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In This Issue...In This Issue...In This Issue...In This Issue... Editor’s NoteEditor’s NoteEditor’s NoteEditor’s Note Lauren Tamraz Lauren Tamraz Lauren Tamraz Lauren Tamraz Issue Artist Issue Artist Issue Artist Issue Artist Ryan Cronin Ryan Cronin Ryan Cronin Ryan Cronin WordsWordsWordsWords Thomas Fucaloro Thomas Fucaloro Thomas Fucaloro Thomas Fucaloro

Seth LeeperSeth LeeperSeth LeeperSeth Leeper

Sharon Venezio Sharon Venezio Sharon Venezio Sharon Venezio

Barrett JohnsonBarrett JohnsonBarrett JohnsonBarrett Johnson

William Cullen Jr. William Cullen Jr. William Cullen Jr. William Cullen Jr.

ContributorsContributorsContributorsContributors AcknowledgementsAcknowledgementsAcknowledgementsAcknowledgements

Editor’s NEditor’s NEditor’s NEditor’s Note... ote... ote... ote... Lauren Tamraz Lauren Tamraz Lauren Tamraz Lauren Tamraz If you are reading this within of few days of its publication, you might be tired. I’ve been hearing a lot of people ragging on Daylight Savings Time for messing with their sleep cycle over the weekend. I have to disagree; I’m a big fan of DST, always have been. As a kid, it was purely based on the magical quality of seeing it stay lighter “longer” when I got home from school. I could do my homework in front of the living room windows without turning on the lights. So yeah, that was a plus. As I’ve gotten older, I realize that DST falls into the same category as a few other things I do in my life that might seem silly, weird or phony, but in the end make life a little nicer. Having an extra hour of sunlight means I can garden when I get home from work instead of, say, eating a pan of brownies and gossiping on the phone (I swear I don’t know how I let these things happen…) It’s not really Spring yet, we know this, but it gets us ready and in the zone. It puts Spring plans into motion and prepares the psyche, the wardrobe, the planting ground. Along the same lines, I remind myself to smile if I’m mad. I know this sounds weird. And I definitely only do it when I’m alone because I know I look like a freak. But it actually does something positive when my grimace loosens and becomes slightly upturned. It reminds me that even if I’m only faking it right now, light is on the horizon soon. It’s like skinny jeans at the back of the closet and every athlete’s poster on a little kid’s bedroom wall: almost reality if we try a little harder, wait a little longer. The work of this month’s artist, New Paltz’s Ryan Cronin, makes me feel this way. His saturated color and shiny surfaces beg you to look ahead, take a ride with them. For years, his public artwork has done just that around the Hudson Valley and NYC. We’re lucky to have him this month, so please, enjoy your ride with him and our lovely band of writers. Until next month, dear reader...

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Issue Artist: Ryan CroninIssue Artist: Ryan CroninIssue Artist: Ryan CroninIssue Artist: Ryan Cronin Ryan Cronin was born and raised in Katonah, NY the third child of working class parents. Cronin’s entrance into the world in 1972 was perhaps, a glimpse of things to come. Born on the front seat of a late 60's Plymouth Station Wagon, Cronin has kept his parents, friends and audiences on their toes ever since. While growing up in the 1980’s in Westchester, NY Cronin was surrounded by and embraced Pop Culture. The bright colors and sounds of punk rock, skateboarding, MTV, graffiti and the youthful, push-it-to-the-limit attitude of the time became an integral part of who Cronin is today. This influence is apparent in his playful, yet intelligent approach to painting. Cronin's real calling was revealed when he first began painting in 1990. He attended SVA and SUNY Purchase in the early 90’s, and finally found his home at SUNY New Paltz as a Fine Arts Major, where he graduated in 1998. His work is held in several private collections in Miami, New York and California. He currently resides in the countryside outside of NYC. He enjoys his neighbor’s weekend home delivery of the New York Times and he loves to paint.

Enjoy more of Ryan’s work at: cronartusa.com

above: artist at work cover: happy little raincloud 48”x48”

No Use Crying Over Spilt MilkNo Use Crying Over Spilt MilkNo Use Crying Over Spilt MilkNo Use Crying Over Spilt Milk Have you seen Carolyn Taylor? Eyewitness news and the police are searching for her. She was last seen walking home from school. She is 8. If you have any information please contact Eyewitness news or the police. We care for our children brought to you by the Ford Motor Company. Even missing children have sponsors now. I used to think that missing children on the back of milk cartons was just an advertising tool to sell more milk. But now milk doesn’t need missing children to sell. When I was younger I had no brothers or sisters so that missing child on the milk carton became a great sibling to talk to. Neither my mom nor my dad have my birth certificate. They care as much about me as I do. I feel like I was the child missing from their lives. I remember cutting out the missing child’s head from out of the milk carton and then the eyes so I could see the world like them. What I discovered was all children see the world the same lost. I also discovered that you need to drink the milk first before cutting the carton. I have cried over spilt milk many times. -Thomas Fucaloro

sweet revenge chewing gum 48”x48”

I, FatherI, FatherI, FatherI, Father

I am the only father I will ever have. From here on out, I’m pulling my own

snow sled. I’ll teach myself times tables, long division, how to discern a red light.

I will coach myself through my first kiss, steer myself clear of disappoint through impenetrable distance, the dystrophy of

my social graces. Sex in a basement.

I will cultivate a harem of admirers that never call. Leave their hats on

the table, their tips at the door. From here on out, I’m pulling

my own weight around here.

I’ll put food on the table, go shopping for

another pair of genes to call love.

I will cultivate a harem of stalkers, a network of men crazed enough

to launch ships, pilgrimage to my door.

From here on out, I’m pulling

at my own door.

-Seth Leeper

Pie HolesPie HolesPie HolesPie Holes

I don’t know when I started speaking the language of men. One day I opened my mouth and out came testosterone and bullets. I walked around with my tongue swinging low nearly scraping the ground. I walked on hind legs instead of all fours. I walked myself around town like I was the blue ribbon in a gun show.

At some point my friends started speaking to me in tongues wound too tight, too coiled in their warm mouths. I woke up one day with an inch of new chest hair and black pupils that cut a sharp gaze across the room. Machete eyes, my

friends called them, because they didn’t want to get entangled in their range.

Men reacted strongly to my new language while women recoiled, brusqued at the loss of a safe confidante or landing pad. Men lined up like glory holes in an outlaw rest stop ready to march with me, to beat the drum of masculinity. On our knees. We assembled a new brigade and adjusted the bulging tongues in

our jeans.

I let my hair grow wild so it would tremble at the edges of my face when faced with the

onslaught. Reborn and ready for the steroid masses amassing in the streets before me. I learned the language of inverted revolution. The war cry was pithy

and desperate and completely in tune to the wagging of our tongues.

I surrounded myself with well-hung men ready to release their sagging oral appendages in the sweltering heat of the desert sun. Cacti withered under our gazes and the wells dried up. The ground gave out beneath in submission to our crusade, and at the tone of the bell we gathered our pride and our swinging

tongues and pressed on to claim our happy endings.

-Seth Leeper

man handler 36”x48”

NumerositiesNumerositiesNumerositiesNumerosities

I don’t know if I slid the patio door shut, pushed the lever down to lock it, so I’ll drive 3 miles back home, check 2 more times.

So many monkeys swinging from my neurobranches,

counting the nerves bundled above the left ear, the blazing apple that compels enumeration.

It takes 500 calories a day to grow neurotransmitters,

0 calories to recognize the greenness of a leaf, the twoness of two, the threeness of three.

Numbers kept my father’s hands moving,

always digging 4 inches deep, 12 inches apart, arriving 8 minutes early, his mind monkey

juggling evens and odds. My mother counts

the teaspoons of sugar for her tea, the minutes while the water boils.

Meanwhile, I count the number of steps out of a movie theatre

so I can count my way back through the dark.

-Sharon Venezio

tennis at ten 48”x48”

Now We Become GhostsNow We Become GhostsNow We Become GhostsNow We Become Ghosts When I moved to the west coast, my father, a street-smart storyteller who read only one book (the biography of JFK) said “don’t trust anyone.” He trusted the birds perched on the backyard feeder, red throated above the grass that gleamed with our weeping. He trusted his camera to capture nightjar, thrush, swallow, refrigerated grasshopper a perfect still life until it warmed. His mother came from Ireland on a boat, twelve, motherless, not even a bird to trust, erasing her name in the frozen cave of her heart. Now, as the aperture of morning expands over California, my father is a ghost in my camera lens collecting variations of light. My eyelid is a shutter that opens to receive the day so beautiful it must be a lie. -Sharon Venezio

at the dog and pony show

two blue cats 48”x48”

I Am Not Much (of an artist)I Am Not Much (of an artist)I Am Not Much (of an artist)I Am Not Much (of an artist)

I drew you this picture of a dog. Its little tail wagged

whenever he saw you.

His fur coat was rough – not velvet. His half-bark was imperfect,

but – boy – he sure loved you.

Someone saw my picture of a dog. They said, “Oh –

what a nice picture of a plane”.

I was not pleased. You – you laughed and let them think

whatever they wanted.

But you don’t understand. I wanted everyone to see that dog – because – boy – he sure loved you.

People should know about that.

- Barrett Johnson

BreakupBreakupBreakupBreakup on a Winter's Evening on a Winter's Evening on a Winter's Evening on a Winter's Evening Ignoring your cell call I walk away leaving frozen footprints showing my flight from love and loss but I shall keep your image as I would a fire burning and going for the coldest nights. -William Cullen Jr.

double rainbows 48”x192”

Thomas FucaloroThomas FucaloroThomas FucaloroThomas Fucaloro is a NY based poet who has a book out called "Inheriting craziness". Incidentally, he loves poems. Seth LeeperSeth LeeperSeth LeeperSeth Leeper is a freelance writer, blogger, and singer. He has written for AND Magazine, Xenith Magazine, and Hyperink. He has a BA in Creative Writing and Fashion Journalism from San Francisco State University.

Sharon VenezioSharon VenezioSharon VenezioSharon Venezio received an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University where she won the Mark Linenthal Award for her poem “Meanwhile.” She is currently completing a manuscript titled The Silence of Doorways. She is a co-director of the Valley Contemporary Poets and a member of Writers at Work. Some of her work can be found in Reed, Transfer, Parthenon West Review, Midway Journal, Iris, Wicked Alice, Stirring, as well as

other online and print journals. She can be found at sharonvenezio.com Barrett JohnsonBarrett JohnsonBarrett JohnsonBarrett Johnson grew up in Portland, Oregon, and even with the hipsters and constant rain, the City of Roses is a place Barrett loves to call home. Having spent his childhood traveling to every state in the US and several countries abroad, the stability found in pen and paper gave birth to passion for the written word that continues to this day. Barrett publishes poems, plays, short stories, and has received honors in the international songwriting competition, Indie International.

Recently he has graduated with 1st class Honors in Film and English Literature from Victoria University of Wellington, in New Zealand. William Cullen, JrWilliam Cullen, JrWilliam Cullen, JrWilliam Cullen, Jr...., is a veteran and works at a non-profit in Brooklyn, NY. He's married and has two college-age sons. His writing has appeared in Asahi/International Herald Tribune, Boston Literary Magazine, Camroc Press Review, Christian Science Monitor, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pirene's Fountain, Red River Review, among others. His work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2010.

AcknowledgementsAcknowledgementsAcknowledgementsAcknowledgements There are so many individuals and businesses without whom Awosting Alchemy could not exist in this form. Thank you to David Friedman & Barner Books of New Paltz who have supported the project from Day 01. Special thanks to The Yoga House of Kingston, NY who hosted our Paper Anniversary celebration. Thank you, talented & diverse band of contributors, for doing your art & word thing so well here in the Valley and around the globe. Aw/Al exists because you exist! A special thank you to Ryan Cronin for sharing his artwork and Melanie Cronin for rocking the behind-the-scenes! And thank you again, dear reader, not only for beginning at page 01, but for reading through to the end. We hope you enjoyed your journey and will be back for the next issue in May 2012.

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