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

Dogs named Frosty, Flipper, Mr. Sparkles, Comet, Clifford and Spud. Ferrets named Teddy, Granite, Aspen, Scotch, Gloria, Evian, and Zach. A hamster named Splat, but Spud ate it. Goats named Biscuit, Celebrate and Holiday. Cat named Poopsie. A chicken named Space, like Grayson’s middle name. Bunnies named Silver Stud and Hunny Bunny. Horses named Thyme, Buster, Perrier, Angel and Dolly. When Grayson is in the pet store his eyes light up like a Fourth of July fireworks display. He taps the glass and hunches over to get eye to eye with the guinea pigs and fancy mice. He burbles his disgust at the reptiles with their beady eyes and scaled skin. He stares thoughtfully at the various fish aquariums, pondering aloud the benefits of owning fresh water versus saltwater fish. As we browse the aisles he jabbers without stopping about ...

Priest’s off to the disco and dean’s asleep The age has its calling You tell me there aint gonna be a better chance We’re but to make it past the sentry And over the fence a solid plan still A plan to spoil These post pubescent flings left but A dent upon the membrane of daily Parceled rational With all its harmonic pell-mell I did manage to pick up Some wisdom along the way old gal Albeit empirical observation would Have chaos prevail over law Now days I often find myself considering That which I did not Hesitate to discard before Minute additions to the hoarded repetition Reckon it all gone south with the Arrival of the soter shouldn’t have God instead of son had had a daughter From atop crest of the useless Hill the dwellers of sequestered within descend Towards the cowards’ den eternal Woman enlightened man Alex, 28, Bellevue Washington.

That’s the way it goes, she shrugged. Breath escaping in a ragged pattern. Shoulders rise and fall in anticipation of a reply The brutal truth from a fallen friend never comes She is left numb – walking away towards closure that will only come from time POETRY_Michael Weems

There’s a scar I’m not allowed to see. To the naked eye, it’s practically undetectable. The eyes often wander when the skin and the area are exposed – Distracted by the tan and curves and beauty that abounds but Compliments can only be overridden by the faded blemish running up and down – Coursing the length of her body and away from intimacy Mention of it incurs averted eyes and awkwardness. Bedside manner has become commonplace – a simple existing recognition of adherence. He knows the places not to touch – all while the reason still goes unexplained. He can only be told the procedure took its toll. Frustration having been heightened by something that isn’t quite dishonesty The want to reciprocate pleasure has been interrupted by this wound. In time, it will destroy him as well. POETRY_Michael Weems

Eva had been dead for twenty years before Joaquin got to La Tierra Sangre. By the time he got there, she was nothing but a bare, yellowed skeleton, leaning against the top of her husband Castaneda’s piano in their old bar called Nirvana, across from the town water tower. Castaneda put small wreaths of flowers on her head and wrapped her shoulders with the same shawl she had been buried with, the same shawl that had the small black hole seared into the back of it. It was illegal in that county to exhume the dead but nobody ever ratted Castaneda out; the sheriff who came in for a drink more often then he took his gun out of the holster never even brought it up. Joaquin was the first to mention it. He had started working at Nirvana in December ...

The restaurant was above a shop that sold hats and handbags and the food was rich and tasted like it did in Naples so far away. It was located down a side street with the lamps flickering at night and the smell would go out the vents and through each row of flats, calling to the residents loudly, converting them with its savory, sweet scent. The maitre d’, middle aged and with a round body, sat the couple at a table in the corner knowing it was their favorite place. She smiled and left them with menus though they always ordered the same dish, the cannelloni and clam sauce, with garlic bread and salad and cappuccinos afterwards. She knew this too and had already placed the order to the kitchen. The maitre d’ was an ...

Tell me where I’ve gone. The feeling is imperceptible. The sheer mention of finding reason transcends reason. Tell me why I’m here. To escape, one has to find a new place; this in itself requiring one to be found again. Tell me how I can get away. I land into an array of indifference steeped in unfamiliarity. Eager eyes fall on those who left and only, until recently, had not been found. POETRY_Michael Weems

Last Time Silence spoke before it was over It parked itself outside my window and Watched as I chased it away once again Silence idled at the street corner underneath a street sign ‘No standing anytime’ An audible sighed, Silence carried on POETRY_Michael Weems

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.