The best of Visual, Literary and Performing Arts that highlight the glory of everyday life.

Water means to be a wounding apology Charging with abandon towards a sweeter kind of living Waiting for morning light to shine down on the horizon and Wash away the ash and embers POETRY_Michael Weems

Forgive me? I want to feel the release – To have this lump of remorse gone from my throat To feel this hesitant anxiety drain from my hands. And for you to smile a smile where I can’t see the disappointment any more. A smile like you mean it – a face full of sweet understanding that tells me we go on. Your blank expression washes the color from my skin; turns my blood cold and Inevitably releases my tongue to speak the lingering thoughts that once wisely had stayed behind And only with anger have grown to fruition Now that they’re free- I finally see you smile. POETRY_Michael Weems

On December 22, Tony celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday. It hadn’t been a festive occasion for him. He found himself in much the same unhappy predicament as he had the year before, and the one before that, and the one before that. At six-feet-five, Tony was tall enough to play professional basketball, were it not for the fact he weighed four-hundred pounds. In high school, he’d initially earned the center position on football squads, but the coaches felt that he lacked “the killer instinct,” and gave up on him. Tony was overweight even as a toddler. “Oh, it’s only baby fat,” his mama said. As a teenager, he became obese, but his mama insisted, “He’s just a little chubby. He’ll grow out of it.” Over the years, carrying two-hundred extra pounds had become extremely uncomfortable for Tony and affected every ...

“I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.” His brief interruption causes an uneasy silence. His eyes dart from face to blank face, The response, almost in unison, comes forth. “Are you sure?” The question rolls off their forked tongues, Like bait for an unexpecting prey, He starts to answer, but he thinks twice. He envisions his lonely nights, little memories. They relish upon his solitude, his suffering. His fate hangs in the balance, Depending upon whether or not he accepts the proposition. His prosecutor’s irritation grows. “Wait a minute,” he pauses, “You’re right, I do like it.” POETRY_Michael Weems

Tuesday June 11th, 1996. Old man, canoe settled in the middle of the lake. “Bet you think a seventy year old man couldn’t do A hundred pushups in the middle of a cnoe, now do ya?” I stand, my dog at the end of leash, both of us stare. Before I can even evoke a simple response, he continues, “I’ve been in the circus since I was fifteen,” he yells. “What!? You don’t believe me? I’m gonna put this canoe on my van, that’s my van over there.” A woman jogger passes me as I walk slowly to my car. I greet her and in the distance hear the old man start up. “Bet you think a seventy year old man –“ TEXT_Michael Weems

I like my men with a bit of mystery. To discover a man, to know his deepest secrets and innermost thoughts, enthralls me. The idea of meeting him unexpectedly, making our connection that much more delicious and enigmatic, is thrilling. I see us catching the other’s eye across a crowded room, like during a fancy dinner at Seattle’s Space Needle. I would peek from behind my icy bangs, peering at his chocolate eyes with my own frozen blues. He would slowly lick his full lips and I would coyly nibble the bottom of mine. He’d raise his right eyebrow slyly: a question. I would nod once, very subtly: an acknowledgment. Yes. Politely excusing himself from a one-sided conversation with some gossipy brunette, he’d slowly slide his long frame out of the wide booth. His longish hair would flop over one ...

Off came the crown Metallic clamors echoing throughout the barren hallways Rolling back towards the throne and Resting aside the chairs’ staunch wooden legs Two red rubies fall free from their home, once proudly residing high atop his head, Now settle on the cold stone floor POETRY_Michael Weems

One pays to cry A fee for falling apart The capacity of emotions overflows, dripping into welcome ears and pockets They retreat until next time knowing that someday the floodgates will burst wide open POETRY_Michael Weems

"It is highly stereotypical to claim that narcissistic people are aiming for fame. narcissism is similar to other love, like a man towards a woman, or like a parent towards his/her children... except that in this case, the subject and object are one." -An extraordinary saintlike human being Do you agree or disagree? The Narcissistic Robot - by: AC

My best ones are stifling, The good days, the good works, I am still not saved From having to try again In the future, not released From doing anything at all, What good is good? It buys No trip, hides no responsibility, With every thing done well, Comes more questions, more demands, More empty things That everyone else Does not trust themselves to fill. BEN NARDOLILLI is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Heroin Love Songs, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Literary Fever, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

I am with Homer, and Homer Is next to clips of men Falling down, failed stunts That make me successfully laugh, While they slide over rails And roll down stairs To Beethoven and Zeppelin, I talk in the present To friends, leaving Messages that they will find, Car wrecks on this highway They will have to stop and read And think about me now, Infecting their memory with my voice, Trying to communicate with them I am remembering someone I loved, And thinking a stranger’s face, Revealed to many, Resembles her, but the shade of skin Just isn’t right, as I get Tomorrow’s weather and let everyone know That I love them but will not make it, Because I am sick And tired from traveling. BEN NARDOLILLI is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, ...

Now loose, we start again, at that way We thought we had, but were too heavy To bend down over and conquer, Now our knees are not tied together And our tongues let loose serpents Barely constrained by teeth, We can reach only out to sky, earth, and water, With steps that gape, over a road That no longer yawns at our presence. BEN NARDOLILLI is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Heroin Love Songs, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Literary Fever, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

Who can sleep over such vast machinery, Who can close their eyes at such high speeds? Yet they do it, and I suspect, Have made a habit of perching for a rest. Some of them have even brought music To cushion their fall into self-proclaimed night, But the tunes now escape their notice And I am left to collect all the stray notes. There is too much to see passing by For me to join them and sleep, In my head, the howl of the wheels would echo And give me dreams I couldn’t catch up to. BEN NARDOLILLI is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Heroin Love Songs, ...

For two weeks I had heaven, The smooth spinning wheels And seats given freely to love. There were destinations And no expense could be lost, Heaven was fueled by savings. Once the road ran dry And the destination jumped up, I had to bring heaven back. I traded it for hell, A urine stained lesser vehicle Squeaky with square wheels. When there was no place To reach, no need to open the doors, I slept in it with windows down. Six months of hell And now they let me trade it in, I suspect they’ll savage the parts. The engine does not slow down Or tolerate speeding up, This is real life or purgatory. Either way there is a wheel Under my fingertips Made of ordinary leather. BEN NARDOLILLI is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, ...

The electric doors squeaked open as slowly as the disoriented drivers moved their cars in the parking lot. A draft whistled through the lobby, but, when the doors parted, winter winds overwhelmed the weak indoor breeze. It was cold outside, with bites of sleet sailing through the air. Not a single green plant prevailed. Tan and faded chocolate dappled the dreary landscape. Even the more modern townhouses and offices in the neighborhood seemed to sag. Nothing escaped the wintry bleakness. Yet Bertha had another reason for seeking shelter in the library. As the large woman rolled her suitcase into the building, more than one person pretended not to stare at her. Bertha said nothing and only ran a fleshy hand through her off-white hair as she looked around the lobby. No matter what, Bertha’s chipped nails were all different lengths. They ...

Freedom is the bottle broken of spirits lying on the splintered hardwood floor of an artist’s studio in 1890s Montmartre, scented with lilies drenched in the coma of melancholia. Liberty blushes in the slapped face of a guillotined Frenchwoman, once fettered to three starving, yelping children who trudge along the blood-spattered cobblestone paths of Terror-stricken Paris alone, their hands and lips begging for bread in the endless season of poverty. Freedom is in the silence that answers a question in the search for truth. Liberty is victorious in the right to free speech denied by the hypocrites meant to uphold and enforce these constitutional rights. Freedom is in the act of martyrdom that leads one to externalize their suffering. It is in the raising and rooting of a rotting crucifix into the earth that one chooses to set aflame and ...

One ring in the distance, Was it an accident in the tower? Another following it, Surely this is no folly. A third dull clang in the air, Is it something in my ears? Four times the bell has rung, Should I suspect an alarm. Fifth ring and I worry Some fire or disaster is spreading. A sixth clang in the distance, Is there a plan to stop? Seven now, I wonder What the bride’s dress looks like. Eight and I think of the procession, What streets it must block. A ninth ring and loud, The final one from the tower? No, soon comes the tenth And I look for a catafalque. Eleven rings and clangs All overlapping, when will it stop? The twelfth shaking of the bell And soon it hangs silent. Twelve rings, do they mark the time? So much sound must mean something. I look out the window and see ...

The voice of God called out to me one day. It was in the dirty fingertips and the greedy hands of everyman silently facing the awkward experience of reality. The eyes of God gazed down at me one morning. It was in the scent of the dawn, roses strewn on the horizon, glistening like the bedewed petals underfoot in the frost-covered paths. The breath of God fell upon me one night in the first stretch of darkness before the hours waned anew in a waxing morrow. It was in the curtain falling across the stage of life, echoing the swansong of Macbeth. The head of God bent before me, crowned with diamonds and thorns, golden-haloed. It was in the sun setting purple with orange bursts brittle in the sky. The wine-warmed lips of God kissed me full on the mouth ...

Southern city streets are silent on Sundays. Churches shake with the sounds of heaving organs, fervent clapping, and tearful screams of praise, but the roads remain deserted. Even the squirrels rest from collecting their acorns. Sunday, the Bible reminds Virginia through Texas, is sacred. Only atheists, Jews, and Candy Loo ignore this. Candy Loo parked himself on a rickety bench just facing Sacred Heart Cathedral. The final bell rang as a five-member family scrambled inside, the mother dragging the smallest and most reluctant child by the hand. The father held the door open for them all. Then the five of them disappeared into the house of wafers and wine. Candy Loo popped an unsalted peanut into his mouth. The salted kind cost too many pennies extra. He would rather spend that money on the outside of his mouth. The mouth boasted full ...

The pulses of our morphing desire are beat out against the musk that emanates from the blooming rhythms of the sensuality in his voice, as an oar plunges into the sea, making circumferences with the ripples of a galaxy of stars, cosmic dust, and planets spinning out across the darkened surface of its limpid liquid universe. DOMINICK MONTALTO is a freelance copy editor pursuing full-time work in the publishing industry in an editorial capacity. His educational background is in Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web. His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the evolutionary changes of the Gothic, British Romanticism, French Symbolism, British and French Decadence and Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus on ...