em:me magazine issue 3: fall 2012

em:me

issue three: fall 2012

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[table of contents] on the cover: alcatraz island, san francisco bay, 2012 by emma horning page 2: [table of contents] page 3: [a small letter] pages 4 + 5: one image / one poem by kristi nimmo page 6: visual poetry by vinca andre page 7-9: three poems by parker tettleton pages 10-13: four images by daniel paashaus pages 14-16: three poems by ian wallace pages 17 + 18: two poems by rachel barenblat pages 19-22: four images by emma horning pages 23-25: three poems by graham hunter gregg pages 26 + 27: one poem by matthew daddona pages 28 + 29: two images by samantha keller pages 30 + 31: [contributor notes]

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a small letter september 2012 new york city [hello!] thanks for coming. it’s never quiet here + John Cage said:

There is no such thing as an empty space or an empty time. There is always something to see, something to hear. In fact, try as we may to make a silence, we cannot.

pulling this issue together – a quiet process – with new york streets as background sound – helicopter – cars –talk – hotel party – truck – siren – car horn – car horn - someone yells something – sounds like “hey you” hey you, thanks for reading / looking / “flipping through” this third issue. yours, emmalea russo editor

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moon gate kristi nimmo

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outside the moon gate I am singing the hotel. The body within me the color of tea. Last year and this born of themselves, the deer are moving our fantasies in boxes. Four-legged movers park RV’s on shoulders in egg cartons. Our maps of the arena are unfolded lately reminded me of tunnels of cruciform the descent into the snail body of the sloop kristi nimmo

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vinca andre

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otto I always want you closer is step-until-step. The second sentence parts its hair for bachelor wind. There’s a neglected glass half-full of tap with a P on the bottom next to landlord Mary’s futon; I burn my left pointer finger’s knuckle in a toaster oven that more than toasts. It does & I don’t.

parker tettleton

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bamboo It’s the seventh day & I’m speaking chiminea; you float five hours, a river. The second sentence hammocks twenty one years; I flywheel three flights of delivery in lieu of another anniversary in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. There’s a fireplace like there was a fireplace. She wouldn’t sit still unless I held her & I couldn’t sleep unless she was still. parker tettleton

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garfield There are spines in your fingers, brain, eyes. Waking is a train to what’s to come came; I’m six days from a twenty-fifth year. The third sentence can ride a Peugeot. This grocery bag doesn’t say what I see in it.

parker tettleton

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untitled film still from katabasis

daniel paashaus

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untitled film still from katabasis

daniel paashaus

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untitled film still from katabasis daniel paashaus

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untitled film still from katabasis

daniel paashaus

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ice grapes in dead summer, bleak & sun-stained paler than sand grain when grapes heaped in ice chests thin thaw we made a pact to never stop eating until one would come sweeter & crisper than the first so we doomed ourselves to failure & crammed bellies of gorgeous ice fruit too rock tender & dry creaking teeth sandpaper & cardboard defrosting failure the raisins of counter winter shutters frozen now

ian wallace

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thunder night hard storm thunder night my toes & grass are fresh clipped the city street lamps pose as mist rising smoke & plain pumpkins light the edges of streets three hawks circle as a reminder that time will out like truth & old television shows will always feel better canned laughter & all your name fades until thunder nights when the sky cries & one of the lonely last thunderbirds alights on my porch railing screams & dies

ian wallace

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nebulae After we had counted every single blade of grass we tore off bottle caps with our teeth letting the foam of toil dribble down our chins and chests, laughing, amidst our whiskers and oily skin The cold beers found frost and pulled it from the air We thought of the Hindus and the sin of bovine butchery and greed We thought of the tanned man telling us we would count every hair on the flanks, ribs, shank and skirt for eternity I remember thinking that right before the end being clever enough to last there would be no more night when all the light from every star now staining more distant skies however far away however black and dead however cold and blue when all that light reaches us.

ian wallace

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six weeks the changes leave me gobsmacked baby shouldered and wibbling, froth at the corner of his cupid's-bow mouth stretch marks like a tiger-print tattoo marking my belly fertile days distilled simple: nurse, diaper, repeat some day soon you'll smile and these sundered nights will be redeemed

rachel barenblat

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besieged Seven weeks in I am rubble, strafed by a round-cheeked pilot who attacks at random with his air-siren wail I lie in bed pleading with no one for just one hour but the monitor crackles and deals its death blow yet once he's milk-faced and sleepy, head lolling in the crook of my arm I fall in love with the enemy all over again his imperious voice and grabby hands, his eyes like slate marbles and his endless hunger never satisfied

rachel barenblat

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third avenue, bethlehem, pa, 2012 emma horning

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pinecrest diner, geary street, san francisco, 2012

emma horning

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alcatraz island, san francisco bay, 2012

emma horning

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palace, bethlehem, pa, 2012

emma horning

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plain sight simplicity is the fantasy of lions the dream of birds this blank sky slowly washed by the sun the chance to feel miniscule granted by the scale of sight yet we disobey the orders of the body always reaching up and out jealous of the lion’s pride defining our own i want my small wings to be enough

graham hunter gregg

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undone

Take the poor boy dancing the tango. But know that he cuts. Please show him to a quiet corner, where he may hack off spent beauty. If you can charm him you may see his broken chalk smile, hear the tragedy in his laugh. He may kindle up what’s left of his burnt out clothes, make a fire just for you. Naked, you’ll want him to stay that way, and he will for you. But please do not laugh when he forgets your name, calls his “love” back to bed. You might love him, change his poverty, devour his thin skin. It will kill you.

graham hunter gregg

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what used to be facts A boy wanted the delicacy of the boat He broke the glass bottle To see if it would float without protection Because sometimes there needs to be recklessness The blind ambition of adventure Just as moths chanced death In the lost and found Of porch light

graham hunter gregg

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some people you may know I John Doe’s name in German is Max Mustermann or at least that’s the one capricious enough to say when identity is such an effort these days I hide around myself stalking aisles of meringue and sweetness from strange sources. II I could be Max Mustermann I think to myself in the oddest places, usually with sunglasses on staring past planets that fall delicately on the car ride home. They won’t see me, they won’t ever think I was here. III Max Mustermann meets John Doe during an improv session where spies and other nameless corpses commiserate on the futility of character calling each other for better or worse versions of John, Jon and Johnny until a young blonde man pipes up Mustermann and everyone stares in silence, even the corpses. III (2) Economy is a language I don’t care to unmask

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unless damask is worth the price. My fingers spill silk rhythms pulsing a time that immaterially belongs to another. IV There’s but one question circulating rooms like yours and mine and in the chance you’ve heard it one more has passed like subtext below the bed. Where the ghosts lay down, anon said. V Max Mustermann and John Doe exchange hands under balmy starlight missing, like most men do, the point at which it becomes less important who they are but how they got there like how I am me and myself at special times when the mass pounds a question: where does loneliness go? then a question: to where do the dead go when they’re lonely?

matthew daddona

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exterior armour samantha keller

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4/5 (from sympathetic stalker)

samantha keller

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[contributor notes] Vinca Andre lives in Montreal, Canada for the moment. Since she was a child she has been utterly confused by her surroundings and as she grew up that translated into abstract/experimental images and words that results in visual poetry. For her it is the best way to bring out in physical form what goes on in her mind. It makes perfect sense. This work includes ink and pen drawings digitally worked on. Rachel Barenblat holds an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, and rabbinic ordination from ALEPH: the Alliance for Jewish Renewal. Her first book-length collection of poems, 70 faces, was published by Phoenicia Publishing in 2011. (She is also author of four poetry chapbooks.) Since 2003 she has blogged as The Velveteen Rabbi. She serves a small congregation in western Massachusetts, where she lives with her husband and son. Matthew Daddona has published poetry and reviews in Slice, The Southampton Review, Tuesday: An Art Project, Electric Literature, elimae, InDigest, Anderbo, among others. In 2011, he collaborated on a chapbook with poet/scholar Tim Wood, using Wittgenstein’s aphorisms as poetic conversation. He is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets prize and a Beatrice Dubin Rose award. Matthew edits an online review journal, Tottenville Review, and is a member of the group Flash Point, a text and jazz-performance ensemble that blends poetry, fiction, and flash fiction with live music. Graham Hunter Gregg hails from Washington State and is the sound of gin etched on paper. He also moonlights as a flannel wrapped beer can nailed to a fencepost in a fallow field. Strong winds dislodged the rusty nail and have taken him to where he currently resides in Portland, Oregon. Emma Horning lives Eastern Pennsylvania and holds a BFA in Fine Art Photography from Kutztown University, in Kutztown, Pennsylvania. She currently works as a Studio Manager for photographer, Larry Fink. Obsessed with color, shape, and parallel lines, she blogs at www.emmahorning.tumblr.com Samantha Keller is a young aspiring artist interested in all aspects of creativity. She finds herself most infatuated behind a viewfinder, torching up some sterling, or scavenging the back yard for deceased insects. Photography was Samantha's first love & it will always be her foundation for expanding within the artistic realms. She shoots with minimal equipment & maximum emotions. She began with people & will end with their questions. Pills, bugs, animals, & people are her favorite subjects and

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will never cease to amaze her due to the intricacy & interlacing of them all. Kristi Nimmo is a writer, painter, and meditation teacher. Her paintings are watery, dreamy images, contemplative, textural, evocative of earth and ocean. Sometimes they are brilliant-strong color, and sometimes they are subtle to the point of seeming erased. She feels that writing complements painting and both have emotional impact that is transformative. Her poetry has appeared in Yes, Poetry, Mouse Tales Press, and other places. She lives in Leesburg, Virginia. Daniel Paashaus is a self-portrait photographer and filmmaker who lives and works in Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley. Along with his artistic endeavors, he farms for a living, which plays a key role in his subject matter and also gives him plenty of contemplative time to plan out elaborate installations while hand weeding carrots and harvesting tomatoes. A graduate of Temple University, Paashaus is self-taught and relies heavily on a background in literature, philosophy, and film. He believes that self-portraiture is one of the purest forms of expression, attempting to control every aspect of the image-making process, from set construction and costuming to lighting and editing. His current project, a film entitled "Songs," will be premiering at Lehigh University in Spring 2013 at their biennial exhibition. More information can be found on his website at www.dpaashaus.com. Parker Tettleton's work is featured in &/or forthcoming from elimae, Gargoyle, ILK, Short, Fast, & Deadly & Yes, Poetry, among others. His second collection, Greens, is available via Thunderclap! Press. More or less is here. Ian Wallace lives in North Carolina. He is working on his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He is emotionally supported by his wife and cat.