Category Archives: Photography

Our Backyard After You Left

 

The stairs to the backyard are dusty with un-swept dog hair. They cling to my footsteps as I run by; the need to follow still hiding in their genes. The chickens peck holes into the sweet nasturtium caging them in. An unlucky worm is found between stalks and chicken wire. The path to the shed shows signs of neglect: unattended plants causing havoc, a meandering line of clovers that peek through cracks in the bricks we placed last spring. I shove the swollen door, the rain has been thick. Inside your old shed: fallen coins from your pockets forgotten on the floor, a lucky bamboo shoot, its small green leaf not yet wilted. I linger in the doorway. The chicken scrapes her heels into the ground.

The strawberries grow
wild in the dirt next to me.
Their sweetness untamed.

 

Our Backyard After You Left by Valeri Alemania

Valeri Alemania is a Bay Area writer living in San Francisco. She has a B.A. in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. She was previously awarded first place in the Short Story section of the Diablo Valley College Creative Writing Contest.

White dog with stick
Tundra Dog by Isabella Antenucci

Isabella Antenucci is an artist, writer and blue collar worker that lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Luggage Fee

Pre-Partition luggage tag
for the ancestral round-trip

Attendant sees my belly and lets me board early
with the still-complete families

Lahore traffic clouds my open eyes,
the only part of me that can pass
When storm-windowed shut, they only
dream in American and only
got here by exhausting the question:
How much of Daughter’s climate is negotiable?

Slashes of jet lag until life rhymes:

The oven an unaging beast
My frozen stomach thaws and feasts
Ten days cut shorter by warping east
Then time to vaporize, says my iPhone priest

My toes touch grandma’s when we hug goodbye
Under the floorboards hushes a treasure that lawyers can’t split
But it’s over the weight limit

Written by: Matt Luedke

Matt Luedke is a former editor of Forum who continues to be inspired by the writing community he’s found through CCSF. He has also been published in Prairie Light Review and Ripples in Space. Links to his published works are at mattluedke.com.

Metrô Sumaré_Visual_Arts
Metrô Sumaré

Metrô Sumaré, Photograph, by Vincent Calvarese

Vincent Calvarese is a visual artist who photographs his travels. This photograph is from an art installation, Estação Sumaré (Sumaré Station) in Saô Paulo, Brazil’s Metro System, by Alex Flemming

 

 

Abdication

At first I think
of postage stamps and the faces of queens, immortalized
in their black-and-white moment. The shades of the past
are monochrome, marred only by some accidental fold,
some streak of pale lightning. Pink roses blooming
on the wallpaper of my bedside dresser. When I take
this photo between my thumb and forefinger, I find
a child. Younger than I, somehow:
roundcheeked in a stiff-collared dress,
lips peeled back in what we called a shuaya smile—
“brushing teeth” in perpetuity, to appease some ghost
behind the lens. (Her own mother, as it turns out).
Her eyes are dark and wide. In her entirety
my mother is barely larger than my thumbnail.
(I am eight years old). Here are things that surely
must always have existed as they are
now: Mars. Stonehenge. Mt. Everest.
The swelling of the seven seas.
The gnarled roots of redwoods, reaching
deep through the soil of the earth. When
she tells me of my grandmother
witch, who sent her away at two, expecting
love at six, and then a smile flashed for the future too,
I cannot help but
shrink away from the unframed tears, saying
Bu xiang can le. I don’t want to see. Burying myself
in the legos scattered on the carpet, and the photo
underneath the socks in the uppermost drawer
of the dresser, floral and pink.
On nights when the moonlight streams through
my window slats like tiger stripes,
slinking slow across the ceiling, something
brings me to rummage out the past,
to gaze back at a face younger
and more vulnerable than mine, though somehow also

still sleeping in the room right beside me.
I wonder who else had watched Princess Diaries,
and pawed through their mother’s things, seeking family
heirlooms: perhaps the gems
of royalty, or an alternate path
towards nobility: “You were adopted!”
My mother tells me that she knew, at ten, that
her daughter would be a princess.
It is often the nature of things to follow
patterns, branches to twist onwards
as tangled as the buried roots.
Yet she does not curse me
with her inheritance—the mother of hers
who had chosen favorites, withheld
love. Could I too have
hacked a clean cut at the past?
Loved the usurper, that baby brother
like I would my own children? Transmuted
my blood into garnets
at each joyful coronation?
Never my (her) own.
(I am twenty six). Older
than the not-crying child in the photo,
older than her mother when her mother had her, nearly
older than the mother she herself would become
upon having my older brother
in this far and foreign land. The beautiful country.
Now when we hug and she says that
I am her dream, born into being, I wonder
if it is too late to throw down my crown.

Written by: Jessica Yao

Jessica enjoys exploring winding roads, new ideas, and interesting combinations of words. Hopefully one day this all coalesces into something beautiful. In the meantime, she continues to mash at her keyboard.

Maau!_Visual Arts_Photography_Kayla Wilton

Art title: Maau!

By: Kayla Wilton

I received my English degree with a Spanish minor from CSU Stanislaus in spring, 2019, and I will complete my creative writing certificate at CCSF in spring, 2020. Writing is my passion, but I also dabble in drawing, painting, photography, and performance. My work has appeared in Penumbra Literary Magazine.

Fiction: “All the Way to New York”, Featuring Image: “Through Rose-Colored Glasses”

All the Way To New York

She was too young to go to New York with dad, her mom had told her. Besides this was a business trip. It would be boring for little girls. But she could come to the airport and kiss him goodbye. On the ride home she stretched out in the back. She watched a plane take off out the window. Probably his plane, she thought. Dad was just settling into the large reclining seat as a tall stewardess poured him a large glass of ‘cocktail’ with two big ice cubes, just like they do in the old movies. Dad would turn to a very attractive woman in the seat next to his – she was much more attractive than mom – and they would talk and talk. He would make her laugh. And they would have an affair all the way to New York.

 

Written By: Sean Karlin

About the Author: Born in California, raised in Israel, served in the military, educated in film and television, documented environmental and social justice work, produced and directed commercials, Sean Karlin is a filmmaker and creative director who lives in San Francisco with his wife Orli.

Through Rose-Colored Glasses_Visual Arts_Photography

Visual Art “Through Rose-Colored Glasses” By: Nadine Peralta

Fiction: “The Other Day”, Featuring Image: “Sink on Farm”

The Other Day

The other day– bear in mind that when I say the other day I am referencing any day between the present and my birth, I was at the Powell Muni station coming home with my date. Well, technically speaking, it wasn’t the other day, but the other night. Also while we are getting technical, referring to Koana as my date is a bit of a stretch. Because is it really a date if you slam back a few luke-warm Jameson shots in a seedy dive in the Tenderloin with someone you met on Hinge and decided 45 minutes later you were going to sleep together and probably never
speak again?
For the record, that’s exactly what happened, but that’s not really what this story is about.
Powell was putrid smelling, rancid. You know the scent. Rotting waste, urine, feces, God knows what else. Also, it was hot. Hotter than hell. Satan’s ball sack level hot. Maybe it was because the earth is literally on fire, but it was also September, Indian Summer. During the day the city nearly reached a hundred degrees. The evening was cooler, but still stifling; you felt like you were trying to breathe in a garbage bag. You might be wondering why I am going on and on about the heat, but at that particular moment I remember being quite fixated on it. I was self conscious about how sweaty and possibly smelly I was–wondering if I was too much of those things to get naked with a stranger.
I did a quick sniff check after we sat down while Koana glanced at her iPhone. I
reapplied deodorant before meeting up with her. My pits proved to be holding up. Thank god. I turned to her, and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Is that a Google phone?” I have no idea why. I knew it wasn’t. Maybe I was just trying to draw attention away from the fact that my nose had just been in my armpit.
“No, its an iPhone.”
“Oh, I have a Google phone.”
“Okay,” she snorted and went back to texting.
Literally what the fuck is wrong with you Lilith. I had this affliction, where my brain
completely collapses in on itself like a dying star around pretty girls, or should I say women? I need to break that habit, referring to women as girls. You would think it would be easy, since I know I don’t like it when men do it to me.
I adjusted myself on the seat. The sweat from my thigh had completely stuck itself to the metal, like some sort of industrial grade adhesive glue. It stung when I moved it, like ripping off a bandaid. My leg spazzed a bit. Koana must have mistook this for some sort of signal. She put her hand on my thigh. I wasn’t mad about it. I put my arm around her, and pulled her in closer to me. I couldn’t help but think we were kind of cute.
“The N-Judah is the bane of my existence,” I announced, louder and more boisterous than I intended. I had just finished a three month sobriety streak and my tolerance had plummeted.

Koana cackled and gave my leg a little squeeze above my knee. She might have been tipsy as well. She was fairly petite. “We’ve been waiting like forty-five seconds, Doll.”

If anyone else addressed me as “Doll” I would have instantly despised them, but for her it totally worked. Some people are just like that, so confident in their quirky idiosyncrasies they can pull off anything.
“It feels longer.” I glanced at the screen, the red-lights suggested the next N would be
here in 8 and 17 minutes, but I had been down this road before, lied to far too often by that sign to find it believable. “Waiting for the N kind of brings out the worst in me.”
“Hmm, well how about we do something more interesting to pass the time?” she
suggested, doing that cheesy double eyebrow raise, coupled with a sly grin.
She leaned in,
“Oh no, not PDA,” I said sarcastically.
We started making out. She was a really good kisser, and someone who knew what they were doing with her hands. I was eager to get her home.
“Excuse me,” someone interrupted. It was a delicate, gentle nudge. Like when you were a kid and your mom would wake you up from a deep slumber to get ready for school, but much like that situation, it didn’t matter how polite the intrusion was, you were going to be, at the very least, irritated at the source of the sudden disturbance.
We turned around and responded with “Yes?” and “Yeah?”
A homeless man was standing before us. He was stumbling, or swaying a little, probably drunk or high, or a little of both. He was coherent though, not slurring or anything.
“Can I ask yous a question?”
“Maybe?” I allowed.
“It’s personal,” he explained.
“Probably not then,” I said, annoyed. I turned to Koana. Her expression was hard to read. I wished I had known her better, so we could communicate nonverbally the way close friends do.
“Which one of you is the more dominant one?” he asked with a shit-eating grin.
“Yeah, you definitely can’t ask that.”
“Well it’s not that straight forward,” Koana answered in a reasonable tone, at the same
time as me.
I kind of loved her for that. Of course the polyamorous UC Berkley Gender&Sexuality
Studies graduate who LARPed on the weekends would answer that question like that.
“Yeah man, don’t be so heteronormative!” I chuckled.
The man looked like he was poised to respond, but then a lot of bizarre occurrences
happened at once.
The J-Church pulled up and a gaggle of older women in their sixties got off the train.
Their style was campy. Bright make-up. Big hair. And even bigger personalities. They were laughing and shrieking so loud, a chorus of those gut-busting belly laughs that go on and on and on until you start to feel almost sick. The only coherent sentence I managed to make out was something along the lines of, “So that’s what I was doing at the police station in 1975 at three in the morning!” Their howling laughter was cut as abrupt and as unnerving as seeing a cyclist flying down a hill, crashing and being flung off and over their handlebars.
The ensuing chaos was caused by a single pigeon.
The pigeon descended from the entrance platform far more graceful than you would think a rat with wings could, like a swan dive. The pigeon flew the length of the platform, alongside where the J had been an instance before, leaving in its wake a steady stream of shit. It looked like white rain, descending upon its victims in a perfect parabolic arch. It was kind of remarkable looking. Not beautiful or anything, but something that would have made an entrancing photo if
you were fortunate enough to capture it.
It took them a few seconds to register what had happened, but you can tell when it did.
The ladies started shrieking and running out of the station, frantically waving their purses in the air, as if to ward off any other unanticipated aerial attacks, fowl or otherwise.
All three of us were looking at one another with jaws dropped and covered mouths,
attempting to stifle our giggles.
“Looks like the pigeon is the dominant one,” the woman seated next to us added, without even looking up from her book. I hadn’t even noticed her before.
Our laughter broke like a dam had exploded. We were doubled over even more
theatrically then the women covered in pigeon shit before– well before they were covered in pigeon shit. I practically couldn’t see from the tears in my eyes when the N arrived. Koana and I got on the train hand-in-hand with a jovial wave goodbye to the man. It took us a few stops to finally calm down.
Koana let out a deep exhale, almost like a sigh.“Sometimes it’s just good to laugh,” she
said, resting her head on my shoulder.
“Definitely,” I agreed. I held her arm in my lap and started running my fingertips up and down her forearm.
“I kind of needed a night like this,” she added, “I got fired recently. I’m hella stressed.”
“Oh no, what happened?”
“Well the other day–”

 

Written By: Francesca Bavaro

Sink On Farm_Visual Arts_Photography

Visual Art “Sink on Farm” By: Gloria Keeley

About the Artist: I’m a graduate of San Francisco State University with a BA and MA in Creative Writing. My work has appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, Slipstream, FORUM and other journals. I graduated from CCSF and I taught at CCSF for 34 years and was the editor of FORUM in 1969.

Fiction: “Waning Crescent”, Featuring Image: “Surfer”

Waning Crescent

He leaned against the wall, long legs crossed at the ankles. A cigarette dangled from his hand, smoke leaking from his lips in a slow, swirling haze. His hair, obsidian-black, rose in well-oiled spikes from the crown of his head. The sharp lapels of his jacket folded back across his chest, revealing a tantalizing ‘v’ of flesh. 

She gazed at him from across the corridor. Tightness gripped her stomach. She tried to open her mouth, to say something to him. But her jaw was clenched. Wired shut. She breathed deeply through her nostrils; shoved her trembling, pale hands deep into her pockets. 

He turned towards her. His blue irises seemed to run up and down her body, a smirk playing on his full, red lips. 

She flinched and turned away, as though blinded by a sudden light. Blood rushed to her face, tiny pinpricks of heat stinging her cheeks.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground and pushed himself from the wall, striding up the corridor with long, purposeful steps. 

Heart pounding, she straightened her shoulders, arched her back, pushed her small breasts forward. She lifted her face towards him, pale and smiling, lips bent into a frail crescent.

He swept by her without noticing.

She felt the coldness of his shadow as he passed over her, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.

 

Written By: Jennifer Peloso

About the Author: Jennifer is a writer and non-profit administrator from the San Francisco Bay Area. She obtained two degrees in English from UCLA and King’s College London, respectively. She runs a local writing group and spends her non-writing time developing her nerdier interests in LARPing, gaming, cooking, and historical research.

Surfer_Visual Arts_Photography

Visual Art “Surfer” By: Brian Lopez

About the Artist: Brian Lopez is a San Francisco based photographer, specializing in the documentation of bay area music, and local underground music communities and subcultures. More of his work can be found on his instagram @bayexploria.

Poetry: “Earthly Things”, Featuring Image: “Foggy Curve”

“earthly things”

 

In the dip of my suspension bridge heart

lies a letter to my next incarnation.

 

It contains secrets once held in my cavities now

paused, hanging in the negative space,

lodged between beginnings like foodstuff

in one’s teeth. As non-memories

 

become, only earthly things matter now. 

First words, chopsticks, rosaries, goosebumps—

life’s details encrypted into non-consciousness 

and awaiting translation. We seek divinity,

 

not knowing it’s here in our lungs 

and dirty laundry; we need only unravel 

our harrowed orbits and lay flat to dry. 

Written By: Aiya Madarang

About the Author: Aiya is a creative writing student at CCSF and a member of the SF art collective Syzygy. She holds a bachelor’s in linguistics from UC Santa Cruz. She is a lover of words, the layers beneath them, and the spaces between them.

Contact: Kharmanci@gmail.com
Contact: Kharmanci@gmail.com

 

Visual Art By: Kerim Harmanci

About the Artist: Kerim Harmanci – raised in PA and NY – is a San Francisco photographer and student at City College, currently taking darkroom and lighting classes as well as peer mentoring and doing aerial drone photography on his days off.

Poetry: “Bird Stories” Featuring Image: ‘The Eyes of Bougainvillea”

Bird Stories

 

I

 

aging birds that

once hopped fields, 

sang on clotheslines,

now straddle trees.

hot wind across the desert 

fluffs cactus wrens,

branches bend; eaves hide warblers

that echo dark canyons. 

under cumulous skies, thunder claps

like flaps of feathers

upsetting the balance of alighting night owls

 

II

 

a robin’s egg hatches in the trellis,

sparrows jet over blooms

then dance on the wood-block tree

at the end of spring, is the nest

half full? half empty?

vines hang to cover light

the babies nest 

above the doghouse

 

III

 

crack/break of hummingbird eggs

shelled beaks

chanting canticles

background fiddles weave patterns

violins, violence

opposites attract

the doves crow for harmony

Written By: Gloria Keeley

About the Author: I’m a graduate of San Francisco State University with a BA and MA in Creative Writing. My work has appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, Slipstream, Forum and other journals. I graduated from CCSF and I taught at CCSF for 34 years and was the editor of Forum in 1969.

Eyes of Bougainvillea_Photography

Visual Art Piece “Eyes of Bougainvillea” By: Vincent Calvarese

About the Artist: As a writer and visual artist, he found his wings amongst his heroes of Eureka Valley. Using the San Francisco Bay Area as his canvas, he highlights themes of restorative justice in The Final Visit, familial pain in The Flesh of the Father, gun violence in Three Cloves of Garlic, the pharmaceutical crisis in The Clipboard and the gentrifying 7×7 plain in The Slanted Winds Down Guerrero Street. He is a past General and Poetry Editor for Forum Magazine.

Fiction Piece: “The Flesh of the Father”, Featuring Image: “The Sunset”

Flesh of the Father

     “Oh, thank you. Is my breath bad?” my Father Ari asked. “No, it’s just the thing I do when I am having one,” said my Uncle Zeb. I watched the transaction as if it was in slow motion. My father, a devout vegan, accepted not any Altoid but an Altoid from the red-bordered tin box!

     As we stood in Beth Chaim Synagogue, immediate family on one side, friends on the other, I looked around to see if my Mother Melissa had witnessed the ultimate sin. Nope. She was focused straight and center on my Cousin Elba. I scanned across another bench, in the most modest houses of assembly and both my brother and sister were flipping through a mini-Torah. “No look, that’s the right one,” Jerone stated. “No it’s not. I will show you,” Ziva stated. “Shhh. Not now you two,” my mother responded with one sideways finger at her lips.

    I watched as my Cousin Elba and her new husband Rakel smashed the wine goblet and the largest family members of the relative hierarchy, carried them down the aisle, out to the reception room. It wasn’t long before everyone was seated and eating. I was seated to the left of my Father. I know Mom had filled out the green-bordered meal cards for Elba’s special day, ensuring we all received “proper” dishes. Exactly the way it has been since I can remember up until now.

     For the rest of the night I watched my father like a hawk. He was a field mouse and I hadn’t eaten in days. I scanned his every movement. I even followed him twice to the men’s room. I watched as he ate the vegan-prepared meal. I kept thinking there would be some sort of a facial expression or a sign, letting me know he was no longer one of us. But nothing. Instead, he exclaimed with his typical gastronomic response, “These plum-roasted green beans are superb,” and with his last bite, “Oh, those carnivores have nothing on us!” For the first time while listening to my Father, contempt filled me up. I was tempted at least four or five times to say something but I always remembered Mom’s Rules of Veganism. In this case, Rule #4, “Don’t Make A Scene.” We flew home the next day. 

     My Mom and Dad were vegan before they met. Mom began in high school at the Athenia School for the Gifted. She was drama. She was debate. She stood for change. Dad’s dad was a farmer and raised soy. Zayde drank a lot and wasn’t a good farmer. Money concerns were prevalent and his family mainly ate soy, vegetables and nuts. Dad just got used to being meatless.

     After the wedding, I never missed a family meal or a family restaurant outing. I found myself watching my Father eat every Vegan-strictive mouthful. I couldn’t help but watch every spoonful of veggie soup. Every fork full of roasted Brussel sprouts. Every slice of flourless, sugar-free carob cake.  It wasn’t a guarantee of his faith but it left me somewhat satisfied.

     “Kids, you’ll thank us when you’re older,” my Mom would exclaim as she passed around another round of roasted peppercorn tofu, her favorite. You could hear The Smiths playing in the living room.

And the flesh you so fancifully fry

Is not succulent, tasty or kind

It’s death for no reason

And death for no reason is murder

     When my parents married, we were told, they decided their children weren’t only going to be raised Jewish but we would eat “nothing with a face”. We also weren’t allowed to consume any eggs, dairy or sugary products. It was a Portland Public Television and private Hebrew school only household. Talk about the chosen!

     Since the wedding, I relived all the times standing with my compadres at the local creamy. Always waiting to be last, so no one could hear my order. “Yes, I’ll have two-scoops of the dairy-free, sugar-free taro root, please.” I always followed the rules. I was “Team Vegan-Lacto-Ovo-No Sugar” all the way!

     I found myself going through his pant and coat pockets whenever I had an alone moment, usually a Saturday afternoon when they had gone to the park with Jerone and Ziva. I was hoping for some sign. But I always came up empty handed. The best I could do were a few empty sugar-free Jolly Rancher wrappers. If Father had left the faith it didn’t show. So far, the Incident of the Altoid was a one-off.

     We’d always get invited to outdoor functions with all of the other soccer-mom-dads. Mom would always assemble our “relief pack”. Usually, homemade ginger beer, veggie sticks, hummus, a 3-bean salad and Linda McCartney’s Field Sausage with golden potatoes.  Dad always brought our unsullied Hibachi with separate utensils for barbecuing and consumption.

     At these functions, positioning was everything. Downwind of the BBQ pits was forbidden. Once the carcasses hit the grill, we’d position ourselves with the The Klein Family, usually at 12 o’clock. They didn’t eat pork or anything cooked next to it. I’d keep an eye on Father to see if he’d be coaxed out of the pocket but no chance. He’d use the homemade ginger beer to draw a family friend over to the “safe side” for a frank discussion about politics or the upcoming Fall Oregon Hiking Schedule. Artisanal anything is a human magnet in the Willamette Valley.

   That June, I turned 17 and college brochures and Oregon summers allowed me to be sometimes slightly distracted about my Father’s spring-time indiscretion but never quite forgotten. There was wind surfing on the Hood River with my girlfriend Shiva and kissing after dark at the Bonneville Dam. The roses began to bloom and their aroma wafted through every memory. I started night soccer in mid-September. We got to play at the “good” fields, just past the Pearl District heading towards Powell’s Books.

     One Wednesday night, after practice, with Mom at her book club and Dad at his iron-working class, Shiva and I were crisscrossing through all of the local artist’s lofts, ending up on Lovejoy Street. It was always fashionable and lively with hip brands, indie boutiques, reclaimed warehouse spaces, artisan coffee shops, contemporary art, photography and glass works. Afterward we could hang near the wading fountain. The Portland weather was perfect for the first time in months. Everyone in shorts and not an umbrella in sight.

     Shiva said, “Hey, isn’t that your dad?” She pointed toward a new shi-shi restaurant, The Pearl Tavern. I spotted my Father standing outside with two of his artisan buddies. I looked at Shiva and exclaimed, “Hey wait, meat! That’s a steakhouse!”

     My Father and his company walked into the restaurant and were quickly seated in the front window. My knees buckled for a brief moment. I took a deep breath and took a wider stance. I insisted Shiva go home and I would see her tomorrow at school. She was concerned but I watched her disappear into the Indian Summer evening.

    For the next thirty minutes, I was awash in a myriad of emotions. Anger would trump confusion. Resentment would overtake confusion. This wasn’t the Garden Grove or Shangra-La’s. These eateries were safe zones for many of us. No temptation to be seen. But the tavern! Vegan blasphemy!

    Just after 9:30pm, standing behind the cover of two huge ficus trees, I witnessed something that would change my life forever. I saw my Father cutting into a ribeye steak. I saw him smiling and taking bites. Some small, some larger. He seemed so peaceful and at ease. He was laughing and washing down his bovine with a tall heady brew, as if he had done it a thousand times before.

    After my Father had said goodbye to his friends and began walking down the street. I confronted him just past Jamison Square. “Father, can I talk to you!” I said. “Wow, Asher where did you come from? What are you doing here?” I clenched my teeth and said, “I saw everything! How could you!” My dad grabbed me and hugged me for a very long time. I could smell the gristle on him.

    For the next two hours, sitting outside our house in our 2009 Prius, my father and I discussed everything from deception (white lies versus a big lie) to Altoids (Red vs. Green). “It started with a beef broth soup by accident a few years ago. These days, it’s a once a month with the guys. The showering, flossing and brushing afterward is imperative. I think your Mom knows but hasn’t said a word” he said with a bit of apprehension.

     Dad still towed the Vegan-line, “Asher, the manufacturing of raising cattle and chickens is still a poor food source because it destroys the land, pollutes the rivers and its all-out torture. And in the end, a total blood-bath slaughter.”

     While talking to him, I remembered all of the PETA-inspired videos we all watched as a family, when I was just a pre-teen. The “crippled chicken” campaign hobbling against McDonald’s stating, “Your UnHappy Meal is Ready!” or the “Furry” farm animals wishing everyone a “Happy Veggie New Year!”

     “But then why?” I exclaimed. He responded, “Asher, I am imperfect”.  He continued, “Asher you’ll be leaving us soon and heading to college. You’ll be a man. You’ll be making your own decisions. Your mother and I have set the table. You will get to choose.”

     I remember Mom’s “Rules” once again. Rule #6 “When Someone Is Discussing Their Healthy Eating, Never Pounce.” I guess this pertained, even to my own father.

     A few nights later, at dinner, Mom passed around her latest peanut sauce, green bean concoction. Jerone and Ziva were talking to their posse of imaginary friends. Sitar music was lofting in from the living room. I cleared my throat and started slow and took a deep breath. “Mom”. She looked over at me with a smile. “You know one day, maybe not tomorrow, or even next month but soon, I may want to have regular ice cream.” Involuntarily, my eyes squinted and my upper lip and nose moved closer to my eyes. “Maybe even a store-bought candy bar.”  I exhaled the rest of the air in my lungs. I took a short breath and continued as I glanced over to my dad, “But I will never eat meat.” She gave me a half-smile but as her gaze shifted to my dad, it disappeared. Rule #10-Don’t Argue About Diet.    

Written By: Vincent Calvarese

About the Author: As a writer and visual artist, he found his wings amongst his heroes of Eureka Valley. Using the San Francisco Bay Area as his canvas, he highlights themes of restorative justice in The Final Visit, familial pain in The Flesh of the Father, gun violence in Three Cloves of Garlic, the pharmaceutical crisis in The Clipboard and the gentrifying 7×7 plain in The Slanted Winds Down Guerrero Street. He is a past General and Poetry Editor for Forum Magazine.

The Sunset_Visual Arts_Photography

Visual Art Piece “The Sunset” By: Nia Bankova 

About the Artist: Nia, a SoCal native who recently moved to the Bay Area for college, took photography all throughout high school, with a concentration in portraiture, but started doing more landscapes as she settled into San Francisco. Nowadays, you can find her with her nose in a book, and scribbling poems.

Poem:”The Slanted Winds Down Guerrero Street” Featuring Image: “Way Back Home”

The

        Slanted

                    Winds

        Down 

 

The afternoon fog will roll in from the North

                                                                   and burn off first from the South.

                 The bridges will hold the droplets of moisture

                                                   until dinnertime as lovers embrace through locked

                                                                                 lips, while a wingless angel forgotten,

                  stands at the glistening edge,

                                                leaping, ending the present.


She’ll flick the kitchen light on first

                 and wake up her youngest last,

                                 standing slipper-less in the hallway,

                                                                remembering the miscarriage

                 who couldn’t wait, tears always

                                                  for the impatient.

 

They say she didn’t suffer long,

                          she went quick, the rigor mortis

                                                     set in as the body bag’s zipper snagged

                                                                      her lacy front nightgown her daughter

                          bought for her on a Mother’s Day,

                                                           years ago, forgotten.

 

She still doesn’t allow her husband 

                              to undress her at night, only cradle

                                             her softly with the nightlight visible

               and her calls to the detective go unreturned,

                              while her rape kit remains untested,

                                            nine months old.

 

Once gentrification visits a neighborhood,

                                                                    who will remember              that name,

                                                                                      those people,

                                                                                                     that corner,

                              whose culture,

                                                                   that lost identity

                                                   which invites us in to stay.

 

The wind whips up and grabs

                                                the leaves and debris of last night,

                                                               becoming today and the future,

                  as a woman stands with her newborn

                                                                                    cradled in her arms, 

                                stale teardrops upon her neckline,

                 her ignored, days old soiled hand

                                                                   extended outward,

                                                 begging for her next meal.          

Written By: Vincent Calvarese

About the Author: As a writer and visual artist, he found his wings amongst his heroes of Eureka Valley. Using the San Francisco Bay Area as his canvas, he highlights themes of restorative justice in The Final Visit, familial pain in The Flesh of the Father, gun violence in Three Cloves of Garlic, the pharmaceutical crisis in The Clipboard and the gentrifying 7×7 plain in The Slanted Winds Down Guerrero Street. He is a past General and Poetry Editor for Forum Magazine.

 

Visual Art By: Eunbin Lee

About the Artist: I am a student studying photography from Korea. Living in a new culture and environment of the United States, I try to express through pictures what I felt based on various daily experiences. I feel a sense of freedom by expressing it through my photographs rather than words. I hope people can feel the feelings that I want to convey through my photos.

Way back home_Visual Arts_Photography