receptacle

music & literary magazine for the respectable

volume one : love

march first, two thousand and ten
Presented to you here is
the inaugural issue of
receptacle: music and
literary magazine for the
respectable, the
magazine that is to
feature artists of
different mediums
honoring great truths of
this world and beyond.

We courteously invite
you to take part in the
excavations of
extraordinary ordinary.
receptacle proudly features
musical contributions by

Josh Adachi
Doctor KA
Edsey
Jayce
Mighty Joe Plum
My Parasol
Ryan Pak
Kevin Schatz
She’s Electric
Swing Hailey

and poetic works by

Ryo Baum
Jewel Gardner
A.R. Sape
Boel Schenlær
Anneliese Stewart
J. Wesley
Omar Zahzah

Edited by Alexandre Rodallec

{rights of each musical and literal works are reserved by the respective authors.}
 Ryo
Baum
Things I remember

1.
the sound of strange meadow lark treading
the black and white teeth of a piano
with fingers of Dave Brubeck.

2.
blue note ripples growing
and suspending in midair
like the scent of an ocean
breeze at the sunset beach
day after the school let out.

3.
the night owl's call
nestled behind the sounds of wheels on the 405

4.
the biting air that wrapped us like blankets
while we undressed the meteor shower
above the canyons of Malibu Creek

5.
and that is what got us sick.
fever, slow hacking of things
that stick in our throats

6.
clamoring in the nose,
the stench of sweat and we’ll never get better
if we keep on doing this.

7.
the bitter sweet honeymoon
shiner trickling past our taste buds.

8.
drunk as fuck and we wanted sunny side ups.
(i asked for mine to be over easy.)

9.
let us curl our toes

10.
then tangle our fingers

11.
lips will collide like fist fights
12.
while the waves of bed sheets roll and break
against your back arched like artemis' bow

13.
but I won't recall your face anymore.
Cause of Death

The doctors concluded that he died of a heart attack. Time of death was
approximately 3:30am. He died in his sleep and it was likely that he never
felt the anxiety, the shortness of breath, or the radiating pain like sonar
pulsing the left side of the body. All of this was explained to me with a
diagram they had prepared to teach us the cause of myocardial infarction
while the students in their lab coats gathered around the metal beds,
bright lights from the ceiling casting shadows of each body like endless
rows of high-rises.
And this made me think about the first surgeon who understood death and
chose to desecrate the body of the deceased with a crude scalpel that
created vertical incisions to the chest. How he partitioned the organs with
his hands like a feast served on pagan holidays.
And how he chanced upon an empty chamber no bigger than the fist of a
child.
Vacant and cold now,
like the dwellings of our ancestors
Immersed with articles of bones and smooth stones
Abandoned mud pots and spear points made of obsidian,
Infantile paintings of buffalos and saber tooth tigers
Chased down by a hunter with a bow and arrow
On walls and corridors extended and twisted
Like the vessels and valves of our human heart
 Jewel
Gardner
You'll Always Have My Affection

I once thought to convey my love to any given book meant to be read with
the utmost care, executing precise movements while carefully turning
each page, from the first to the last, creating an illusion of a new book, an
un-opened masterpiece vying for my affection. But now, as I toss my
hardcover copy of Ballistics across the bathroom floor so I can bathe, &
watch it skip across muted green tile older than I, abruptly halting in front
of a portable heater, a loud thud sends guilt down my face, and quickly I
apologize to my inanimate lover. As I clean the tub, gather my clothes, I
notice splashes of love infecting the front cover, speckling it with moisture.
It now embodies me, owner of vintage tops with fragmented sleeves, faded
sweats, flavored with remnants of peppercorn, cumin, and lemon, various
foods I consume before this

mental masturbation. Ballistics, lying aside me on the Down adorned bed,

laced with Egyptian cotton. Before I’ll sleep, I’ll study cracked sidewalks in
Paris and regard tourists, confused, trying to read maps turned upside
down. I won’t brush away the Parisian leaves gently kissing my cheeks
while I drift off, content that baguettes, cheese, and lovers gently bickering
will embed themselves into my dreams.
With Love, From Lao

A postcard from Luang Prabang

came today. Holding breaths
of you in my hand I smelled the
foreign ink, and resisted the urge
to taste your signature.
It rained today, in a city of waterless
winters, the sky leaked & earthy
smells filled Los Angeles. I sat
on my cherry sleigh bed, sipping Reisling
while you tried tubing the Mekong
river. I pictured you capturing
the lights of Bangkok, the streams
of Laos, the history of Vietnam.

It’s like being assaulted by an alarm

in the morning, or a boss sneaking up unrepentantly,
poking his head around the corner, into
your cubicle—sprinting home to a bed clothed
in coldness. Instead of becoming
the Sugarplum Fairy this Christmas
I stared at stars, seeing you, thousands
of miles away, writing your “9s”
the way we write lower case “Gs,”
thinking of how our bodies intertwine
like ivy—wild & sweaty, the moon
dancing on our sheets.
A.R.
Sape
Time of the Dead Ear
sky of red light bulbs,
I want to write you a meaning,
sleep you into something
when all is said and gone
all thought of you
let me make love into more than movement.
break it, imagine shapes that come from nowhere
and infuse it with mirrors,
the curved ones,
that speak nothing of me but only all
sky of red light bulbs
lavish foaming at the brim

i slept in the phalaenopsis

brighter than dead galaxies
as they silenced their moan
and your voice and inexistence conjured
and globes and highway at night under the brilliant skulls
televised our beings as one form,

roots uprooted and prostrate flesh for the eye.

love me my love in the time of the dead ear,
darkling i list to hear it right
the interaction of our being
i saw in the red light bulb sky
love me my love,
love me because you know movements
without our heart, that i see forming
in the air between us, in the telephone lines,
in a satellite in space, and here in our heads
at the same time, are only dead end
illusions.
Le Géant de Papier
She, my heart plume of light writhing
She, my Doll of absolute red proportions,
She, a clock storm, a staccato rush
A sonnet of senseless love without impression
And you still come
She, still broom in a shut and white room
She, absence of your presence now a forever
She, the Bird Rib and skeletal perfume
She, loveIloveIloveIloveIlove
She, like space between nothing,
She, warm tears and quiet the movements
She, for the death of a puppet, a marionette
She, I think my strings to suffer ever
The no sense
of motile correspondence…

UNNAMED
a bent front tooth
and plush redness of the cheeks
a door, a candle, silver a river with a pair of playing feet
madonna of the lights we’ll lose,

or lay your hands and crack my chest

to breathe, reluctantly tear a hobbling mass of words
back home in an upwards-streaming dangling burgundy.

name her my heart,

name her, love her, and let her come or leave:
freely given, unmerited favor & love
of
an old fool setting fire to bushes…
 Boel
Schenlær
Remains

Life unrobes the most common

spiritual and erotic spring bloom
and the earths weathering
personality spasms
the failures
and sometimes
joy itself.
What remains
of a beloved poet
is a
ruin.
Condensation

Your existence
reproaches me nothing
Uncertain
what kind of homecoming
I devote myself to
via the love I have for you
Peace lies with me
anyway
when silence suffices
as does distance

Long enough
have I abstained from seeking you
long enough
to satisfy the needs
to give you up
inches more
by the day

We must not forget

That somewhere
amidst
all
this
we are people also

The factor of death

keeps me alive
and the hopes
An inexorable orison
whilst the body
bypasses me
More slowly than the dead
scatters from the
sun white, obliterating
surrounding.
Anneliese
Stewart
deja vu

i can stare at your name

sick to the stomach
drops and
it all will fall
fall
right into place.

the fruit
drops, at least you know your place
i kiss your head
arm on shoulder
and say goodbye.

the smoke rising

and puff and say
don't follow me down
the moonlit valley.

pursuing ever farther from

what is possible
for thought and reason.
it's time
for you to go.

never achieving
but not without loud noises
fond memories
and strong impulses

lengthy lines
cropped short

fin.
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

J. Wesley
The Blue 

I sang you a song,

softly at first,
but then under my breath,
so I wouldn’t wake you
as you slept
with your head resting
safely
on my chest, slowly
rising and falling
like a small boat idle on the gentle sea
but anchored near the shore.

With this afternoon

lullaby I soon
step from this conscious island
and drift out to sea
where we both hang our bare feet
over the edge of the boat,
hearing only waves gossip
like schoolgirl secrets
caressing like fingers through the
sand and the sound
of my lips as I kiss
the top of your head. You
stir and I swear
a shy breath of wind whispered
in my ear that it knows
our eyelids like the shaded grass
picnic blanket knows
our backs. Then
it sang you a song,
softly at first,
but then under its breath,
so it wouldn’t wake you
as you slept.
This Poem Is A String

I remember when I first

learned that my heart is
a kite tied to the end of a string
that the wind put in its pocket
like some curious thing it picked up
alongside the road.

At the other end is your

vigilant clasp and steady eye
watching for any falter or dip
that would send me tumbling
to the earth. I remember the sound

of your feet in the grass as

you ran to toss me to the wind
and the hands of the air
rushing past the trees to catch me.

So I will hang on the wind

like a sheet drying in the afternoon sun,
feel it warm on my back
and admire the way your dress
ripples and billows around your knees
as the sky reaches for your skin.
Suddenly I notice you are the most beautiful
when a rush of summer wind gathers your
hair into feathers across your eyes.
 Omar
Zahzah
Fo(u)r

1.
and death...

Revealed its face to me, x3

beneath old limbs of Hydra tree
on ashes piled, mounded high
on misplaced whims & scattered sighs.
__

picture held against in spite

of angry rains that stain
picture held against in spite
of unseemly remains.

2.
A man He stood in clearing &
clad darkly waved silencing hand
a rose that yawned in blood He held
a rose picked twice before He smelled.
__

tongues of embers blue and gold

tongues that lap and singe
tongues of embers blue and gold
that ease the bone with skin.

3.
The empty voices creep and drift
about as smoke from cigarette
& His is one, & His is all
that mounts the choking siren’s call.
__

rose in sun rejuvenates

re-discovers home
rose in sun rejuvenates
but never will be owned.

4.
The morning ringing, ringing rings;
a song interminably sings.
The morning ringing, ringing rung;
a song interminably sung

And held.
musicians:

Josh Adachi
Find out more at http://www.joshadachi.com and
http://www.myspace.com/theshademusic1

Doctor KA
Sound is never created, only discovered.
These vibrations have always existed. It is their destiny to move.
Musicians simply establish a vehicle for the sound to move through.
Dr. Ka is an expert engineer.
Find out more at http://www.myspace.com/doctorka

Edsey
Vocalist/guitarist/producer Edsey has been wandering the country with Dusty
Rhodes and The River Band for the last 8 years. He has collaborated with an
eclectic array of artists in the Los Angeles area and has produced DRRB's latest
album, to be released in April 2010.
Find out more at http://www.myspace.com/dustyrhodes

Jayce
Jayce is a bedroom producer from Sacramento, CA. A constant observer of
relationships, he blends elements of pop, hip-hop, and praise music into emotion-
provoking, synthesized beats. In real life, however, it's all in good fun.
Find out more at http://www.facebook.com/jaycemusic

Mighty Joe Plum

Mighty Joe Plum was born in the 90's to proud parents Rock and Roll. Tampa and
Orlando provided fertile stomping grounds during the formative years of the rock
quartet. After releasing the album AARDVARK independently, it wasn't long
before the band signed a deal with Atlantic Records, thanks in large part to
"Steve-O" Robertson out of Orlando. The Plum is currently recording and playing
live.
Find out more at http://www.myspace.com/mightyjoeplum

My Parasol
It all began somewhere between now and then. Mark and Susanna met in a
whirlwind of fate in a very unfamiliar place, both grasping for what they wanted
but couldn't see. Mark charmed Susanna with an A+ smile and some silly songs.
Susanna tried to impress Mark with some bad French. But it worked. Ever since,
it's been sun-kissed melodies and picture collage memories. C'est vrai!
Find out more at http://www.myspace.com/myparasolband
Ryan Pak
Find out more at http://www.ryanpak.com

Kevin Schatz
Kevin Schatz hails from Lomita, California, the former celery capital of the world.
But his lyrics are much crisper than any stalk of celery. Especially with a little
peanut butter thrown on top. Kevin approaches song writing in a revolutionary
way in which he creates music on his guitar, writes lyrics to accompany that
music and then sings those songs for others to hear. He is currently in works
with She’s Electric for his debut EP, due out Summer 2010.
Find out more at: http://www.youtube.com/user/GoudaWooda

She’s Electric
is the recording name for Ryo Baum. He likes music and literature. He also likes
you. He recently released an EP titled Draw Back Your Bow.
Find out more at http://facebook.com/sheselectricity

Swing Hailey
Founded in 2006 by original members Alfredo Lozano, Rochelle Joya, Mario
Valdivia, Swing Hailey aimed to make a direct connection between the band and
music supporters by being completely DIY for thier music distribution. The band
is currently doing post-production work on their first LP to be pressed and
released for 2010 along with a promotional tour.
Find out more at http://www.myspace.com/swinghailey
Comments?
Questions?
Praises?
Critiques?
Submissions?

We’d like to hear from you.

Find us at:
http://facebook.com/receptacle

Or send your submissions to:

ryobaum@gmail.com