no longer get our news from the Internet, we no longer know which Emperors to hate. The suburbs are fossils of massive beasts, their ribs grid the wetlands. We step from the car, place palms to soil. Sinking in ferns and petrified wood, we dig through the smell of wet fur, extract cataracts, milk stones, find in each other oracles.

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JUNCONG MO, Experimental Film 5, Tucson, Arizona

JUNCONG MO, Experimental Film 4, Tucson, Arizona

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BRENT SEATS Zach Smoke Las Vegas, Nevada

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Swimming Pool Wes Holtermann White doves land on the shoulders of blue nudes. Apples fall like frogs in the swimming pool. A snorkeling child with slow prairie hair grabs the dagger from the deep end. There is not much to say on a day like this, the sun tonguing the gummy bunched flesh of scars on your back. Birds of paradise. Languorous figures. The sense of a fucked menagerie. A palm fans you. You are wet with pleasure, dopey in warm honey light. California is here like a bus. Beauty like a bus, soon to pull away, meting lobed grey-brown fumes that stick like Matisse cutouts to the tableau. I love you, but you are dying, sings a butterfly to your ear before departing forever. Likely you will burn in this house as a gothic heroine. Fallen ash glitters the pool’s surface. Campanulas squawk sick from the garden. The municipal fountain is dried up and cruddy. Lawns wheeze, sputter beige, fall like soldiers in the dirt. All our towels are Mexican tiles, our pink breasts lolled, sunlit, stomachs spread and dough-rolled with weight. Everyone looks like a famous painting. Everyone is fitting grapes and skewered melon balls snugly between their dewy pillow lips. You are resplendent in coconut lotion. I want to throw you a parade, take a picture gloried with color. I am so tired of ugly art. What kind of person paints in browns?

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sign of the mermaid Michelle Renée Brulé she wrapped her arms in chains of daisies and opened the door on the sign of the mermaid. checkered yellow and sunny condiments upon a table handed me a xeroxed sheet of trapeze swings and geometric symbols down the legal sized page of elyse’s poem. sam and elyse looked at me. elyse’s tears filled her eyes as things had not turned in the way she wished. she held out her brown arms and the tiny daisies crossed one another in green chains making triangles down to the valleys of her fingers. the poem of an arabian marketplace flew out of the window to the sea. someone other than myself told her, “it was perfect,” and closed the door on your intractable silence.

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DAVID FARR, Untitled, Natural Bridges State Beach, Santa Cruz, California

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BRENT SEATS, Yellow and Blue, Santa Cruz, California

M. Diaz Face in the water Head upwards—koi sky all blue Noises disappear

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Just Agenda Michelle Renée Brulé Crow-lushness Lash-like black wing tip.

Opalescent. Oil dipped— in sky diving weightless

And gleaming reflect and light. Hot off the wing. Honoring the art of survival; flight. Call donated and distributed—Air Aid. Caw harsh, sure of the message ignored: LIVE!

LIVE!

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LIVE!

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MOLLY O’BRIEN Untitled Manhattan, New York City

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MOLLY O’BRIEN Untitled Manhattan, New York City

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TALIA KIRSH Stanton and Clinton Lower East Side, New York City

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People Left Behind Melissa Parthemore Boy and Girl turning away

shared glances across plastic desks, when eyes got too close.

Brooklyn would have taken them in if he had waited for her. but things like that seldom work out when people are separated for too long. Missed connections become disconnected power lines: static voices lost. Cries of I miss you linger in the air She imagined their life on polaroids, settled. Hand in abandoned hand, taking the train to their grown-up jobs in the city, dressed like they belonged there together. She remembers messages months apart, A girl on the subway reminded me of you the last voicemail he left. I just wanted to call and say hi Words like spots on her mind she can’t erase with some made-up machine. Even happy with someone new, she still dreams of all the lonely people wandering New York City. There’s one. His head is down, kicking up dirty snow. She wonders if there is someone keeping him warm.

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Devin Clare Welsh

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Devin, it’s like this: I need it to plug the bleeding.

as if it’s the Mississippi. They lap it up,

I’ll know it when I see it: Hard as hooves, flecked

your exsanguination. ( So what, you say, if I live

with red—Bloodstone, they called it, those

on whiskey transfusions? ) Devin, I don’t trust

alchemists and midwives stamped in illustrated panels,

your doctors. They’re always so eager to take your money.

those buff geologists wanting monoclinic moganite to sound

I’ll find the Bloodstone. I’ll gloop it out from under

sexy. Devin, I know you are bleeding. I see it in your rattling

bayou mud, press it to your ticklish wound.

pills, your books, the way you look out café windows, your cup steaming

You’ll laugh, shrug. Ask how many

forgotten plumes. You bleed all over this city, have been

cigarettes you gotta smoke before you sound like Tom Waits.

for years shedding red on balconies, beaches, bars.

Before you’re legendary. Then, fiddling with the Bloodstone

You bet your ass your blood shimmers

like a new piercing, then, Devin, you’ll sing another

like holy water in the right light, that tourists stare and pose

anthem to how flush it feels to be lightheaded—

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BRAD EISENHAUER Untitled Frederick, Maryland

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JULIE BJARNHOFF, Behind Your Face, Digital painting


JULIE BJARNHOFF, All Those Faces, Digital painting

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french me in the dungeon Vincent A. Cellucci french me in the dungeon next to the guy in the headset claiming security pass the cold drink tongue tip wants to welcome lotion the wrong way making me swallow a sunburn taste buds slippery and bald as the greasy styrofoam cup my palm impaled to gas lamp ornament artificial roe the air incense rolls down sewer thigh highs unruly as river gust overtures overflow ripe sentiments spoiling stories of gut rot abundant exes and profanity churn the genius last round girl I’ll make you famous put your face on a milk carton won the rejection we all craving denial season both sides surges unsuppressed bonds us in fatal loneliness when was losing yourself worthless how long can you sustain onlooking tragedy before kicking yourself out

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HANNAH NEES 201 E. 4th St. Richmond, Virginia

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RIELLE OASE, Isolation, South of Houghton, Tucson, Arizona


Flowerbeds Jivin Misra It is that stage of day when shadows are scant so as not to shield the flowerbeds from the blazing sun, which both nourishes and persecutes them in that ritual so central to survival. Inside the hospital, photo-synthetic snapshots are taken; disposable cameras click and capture the soon-to-be-disposed and save them in cartridges. There is no film, no fungal film, in the hazardous waste bin of her room; even the waste, despite its aposematic, plastic wrapping, is safe, sterile as the countless canisters of cotton balls and swabs that her grandchildren tear into stratus protrusions. Her adult children give her gifts; they know she loves things, fine things: a silk scarf, a cashmere sweater. They say they will see her again tomorrow. She nods. Minutes pass. Her family has left now and she can remove her counterfeit grin, which she only wears in the company of men. It is utterly repulsive to wear one’s most deeply felt emotions, and a woman should never repulse. (Her pulse tapers. The line on the monitor begins to straighten.) It is a woman’s job to always consider others, she had been taught. And although a genuine smile would have been ideal, as proper men are trained to smell a lie like tracking dogs, she cannot afford authentic delight—she knows she will die today. A nurse enters and his fragrance fills the room. It is not too sharp a smell, but cordial, as though the flowers from which it was drawn were infertile hybrids from a university’s botany department garden. It serves only to mask his bodily musk (anything to mask the body, that cruel reminder in which we are encased). The nurse is polite, keeping abreast with the niceties of his profession. He cares for her bed, raising her head with its mechanical control panel. He straightens the checkered sheets and briefly chatters words that do not linger. And, after an appropriate amount of time, he leaves— he knows the patient will die today. The door shuts and, struggling, she reaches for the nearest notepad. The pen the doctor gave her carries a white label: LEVITRA (vardenafil). It would not be suitable to advertise such a drug under an ideophonic name. Instead it is best to distance the object from its function, to call it a name that sounds more like a Verdi opera than an erectile stimulant. The pen is a cheap, plastic clunk, thicker than her wilting fingers. As an aesthete, she does not appreciate this, but as a writer, she must endure it. Besides, she notes, the poor pen must endure her shaking wrists and loosened grip, so can she not bear its hollow obesity? On the notepad she ponders what she will most miss. Not her family, she regrets, who loved her only appropriately, with the gifts and words they were taught to swap. And especially not society, who forced her to limit her wit. No, above all, she will miss her notebook reveries. She will miss her notebook reveries and the places and objects that witnessed them: she will miss the clatter of cups and saucers. The many breaths that fog the glass. The mold that, in humidity, grows and climbs the walls. The sound of the espresso machine bubbling on the stove (another machine) saying “hold on, I’m coming” to impatient eyes, weighted with recent sleep. Those fibers of sweaters that clutch coffeeshop smog, mistaking mist for heat, and carry it outside into the cutting cold. That potent coffee bean smell. She chews on the erectile stimulant pen—chewing: the stimulant of her brain—and writes: In this city of opacity, looming so closely by the sea, I said, “Please pass the tea,” in a way that reeked of formality (that useless, elaborate waltz, that expert air of indifference, inscribed in our minds as children and not even unwritten upon resignation as our corpses rot, alone, under mire, attired in our finest suits and dresses). This city of opacity will fall from its malady to that which has been filled already

by dead cities past— and sadly this city won’t be the last. But even at the end, as we sink and are condemned, we’ll raise a pinky on a glass instead of miming the gestures of the feral class, instead of finding the answers to our questions unasked. For perhaps it is in our nature, yes, it is in our nature, to be so defiant of nature.

She breathes and drops the pen. The lights in the room turn to bright onions bulbs and, sunburnt, they begin to peel, one layer at a time. She breathes again through swollen lymph and lumpy tumors; the lamps may have turned to tubers, but still they hold no odor. All they have is a voice: Sever the line of the jaw, and let spider silk crawl in through the bone hole, into the back skull that holds the things you can’t remember, but still remember loving. Let it crawl and cleanse the mind, the corpse. She closes her eyes, reminds herself of that old myth that when she dies, her life will flash before her eyes, but cannot see a thing that is not paper. Just white paper. Then blackness—the blackness of her lids. Then more paper. Then, the spider silk crawls, its threads, one by one, reaching, entwining, slowly forming fabrics with which to sweep. Clearly, she speaks: “Basking in the witty words I could have said, as a flower in the sun, half my life was spent. Sleeping purchased the rest.” She smiles, sincerely. She rests.

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RIELLE OASE Presenting 4th Ave & 5th St Tucson, Arizona

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RIELLE OASE Fox Theatre Girl Congress St & Stone Ave Tucson, Arizona


JESSICA MCQUARRIE Cul-de-Sac Spokane, Washington

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On giving her a poem Sarah Sansolo In her basement full of self-help and catechism and lesbian erotica, I curved around her and told my story, lips, teeth, tongue. Once she held my hand in front of the man who reads Jesus into a megaphone beneath the Chinatown arch. For her I will write my secrets on fortune paper, for her I will open my unfaded seams, for her I will put them inside, for her I will wait for my tissue to inflame around them. Naked in bed I give the translation.

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Daughter, lover, liar Sarah Sansolo I. LIKE The first time I read a poem aloud, inky fingered, classmates told me to fix it. You don’t love her, they said. You like her, they said even though no one can like like that. II. SAFETY

V. BLIND I don’t remember much from the years I was blind. When I wore new glasses, the ground rose to meet me in ever-moving hills. How did I manage

My father told me once not to love a girl in public. Safety first. I still tremble holding hands with her

the vertigo, how did I plant my feet?

at night, downtown, someone watching from a doorway.

This was the time I saw double.

III. CONTRACEPTION

My eyes grew strong. I couldn’t see myself.

The things they never tell you: coming out stops being pronouncement, becomes commonplace. Every six months my doctor forgets and I tell her as she puts her gloves in me that my preferred method of contraception is women.

VI. VAPOR My mother told me it’s almost like grief, her daughter evaporating with the heat of becoming. VII. SEAFOAM

IV. LIQUID

On my way to a gay club, a man on the Metro asked

If I don’t guard my dry lips, my secrets might jailbreak.

if he could have my shoe to give to his son.

In Dupont Circle I sat in the grass watching girls pass cheap vodka. The fountain glittered

I read my fairytales like any good girl. I’m not a size seven Cinderella. There are no love stories

not with pennies but with naked men, air heavy with sweat and feathers.

only sacrifice, blinded eyes and seafoam.

I took the bottle to my mouth when the pretty one said it was my turn.

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The next girl who fucked me was an alcoholic to bury her guilt.

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JESSICA MCQUARRIE, Bockzes, Spokane, Washington

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TAYLOR BOND, Untitled, Key Bridge, Washington, DC


Life, shared pleasures Juliana De Souza The sun charged my soul And thickened my skin The streets invited me to a strange music And to strange faces Whose laughter echoed infinitely Into the night Blurry colors, streaks of light The smell of sea salt and sweat Clinking glasses Big rats in littered streets Cigarette burns and the Daze, motherfuckers Singing and looking and turning and walking And drinking and peeing and dancing and talking And looking and smiling and kissing and bed We’d put on some light/heavy sounds And feel the guitar Play a string in our bodies We’d show affection by touch Sometimes saving each other Our eyes read each other’s So well and deliciously We could be serious, sometimes To talk important political bullshit But what we always desired (And we had what we desired) Was to sit back and savor The intensity that wildly ran In every vein of a moment between us The sun coming up And the sun going down: It was visceral, really. Every time.

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VERONICA PATRICK Choreograph Mixed media

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JUNCONG MO, Xiancun 1, Xiancun, Guangzhou, China

Benches for Sleeping Lisa Rowan On the edge of the playground/homeless park, a mother to her crying son: I know the world, and sometimes I can see things that you can’t. He replied, I wouldn’t (gasp) miss (gasp) seeing anything that would destroy me.

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JUNCONG MO, Xiancun 2, Xiancun, Guangzhou, China

Sitting Cross-Legged on the Sidewalk with Caitlin Lisa Rowan The thing is, she said, fishing another jellybean out of the plastic grass, Is that it’s best to eat your demons by the ears. But, once you do (she was chewing, now) you risk having no one left to listen. The licorice ones were the worst.

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una estrella en ecuador esta noche Vincent A. Cellucci the horizon shoulders one shucked eye coup crucified spiked on ceiba butchers the wind & we wise to the will of the altitude and colorful wedding crisscrossing window clothesline empty pins over a bus most won’t exit or get on & always the breeze enlists the day bribing the limbs of bushes for a blessing defeated by motor commotion plastic bags suffocate the wind not important not impossible it just hasn’t rained for the first day in days

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JOHN DIJULIO Untitled Richmond, Virginia

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DAVID FARR Untitled Japanese Friendship Garden San Jose, California

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My Charm Peddler Sam Corfman Take me down the smooth-paved path to moonflowers. I’ll follow you behind the mind, where pollen grouts the air. Shades flicker by. You flicker, feverbrained. Chase me to sundowning To dusky colors from music not lulling. I’m flickering—thickets sprouting in my eyes.

My Faraway Footnote Sam Corfman I’m tired of sleeping, of spending time out of it when I could be in. Slipknots tighten my vocal cords, close around my wrists, but my brain’s too wide-open. I vibrate: anyone can tune in and read my mind. Any tree. You could try me on as skin. What would hair be like if it was grass—we call the part in our heads roots anyway, and say it grows. I could take wheels for shoes, fall apart and spin in place. I’d never reach and cross the field, now that it’s your hair. My eye blinks. Recurs. Going and stopping and starting. When you come to visit, there’s the geometric man breaking out of geodes, having nowhere to go. That’s me. Aimless in the heat, up among the emptied air.

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En Route to Dairy Queen Lindsey Owen My soles scuff gravel and broken glass off the side of the road and into neat, crystalline piles that I count for posterity.

One bike tossed by fish-faced boys snickering at the smallest of the bunch. The next part is blurry. We’ll let it right itself as the story changes hands:

Looking down, always down for fear that looking up will sweep me off this earth, grabbing fistfuls of pine and pitch as I fight not to fall like the glitter in an upturned snow globe.

There is a scuffle, crying, tears from the smallest boy whose bike was a birthday gift. He ends up in the water, snapped over the bridge, spine bent like the sharp angles of an erector set.

We stop by a cement bridge that cannot pass for cobblestone, a seeded-glass stream that cannot pass for a river, and weeds that will never be asked to join a bouquet.

The other boys are sickened, each individually sure that it wasn’t their fault. They vow never to revisit the place.

Stick “bridge” in the dictionary and the book’s gears grind and sputter. Cogs twang, springs splash. Out pop seven entries; six of which are useless, one of which is “partial false teeth.”

The second bike from the one who broke the vow. Ghostly fingers stretch and seep like a stain from the shadows, pulling victim and vehicle into black contact with the rocks below.

I can’t help but imagine that all bridges are partial false teeth, but this one especially. Unsightly up close but inconspicuous enough to be pasted into the mouth of the road and called functional.

It’s strange how sometimes gruesome things, messy bloody pulpy things, can keep the real world’s copper ichor moored to the bay in hideous mercury droplets.

We peer out over the edge and into the stream below, elbows bumping and scraping against this retaining wall made of glue and macaroni. I strip the tender summer leaves from a new green bough overhead and let them fall from my unclenched hand onto those two rusted bike frames jutting from the riverbed, entangled and at odds with each other. They are drowning together, in tandem, unafraid. I watch as the stream’s rivulets are flayed and spliced by the spokes: a moment of dissection, of separation, before returning to an undisturbed whole. “Let’s make up a story,” I say to my sister. “A real legend, for generations of kids.”

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Skewer it to the shore, embed it in the sand with toothpick swords from a Chinese restaurant. In the sea, kids can touch their toes to the poison cove, wonder and revel in their delicious fear, laugh a twinkling Pop Rocks laugh, and secretly cultivate its phantom embers in their stomachs. The bike frames will save them like water wings and keep Halloween in their hearts. With my tale I will keep them firmly planted in the rye fields of their innocence. No upturned snow globe to send them careening toward an invisible wall of plastic resin. And I, each time the story is fed, will grow stronger, increase the distance between me and the unknown sighs that stick to the furled fern leaves beneath the rock wall.

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JOHN DIJULIO, Untitled, Eastern Market, Detroit, Michigan

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AARON REGAL The Color of Blood & Money #1 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

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For all the ruined places Noah Page In the skyline of hell, there are no fire escapes. —Parquet Courts One The sky is full of flies that buzz like modem transmissions and the earth below is pale and fallow and smells of gasoline. Above the street’s galleries the cars roll on and on, and somewhere beyond the asphalt meadows and the sewer’s breath, beyond the strip mall savannahs where sales hunt for shoppers, Canada still sleeps buried in a bed of pine needles. Two When I used sing, I noticed oil derricks where the fold my lover’s eyes met the bridge of her nose. When I listen now, I spot that the composer is writing the symphony as he conducts it. Three You don’t tune the city’s strings, you just let the vibrations pluck your nerves: the bawling of sirens, roaring exhaust pipes, irritating elevator chimes, mishmash chatter on the bus, and streetcar clatters under wire tangles.

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AARON REGAL The Color of Blood & Money #2 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

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AARON REGAL The Color of Blood & Money #3 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

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HANNAH NEES 2753 Seminary Ave. Richmond, Virginia

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The Once-Was Garage Tim Bass Under the blue streetlights a garage has seen better days and sits closed now, out of business, an aged block building looking little and low on the buckled asphalt in the muddy light of pre-dawn. When the town wakes, alive, this intersection throbs with motion and money, traffic edging along in endless, impatient lines, car after car after truck after car, running west and north, a sputtering river of choking carburetors and steaming radiators gasping for men with greasy hands and the metallic clang of their wrenches and ratchets against the hot, struggling engines. What drove this place under? Perhaps the oil-company convenience stores did it with their credit-card gas pumps and cold beer, open all night. Or maybe the owner knew plenty indeed about fixing cars but nothing about running a business, and in no time he found himself in too deep, no dough to stave off the wolves, until one day he finally gave up, said to hell with it all, and he shut those doors there, just walked away and left his garage standing as another dark and broke-down monument to all us weary and exhausted failures who pass in these hidden hours before day.

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ALEXANDER ALONZO Pier 7 San Francisco, California

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ALEXANDER ALONZO Warehouse San Francisco, California

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ANNA WETTERGREEN Florence Navigation Oil on canvas

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Catalyst for Extreme Unction #5 Travis Cebula anticipating a certain sort of darkness, a long line of human forms and the nerve roots of trees protrude from the poor soil from which they were torn. concrete holes. in particular, this subway station is just one more entrance to the underworld. it stops where words of Whitman kiss forlorn commuters goodbye.

[the lost youth]

[stamped]

[the mud]

in silence in dreams’ projections—

sometimes they descend, smoothly sliding, without a hitch, and sometimes—especially when rain pelts down—the steps bind them, then lurch to a halt. they say this type of entrance is the worst, by far, when escape is needed most the escalators fail and frantic people trample over each other vainly climbing for breath. Whitman. the name is deeply etched. no one has scrawled Eckert in the cracks— no one painted the shape of his mouth black. in particular, this abyss is a circle, lest we forget circles are where

the system most often fails. a snowflake, it flutters down to reach the old man’s outstretched hand before it melts.

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[from]

[their feet]

[the blood pools]

[in cracks] [in steel]

[to be collected]

[in] [air]

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Looking at Manet’s “Steamboat Leaving Boulogne” Katherine Faigen My mother and I visit her favorites at the National Gallery: Ingres, Vermeer, Cézanne, Childe Hassam. She walks briskly but pauses at Manet’s Dead Toreador entranced by his use of black, perhaps. My mother is a seamless puzzle box. I hunt for openings. Baudelaire’s color of the century, I say, mumur Mallarmé, ne laisse pas une plume noire ici, and something Lauren told me about light: The secret? Clouds aren’t white! My mother always smiles: lips pressed, eyes slightly closed. Her hand envelops mine, briefly squeezes enough, or, thank you, I know. I was in Chicago with a friend and passed Manet’s shadow ships and charcoal sails, a steamboat spouting smoke, cutting through the Breton Sea. I stopped, caught by his ocean cobalt and cyan, bone and pewter sky, and thought about my mother fixed not on the toreador’s midnight coat, his sash, in luminance an almost cameo pink, and how each impatient squeeze conveyed her sympathy for all I could not grasp.

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ANNA WETTERGREEN Memory Landscapes Oil on canvas

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SALLY ABRAMS Untitled Madison, Wisconsin

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The Ordinary World Katherine Faigen The beltway encircled school days, weeknights anonymous and long, and weekends boasted in high school halls police busts, binge-drunk hookups, Di stumbling home while our parents slept. After, there was rowing: bus rides then carpools when we could drive, hours lost in team identity, sweet exhaustion, pain, and a weightless moment between strokes when I could fly. We spent years rowing beneath bridges while commuters sought home. As the river rushed south, the sun drifted low, making shadows. Freedom was open windows on the parkway, shaded by heavy trees, lined with orange trumpet vines that grew over stone walls. Each night, my neighbors burned porch lights brighter than stars. I formed constellations between halogen beams to match the grooves in my palms.

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VIATOR | washington, dc

SALLY ABRAMS, Untitled, Madison, Wisconsin


Contributors SALLY ABRAMS is a student at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, studying fine arts. ALEXANDER ALONZO is a San Francisco Bay Area based photographer hoping to become famous someday. TIM BASS teaches creative writing at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. JULIE BJARNHOFF is a Danish artist translating deep-seated and complex emotions into artwork with a soft and fragile expression. She wants people not only to see but to feel. www.juliebjarnhoff.com TAYLOR BOND is a writer and photographer from the Washington, DC area. www.warrior-princess.wix.com/tbtb MICHELLE RENÉE BRULÉ leads creative writing workshops and serves as the faculty advisor to the literary journal at Eckerd College. She holds an MFA in poetry from Brooklyn College. TRAVIS CEBULA is the author of five full-length collections of poetry, including Dangerous Things to Please a Girl. You can find him every summer teaching with the Left Bank Writers Retreat in Paris. VINCENT A. CELLUCCI wrote An Easy Place / To Die (CityLit Press, 2011) and edited Fuck Poems an exceptional anthology (Lavender Ink, 2012). He dodges bullets in Louisiana. SAM CORFMAN has gone from Chicago to SoCal to Pittsburgh. If you run into him in Washington, DC, it may be his twin brother (not a poet), but say hi anyway. JULIANA DE SOUZA is originally from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and is now based in Washington, DC, studying English, French, and Film & Media at Georgetown University. M. DIAZ is a fiction and poetry writer from New England and recently graduated from college. JOHN DIJULIO is an artist living in Richmond, Virginia. His work focuses on documentation and the manipulation of certain photographic processes. BRAD EISENHAUER is based out of Richmond, Virginia, currently studying photography and film at Virginia Commonwealth University. KATHERINE FAIGEN grew up in the Washington, DC area. She currently lives in Massachusetts where she teaches college composition and English and coaches high school rowing. DAVID FARR is a passionate portrait and landscape photographer whose unique eye for exquisite composition and detail fuels his interest in the arts. WES HOLTERMANN’s work has appeared in the Kenyon Review, Lumina, and Into the Teeth of the Wind, among others. He is from Berkeley, California. BRENT SEATS (Brentley Johnson) is a 15-year-old photographer in San Jose, California. He has a love for all art and picked up photography as a medium to create art of his own.

JESSICA MCQUARRIE studied in Washington, DC at the time of submission and is now writing and photographing from Prince of Wales Island, Alaska, looking for more opportunities to pursue aesthetics. JIVIN MISRA is a writer, composer, and teacher currently residing in Los Angeles, California. JUNCONG MO is a mixed media artist interested in expressing his understanding of philosophy between reality and imagination through mediums including photography, performance, and installation. HANNAH NEES is a photographer from Richmond, Virginia focusing on architectural portraits. Through her work with the night, she aims to grasp a greater understanding of how decades-old architecture affects plans for urban development in the Richmond area. MOLLY O’BRIEN is a sophomore at New York University Tisch School of the Arts. mollyobrien@yahoo.com RIELLE OASE is an artist whose works are always intertwined with the magical. To her, magic can venture from highly idealized fantasy scenes to the awe seeing gender roles pushed and challenged. LINDSEY OWEN is a writer from Lancaster, Massachusetts. She is currently studying Literary Arts at Brown University and will graduate with a Bachelor of Arts in 2017. NOAH PAGE is an English Honours undergraduate student at the University of New Brunswick. He has published with Calliope Magazine and been a featured reader at Odd Sundays at Molly’s in downtown Fredericton. MELISSA PARTHEMORE is a senior at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in creative writing. VERONICA PATRICK recently completed graduate school at Columbia University and works as an architectural designer in New York. She is passionate for all things “design” with a focus in architecture and space, movement, and interaction. AARON REGAL is a 23-year-old multidisciplinary artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, working primarily in photography, painting, and printmaking. His work covers a range of topics regarding life in the 21st century. LISA ROWAN is a writer, editor, and podcaster living in Washington, DC. Her work has recently appeared in Black Heart Magazine and Cleaver Magazine. SARAH SANSOLO is a graduate of American University’s MFA program. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus and Big Lucks and is forthcoming in Adanna and Flaunt. CLARE WELSH is a writer and illustrator based in New Orleans. Most days, she can be found perched boldly in a lawn chair, petting Saint Bernards. ANNA WETTERGREEN is a recent graduate of Carnegie Mellon University with an interdisciplinary degree in Art and Psychology and a minor in Business Administration.

TALIA KIRSH is an image, sound, and environment creator based in New York City. Her interests span from creative arts therapy and energy medicine to documentary photo and experimental video.

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VIATOR | washington, dc

VIATOR n.1 Summer 2015  

A magazine of art and writing about places. Places that make you think and feel, places that make you dream.

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