The

Broome
Street
Review
N o. 1
Apo(phonic)
SPRING 2009

1
©2009
Contents
Disease Du Jour… 4
Editor’s Note… 5
Nikki Lee… 6 Untitled
Holly K. Artz…7 Heet.
Elisa Granados… 8 012309
Rachael Hess… 8
Sam Pizelo… 9 get.to do.ll
Jerimee Bloemeke… 10 Transient Truncation
Raphael Ellis… 13 Baruch circa 2008
Andrew Colarusso… 14 & on Alto, Mr. Ornette Coleman
Rachael Hess… 15
Steven Benathan… 16 Reunification
Meb Byrne… 27 IHOP
Michael George… 29
Raphael Ellis… 30 If you die…
Amanda Killian… 31 Orion Says Hello
Andrew Colarusso… 32 noise
Nikki Lee… 32
Ryan Krill… 33
Elena Vigil… 36 And On and On
Rachael Hess… 40 Artist’s Statement
Amanda Levendowski… 46 Lenguaje Romantico
Tehmina Brohi… 49
Mahalet Dejene… 50 On Inadequacy/On Discontent
Nikki Lee… 52 Chinatown
Elisa Granados… 53 pancakes, beer, & stardust

2
 Andrew Colarusso… 54 illfits
Michael George… 54
El Gajiev… 55 Ode To Brooklyn
Sida Li… 62 Carnivore
Rachael Hess… 65

Sam’s Blues
Talking Jazz & Travel with Sam Greenlee… 58
Sam Greenlee… 59 Be-Bop Man/Be-Bop Woman

Contributors, Masthead & Misc

Contributors… 66
Masthead… 68
Copyright… 70

3
 Exploring

Subjectivity
& the dream state

4
Editor’s Note
Traditionally, western culture has not been the friend of dreams or
dreaming. This is different from the American dream: an idea founded on
financial frontier fiction. You may believe, as I believe, that dreams are a
channel to a figurative reality. Dreams exist in something of a spiritual
realm where the artist’s extraordinary metaphors are alchemically
transfigured into sensory experience. Freud would say dreams are
manifestations of subconscious sexual impulses. But we are more than
sexual; we are more than simply biology.
The soul speaks in dreams—the last bastion of subjectivity.
Hopeless romantics are those whose wishes go unrealized. They
wear their dead dreams on their cheeks, in their hearts and in their eyes.
We’ve all made a wish; on a star, in a fountain, on a candle. Keep your
wishes with you. Don’t give them away; dedicate time to making them
come true. Your wish is your dream and your dream is what you build
your life around. When you’ve made your dream come true, share it.
The weight of a dream is relative to its dreamer. The Little Red
Hen, for example, dreamt of bread. It may sound simple, but Hens don’t
have thumbs. It’s really quite impressive if you think about it. So the
Little Red Hen dreamt of bread and no one was willing to help. She
made it anyway. It is true that no dream is impossible. Where the mind
muses our hands must follow.
So I dreamt of this collection. But, unlike the lovely Hen, all of the
contributing writers and supporters were willing to be a part of my
dream.
In the words of brother Langston: hold fast to dreams
&
Proceed with caution.

For my sister, who dreams like I do.

For Pandya, Johnny and L —Philosophers
For Solmaz, Shireen and Omar
For all of Broome Street (hall council & college board)
For Scott Statland
For the spirits that walk with us

Special thanks to Sam Greenlee: a national hero, a brilliant writer and an

extremely cool guy.
—Andrew Elias Colarusso de Sanchez y Taylor

5
6
Heet.
Holly K. Artz

In the dim circular light of the kitchen

Like beneath the warmth of mother's skirt or the lovable oddity of

wearing a drum on the crown of your head gingerly seconds before it
careens off your chin, hijacking your neck and crashing into hollow
noises at foot's level

she bit into the rib of the edamame, its cousins’ swooping shells of dead
green skins brimming in the plastic bowl

the delicate thread of a membrane cupped and oozed on the hitch of her
teeth

ending in the birth of a moist silken bud alive in its heat.

7
012309
Elisa Granados

Last night I slept nude.

For lunch, I spoke naked,
Awoke unclothed,
Danced around in a shoelace,
Unaffected by cold,
Or the hail
Or the snow.
I need to not be naked
--Put on some clothes.

8
get.to do.ll
Samuel Pizelo

where i s.it i sit at right angels

i waited piss pools undulated and you
you ululated i lessen a t.all man.s
peak ma.jiavellian in hand drew hi
s.words like lions in the wet semen.t
he waist my time a while it.d
ries and i getto doll
ar.

when i r.u.bber she rubs again

st.me and her brain ex
plain it all to.me everything
then we rubber our feet to go.d
own.town the t.rain t.racks the euchari
st.electricity we going to hell fo.r
sho.w

i s.wore enough to take our minds

off the c.easeless plantation in the c.loud
you p.resent the smokes and light
s.and we swallow tha.dry but do th
e spirit.s care enough to con.cuss
fo.r each vein of us sluggi.sh aikes wit.h
air shimmers n the wind ghost.s
jesus christ

9
Transient Truncation
Jerimee Bloemeke

At the face of All we drifted down Cocytus,

beaching but at fields of elysium
where we talked with Sisyphus
and he told us we were dead
then rolled away atop his stone;

where we sought counsel from Jesus

Christ, who still bled though it was sand
and who sang to Mary Magdalene,
My love / My true love / I'm deep down /
I'm so beat down,
and she responded to Him:
My God / My own God / I'm so tired /
And I'm tired of being around.

Why didn't we bother to search

out Julius Caesar or Shakespeare,
or Benjamin Franklin, George Washington, or Thomas Jefferson,
or Robespierre or, hell, Napoleon for that matter?
Was it because we were tired,
or did we suppose
that we had eternity at our disposal. Or did we remember
what we were told. It can't be that old… Did we even consider
eternity to really be merely that instant we were often sustaining,
with our everready consciousnesses
that were steady lines from Point A to Point B
(A and B being the same thing,
but B being dying)?

Imagine if Point A was the point

from which we were borne
and were told that it was our birth
and that this was earth and that this
was our life. Imagine Point A

10
was fate. And then imagine the pointer
the teacher
would use.

In reality before ______,

we caressed our absence,
nothing nothing and crouching and curling, thinking,
When I break through / I'm gonna
do / Anything I want to do.

When being born we fanned

our entrances with ferns; scoffed
at this oxygen
and flailed our appendages in relief; picked
at ancient notes
on strings of tendon that sounded
tuneful when still damp
and when we bended them,

mimicking songbirds luring

the meelworms
and intuiting a symphony for Dionysus––

My bird / My true bird / You fly

away every single day;

Love was taught to us

with a capital L by aliens
that transmitted their thoughts
which were read within our heads.
The thoughts went: My lonely friend / I long
for you /
And I've looked long
for you.

We created a mantra
of alien philosophy and whistled
cadences, wishing everything was much
cacophony, or ideally a sacred syllable
being hummed infinitely

11
to mask the bombings and the gunning
downs, which sounded
like our initial limbo––
When I break through / I'm gonna do /
Everything / You
ask me Please, now, Do––
but different…

When we owned our residence,

together, we must have had a mutt
or two. We must have had a verse
for that, too. We must have. Let's
not delineate ourselves as separate
entities, let's have us as one, us as
family. We must have so we could've
serenaded our dog of the wetlands,
called to him, petted him, and told him,
My dog, my dog / I'm leaving town /
O won't you come along to get down!

They didn't admonish us, because,

after all, we're all Picasso's children,
we're all interpreting
Guernica
where flora
resembles the
Last Supper.

Won't you come / Come get down /

O won't you come / Won't you come!

––rang throughout the chamber of the Universe

and echoed around when we let go of existence.

12
Baruch circa 2008
Raphael Ellis

Rubber-band lips
and small, sharp hips
gyrate softly
above me, God,
and there are sheets
of womb-like mesh
draping my flesh—
and there is heat,
and scented hair
pumping the air
with Eve, God:—
so do you think
I’d ever leave,
and dip my pen in ink
for you?

13
& on Alto, Mr. Ornette Coleman
Andrew Colarusso

This is the house on Linden Boulevard.

These are the suns in the window of th
e house on Linden Boulevard. These ar
e the branches of the bare tree that sca
tters the light of the suns in the windo
w of the house on Linden Boulevard. T
his is the gray soil from which the bran
ches of the bare tree grows that scatter
s the light of the suns in the window of
the house on Linden Boulevard. This is
the rusted chain link fence that hedges
in the gray soil from which the branche
s of the bare tree grows that scatters th
e light of the suns in the window of the
house on Linden Boulevard. These are t
he funereal sneakers of the child on the
rusted chain link fence that hedges in th
e gray soil from which the branches of t
he bare tree grows that scatters the ligh
t of the sons in the window of the house
on Linden Boulevard.

14
15
Reunification
Steven Benathan

A dimly lit bedroom, the eerie lighting is a byproduct of an open

window and faint moonlight and streetlight wafting its way in. There is
a nightstand by the bed, a number of dressers and a large dressing-room
mirror to the right of the bed, a doorway to a bathroom in the bedroom
and the doorway to the hell.

Molly, mid to late 30’s, possibly even early 40’s but she certainly doesn’t
look it, lies face down on the center of the bed.

She is sleeping but she has collapsed with frustration and exhaustion in
such a way we are relieved to see her defeated breathing.

She stirs slowly, fingering the covers, tossing and turning until she
finally rises.

She walks to the bathroom and returns with a bottle of water and a jar.

She sits down before the low dressers and the dressing room mirror.

She flips on the light, and downs a pill with a slow gulp of water.

She takes some lotion onto her hand, wipes her face over with it and
pauses for a second as if meditation were a necessary step in its
application.

She smiles, heaves a sigh and stops.

She tries again, again and again, poses, smiles, frowns, surprised faces.

Her appearance disgusts her each time until she finally erupts in a
frustrated shriek and collapses with her head on the dresser.

We hear the sound of someone racing across their home as she sits there
sobbing.

16
Her husband, James enters.

This is not the first time this happened. He makes his way to her and
puts his arm around her.

JAMES
It’s ok, shhhh.

He rubs her back and kisses her neck.

She turns to face him and we see clearly the scars and burn marks on
her face and she sobs on his chest.

JAMES
Molly.

He rocks her for a bit before reaching and taking the jar.

JAMES
Oh Moll. This, this isn’t going to do anything.

She sobs harder.

He takes the pills.

JAMES
And this too.

He pauses.

JAMES
Have you just been in here all day? You were supposed to go out for a
walk and sit in the park, it was a sunny day, the sun would make you
feel nice.

MOLLY
No.

JAMES
No? Well that’s no good.

17
 MOLLY
I slept, I lay in bed.

JAMES
You told me this morning when I left; you’d take a little walk today
after work.

MOLLY
Well I didn’t. I started to, I got up, I put on my jogging pants and I
looked in the mirror and I couldn’t.

JAMES
You can’t do that, you can’t stay in everyday, it’s no good for you.

MOLLY
The skin regenerates when you sleep… your cell turnover rate is
doubled and maybe if I sleep everyday-

JAMES
Do you really think that?

MOLLY
I don’t know. I can’t look like this; I buy cream after cream that claims
the world and down more Vitamin E than is healthy and-

JAMES
You’re beautiful.

MOLLY
I was beautiful.

JAMES
Are.

He slides down the side of her shirt to reveal her scarred shoulder. He
goes to kiss it but she pushes him away.

MOLLY
No.

JAMES
Let me.

18
 MOLLY
No!

JAMES
So you’ve cut me off too.

He gets up.

MOLLY
James.

He turns back.

MOLLY
I am ugly. I am not myself. I prided myself on 37 years of beauty and
facials and all this stupid shit that got undone and then Michael…

JAMES
You’re his Mother.

MOLLY
He lied and said that I was in a play. That’s why Mommy’s face looks
strange.

JAMES
Little kids are assholes; I was an asshole as a kid.

MOLLY
I don’t work with clients anymore. I’m hidden… I make phone calls to
the press and everyone wonders what happened to me, and what they
tell them I don’t even know. What? That they’re publicist is a monster
now.

JAMES
Moll, you’re not a monster.

MOLLY
James, please. I love you and Michael I do, but if I’d been crushed in
those towers

19
 JAMES
Stop it.

MOLLY
And for what? I went back because I didn’t see Anita and who’s Anita?
She’s no cripple, she could’ve walked down those steps, probably faster
than me but I didn’t see her and she worked on accounts with me and
we got drinks sometimes and I couldn’t bare the thought of her burning
to death in our office.

JAMES
You’re a hero.

MOLLY
I went back because she didn’t leave because she sat by the air
conditioner and it caught fire. So I get back to find my work friend
fighting to put out a fire on her blouse and I get burnt in the process
and we just run out of the building with skin pouring down her
shoulder

JAMES
Moll

MOLLY
All this time and you can’t stand hearing it.

JAMES
It hurts me to hear it.

MOLLY
Well you’re the only one. The office gives me a plaque I get some medal
from the city and the two of us are sitting now, in the back like wild
animals making phone calls to Cipriani’s to reserve tables and sure they
give us our pay because if they didn’t they know we’d really bitch-

JAMES
And you spend it on creams and vitamins.

MOLLY
I have a right to want to change this.

20
He kisses her shoulder in the split second.

MOLLY
James.

JAMES
I’d do it again without a second heart.

MOLLY
Just stop placating me, you’re allowed to say it bothers you.

JAMES
It doesn’t.

MOLLY
Not a bit?

JAMES
I don’t see the scars, I just see you.

MOLLY
You took that from a movie I bet.

JAMES
No movie, just me.

He touches his heart.

MOLLY
(Laughing faintly)
My friends always said you were a bitch.

JAMES
So did mine.
He inches in closer and puts her arm around her.

JAMES
So here’s a story.

MOLLY
James, please.

21
 JAMES
When I graduated from Penn I went on a tour of Europe with a few
friends. So we went to a concentration camp outside of Berlin.

MOLLY
I know this one.

JAMES
Didn’t say I was done did I? So our tour guide gives this dignified,
thorough, wrenching story of the camp and we’re all thinking how do
you do this everyday? And he told us, because someone had to because
people had to know.

MOLLY
I see. And?

JAMES
Everyday you walk around, you are a heroine. You are celebrating life.

MOLLY
I’m scarred.

JAMES
You are beautiful. You’re life, you know you gave someone life.

MOLLY
This is not a fix, like I get it James. Thank you. You’re a good man but
the world is not gonna think that.

JAMES
Well maybe this happened for a reason. You know you get out there and
tell your story or you make people feel something, you motivate them.

MOLLY
No.

JAMES
I’m serious. That tour guide, I mean think about it, he was the
grandson of a murderer and he committed himself to telling his story
and educating and-
MOLLY

22
I didn’t ask to educate people. I’m not special.

JAMES
Well you are now. Whether it was a split second and you saved Anita or
you saved me or the President or whomever have you, you are marked
now.

She sits silently.

JAMES
Moll, we all have choices you know you can take Vitamin E every day
and lie around or you can claim your life.

He picks his arm up off her and goes to walk away.

MOLLY
Where are you going?

JAMES
I have to get ready for bed, I have work tomorrow, I want to grab a late
snack, shower, shave and then I’m hitting the sack.

MOLLY
Oh.

JAMES
I’m sorry Moll.

MOLLY
Sit for a second.

JAMES
Moll please.

MOLLY
Just for a second.

He considers leaving but ultimately gives in.

She lies on her back and he follows suit.

23
After sometime she puts her arm around him and nestles into his chest
and they lie there for a bit in silence.

Finally…

MOLLY
Are you going to speak to Michael’s class next week about being a
lawyer?

JAMES
Yes.

MOLLY
Can I go instead?

JAMES
(Kissing her forehead)
Yes.

He goes to get up.

MOLLY
James?

JAMES
Yes.

MOLLY
Do you want to go out?

JAMES
Now? It’s late-

MOLLY
Get my coat. I’ll be there soon.

He goes out.

Molly gets up slowly. She sits again at the mirror. She takes the cream
and opens it and goes to apply more but sets it back down.

She stops and looks at herself once more.

24
 JAMES
(O.S.)
Molly?

MOLLY
Be there in a minute.

She returns the lid to the cream and wipes a tear from her eye before
collecting herself and exiting.

25
luci.d was here
She made it rain.
maybe, someday, you’ll find this federal reserve note.
if you do: say hi to luci.d for me. —a.cola

26
IHOP
Meb Byrne

It’s called the International House of Pancakes.

Maybe that’s why English isn’t the staff’s first language.

One waitress asks another how many Ls are in chili,

one or two,
as I sit waiting on the squashy bench,
grey drizzle skittering down the window pane behind me.

The whiteboard by the cash register proclaims

Smile Your At IHOP.

Apparently, it’s my At IHOP.

If English was the staff’s first language, maybe the titles of the dishes
would be more precise.

I order the Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity,

which sounds like Carmen Miranda’s hat, chopped up and served in a
chilled glass,
stuck through with a plastic sword and a maraschino cherry.
It’s not that exciting.
It’s just another permutation of omnipresent breakfast foods.

You still have to say Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity when you order it,
though,
even though you know what you’re really getting isn’t very fruity,
not particularly fresh,
and mostly void of rooti- and tootiness.
You still have to say it.
Otherwise, it doesn’t count.

I’m not bothered that the Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity isn’t a fizzy
drink.
Sometimes, words just can’t convey intended meaning.

27
I say Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity, not
twoeggtwosausagetwobacontwopancakewithfruittopping,
because there’s no better way to say it
and the staff knows what I mean.

When I sit there with you,

I don’t say
“You helped me get through four plays, two musicals, two years of high
school and one boyfriend,”
or
“You were my only friend on the first scared night I spent in New York
City,”
or
“You have never steered me wrong, and I still have immense faith in
your opinions.”
I order a Rooty Tooty Fresh ’N Fruity instead,
and we share stories while sipping syrup,
and it is enough.

When you pick up the tab

and you drive me home,
even though you don’t have to,
I don’t say,
“I have loved you as long as I have known you.”

That’s a hyperbole
(a tiny one)
and I don’t think they’d understand hyperbole
at the International House of Pancakes.

28
29
If you die…
Raphael Ellis

If you die, I will develop a cold

or a taste for the crucifix. Wet mold
on your white body would eat more than mere flesh—
for you are in my head like an idea, a mesh
of fingers and words that is a net that holds—
strong as straps on a table—me, in desperate folds,
to reality’s ragged cloth. If you flash
like a spark from a socket, if you ash
like a cigarette, I will be so bold
to say that I will be your smoke, grey and old,
and your extinguishment will sadly press
me out of existence into the sky. God bless.

30
Orion Says Hello
Amanda Killian

to the stars beneath him

and a blinking, lighted wing
to the mirrored
earth to sky.

There are many more constellations

and a blacker sea to try
the tenderness of humans
against our missed
bent-foil fate.

I’m flying
between two states
of sickness, of reason and love
on a night
made with shattered
bits of restless potential.

I’m listening
to the voice and rhythm
of clustered light
some under city clouds
planned and gridded
some amorphous
in my raw asymmetrical heart.

I’m measuring
degrees
of the long-
dead stars.

31
noise
Andrew Colarusso

I wore the distant light

of an apartment windo
w in the reflection of M
y ear.

32
33
34
35
And On and On
Elena Vigil

I was seven when my dad decided it was time I made new

friends. Only, he had failed to inform me that the friend he had in mind
was the daughter of the woman he had been sleeping with the last year
of his marriage to my mother, which had just ended. We pulled up to a
squat house on the edge of town. I was small, and buckled in the back.
“We’re here,” he said over his shoulder, “and it’s going to be fun.”
I sat still with my hands in my lap as he got out of the driver’s
seat and made his way to my door. From where I sat I could only make
out small details: a brown, flaking house and fogged windows, a tall
yellowed tree and the skeleton of a tire swing, untrimmed bushes and
branches which stuck out at odd angles from dried clumps.
I jumped as my dad opened the door and helped me from the
car, smoothing the fly-aways from my hastily made bun and
straightening the pleats of my dress. It was the first time he had ever
insisted I wear a dress, usually piecing together for me any jean and t-
shirt combination he found clean.
Putting my hand in his, I followed dad closely as we walked
around the front of the house to the chain link fence that enclosed the
back yard. Through a broken gate, its hinges hanging loosely, my once
shiny, black shoes scuffed at the brown grass and out of the corner of his
mouth my dad whispered, “Stop dragging your feet.”
The tone of his deep, scratchy voice sounded unfamiliar to me.
There seemed to be a kind of rushed, erratic stir in his otherwise calm
demeanor. Even his smell was off. Where once was the scent of
sandwiches and glass cleaner now lurked a thick cloud of his bottled
cologne, and it burned my nostrils with every swing of his arms.
The back yard was empty except for a rusty set of monkey bars
that loomed in a far corner and two faded lawn chairs rotting in the sun.
The house sat on a hill and from the back I could see miles of freshly cut
fields and plowed sod. In the distance I could see trees, green and lush,
and imagined running through the sunflower fields that encircled them.
My mother’s favorite flowers were sunflowers.
The scratch of a screen door interrupted my reverie and we
turned to face a faceless woman. She was tall and slender, leading a
small girl behind her.

36
 “This is Julie,” my dad said, indicating this tall figure.
She took my hand. Hers was dry and too big. “This is Star,” she
said in rather deep voice, motioning with her head to the small child
with her hands in her pockets. Star was a few inches taller than me, with
uncombed hair and a strange smile on her face. She was not wearing a
dress. “I’m sure you two are going to have lots of fun together.”
My dad gave me a reassuring shove. “We’ll be inside. You two
stay here and play.”
I stood and watched as he put his hand on the lady’s waist and
the two of them walked into the house, whispering things to each other
and slamming the screen door behind them. Star turned to look at me,
eyebrows raised.
“We’re going to play ‘Keep Off’,” she told me, running to the
monkey bars and climbing on.
“What’s that,” I followed her, slowly.
“KEEP OFF!” she yelled, now sitting at the very top, legs
swinging below her, positioning herself well above me.
“Oh.”
I took a seat on a red lawn chair, hoping it wouldn’t break with
the weight.
“So how old are you?”
“Seven,” I timidly replied.
“Oh, well I’m almost nine, so I think I win.”
We said nothing for a while, or rather, I said nothing and she
showed off the multiple things she could do on the monkey bars. “I
learned this yesterday,” she said, edging herself to the very end of the
bars and standing up, arms outstretched. “I bet you’re too chicken to try
this.” She wavered a little in the soft wind, and I had a strange and
excited feeling she was going to fall. She didn’t.
Since I wasn’t allowed to touch or try anything on or around
her sacred playground I sat quietly, minding my own business, hoping
at any minute my dad would walk through that screen door and we
would leave this little girl and this little house behind.
And then the music started.
It came from inside the house, through the half opened
windows, a quiet, almost soothing melody accompanied by an inaudible
voice to a tune I’d never heard. It was oddly hypnotizing, and the sound
gently washed over me and I imagined I was somewhere else,
somewhere wanted, with my mother, rocking on our porch swing on a
cool summer night. Hearing the final chirps of the birds as they made
their way home. Breathing in deep the sweet smell of sprinklers and
newly cut grass.

37
 Suddenly the music began to build, the rhythm getting louder
and the voice more distinct. It shook me out of my trance and grew
heavy and trembling until finally it was beating in my ears and the
image of my mother and the swing and the grass was pulled from my
mind. The music came over us like a wave, rolling and vanishing into
the miles of empty fields that lay beyond.
It was only one song. Playing over and over and on and on.
“Yup,” Star shouted over to me, “the song is on. They must be
having sex.”
I quickly turned my head from the noisy house to the nine-
year-old girl sitting on her monkey bars. Sex. I had nothing to say so I
whimpered an “Oh” and let Star continue.
“That’s what always happens. Mom puts on the song and I wait
here until it’s over. I’ve heard it millions of times. Don’t think your dad
is so special.”
I did think he was special, that I was special, that this
specialness was the reason he had dressed me up and brought me over
here.
“You do know what that is, right? Sex? My mom told me all
about it. I’m almost nine so she says I’m a big girl now. You’re only
seven, so you probably don’t know anything.”
“I know a lot,” I protested.
“Oh yeah…”
It didn’t really matter anymore what Star had to say. I had to
figure out what it meant to be left in this yard while things happened
and I waited for them to end. I repeated the word in my head slowly,
breaking it down by the mouth formations. But still, I drew nothing of
its meaning but a long slithering ‘s’ and a throat tickling ‘x’.
Sex. There was nothing. All I had was a sense of my father’s
abandonment and a song on repeat.
“This is my mom’s favorite song, you know. I know most of
the words by heart now,” and she began to sing.
Star’s voice screamed in my ear and I wanted to tell her how my
mother listened to better music at a better volume. How my mother had
small, soft hands. I wanted to tell her how my mother had an actual
fence made of wood. I wanted to tell her that my mother would never
have taken another child’s father away and left her all alone with a
rotten stranger, a know-it-all little girl who thought she was better
than everyone and did the kinds of things on monkey bars that a two-
year-old could do.
Star had her legs entwined in the metal bars and let her hands
swing free. Her messy brown hair swayed below her and with every

38
ounce of confusion and anger I had I stood up from my lawn chair and
pulled that mass of hair.
“Ahh—“ and her legs loosened and she fell to the ground.
Then the music stopped.
Stunned by the silence that rang in my ears I started from
where I stood, surprised at the little girl lying in the dirt, and ran to the
door, my heart beating in excitement.
There was movement inside the house and like a dream my
father emerged through the tired screen door with his tie in his hand.
“Are you ready to go home?”
I took dad’s hand and hurried him back to the car. He gave a
small wave and a smile to Star and I, not wanting to stay any longer
than I had to, mumbled a short goodbye and avoided eye contact. Once
through the broken gate I looked back and saw Star standing at the base
of the monkey bars, in the growing shadows of the evening, alone and
defeated.

39
Artist’s Statement

There is a benign duplicity highlighted in my photographs; a constant

play involving humor and melancholy. My work is an attempt to satiate
my appetite for children and the fantastic natural world.

The images hint at something lost and unadulterated. The frank inner
monologue of children is often overlooked and undervalued, as is the
phenomenon of a natural landscape. I seek to align the two with
personal relevance and deep memory.

I do this with a cinematic focus, a sort of soft film noir glamour that
compliments the paradox between vulnerability and strength native to
my subjects. Found in everyday environments, these subjects belong to
a world of magical realism, where nostalgia becomes a necessary
psychological function.

-- Rachael Hess, March 17th, 2009

40
41
42
43
44
45
Lenguaje Romántico
Amanda Levendowski

They sit outside, drinking cafe americanos.

--Yo. . . quiero viaja. . . con tú, he says. He pauses between each
word, thinking too hard; his conjugation is not good. She laughs, and
says she would like travel the world with him, too.
Her conjugation is perfect.

It began as a study session for Elementary Spanish class as a

way to help him distinguish between the friendly tú and the formal usted,
to prepare for the examens given every Thursday. He failed the first
exam, mistaking the present for the past tense, and completely
forgetting that he still needed to include the conjugations for the
vosotros, even though only the Spanish used the formal ‘we.’
She did very well because she had taken four years of Spanish
in high school, and threw the diagnostic exam so she could take an
easier class. He made a very loud joke about how no bueno his
performance was, and she couldn’t resist correcting him.
--You mean bien. Bueno means good; it’s an adjective. But
bien means well; it’s an adverb.
He asked if she could tutor him, and she told him that she was
free on Wednesday afternoons; she’d heard that the professora gave
quizzes every Thursday morning.
--If you do well on all the quizzes, it should be enough to offset
the test.
She did not really believe this.

They arranged to meet the first week in October, at a Mexican

restaurant near where the girl lived in DUMBO. He’d never taken the
subway to Brooklyn before; he took the Downtown V instead of the F,
ending up at Second Avenue, still two stops and a bridge away from
where he needed to be. By the time he’d realized his mistake, switched
trains, and wandered into Pedro’s, he was forty minutes late.
--Sorry, I took the V --
--Don’t ever be late like that again.
Over the next two months, she taught him the delicate nuances
of the present perfect, scrawling notes in the margins of his Spanish

46
book in tiny letters. He began to notice the way her hair curled at the
temples, the way her bangs were a little crooked, and the way she
smelled like Spring Break, a combination of tequila and ocean and lime.
He discovered that he liked the way she turned d’s and t’s into soft lisps
when she said them in Spanish.
He lay awake at night trying to imitate those sounds. Es-thas.

At their last session before the examen grande in December, he

asked her what she was doing the next Wednesday afternoon.
--I fly home at nine.
--En la mañana?
--No, at night; and you meant ‘por,’ not ‘en.’
--So what are you doing Wednesday afternoon?
She guessed she was doing nothing, and broke into a grin. She
only agreed to tutor him because he made jokes in class, and always
smiled when he stuffed himself into the seat beside her. He had a cute,
round face, with a straight nose and white teeth; she thought he had a
sweet face. For weeks, she had been hoping that he would ask her out
for coffee, or even just suggest they stay at Pedro’s for dinner, but he
didn’t. She could also have easily asked him to coffee, or suggested they
stay at Pedro’s, but she never seriously considered this a possibility.
She was the kind of girl who usually waited for things to
happen.

He asked her out several more times, and though she tested out
of Spanish II in the Spring, she continued to help him with
pronunciation and memorization. Instead of meeting at Pedro’s, they
practiced in art galleries, or little bookstores, attempting to carry on
conversations about a contemporary installation or best-selling novel,
groping for adjectives and verbs. Sometimes he came over to her
apartment, and watched Spanish films. The movies were very beautiful,
usually sad and filled with sex. She tried to distract him from the girls’
bodies by making fun of the poorly translated captions.
He always looked away and laughed.

As they sit outside, drinking cafe americanos, talking about the

future, it is undeniable that they think they are in love.
When he looks into her face, he sees himself in five years, doing
graphic design for a book she’s translated, or even written. The book
might even be bilingual. He imagines living with her in one of the
places he reads about in BUEN VIAJE! like Santiago or Buenos Aires or
Madrid. To show her he loves her, he gave her the full works of García

47
Márquez in Spanish, and listened to her translate for him, trying to
capture the poetry of every sentence.
When she looks into his face, she sees herself tomorrow
morning, rolling over with sleepy eyes to squint into his ear. She might
suggest they go to a poetry slam uptown tomorrow night; she cannot
imagine too far into the future. She still shows him she loves him by
burning CDs in Spanish, and letting him translate for her. Sometimes
his mangled attempts capture the essence of the lyrics; sometimes they
mean nothing.
For now, they are satisfied with their love: they have not yet
watched every Spanish film, or heard every Spanish song, and he does
not know the conjugation of every verb tense. But it is possible that one
day, one of them will wake up and realize that they are only together
because three years ago, she helped him pass Elementary Spanish, and
the only thing they have in common is a shared knowledge of a romance
language.
Neither of them knows it yet, but it will be her.

48
49
On Inadequacy
Mahalet Dejene

You asked me to explain how I have been feeling lately, I told you: "I am
a lion and I roar insecurities." I am a girl and you are still a bird. How
can we defy Mother? Sometimes I reunite with my vision of you in the
dark and I steal the truth to make songs. This is my hook: I see you and
I see the end. Peel my skin and out fly moths. If I bleed heterocera then
you shit light posts. All of this talk about high fives makes me feel
incomplete. I am not a bird today, so here, if you want it, you can take a
low five.

50
On Discontent
Mahalet Dejene

Cherry cotton-candy lips, you taste so sweet on my tongue I forget how

potent your poison is. Don't touch me. Your hands do not caress my
anxieties away. Your lips do nothing for my nervous mumbling. Your
nose does not kiss mine and make me forget everything that has
happened. Take me into your flesh or slay me. Cut me from your body
like a festering wound on a degenerate limb. Fuck your words, speak to
my bones.

51
Chinatown
Nikki Lee

Skin pulled taught in defense of the chill in the air. Puffs of smoke waft.
From people and manholes. Clouding the vision of red street lights.
Light beams bounce from snowflake to snowflake. In hues of blues and
yellows.

Time weighing down on eyes and spine, curled over, almost to crawling,
down the street. Carrying bags that carry the weight of a hundred years
of guilt.

52
pancakes, beer, & stardust
Elisa Granados

i woke up and realized there werent any pancakes;

only beer
in my hair,
&
quiet contemplations
in the deepest part of me.

i woke up and realized i was no where to be found;

only my words
in a shot glass,
&
those that were yours i meant to speak into your ear
but kissed onto your lips instead.

i woke up and realized there wasnt any stardust;

only smeared makeup
across my face,
&
my dress abandoned by the bed
but not by you

i went to bed and realized that there was no hi;

only high,
&
exchanged byes; and i realized
there wouldnt be pancakes in the morning.

53
illfits
Andrew Colarusso

microsleep a city in dreams o

f domestic paradise we speak
so pantry banter and mechan
istic doldrums bring dimly lit
the restitution of the illfits …

54
Ode To Brooklyn
El Gajiev

brooklyn, where the nostalgic scent of philly guts rides with the cool
summer breeze
where the greatest are either born, bred, or inspired
where i was hired to work at astroland, the last remnant of the glowing
empire of coney island which is just another piece in the puzzle that is
brooklyn, where trains hum you a lullaby of dreams in which you're not
in
brooklyn, where god is thought and thought is
brooklyn, where respect is communicated by "ay, how ya doin"
where you learn real quick or lose all you've got to
brooklyn, where the moon is just a giant spotlight and the main
attraction is
brooklyn, where the sun is the all-seeing eye of
brooklyn, where streetlights replace stars because we’re that much
closer to reaching them in
brooklyn, where we need something to believe in and that something is
brooklyn, where friends form bonds that go beyond the borders of
brooklyn, where stuck up chicks only pay notice to stuck up pricks when
what they really need to pay notice to is my stuck up dick, but shit, it's
only in
brooklyn, where the deli's stay open 24/7 and at times seem to resemble
the gates of heaven but heaven itself is
brooklyn, where the devil reigns supreme and the brooklyn in you
knows what i mean
brooklyn, where you trust no woman and fear no man
brooklyn, where we hitchhike trains to get even deeper into the heart of
brooklyn, where a tough walk and a tough talk can make you feel new
yawk, but it's in
brooklyn that you truly find yourself immersed in yourself and maybe
something else but that's besides the point; i point to
brooklyn on the map because i could never forget where the fuck it's at
for in
brooklyn, we feel guilty for not feeling as guilty as we should be feeling
for
brooklyn, where the guineas, niggers, kikes, spics, commies, chinks and

55
arabs stand proud and loud, with their eyes open and their hands ready
to take what middle america is too slow to realize and too dumb to
appreciate
brooklyn, where the silence of sirens coincides with the silence of crying
for
brooklyn, when a tree sprouts a branch then a boy has become a man
because in
brooklyn we are all intertwined
mothers, fathers, daughters, sons
muslims, jews, christians, bums
me and you are connected through
brooklyn, so don't hesitate to call on
brooklyn to come save your soul from
brooklyn, yes i know this must be getting odd and old but it’s this
feeling of
brooklyn that's got me speaking this way and preaching my love/hate
for
brooklyn where we cry:
dear world,
don’t give up hope
we haven’t
love,
brooklyn
aka the home of the latest, the greatest, the phattest, the baddest, the
best, and the rest of
brooklyn, where old men roam, spewing their nonsense philosophy to
the youth of
brooklyn, the soul of america that greets each day with a real dash of life
and an ideal glass that's halfway full until you drink in all the
brooklyn, where money may not buy happiness but it sure as shit eases
troubles in
brooklyn, where lifetimes are spent just trying to figure out what it
means to be
brooklyn, bk, crooklyn, buck town, kings county, home
with fists raised high enough to teach the pigeons in the sky not to mess
with
brooklyn, where we baptize our eyes in the east river and turn back to
the streets of
brooklyn, where a passing car has more than one grill as soon as you
look within it because in
brooklyn no one ever strives to be the beta male
brooklyn, where is my mind?

56
in brooklyn love hates hearts that beat faster than
brooklyn, where a beer, a blunt, and a blowj is all you need to take that
broken escalator to heaven, or as we've established before, to
brooklyn, where admitting your insanity is the only way to make sure
you’re sane, for in
brooklyn normal is fearful and fucked up is the status quo so pass this
note around
brooklyn, where angels sing hymns of biggie and gods relinquish
immortality just to bathe in an open hydrant
where it begins and where it ends and where the middle simply is
brooklyn, where you can go down the wrong street and find drugs,
booze, and sex and then go down the right street and find drugs, booze,
and sex because it's only in
brooklyn, where perception is everything and nothing at the very same
time for we perceive
brooklyn to be nothing but a borough but it’s something more,
something alive, something that'll enlighten you past your limitations,
desires, or beliefs. something that’ll teach you god and crack and how
they are one and the same except for the difference in
brooklyn, because we’re in it for life yo, since life lasts for a brief
moment, and if you’re with me for this next one, then you’re with me for
brooklyn, where every day is a struggle and every man, woman, and
child is a muscle in the heart of
brooklyn, where jesus rides the f train decked out in the warriors colors
because its only in
brooklyn, where i get me and that's all i need, so if you're on your way
just remember that all roads lead to brooklyn

57
Sam’s Blues
Talking Jazz & Travel with Sam Greenlee

A warm and unexpected greeting: “Ciao baby…”

Sam Greenlee, author of The Spook Who Sat by The Door (1968) and
Baghdad Blues, is widely known for the subversive language of his
novels. In fact, Greenlee’s first novel (The Spook) was turned down by
every American publisher he sought out. The controversial topic of
black militancy and urban insurrection proved to be too much for
American publishers. It was finally published in the United Kingdom,
going on to sell millions of copies across the globe. The novel was seen
as a recipe book for black anarchy and government subversion. It’s been
described by Time as a James Bond parody with wit and rage. The title is
a striking play on words. Spook is both a pejorative term for blacks and
code for an undercover operative.
The activist, poet and author spent seven years working for the
United States Information Agency doing what he described as
“propoganda work”. While with the USIA, Greenlee travelled to Iraq,
Bangladesh, Indonesia and Greece. Of those countries, Indonesia is his
favorite. I ask Mr. Greenlee why and he responds, in his nonchalant
cool, the women.
He could no longer bear the work he’d been doing for the USIA,
promoting a nation that refused (and still refuses in many ways) to
acknowledge his unique presence in the world—a nation known to have
practiced imperialism abroad and racism at home. From 1965 to 1968
Greenlee spent time completing and proposing his first novel only to be
rejected in the US. To this day Greenlee is unable to find a tenure
position at Universities because of his militant past. “Unlike my
colleagues, I have yet to apologize. I have no intention to…” Many of his
teaching endeavors have been relegated to overseas work. He recently
taught a screen-writing class in Nairobi.
In 1973 a film adaptation of The Spook Who Sat by The Door was
released (Greenlee co-wrote the screenplay), opening to large crowds
but unexpectedly removed from theaters shortly after its debut.
In some respects it’s as if the United States had closed the book on a
native Jeremiah. But he remains in our psyches, etched into the hide of
American history as a voice of dissent and truth. He hearkens back to a
time when he’d been consumed by his rage and distrust of white
America, but he has no regrets.

58
 “I went through a period of anger and bitterness and came out the other
side. I paid my dues. I’m cool.”
I ask Greenlee about black militancy and contemporary race
relations. He doesn’t hesitate in responding: black militancy is dead. He
has lived through racial strife and has been an active participant in the
movement against it. He sees how far we’ve come in a supposed “post-
racial” world, but mentions that “…we’ve still got a long way to go.”
Greenlee’s writing is quite often poetic in description. He paints
scenes infused with jazz imagery, blues and somber tones. Every great
artist has been influenced in some way. Greenlee’s greatest literary
influences are Chester Himes and Langston Hughes. On jazz we speak
next. I ask what music he’d keep with him on a deserted island. Lester
Young on tenor sax is one of his favorites—“the most underrated
musician.” and Billie Holiday. He responds quickly and without doubt.
Music, jazz, is a part of who he is. His knowledge on the subject runs
deep. I tell him of my affinity for McCoy Tyner and he counters with
Earl Hines. The conversation is easy and, at times, humorous.

Andrew: Mr. Greenlee, how did you feel about being the Illinois Poet laureate
in 1990?
Sam: I was never the Illinois Poet Laureate…
Andrew: Oh... Misinformation…?
Sam: I don’t know how that got up on the Internet…
Andrew: Does that bother you?
Sam: …No

He leaps into a raspy laugh. That’s the kind of misinformation he can

appreciate. He’s working on a final polish of his autobiography Sam’s
Blues: The Adventures of a Travelling Man on a Macintosh he bought
recently. “We’re stuck on an alien island. I’m nomadic man…” He’ll be
going to South Africa for the first time later this year. And on July 13th
Greenlee will be 79, operating with the grace and style of a 20 year old.

Andrew: When you were in college, did you write poetry for the ladies?
Sam: Nah. In college I was kind of shy…

Honesty is perhaps his most defining characteristic. Greenlee has seen

many things in many places. He doesn’t plan to stop his travels; he
doesn’t plan to stop writing. Greenlee remains genuine, active—a voice,
perhaps, not so militant anymore but certainly relevant and sharper
than ever. He speaks his own language, mellow and sage; cool 

59
Be-Bop Man/Be-Bop Woman
From: Ammunition! : Poetry and Other Raps
Sam Greenlee

ASHANTI MAN
I am a be-bop man; I used to dance to Charlie Parker and
we slid light and cool to Dexter’s rough-edged tone; rubbed bellies to
Jug’s soft-edged tone; tapped toes to Prez dancing “Taxi War Dance” on
tenor sax. We mamboed to Diz, Chano Pozo, Machito and Candido and
knew there was another Perez named Prado. I cried rivers with Dinah
Washington; saw red sails in the sunlight sounds of Lady Day and Nat
king Cole; sat through sad and muted moods to Miles’ mute-melded
microphone musings.

FULANI WOMAN
I am a be-bop woman; I used to dance to Charlie Parker, Duke, Diz and
Count Basie and he told me he loved me on that soft, sultry summer
afternoon while dancing the Bop at Al Benson’s Battle of the Bands at
the Pershing Ballroom when Jug played Red Top and won again. We
scatted Donna Lee on the way down Cottage Grove Avenue and past
the Trianon Ballroom, very up-tempo and Moody’s Mood. I did Lady
Day and he laid behind me scatting obbligato like Prez used to do on
Fine and Mellow and I was fine and mellow on that fine and mellow
summer day, with him smiling love on me and we were as young and
immortal as the music we worshiped. We did the Walk while waiting
for the stoplight to change with him humming in my ear and as we ran
across Sixty-First Street; I started as Sarah and ended as Ella at the
other curb.

ASHANTI MAN
I am a be-bop man. I used to dance to Charlie Parker, Erroll Garner,
Oscar Peterson, Little Jazz and Howard McGhee and they danced with
us through the South Side streets and into Washington Park. We took
off our shoes to run barefoot through the grass, shunning the hot, black
asphalt paths. Winos sat surrounding a paper bag-clad bottle; lovers
lounged on the grass near the lagoon; a junky nodded in the sun-
dappled shade of a tree; somewhere a baby cried and another laughed
and night people sat and waited for their sunless day’s work to
begin. Old men and women fished at the edge of the lagoon with
grandchildren at their sides; broad-brimmed straw hats shading their
faces from the sun; their bamboo poles held gently in work-hardened

60
hands, legacy of the south that had bred them and abandoned decades
ago, its memories lying light and faded on their shoulders like a hand-
woven shawl. They watched the bobber for the sign or a nibble but the
bluegills,
sunfish and perch that would not blot the memory of the sweet taste of
catfish, freshly caught and fried. A kite bobbed on the sunny breeze and
we bobbed our heads in time with it, bopping Dexter’s Deck. She took
my hand and clothed me with her smile and Sonny Rollins ran through
my head and out my mouth and she gave me back Moody’s flute.

FULANI WOMAN
I am a be-bop woman. I used to dance to Charlie Parker and he danced
with me to my apartment. I lit a stick of sandalwood incense while he
checked out my sounds and I had the women all the way to Bessie and
the other Smith girls and Ma Rainey, Ivy Anderson, Sarah, Lurlean
Hunter, Ella, Lady Day, and Carmen MacRae, Lorez Alexandria from
the West Side and Miss Dinah Ruth Jones Washington out of a South
Side Baptist church choir and how many sisters singing Nearer My God
To Thee, including me, dreamed of becoming another Miss Jones. Miss
Jones is what we called her as she swept regally through the Pershing
Ballroom to hang backstage with Prez, Miles, Bird, Max Roach, Clifford
Brown and on down with the crowd parting before her like the Red Sea
before Moses. We knew who Carmen MacRae meant when she sang,
Have you met Miss Jones?

ASHANTI MAN
I am a be-hop man and we danced to Dinah Washington, with her
singing along with the record sounding like Dinah’s little sister. I
talked of college and running track and writing because I could not
separate them in those days and she listened to my searching poems,
searching for a voice my own as much as searching for myself. At dawn
we went to bed. Not my first time for sex, but my first time of making
love and we danced once again in bed in the way she had of knowing
how I was going to move before I did it. We spent Sunday in bed with
the Sunday tapers strewn about us and once made love with the sound
of the sports section crinkling beneath our dancing hips.

ASHANTI MAN
I am a be-bop man; she is a Be-Bop woman and we danced to Charlie
parker, and, in my memory, still do!

61
Carnivore
Sida Li

a dream
of going somewhere
nice and warm
where sautéed lambs
run wild
run free
replenish themselves
!

62
a fear
of dying
in flames
the sightsoundsmells
of burning flesh
beef browns
do we
?

63
64
65
Contributors
Holly Artz is a sophomore at New York University. She enjoys fashion
journalism and the way Nabokov makes the grotesque seem beautiful.

Steven Benathan is a Junior in Steinhardt. He is a proud member of Zeta

Beta Tau. He has written for both Disney and Playboy. How ironic…

Jerimee Bloemeke, originally from Coral Springs, FL, currently resides in

Brooklyn, NY, and is an undergraduate at New York University.

Tehmina Brohi is a bad influence. She studies at City College and enjoys
Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Meb Byrne is a sophomore at Broome Street. She has a furry white pet
dragon that resembles a dog (this is probably untrue).

Andrew Colarusso is not too militant these days. He loves his family,
enjoys traveling and sometimes speaks out against injustice. He also likes
poems in little boxes and most of the Blue Note catalog.

Mahalet Dejene was born and raised in Dire Dawa and Addis Ababa,
Ethiopia; having lived in the States for a little over a decade (She loves the
city). She is a proud believer in honesty before guilt and hopes to continue
living life as truthfully as possible. This is her first published poem and she
hopes it to be one of many.

Raphael Ellis gets annoyed when people mispronounce Yeats.

El Gajiev is a sophomore at Fordham University. He recently started his

own religion: the United Church of Brooklyn.

Michael George is a sophomore studying photography and imaging in the

Tisch School of the Arts. If you hang out with him, he will probably take
your picture. You can check out his website at
http://www.inceptivenotions.com
While you're there, check out the blog!

Elisa Granados is a sophomore at Baruch. She enjoys beat poetry and

randomness.

Rachael Hess was born in Ottawa, Canada, 1987. She will receive a B.A.

66
from the Gallatin School of Individualized Study at NYU. She is an artist
and life-liver. She loves her Rolleicord and plans to take it to Iceland with
her come Summer.

Amanda Killian is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She’s an

English major with a Creative writing and History minor. Her poem "Huis"
was recently published NYU's Undergraduate journal West 10th and she’s
working on a project called "Fractal Uni verses" which she hopes to make
into a chat book.

Ryan Krill is an amateur travel photographer from Philadelphia and is

currently finishing his masters in Real Estate Development at NYU. He
has lived in Spain and California, enjoys surfing, doner kebaps and has
traveled to over 30 countries and counting.

Nikki Lee is a sophomore studying Psychology in the College of Arts and

Sciences. She is admittedly shy and clumsy with words. She prefers to paint
portraits that reflect her subject’s unique personality.

Amanda Levendowski is originally from Phoenix, Arizona, where she took

three years of Spanish -- everything she remembers appears here. She is
currently studying publishing & editing at New York University.

Sida Li still likes sherbet ice cream and hypothetical situations, preferably
at the same time. He also writes for The Minetta Review, an excellent avant-
garde journal that can be found for FREE on the seventh floor of the
Kimmel Center.

Samuel Pizelo studied finance at Stern before leaving school to pursue

other options. He now resides in Puget Sound looking to publish his poetry
and fiction. He enjoys sounds, words and faces.

Elena Vigil is about to graduate from NYU with a Bachelor's in English

and American Literature, Minor in Creative Writing. Her favorite authors
are J.D. Salinger and Ernest Hemingway. She’s wanted to be a writer since
she wrote her first play in fifth grade about the dangers of being a news
anchor.

Sam Greenlee is the author of several novels and poems. He’s a

screenwriter, an activist—a renaissance man. visit his site:
http://www.geocities.com/maatguidesme2u/Sam_Greenlee/
check out his body of work; especially The Spook Who Sat By The Door
the novel and film.

67
68
Masthead
Editor-in-Chief… Andrew Colarusso

Managing Editors… Jon Woo

Yoojin Lim

Cover Photo by Lauren Peralta

Apo(phonic) is a literary journal run by students of New York

University’s Residential College. It is an annual publication
headquartered at Broome Street in association with the ResCollege
stream: City is a Page. We accept submissions of poetry, fiction, essays,
brief memoirs, photography and art. All submissions should be sent to

cityisapage@gmail.com
or visit the site
http://apophonic.tumblr.com/
City is a Page (writing, reading for pleasure, The New Yorker, poetry,
literary events) New York City is a page, a poem, a novel, a text to be
written and read, a song, a symphony, a muse, and much more. City is a
Page urges participants to view the world around them as a writer
would. Immersion in New York City's vibrant literary world in concert
with in-house readings, workshops, and guest writers incites residents
to hone in on their singular voices and experiences.

http://www.nyu.edu/residential.education/community/rescollege_broome.html#01

69
Copyright

Apo(phonic): The Broome Street Review

New York University Residential College
400 Broome Street
New York, New York 10013

Copyright © 2009 Apo(phonic)

All rights revert to author upon publication
ISSN: pending

70
Poetry Art & Photography
Nikki Lee Rachael Hess
Holly Artz Michael George
Elisa Granados Ryan Krill
Samuel Pizelo Tehmina Brohi
Jerimee Bloemeke
Raphael J. Ellis
Andrew Colarusso
Meb Byrne
Amanda Killian
Mahalet M. Dejene
El Gajiev
Sida Li

Fiction
Steven Benathen
Elena Vigil
Amanda Levendowski

Profile:

Sam’s Blues
Talking Jazz & Travel with
poet, author & activist:
Sam Greenlee

71