PTE A LITERARY MAGAZINE

Here Are Some Of The Recent Submissions TO PTE (More To Come)

2010-06-01T18:34:00.000-07:00

The Rose Is The Beauty Of Life
It Starts to Blum On The Blue Moon
So They Say There Is
No Life On The Moon
But How Did This Rose
Get To The Moon?
This Angel:
With Sparkles All Over Her Body
Get To The Moon
The Angel Looked At The Rose
She Put it On The Moon.
~Mati Menzel~

Lost in Love:

Lost in my emotion,
lost in your eyes,
lost in a world,
where I fantasize.

Trying to get up and out of this hole,
gotta get out because I want to free my soul,
I'm burning inside,
yeah, my body's on on fire
come here baby,
and fulfill my desire.

Only you got what I need to satisfy my soul,
don't be selfish,
I want it all,
Just give me a kiss,
I want to be touched,
can't you see baby,
I need you...oh so much.

Deliver yourself and surrender to me,
give what I want and I'll let you be,
my lover, my heart, my aching desire,
grab your extinguisher and put out this fire.

Allow me to hold you and kiss you from head to toe,
tell me your fantasies, I want to know.
Give the chance,
for you will see,
the things I can do for you,
if you come with me.

~Kenny Royal~

A Slow Wet Thaw

Raw, nude, vibrating,

Absorbed of pulsing shudder.

Moist between thigh and brain,

infectious purgatory ache—

A pulsing wound that

draws what is close

even closer.

Couldn’t I escape you,

pulling my limbs wide,

then returning to your lover

to let me know again

and again.

This slight thaw, a slow wet—

Must now be

enough to remember.

Then the scorching tongue

traced down abandoned hips.

You weren't looking.

God, your eyes, your eyes

force desire which fuels

this desperate masturbation,

tick tick tick ticking. It

drags you home, panting.

A pulling away. One damn pull

saves this descent.

Draw blinds in mind’s house.

Draw blinds in mind.

How minds draw blinds till

blindness becomes the

newer wound.

(Cyndi Dawson)

Toddy Idol

Todd, we danced through

the Eighties, you in kilt and Docs:

the shaman of decadent punk.

You made playgrounds of us all

and we happily obliged.

When AIDS came to claim you

we pretended not to notice as you

shrunk into your spiked hair.

We refused the dark circles

and rashes no makeup could hide.

We kept dancing. It was all we knew how to do.

What you wanted was easy breath,

a continued ride on the swings.

Healing from the latest round of gay-bashing

was easy compared to the beatings AIDS dealt,

that toughest of bullies.

We stopped laughing so hard, and took off the Docs.

I found them in a closet yesterday.

Thought it might be time to toss them out.

I saved them as a way to keep you dancing

when your last dance was already long behind you.

(Cyndi Dawson)

Dread

Have you ever...

Dreaded to arise,

fearing your demise,

Demise of character,

sensibility and grace,

Left no choice but to

rant, to rage and to deface.

Filled with urgency...

Urgency to instill - some

sense, some patience,

some kindness,

Getting in return

more blindness,

Blind to facts, yet sighted

to myths.

Taunts, swipes, bickering and

tiffs,

Dreading to be on the

other side of the door,

Wondering but not knowing,

when you will take no more.

So you remain in bed, stalling

and delaying...

All awhile praying,

Praying and receiving, one more

minute of peace, with every

minute of sleep.

Have you ever dreaded to arise?

~Gina DeLorenzo~

Fuck Me

I want you to fuck me.

Fuck me gently
Fuck me right

Just don’t think I get off
going in front of crowds
and asking people to:
Fuck me.

And make no mistake either.
Because, you see
my grandfather was born in North Belgium
and there, the word fokken
means to nurture.

The same was true for fuck
until Latin was all the rage
and it was used by the rich
to bring down the poor.
Fucking was what Saxon farmers
did to their livestock
when no one was looking.

Therefore, I want to be fucked
but in the old sense.
I don’t want no fancy ideals
or airs of high society
but a gritty, grassroots, true to life, humble (eh, not so much) upbringing.
a Bohemian grand fucking!

Let’s stick it to the man
and take back the word;
let’s all get fucked together.

So fuck me

Like a farmer’s daughter does
to her beloved calf
with no menacing thought
entering her simple-hearted mind.
Taking care of my every need
pressing me up to her bosom
and holding me
through good times and bad.

Fuck me
like a mother does
to her newborn child
Every moment cherished
Every moment a gift of creation.

I want an honest to god fuck
like a Catholic schoolboy
I want to be fucked continuously
fucked until all I see around me is love
Fucked so that I can grow strong
and take on the world
Fucked so that I can blossom into a flower
bearing the most luscious fruits

I want to be taken from the depths
raised to great heights and fucked

I want to walk
in the Valley of the Shadow of Death
and have no fear
‘cause I know you’re fucking me.

And I will cry aloud:
“The Lord is my fucker
I shall have no lacking.
He leadeth me in green pastures
He bringeth me to flowing streams
and he fucketh me there.”

So here I am
a lamb
wandering alone in the wilderness
I need you
I want you
I beg of you
to fuck me
and help me find my way.

~Julian Taub~

Kev's Picks For The Best Of The Best Of Issue Two

2010-02-10T12:27:00.000-08:00

Kev's Picks For The Best OF The Best For Issue Two

I truly believe we had a great issue, and all of the work within was good, but there were some pieces that I really like. I wanted to share them with you. Here they are:

WHITMAN

Good Old Walt Whitman,
He Brought Oranges
To The Freshly Bleeding Boys
Just Off The Battlefields
Of Northern Virginia.

He Put Cold Washclothes
On Their Foreheads,
And Listened Endlessly,
To Their Stories
Of Mother And-
The Corn Coming In
(this while the sepsis and gangrene set in)

Yup,
Good Old Whitman,
He Was Always Holding
America's Hand.

He Saw It All;
From California,
To Alaska,
To The Man
On the Moon,
His Poetry Had Us,
In It's Wide Open Arms

Now, It's A Truism,
That The Undeserved
Are Overly Rewarded
In This Life
(with the converse holding naturally)

So, It's No Wonder,
That Walter Passed Away
All By Himself,
In A little Room,
Of Camden, New Jersey.

There Was No Nice Husband There,
To Hold His Hand
When His Breath Went
Out On The Wind

Good Old Walt Whitman,
We Wish He Was Here To Thank
In The Flesh,

~Dan Gross~

Innocent Little Girl

Innocent Little Girl
So naive and so young
Didn't know her misery had begun
When a stranger changed her life one day
While he thought, 'well, this is going to be fun'
Innocent Little Girl
So sweet but so stupid
Met a boy as naive and young as she
But little did she know
A demon in disguise was he
Innocent Little Girl
So pure but inexperienced
What she wanted was love
What he wanted was fun
And before she knew it
The Deed was done
Innocent Little Girl
So broken and hurt
Suddenly saw her heart in the dirt
Where the boy had left it for all to see
She wanted to be loved but didn't know her soul was the fee
Innocent Little Girl
So angry and full of hate
She went out to find him and end his fate
Bound, gagged and tied up real good
Was thrown in the basement without water or food
I screamed,
Innocent Little Girl
Have you lost your head?!
By early morning's light, he will surely be dead!
She smiled quite wide as she look to the floor
"I guess I'm not that innocent anymore."

~Fiorella Arrunategui~

The Fetish

I want the world to go away. She dances under my bedroom window every night. Some nights she’s more roused than others. I know that others can see her, and I want the rest of the world to go away. I want her to dance only for me, but I realize that’s impossible. Yet I find some comfort in the fact that they love her in a pure, non-carnal way. Unlike myself, you see. I love her so impurely that it borders on obscene. Some would say it is obscene...this love I have for her. Sadly, they would say it’s obscene only because of who I am, and what she is.

There must have been a full moon the night it first began, although I’m not certain. Lying in bed, enduring yet another sleepless night, I found it odd that my bedroom was so illuminated, it seemed as if fifty invisible candles were burning.

Tossing and turning, thinking and hoping. Hoping to just close my eyes and fall asleep. My memories taking me back to when I was a small child. I was such a peaceful sleeper that I would awake in the morning in the same position that I fell asleep in. Nine or ten hours of undisturbed sleep later, I would rise, with a smile on my face and full recollection of my dreams. Wonderful, colorful dreams of running through blossom-studded fields and then spreading my arms and soaring ten feet off the ground. And then there were the trees. I always dreamt of trees as a child. Climbing and more climbing. The trees of my dreams surged one hundred feet or more into the sky, and I scaled them with ease, feeling every inch of the rough bark on my bare soles. I would sometimes awaken with tiny cuts on the bottom of my feet, but I would convince myself they were caused from walking around the yard barefoot.

All I was left with now were sleepless nights and yearnings. I yearned, yet did not know for what. That’s the thing that tortured me the most. For how could I fulfill my desire when I did not know what I desired? The answer came to me that freezing, end of March-night. I desired her. It was a yearning that I had to fulfill.

There she was. She spoke to me without words. Danced for me without music. Reached for me without arms. Right there outside my bedroom window. The light of the moon frolicked on her limbs. Every reflected beam was like a wink across a room intended for a soon-to-be lover. The dance she danced was so slight yet so sensual. Barely moving yet it was a wild dance. She danced only for me, it seemed. Surely many other men had been attracted to her before me, I presumed. Yet in my mind, I and I alone deserved her. They all had their normal, sleep-filled lives. Perhaps most were married, in love, had children. They did not need her or want her the way I did. Therefore, she had to be mine.

In the realization of my fetish, I felt so sick and abnormal. How could I lust after her? Although I had read nothing describing my adoration of her as a fetish, I wanted to wear this branding...this badge of having a fetish, around my neck for the rest of my life. Like a pyromaniac or a pedophile, I justified it. The yearning was so strong that I had to give in. I justified it by thinking that I wasn’t hurting anyone. For in my lust for her, she would not be hurt. She could feel no physical or psychological pain, you see.

So there I lay. Every shimmy and quiver she made compelled the moonlight to blink off my window. I could hear the wind whispering, but it sounded as if she was moaning. I wished it were true, and therefore, it was. One thing I knew for sure was that the yearning was mutual. In my mind, at least, she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.

I didn’t fall asleep that night until the sun began to rise and night turned into day. Once the sun began to twinkle onto her limbs, she seemed like a child to me. Off-limits to my sick fetish. I would not, and could not, subject her to my compulsion in the daylight. She would have to be my night lover only, for my desire waned once the sun ascended into the sky.

A few evenings later, and hours before our imminent consummation, my breathing became deep and almost guttural. Pacing around, and long, ice-cold showers that numbed my fingertips and toes could not put an end to my arousal. Nightfall could not come fast enough. If given the option, I would have gladly forsaken the sun forever, if only the twilight would arrive immediately.

Mother nature was my cohort that night. Although according to the calendar, spring officially began days before, it was a bitterly cold end of March evening that entered the record books. This hopefully ensured virtually empty sidewalks and streets. I wore a dark-blue cashmere pullover with nothing underneath, and a pair of overly-worn, soft as felt, button-fly jeans. My fingers quivered so much that it took me more than ten minutes to fasten all the buttons. I theorized that this was the least amount of clothing I could get away with, given the temperature, without seeming downright loony if spotted on the street by a passerby.

Making my way down the corridor of my building toward the door leading outside at 3:15 A.M., I didn’t even know what I would do, exactly, once I got to her. Like a mother reaching out to hold her newborn baby, still covered in greasy vernix, or a fly committing suicide in a bowl of scrumptious syrup, I just knew that my actions would come naturally. Without thought, planning or consequence, and definitely with the promise of pure bliss.

Once outside, I immediately spotted her.

Her long, naked branches resembled the limbs of an unusually lanky, angelic looking young girl, undoubtedly destined to become a fashion model. I took a quick glance upwards and to my right to look at my bedroom window. Until then, I had only pined over her through that glass pane, thirty feet above. A quick roll of my eyes, left, then right, established the fact that the sidewalk was devoid of people. As I approached, a short and frigid burst of wind bent one of her lower limbs downward and I was instantly overwhelmed with desire, as it was apparent that she was eagerly reaching down towards me.

I rubbed the back of my right hand gently across the lower part of her trunk. Her bark was gorgeously caramel-colored and rough. How on earth, I asked myself, could any man, including myself, ever have been turned on by moist, smooth flesh, or warm, wet kisses? At this second, a human woman’s warm, soft flesh seemed as repulsive as the bloody side of a freshly stripped piece of animal skin, and human female lips, like two plump, pink maggots.

Her dark, hard roughness added a welcome sensation to my mushy cold skin. In one smooth downward motion, my hand turned around so that my palm was now caressing her. After several seconds, my left hand came up and wrapped around her waist, which was slim and couldn’t have been more than seventy centimeters around. Holding on tight, I pulled myself close to her and pressed my chest into her lovely brown bark. The delicate fibers of the cashmere locked into the jagged furrows of her body. I could not detach myself from her even if I wanted to, it seemed, for each and every minuscule curl of goat wool had latched itself onto her tiny jutted bark imperfections.

In my newly twisted psyche, she was a warm-blooded, breathing, panting being. I turned my head and pressed my left cheek into her. Like a child making bark rubbings with tracing paper and pencil, I pressed long and hard until I was sure an impression was made onto my flesh. Our embrace lasted five to six minutes and it was enough to seal our love.

My lover is a Honey Locust. Deciduous by nature, our affair began that cold, end of March night, when she was still in her bare stage. As I made my way back to the entrance of my building that night, I became quite giddy with the thought of what striking beauty she would present to me in the warmth of spring, when her light green buds would burst forth and tease me with every night-time rustle, seemingly whispering my name. I was sure it would be— and it was—intoxicating.

~Gina Delorenzo~

This is something that both Brian and I agree is one of the best of the best!

Me

On the runway of life
when I’m shaken me off balance,
I want to be embraced
by the loving arms of a man
who won’t ask me to be
what he needs,
he lets me exist as I am,

The free spirit of a lioness,
a tempting seductress,
a passionate artist
with an unquenchable exuberance
for living life to the fullest.

Will reality and imagination
combine into a jigsaw puzzle
of unmatched pieces?
Or, will the vivid pictures
in his mind spur the tranquility
of this reality?

One thing’s for sure,
this you will see,
as I strut down life’s runway
I’ve got to be me!

Bonnie Martha Moret

The Who's Who Of Issue Two

2010-02-10T11:47:00.000-08:00

Donnie Gatto - is a poet/actor who competed in, and won, the very first poetry slam she entered at the House of Xavier Ball with props, for her poem" "Passing" in 1999. Donnie has read her work at the Blue Stockings Bookstore, A Different Light, Pseudo.com, and slamed at Nuyorican Cafe. She is the author of two chap books: "Passionate Journey," and "Passionate Journey Revisited." This is her first poem in "PTE," and we're glad she is with us.

Fiorella Arrunategui - Is a firey and very talented writer. This is her first published work, and we here at "PTE" know that we will be hearing a lot more from this writer. Welcome to our pages!

Ice - Is a New York city performance poet, living between Chicago and New York...

developer and founding editor of uphookpress, (please check out our website), there are dates
and places we will showcase our new anthology, "you say.say." this is our second anthology.
A Cautionary Tale, Peer Into The Lives Of Seven New York Performing Poets.
I have been published on line, in anthologies, performing regularly on the circuit here in New York.
Cornelia Street Cafe, Bowery Poetry Club, Telephone Bar etc.

Dan Gross - The author was born in Hackensack NJ, in a log hosptal. He grew up in a banal town in North Jersey where the tax payers were obligated to educate him. In the mid 1980's he attended a state college where there was a lot of cinderblocks and not much ivy. it was there that he studied the quarter mile and beer drinking.

After college, the author worked as a roofer, where, through cowardice, he avoided broken bones. Afterthat, he stumbled into a far more dangerous job: working for lawyers.

Along the way, he had a couple train wrecks of romances and near marriages.

Now, he resides on New York's Upper Westside, where he dates anyone in a skirt, or anyone who may have once worn one. He remains perpetually ready to finish his novels, especially his Great American one. (This is the one that is written about that long neglected subject, the Civil War)

His poetry is inspired by no one who survived past the 1960's, and who was born in the 20th century. Thus, he is headed for a lot of literary and popular success in the year 1932.

Paul A. Toth - Is a writer from Sarasota Florida. He has published several novels. One of them is "Finale," and "Airplane Novel" will be published in late 2010, or Spring 2011. Check him out on Facebook. We welcome Paul to our pages.

Kevin Michael Wehle - Is the co-editor/co-founder of: "Pushing The Envelope." He has poems published by The Poet's Haven: http://www.poet'shaven.com/. CC&D Magazine: http://scars.tv/. His Poem "Long Island Railroad" is it the February 2010 issue of Danse Macabre called: "Kismet." http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/. He has a chap book out called "Hairless....In A World Of Big Hair." You can check it out at: http://www.lulu.com/. He has featured at: "The Saturn Series," and Bengal Curry's: "The Phoenix Series."

Roxanne Hoffman - worked on Wall Street, now she answered a patient hotline for a major New York home healthcare provider. Her poems and stories appear on and off the net, most recently in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, Danse Macabre, The Fib Review, Hospital Drive, Lucid Rythms, MOBIUS The Poetry Magazine, Word Slaw and two anthologies: The Bandana Republic: Literary Anthology By Gang Members And Their Affiliates (Soft Skull Press), and Love After 70 (Wishing Up Press). She and her husband own the small press, POETS WEAR PRADA.

Bonnie Martha Moret - is a certified hypnotherapist and Reiki master specializing in empowerment and life coaching. Writing is her passion and poetry is her emotional outlet. Bonnie’s research has been published by the director of clinical hypnotherapy at Pendleton Memorial Methodist Hospital in New Orleans, LA and by the Northeast District School Board of Ontario, Canada. Other publications include, The Obvious Expert, by Elsom Eldridge, Jr., J’Adore Magazine, Syndicated News and her weekly blog, bisforbonnie.blogspot.net. In addition to writing, Bonnie teaches seminars, which have been featured at Marietta City Schools, Borders Books, The Knowledge Shop and Greater Atlanta Hadassah Health Professionals Council.

Danny Garcia - is a 26 year old lyrical poet/short fiction writer. He is a homosexual Mexican American, who is also schizoaffective. He writes lyrically because he loves music more so than he loves any literature. He was born in West Los Angeles, raised in Burbank, California, and he now resides in Flint, Michigan. He's been writing for 15 years. His lyrics convey a variety of subjects, such as love, inner-strife, spirituality, mental illness, etc. He's been inspired by poets and literary authors, but he's been far more inspired and influenced by songwriters, such as Mariah Carey, Brandi Carlile, Patty Griffin, Corey Hart, etc. Writing to him has always been like creating a collage, whether it's abstract or simple.

Laura Acevedo - Is fairly new to the scene. This is her first time being published by "PTE," and she has featured at "The Saturn Series." We're happy to have Laura in our pages.

Adam Henry Carriere - is a poet, teacher, and broadcaster. Recent publications include The Bicycle Review, The Smoking Book, The Mayo Review, Counterexample Poetics, Tonopath Review, Junked (2008 Poetry Prize Finalist), Zygote in My Coffee, Oak Bend Review. and Tattoo Highway. He publishes Danse Macabre, Nevada’s first online literary magazine.

Phillip A. Hubbard - Heard of us from Danny Garica. He is a great writer. who we are happy to have in our pages.

Brain Damian Sabbats - is a writer that defies definition, because he prefers being a rainbow with his writing. From children stories, to poetry of all kinds, to gay erotica, to a collection of stories about sexual child abuse: "To My Son, Love Dad," to the novel he's writing with John T. Bestecki called "What the Mushroom Said"(a gay love story set in the late 1960s of NYC). He prefers writing things that will hit you in the gut & make you feel. So be warned not to expect to feel safe & comfy. Oh, he has written insipid stuff much to he's own dismay & he asks for your forgiveness during such moments. We can expect him to blow up the world with his writing as soon as he finds proofreaders & the time to write. He's the co-editor of "Pushing The Envelope" which is a labor of love with blood, sweat, tears & a lot of cursing. So now read their 1st issue & feel things that you have never felt before lol.

Gina DeLorenzo - a native New Yorker, born and raised on the lower east side of Manhattan. She considers herself a survivor. She and her older brother Joe were raised by our grandmother due to our parents' death when they were young children. They became became each other's support system, and the hardest thing in her life, so far, has been to see him succumb to AIDS at the age of 33, back in 1991. She have always loved to write, but has only recently begun to pursue publication of my work. Her Poem "Dread" was just published by The Poet's Haven. http://www.poet'shaven.com/. We are very excited to have Gina in our magazine. "Dread" will be in the next issue.

Maria Lapachet - Writer, translator, and HIV/AIDS & LGBT Rights activist, María Lapachet is the author of New York. New York. A poetic Journey, The Year of the Cat, and Suada. For more information: http://www.marialapachet.com/

Jean Soto - Has no formal training as a writer, but read poetry voraciously and have many favorites including Grace Paley, Bukowski, Oscar Wilde and Emily Dickinson. Aside from the writing of others, she is inspired by sex, nature and the frailty of the human condition. We loved having her in our magazine, and hope to see more from her.

Maria Chislom - Is a new comer to our pages, and we're thrilled to have her with us.

Patricia Carragon- is a New York City poet and writer. Her publications include Poetz.com, Rogue Scholars, Poets Wear Prada, Best Poem, Big City Lit, CLWN WR, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Clockwise Cat, Ditch Poetry Magazine, Mobius Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, and more. She is the author of Journey to the Center of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press). She is a member of Brevitas, a group dedicated to short poems. Patricia hosts and curates the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor of the annual anthology.

Danielle Lucaina – Has been writing since she was eleven, but she is fairly new to the scene. Danielle’s poetry is full of rhythm, and soul. She is also our proof reader. She was just published by The Poet's Haven.
http://www.poet'shaven.com/

Anti-Social - has two pieces of art in "PTE" "The Vapors," and "Burlesque"

To know more about us, to get our guidelines or to submit for our next issue, or if you know someone who wants to receive a copy, or submit email us @ PushingTheenvelope09@Gmail.com.

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two The Third And Final Part

2010-02-01T11:35:00.000-08:00

Sexual Reawakening

A den of pure pleasure

From many years ago

Returned to sight

Finally his truth came to light

Hurt to the point of

Amnesia

Into being a plain white tee

Lies shut down his libido

To barely breathing

It took an all beef patty

The taste of sweat and leather

To be recalled to the pack

He wants older

Tougher

Hairy men

Sin is in

Gave up his puritanical ways

To be a burlesque dancer

For the big boys

Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear

Daddy liked

Chubby cub

Let’s get each other off in the woods

Oh pack master

Let me be your bitch

Then I’ll return the favor

Boys he’s coming

This time he’s in touch

With his body

With his soul

Willing to shed some layers

Playing….touching

He wants to see how sweet

The honey really is.

~Kevin Michael Wehle~

EMMETT TILL

“Boy, why’d you whistle at that white Girl?”

I say boy, why’d you havta whistle at that white Girl?

They’ll getcha for that,”

in Money Mississippi.

Young men pounded on his front door.

Took him from his bed at night.

Said he had to be properly identified,

in Money Mississippi.

Young boy never did go back home.

The men beat him in a weathered shed.

Shot him. Barb wired his neck to a cotton gin,

in Money Mississippi.

His Mother had his body sent home.

Thousands viewed the disfigured corpse.

“YOU WILL SEE HIS FACE!” She said.

“LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO MY SON!”

in Money Mississippi.

14 years old that’s all he was.

Clouds still puff in the sky,

and the Tallahatchie still sails like a matter never was,

in Money Mississippi

in Money Mississippi.

~Maria Chisolm~

Details

by Daniel Garcia

Wet green grass

Dries too fast

Harmony

Shall find me

All Earth tones

Glow alone

Fancy words

Like bright birds…

And in a new beginning

Some useless chains are breaking

And I’m newly connected

To life that shall be sacred

Before I embark on a new life

I should pay mind to the details

Like everything that should be hailed

Like flowers, butterflies and snails

A cute boy

Christmas joy

A rebirth

Recalled mirth

Black coffee

Milky tea

Sweet brain farts

Unspoiled hearts…

And in a new beginning

New angels are beckoning

Tears shall be different colors

Like picking a new gender

Before I embark on a new life

I should pay mind to the details

Like everything that should be hailed

Like flowers, butterflies and snails.

An Appetite

I for an eternity have longed to taste you,

However my appetite has been destroyed,

My hunger is no longer,

No need to feed the poor,

I won’t settle for half a loaf anymore,

A feast and famine of feelings,

As your puppet, I’ve let go my strings,

You have eaten at my insides,

You can see it in my eyes,

But the eyes are always bigger than the stomach,

And now I am just sick,

Sick of you,

Never knowing what to do,

Never knowing how to act,

While diminishing my tact,

Driven to expulsions of waste,

And the harsh results I have faced,

My final acceptance,

Has seemingly reduced your confidence,

Scrounging for leftovers,

Forgetting that there were no firsts,

You have chosen your own emptiness,

I now have no need,

To feed,

The poor,

Anymore,

I have let you taste too much,

And memories are short of mutual,

And none the such.

Danielle Lucania

day sky

I - The child, he's got his own

private tourist,

smelling of pineapple and despair.

Each set of hands

takes a holiday

across the other blue body,

while each set of lips

like Lady Day

fill the red night.

II - That wind sparkle in his eye

has done gone;

there's no need to tell me

we're sound coming back,

earthen.

It's all over now,

you've changed.

~Adam Henry Carriere~

On the runway of life

when I’m shaken me off balance,

I want to be embraced

by the loving arms of a man

who won’t ask me to be

what he needs,

he lets me exist as I am,

The free spirit of a lioness,

a tempting seductress,

a passionate artist

with an unquenchable exuberance

for living life to the fullest.

Will reality and imagination

combine into a jigsaw puzzle

of unmatched pieces?

Or, will the vivid pictures

in his mind spur the tranquility

of this reality?

One thing’s for sure,

this you will see,

as I strut down life’s runway

I’ve got to be me!

Bonnie Martha Moret

Fall

in hues of

sun fire yellow

and dappled orange

we shone

in glorious symphony

we fall

pertruding in the wind

gracefully mirroring

one another

neither you

nor I

Knowing

we fall

to die

~Laura Acevedo~

Three of our writers were published in: The Scars Publications 2010 Sexy Poets” Calendar. Here they are with pics, and featuring our PTE Queen: Patricia Carragon http://scars.tv/2010calendar.htm

	Mr. April Rhododendrons of the Sea *Adam Henry Carriere* The waves break in small modesty trailing tear-like from his closed eyes, aglow in the evening Pacific. Inside the blue-grey salt are feather-like red petals harvested from the window shelves of ships lost long ago; in their luminescence the sea feels without a stranger in the world and the left-over pearls smart in jealousy.

Ms. September and our current PTE QUEEN

Prayers and Wishes

Patricia Carragon

prayers cover the earth trees stripped of leaves

wishes sit in a well a rain cloud leaves

Mr. December

Home

Kevin Michael Wehle

Glass half full
No longer on empty
The poets applaud
Living above the firing line of
Bullies, fools, and wombats
Finally I belong

Here is the first ever group poem. Drum roll please. The author of each line name appears at the end of the line they wrote. Thank you all for the input. Everyone did an amazing job. Look forward to see the next one. I gave it the title “Love Or Desire”

Love Or Desire

Blue eyes...nothing else moved me ~Kevin And Brian~

flashing bits of sapphire, burnt right thru me... ~Gina Delorenzo~

the thrill of your shrill tongue, lingering inside me... ~Adam Henry Carriere~

in velvet tempest, these things do inhabit... ~Jean Passarelli Sotos~

the greatest version of myself through your eyes... ~Julio Gomez~

A burning image of passion that forever flickers in the darkness of reality ~Fiorella Arrunategui~

let me dance for you like how the flame from a candle moves, and sways, so softly. ~Maria Chisolm~

let me sing songs so gently that you may drift sweetly into a new... ~Marilyn Thomas-King~

Love or desire...what is it you hope to find...I need to know. ~Kevin Michael Wehle~

Just how you feel, in the search for something real. ~Danielle Lucania~

We want to say thank you once again to all the writers. We would like to thank our proofreaders.

Also a big bear hug goes out to all the people who helped us along the way, and for everybody’s continued support. Thanks! Kevin and Brian J For more info. about “Pushing The Envelope” please check out or FB page, and our website: http://ptealiterarymagazine.blogspot.com

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two - Part Two

2010-01-20T12:19:00.000-08:00

Law of the Lawn

"Stop the mowing," you say.
This court retorts:
Does the grass not look splendid?
Does it not smell ripe,
as if peeled by the blade?
Oh, but the sound of mowing bothers you?
Name one thing that produces effect
without making sound while producing ir?
Even human beings follow the rule.
If silence stars your priority,
I see you live in no hut or igloo
but a house built by motorized devices.
You make many more exceptions to rule
than any rule can bear.
Shall we stop the crickets from violining
because you cannot sleep?
Perhaps we might eradicate them,
a holocaust of crickets,
for sake of your sleep, mein Fuhrer?
I sentence you to mow lawns,
not only yours, but those of the neighbors,
the neighborhood, the suburb,
the entire city, all of the state,
until you say, "To mow is to be human.
"Our green grass saves us
"from being rapists and murderers.
"The grass is our god; we shall maintain it.
"Better to rip off my ears
"than to let one blade grow past regulation length.
"Have mercy on me, lawn.
"I cursed without knowing You
"or your servants, the good and mighty mowers.
"Bless you for growing, always growing,
"forever in need of light trim,
"to show the neighbors by example
"the depth of my worship."

~Paul A. Toth~

   William Shakespeare

Shakespeare Sonnet 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I for fear of trust, forget to say,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might:
O let my looks be then the eloquence,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

LISTEN

while they say “actions speak louder than words”

it seems most of my good deeds go unheard

all this time you wonder if I love you – still

or if love’s habit has replaced love’s thrill

so I’m writing you this song

and hoping it will right this wrong

impression. listen. listen.

listen to my eyes the way they look into yours

listen to my hands they way they lock onto yours

listen to my thighs the way they enfold you

listen to my arms the way they hold you

listen to my feet the way they rub against yours

listen to my tongue the way it rubs against yours

listen to my skin the way it glistens and glows

listen to my lips they way they glisten and glow

can you hear me say it now?

can you hear me say it now?

every part of me is speaking

with every bone down to its marrow

every pulsing cell through every vessel

every pore and hair upon my skin

every taut and rippling muscle

every atom of me sings!

~Roxanne Hoffman~

John’s Balcony
By Bonnie Martha Morét
We laughed
We spoke
I sometimes cried
He often joked
Libations overflowed
Sometimes until dawn
He shared his emotions
Very openly
Never withdrawn
The balcony at his place
With a tree that hid a wry face
Our comforting assuage
Eased the burdens of life
As we stood daily on its stage

Weather

Here, have a tie-dye
on those stripes,
just a touch of white
trash black on those
flaming Hawaiian flowers;

It’s suffering succotash,
dear, a hard-won head
ache
a purple-headed heart
ache
every blasted throb
a 9-to-5 retail job.

There is scientific interest
in your own destabilization,
clothed to the point of suffocation;

major dope addiction
dulling a literary dullard’s
pain
with stutters of sodomophobic
relief.

~Adam Henry Carriere~


Bare City

My job went overseas
Quick like a breeze

Flint is a bust
There is nothing left but dust

Barren left over’s of land
Reminding us of things once grand

The bank now owns the most
I’ve no place left to host

It’s how to clean up the aftermath
That is the over flow of the political bath

We the people have given all
Michigan is at a slow crawl

The auto plants are gone
What’s left is wrong

NAFTA is at the heart
Bringing back some work would be the start

Give use a beginning that is new
Plant the seeds too erase the blue

Copyright©2009 by Phillip A. Hubbard

Sin
What is meant to be will simply be
what once was will be forever forgotten
and what is will be a distant memory
The tasted sin wishes to be tasted once more
but cares only for the flesh
The moans echoes and ripples through the body of the willing
Never realizing this moment will be etch into the heart but this moment alone
Arching the back, pulling towards, thrust forwards, the ecstasy drives to legalize insanity
A kiss, a whisper of lust breathing warm air down your neck
Nibbling your lower lip as the hands of passion cascade down your chest
The lessons taught was give pleasure of the night
Never to receive satisfaction of knowing the next day
A beautiful lie, an unforgivable sin
Yet...an irresistible desire to taste that sin again
To touch your skin
For your body to be pressed up against mine, forever intertwined
Please...Let me taste my sin again

~Fiorella Arrunategui~

FOG
     Another day of fog and rain-I don't mind it but Joe hates it. He always gets into the worst moods when it's foggy. Lately he doesn't seem to ever be in a good mood.

            I guess, he's still mourning over his lost love. If you ask me the whole thing is so stupid. He met this guy over the internet sure they wrote back and forth for a month. Then they started talking on the phone for hours at a time. I wouldn't have cared but he was driving me crazy. He never closed his bedroom door when he was having phone sex with what's his name-Mike-Peter it didn't matter. He was loud and I heard and occasionally saw everything.He was such an exhibitionist.

            He never met Mike face to face-never saw him-his photos could have been fakes. He wouldn't listen to me when I told him that I had met Mike on the internet before him. Mike had really bad vibes-he wrote that he hated being Gay and prayed to God every night to make him straight. And if God couldn't make him straight then he wanted God to send him the perfect man-the perfect lover. I thought why-he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't even love himself. Why should the perfect man love him? He wasn't perfect.

            Oh great, I hear Joe crying those bitter tears again in his bedroom.
            He never noticed or hears me when I tell him that I love him as a lover.

            The fog is very thick tonight. The thickest that I have ever seen.

~Brain Damian Sabbats~

The Fetish

I want the world to go away. She dances under my bedroom window every night. Some nights she’s more roused than others. I know that others can see her, and I want the rest of the world to go away. I want her to dance only for me, but I realize that’s impossible. Yet I find some comfort in the fact that they love her in a pure, non-carnal way. Unlike myself, you see. I love her so impurely that it borders on obscene. Some would say it is obscene...this love I have for her. Sadly, they would say it’s obscene only because of who I am, and what she is.

There must have been a full moon the night it first began, although I’m not certain. Lying in bed, enduring yet another sleepless night, I found it odd that my bedroom was so illuminated, it seemed as if fifty invisible candles were burning.

Tossing and turning, thinking and hoping. Hoping to just close my eyes and fall asleep. My memories taking me back to when I was a small child. I was such a peaceful sleeper that I would awake in the morning in the same position that I fell asleep in. Nine or ten hours of undisturbed sleep later, I would rise, with a smile on my face and full recollection of my dreams. Wonderful, colorful dreams of running through blossom-studded fields and then spreading my arms and soaring ten feet off the ground. And then there were the trees. I always dreamt of trees as a child. Climbing and more climbing. The trees of my dreams surged one hundred feet or more into the sky, and I scaled them with ease, feeling every inch of the rough bark on my bare soles. I would sometimes awaken with tiny cuts on the bottom of my feet, but I would convince myself they were caused from walking around the yard barefoot.

All I was left with now were sleepless nights and yearnings. I yearned, yet did not know for what. That’s the thing that tortured me the most. For how could I fulfill my desire when I did not know what I desired? The answer came to me that freezing, end of March-night. I desired her. It was a yearning that I had to fulfill.

There she was. She spoke to me without words. Danced for me without music. Reached for me without arms. Right there outside my bedroom window. The light of the moon frolicked on her limbs. Every reflected beam was like a wink across a room intended for a soon-to-be lover. The dance she danced was so slight yet so sensual. Barely moving yet it was a wild dance. She danced only for me, it seemed. Surely many other men had been attracted to her before me, I presumed. Yet in my mind, I and I alone deserved her. They all had their normal, sleep-filled lives. Perhaps most were married, in love, had children. They did not need her or want her the way I did. Therefore, she had to be mine.

In the realization of my fetish, I felt so sick and abnormal. How could I lust after her? Although I had read nothing describing my adoration of her as a fetish, I wanted to wear this branding...this badge of having a fetish, around my neck for the rest of my life. Like a pyromaniac or a pedophile, I justified it. The yearning was so strong that I had to give in. I justified it by thinking that I wasn’t hurting anyone. For in my lust for her, she would not be hurt. She could feel no physical or psychological pain, you see.

So there I lay. Every shimmy and quiver she made compelled the moonlight to blink off my window. I could hear the wind whispering, but it sounded as if she was moaning. I wished it were true, and therefore, it was. One thing I knew for sure was that the yearning was mutual. In my mind, at least, she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.
I didn’t fall asleep that night until the sun began to rise and night turned into day. Once the sun began to twinkle onto her limbs, she seemed like a child to me. Off-limits to my sick fetish. I would not, and could not, subject her to my compulsion in the daylight. She would have to be my night lover only, for my desire waned once the sun ascended into the sky.

A few evenings later, and hours before our imminent consummation, my breathing became deep and almost guttural. Pacing around, and long, ice-cold showers that numbed my fingertips and toes could not put an end to my arousal. Nightfall could not come fast enough. If given the option, I would have gladly forsaken the sun forever, if only the twilight would arrive immediately.

Mother nature was my cohort that night. Although according to the calendar, spring officially began days before, it was a bitterly cold end of March evening that entered the record books. This hopefully ensured virtually empty sidewalks and streets. I wore a dark-blue cashmere pullover with nothing underneath, and a pair of overly-worn, soft as felt, button-fly jeans. My fingers quivered so much that it took me more than ten minutes to fasten all the buttons. I theorized that this was the least amount of clothing I could get away with, given the temperature, without seeming downright loony if spotted on the street by a passerby.

Making my way down the corridor of my building toward the door leading outside at 3:15 A.M., I didn’t even know what I would do, exactly, once I got to her. Like a mother reaching out to hold her newborn baby, still covered in greasy vernix, or a fly committing suicide in a bowl of scrumptious syrup, I just knew that my actions would come naturally. Without thought, planning or consequence, and definitely with the promise of pure bliss.
Once outside, I immediately spotted her.

Her long, naked branches resembled the limbs of an unusually lanky, angelic looking young girl, undoubtedly destined to become a fashion model. I took a quick glance upwards and to my right to look at my bedroom window. Until then, I had only pined over her through that glass pane, thirty feet above. A quick roll of my eyes, left, then right, established the fact that the sidewalk was devoid of people. As I approached, a short and frigid burst of wind bent one of her lower limbs downward and I was instantly overwhelmed with desire, as it was apparent that she was eagerly reaching down towards me.

I rubbed the back of my right hand gently across the lower part of her trunk. Her bark was gorgeously caramel-colored and rough. How on earth, I asked myself, could any man, including myself, ever have been turned on by moist, smooth flesh, or warm, wet kisses? At this second, a human woman’s warm, soft flesh seemed as repulsive as the bloody side of a freshly stripped piece of animal skin, and human female lips, like two plump, pink maggots.

Her dark, hard roughness added a welcome sensation to my mushy cold skin. In one smooth downward motion, my hand turned around so that my palm was now caressing her. After several seconds, my left hand came up and wrapped around her waist, which was slim and couldn’t have been more than seventy centimeters around. Holding on tight, I pulled myself close to her and pressed my chest into her lovely brown bark. The delicate fibers of the cashmere locked into the jagged furrows of her body. I could not detach myself from her even if I wanted to, it seemed, for each and every minuscule curl of goat wool had latched itself onto her tiny jutted bark imperfections.

In my newly twisted psyche, she was a warm-blooded, breathing, panting being. I turned my head and pressed my left cheek into her. Like a child making bark rubbings with tracing paper and pencil, I pressed long and hard until I was sure an impression was made onto my flesh. Our embrace lasted five to six minutes and it was enough to seal our love.

My lover is a Honey Locust. Deciduous by nature, our affair began that cold, end of March night, when she was still in her bare stage. As I made my way back to the entrance of my building that night, I became quite giddy with the thought of what striking beauty she would present to me in the warmth of spring, when her light green buds would burst forth and tease me with every night-time rustle, seemingly whispering my name. I was sure it would be— and it was—intoxicating.

~Gina Delorenzo~

Off The Cuff

If I told you that
                                         I would love you forever

Would you believe me?
Would you believe
all the stories
of my wild
                                    encounters with women & men

I will not deny them-
                        take me as you find me

Will you want me
as much as I want you?

In the cold nights & every night
remember me

(Laughs)
I AM YOUR DREAM

~Brian Damian Sabbats~

HEAL

Little girl from Africa
Was only three years old.
Hide and seek in the sunshine,
her heart was made of gold.
She didn’t know they would come.

Little girl from Africa
was just a baby girl.
She wore pretty dainty frocks,
she chose not to have any curls.

Little girl from Africa
She always ran and played.
Smiled with her family,
beans and grain in the shade.
She didn’t know they would come.

Little girl from Africa
was seized by three men.
Each took their turn,
pushed hard inside her gem.

Little girl from Africa
Didn’t know they would come.
Soldiers used themselves and weapons,
she screamed even after they were done.

Little girl from Africa
they asked her mother
“how does your daughter feel?”
The mother replied with tears,
“she is learning on how to heal.”

~Maria Chisolm~

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two Part One 1/18/10

2010-01-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

Pushing The Envelope: Issue Two

New Year, New Desires,

New Adventures With Writing

1/18/10

There is nothing more important to us then:

OUR FANS AND WRITERS

New York, Oregon, DC, California, Florida, Nevada, Georgia, Washington, New Jersey, Ireland, Italy, Halifax NS, and Claymont De....and others

“Fasten Your Seat Belts It’s Going To Be A Bumpy Read”

The Late, Great: Bette Davis "Yes even she is a fan from the great beyond"

Featuring Such Great Works As:

The Prey Becomes The Wolf

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 23 And A Response By

Roxanne Hoffman

Whitman

The Fetish

Emmett Till

The Law Of The Lawn

My Imaginary Girlfriend

The Group Poem

And Many More!

Letter From The Editors

Poetic Greetings,
Happy New Year! This is our second issue, and there were some who said this would never last. We are growing more everyday. We have a Facebook page, and finally a Website: http://ptealiterarymagazine.blogspot.com. We are loving every minute of this great undertaking. We took what we learned from the first issue, and made this issue bigger and better. We have even become a bit more computer savvy along the way. This time around has been a little less stressful, and we enjoy what we do very much, and can’t wait to work with our fellow writers in the third issue. We already have some very talented writers lined up.
We are very proud of all the writers in issue two. We have some old favorites, and a lot of new writers to enjoy. Returning authors include: Roxanne Hoffman, Myself, Brian, Danny Garcia, Adam Henry Carriere, and Patricia Carragon. We also have some wonderful and very talented new comers to our pages. Donnie Gatto, Gina Delorenzo, Paul A. Toth, Fiorella Arrunategui, Bonnie Martha Moret, Maria Chisolm just to name a few. Also we have some art work in this issue. Some of it was include by the author of the pieces, and Anti social submitted two pieces: “Burlesque,” and “The Vapors.” We also put together a group poem which is truly terrific, and there were about ten poets who helped make it a true beauty. All who grace the pages of issue two made this a wonderful experience, and a beautiful issue.
There was no theme for this issue, but we felt that one emerged as the submissions came in. This issue seemed to deal with love or desire for the most part. Although there are some works that just stood on their own. One of the best examples of desire is the story by Gina Delorenzo: “The Fetish.” This story blew us away. It has a great twist in it. That you have to read to find out what it is. It is truly worth the wait. There are two poems that come to mind that best represent love, and they are: “John’s Balcony”, and Roxanne Hoffman’s “Listen.” Each and every piece in this issue is great, and will make you feel. I hope you like it as much as we liked putting it together.
So sit back and relax. Get a cup of coco, wrap yourself up in a warm blanket, and enjoy!
xoxox Kevin And Brian :)

Gender Fuck

I am a gender bender
A boy/girl not belonging
to all boy or all girl
somewhere in-between

I wear a tux
on New Year’s eve
shiny red bow tie
I tell my barber: cut my
hair like a guy’s – please

I sometimes get called: “Sir”
and I LOVE IT

I am a gender bender
bending rules of gender
a boy/girl not belonging
but somewhere in-between

I wear boxers under my
fly-button 501 jeans
I’ll go to a dance
in a shirt and tie

I’ll use the men’s room
and never wait on line

I am a gender bender
a boy/girl not belonging
somewhere in-between

I hide my breast under
flannel shirts in the winter
when I look in the mirror
I see Antonio Banderas

macho guys stare at me
with looks that could kill

WHY DO THEY HATE ME

BECAUSE

I am a gender bender
bender rules of gender
a boy/girl not belonging
somewhere in-between

FUCKING GENDER

EVERY CHANCE I GET!

~Donnie Gatto~

The Prey Becomes The Wolf

Drowning in an ocean of words...
All of them are meaningless coming from the mouth of a meaningless person with the soul of a rabid wolf:
starving for food, taking as he pleases and never giving back to his pack...
But sooner or later, the lone wolf will realize he has nothing to offer but his petty words and actions...
He will shed all he had and soon will be found naked, drenched in his own blood...
The once destroyer of hearts and lyrics will be killed by his own reflection...
And once more he returns to the young maiden whose heart he has crushed, begging for another chance written between the lines.
She shunned him, never forgetting the wound still screaming for her life back...
The maiden looked to the window at another world while his became a downward spiral, a mere nightmare of the world he once loved but took for granted.
The alienation was his demise and now is left bleeding...
spelling out for help with the bloody lies he once embraced...
He ate himself slowly, his eyes came first for he was blinded by the pain he brought and lives that were lost by his disguise.
"Will I ever forget?" The maiden asked her wounded reflection, a dark haired creature of four paws and a tail.
"I do not know, little one. Only time will heal the repeated whips and cuts wrapped around my body. My world has been shattered but my will is still strong for another has taught me that no one is worth blood spilled...no
one is worth my tears," The creature spoke.
The pieces were placed back together but for how long will they hold?
Another wolf has come but this time to love the maiden the way she was meant to be love but the maiden stands
guard of her soul,
frightened by the warmth of the silver eyed figure.
She screamed, shaking in fear, bloody tears rolling down her olive sun kissed cheeks.
He held her close, embracing her, kissing her, wishing to erase the life she once knew but never regretted.
The Maiden stopped, and looked at her protector...
Time has stopped and the broken pieces were made whole in that one moon filled night.
The Maiden was now a woman; wise, beautiful, graceful and scarred,
just like how the creature of her reflection appeared but this time...the mysterious feline was now her.

~Fiorella Arrunategui~

Today I opened a can of whole, stewed tomatoes and thought about the grandma I barely knew. The reflection came when I found myself instinctively knowing to cut the tomatoes into bits while still in the can. Two knives crisscrossing inside the aluminum is so much easier than trying to break them up in the stewpot. As I used the technique, which was actually shown to me by my own mother as shown to her, I began to wonder what simple, but wonderfully sage short cuts like this one I had missed.
Grandma Blanche died when I was 3 and she was 52. It was an agonizing process I am told - and even have a few vague memories of hospital beds and a portable toilet. Her brand of brain tumor was so mysterious and insidious, that the cure is no closer now than it was in 1970. My mother told me that the moment she slipped away, she was at her bedside. An annoying sound that she could not quite place filled the air. It was a bit like a siren and continued for a while until she realized it was her own primal grief being released into the room.
This afternoon, as I made chili for my own family, I thought about her. My memories were like petticoats swishing around a corner before you can grasp them - as incomplete as any small child’s recollections. This particular practical kitchen advice rang so true to her character as I knew it, I strained to think of more. Growing up, my parents had shared many stories about her, which generally elicited chuckles. She was a difficult personality who once told my father he shouldn’t marry my mother because she was a “know it all”. Mom knew he was special when he responded, “then we are perfect together because I actually DO know everything.”
I understood her to be uniquely intelligent and inclined to write about everything. She was an outspoken follower of local politics in the 40’s and 50’s when it was not considered ladylike for a woman to be so opinionated. My grandfather was a man who never got in her way, nor shared any of her passions. He was a loving, hard-working man who wore rose-colored glasses. They lived in a then remote area (which is now the town of Darien ), which also afforded little outlet for intellectual stimulation.
As I grew up without direct influence from this woman, I experienced an adversarial relationship with my own mother. The world was a much more sophisticated place, but a woman could still feel trapped intellectually – and in her kitchen for that matter. My mother was strong and smart and living an updated version of her mother before her.
It’s as though I can palpate my grandmother, the way skilled hands can feel deeper muscles through more superficial ones, just by knowing my mother. All of this came to me over a can of tomatoes. Much like the ones Grandma used to give us, rinsed out, with a bucket full of snow from outside so we could play at her feet on the kitchen floor.

She’s a right to arms –
That Spanish guitar body –
with bows and arches cast
In gleaming precision.

He’s reaching to strum
and drum pulse approaches music.
In the stillness against her
Fearless neck,
a trebly song is born.

The End

~Jean Sotos~

Dearest-
1.

Its always a whole lot of rainbows
A whole lot of sunshine
After we’ve been away from one another
Many days and nights of summer rains
Thunderous lighting rods pierce your love squeezes my heart
Begging so I give it
Warm days and nights full of humility your touch you whisper
Your mine, I’ll never never never let you go
Fall leaves paint every color every emotion it exposes my fear my trust
Our bodies swim in green yellow rivers full of love it rushes us up stream
Out into the ocean where this love swims for its life
Winter comes in with a cold breath breathing in my ear
Down the back of my neck my body shakes you lay your storm over me
And I don’t know I don’t know how to know how to think
What to believe, there is no clue no sound
Tomorrow tomorrow is so far away

~Ice~

Innocent Little Girl

Innocent Little Girl
So naive and so young
Didn't know her misery had begun
When a stranger changed her life one day
While he thought, 'well, this is going to be fun'
Innocent Little Girl
So sweet but so stupid
Met a boy as naive and young as she
But little did she know
A demon in disguise was he
Innocent Little Girl
So pure but inexperienced
What she wanted was love
What he wanted was fun
And before she knew it
The Deed was done
Innocent Little Girl
So broken and hurt
Suddenly saw her heart in the dirt
Where the boy had left it for all to see
She wanted to be loved but didn't know her soul was the fee
Innocent Little Girl
So angry and full of hate
She went out to find him and end his fate
Bound, gagged and tied up real good
Was thrown in the basement without water or food
I screamed,
Innocent Little Girl
Have you lost your head?!
By early morning's light, he will surely be dead!
She smiled quite wide as she look to the floor
"I guess I'm not that innocent anymore."

~Fiorella Arrunategui~

WHITMAN

Good Old Walt Whitman,
He Brought Oranges
To The Freshly Bleeding Boys
Just Off The Battlefields
Of Northern Virginia.

He Put Cold Washclothes
On Their Foreheads,
And Listened Endlessly,
To Their Stories
Of Mother And-
The Corn Coming In
(this while the sepsis and gangrene set in)

Yup,
Good Old Whitman,
He Was Always Holding
America's Hand.

He Saw It All;
From California,
To Alaska,
To The Man
On the Moon,
His Poetry Had Us,
In It's Wide Open Arms

Now, It's A Truism,
That The Undeserved
Are Overly Rewarded
In This Life
(with the converse holding naturally)

So, It's No Wonder,
That Walter Passed Away
All By Himself,
In A little Room,
Of Camden, New Jersey.

There Was No Nice Husband There,
To Hold His Hand
When His Breath Went
Out On The Wind

Good Old Walt Whitman,
We Wish He Was Here To Thank
In The Flesh,

~Dan Gross~

MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIEND
1
I wake up to the sound of her
getting ready to go to work
in the walk-in closet.
I step in and grab her waist,
pull her closer to me, and kiss her,
long and deep, good morning.
She knows it’s turning me on
to feel her belt rubbing against
my waist. She takes her hand
and slides up my shirt to feel my breasts.
Her mouth begins to explore my body.
First, a taste of my ample breasts
as they heave up and down,
in rhythm to her mouth.
My nipples are sensitive
and I love when she tongues them.
She moves down my body,
kissing my stomach. It tickles.
Then she goes down to my pulsating pussy,
aching to be licked and eaten.
She plugs her tongue deep inside of me.
My back arches. I grab the door,
lean back, and moan loud in pleasure.
When I’m done, she picks a pink tie,
kisses me, and heads out saying
she’ll be home early tonight.
I go back to bed.

2
She wakes up thinking she is her own boss.
She decides not to go to work today.
She kisses me, wakes me up, and says
I’m sexy beyond belief. She loves the way
I ooze sexuality with every breath.
She loves that my mouth will swallow
whatever she gives it. We take a shower.
She’s looking in her side of the closet,
thinking aloud. She doesn’t need all
her fifty three neckties… would I be happy
bounded and gagged with all of them?
She will of course leave all my holes
nice and… vulnerable.

3
She walks in and sees me dressed as instructed.
Short skirt, thigh highs, and sheer button blouse.
I have my hands on the counter, back to her,
and my back is arched. I’m showing off my ass.
She stands close behind me, pacing around, taking it all in.
I turn to look. She orders me to keep my eyes ahead
and arch that back. Her instructions come with a sharp,
firm smack on my ass. I let out a short gasp, then focus,
arching and stretching my body for her.
She keeps her hand on my ass, caressing it,
pulls back and gives it slow steady smacks,
resting her hand on it and shaking it.
I anticipate her rhythm, start breathing heavily,
and rear back for the next slap. I try not to moan.
As she lifts my skirt, I look over my shoulder. For the first time,
we look each other in the eye, both inspired by what we see.
She tells me that I do not have permission to look at her
and gives my bare ass a hard smack. I smile and look forward.
She says maybe I need help in not looking.
She reaches into her treasure drawer. I grow nervous and fidgety.
She puts a hand on my shoulder, tells me to relax, blindfolds me.
Now hold that ass out and enjoy it slut. She takes time working my ass over.
Nice long spanking, first with hand, then with belt.
When I’m nice and bright red, she spreads my cheeks
and guides her hand down, rubbing my now soaking wet pussy.
She works it over, fingers it, sucks it,
plays with my asshole at the same time.
I’m begging for it. She forces me to my knees
and fucks my throat. She calls me nasty names.
Then takes out the rope.

~Maria Lapachet~

Candy Land

Tangy peppermint on the tongue
A new born babies
Day is done
Reinforced tress in the forest
Timber no more
He will follow you to the
Ends of the earth
He will make you laugh
Cinnamon sticks come alive
Gingerbread no longer comforts
For fantasy
Has become reality
He has the golden ticket
He’s not afraid to us it
Or taste the new beginning.

~Kevin Michael Wehle~

Sneak Peak Of A Poem From Issue Two

2009-12-24T16:14:00.000-08:00

Seasons Greetings to everyone! We promised you a sneak peek of a poem from issue two, and boy do we have a great one for you. Hope you enjoy it! Here it is:

HEAL

Little girl from Africa
Was only three years old.
Hide and seek in the sunshine,
her heart was made of gold.
She didn’t know they would come.

Little girl from Africa
was just a baby girl.
She wore pretty dainty frocks,
she chose not to have any curls.

Little girl from Africa
She always ran and played.
Smiled with her family,
beans and grain in the shade.
She didn’t know they would come.

Little girl from Africa
was seized by three men.
Each took their turn,
pushed hard inside her gem.

Little girl from Africa
Didn’t know they would come.
Soldiers used themselves and weapons,
she screamed even after they were done.

Little girl from Africa
they asked her mother
“how does your daughter feel?”
The mother replied with tears,
“she is learning on how to heal.”

~Maria Chisolm~

The issue will be out on Jan. 23 2010! Happy New Year! :)

Editor's Choice From Issue One Of PTE :)

2009-11-29T12:46:00.000-08:00

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
Also check us out on our facebook page.

2009-11-24T08:50:00.000-08:00

Pushing The Envelope
A Literary Magazine
An All Queer Boy Production
Issue One
09/17/09

Featuring The Work Of:
Jack Tricarico
Danielle Lucania
Urayoan Noel
Danny Garcia
Vincent Quatroche
Roxanne Hoffman
Kevin Michael Wehle
Brian Damian Sabbats
Athena Reich
V. Cordell Brown
Sarah Stapperfenne
Adam Henry Carriere
Su Polo
Mindy Matijasevic
Arlene Cassarino
Patricia Carragon
And A Few Other Fabulous Writers

Disclaimer: No one under the age of 18 should view this
magazine for it contains adult and graphic material. Our first
issue is hot, sexy, and steamy deal with it!

Letter From The Editors:

Brian and I joked about doing this for a couple of weeks in the spring. I
wanted to start a literary magazine since the end of last year. The first time
around it didn’t work out. So I kept in the back of my mind until that faithful
day, and I said to Brian” “Let’s do it!” He wanted to name it: “Pushing The
Envelope.” So we started on this journey, and what a ride it has been. Brian
said it best: “We didn’t think about it. We just did it. If we thought about it
we wouldn’t have done it.” Neither of us are computer savvy people. Brian
is a bit more then I am. I’m lucky if I can turn mine on and off, but that
changed a bit during the making of this magazine. With our labor of love we
learned a lot, cursed at our PC’s, cheered when we figured things out, and
asked for help when we needed it. In truth sometimes we looked a bit
deranged through out the process. In the end it was all worth it, for our first
issue was born.
We never thought that we would have such an amazing first issue. So
many talented writers answered our call. We thank them all so very much
for having faith in us. Without these wonderful writers we would not be able
to have made this magazine. Also we want to thank the few writers who
didn’t get published. It wasn’t for lack of talent. All the submissions were
great. Being a small magazine we couldn’t include every piece we received.
Again we thank you, and hope that you will submit in the future.
Now let’s talk about our first issue. We start off with a poem by the
amazingly talented V. Cordell Brown. We knew his poem was the perfect
poem to start with from the title alone, because our magazine is: “The Place
For Poetry.” We were lucky enough to have two songwriters submit their
songs. Those songwriters are: Athena Reich, and Danielle Tersini. We also
have some new and up and coming writers in this issue. They are Danielle
Lucania, John T. Bestecki, Sarah Stapperfenne, and Steven Monroe. We
love to publish new voices, and we wish them the best of luck. We hope that
we are the stepping stone they need to a bright writing career. This issue also
features some seasoned writers. They are Jack Tricarico, Urayoan Noel,
Vincent Quatroche, Roxanne Hoffman, Adam Henry Carriere, Su Polo,
Mindy Matijasevic, and Patricia Carragon. A lot of these poets/writers we’ve
met at The Saturn Series at The Nightingale Lounge. There are some very
talented, friendly, supportive people there. You should check it out on a
Monday night. We end out first issue with a poem called: “Justice Isn’t
Really Blind” by Arlene Cassarino. We felt it was the perfect way to end the
first issue. It’s a poem that makes you think, and a poem everyone can relate
to. Arlene’s poems are refreshing, witty, and they make you laugh. She was
a welcomed addition to our magazine.
Well now it’s your turn to read and enjoy our beautiful poetic baby. We
know that you will be delighted by all the work within. Please let us know
what you think. Questions? Suggestions? Comments? Just email us @
Pushingtheenvelope09@Gmail.com I’m sure our fellow writers would like
to hear what you think of their work, and we would also like to hear what
you think of our first issue. So sit back, relax, and enjoy. Be ready to be
inspired. Enjoy! Kevin & Brian

THE PLACE FOR POETRY.

THIS STORE IS FULL OF RHYTHM
THIS STORE IS FULL OF RHYME,
AND THE GREATEST THING ABOUT IT
IS THAT WE’RE OPEN ALL THE TIME.
WE HAVE MOONBEAMS AND DREAMS
AND MYTHS AND FOLKLORE,
WE EVEN HAVE FREE VERSE
IT’S RIGHT BY THE DOOR.
WE HAVE PROSE BY THE ROWS
AND A HAIKU THAT IS NEW,
WE EVEN HAVE FAIRYTALES
BUT ONLY A FEW.
WE HAVE CUMMINGS AND BROWNING
AND LANGSTON HUGHES,
WE EVEN HAVE FROST
IF HE’S WHAT YOU CHOOSE.
WE HAVE A LITTLE OF THIS
AND A LITTLE OF THAT,
WE EVEN HAVE
CASEY AT THE BAT.
SO THE NEXT TIME YOU ARE HUNGRY
OR PERHAPS, IN A STRANGE MOOD,
THE THOUGHT TO ALWAYS REMEMBER
IS THAT POETRY IS GOOD FOOD.
SO IF YOU’RE INTO POETRY
WE HAVE SOME OF EVERY KIND
AND THERE’S ONLY ONE REAL
HOUSE RULE:
JUST DON’T READ BETWEEN THE LINES.
V. CORDELL BROWN

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

Ricochet

At 3am I follow a fly’s trajectory
Till it stops on a clock
Time has a watery face
I am a liquid boy
With a liquid girl
Climbing out of the water
Of our pre-pubescence
Her vagina is paraphernalia
For husband catching
I’ve been thinking of getting a sponge mattress
Because my dreams end in sand
But what shall I do about the weightless colossus
Who sits on my back
And plays with the interior intricacies
Of wrist watches. Seems like a composite image
Of every abandoned wish
That over came back to me. Meanwhile
I have post-menstrual saliva taste
Lingering around on my tongue
I reach for the mouth wash
And spit it in the sink
I remember the face
But the name draws a blank
She was confused about time
Why does it tick forward and not back?
One day it may actually happen
She thought. It’s all in the quartz
When crystallized
Prisms get terminated by pyramids
While hexagons prevail
Intrinsically life is unfair
Jack Tricarico

Manhattan Cannibal

In longing to explore
A mind was lost in thought
And neither knowing why
The hand beneath the hand
The eye beneath the eye
Without a time to pause
To look without regret
At fading roads behind
In smoke of revelation
As necessity insists
Jack Tricarico

Me and Kevin's Secret

Kevin says he wants to toboggan down a naked body
while it rains on the blue shingles of the garage.
He's fourteen, wearing jeans with no underwear.
His bare la grange feet are soaked
from the sno-cone pool left behind us.
He sees me squirm in the dark and smiles.
A monsoon of brow-beating Grandfather clouds
radar over the hallucinogenic distance,
where the sun swims in charmed shade.
Garbage-picked fans rattle in the floor way,
pressing sweat into the stuffed animals
with terror and glee
we lose our virginity upon.
Under graffiti-covered beams,
we seethe, we experiment,
hidden on the hard carpet below
our shadows.
Amid entangled sobs, we wonder
if a Tarot card will seduce the other
into coming first, or if God will bother
to keep me and Kevin's secret.
Adam Henry Carriere

Invasion

Faint footsteps forward
should not have been ignored,
He’d not let me escape the room or his mind,
not knowing what he hopes to find,
hounding and sorting through my undergarments,
Blurting insignificant compliments,
trying to deter my defense,
Mangling word usage,
Caressing the crevices of my invaded domain,
composure is what I try to maintain,
He using intellectual vocabulary,
as the ultimate foreplay,
That is as far as he’ll get in this game,
Trying to play a part in my future,
in a persistent nature,
He uttered, “I will speak to you again.”
The question is when?
Danielle Lucania

in 7th grade my best friend Barbara & i cut
classes ran from bullies picked
up guys hung out after school called each other
every evening with more to talk
& make each other laugh about &
when my stoop was full with only one seat left
we’d sit on each others lap
one day barbara told me we shouldn’t do that ‘cuz
her boyfriend said we look like lezzies.
Mindy Matijasevic
Jan. 11, 2009

Time Stitch

I see, I see, said the blind man to the deaf dog
to the assembled throng
of boys that don't belong,
of cabbages and kings
polar bears and whales
places and things
bedtime stories and kinky tales,
the midnight sun and the Mediterranean dawn
the full Biscay moon and faces long gone
museums in the morning drizzle
crashing waves on the shore,
as high as the angels in the Alps
alone at home, angry and poor;
the night train strangers under the northern lights
ill-dressed tourists and carbonated neon brights
what a sad sight
seen by eyes that don't work right
punctured by needles icy cold
to travel a broken cobblestone path, so we're told
cruising railroad stations for rented meat
fine dining and morphine cocktails trying to deny defeat
flying alone in a premier class seat
mountain air saliva he holds in his lip's heat
great towers bathed in whimsy
empty Norman beaches to every side
wandered by husbands desperate for their brides;
interstates and passports
postcards and souvenirs
laughter and bliss
people you can hardly miss
sights so beautiful you feel felt up by God
and shed an atheist's few tears;
I've been to heaven, and it's a lot like Paris.
Adam Henry Carriere

THE STEVIE CHRONICLES

When I first arrived at Adams for my sophomore year of high school, on my first
day nobody spoke to me. The next day after homeroom as we were filing out the
door, a short kid with a beautiful face and long black hair came over to me. He
smiled put out his hand and said: “hi I’m Stevie. You’re new aren’t you? Let me
show you around.” I said thanks my name is John and we shook hands and both
laughed. Then he took me to the backyard, then the roof, and a few other places
where we could smoke grass.
The next few days Stevie was like my welcome wagon. He introduced me to all
the cool kids and we became good friends. Then one day, I remembered it was cold
outside Stevie came up to me and said: “you want me to really warm you up?” And I
said: “Okay.” Then he took me to the boys bathroom and said lets go in the stall. He
had a sly expression on his face, as he opened up the stall door and said: “drop your
pants. I’m going to give you a blow job.” I was wild about the idea and quickly undid
my pants, and he said: “get up on the toilet bowl.” I climbed up and had a difficult
time getting my pants down, because I was so hard. With a little help from Stevie
they fell to my knees, and I was pearling. Then Stevie took me by the hips, and put
his mouth around my cock. It was unbelievable. This was the first time I did
anything like this with anyone. Waves of pleasure ran through my cock. His
beautiful mouth was so tight and warm. I could feel his tongue rubbing against the
head of my cock. The pleasure got greater and greater. I couldn’t hold back any
longer, and I started to come. We became the best of friends from then on. ;)
John T. Bestecki

Mango Juice

For my friend after her lover dry spell
Followed by a spell of dry lovers:
There are some things you just can’t
Know from a personal ad or chat room
I cross the street and see a man
Eating mango in the rain
His locks of hair wet and
Orange as the wild fibers of
The mango he’d just sucked
Tosses the peel in the trash can
Certainly he’d have no problem
With moisture and mess and more
Erotic than that------
He takes care of his own damn garbage
Mindy Matijasevic

Runaway Hillbilly Astronaut Bride

And another thing….
Leaving that poor girl alone.
I know exactly how she felt then
Driving in the pampers from Texas to Florida with the stun gun in her purse.
So from now on I am so through trying to be Zorro fighting somebody
With gleaming scimitar on a burning bridge.
Instead I intend to skip the desire laden incontinence of guilt
And just disappear
into the split mirrors in the Bedford Hotel.
Like so much lost European baggage
abandoned to hold court in the lobby
as we saunter past through foyer towards the elevator
holding hands and grinning in each other’s eyes
filled with a mutually shared insatiable
emotional itch.
Vincent Quatroche

The Pretender

He steps off the train,
And watches his typical vehicle
Chase its clamoring tracks into an open
Mouthed tunnel. The whistle mocks,
"I’ll be back for you tomorrow!"
He feels his pudgy wallet through his pocket
With the soft pads of his finger-tips
And watches his small shadow
Sink further and further into the bricks,
Working itself into oblivion.
He runs those same fingers
Through his hair that’s changing
To slim peach fuzz. He must return
To frozen dinners on paper plates tonight
And a morning of coffee spoons.
What will tomorrow do?
Morning will open like a hole.
And tonight? What about tonight?
Tonight will be the clock timing dinner
And ticking him to sleep in an empty bed.
So The Pretender turns and walks home.
The train departs, and at 6 am will arrive.
Life will be the same before and next-
With shined shoes, kettles, commutes,
Ringing phones, televisions, and suits.
Sarah Stappersfenne

X’d

at
birth’s
cry
death
enters,
felling
guarded
hideaways,
invading
jealously
kept
lives,
making
no
option
possible.
quiet,
relentlessly
stealth.
time’s
unwelcomed
viceroy
waits. . .
x’d,
years
zip.
Roxanne Hoffman

Condoms

I have to laugh
I just found a condom & lube
in my chest pocket
I forgot it was there
did 1 of my friends
gave it to me or
did I pick it up
at the Gay Center or
a gay bar-
I don't remember
but it doesn't matter
I never use them
I haven't had any kind of sex
or love making
Let's see
I know that it has been over
6 yearshas
it been 7 yet?
Don't get me wrong
I have a partner
a lover of a lifetime
we just don't make love
I have the passion & desire
he does not
I used to give the condoms to
a straight woman
I'm infatuated with
who I would rather use the condoms with
Oh, you thought that I was just Gay
No, I guess, you could say I'm not
Actually, the truth is that
I fall in love
with the personality
of the person
first
then I might notice
what sex they are
I have confused people
all of my life
But I have to smile
it is not hard to understand
Anyway, that woman
that I was giving
condoms to
didn't like that brand
so now I keep
finding them in my pockets,
drawers or wherever I put them
Others might say save them for a rainy day
Well, guess what?
Today is actually a rainy day
Brian Damian Sabbats 1/1/08 NYC

Searchers © 2009 Su Polo

Here is poetry. In a space, a place by itself, this lonely
poem. This lonely poem, is searching for the words, the
words to make some sense in this space.
And here is art, with all excitement and hopefulness.
Hanging on the wall, waiting for poem to come along, and
make some sense with words in this space.
Waiting for the poetry, this lonely poem to come across
this art and recognize his face, because he’s in a place
without words, a place by itself, this lonely place.
And here is beauty and hope and love. They are dancing
in a circle arm in arm, spinning and laughing. They find
the art and they find the poetry and they fill the space so it
isn’t lonely and they lift us up with art and poetry to a
place that is filled with words and images that is tempered
by beauty and hope and love.
They’ve all gone off now… in search of music.

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

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,
let 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

Orange

Taking me over at a moment of weakness
Displaying the wounds
That were trying so desperately to heal
The ax is still there
Ready for the kill
Every moment when you’re near
The ax seems to fall deeper
Into the wounds of old
I think you know
For I saw the truth
I saw the monster that was really you
You knew I was weak
And you knew the pain
That was forever in my heart
I would have killed for you
Or given my last breath to make you happy
But instead I was the one who was killed
By your hands of hate
You murdered the love in my heart
And ripped out my soul the core of my love
I believe I was fooling myself
The pain that I felt,
I let it control me,
It blinded me
So much I couldn’t see
Just what I had to offer
Now my friend
I’m taking the ax out
And keeping it out for good
The wounds of old will heal
With a little something I call
SELF – ESTEEM!
Kevin Michael Wehle

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

C-Phone Section

There’s this plump lady
sitting behind me on the train
and she’s so upset
Her Daughter-law Marmy just
had a C-section
and Joshy her son (I gather)
didn’t call her quick enough.
evidently fell asleep
after it was all over.
So now she’s just calling everyone
she can think of…
Right now she’s talking to Kiki
and in that whiny, world weary
blubbering voice dripping
with hurt and solicitous
concern registering her
sense of indignation
and outrage over the
very idea of inconsideration
simultaneously delivered
in a repetitive loop
of script driven relief
over mother and child doing fine now.
“but the very idea of it all”
is reported in an episodic
guilt trip serial update.
And all I can hear in my head
is that quote from that half forgotten
J.D. Salinger story where a
fellow passenger on a airplane
is overheard in the next seat up
to exclaim
in what must have been
rendered in that same tone
of insufferable sob sister proclamation,
“Can you believe that the Doctors
took an entire pint of pus
out of that lovely body of hers.”
Vincent Quatroche

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

Attack of the Killer Lesbian Vampires

On this Saturday afternoon
the theater slowly fills
with a fine collection
of killer lesbian vampires.
They saunter in solitary or in pairs
holding hands, arms draped
about each other
upon taking their seats
head on the others shoulder.
Their leader is
a striking Vampire Vixen
with smoldering dark
closely cropped tight red curls
with a knack for cabaret
from the UK takes the stage
launching demonstratively
into a self styled song book
of Lesbian Vampire Show tunes.
Her performance comes in
somewhere between Gloria Swanson
and Ethel Mermen.
All are amazed and amused
by her verse and song.
The audience receives
receives her enthusiastically.
Thunderous applause
follows her off the stage as she exits.
So
that means I’m next up.
I’m introduced.
Survey the audience.
Step out of the stoplight on the stage
and in the shadows
just to the left of enter
I read an extended
1st person perspective
POV prose piece
very luridly detailed
regarding the act of
heterosexual fellatio.
They sit and regard me.
Stunned.
With their mouths open
ajar in astonishment
fangs
glistening
listening.
After all
they all
know
I am a dead man
Soon.
Anyway.
Vincent Quatroche

THE MAN, HIS DOG AND THE SEAGULL

The man walks his dog across the Brooklyn Bridge for charity. A
seagull lands on his head. He fights to get the bird off. Other walkers
pass by – laughing. They offer no assistance. The bird plants its
tentacles deeper into his scalp. The man isn’t going to let the seagull
get away with it. Neither is the bird. It pecks non-stop like he’s fresh
fish. Its wings flap non-stop like he’s a punching bag. Eventually, the
man wins, but his dog turns on him. It bites him for being wrapped
around his legs. He topples over, almost taking his dog with him.
However, the leash gets stuck in the railing. The man’s weight snaps
the leash, causing a big splash. His dog continues to walk for charity.
The seagull flies away.
Patricia Carragon

Like A Cat

Your alcohol soaked lips
On the nape of my
Red sun kissed neck
Pulling at it
Like I’m your feline
Your moment of glory
A chance to blend in
I might come back
Because you feed me
You can’t claim me
Neither can he
I’m the one who marks his territory
I’m free to roam
The truth
You adoration
Made me feel light
Good;
That I’ve got my
Man magic back
Sad for you that
You will never feel
More then one spark.
Kevin Michael Wehle

Man Of Labels

Feelings seemed to be mutual,
Far from liberal,
He says one thing and does another,
This paradox he’ll ignore,
Leaving no title or label,
Just to equal,
Ultimate highs,
Constant lows,
Missed kisses,
Desired caresses,
Dry roses,
Empty promises,
Decorated truths,
Clouded proofs,
Miscommunications,
Wrong conclusions,
Mangled emotions,
Pointless devotions,
And all of these dreadful plurals,
Due to the man of labels.
Danielle Lucania

For Better Or For Worse

For better or for worse, we vowed to be together
For better or for worse, we would love each other like no tomorrow. Three days left to
that big exciting day of our lives.
For better or for worse, I still love you as much as before.
One day left and happier then ever, I find the love of my life cheating on me in my house.
Tell me baby was I that bad?
What did I do wrong?
Forget it you don’t owe me any explanation!
Because for better or for worse, you are gone,
And now my love I will go and do better.
Steven Monroe

I’m GAY, You’re HOT, DEAL With it!

You are HOT!
Why can’t I say that
To another man?
It indeed is a compliment
For you are beautiful
I’m not saying that I’m going to
Rip off your pants
To see what I might be working with.
No, it’s just my way of saying
That you’re cute
Just in case you didn’t know
Or needed to hear it
Because you’re having a bad day
Why can’t I say that
To another man?
Is it because I like men
And it’s not the manly thing to do?
Fuck that!
Sometimes you just need to hear it
So the next time
A sassy, fabulous, gay man
Comes up to you and says
“Nice abs”
Just smile, and say thank you!
Kevin Michael Wehle

LOVE IS LOVE

We all know Love is patient
We all know Love is kind
No one tells you Love is crazy
and can catch you from behind
They say 1 man 1 woman
It’s unnatural to love your own
But I’ve been with boys, I’ve been with girls
And Love is ruled by Love alone
Yeah, Love is ruled by Love alone
Cause Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is Love
Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is Love
It’s never paint by numbers
This abstract work of art
You can only find its beauty painting with your broken heart
And if you stay wide open
To everything that it could be
It might grace you with its presence
But Love don’t make no guarantees
Yeah, Love don’t make no guarantees
Cause Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is Love
Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is Love
You know it’s gonna save you
However you were made to
Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is
The seed that takes root beneath the snow
Just when you’re thinking you’ll never see it grow
It only feels painful, it only seems hard
Because it’s gotta break through frozen ground to show you who you are
You know it’s gonna save you
However you were made to
Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is Love
For all you’ve gained and all you’ve lost
Love is always worth the cost, cause
Love is Love is Love is Love is Love is Love
Athena Reich/Lorraine Ferro

POLICE IN IRAQ

sung to the tune of José Feliciano Feliz Navidad”
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, patrolling the block in a state of shock!
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, under-equipped, split a walkie-talk.
I want to wish you a merry JI-had
I want to wish you the same as WE had
I want to wish you to have and BE had
from Ramadi or Najaf
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, suicide bombers, Fedayeen, and Ba’ath!
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, don’t worry, baby, Gates is on the clock!
I want to wish you a merry limb loss
I want to wish you a merry war cost
I want to wish you some no-bid contracts
So Sadr City’s sad no más
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, bring back the air raids, I hear they rock!
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, with us coalitioned this thing’s a lock!
I want to wish you an RPG toss
I want to wish you some IED sauce
I want to wish you a born-again mosque
In the image of a News Corp. cross
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, the CNN analyst wears a policy smock.
Police in Iraq! Police in Iraq!
Police in Iraq, happy wet dreams in dry dock!
I want to wish you a merry JI-had
I want to wish you the same as WE had
I want to wish you to have and BE had
from Ramadi or Najaf
Urayoan Noel

Religion

Oh, where did our hearts go to?
Why do we feel the need to kill, to bathe in our own blood
to beat our brother?
Oh we’re all the same really when you get down to it
Why do we feel the need for hatred danger and violence?
Why, I said why do we feel so angry?
Feel the need to burn to kill our brother
Is it justice? I think not
Oh why it only constricts our soul burns a hole in our world
What happened to, I said, and you call that religion?
We can’t deny every cause has an effect
Every pause has a defect
Every lesson must be learnt
We got to wake up our souls to evolution yeah, evolution
I want to make you all listen
I want to make you all cry
Just sit up and listen
We can learn how to fly
Why, I said why do we feel so angry
Feel the need to burn to kill our brother
Is it justice? I think not
Oh why it only constricts our soul burns a hole in our world
What happened to, I said, and you call that Religion?
Why, I said why do we feel so angry
Feel the need to burn to kill our brother
Is it justice? I think not
Oh why it only constricts our soul burns a hole in our world
What happened to… Religion?
Danielle Tersini

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 table her way
As she peeked from under her blindfold
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 of getting ear plugs
As she turned her back
Then walked away
Arlene Cassarino

Thank You’s And Info. Page
Once again we would liked to thank all the writers. We want to
thank Roxanne Hoffman for listing us on her blog, and for
sending a few writers our way. Also we want to thank Danielle
Lucania for helping us proof read our first issue. A special
thank you goes out to Roz, and Breno for helping with our PC
problems. Also we want to thank all of you for taking the time
to read our first issue.
We have three resources for our fellow writers:
1) POETS WEAR PRADA is a small press based in Hoboken,
New Jersey devoted to introducing new authors through
limited edition, high-quality chaplets, primarily of poetry.
Check it out at http://poetswearpradanj.home.att.net
2) Lulu.com is a web site for authors to publish their books.
(poetry or prose) We know that they are good, because Kevin
published his book: “Hairless…In A World Of Big Hair.” with
them. They do excellence work, keep great records, and your
checks come on time.
3) CC&D Magazine is a wonderful press that publishes short
stories, poetry, and art work. They publish an online and
paper copy. They published two of Kevin Michael Wehle’s
poems. It’s a good press for new writers as well as already
published writers. For guidelines and/or to check them out go
to http://scars.tv
Pushing The Envelope is published quarterly. All rights of the
poetry and prose within remain with the authors. None of the
work within can be copied or reproduced without the
permission of the authors and/or editors. This magazine is
produced by All Queer Boy Productions September 2009.

Writer’s Bios.

V. Cordell Brown - Is a brilliant, and mesmerizing poet who
just had a feature at: The Saturn Series Reading. When he
reads his work he draws you into the heart of each piece. We
look forward to hearing more from him.

Athena Reich – Is a singer/songwriter with a few albums out.
Her latest is: “Little Girl Dreams.” She is currently on tour.
Check out what she is up to on her web site: AthenaReich.com.

Jack Tricarico – Is a New York City painter, poet, and t’ai chi
instructor who has been published in numerous poetry
journals and anthologies based in New York City and in
upstate New York. He has just finished his 8th chap book
entitled "EKSTASIS". You can see his art work on a global art
site on the internet. Just google: BONDAN BOWERY. Click
on artists. artists are listed alphabetically. On this site he is
listed as John, NOT JACK TRICARICO. Click on images to
enlarge.

Adam Henry Carriere - is a poet, teacher, and broadcaster.
Recent publications include The Bicycle Review, The Smoking
Book, The Mayo Review, Counterexample Poetics, Tonopath
Review, Junked (2008 Poetry Prize Finalist), Zygote in My
Coffee, Oak Bend Review. and Tattoo Highway. He publishes
Danse Macabre, Nevada’s first online literary magazine.
Mindy Matijasevic – writer, actress, and comic, won a BRIO
award (Bronx Recognizes Its Own) for poetry from the Bronx
Council on the Arts in 2001, has been published in numerous
journals, and is the author of a poetry chapbook, sounds like a
woman to me. Mindy may be contacted at:
mindyinthebronx@aol.com.

John T. Bestecki – Survived his high school days to bring us:
“The Stevie Chronicles.” Thank God he did, so we can enjoy
his experiences.

Vincent Quatroche – has been writing for over thirty years and
his fifth collection of Poetry, Prose and Short stories entitled,
The Terrible Now will be available during the Summer of 2009
through Xlibris Press. A persistently cryptic and annoying
presence on the poetry circuit in the Northeast region of the
United States attempts to silence him have been unsuccessful.
In addition, Quatroche works in the spoken word/sonic
landscape media and has released numerous projects on
tape/CD in the last two decades. A new CD entitled, Singing
Mr. Cedric has a Fall release date scheduled later in the Year.
Of course Quatroche doesn’t make a living doing any of things,
relying on being employed as a career educator at area colleges
and correctional facilities in WNY, where his students (and
inmates) find him equally persistent, cryptic and annoying.
Website for more info www.rubbereden.com

Sarah Stappersfenne – is a student at Ithaca College and a New
York Women in Communications (NYWICI) scholarship
winner. Her writing has appeared in The Houston Literary
Review, NYWICI's NEXTblog, Rosebud Magazine, The
DuPage Review and most notably, the Not a Muse Anthology.

Roxanne Hoffman –worked on Wall Street, now she answered
a patient hotline for a major New York home healthcare
provider. Her poems and stories appear on and off the net,
most recently in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, Danse
Macabre, The Fib Review, Hospital Drive, Lucid Rythms,
MOBIUS The Poetry Magazine, Word Slaw and two
anthologies: The Bandana Republic: Literary Anthology By
Gang Members And Their Affiliates (Soft Skull Press), and
Love After 70 (Wishing Up Press). She and her husband own
the small press, POETS WEAR PRADA.

Brian Damian Sabbats – is a writer that defies definition,
because he prefers being a rainbow with his writing. From
children stories, to poetry of all kinds, to gay erotica, to a
collection of stories about sexual child abuse: "To My Son,
Love Dad," to the novel he's writing with John T. Bestecki
called "What the Mushroom Said"(a gay love story set in the
late 1960s of NYC). He prefers writing things that will hit you
in the gut & make you feel. So be warned not to expect to feel
safe & comfy. Oh, he has written insipid stuff much to he's
own dismay & he asks for your forgiveness during such
moments. We can expect him to blow up the world with his
writing as soon as he finds proofreaders & the time to write.
He's the co-editor of "Pushing The Envelope" which is a labor
of love with blood, sweat, tears & a lot of cursing. So now read
their 1st issue & feel things that you have never felt before lol.

Su Polo – is a multitalented artist. A native New Yorker, her
writing conveys unusual insights and surprises found in life's
everyday events and encounters. She is a singer/songwriter
with guitar and dulcimer, Jazz vocalist, photographer, painter
and sculptor, set designer, computer graphic artist and created
her website www.supolo.com. Her book, Turning Stones, a
collection of poems and stories is available at St. Marks Books
in NYC (and formerly at the late, great Gotham Book Mart),
and her work appears numerous times in Caprice Magazine,
the Poet to Poet magazine, Medicinal Purposes among others.
She is the founder and co-host of the Saturn Series poetry
reading in NYC and is the editor and publisher of its
periodical, Saturn. She is also the host of the Artists' Lounge,
an open mike for singer songwriters and musicians @
Nightingale Lounge. Su is also the set designer for the last 4
years of the New Years Day Poetry Extravaganza held at the
Bowery Poetry Club. She is currently working on her onewoman
show and her second book.

Danny Garcia – Has an extended body of work. He’s a writer
from California. He has five books out. “Rainbow Explodes,”
is just one of the many titles, and his new fifth book is:
“Cathartic Sight.”

Kevin Michael Wehle – Is the co-editor of: “Pushing The
Envelope.” His poems are on Poet’s Haven.com, hhtp://
Scars.tv., and Poetry.com, He has published a chapter book
called: “Hairless…In A World Of Big Hair.” You can check it
out at: Lulu.com. The poems: “Orange,” and “I’m Gay,
You’re Hot, Deal With It” are in his chapter book. He has
featured at: “The Saturn Series,” and Bengal Curry’s “The
Phoenix Series”

Urayoan Noel – is the author of the books of poetry Boringken
(Ediciones Callejon/La Tertulia, 2008) and Kool Logic/La
logica kool(Bilingual Press, 2005), both of the Year selections
by El Nuevo Dia (Puerto Rico), and released with performance
CD and DVD respectively. Originally from San Juan, PR, he
currently divides his times between the South Bronx and
upstate, and is Assistant Professor of English at the University
at Albany, SUNY.

Patricia Carragon- is a New York City poet and writer.
Her publications include Poetz.com, Rogue Scholars,
Poets Wear Prada, Best Poem, Big City Lit, CLWN WR,
Chantarelle’s Notebook, Clockwise Cat, Ditch Poetry
Magazine, Mobius Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly,
and more. She is the author of Journey to the Center
of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press). She is a member
of Brevitas, a group dedicated to short poems.
Patricia hosts and curates the Brooklyn-based
Brownstone Poets and is the editor of the annual
anthology.

Steven Monroe – a beautiful new writer on the scene, who has
a lot to say in his writing. We are looking forward to see what
he writes next.

Danielle Tersini - Wildly passionate, firey and expressive. Dani
Tersini’s performances are about letting go, releasing energy,
breathing fire, and smoldering with her audience. Being an
innovative artist with versatility, imagination and power,
Tersini’s essence expresses an eclectic blend of sounds
reflecting the many facets of emotion stirring from within.
Boldly following her dream and escaping from England, to the
Big Apple and not knowing a single soul, Dani is now surviving
in the music capital of the world, and rocking the stages of
venues such as The Bitter End, The Sidewalk Café, Banjo
Jim’s and Caffe Vivaldi. She continues to thrive, stamping her
own individuality on her music and performance.

Arlene Cassaino – A great poet who has featured at Bengal
Curry’s Phoenix Series, and The Saturn Series. She is a poet to
watch out for.

Danielle Lucaina – Has been writing since she was eleven, but
she is fairly new to the scene. Danielle’s poetry is full of
rhythm, and soul. She is also our proof reader. This is her first
published work, and hopefully not the last.

To know more about us, to get our guidelines or to submit for
our next issue, or if you know someone who wants to receive a
copy, or submit email us @
PushingTheenvelope09@Gmail.com

Guidelines For January 2010 Issue

2009-11-24T08:34:00.000-08:00

"Pushing The Envelope" A Literary Magazine

Mission Statement: To boldly go where no magazine has gone before (sorry we watch too much Star Trek) Life as an artist is hard enough with all the rejection, so submit to our magazine, and promote the arts, and the words that make up the soundtrack to our lives. Have the chance for others to hear your voice. We want to promote all those great writers that should be in print, and are not. Especially those who "push the envelope" with their writing. We want this to be a way for all of us to come together, and have a fun experience. We will accommodate any suggestions from our writers, but please be nice, and bring no drama. We are looking for edgy, humorous, something with bite, and writing that makes a reader think. We also want to publish new an upcoming writers. All work that gets published in "PTE" will be decided by Kevin Michael Wehle, and Brian Damian Sabbats.
ALL RIGHTS WILL STAY WITH THE AUTHOR OF EACH PIECE!

Disclaimer: We don't accept work from writers under 18 for our magazine contains adult, and graphic material.

All rights reserved. This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, whether print, or electronic, without permission in writing from the publishers and/or writers.

Our Logo: An All Queer Boy Production

We accept:
Poems, short stories, songs, essays, art work
We also put out an editors choice issue. about 4-8 pages

NO PAYMENT OF ANY KIND FOR ANY OF THE ACCEPTED WORK. THIS IS FOR EXPOSURE ONLY!

We accept only email submissions. If you like to see the kind of pieces we accept we can email you a back issue of the magazine.

Submissions:
Fiction: No more then two pages. Submit 2 stories per issue
Poetry: Any form. 35 lines max. Submit 2-3 poems per issue
Songs: 35 lines max. Submit 2 songs per issue
Essays: No more then two pages
Art Work: Small pieces only please
Please include a small bio with your submission.

NO SEXIST, RACIST, ANTI-GAY, PORNOGRAPHIC, HATEFUL WORK OF ANY KIND. (Hot and steamy is ok.)

Co-Editors in chief:
Brain Damian Sabbats (Public Relations/PC Stuff)
Kevin Michael Wehle (Layout Queen)
We choose what goes in, and their decisions are final.
Second Issue: January 2010 "New Year, New Desires, New Adventures With Writing" Edition.
The last pages: Thank you and info. It's a page about books that our fellow writers published. Features that our fellow poets are doing, and other stuff like that.

We wish to invite you to submit your writing to us for our consideration for inclusion in our magazine. Also if you know of anyone who would like to submit to our poetic baby please give them our email address: Pushingtheenvelope09@gmail.com, or send them these guidelines. We look forward to reading your work, and responding to you all.
Thank you and have a great day,
KMW & Brain Damian Sabbats :0)

P.S. If you are not alreay a fan of us on facebook please do. We will have a lot of info. on there as well. :)

Reply | Reply to all | Forward | Print | Delete | Show original

Welcome To Our New Blog :)

2009-11-23T18:55:00.000-08:00

Poetic Greetings,
Welcome friends, fans, and all lovers of the written word. This is a dream come true for Brian and I. We wanted to do this for a while. Some where we can post what is on our mind, and each issue. A place where we can share success stories, and important information. The first issue will be up soon. It's a real treat for us to share with you not only our work, but the work of a lot of talented poets/writers. I hope you all our also following us on Facebook. With this publication we want to bring writers and people together. Get great writing out there to the people. For now that is it. Until the next post. Love ya, Kevin and Brian :)

PTE A LITERARY MAGAZINE

Here Are Some Of The Recent Submissions TO PTE (More To Come)

Kev's Picks For The Best Of The Best Of Issue Two

The Who's Who Of Issue Two

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two The Third And Final Part

Or, will the vivid pictures

Rhododendrons of the Sea

Prayers and Wishes

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two - Part Two

John’s Balcony

By Bonnie Martha Morét

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two Part One 1/18/10

Sneak Peak Of A Poem From Issue Two

Editor's Choice From Issue One Of PTE :)

Guidelines For January 2010 Issue

Welcome To Our New Blog :)