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Contributors for mojo 19

Artist’s Statement — Tim Stone

I use paint palpably to convey that which is real, viscous, and undeniable. I also use paint to fabricate illusion, to present the viewer with an uncanny version of the spaces I experience physically and through devices. My work is bemusedly real and fake in order to reflect the conflict of our current reality where realness is confusingly debatable. There is tension between the ordinary and the superlative and between what is natural and artificial. I utilize painting and “the landscape” specifically as a visual tool to explore and depict the destructive forces affecting both our physical and social landscapes such as wildfires and misinformation. My colors are tempestuous to represent this pernicious narrative. Through painting, I am able to both investigating and celebrating the power of mark and process, representing the liminal space we occupy between what is real and what is not.

Categories
Contributors for mojo 19

Contributors for mojo 19

Alara Egi is a seventeen-year-old junior from Istanbul and a new poet, as of now looking to be published. She likes to fool herself into thinking that she spares enough time for poetry and guitar.

Avery Gregurich is a writer currently living and working in Marengo, Iowa. He was raised next to the Mississippi River and has never strayed too far from it.

Ayesha Raees identifies herself as a hybrid creating hybrid poetry through hybrid forms. Raees currently serves as an Assistant Poetry Editor at AAWW’s The Margins and has received fellowships from Asian American Writers’ Workshop, Brooklyn Poets, and Kundiman. Raees’s first book of poetry, Coining The Wishing Tower, won the Broken River Prize hosted by Platypus Press and judged by Kaveh Akbar, and will be forthcoming in March 2022. From Lahore, Pakistan, Raees is a graduate of Bennington College, and currently lives in New York City. Her website is www.ayesharaees.com

Cari Oleskewicz is a writer based in Gainesville, Florida. Her work has been included in several online and print publications, including Literary Orphans, The Collapsar, The Fourth River, Blotterature, Mom Egg Review, Sandhill Review, Commonline Journal, and The Gainesville Sun. She is currently at work on a memoir, raising a teenager, and planning multiple overseas escapes. 

Cezarija Abartis has published a collection, Nice Girls and Other Stories (New Rivers Press) and stories in Baltimore Review, Bennington Review, FRiGG, matchbook, Waccamaw, and New York Tyrant, among others. Recently she completed a crime novel. She lives and writes in Minnesota.

Emma Eisler (she/her) is a junior English major at Cornell University with a concentration in poetry. She is Editor in Chief of the university magazine, Kitsch, as well as a columnist for the independent newspaper, The Cornell Sun. She is a recipient of the Cornell University Dorothy Sugarman Undergraduate Prize for poetry and has been published in magazines including The Smart Set, Allegory Ridge, Cathexis Northwest Press, Prometheus Dreaming, Storm of Blue, Blackheart Magazine, SWITCHBACK, and Beyond Words. She was also a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat’s 2021 chapbook contest. Emma plans to continue pursuing a career in writing after she graduates.

JD Debris writes poems, songs, and prose. He held the Goldwater Fellowship at NYU from 2018-20, where he completed his MFA. In 2020, his work was chosen by Ilya Kaminsky for Ploughshares‘ Emerging Writers Prize, and he was named to Narrative‘s 30 Below 30 list. His releases include the chapbook SPARRING (Salem State University Press, 2018) and the music albums BLACK MARKET ORGANS (Simple Truth Records, 2017) and JD DEBRIS MURDER CLUB (forthcoming).

Lauren Shapiro is a New York-based writer and musician. She holds a B.A. from Queens College of the CUNY, a B.Mus. from Manhattan School of Music, and an M.A. in writing from Manhattanville College. Having started out as a songwriter, merging words and music, Lauren later began to separate them into words as essays, stories and poems and music by way of dance accompanying. She is a 2017 winner of the Bronx Council on the Arts Literary Award.

Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. He has previously published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, Antioch Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, FIELD, New World, Raritan, and other magazines.

Roberta Allen is the author of nine books, including three flash/short story collections, a novella, a novel and a memoir. Her latest is The Princess of Herself, flash and short stories. She is also a conceptual artist in the collections of MoMa and The Met Museum. Read more at www.robertaallen.com.

Rob Swigart is a fiction writer and former poet, professor, technology journalist, computer game designer, archaeology writer, and futurist. He earned a B.A. at Princeton University and a PhD at SUNY Buffalo. He has authored 16 books, one of which was nominated for a BSFA Best Novel Award. His hybrid of fiction and nonfiction stories, Mixed Harvest, won a 2019 Nautilus Gold Award. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in American Poetry Review, Atlantic Monthly, Epoch, Fiction, Michigan Quarterly Review, New England Review, New York Quarterly, Poetry, Poetry Northwest, Stonecoast Review, and others. Read more at www.robswigart.com.

Shayna Hodkin is a vegan queer Jewish poet. She believes a better world is possible. 

Categories
mojo 19 Poetry

Blub — Ayesha Raees

I have no door in this body.        

                                                                          I am hammering.

At Home Depot. Wood comes in planks and sticks.

                                                                          I strike right into my count.

I am apologizing at my job.

                                                                         I am grateful for a job.

For these points to go up on my bank’s screen.

                                                                         Every other week.

My video game.                 

                                                                         My level up.

Until my visa ends.

                                                                         Until square one.

So far. So good.

                                                                         This hammering without nailing.

This banging without banging.

                                                                         I have forgotten to eat today.

I haven’t been able to call my mom for a week today.

                                                                         8 hours of sleep. 8 hours of work. 8 hours in blub.

Blur.

                                                                         Don’t forget.

Anyone can enter this body.

                                                                         This body has no knob or lock or clock.

It’s instilled in gape. In muted outcry.

                                                                         In a land named after divide.

I am now more child when child.

                                                                         I mean I am 26 meowing at dogs at Prospect Park.

I mean I am running up to crowds and smiling like some sun. 

                                                                         I mean I am collecting rocks just to throw them back at the surf. 

I mean I am raising my lips to foreheads. My hands to pat heads.

                                                                         I mean I can’t stop blabbering.

I mean I am thirsting.

                                                                         Underneath the bed covers, water falls.

Into a well once a tower sticking its tongue to blue sky.

                                                                         This body lips image. Until.

Gentle and full. Until.

                                                                         Quenched.

Categories
mojo 19 Poetry

Waiting Room — Peter Leight

This is the age of anticipation everybody is talking about, when something is about to happen
that hasn’t even happened yet, and the walls are lined with chairs, there’s a chair next to the
door, on either side of the door where you’re waiting together with everybody else, waiting for
the door to open or waiting for the door to close so you can open it, waiting next to each other, as
if it’s something you earn by waiting—it’s actually happening while you wait, like a delivery
that’s on the way, even though there’s no way of tracking it.  I mean it’s not an accomplishment,
it doesn’t require any effort, not at all, the only effort is in not waiting, the longer you wait the
longer it takes—they’d like you to know it’s easy, like a container that fills up by itself, if it
hasn’t happened it’s only because you’re still waiting, you haven’t finished waiting, it’s the only
possible interpretation.  You don’t even know how long you’re going to wait until you’re not
waiting anymore.  Of course, as long as you wait you’d like to think you’re waiting for
something, waiting to get in, waiting for your turn, like a nervous bird on a perch, waiting until
it’s time, if you’re not getting anything out of it what are you actually waiting for?  You’re
waiting to find out.

Categories
mojo 19 Poetry

I worry about what my Cowboy would tell me — Alara Egi

thought I had willpower but it   fizzled  away
a pink effervescent tablet,
my dreams became shape-shifters, I let myself want 
what I would see, my ambition
filled my palms and i tucked it between my ribs

I decided to write a long poem, an epic with few line breaks 
that takes up the space my body couldn’t
next to students that were chosen in the yearbook
“most likely to actually be Clark Kent”

I didn’t want to own my story anymore, so i decided to forget 
my face     I watched the Breakfast Club to enter the Teenage Dream:
because happiness is 
a choice  am I right, Ladies?

in an alternative universe, tonight
I became a Man-genius,
feeding chicken pot pie to my pet chicken and writing fiction
I got rid of my makeover-girl glasses and became a Man-genius, 
whose careless youth and potential let him get away.

I never had a gun-pulling contest in kindergarten, nor a cowboy friend— 
if I had One,
They could’ve taught me how to be all grab-and-take-and-don’t-give-back
and they would give me generic advice:
“be yourself” and I would 
listen, before each word I wouldn’t 
give a pause to make sure they’re the right words
model child, “you’re my Number One girl” words,

            I will choose
to touch  My face to remind myself, that, yes
these stress pimples, dried  bitten lips, these eyes
all belong to me at the end

            sometimes I have to work even harder
to remind myself that underneath these puddles and hair there’s a heart,
beating like ice in a food processor, cracking and thumping against the walls
and my ribs remind me of wings &        
                       I  believe  for a split second
if I tried really hard, 
I could float over rows of suburban houses & cone shaped trees & 
family cars, like the  fading  actor  in that film some years ago.