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

"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 ...

Lacking sobriety and piety, Your society quietly and idly Sits by as you riot violently And without variety. On Your Dime this crime kills the Will to climb as time slips by, The sublime pantomime. Face to face you laced this Space with lies and debased With haste everything. But This hate is easily traced to The place where you faced the same dilemmas and erased systemically the Case this ace laid upon you. He stretched the truth; fetched the imaginations Of our youth. You did too, sketched On the notepads in their heads Etched visions of the color red, Of those long dead until you sped, Away through the fray because You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t Handle another day spent this way. POETRY_BRANDEN

Tales of elation often ending in humiliation Have passed from generation to generation Like trains that pull into the station every 20 years Or so. And on occasion some brazen Young fool still sets out in search of these false creations. Back then they were gritty stories of gold and glory. These tales have evolved but still revolve Around individual resolve. They cement Their ideas into our heads and the intent Is to present that we can be anything. It’s true to a certain extent, But they often neglect to interject to keep our youth in check. The old stories of success were not of those who, when under duress, Turned back claiming stress. “It’s too hard”; “I was dealt the wrong cards.” Excuses are traps that retard our ability and foster social sterility. If you want to get anywhere you’ll have to sweat and bear The hardship on the way. ...

After reading “The Way to the Rainy Mountain,” I thought about my contact with Native American people. In the Pacific Northwest, the most notable Native American group is probably the Tulalip. Their reservation, located in Snohomish County, near Marysville, has several miles of frontage on Interstate-5. From the freeway, I can see their casino. I have noticed that they are even adding a hotel to it. Looking at the casino, I think of Las Vegas, and the wonderful buffets. I know people who have tried the buffets served at the Tulalip Casino, but as far as I know, the quality of the food isn’t as great. Adjacent to the casino, there is an outlet mall called Seattle Premium Outlets. I have only been to mall once, but it was quite an interesting experience. ...

Dressed to impress I set out to best the rest In this test that we call life. Stress And duress are sacrificed to success, If you can’t handle it that’s too bad, So sad. Maybe you’ll catch it next time, oh wait- Too late. The torch has been passed to the next great This or that. And this, class, is the lesson for today. That is to say, sit back and wait and you may Just lose it all. Carpe Diem, seize the day, Or you’ll wake up old and gray wishing you had found a way. You didn’t, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t. But I will. I have the skill to thrive, the will to survive; Absolutely nothing can kill my drive. My passion Is casting the mold for a lasting future. Nothing can stand Between me and my master plan. I’m staking a claim; I fan the flames of my aims with images of ...

The following is a short story previously presented at the Richard Hugo House 72 Hour Challenge in Seattle, Washington on February 12, 2009. “Are we there yet?” The ward nurse patted the blue-bunnied shoulder, and murmured into the hopeful face looking up at her. “Not yet, honey, a little while longer.” It satisfied Angie, and she went back to rocking slightly in her chair, her arms folded across her chest, locked in an endless journey; hopeless, but full of hope. The room was quiet this late in the day. Each chair filled; an entire cafeteria of mental illnesses. Pick your favorite one, we had them all. I had been observing the woman by the window all day. She sat alone and the nurses let her be in her own private “do not disturb” zone. If anyone approached, she only giggled and got agitated, angry. ...

Recently, I had attended the fellowship at a local church. That night, however, wasn’t just any fellowship session; instead it featured a workshop about “What is Fellowship?” In it, a church elder surnamed Chan, discussed to us the importance of fellowship especially to college students. During the speech, he emphasized the three F’s of fellowship: function, foundation and fruit. He was able to articulately explain and even market the significance of the fellowship in the Christian church. First, he asked “Why do you all participate in fellowship?” By being interactive with the audience, he was able to sway away from the stereotypical church workshop and lectures, with over an hour of one-way verbal communication. By adding our participation to the speech with the use of the overhead projector, he created a group-oriented feel, focusing on ...

Ever since a very young age, I had great difficulty with public speaking. Growing up as an only child, I was known to be the shy kid, which did not help my communication skills. I never liked giving presentations in class. The first time I had discovered improvement in my oratory ability was in 2005, during the freshman year of high school, where I gave a speech to a group of over 400 students. Yet, I continued to be nervous, which caused me to speak at a fast rate. However, I began to enjoy giving presentations and speeches. Even at the beginning of this quarter, I was nervous when I had to talk in this class. Throughout this quarter, one major improvement I made was reducing my speed in public speaking. From the first ...

Following the recent Presidential election, a new face emerged as a representation of the American nation. Lately, Barack Obama has become a major figure in many public communications. As a result of the growing number of popular speeches comes praise and critique of his oral abilities and presentation. Scholars have suggested that a major task of the political officer is to communicate with his/her constituents. Therefore, it is important to understand and analyze the methods of communications by politicians, especially the one holding the highest executive office in the United States. Over the course of American history, the president’s inauguration speech, which happens every four or eight years, is one of the most highly praised public spectaculars in US politics. President Obama’s inauguration speech on January 20, 2009 focused on a number of contextual ...