Musezine 20

Musezine 20

y Danielle Jones

y Nikky Gonzalez

y Ashley Dookie

Fashion Runs In My Family

y Danielle Jones

The Last Place Nobody
Would Look
by Ryan Reyes

What is it about movies that move me?
Why does the moving image speak to me more
than any human being I know living?
My sweet escape, don’t you see,
Does not exist in a realm that is 3D.
For if it did it would have come with shades.
Instead of Diesel I would rock Regal.
You see the thing about film, the sweet art of
movie making, that magic appeals to me more
than anyone I’ve ever met.
Crazy like McMurphy! – A boy whose only
comforting touch is through a box or a screen,
or if you really want to be fancy on your wall or
the ceiling.

Its not the first person view I see life through. It’s a lens that
is wide or single, but most importantly round and square. The
haven, my escape from reality can’t you see: movies from
Scorsese to the Andersons, from the little films that could,
to the oldies that have won critical acclaim, to a whole lot of
globes, even little statues that tell the world, “#$@%! Nothing
is impossible.” You see, the closest thing that I got to a perfect
family comes in the form of the Griswolds or the Tenenbaums.
Dysfunctional is how I was meant be. Loneliness has followed
me my whole life.
So hitch a ride with the driver of my imaginary taxi, and with
my only friend - not my friend in reality, but you may have
seen them a few times on TV. From Scott Pilgrim or Nick
Twist to Bueller, Bueller, Bueller - the youth that is revolting
is what I wish to be. And somehow they really are the only
people who understand me.
When my home is crumbling all around me like a building
that wouldn’t last two minutes in a Michael Bay movie, when
my world becomes a wasteland like in Beyond Thunderdome,
my own Aunty Enity looks like Jabba the Hutt and thinks he
has the Juice. The Bishop of my life, the one who cannot be
named, my brother who I wish was from another mother, is my
natural disaster, my Sharknado.

Then you have my mother: The Black Mamba. Instead
of being billed like it is in the movies, its Andrew. When
the bell rings its like Apollo Creed and Rocky. It’s the
beginning of World War Three sending nukes. This
when I become Dr. Strangelove and love all of these
bombs.
This is where my Haven comes into play: When I’m
alone the only thing I ever need is eyes to see the lands
of make believe, which, as you guessed, appear on
screen.
I escape from reality, the life I live everyday: my very
own horror movie. Movies are the only thing I have
to comfort me through the good and bad, both when
I’m sad or mad. Happy as I can be, no matter what
state of mind I’m in, when the previews are through and
the Feature Presentation is about to begin that is when
I make my escape. I play hide until eternity. Forever
I will be inside your TV or on your computer screen
illegally. That is where I am at peace. So please don’t try
to find me because I’m happy and Singing In the Rain.

y Malcolm Jackson

y Naja Shabazz

y Kalimah Jefferson

Story To Tell
by Bintou Camara
This haven is not a thing or a
person.
This haven can’t hold me or talk
to me.
This haven does not involve a
mother, a father, a she, or a he.
This haven comforts me without
effort.
This haven is where my trust lies
–
Where my ideas exert,
Where my secrets rise,
Where tears shed from my eyes,
Where the warmth in the air, the
fluff of a pillow and the smell
of detergent on sheets are all
incised into me.
This haven is not a thing or a
person.

But I learned this haven is the
safest place to be.
Because…
People won’t always care about
your feelings.
They’re not always going to be
worried about your tears
Or protect you from your fears.
See, people won’t always relate
to your pain.
Well, I have a story to tell.
Let me explain.
Someone once told me they’d be by
my side forever,
Stand by me through whatever,
Defend me from whomever,
However, forever didn’t last forever.
Now I keep to myself.
I know better.
My haven is a place with four
walls.

Dreams and Nightmares
curated by BXMA Teen Council
Opening
June 5th, 6:30pm
Bronx Museum
1040 Grand
Concourse
Image by Yrma Batista

Dolores Haze
by Jennesy Herrera
I had a dream about you last night.
You were melting inside of me
as a snake wrapped itself around my neck.
And in your voice it whispered in my ear,
“We can be friends.”
I woke up alone,
and I realized I wasn’t dreaming.
The memory is so blurry.
God took a rib from to make me.
I wanted to go back home,
and nothing could tear me apart from you but God.
I wanted to be a part of you,
even though you were a part of me,
inside of me,
for a short while but had no problem pulling out
and leaving like a convict in a stolen car.
Even though you were just a little boy
wearing an oversized handed down suit,
you were my Adam.
I just wasn’t your Eve.

I am tired of writing love poems about lust
and lusting for your love.
I have wasted my time.
I could’ve moved the tallest mountains
instead of moving my hips
trying to get you to love me.
Do you feel all the energy I’ve wasted on you?
I feel everything you haven’t given me.
When I asked you if you like salty or sweet,
you told me you liked me.
So I twisted myself like a wet rag,
trying to squeeze out every last drop
so you could drink me when you were thirsty.
When you were hungry,
I cut off pieces of myself
But when I asked you what you like in a girl,
you listed every trait I don’t have.
You jokingly pleaded for me to stay.
I would’ve if I could’ve,
but I had to leave a house where I
didn’t feel at home.

They say home is where the heart is,
but what if your heart was broken
in the place you felt most at home?
I felt pain but ignored it until
I realized that I had left my heart behind,
and no longer knew where I belonged.
Now I must renovate my body,
turn it into my temple,
I must feed myself simple pleasures when I’m hungry.
I must drink from the fountain of youth
when I’m thirsty.
I will go home and take off the clothes you liked,
and my pretty make up,
and slip into my skin.
I will make myself comfortable in my home.
Home is where ever you want it to be,
where ever you feel comfortable.
I wasn’t home in your ribs.
I was imprisoned.

y Naja Shabazz

y Kenneth Guevara

y Naja Shabazz

y Malcolm Jackson

y Nikky Gonzalez

y Yrma Batista

y Malcolm Jackson

facebook
by Nikky Gonzalez
Cover Image by Yrma Batista