Editor's Choice From Issue One Of PTE :)

Pushing The Envelope
A Literary Magazine
Editor’s Choice
From Our First Issue

These Are Kevin’s Picks:

JUST WORDS
YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT
OR HOW I BECAME A WRITER by Roxanne Hoffman

As a pre-pubescent teenager still in my primitive cannibalistic period,
and only recently weaned from my left thumb,
I bit my nails, chewed my split-ends and swallowed my words.
No amount of encouragement or ridicule would make me spit them out.
The taunts of my peers:
"Cat got your tongue?"
"Here comes Marcel's retarded sister!"
"Are you a dummy? Let's find a ventriloquist."
only fueled my need to self-masticate.
Biting my lips and grinding my teeth until they bled,
led to early rumors of vampirism.
My parents, a gregarious couple of chatterboxes,
devoted to encouraging their offspring
with motivational speeches and lavish praise,
when they found themselves no longer able to distinguish my scribblings
from the food stains on the paper napkins,
allowed my older sister to explore her inner child by
filling the intermittent gaps of silence during dinner time conversation
with her imaginative interpretations of my nervous ticks, nods and blinks,
Growing weary of replacing cartons of chewed-up and discarded Monarch No. 2 pencils,
the late night emergency runs to the hospital after BIC pens exploded in my mouth(and then there was that time my stomach had to be pumped
after I swallowed wads of 3-hole college rule during a spitball fight with my sister,not to mention the paper cuts,
and the time I stabbed myself with a No. 2 pencil to prove a point.
Yep, I proved it was sharp enough!),
Mom and Dad presented me with a Smith Corona
portable typewriter for my 13th birthday.
I found the clickety-clack of the plastic keys comforting
as I pressed my face down to nuzzle them.
running my fingers along the spools of black-inked ribbon,
gently smudging my cheeks and nose with the dark viscid fluid.
I would spend many a pleasant hour tapping the metal strikers like a xylophone.
pressing my thumbs against select letters to embed them into my flesh!
Oh the magical ratchet and ring at the end of every line!
Oh the crisp velum of the Eaton's Corrasable Bond!
Perfect for folding paper fans and paper airplanes.
In my gratitude I signed up for touch typing and typed my parents a thank-you note
for my mid-term project:

Dear Mom and Dad,
Roses are red, violets blue
Now I can be read, thanks to you!
I love my new typewriter,
but No 2. pencils and BIC pens
were a better chew!
Love bites, kisses & ughs,
Roxy

This was a piece that both Brian and I wanted to pick, but I put Roxanne story on my page.

The Outer Boroughs

The Outer Boroughs
Make the Inner Ginsberg howl
An Outré Sutra.

Gentrification
Drink Colt 45,
Drive a Lexus through Bed-Stuy
And call it “slumming.”

Urayoan Noel

Again, these two piece Brian and I both liked, but I put them on my page.


Justice Isn’t Really Blind

After some long heated debates
I said to justice
I feel your passion
See where you’re coming from
Respect what you stand for
But
Being blind
Seems to stand in your way
She laughed so hard
The scales tipped
Turning the tables her way
She said she wouldn’t have it any other way
If she saw all that we saw
She’d go mad before she finished a day
Then she spoke about getting ear plugs
As she turned her back
Then walked away

Arlene Cassarino

These are Brian’s Picks:

Ballad of Chicken Shower

Water pounds with fury
Heat rises thick and warm
Washed my hair 2 or 3 times; can’t keep track, can’t keep track
‘Cause steam can’t soothe this inner storm
You lie on bed blue soft
Thoughts in sweet fantasy
Comfy grey sweatshirt caresses your skin; oh your skin
You breathe in time and wait for me
I’m a wrinkled chicken, “Bok, Bok”
O.K. this is my cue
Cannot bring myself out of this shower, shower
I’m a nervous wreck think’n ‘bout you
Finally, by the dawn’s light
Hands find hands; lips brush cheek
A soft drunken blur of sweet caresses, caresses
This is the love that we all seek
Morning brings fuzzy light
Orange juice & champagne
We giggle as we fumble into clothes, oh your clothes
Float out the door and to the train
Strangers brush by in blurs
It’s time to part my dear
I lean in, in a daze, to kiss you deep, oh so deep
Your face contorts with desperate fear
“Not here! No! Not in public!”
Your mouth twists with disgust
“This kind of love’s for the bedroom only, only
Besides it’s only childish lust.”
But I would kiss you anywhere
The street, the bus, or in Times Square
I’d hold you tight in naked light
I’d never hide. I’d shout with pride
Singing, “This is who I am and you are who I love
Glare or stare, we can rise above”
But your smile has soured
You brow is creased
Your chin turns hard,
My senses jarred
Your eyes reveal our love’s deceased.
Your eyes reveal our love’s deceased.

Athena Reich

Framed Sun

Today, I decided
The sunshine has long been neglected
So I immersed myself
I wish it could fit on my shelf
I felt ice in my veins
Melt and leave me with yesterday's rain
We all have our prime time
Is being a boy with long hair a crime?
I felt the sun again
I finally stopped the rain
I found it's not the same
Wish the sun could be framed...
Some gay men are shallow
I guess we can misrepresent rainbows
And so I feel ugly
But there's famine amongst the pretty
Today, I failed to read
But I observed the humidity
Before fear came my way
I confronted the sunlight today...
I felt the sun again
I finally stopped the rain
I found it's not the same
Wish the sun could be framed.

Danny Garcia

This is yet another poem that both Brian and I really liked,
but he wanted to include it on his pages.

The Sound Of A Woman

Click heel, Click heel, on the pavement,
Such an unspoken comment,
That’s the sound of a woman coming,
Maybe she’s wearing a short skirt,
Time for you to flirt,
Or perhaps she’s wearing tight pants,
As you noticeably take a glance,
Sizing up the situation,
Promoting sexual frustration,
Your thoughts roam,
Wanting to take her home,
Hemming and hawing,
And your comments she’s ignoring,
Throwing out a lame line,
She takes the bait,
You running from base to base,
To score at the plate,
Things are lustfully heavy,
And she is ready,
Kissing and caressing,
Touching and feeling,
Bending and kneeling,
Tossing and turning,
Temperature burning,
Patterned sighs and cries,
Continual moans and groans,
In pleading tones,
Louder and louder,
Over and over,
Sudden silence takes the room,
Now she is quiet,
Now that truly is the sound of a woman cumming.

Danielle Lucania

Danielle’s poem was a poem that we both really liked, but Brian wanted it

These are our editor choice picks for this issue. We will
be back with a new issue in January 2010. We invite all
writers, and artists to submit their work. For guidelines,
to see the full magazine, or any information about:
“Pushing The Envelope” email us at:
Pushingtheenvelope09@Gmail.com
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