Pushing The Envelope Issue Two - Part Two

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

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

Me

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

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 :)

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.

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