It was time to go.
I walked outside to wait for you.

You were picking me up for a picnic
and I was delighted I’d be with you.

You didn’t talk about
your AIDS diagnosis —
mysterious letters I didn’t comprehend.
What was that, anyway?

Instead you were just you,
which was everything — the perfect man.
Your laughter, your wit, your exuberance
kept me smiling and, as always, adoring you.

It was time to go.
You picked up your picnic blanket.

You carefully folded it
and handed it to me.
“Here. Take it.
I won’t be needing it anymore.”

That’s how you told me.
It was time to go.

(In loving memory of Richard-Michel Paris)

Vivian Imperiale
Vivian Imperiale uses poetry to process her emotions and to pay ongoing tribute to the Love of her Life who died in 1985 in the AIDS Epidemic.

Constance Louie-Handelman
Constance Louie-Handelman completed her A.A. degree at CCSF in 1973. Now retired as a clinical psychologist, she has returned to CCSF 2019 spring semester with a focus on digital photography.

In hot suburban Florida
in an old, sandy bungalow
my father used to
measure my height on the doorframe

If we left the honey out
roaches would come
a bee drove his stinger into my arm—
that kind of summer visit

my baby brother—
learning to talk
my father tuning in
to area news
amid rows of Miller cans in the TV room

dad sold home alarms back then
drove us around
with a gun in the glovebox

I used to look for love in the gifts I gave him—
paisley ties and cologne

I wrote confrontations from 31,000 feet above
only to ball them up at sea level

enter the string of wrong
boyfriends
me, a war girlfriend
waiting by the phone

I am older now, a mother
I can see inside the dollhouse:

The marble queen pothos—that glossy, leathery, heart-shaped vine that grew up in my mother’s home—cascades down my banister. Devil’s ivy, they call it, because it is un-killable.

Dad falls off a low ladder
Son learns how to surf

Son builds castles from old boxes
Sails boats of old and worn shoes

Megan Brown
A native of New Orleans, Megan Brown feels most at home near water. Her writing has been published in the Social Science Quarterly, East Bay Times, and 580 Split. In 2008, her short memoir about her campaign work in Nevada earned an Honorable Mention in the America’s Funniest Humor Writing Contest.

Sarah A. Smith
Sarah A. Smith works with ink on paper to create scenes that feature animals and nature. Often, her inspiration comes from antiques and objects in museums like this one, “Tiger and Hen,” drawn from a design on a 17th century huqqa base which is in the collection of the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco.

Seventeen glasses, full to the brim –

coffee, orange juice, milk, some water to drink.

They took so long to finish their breakfast,

Not that they wanted them to last.



Seventeen kisses, or sighs from Dad and Mom;

Don’t be late, come home by five o’clock.

Let’s plan tonight for our weekend getaway,

or maybe let’s watch some movie, so we better stay.



Seventeen rides going to school –

Busy cars, buses, or walking on foot.

Smiles were greeted, bags lain on desks,

Phones were barred, though they still check their texts.



Seventeen steps, walking in his boots

to reach Building 12, the mad boy took.

Shooting his AR-15 everywhere he aimed his fire –

Imploding from inside he took his ire.



Seventeen calls, or more the students made;

Smoke everywhere, what’s happening, for heavens’ sake!

Tears, cries, and bloodshed sprawled on the floor.

Who even let this guy enter the door?



Seventeen dreams, cut without warning.

On this day the sun at the park stopped shining.


3/15/18

Fernando Rosal Gonzalez
Fernando Rosal Gonzalez has published novellas, children’s storybooks and written TV scripts both for mainstream and independent producers in Manila. He created the children’s TV show, “Oyayi,” which was jointly produced by CBN-Asia, the NCCT (National Council for Children’s Television), and ABS-CBN. He is currently taking up filmmaking and creative writing courses at CCSF.

Suzanne Notario
My photographic journey started six years ago when I took my first photography class at CCSF. This course ignited my passion for making pictures and creating something with my camera. It has become a way of expressing myself.

Spirals enthrall her.
She draws them in notebooks,
coil upon coil, twisting glyphs
about the page.

She sports a tattoo choker.
In this she finds comfort and beauty.
A loving vine about her neck turns her morning glory blue.
She re-enacts vestigial memories of a liquid time:
An umbilical cord slowly constricts;
her heart languishes
with each thrust.

She bears straps about her legs,
spiral rotators to twist in-turned hips, and inserts
that only allow for clunky shoes, an imposition most unartistic.
She howls in protest, hangs from me in anger, arms encircling my waist,
counters my legs with thick brick feet, pulling me
over, pinning me, craving the intolerable
constraint of love.

She snakes yarn about her arms,
winds the wool around her legs, circles
her trunk, all around until – wrapped like a grub
in a cocoon — she trips around the room,
delighted with the oddity.

She’s eight and knows constraint,
winds it decoratively about her body.
Dictating the confines of ability and rules, she turns . . .
the choker into
Beauty.

Erika Dyquisto
Erika Dyquisto works as an adjunct professor at City College of San Francisco and San Francisco State University. She cherishes the moments of (human) itarian metaphysical power that carefully chosen words can create, however brief those moments may be.

Ana Lazaro
Ana Lazaro is a San Francisco-based artist. She considers herself a world citizen and has, since childhood, had a passion for capturing moods and emotions through her portraiture. Her background includes fashion and jewelry design. Ana’s current work is inspired by her desire to celebrate female artists across the globe.

(Elegy for Tede)

How you danced with rainbow scarves
one in your hand, the other draped
across your bare shoulders

You made a tutu from violet shorts
curtsied for the camera
your red lipstick never fades.

You wrote the lyrics of your disease
Desire still trembling from fingertips
caress of a sunflower on your cheek

Sitting on the steps at the Washington march
You pulled back a sleeve, pale arm, held
the interferon laced syringe, poked

a needle into thinning veins. You, who named us
Mainstream Exiles, vagabonds, cast out of homes,
queer kids singing poetry on any empty corner

and abstract art projected onto flat buildings at night
We stole storefronts from their owners
Teeth chattering cold, but cheap

We were shadows, running to tape our words
on telephone polls on unlit streets. Your pretty boy face
returns as the exiled ones roam

and enter bars where you once sat
in dark rooms, illuminated by one disco ball
sequins, raw sex, edged in hidden alleys

back doors, the snap of fingers, attention
puckered lips, swaying hips, and the rough red spots
of disease. Coming out at twilight, a candlelight vigil

Haunting echoes of a conch shell summons
all who have laid in death’s bed
morphine induced dreams, fists raised

How the banner unfurls, blanketing us
Fingers pressed to lips, heads bowed
Not as supplicants, as dancers waiting

For the music’s crescendo.

Carla Schick
Carla Schick was in the political queer arts group, Mainstream Exiles, in the early 1980’s. Their poetry is published in Sinister Wisdom, A Gathering of the Tribes, Suisun Review and Earth’s Daughters, and they received first place in the Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Contest.

Desi Pena
My name is Desi Pena. I am 23 years old and enjoy skateboarding, making skate videos, photography and writing. Follow my Instagram @desip_

Currents move unselfishly.

Lapping at the shores of our consciousness

Repainting memories now faded
from strained expectations

but it is a gift

A taste of what true love is

a healing

of the heartaches measured in the waves

watch as the sea moves 
in conjunction with the wind

they are kind lovers to one another 
like the rib I’ve sought over lifetimes
It is a gift

To remember 
the innocence of dreaming

the act of creationism from a childlike heart,

sewing the purest seeds of destiny and home.

So I listen to the sounds of forgotten pictures

Lapping at the shores of my consciousness 
repainting the memory of my own dreams

– tiny masterpieces of life

I believed would be mine one day -

and I feel the hope well

the source of my good 
the kindest parts
that I’d covered up for protection.

And in my mind 
I drink from this well

A treasure I had once lost the location of

the origin of what my love languages look
like in flesh and spirit.

And I’m happily transformed by the attention paid to the lovers,

and my own deepest desires,
of a life consisting of intoxicatingly
exhilarating

waves and wind.

R. Shawntez Jackson
R. Shawntez Jackson is a native of the Eastbay. He is an award winning poet, playwright, spoken word artist, actor, educator and father of Wordsi2i.org. He is described as a vivid story-teller creatively framing and displaying some of the best and worst details of relationships, religion and sexuality.

S. M. Murphy
S. M. Murphy is a multidisciplinary artist inspired by the grotesque and macabre. His murals and artwork have been shown on the walls and in galleries of Sacramento and San Francisco, including both M5Art’s Art Hotel and Art Street projects.