SynergyZine 8:

Portraits

Sootflower PressPrinted in San Francisco

2012

Contents. . . . . .

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5Four Portraits Prose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8Martin Short Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Bury My Heart Prose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14Night Portrait Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16Beastiary poems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25Evenings Evenings at Antons Short Story . . . . . . . 30PayDay Prose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33Thinking about the end is always comic poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34This whole Whirlpool's much easier with your here Short Story . . 36Somewhere in the WesternWorld Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39The Funeral poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Jeff Cravath "Flower of Faces" Page 1 "Portrait Composite" Page 43Drew Fehlman "Woodcut" Page 15Sonya Genel "Anxiety" Page 24 "Self-Portrait" Page 37Adam Holzrichter "Fawning" Page 2 "Cleanliness Godliness" Page 35Michael Latronica "Cole" Page 41Gabriella Molina "Portrait" COVER "Portrait of the Feminine" Page 7 "Night Landscape" Page 17Vanessa Rodriguez "Old Soul" Page 22 Michael Ross "Portrait in Red" Page 21 "Distractions" Page 44Dan W illiams- "Theodore" Page 4Baumgart "Rat" Page 13 "Self-Portrait" Page 29 "Victorians" Page 32Courtney Ziegler "A View Inside a Mosque" Page 38

List ofIllustrations & Artwork

“Noth ing in a portra i t is a matter of indi f ference . Gesture , gr imace ,

c loth ing , decor even a l l must combine to rea l ize a character .”

-Char l es Baude la i re

From commiss ioned pa in t ings of k ings to sto ic represent a-

t ions of pol i t i c ians , the port ra i t has of t been used to l ion ize i ts sub-

jects and emphasize the more f latter ing facets of be ing . Humankind ,

in i ts basest des i re seeks to immorta l ize i tse l f and feed i ts insat i a-

b le narc iss i sm, a ttempt ing to capture the dying l ight of i ts s ingular

l i fe .

The r ise of humanist ic expre ss ion has of late g iven way to a

more diverse approach to port ra i ture that tru ly attempts to ca pture

the soul of i ts sub jec t . Much l ike a ttempts to expla in existence

through re l ig ion or the myster i es of matter through sc ience , por-

tra i ture has become a most e lus ive ar t is t ic e ndeavor . Constant ly

adapt ing to new var iants , the po r tra i t i s never quie t perfect , never

an exact facs imi le of i ts sub jec t and , hopeful ly , never as s imple as

“point and shoot .” I t goes beyond mere physica l proper t ies or a

s ingular person’s countenance and into the dr iv ing factors that mo-

t ivate i ts sub ject’s act ion , inspire i ts speech , and inform i ts ph i loso-

ph ies .

In th is edi t ion of SynergyZine , we have inv i ted our contr ib u-

tors to hold the microscope to the i r su b jects , reading into every l ine

around an eye or crumbl ing br ick upon a bui ld ing , sketch ing a de-

scr ip t ion that takes into account the or ig in of those crow ’s feet or

a part icu lar ly rak ish gr in . This is po rtra i ture in depth . This is true

art , rather than mere represent a t ion .

Our art is ts have de lved into the inner l i fe of the i r sub jec ts ,

tak ing to the st ree ts , so to speak , in search of characters pos-

sess ing those vague myst ica l qua l i t i es that make a good port ra i t .

For instance , Va ler ie Chavez 's p ieces prov ide us with an a lmost an-

thropologica l look at severa l characters in the Tende r lo in . Tutu ,

one of her four sub jects , could jus t as wel l be another anonymous

homeless person roaming the n ight , but she imbues h im with cha r-

acter that shows us that everyone , even the deplorable , have a sto-

ry to te l l , and perhaps even a lesson to impart . Michae l Grant ' s L i-

on of Hayes Val ley l ikewise revea ls a pe rsona l i ty that prowls the

back streets of SF’s Opera House , seemingly mad , but g l immer ing

with s incer i ty .

In the st r iv ings for romance and companionsh ip , the appl ic a-

t ion of a portra i t can be a most int imate and vulnerable ar t is t ic d e-

v ice . As the ar t is t port rays a lover 's indescr i bable features — for

which she longs so fervent ly — she turns to her deepes t reservoi r

of apprec iat ion and love , us ing empathy to expla in the mystery and

a l lure of another . Le igh Shaw descr ibes one such jou rney in to the

world of another as she navigates the dreamy nightt ime lan dscape

of her sub j ect whi le she lay bes ide h im i n bed .

Paul Corman-Roberts’ p iece prov ides a port ra i t not of a

person , but of a bui ld ing . His Vic tor ian Apartment conta ins i ts own

character , and te l ls i t s own ta le of f lower ing and decay . This de-

parture from trad i t iona l portra i ture emphasizes that even inan imate

ob jects conta in a soul worth captur ing .

We hope as edi tors to prov ide our readers wi th a ref lect ive

exper ience through these se lected p ie ces , present ing a contemporary

context in which portra i ture may reach i ts next art is t ic evol ut ion .

Peaking from beh ind Mona Lisa’s gr in ,

SynergyZine Edi tors

MartinBy Rickey Lee Bauman

In a we l l - furn ished Victor ian apartment on Wal le r Stree t l ived a so l i tary rat wi th a woman who had recent ly lost her lover in a car acc ident . The rat cut a hea l thy f igure ; h is b lack coat shone l ike ob-s id ian and h is wh ite tee th were c lean and f i l ed . The widow was less robust and , on account of her recent loss in a state of constant gr ief and anx iety . Her body was s lender , f inger t ips s ta ined ye l low f rom tobacco , and complex ion pa le . Though they l ived together , the rat and the widow be longed to ent i re ly d if ferent wor lds . Whi le she minded her te lev is ion in the den , he would groom h is coat in h is burrow. Or perhaps she was cook ing , humming a s low me lody , and he would be rest ing peacefu l ly on h is bedd ing , n ibb l ing , s t retch ing h is l egs , scratch ing beh ind h is sof t ears , l i s ten ing .

I t i s in terest ing to say that a l though she cou ld be cons idered a p i t i fu l woman , to th is t iny creature the widow was ho ly . She l ived a l l around h im . Her sme l l was the wind , and the sound of her vo ice the b i rds . Al l these th ings const i tuted a g iant mani fes tat ion of

Her an ever-present rea l i ty , the mover of a macrocosm, the“ ” br inger of l ight , f l ipper of switches and ign i te r of heat . And wh i l e h is mind adorned h is smal lness wi th doubt i t cou ld , on account of her largeness , prov ide h im a fa i th of someth ing greater and bene -volent .

The rat and widow l ived together for severa l months in th is fash ion : h im profoundly aware of her , and her tota l ly unaware of h is ex istence . Unt i l one day , someth ing changed . Short ly before dawn rat s tea l thed in to the k i tchen to scavenge , where to h is sur -pr ise he found the widow awake . I t was not her custom to be up so ear ly . But a v iv id dream of the past had brought her there . She was

smok ing a c igare t te out the window. An amber beam of s tree t l ight s t retched across her prof i l e . The rat had a perfect v is ion of her hu-man f igure .

She l i f ted the c igare t te to her mouth . A long , deep drag brought a f lash ing g low fo l lowed by a s i lhouet ted b i l low of smoke . Her other hand rubbed the nape of her neck then gent ly fe l l to the s i l l of the window.

Suddenly , a g lass bot t l e gave a crash . He hadn ' t not iced h is movements and knocked i t over . Star t l ed , her ha lf -smoked c igare t te fe l l out the window and she swung around and looked into the dark -ness of her own ki tchen . There was noth ing but st i l lness , s i l ence , and vacancy . Weak ly and a lmost p i t i fu l ly she c leared her throat and ca l l ed out , Mart in?“ ”

The rat ' s heart raced .M-Mart in , i s that you?“ ”

In th is moment , that sort of s i lence wh ich inhab i ts the Dead Seas and aqui fers of the wor ld came to res ide in the apartment . And as dawn arr ived s lowly through the fog over the bay , by and by the widow submit ted to wave le ts of weep ing and the rat re turned to h is burrow, where he thought a thousand an imal thoughts and cou ld not s leep .

Every part of h is consc iousness was try ing to gasp someth ing much larger then i tse l f . The menta l exer t ion was great for h is l i t t l e mind . But h is thoughts cou ld be reduced wi th the a id of human language to th is s imple quest ion : Had she , he thought ,“ ”

actua l ly ca l l ed me?“ ”Closer to sunset on that same day , he heard her say i t

again . The very word "mart in " f i l led h im wi th such myster ious e la-t ion as though he were chosen for someth ing greater that he— — submitted to h is cur ios i ty . He was ready ver i fy a connect ion between h imsel f and th is sound . He sought her in her own room, to that temple of a p lace , where he never dared enter before . He found her at a van i ty mirror . A r ing of l ight bu lbs prov id ing enough l ight as she put on red l ips t i ck , powdered her a l ready-pale cheeks , and th ickened her charcoal lashes .

He moved under the bed , purpose ly knock ing a shoe box wi th

~ Bury My Heart

By Nora Toomey

We make love in a triangle,

cry for Crazy Horse’s heart

buried deep beneath a river bed.

Where the bones say, sing.

Where the earth says, it’s ok to roam.

Pink teepees painted

on our forearms, on our fingernails,

We water the squash,

Water the sunflowers.

We sage the room.

The body,

The rooms of the body.

Here are the parts made for memory:

Our bright eyes, our feet,

The arms in the evening,

The thighs, bent down,

Searching out a ritual.

Coyote, crow,

Skin to skin,

Skin to air,

My breasts as an alter.

Here are the parts made for peace:

Hands, mouth,

The glow of our necks in September,

The rub of our legs,

talk of horses, sleep,

sleeping horses.

Nobody counting

On a promise,

Nobody cold enough

To make one.

BeastiaryBy Michael Warren Grant

Firehen

With such envy had Cygnus peeredThrough her Phoenix eyes, knowingshe was master of all they alighted upon,even these foreign, jutting dunes.So prideful was he of his well-kept pondand bevy of folloand bevy of followers, yet of them were his chains comprised.Too fearful to perish and face the prospect of rebirth, her deep ravine forged in sealed scars held his redemption, and anger at the hands of mortal man who in their terror ravage that which is pure - had he not played that role himself? Was it in the nature of the Phoenix to attract the scythe, in his nature it to wield?

Kneeling, the swan hung his long, delicaKneeling, the swan hung his long, delicate neck out before the bird of flame,and with a smirk she said, “chop.”

Tigerchild

He’ll moonwalk over with a cocktail in hand, lithe and spotted with tales.

What fun, a joke pirouettes from his tongue, and with a spin he’s gone.

You’ll smell hare upon his breath, prey perhaps you’ll be the nexttto see your sangre stain his golden fur sends shivers right down your limbs!

Yes, my dear, inevitably you’ll acquiesce. For in the presence of the great golden tigeryou know the worst that could befall you is him,

And though he’s already hadplenty to eat,

there is always roomfor dessert.for dessert.

Lion of Hayes Valley

You might catch him strewn about a stairwell

A withered bible in one hand

A bottomless mug in the other

And he might ask you, “Do you have drugs,

man?” And you know by now he means pot

Which he takes with a gruff thanks

And rolls up with a page

From Revelations.

A few hits deep, his yellowed fingertips

Roll the joint around, and he says,

“America’s been giving Mussolini a blowjob for the past

two decades, you know that?”

Sometimes I bite, mostly now I don’t.

His paintings adorn my walls, the excess

clinging to his denim everything.

I know he isn’t crazy, or at least

As crazy as he’d like you to believe.

After a few bouts,

my anxious retorts die out

and I stand like an awkward pupil

before a scarred and lonesome lion,

Wishing him both redemption and destruction,

Until his speech becomes more imploring,

As confessor seeking ablution,

and when I change topic

To ask of his birthday, he responds without a pause,

Saying, “You know the only thing astrology

is good for, Mike?”

“Murder, Mike… murder.”

Self-Portrait

I am an opportunist,Let’s just get that out of the way.

I take what is givenand like Faust followthe ideals of both salvationand deprecation.and deprecation.

I drift the will of the wind;Why waste a good updraft?Why waste a good piece of pie?Why not nibble a nubile young thigh,quivering with expectationof your touch?The moral decry the will-o'-wisp,The moral decry the will-o'-wisp,as if open hands mean greasy palmsand silver tongues spitonly knotty psalms.

Rather I say, what is meant for youis rightfully yours. Turn not awaythe great wheel of fate when it spinsyour way. Grasp tight, pull with might.your way. Grasp tight, pull with might.leave no space for afterthought nor guilt, those vacuous clouds, through whichslip the pranksters of your Apocalypse.Instead, like the tree, say to thyself,stand fast to the axe,but bend gently with the breeze,and streand stretch your ever-loving limbstowards that which makes youweak and tingly in the boughs.

Every other Friday she goes home early.

She remembers always to note how rent, bills,

and food have diced up

The tiny meal of fresh bills

That she will cash on her way home:

“Well, time to give my check to the bank so I can

watch it disappear,” she says,

with the same delivery every time, a late-night show host sign-off, a

trained performer.

I have seen her at the 7-11

Buying sweaty hot dogs wrestling in a blanket of fried bread and plastic bottles of

vodka,

Loading up on the complimentary non-dairy creamers

All in the decadent flavors of desserts she’ s never tasted:

Tahitian Vanilla, Crème Brulee, Dulce De Leche

In a tray beside the coffee maker, and the hot nacho cheese dispenser.

She waddles across the aisles, flapping her wings in between rows of candy

A red-cheeked bird migrating to the south side of town

She exits; her head a ratty lump of blonde coal as it crosses the tape marker that

reads 5 foot 7

And the back draft of the door that closes behind her

Is hot and sharp and boozy and smells like the garbage of grocery stores

Mixed with smoker’ s bars and molded ground coffee.

She talks to herself as she crosses the street,

Walks the length of the industrial hangars and across the dusty path between

The gate lanes and the bay and reaches a docked boat,

Nearly submerged in water

That squeezes between the planks of disintegrating wood holding up the floorboards

And begins the all-night deposit of her day

Into the bottle.

D

A

Y

PAY By Johnathan

Hersh

Thinking About the End is Always Comic By Pam Benjamin

Our reporter Ms. Benjamin

funnels through her vision.

We know she wears on us

like a kid or an animal act.

It's all about "me"

the mirrored stage-

attention to the absurd

moments of self awareness

staring at my odd gawky presence,

the cosmic philosophical.

I'm sorry, I'm being like Ms. Benjamin.

We can't see the fruitfulness of her life.

A constant.

A hidden world.

Uncoordinated movement

on a gross level.

Take this ribbon of a road

up and up and wound and wound.

Let's pretend it's 1958,

so we can listen to the stars without static.

Intimacy at a distance-

humor that leads to isolation.

A comic mock heroic

senseless humanity.

With we ighted eye l ids , she s leeps s tand-ing up . Time no longer app l ies to her , measured on ly in ETAs , de lays , in f l ight f i lms and lay-overs . In Hi l ton , Hyatt or Hol iday su i tes , she met icu lous ly and method ica l ly opens the n ights tand , p ick -ing up and fee l ing the texture of the bar -gain b ib le be tween her moistur ized and man icured f ingers . Remain ing unopened and unread , ta les of Jesus , Moses , Adam

and Eve wi l l never e late or insp i re her to contemplate . Instead , she pract i ces smi les through rout ines of oxygen mask dropp ings , seat be l t buck l ings and ex i t door f inger po in t ings . Her eyes are dead through heavy turbu lence ; through hundreds , thousands , mi l l ions of cry ing bab ies and pan icked faces ; through thunderstorms and hur -r icanes and monsoons and b l izzards . The fear never consumed her l ike i t d id wi th the other f l i e rs and stewards and stewardesses so s imply , but th is t ime was d i f ferent . She fee ls the long lost hor-mones of adrenal ine gal lop ing through her body , send ing pr icks from her ta i lbone to the nape of her neck ever so s lowly . She– – qu ivers as the vesse l tosses the contents of severa l overhead stor -age compartments onto unsuspect ing passengers and into the a is les . I t had been days , months , years s ince she fe l t so a l ive in her vu lner -ab i l i ty and tears beg in to soak her eyes . No longer ab le to face the tens , hundreds , thousands of worr ied sou ls look ing to her , the seasoned veteran of potent ia l ly impend ing death , for secur i ty , she c loses her eyes and the f i rs t of many last tears swim down her face . She beg ins to pray , someth ing so fore ign and uncomfortab le for her , to a God she has on ly prev ious ly fe l t in between her a i rbrushed f in -gernai l s . She opens her eyes and looks around for someth ing , any-th ing a s ign on ly to f ind the fasten-your-seatbe l t l ight f lash ing– – as i t had hundreds of mi l l ions of t imes before . Beyond that , faces of fear rad iate in the sof t moon l ight and now-strob ing cab in l ights bare ly i l luminat ing the in ter ior .D ING*26A l ights up on the seat ing map next to Faye 's face .

This Whole Whirlpool's

Much Easier With You Here

By Ryan Tamborski

~

Somewhere in the Western World

By Rickey Lee Bauman

Somewhere in the Western World

A man sits alone in a room.

Dot com. Invite.

Add. Logout.

Bed peace. Bookworm.

Glowing in a California pipe

Afghani hashish.

Schubert’s Unfinished

Symphony.

Thumbing through the pages

Of the “good old days.”

He finds dog-eared pages;

Bagism and “The First Party

At Ken Kesey’s with the Hell’s Angels”

The vintage machinery skips.

Thirty-Three RPM. A cellphone rings.

Another reality dreamed.

Another high beginning to fade.

o The Funeral

By Matt Yerge

This day,

a wilted rose in June grabs no early morning dew.

Feathered, fragmented flower

cracking upon gentle hands

withered, weathered, wrapped in red

a stale perfume put to rest.

Smoldering lips broke apart

to the soft crackle of her voice

where nightingales gather at a fireside romp

and cue the Phoenix to arise from the ash.

But I shame myself no more.

I’m gathered together in light.

To pass to smile,

to welcome all passions,

to which children

run to and from.

How can I lie anymore?

I wish not

no no wishing no washing

just me hello once more

As light falls upon her paved, painted face,

I saw the rock which was carved many years before

lathered layered having gathered gray.

I surely gasped to what I was doing;

sitting, sniffing, channel surfing,

with a thousand sorries I kept in the bank.

No, no they flee

and sob till tears flee themselves

upon steaming cheeks,

feel clean

when this honesty carves deep

Artist Credits

Editors

Rickey Lee Bauman rickeylee@synergyzine.com

ploughandfeather.com

Michael Warren Grant editor@synergyzine.com

Writers

Leigh Shaw leigh.e.shaw@gmail.com

Valerie Chavez giveittoval@gmail.com

Pam Benjamin pamsedai@hotmail.com

Ryan Tamborski ryan.tamborski@gmail.com

Jonathan Hersh jonathanikkyu@gmail.com

Paul Corman Roberts pabs67@yahoo.com

Matt Yerge mattyerge@gmail.com

Nora Toomey nmtoomey@gmail.com

Visual Artists

Sonya Genel sonyagenel@gmail.com

www.sonyagenel.com

Adam Holzrichter aholzrichter@gmail.com

Dan Williams-Baumgart daniel_wb@att.net

flickr.com/photos/danielwb

Vanessa Rodriguez vanrod07@gmail.com

Michael Ross michaelrossart.gmail.com

www.michaelrossart.com

Jeff Cravath jcravath@gmail.com

Gabriella Molina painteddancers@gmail.com

Courtney Ziegler courtney.ziegler@gmail.com

Michael Latronica latronica@gmail.com