https://brazenheadreview.com Brazenhead Review Fri, 28 Aug 2020 21:15:19 +0000 https://brazenheadreview.com en https://brazenheadreview.com/apartmentseven Sun, 16 Aug 2020 19:40:44 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/apartmentseven Brazenhead Review Enter https://brazenheadreview.com/About Sun, 16 Aug 2020 19:40:47 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/About Brazenhead Review&nbsp;is a literary magazine of new writing that seeks to emphasize substance over clout. As a response to our social media-saturated age, we hope to provide readers the chance to focus on what they read rather than who they read. We read our submissions blind. The magazine was originally conceived at Brazenhead Books, a speakeasy bookshop in New York City, under the mentorship of its late owner, bookseller, and dear friend, Michael Seidenberg. The first issue appeared in a limited edition print-run in July 2015 to mark the closing of the first iteration of the iconic bookshop and its literary salon. Anyone and everyone was welcome at Brazenhead Books and Michael was well-known for encouraging open dialogues on myriad topics. The magazine continues in this tradition, in his honor, to channel open-minded, good-humored, and anti-oppressive ways of communicating.Brazenhead Review is interested in all forms of literature, especially those texts that defy easy definition. We seek subversive work that bends genre norms and explores nuanced themes.&nbsp; We invite you to surprise us. Yours,The Editors “Everyone is someone and no one is anyone. That’s my kind of world and this is my kind of project.” -Michael Seidenberg, owner of Brazenhead Books MASTHEAD Simona Blat “Woman Under the Influence” Creative Director J.T. Price “MasterClass Dissident” Editor-in-Chief Benjamin Aleshire “Gas Station Sommelier” Poetry Editor Rhoni Blankenhorn “Invisible Worm” Poetry Editor READERS Alice M. Ganey Helen Ruby Hill David Horowitz Bartholome St. John Anna Schwartzman David Trudo Mo Zee DONORS Robert Clark Daniel Sofaer Susan Terris George Murphy Paul Rogers David Horowitz Boriana Karastoyanova John Wray Joel Hugenberger Ethan Feuer Andrew H. Friedman Michael Dobson Daniel Taub Samuel Terris Anonymous Our HQ is Black Spring Books. https://brazenheadreview.com/Submit Mon, 17 Aug 2020 00:18:20 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Submit POETRY ONLY submissions will open November 1. They will close once we hit ~200 or on December 15. Please remove any biographical info from your documents. Any submission with biographical info on the document will not be read. Please make sure the file name is only the title of your work, no names. Only one submission per writer. FOR POETRY: email us at brazenheadreviewpoetry@gmail.com with a Word or PDF file of your work. No more than 5 pages. We pay $200 per poem. This issue will be in print. We look forward to reading your work! ︎ &nbsp;Enjoy the most recent issue.︎ &nbsp;Write us with any questions: brazenheadreview@gmail.com ︎ &nbsp;Support local bookstores, read with abandon, love one another. ︎ &nbsp;Instagram&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;︎ &nbsp;Twitter https://brazenheadreview.com/Welcome Mon, 17 Aug 2020 23:13:06 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Welcome All that one has felt, but has not dared to think; all that one has thought, but has not dared to say; all the terrible whispers from the unspeakable margins; all the horrible wreckage and silt from the unsounded depths, float in upon us and overpower us. John Cowper Powys https://brazenheadreview.com/Summer-2020-Issue Thu, 20 Aug 2020 23:21:11 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Summer-2020-Issue Summer 2020 Issue &nbsp;<img width="1144" height="1437" width_o="1144" height_o="1437" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/29da8d6bd5622dd1d829d03256c34161abcf9e789931e1e76603095fc58860b8/Boy-and-Blackbird-Tim-Milk-1995-v2.png" data-mid="81229582" border="0" data-scale="40" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/29da8d6bd5622dd1d829d03256c34161abcf9e789931e1e76603095fc58860b8/Boy-and-Blackbird-Tim-Milk-1995-v2.png" />&nbsp; Boy with Blackbird | Tim Milk https://brazenheadreview.com/Publishing-the-Old-Fashioned-Way Fri, 21 Aug 2020 22:24:17 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Publishing-the-Old-Fashioned-Way Poetry Publishing, the Old-Fashioned Way A gust of wind just blew open my folder. Now my poems are scattered all over the neighborhood. I see one way up in a tree and another stuck to the windshield of a UPS truck. The little girl down the street has picked one up and is reading it. Now she’s crying. N. Minnick https://brazenheadreview.com/Greystone Fri, 21 Aug 2020 22:34:28 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Greystone Poetry Greystone Kept thinking of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke—tried to remember how the roadside escape went, and was that the one that led him, holed up in a church, soliloquy and bullets? My brother was on the shoulder of the service road, downhill from Greystone, in an orange jumpsuit. Across the street was the shelter for battered women. Growing up, our mother would always point it out. But then it wasn’t Paul Newman at all, as I got out of the car and started to walk towards my brother. I had a flash of our mother, in all her drama telling her three children we’d driven her mad and she was hitching it to Greystone, thundering out the front door we never used. I remember thinking, she was gone a long time. I took soft steps towards my brother, looked down at my feet, as though through a field of landmines; closed my eyes, as if in the pitch dark, I could touch him and no one would notice. I thought, I parked the car the wrong way, we had to drive past the bus, past the guards to get free. I hadn’t unlocked the passenger door. The car wasn’t running. I hadn’t planned a diversion. I wondered if anyone else would want to make a break. They couldn’t shoot us all, I thought, but only had room for a couple more. The guards started to yell, but I thought about when we were kids, we’d sneak out after midnight, go up past the hospital and wait in a field for the cops to drive by. We held hands as they turned their spotlight looking for homeless or patient escapees—no concept of consequence then. One guard nearly in a run towards us now. My eyes still closed, I could feel his impending violence. It was too late to run, too late to hole up in a church somewhere. And it was too bad, we were local kids, we had an advantage. The one guard forcefully tore my body away. ~ Today, I have that failure to communicate line in my head, and the image of Newman drunk, screwing off the heads of parking meters at the beginning, again and again and again. Past the shelter, up the hill, Greystone, and then the spot where my brother and I held each other. It was Thanksgiving break. I didn’t say anything. All my brother said was, don’t let go. And I didn’t, until I did. Rogan Kelly https://brazenheadreview.com/Vienna-14-ARPIL-2018-19-44 Thu, 20 Aug 2020 23:01:00 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Vienna-14-ARPIL-2018-19-44 Poetry Vienna - 14 ARPIL 2018, 19:44 This mustard colored table - tablecloth.With rose-patterned doily, I feel likeA soldier in 1944, writing a postcardTo his wife, as the bombs begin to strike.The building remains unscathed. The chairs just the same.The aesthetic looks so eternal / untouched byPost-modernity. I shall write the philosophyOf pre-post modernity. Everyone moves fast in Vienna, just like New YorkBut with less consideration. People have twiceCrossed me and I have only been hereBut merely an hour. Both men;The women seem more considerate of timeIn general. I don’t know who I am right now, and itFeels like my technology is unwelcomeAlthough they have the same tiny screened PanasonicThat I saw in Prague. Nobody watchesT.V. in Europe I believe. I was going to write a love poem just nowBut instead I realized ./. I don’t know what love is. Not quite a pity, although I could try to start now:Your legs in black nylons … no, that isn’t love.Your smile in summer shadows … closer.The way you laugh and try to sing … almost there.The way you stare into my eyes and all time Suddenly stands still and I can no longer breathe … yes. Moises Ramirez https://brazenheadreview.com/Enter-the-Water-Advice-of-the-Sun-Bride Fri, 21 Aug 2020 21:29:54 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/Enter-the-Water-Advice-of-the-Sun-Bride Poetry Enter the Water But don’t stray as far as the swamp wrecks Bottle green ducks slain on pilings Mud dusted and bricking the dock rope The reed clashing and a cast of the wind Speckling the frame of the eyes with bent lashes The scene hurtles toward a reckoning with the vengeance of one last blackberry winter. Afterwards you will not be as sure of May It seems the warming could always turn back To the sea. If you are cold, hold my hand Advice of the Sun Bride I do not like horses for riding, only mountingtheir backs makes it hard to see their eyes to know their tracks and they are not one with us then but we are always behind, we cannot see what they see or whatthey are to themselves. H.S. Rogers https://brazenheadreview.com/A-Dalliance-with-Zephyr Fri, 28 Aug 2020 21:15:19 +0000 Brazenhead Review https://brazenheadreview.com/A-Dalliance-with-Zephyr Fiction A Dalliance with Zephyr I should have never gotten to know the person I am sleeping with because now the sex is thrown off, but I think it’s only me. I was seeing this guy—or am seeing this guy—that lives above Sunset just a bit towards Silverlake and I know he’s a painter but like a “painter.” You know, the kind that waits tables and the apartment he lives in is actually his aunt’s but for some reason she doesn’t use it, so he lives there rent-free? I got to know him because my friend, who is also sleeping with him, told me he’s pretty interesting. She said that he was an alright painter and that he was working on a portrait of her, but she hasn’t seen his progress because it’s a surprise, and I mainly assume she thinks he’s interesting because she likes being the subject of a painting. Well, I’m looking at the portrait right now, standing in my underwear in his studio, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s all blacks and grays and comedic swirls, and he’s talking about how Rembrandt inspired him but I’m not sure he’s ever seen a Rembrandt. He keeps name-dropping all these artists and styles and technical themes—talking about Dutch lighting and French impressionism and John Singleton Copley for some reason—definitely trying to sound smart and professional in the hopes that I don’t know what he means. And it’s all very condescending because I’m sure he has no idea that I read art history and take those classes since it’s my minor even though I’m an economics major, and that’s how I know all the stuff he’s saying is utter bullshit. But I just cross my arms trying to look engaged, mumbling, “Sure, sure,” whenever he stops his monologue to take a breath. The painting is of a woman’s figure and she’s either lounging or floating: I can’t tell just yet since it must only be half-finished. It looks like a sketch got blown up to the canvas because it’s streaky and the only colors are black, gray, and maybe a little blue too, but that might just be the lighting. There’s not a lot of detail; there’s absolutely no background—kiss dimension goodbye—and it doesn’t look like my friend at all. Actually, it doesn’t look like anyone. I can only tell it’s a woman and that she’s either surprised or orgasming. “So what’s the plan for the rest of it?” I ask. “Well it’s basically done,” he says and that makes me want to jump out the window. “I’ll just add some eyebrows, maybe a smatter to the background, and a bit of detail to the dress.” This is the first time I realize the woman is wearing a dress. “And you used Miranda as the subject, right?” I say, slightly picking a fight. “Yeah, but more of her energy, you know? I tried to mimic it onto the canvas,” he says. “Oh that’s good because this looks nothing like her,” I sigh since it seems we’re finally on the same page. “Really?” he says cocking his head at the figure. “I think it looks a lot like her. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen her naked.” I have, in fact, seen Miranda naked, but I say, “Yeah, maybe.” I’m already imagining the conversation I’m going to have with her, and just to stir the pot I ask, “What are you going to call it?” He smirks and says, “I’m thinking A Dalliance with Zephyr.” And if I haven’t already flat-lined, I sure do now. I’m internally screaming because that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard this boy say, and that includes all the wild stuff we’ve said in the bedroom. I’m picturing him searching through an online thesaurus for this title, and I feel like he’s some B-rated YA author that thinks he’s good and really deep because he referenced Greek mythology, and I’m so overcome with my own reaction that I almost don’t hear him say, “What do you think?” “Well, it’s original,” I respond, which is also probably a lie. “Are you gonna be in that art show on Vermont? Or near Vermont or something. I was talking to David about it.” We have both slept with David. “No,” he shrugs. “I don’t like to put my stuff in art shows.” Which means he’s never been invited to one. “How do you sell your pieces then?” “I don’t like to sell my pieces,” he says. Which means he’s never sold one. Which means he’s never been commissioned, either. “Okay,” I say, long and drawn-out, because I’m not sure how else to respond. He’s walking to the kitchen and pulls his Brita from the fridge for some water. “I’m not about selling my artwork and making it a business,” he says. “It’s more than that—but you’re an economics guy so I don’t expect you to understand.” At this point I’m sincerely waiting for a TV crew to burst in to tell me I’ve been pranked or punked because this is ridiculous. But no one shows so I say, “But don’t you want to be a painter?” He comes back to the studio and says, “I’m already a painter,” gesturing to the “portrait” of Miranda, and I’m about to call 911 because he’s killing me. And listen, I’m not super pretentious—or maybe I am and I’m lying to myself—but you have to understand this guy looks like an Instagram influencer that pays for things using the money he gets from sponsored content. He’s got a swimmer’s body and a tattoo on his ankle and ribs that I’ve seen on two different celebrities, and I know he lives and dies by Rainbow-brand flip-flops. And don’t get me wrong, he is incredibly hot, but I just wish I kept up a distanced illusion of him because every time he talks about how Van Gogh was so misunderstood and “ate yellow paint to put happy sunshine in him,” I want to blow my fucking brains out. You see, the first time I met him, we were doing cocaine at a friend-of-a-friend’s party somewhere on the West side, and the group was talking about mojitos, all sniffing and ecstatic and idiotic. And we spent maybe ten minutes looking for mint until this guy insists that basil leaves are just as good; well, the drinks were absolutely rancid but we were all too drunk to care, and that night I ended up hooking up with him in the bathroom for a quick second. At the party everyone drank too much and did too many drugs; we all acted dumb, so I chalked our behavior up to inebriation. I hadn’t really had a conversation with him outside of a party or club or during sex, so now I realize maybe it wasn’t the liquor that made him ridiculous but that he’s really just like that. “Regardless,” I say, “you should come to the show on Saturday. It should be fun.” “I think I will,” he nods. “You guys doing anything after?” “Maybe an afterparty at David’s,” I say. “Can usually count on that.” “Is he seeing anyone?” he asks about David. “Not that I recall.” “Huh,” he says and looks at the painting. “Think you’ll have the painting done by then?” I ask. “Yeah, maybe. But art takes time, ya know?” he laughs. Before I can decide to light myself on fire, he says, “Want to shower? I’m a little cold,” since we’re both still half-naked. I say sure and we shower. It only takes me about three minutes into the shower to decide that, yeah, I’ll have sex with him again. And we do—which confirms that I’m the only one who thinks the sex is thrown off, but I know I’ll keep sleeping with him because he’s still pretty good. Afterwards, he’s refilling his Brita, talking about Saturday, talking about the painting. But I’m no longer listening. I’m still thinking about the sex. I’m thinking about how Van Gogh never ate yellow paint. I’m thinking about why I keep doing this and why I refuse to stop. Harrison Pyros