Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

poetry

(#metoo)

performance art

the 12/2/17 “Who What Where When Why”
show @ the Bahá’í Faith Center, Austin, part 2

The Boss Lady’s Editorial

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

lunchtime poll topic

(commentaries on relevant topics)

philosophy monthly

(justify your existence)

Shining

won’t stop shining

go ahead and hurt me
just know i’ll bite back
won’t be the voiceless victim
mute and unable to speak for herself
i have a voice,
and no one will strip it from me;
my history won’t be rewritten
let the books remember me as unflinchingly brave
and endlessly kind—

because i will follow my dreams and burn bridges
to any negative person or thought
because life’s too short to lay in seas of misery
wondering what’s wrong with me when someone takes
issue with who i am
because i am who and what i am
owning no one any apology and i won’t give one
i am a magic, a power, a beauty, a light, a love, an intensity

all my own and anyone who does not like my
earth, water, wind, fire, or metal
can kiss my ass;
i am done trying to please everyone
that’s something that can never be done—
i am done crucifying myself for others
going to shine bright, follow my own dreams and ambitions;
only those who support me will feel my presence in their lives.

Linda M. Crate Bio

    Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. Her third novel Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016.

why do i care so much?

everyone always has
crap to say
never to my face,
but always behind my back;

as far as i can see
that means they’re already behind me
so there’s no use in looking back
let those bridges burn forever—

i have no place in my life
for people who don’t believe in me
or those whom i cannot trust
because there’s no reason to hurt others

even if you are hurting that’s no excuse,
and i am done making ass holes into vases;
because i love too much and care too much
for people who wouldn’t walk a puddle

in regards to me when i would swim an entire
ocean for them—
i’m just tired of believing in people
only for them to let me down

i know not everyone has a heart like mine,
but is loyalty such a hard quality to find in a person?
so many selfish, apathetic souls out there
dreamers like me have to guard our hearts

because not everyone is worth our time
i find i give tears and thoughts
about people who don’t even give me a piece of my mind
makes me wonder why i care so much.

Linda M. Crate Bio

    Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. Her third novel Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016.

Free Speech Canto XXII

Re the Pentagon Papers,
Not the ones leaked by Ellsberg about the Vietnam War,
but papers before and after that war,
even
in some cases before there was a Pentagon
And these papers were about that other war,
the one to win the hearts and minds of the American people
and, by extension, the world
The papers
that established the policies by which
they would determine which movies to offer support to

“No matter what we want from Hollywood,
we get it---
and quick
We do not even have to ask”

But when moviemakers’ self-censorship didn’t go far enough,
the Pentagon was ready with conditions for its support

“Military aspects are feasible authentic depictions”
(“Any film that portrays the military as negative
is not realistic to us”)

“Informs the public about the military”
(“officially supporting this production
for the positive image visibility it will provide”)
(“has worked closely with the producers and screenwriters
in developing a mutually acceptable script”)

“Helps military recruiting and retention”
(“military depictions have become
more of a ‘commercial’ for us”)

“The production must be authentic in its portrayal
of persons,
places,
actual military operations
or historical events”
(except,
of course,
where any or all of those would reflect negatively
on any aspect of the military)

And so the producers

(definition of producer

-someone superbly skilled
at getting other people
to pay for everything)

would usually
cravenly cave in to any and all demands,
almost as many stories as there have been movies

“They make prostitutes of us all
because they want us to sell out
to their point of view”
and
the movies that might have been made
have been relegated to an uncensored alternate world,
where,
“when the government is giving financial benefits,
it can’t decide who to give to,
or not give to,
based
on the viewpoint expressed”

Free Speech Canto XXIII

May 28, 1954
A subpoena is issued
by the House Un-American Activities Committee
to Lloyd Barenblatt, thirty-one,
a psychology instructor at Vassar,
the subpoena a piece of business
illustrating the dictum best expressed
twenty years later by Mel Brooks in Blazing Saddles
(“We’ve got to protect our phony-baloney jobs”)

By the time Barenblatt appeared
before the un-American committee
on June 28, 1954,
he was no longer an instructor at Vassar,
his contract having expired in the interim

Barenblatt was asked five questions
about his time,
from 1947-1950,
as a graduate assistant and teaching fellow
at the University of Michigan

Barenblatt refused to answer the questions,
not because of the Fifth Amendment protection
against self-incrimination,
but
rather as an assertion
of his First Amendment rights
of freedom of speech and association
He was found in contempt of Congress

The statist majority on the Court
upheld Barenblatt’s citation,
concluding
“the balance between the individual
and the governmental interests . . .
must be struck in favor of the latter”

But
what was the government’s interest here?

One likely possibility:
that
“no purpose for the investigation of Barenblatt
is revealed by the record except exposure
purely for the sake of exposure”
that
“the chief aim, purpose, and practice . . .
is to try witnesses and punish them . . .
by humiliation and public shame”

And
showing subservience to the legislative branch
by allowing judicial functions to be usurped,
the Court majority
“completely leaves out
the real interest in Barenblatt’s silence,
the interests of the people as a whole
in being able to join organizations,
advocate causes and make political “mistakes”
without later being subjected
to governmental penalties
for having dared to think for themselves
It is this right,
the right to err politically,
which keeps us strong as a Nation”

And
the question,
then as now,
was
“whether we as a people
will try fearfully and futilely
to preserve democracy
by adopting totalitarian methods”
and
then it was sadly answered in the affirmative

Free Speech Canto XLIII

March 21, 1947
Executive Order 9835
establishing
“the right to an administrative hearing
before a loyalty board”
for anyone
accused,
by anyone
for any reason,
of disloyalty
And the nature of such a kangaroo court became clear
in the case that became known as Bailey v. Richardson

Dorothy Bailey,
an employee
of the U.S. Employment Service
(and,
perhaps more relevant to the ’charges’ against her,
president of her United Public Workers local:
“a hell of a good union person”
“as pure as the driven snow”)
was interrogated by a loyalty board
Among the questions she was asked was
whether she had written to the Red Cross
protesting blood segregation
(because
“objection to blood segregation
is a recognized ’party line’ tactic”),
and
despite the absence of any proof
she was found disloyal and dismissed
She sued,
claiming
her rights were violated because
she had not had the opportunity
to confront her accusers

The Court of Appeals:

“The question is not whether she had a trial
The question is whether she should have had one”
and
the answer,
by a 2-1 vote,
was no
The case went to the Supreme Court

Justice Douglas:

“She was on trial for her reputation,
her job,
her professional standing
A disloyalty trial is the most crucial event
in the life of a civil servant”
“To make that condemnation
without meticulous regard
for the decencies of a fair trial
is abhorrent to fundamental justice”

Justice Jackson:

“The fact that one may not have a legal right
to get or keep a government post
does not mean he can be adjudged
ineligible illegally”

but,
by virtue of a 4-4 tie
that failed to overturn the Court of Appeals
(one Justice recusing himself),
that was exactly what it did mean
for Dorothy Bailey and many others
in government and out

Temporary

    I know it’s a bar: public, festive, abrim with good cheer. And yet...why did you choose to plant yourself next to my frowning countenance? How many open seats do I count, all far and away from me?

    Amiable male, who chirps and chips at me before he even orders a drink. Jabs a question, throws a right, rams his gossip fist against my clenching jaw...the shock of which concusses through my laden brain, my sopping sponge. And his voice, the irritating cymbals of self-interest.

    He introduces himself, follows with a handshake. I sigh and order whiskey. I wash it down with whiskey.

    His company is welcome.
    I am ready to converse.

I Love to Speak Her Name

    I had a dream about “the one that got away.” I hadn’t seen her in quite some time. But there we were, parked across from one another on the cafe sidewalk. One of those European tables, intimate and small, two chairs only. I half expected to be serenaded by a moustachioed Italian. In my dream of romance.

    We sipped pints of beer as the rain came down and flooded the quiet side street, shielded by a canopy, warmed by mutual affection. I sat with her, swelled by happiness. I was in love.

    I could see that she was nervous; for once was she was drunker than me. Her agitation gave me confidence. Her true feelings became clear. She wanted to be there, with me. She wanted to be there, with me. Then appeared a most candid and disarming smile—through no effort on my part. She began to relax.

    She talked with her hands. The more she drank, the more she gestured. Until an unfortunate gesture gave flight to her glass. To the pavement it fell, shattering explosively. Glass like shrapnel, and I could hear the beer fizz and hiss. Red she turned, and shakily gathered the pieces. She gashed her hand on one of the shards.

    Up she rose and fled from me. Across the street and into the Safeway, hopping over streams of gutter water, quicker than a blink. I gave chase, stepping through streams of gutter water, sluggish but concerned. I scanned the aisles, eerily vacant in the dusk. I knocked on the bathroom door, speaking her name. I love to speak her name.

    I entered the restroom.
    She was nowhere to be found.

Evening Thoughts Rise

Our evening thoughts rise
in sunset skies—
the wind rings little bells
to hush the snow
and falling rain
...it is a peaceful night

The Glass Diary

Pages fill pages,
Forgotten faces echo
what we did not say.
Your empty pen scratches thought,
My margins fill today

Nothing Else!!!!!

Just because I eat plenty of chitlins and cornbread
Doesn’t make me Black,
For true nourishment comes from digesting truth, justice and equality!

Just because I’m a great athlete
Doesn’t make me Black,
For while your blood is pumped by cupidity, mines is pumped by tenacity!

Just because I style my hair this way
Doesn’t make me Black,
For The Bible says “The Messiah” will have hair like lamb’s wool,
Now think about that!

Just because my skin is ebony
Doesn’t make me Black,
For blindness is what you need!

Just because you call me a nigger
Doesn’t make me Black,
For evil words are manifested in your brain and “thick or thin” lips
Can pronounce them!

Just because I live in the most poverty-stricken areas of the world
Doesn’t make me Black,
For government “by the rich people” and “for the rich people” has long
endured!

Just because my “IQ” has been measured “by your system” to be
Below yours
Doesn’t make me Black,
For the ignorant are the educated ones that ignore injustices!

Just because I speak your English improperly
doesn’t make me Black,
For correctness of speech is second to “speaking the truth,” no matter
what language is employed!

BUT!!!! WHEN YOU SAVAGELY INVADED MY ANCESTORS
TRIBAL HOMES, BEAT THEM PROFUSELY, PUGNACIOUSLY
HANDLED THE WOMEN-THEN RAPED THEM IN THE PRESENCE
OF THEIR HUSBANDS, DISRESPECTED THEIR CRYING INNOCENT
CHILDREN-BOUNDED, GAGED, SHACLED THEM, SLAMMED AND
PILED THEM INTO SPLINTERED-RIDDEN SHIPS,
DISALLOWED THEM TO CONVERSE WITH EACH OTHER-
BROUGHT THEM TO A STRANGE LAND,
SOLD AND BARTERED THEM OFF TO OTHERS OF YOUR APATHY,
FORCED YOUR LANGUAGE DOWN THEIR THROATS,
LABELED THEM WITH YOUR EUROPEAN NAMES-
FED THEM WHAT THE PIGS REFUSED TO EAT,
DEENIED THEM EDUCATION, PRAYER, THE RIGHT TO VOTE,
HUMAN RIGHTS, THEM ASSASSINATED THEIR LEADERS-
These hideous infamies are what made and makes me Black,
NOTHING ELSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Prophet

Earlier that morning in Providence,
on my way to meet a dope dealer,
I’d seen him standing on the corner
of Weybossett Street and Dorrance.
I’d known him from years past
when I took a state job in my twenties,
working then, as an Art therapist
at the hospital, ignorant assholes
referred to
as the “Nuthouse”.

There he was, outside of Dunkin Donuts,
wetness spreading down his grey pant leg.
We addicts and the juicers
referred to Phillip as ‘Prophet’.

Phil was paranoid schizophrenic; hallucinated,
but had a genius IQ and once
was someone folks looked up to,
now they’d just as soon spit on him.

His tattered appearance
and highly flavored smell of urine,
reviled passersby.
He was loathed by the self righteous;
these polished pillars of Providence
that preferred him locked away.

I handed Phil a dollar...

When the raggedy man
stopped taking his meds
he’d go off the hook,
be picked up by the cops,
and brought to my old place of employment,
the State of Rhode Island’s
psychiatric hospital in Cranston.

Phil was a gifted artist,
did fabulous pen and inks
pencil sketches, and watercolors.
My art paled at the time
compared to his ability.
But none of the upper echelon
of polite pricks knew any of this.
They detested his existence.
Everyone outside our realm
of drugs, alcohol, and homelessness,
saw Prophet as a piece of shit,
something to be walked around.

On the hill, outside the upscale
Providence Place Mall
you’d sometimes see Prophet,
spreading his message of impending doom
as horrified mothers, wearing fear,
held close their little ones;
saw him as one possessed,
and gave Phil wide berth,
crossed the street,
or stopped, and chose another entrance
on the sight of him.

The business district’s professionals,
in their smart Armani suits,
made direct complaints to the mayor’s office;
to the mayor himself,
who directed city cops
to do something about the fucking maniac.

Phillip was seen as poisonous- dangerous.
In hasty speech and malicious dialogue,
they’d demand his removal.
Out of sight- out of mind;
just another crazy bastard
that needs a straight jacket,
better off to be locked up for good!

The wild man knew that
the ignorant pointed jagged fingers at him,
but the young saw him as amusing,
felt no danger or hurt from the barefoot man.
Phil loved kids for their unpolluted hearts
and unbiased judgments.
Only the adults feared his illness,
and his words of disaster.
They shied away from him like pestilence.

At the Plaza that afternoon
with spittle flying off his tongue,
he spoke as one with an education.
Phil didn’t speak of some unseen God’s wrath,
but forecasted the end to it all
and the impending shutdown and collapse.

Booming with authority he spoke poetically
of the end of this existence,
when all would be brought low-
an upending of humanity,
of all creatures and continents.

“The heights of the ice covered peaks
will sink beneath the deepest seas!” yelled Prophet.
“They would be as if, they never existed at all!”

He drove it home to the small crowd,
spoke of the planet’s wobbling,
its poles shifting,
explained that the universe; like a lake’s bottom,
was going through a seasonal turning;
of being born once more
into something new; extraordinary.

In another life
Phil drove a silver car; one bought new
from an automobile plant in Germany.
He once owned a three story Victorian
on Providence’s high end, historical district;
the East Side.
In that other life he stood in a lecture hall
grasping the podium at Brown University
directing his talk to privileged ivy leaguers
lecturing on physics, astronomy,
and multi dimensional theory.

But that day in Burnside Park,
he merely stood defiant- lecturing us low born,
below the bronze statue of a larger than life,
disastrous Civil General
sitting astride his war horse.

I happened to be there
that late Spring afternoon,
taking in the sun, enjoying the day,
with another junkie; a gal named Lori,
who I’d been close to for about a year.
We had a little money in our pockets
a bundle and a half of dope between us,
and fresh diabetic syringes
we’d picked up that morning
at the needle exchange on Manton Avenue.

The poor and homeless addicts
like ourselves,
used the park as a meeting place.
somewhere to hang out until,
either being rousted by the cops,
leaving to grab a bus up to the meal site,
or heading to the homeless shelter at 5:00 pm.
Our days were predictable.

At its granite base his audience grew.
Phil’s voice carried.
Looking over the crowd- he spoke his truths,
cautioning all to put away hate for one another,
to cease the worrying, rage, cheating, and lying.

I saw two horse backed cops
coming like the 7^{th another two arrived and on foot.}

The crowd had gained in numbers.
It was close to noon.
People sitting on the grass
were ordered to disperse.
Not a soul moved...
the cops had had their fill.

He cried out. “We only borrow time-
are given a beginning- and perhaps not...
be rewarded an eternity.”

Two policemen grabbed Phillip,
One at each arm,
but he managed to spit it out his last
before being dragged away.

“The days are short!”
Phil glanced upward and spoke once more.
“The Sun will rise and set for 2 months, 11 days,
and 19 minutes.
In a softer voice he finished.
“Then it all begins...”

His last words, before being removed,
Prophet screamed.
“Can you not see- Can anyone see at all?”
Johnny law held him in place.
They took Phil away.

The Providence police had a tale to tell,
laughed about it, shook their heads,
and told everyone the party was over.
Prophet was taken to the station
then shipped to the psychiatric hospital.

A few weeks later at Burnside park,
there below the statue where Phil lectured from
the day he was taken away,
I was alone that morning, sun on my face,
sitting in the grass and waiting for Lori.
I was trying to read a novel by Tolstoy,
but nodding from my ‘wake up’
the three bags of bomb dope,
I had just shot in the men’s room at city hall.

My thoughts turned to Prophet,
who was now up there having breakfast
at the institution.
I glanced at my cheap Timex watch,
smiled,
thinking...
Only one month,
seven days,
three hours,
twelve minutes...
and forty seconds remained
until the end of it all.
... Thirty nine,
thirty eight...

Untitled (scripture)

vagabond scripture
following the far trail’s winds
world-rough and renewed

Untitled (inheritance)

an inheritance
a tune grandfather would hum
the one I’m humming

Château Fort
Musée Pyrénéen

Maryhood of views
on Lourdes Cathedral
by Immaculate air
or through maculate
window glasses
against sun and
mountain’s shade
of hills aftermath

To encounter
potteries
porcelain
table ware
dishes

To get amazed by the nerves
of tens of types of rocks
showing their veins
to top of tower

The higher the tower
the deeper the views
of matter and rock
from stone and river
to cave and visions

Of the supernatural
where there is a cathedral
bigger than the diocese
reaching out to all peoples
all nations all denominations
from faith to belief
that is from good faith
to lasting belief
to ultimate relief.

The Pigeons at No Frills....

....gather in the area
swooping en masse,
unnaturally low,
to startle passing shoppers
as they assume new roosts,
outwardly ignorant of purpose.

Was Alfred Hitchcock prophetic
or another mere genius auteur?

How to Make a Martyr

Dead men have more power than we think.
Many of those who were made to martyrs are still alive today in our hearts and our minds.
Long after their bodies were dug in the dirt their message blooms from the very spot which their enemies forced them to lay.
The Romans hated Jesus so they killed him.
What happened next?...
King of the world! Well, at least some have said this.
In the art of war you will find the words
“Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.”
Well as surprising as it is
I have found an example of this in the show Married with Children.
The show was going to get cancelled very shortly after it’s inception into our living rooms.
The show could have merely died off and gone away
with little viewers and humor that pushed the limits
but it was this limit pushing quality that drove people to protest the show
bring attention to the show and its crude humor that drew more people in
once they knew it was being protested.
Those with sensitive sensibilities, those fighting against the existence of the raunchy entertainment
were the very ones who made it a household name.
They would have won by doing nothing had they merely turned the channel.
Their silence would have been the death of the thing they hated.
The more you speak of something the more it exists
the more you murderously stab at something the longer it lives.
As the Roman’s spilled blood on the ground
they merely fed the seed allowing it to fully bloom.
Forget the want of world peace. Forget brotherly love.
THIS is the real reason why we do not kill.

An Existential Road Trip

Flowers in a field
starting to grow
where there was only
a muddy brown

Winging clouds;
whiter than whites
of eyes daring us defy
our worst fears

Flowers in a field
starting to dance
like a ballet company
for ‘Spartacus’

Winds of Change
(life-threatening)
and only carpet flowers
to weep our graves

Flowers in a field
of memories,
we slaves of time found
wanting in its eyes

A burst of sunlight
(kicking up dust)
makes a convincing case
for spring cleaning

The Scarecrow

After the farmer’s harvest ends,
The scarecrow stands alone.
Forgotten by the harvesters who
Enjoy their bounty of fruits and vegetables.

Bright yellow corn and shining squash,
Pumpkin meat easily savored and ingested.
Shiny red apples rich in sweet flavor.
The garden feast enjoyed by all.

The Scarecrow actually scared no crows.
One wonders why he is there at all.
An iconic symbol of the farmer’s wealth.
The silent guardian of all that he surveys.

He will be in his field for years to come.
He has been there for years before.
Several will be his owners who will
Come and go ad infinitum.

Children will come and play, thinking
Him to be a man, a teacher or preacher.
He looks at them and the field itself, sightless.
His eyes are hidden by the straw itself.

He will be in this field as more fruits
And vegetables then grow there.
Strong and vital will be the men
And women of each good harvest.

American heartland has countless
Scarecrows for each gathering.
Tradition has no sense of practicality.
These strawmen represent the owners themselves.

About the Artist—Allen F. McNair (in his own words)

    I am a self-taught artist and poet who is inspired daily by the wonders of life around me, my present and past experiences, and both the inner and outer beauty of all women. From individual poetic portrayals in my early years of writing, I have graduated to writing an epic saga mentioned below.
    I work mainly in marker art on paper, yet I have also worked in watercolor on paper, and acrylic pen and brush on canvas. Those works in marker art have been on 11" X 14" and 14" X 17" Bristol paper. Although painting contemporary subjects, I have mainly created illustrations that depict a future planet earth and other worlds more heavenly. These illustrations reveal a fascinating world of dreams and mental communication between the human and alien characters in our future. Other works of art included in this collection depict subjects from our contemporary world.
    I enjoy working mostly in Prismacolor markers for their vibrant color palate and the control I have over the use of this medium. I have most recently worked with Blick Studio Markers and their Studio Brush Markers as well. I also like the control I have when using an acrylic pen. When I am not portraying the interaction between human beings in a future world, I then use geometric shapes to create futuristic vehicles traveling above a pristine world.
    My proudest achievement is the self-publishing of my book, I Dream of A’maresh, a science fiction epic poem which is reflected in the several illustrations that can be seen in Chicago in the 27^th American Disabilities Act Celebration at the James R. Thompson Center July 17 through July 22, 2017. A few of these works of art were once displayed in the July 2015 ADA Celebration at this same location. Some of them were shown at the Orange Restaurant in Lincoln Park last April 4, 2016. Others were also presented at the Orange Restaurant in Roscoe Village March 10 through May 28, 2015. I have likewise exhibited my work at the Gallery Cabaret in August 2016.
    I have performed in an original production based on true stories for the Thresholds Theater Arts Project at the Theater Building. I have also taught classes in creative writing and performance at both the National Alliance for Mentally Ill (NAMI) and at Trilogy.
    I love watching science fiction, fantasy, and action in movies and reading those genres in literature in my spare time. I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago with my 6 year-old white and ginger cat, Butterscotch. Previously, I had a black and white long-haired cat named Kit Kat, who lived to be 20 years old.

Discovering a Body

When I found the corpse, I was alone
not as alone as him
but it was 11 pm in Grant Park
only fools would be alone in such a place
so much going on in the bushes
so many spectating
maybe looking for somehing...
but back to the body
on the ground
in front of a bench
He looked unharmed. He looked clean.
So what was he doing, laying on the ground
presumably dead? I listened for breath sounds
put my face close to his, heard nothing, felt nothing.
Put my head against his chest heard only the sounds of an empty cave
nothing else. I looked for his wallet, perhaps I could have some fun
at his expense. Not there the vultures had already taken it.
He had ruined my vibe, I went home and left him where he was.
Nothing I could do.
Some night I will sit on the same bench
and see what happens.

Texas Spring Awakening

Fell off my Cliff Notes
Parsing Grammarians

“Once is once only”
Gospel according to Eminem

Mood storms. Fried Pique
Outbreaks of Pandemics.

Consumption/Creation Zen Tailings
Uranium Depleted Ammunition.

Optimism in an Irrational Universe
Justifiable Co-operations.

We Hold These Truths To Be Selfie Evident
Ask what you can do for your NRA

New Tax Code Via Nero
who will not share his taxes.

Universal Parochial School Shootings.
Lifeboats? Women and children first.

You can change (Loose, Unaffiliated-
You can change again (house all homeless...

How to be Invisible

Start by being too old (or too young)
Too fat (or too slim). Too bright or too dumb
Start by being a woman.
Begin poor (and stay there-
the ladder of success is made of snakes.
Be quiet. Never contest tyranny/and let bullies
always have the very last word. Above all
be below all. Foundation of their Pyramid of Power.
Stay humble. Stay hungry. Stay invisible. Stay!

That Which We Stuff Down

Who remembers that which
has lain dormant for decades?

After a first date
—with no provocation—
he yanks my dress to unzip it.
Being a polite “good” girl
I push him off and do my best
to save face—both his and mine—
because come Monday we’ll be
back together at summer jobs.
With as much dignity as I can
muster I break free and scurry
to the safety of my parents’ house.
I never tell a soul.

It isn’t until Weinstein’s assaults
on women come to light, one after
another and women identify other men
who have harassed and assaulted them
that this buried memory surfaces.
I’m able to acknowledge what I’d
denied these many years. That guy
unbidden— his name, Ross—
tried to rape me. Thinking there’s
the end of it...I feel vindicated.

But then I recall waitressing.
Taking a meal order of a family—
mom, dad, two kids— sitting in a booth
when the man reaches under
the table and touches me.

Yet another memory...I’m dancing
with my husband’s business partner
at a holiday party when he propositions me.
Like me the partner’s married with
children. I want to say, You bastard, you
filthy pig, who do you think you are?

Still later I recall the Monday after
the Feast of Purification, skipping
home from school I hold a candle blest
the day before. A stranger sits in a car
on the block where I live. He points
to his lap and asks, Little girl,
would you like this? Even never
having seen one I suddenly know
he’s exposed his privates to me.
I take off running.

I am but one woman and 70 years old
at that, yet these episodes rise without
bidding. I’ve been there, and I declare
#MeToo

Freedom

They say you get what you deserve
once you’ve beeen shackleded sentenced and shipped down river
awaiting your pardon
doing your time
more than likely hoping to be forgiven
by someone somewhere
anyone anywhere
And I know what you did
I readily believed the news
it was easy to see the truth
as I already knew what you were capable of
as your grown fists clutched my child-sized wrist
grasping tighter the more I struggled

But I washed my hands clean of you long ago
and the blood red stains
The purple bruises all faded all gone
but no water
not even saline falling from sky blue eyes
can truly repair the skin and replace the scars
I will always have a gentel reminder of just what you are capable of
I will also remember your hearty laughter
though it was rare
it could fill a room the way lighning fills the air
I remember a certain delicate look in your eye
as we spoke of skinning rabbits for the sake of a medicine wheel
as you shyly explained to me man’s place in nature and my place in this world
how duality exists in everything
that death lingers at the heels of the living
and this is the way of things
your lessons shook me
the way thunder shakes the ground
even shifting my tectonic plates

I would go on to build mountains
mountains guarding me from gritted teeth and white knuckles
guarding me from men like you
at least for a while
but really who am I to judge?
It is only wise that I allow a select few figures into the hiden valleys of my own landscape
and in these valleys I know shadows exist
I know I cannot feel the warm sun on my face without a cold chill at my back
I know that despite your crimes
even the ones you got away with
you don’t quite deserve to drown
as you’re shipped down river
shackled, sentenced as local news
tells stories of you and your kind
being fed poisoned fruit by power hungry guards
and the only water left to drink
after this historic texas flood
Sits freely in a prison bowl.
Honestly for all I know
perhaps you do deserve these things
but I don’t want shackles and resentment so who am I to judge?

Waiting

Why is it
That when I find out what they are
Gay men lose the shadows of danger
All creeping fingers of unease
That the male race exudes
So that I can embrace them with comfort,
Even gratitude?
That women who want sex,
The whores, the sluts, the prostitutes,
Don’t want sex,
But really the feeling of being used?
That women can never be selfish,
Not in the bedroom—
Even if it’s just one of them in there—
Even if it’s the courageous two—
Because sex is innately
Sexist?
That,
When the inquiry arises
In cold conversation,
I say, “I’ve never been kissed,”
Like I’m a wallflower sitting,
Waiting, praying to be plucked?
Why is it that
The strongest and most passionate females I know
Are terrified of marriage,
Because they don’t want to be,
Secondary, passive—
They loathe it even as they enter it,
And remain, answerless, ‘til death?
Why is that men
Are, just exist,
That their name is all that needs to be on their tombstone,
While women are marked:
Mother, wife, daughter, friend?
Why is it that my business,
My passion, my drive,
Is dominated and steered by
Pale white middle-aged men
Who peer at me over their glasses
And say they know diversity,
My own race and sex better than I do,
That they’ve cracked the code
And won’t show us what it opens?
Why is it that men can be
Silent, stoic, strong
Or soft, sweet, steady
Or broken yet brave
Or lost and lustful
Yet all have hope of redemption—
While women are
Their ticking clock
Or dripping-water nagging
Or only after the next orgasm
Or eager to please their partner—
Why are we simplified to four extremes
And men are allotted deviance?
Why is it women have to console themselves
With shaking heads behind kitchen doors,
Saying they’ve got the real power
Just let the man keep thinking he does,
While he sleeps off the large lunch
They spent all morning making?

Her New Man

He does not hold her hands,
Or kiss her lips.
He does not dry her tears,
Or spare her heart
His violence.

A Woman’s Tale, Briefly Told

In sadness and struggle
I have been your woman.
In loss and violence, too.
I have been her in darkness,
I have been her in secrecy,
I have been her in death.

don’t know what you thought

i don’t understand
why you thought i didn’t get a say
or why you thought it was okay
to push so hard
for something you couldn’t
even put in words,
and the more i said no;
the more you seemed to want it
like my voice didn’t matter
or my decisions didn’t count—
who are you
or any other man
to try to strip the voice
of anyone?
no means no,
and people should be respected
for their decisions;
and their words should be heard
not ignored—
i don’t know why you thought you were
going to force yourself upon me
or why you thought
i wouldn’t remember you all those years
at college later
since you messed my pysche up pretty bad.

you wouldn’t have been laughing

“bet you don’t remember me”
of course i do,
and you probably were betting
on that, too;
from that savage grin—

thought at college
i could start coming out of my shell
all thoughts of you
left far behind me but then
you came to that very same college

i felt betrayed by the universe
and God who kept you away all that time
i didn’t understand why i had to see
your face again
unbidden in the dark

felt my heart pick up the speed
like a wounded doe i leapt the highest
don’t know what possessed you
to speak to me,
but i wish i could’ve had the courage

to call you out;
all those years i fell inward upon
myself like a wanning and waxing moon
because of you
all those years i suffered and blamed myself—

i wish i was brave then
like i am now
you wouldn’t have been
laughing at me
if i were.

nowhere but home

i always feared
seeing your face again
that was probably irrational,
but then again
when i thought i wouldn’t see you
again
you appeared in my life;
a ghost that i would have preferred to remain
in his haunted house rather than
my life—
wish i could let it go,
but this has followed me around
since i was a kid;
every day i have to worry about someone
like you
stronger than me
forcing me into something i don’t want
everywhere i go
walking down the sidewalks
get hollered at, catcalled, and hit on
even happens at work
sometimes;
i just want a space where i can feel safe
other than my house—
that’s not too much to ask
so why is it
that nowhere but home
makes me feel safe?

more than enough

don’t know where you got the idea
that no means yes,
but just so we’re on the same page
it doesn’t;

no matter what hollywood says
women are more than sexual objects
or your property
women were not created to be
objectified
no one was

so stop acting like you’re so innocent
we both know that’s not true—

irritates me that people say
you’re a good man
when i know full well you’re not

felt betrayed that my
childhood friend
is friends with you made it
easier to block you,
though;

didn’t need you to be
another voice in my head
enough of them mock and revile me
years later
i don’t need to think of yours
remembering the weight of everything
you forced on me is more
than enough.

brighter than the stars, deeper than the ocean

i didn’t deserve
anything
you gave me

but it’s okay
i am stronger now
than i was

will face this with
everything i have
because i don’t need

to be that scared
little girl forever
don’t need to be hiding

so deep within the shadows
of myself that i forget
who i am

i am woman
warrior of love and light
beautiful and full of magic

worth more
than you could ever afford
daughter of the moon

brighter than the stars
deeper than the ocean
stronger than you’ll ever know.

White Knuckled

The hot air was sticking
to her skin       almost pulling
tugging at her very
flesh       as she walked
outside       down the
stairs from the train
station. Just then a
breeze hot and
sticky       hit her
in just the wrong
way, brushed against her
lower neck, and she
felt his breath again,
not his breath
when he raped
her, but his       stench
hot       ;  rank
when he was
just close to her.
Her breath quickened,
like the catch of her
breath when she has
just stopped
crying. All the emotion
is still there       not
going away. She
walks to the bottom
of the stairs, railing
white-knuckled by her
small tender hands,
the hands of a child,
and that ninety degree
breeze suddenly
gives her a
chill. They say when
you get a chill it means
a goose walked
over your grave.
She knows better. She knows
that it is him
walking, and that
he trapped that child in
that grave

Raped With Words

I knew a woman
who went on a date
with a friend of mine,
and after the date
he talked about how great she was,
he told me how they talked about their future
and what they both wanted
he described the inside of her place,
but after he left messages for her repeatedly,
she never called him back again

saw this woman weeks later
at a Starbuck’s
and she said she felt bad she had been avoiding hm
but she never wanted to see him again
because during their date
they never talked about what they wanted
he just talked about what he wanted
like how she wouldn’t hold a job
she’d be taking care of the house
the man’s the one that makes the money
and he even told her how many
of his children she would bear

she wouldn’t let him into her home
(does that mean he was looking through her window?)
and she said that after the date
she showered for hours
because she felt raped

and you know, hearing her story
it made me realize
that you can rape someone
with words

based on portions of the poem “Key To Survival”

women’s very existence

rape is neither a sex crime
or a crime of passion

rape is not an isolated brutal crime
against women

rape is often premeditated
rape is a crime of violence
rather than sex
it is a crime of violence
against women

it is an attack by men
on women’s bodies
on women’s feelings
on women’s very existence

                                            Bob Lamm, 1976

i still have to take showers a lot. i mean,
every once in a while, no matter how clean
i am to the rest of the world, i have to go
take a shower. i lock all the doors, i close
the shades on the windows, i put a towel
over the bathroom mirror. turn the water on,
piping hot, so steam is billowing out of
the bath tub. i finally undress, open the
curtain, put my foot in, burn my foot with
the water. i wish i could hold my foot there,
just a little longer. i turn down the water.
wait for it to cool down, then step in. then
i just put my head under the shower head. hold
it there for a while. catch my breath. get the
soap. start scrubbing. i use the soap first,
then i get the bath brush. scrub off a layer
of skin. i know this makes no sense. my skin
is red, from the heat, from the scrubbing.
but i know i’m still not getting it off, it’s
down there, the molecules are embedded
deep inside of me, and i’ll have to rip my skin
off, pull out my organs before it goes away.
but for now all i can do is take showers.

Right There, By Your Heart
(verses two and six)

have you ever had that feeling before, you
know, the one when someone is telling
you something you don’t want to hear, like
if someone was about to tell you that someone
died and you knew what they were going to say
and you still didn’t want to hear it, or if
someone did something to you you didn’t like,
like when you were little and the kids at the
bus stop shot pebbles and spit balls at you every
day because you were smart and you still had
to go to the bus stop every morning and just
try to ignore them? and when that happens
it feels like a medium sized rock just fell
into the bottom of your stomach, and you
don’t want to move because you’re afraid
that the rock will hurt the inside of your stomach
and so you just have to sit there and hope
the rock goes away? or else you get the feeling
in your chest, right between your lungs, it feels
like someone is pressing against the bone there,
right there by your heart, and you’ve got to
breathe, you’re not going to be able to take
that pressure, that force any longer?

i don’t know how many times the idea of seeing him
went through my mind. at least once a week i’d imagine
a scene where he’d confront me, and i’d somehow
be able to fight him back, to show him that he didn’t
bother me any more, to show him that the rock wasn’t
there any more. to somehow be able to prove that
i wasn’t a victim any more. i was a survivor. that’s
what they call it now, you see, survivor, because
victim sounds too trying for someone who has been
raped. so i keep saying i’m over it but i keep imagining
mark all over again, not raping me, but following me
on the street, coming to my door with flowers, or
sending me a valentine. but once, when i saw him
walking out of a record store as i was walking in, the
rock fell so hard that i thought i was going to be sick
right there by the cash register, right there by those
metal things at the doorway that beep when you
try to take merchandise out of the store, you know
what those things are, i just can’t think of what
they’re called. but if i did that, then he’d know he was still
winning, to this day. how many years has it been? how
many years since he did that to me? how many years
since i’ve been wanting to fight him, since i’ve been
feeling that rock in my god-damned stomach?
i managed to hide my face from him in the store so he
didn’t see me as he walked out. when i saw he was
gone, i wondered why i still felt the pressure in my
chest. i thought the pressure was going to turn
my body inside-out. i reached for my heart, grabbed
at my shirt. maybe the pain was always there, right there,
by my heart, but i try not to think of it until i
go through times like those.

Jumping, Flying

When I took over the cockpit controls
I feared the airplane would fight me back,
that gravity would take me to a tumble.

But the skies were sunny, the air was clear
and once my hands took over the job
of piloting that plane, this behemoth

seemed to purr like a kitten, and it was like
I was six years old again riding a bike,
‘cuz you never forget the feeling

of holding onto that handlebar,
and giving yourself the power
to take you wherever you want to go.

Like a conductor, I directed that airplane
above the clouds, seeing the winding streets
below no wider than strands of hair.

Wonder if I could see the Everglades... And
you may ask: why do this? Because I can. If I choose,
I can take flight like a bird and touch the sky.

#

Once I sat in an airplane that had no door,
looked at the altimeter attached to my harness,
saw this craft rising over 17 thousand feet.

Just about 5 hundred feet to go, I think,
and my stomach starts to feel queasy
but others are there to join in and even film it.

Beforehand I was told that if I was enjoying
jumping out of an airplane, to do jazz hands
for the cameraman. So I jumped, I fell,

I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t forget
to do jazz hands, even though jazz hands
in free-fall at one hundred twenty miles per hour

looks more like experimental dance — or convulsions.
Pull the rip cord, See some of the Rockies from above,
get a free beer from the Left-Handed Ale

brewery for making the jump. But even
the cameraman asked me after I was done,
‘What on Earth were you doing?’ and really,

if you think about it, why on earth do I do this?
Because I can. ‘Cuz with every leap I’ll take,
I’ll always land on my feet, and keep looking to the sky.

Only Voice He Could Hear

When I was ten, I was the Queen
of Hawaii in a school play. Other students
in my court kneeled around me, then dancers
entertained us, all while I sat at my throne.

I took advanced classes, was even a “Tough Ten”
speller; could spell the longest word
in the English dictionary, pneumomoultra-
microscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. At this point,

I thought I could do anything... So I
learned a little French, but I don’t know,
I must have missed my petit déjeuner
because I was feeling a bit peckish

and wanted something more. I joined choir,
even sang at my graduation ceremony
with classmates before I went to high school.
Because even at the ripe old age of thirteen

I wanted to live by those words
in the song we sung: Climb every mountain,
forge every stream, follow every
rainbow, ‘til you find your dream...

‘Til you find your dream.

Before the final graduation ceremony
an older man in a suit emblazoned
with medals and ribbons from the
American Legion came to the stage

to award one student in the entire school
with the American Legion Award —
which seemed like the highest honor
anyone could ever achieve. And when

they said my first name, I wondered,
there’s another student in this school
with my first name, how did they win?
Because I couldn’t believe it when they

said my last name, and I walked
on to the stage to get my medal
from what I was sure was the nicest
man I had ever met in my entire life.

Once graduation ended and I saw
my family, my father said to me
that during the choir performance,
I was the only voice he could hear.

Passport to Outer Space

    A lot of us have experiences around the city, and I’ve tried to see the world, not just this continent, but 15 European countries, the Galapagos Islands, Russia, China, India, South America, Antarctica a...
    I’ve searched for these stories around the world, I’ve gotten my passport stamped like mad... but my sister told me about Don Stump, a friend of my dad’s who ran a restaurant, well, his father-in-law apparently bought and had the rights to the space in outer space (you know, like all of the space beyond our atmosphere between planets and stars and comets and asteroids and stuff...). My sister even said that his father-in-law stamped the passports of the astronauts that went into outer space, since they were crossing the areas he owned.
    But Don Stump was pushed away from their house once, because at least two men from the FBI were there... Apparently Don’s father-in-law was minting coins, it wasn’t money that was valid anywhere, but it’s illegal for U.S. residents to try to make any sort of profit this way.
    Now, Don and his wife and parents have passed away, so.... I guess there’s no way I can pay them for having my passport stamped for going to outer space. But when you’re up high in the Earth’s atmosphere, a lot of places look the same. I mean, Siberia, with snow peaks and mountain lines along the eastern coast, looks like the Rockies in America in the winter. It’s only when you get closer to the ground do you see the real differences.

Visiting Pristine Places on the Planet

When I was young, the world
was the size of a thimble, and all
I needed was my own back yard.
But on my own, I was a dot in the
Universe. And that had to change.

—

So after trying to climb one of the
Alps wearing socks and sandals,
I went to a nearby mountain to spend
20 minutes in its radon-filled cave
to try to gain my strength again.

After reading Hitler’s concentration camp
gates in Dachau, Arbeit Mach Frei,
I walked through those gates, and thought.
Work will set you free. Yes, it’s true, I know it.
Because your choice and your drive is freedom.

After singing an entire acoustic concert
at a bar in Fairbanks Alaska, we took off
after midnight, added extra layers and
stood outside in the cold to bask in the geo-
magnetic dance of the Aurora Borealis.

After being stared at by men in India
because I was a tall Western woman
not dressed like a Muslim, I had to go
to their iron-filled, human feces-filled
Bay of Bengal, just to get my feet wet.

After stepping over gold-covered risers
in palaces in China’s Forbidden City,
an older Chinese man asked me in halted
English where I was from. When I said
Chicago, he joyously said “My Kind of Town.”

After I sang at the Great Wall of China,
a group of Chinese people asked to
take a picture with me. But I don’t think
it was my singing, but the fact that I
was a least a foot taller than all of them.

After buying a balalaika in St. Petersburg,
I saw the alarming number of well-armed
Russian guards at ever street corner.
And I thought: we will never be friends, but
at times like these, we’ll try to be friendly.

After retracing Darwin’s Steps
at the Galapagos Islands,
I stopped near the crisscrossed
overlapping Sea Lions napping —
so I could contemplate natural selection.

After seeing destroyed British ships
from early whaling in Antarctica,
I photographed the first Humpback whales
of the season, then took a picture with
a Gentoo penguin as I sat in the snow

and the penguin approached me.

—

When a man in the 3rd poorest country
in the world was asked why the poor locals
seemed so happy, he explained.
We may not have it all, but we can
choose to be happy. And so we do.

And with these words, I proudly
choose life — I choose life for the Orcas
and Humpback whales, the Chin Strap
and Gentoo penguins, Cormorants, Gulls
and Terns. I choose life for Giant petrels,

Storm petrels, Finches, Nasca birds, even
Sea Lions and Marine Iguanas. I choose life
for the Wyoming bison who passed me on the street.
I choose life for the deer who approached us
as we slept in the grass under stars.

I choose life for all the mass-farmed
animals mankind slaughters because they
choose to consume violence and not peace.
I choose life, because all around the world,
peace is the one thing we could all always use.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven” “Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
    From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), the three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound ISBN# ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the shutterfly ISSN# ISBN# hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed. 2017, after hr October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers).

Live Stream your Live Violence
Social Media: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

    For years I have tried to use the Internet and the many electronic gadgets to try to share literature with people. When I ran “the Café Gallery” Chicago open mic, I video-recorded open mics and poetry features for not only YouTube video but also for weekly podcasts, and in the last year of my hosting that open mic I used Instagram (even though I didn’t even have a smart phone at the time; I had to borrow my husband’s phone to do it) to photograph people reading poetry at the open mic. This year, I’ve even started photographing images with poetry and hash tagging it like mad on Instagram.
    When Facebook started showing off their live stream feature, I thought this was perfect for “going live” at my Austin installment of “The Poetry Bomb” (an idea that started in Chicago to find a public place to read poetry — where you normally wouldn’t expect to hear poetry — held annually on the last Sunday of April at 3:30 in the afternoon), where I read poetry at the Graffiti Wall in Austin for a live Facebook video stream. I even read a poem for a poetry open mic I was unable to attend (so I read the poem live in my car during the “Poetry Aloud” open mic).
    How “cutting edge” of me, reading poetry in a live Facebook video stream.
    But then I read of how in Chicago men (I should say boys, they were all under 21) gang-raped a woman, and then chose to live stream it on Facebook. And then I read of how a 37-year old Cleveland man shot a 74-year old man in a live Facebook stream too.
    Well, I guess I’m not all that cutting edge.
    I know I was a late-bloomer to even get a smart phone, but even before then I tried to get the poetry word out on different forms of social media, from Pinterest to Instagram to Tumblr to Google+ — I even created a separate twitter account (jkpoetryvine) to post vine videos of my reading haiku poems. When I ran that Chicago poetry open mic, I would read short poems from different authors in the current newly-released issues of cc&d magazine, so the authors could have their writing out in different forms. And sure, it may seem strange to devote poetry to so many different social media forms, but people loved it. I thought that if I wanted to get the word out about poetry, then I would use any electronic avenue I could.
    I suppose I understand how killers may seek attention for the violent acts they commit — that’s nothing new. I suppose it just didn’t occur to me that when these social media outlets (like Facebook live stream), who are all about wanting to give their patrons more avenues to show themselves off, would be a lure for violent offenders and killers as well.
    This means that with the advance of technology, the advance of criminals having their voice heard has also grown.
    Now think about it: we all have to admit that when there is a car accident on the road you have to drive past, we all want to look to potentially see any gory details. We all have this blood-lust, even if we claim to not be violent people. I’m a vegetarian, I’m morally against the death of animals (which you would imagine makes me against the death of people), but I, like most everyone else, likes the idea of watching if something bad happened. Maybe this is how reality TV can be so popular, to hope for witnessing the destruction of a group of people in real time.
    We don’t want to think about it, and we don’t want to believe it, but face it: this is the dark side of allowing freedom of expression in the Internet age. These same companies that stress an open forum (which also removes any concept of privacy) allow us to be able to send tweets, or make Facebook posts, or post pictures or videos in Instagram or Pinterest or Google+. But if I can use all these forms of social media to spread the word about literature, we have to also assume that this can be a forum for potential killers to show off their future “feats” as well.
    I know Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook’s Chief Executive) even said to developers in a conference call that “we have a lot more work to do here”, but there is the question. Where do you draw the line between the people’s freedom — and security? And as I said before, I didn’t even have a cell phone until 2015, but even without the cell phone I was using Instagram and other social media you were supposed to only use with a cell phone. The first web site I had for cc&d was not even in aol, but in eworld (a Mac company that went down by 1996). I started my schooling in computer science engineering at the University of Illinois (the third best school in the country in the field; the University that heralded the inception of the Internet as we know it), so I apparently love getting in on the ground floor of computer technology — and apparently I also love my social media enough to want to have access to it before I was supposed to be even capable of having access to it.
    But I am also acutely aware that all of these freedoms and forms of social media that companies have given us (“social” media that allows us to not deal with people on a one-to-one basis), all of these things wouldn’t exist if I lived in any country other than the United States. Translation: social media outlets like this probably wouldn’t have been created by someone in a Commuict country, even if these social media platforms are all about sharing with others anyway...
    And no, I’m not going to make this a “God bless the U.S.A.” tirade and chant “U.S.A., U.S.A...”, but I am going to make one thing perfectly clear. I have heard many people complain about problems with this government (though their complaints are usually that the government isn’t giving them enough, when the only way you get anything through the government is through taxpayer money — like everything else the government does, from not building and repairing roads and bridges to funding our military to paying the many, many people who have made lifetime careers out of working in the federal government, which was never the intention of the founding fathers).
    Sorry, I’m getting on a tangent with my rant again — It’s been a while since I’ve written an editorial, so I might emotionally go over the top. So okay, let me get back on topic...
    I have heard many people complain about this government (often times that the Government is too involved in our lives), and at the same time I have heard many people complain about gun violence — in our schools, in our homes, in our offices. And these same people who complain about our government then want the government to do something to save them from the gun violence that exists in our country.
    And I promise, I’m the first person to say that shooting in our schools is wrong. And I am MORE than the first person to say to using social media platforms like Facebook live stream to publicly “share” your violence in real time is the most heinous thing a person can do. But I also have to look at the big picture when it comes to these topics. Trying to dis-assemble parts of our Constitution (which we cannot do anyway) is probably the worst thing we can do for the foundations of our country. When we start to unravel the things that this country was founded on, we unravel the things that make us great.
    And you might be thinking, what’s so great about us? Like out healthcare system, it’s —
    I can stop you right there already. I know people who live in Canada, and they try to use U.S. healthcare, because they have found that waiting for services takes so long that it’s useless (like waiting 8 months for the Appendectomy you need, for instance). And that’s not even bringing up that leaders of European countries travel to the U.S. for their own medical surgery. And sure, if you think it’s too expensive to get the high-end medications you claim to need, you might be right — but back in the day (like when Medicaid first was formed) people’s life expectancy was MUCH shorter, and people didn’t expect that a doctor had a medication or a surgery that could cure you, from say, cancer, or a hear condition.
    I know I’m going off on tangents here, but the thing is, they all relate. We have struck a strange balance in giving us liberty in this country. Without this balance, I am positive that we would never have reached the medical achievements, or the technological achievements, that we have now. And in this insane historical balancing act that this government has made for decades to allow this, we have achieved so many more freedoms that we could imagine even a decade or two ago. If we pull the strings on what has made this country work, just to suit our needs for the most recent shooting we’ve seen on the boob tube or on the tablet, then we are giving up our freedoms for more security.
    Wow, that’s sounding like something I’ve heard before... Maybe it was Ben Franklin, who is quoted with “They who can give up essential Liberty to obtain a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”
    Maybe that’s what I get, relying on what founding fathers and the people who helped found this country said about keeping liberty. Because as awful as this sounds, maybe we have to be prepared for these seemingly random acts of violence that happen on a small portion of our population, just to keep what liberties we have.

    —Janet Kuypers
    Editor in Chief

The Curse of Jasmine

    “Kanyakakku sarpa dosham kanunnu,” the astrologer passed his verdict.
    The maiden had the curse of serpents.
    Malini sat, allowing the impact of the seer’s words to sink in.
    Oh! The dusky skin of her thighs, the pale-brown hairs on them... The slithery movement of the snakes tickled. Sometimes her hairs got tangled on their rough scales. When she slept, they glided in sleek dancing motion between the threads of her dreams, twisting and coiling around her naked legs beneath the sheet. Sometimes the cold touch of their forked tongues awakened her to reality.
    When she took a bath, they sneaked out from the shower, pounced on her in thin streaks, and dazzled her breasts with cold shivers. Sometimes they released a trickle of warmth between her legs.
    They played along, all the while, tantalizing and stirring emotions in her, just to slap her with curses?
    No, the seer was wrong. Somewhere in the intricacies in calculating the position of planets, he had faltered.
    She remembered the jasmine garlands that the servants fetched from the market in large baskets. Small, white jasmine buds stacked in long coils. White serpents, fragrant reptiles...
    The jasmine bloomed during the nights, and their heady smell wafting down from upstairs lulled her to sleep.
    Each morning, she saw them in dustbins the maids brought from upstairs; crushed, brown stains tainting their pallor. Most of the flowers would be ripped off the thin white cotton strings that held them together; lying strewn in the bottom, deprived of their brightness.
    It was those smothered flowers that cursed her. Not the serpents; no, not those lovely, lively creatures.
    “Are you listening?”
    An old fang pierced, her eardrums ruptured. It hurt.
    “Huh?” A shudder passed through her body.
    A bald head came into focus. Magnified grey eyes behind the lenses stared at her. The tips of father’s white moustache quivered.
    “Yes, father. I am...” She shifted on the side of the sofa, her fingers tracing unseen lines on its armrest. The chiseled teak felt smooth like glass against her touch.
    Her father reclined on the other end, looking grimly at the astrologer who sat on the traditional mat woven out of grass stalks, intently scanning the horoscope.
    “There is a hitch in her marriage.” He glanced up at her father, and continued with his prediction. “Some misfortune is bound to occur on her wedding night. She must do the Naga Puja in the Sarpakkavu for forty days to overcome this curse.”
    Can some rituals or offerings in the Temple of the Snakes avert what fate has in store for her? Malini wondered. Sins a person commits will haunt his generations. That was what the religion her family so ardently followed, taught. Maybe, belief was only skin-deep, the armor you donned for acceptance in any given community. Who’d care for what was written in the scriptures, when going against them offered you enormous material gratification?
    She glanced at her father.
    Grey stubs became visible on chubby cheeks as betel leaves and areca nut grinded between the jaws. The gold rings on his ears jumped as he nodded. “Carry on,” he said.
    “This, her nineteenth year, is a crucial age,” the seer said. “The stars indicate that this stage decides the course of her life. So the rituals are important.”
    “But...” Malini stopped just as she began. The cold lash of a gaze from her father froze her to silence.
    The astrologer resumed, “The stars foretell marriage before twenty. But we will have to eliminate the ‘Sarpa Dosham’, the curse of the serpents, with prayers and offerings to the Naga Raja, the King of the Snakes.”
    “What else do the stars say?” Father asked.
    “Everything will be fine. Just take care of the rituals. That will avert any mishap on her wedding night,” the seer concluded. He gathered his kavadi, small cowry shells used in calculating the position of the stars, put them in a cloth bag and tied a lace around it.
    Raman counted out ten five-hundred-rupee bills and handed them over to the astrologer.
    Malini saw an eager smile light up his face as the seer accepted the notes. Several times more than what he received from an ordinary customer. Father could afford to pay lavishly to extract accurate results.
    The astrologer left. Raman spat out a stream of betel juice onto the lawn. Scarlet smeared the white roses in the garden. He the wiped narrow red lines from the corners of his mouth. “You’ve started forgetting your manners. How often need I remind you not to interfere when men talk?” He referred to her protest when the astrologer had spread the shells of her destiny.
    “I’m sorry, father,” Malini said.
    Oh! The wretchedness that seeps down my legs, she thought. Can’t I express my feelings to my father?
    “Tell me now. What did you want to say?” he asked.
    “My studies...I won’t be able to spend time for elaborate rituals. It will disrupt my studies.”
    She wanted to complete her studies and get a job so that she can leave home; escape from those smothered, brown-stained jasmine.
    “To hell with your studies. It’s your destiny that’s more important. Now’s your time for marriage, not after your hair turns gray.”
    “Father, I’m only nineteen. Can’t we wait till I graduate?”
    “Bullshit. Remember, you have a dent in your destiny. We got to mend it. And what should you study for? You don’t need a job to sustain yourself.” Raman spat out a lump of betel and nuts.
    Malini stood up. Girls in rich family were not supposed to work. She could almost feel the wretchedness seep down her legs. Involuntarily, she started for the bathroom.
    “I’ve amassed enough wealth for generations,” Raman said.
    And more sins than the generations could ever hope to seek penance for, Malini thought as she entered the restroom.

    The stench of scotch arrived; the male scent of her Ravi. His tall figure loomed over her study table. His dark shadow swept over her laptop’s monitor.
    “You’ll spend the rest of your life painting these stupid pictures on this screen. Why can’t you do something useful?” Ravi asked.
    Perspiration struggled to break loose on her skin. Malini willed it back. She did not want her brother to smell her feminine scent. Her tongue ached to retaliate, but she did not want her brother to feel the ferocity of her rage. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip.
    “I just don’t understand why you’re so indifferent,” he said.
    Her lip throbbed. Still, she held the reins of her anger. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to mend,” Malini replied.
    “I doubt it. Well, tell the maids to keep ready all the four bedrooms upstairs. The houseboats and outhouses are full today. I’ve more tourists than I can handle.”
    Ravi left. The male scent remained. A smell that wafted in the air like swirling fog, and it doused the scent of her sweat.
    Backwaters flooded with boats. Boats overloaded with foreign tourists; more tourists to flood the bedrooms upstairs. More jasmines than the maids could handle.
    White jasmines illuminated the dark void around her. Her father stood there, his shadow spread a black veil over the brightness of the jasmines. Her brother approached, his shadow swallowed her father’s shadow.
    Father raised a hand and patted Ravi on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy. You’ll keep adding to my empire. You’re a fine boatman who knows how to move his oars. You’re a fisherman who knows where to lay the baits, how to haul the catch.”
    The jasmine garlands twisted and coiled on the ground like mating serpents, and hissing sounds issued. Her brother laughed. The sound resonated inside her head with ricocheting reverberations. Her brother’s shadow loomed larger and larger as the jasmines whimpered. It moved close, poised to engulf her.
    The cold touch of a forked tongue woke her up from the reverie. It licked its way down her legs. As it crept further down, she felt its warmth.
    She must rid herself of the filth.
    She moved. She must take care of things. She should hurry.

    Malini heard footsteps on the staircase. Rapid. Heavy. She waited for the clamor to subside. After a while, the sounds of passion erupted.
    She was ready.
    The smell of jasmines, coiled around her hair, braided in long curls, propelled her forth as she stepped out of the bathroom.
    She walked through the bedroom and out of its door. Stunned whistles of appreciation followed her.
    She stepped into the next bedroom. Shocked emissions of choked breath erupted as a girl withdrew her head from Raman’s lap, in answer to Malini’s footsteps.
    Heads turned, and limbs ceased movement, as Malini treaded into the third bedroom.
    Amidst the suffocating male odors in the fourth bedroom, the scent of Ravi was distinct. She stepped in, the impression of her feet silent on the marbled floor.
    She went straight to the dressing table, and stood for a moment in front of her Mother’s portrait; eyes closed in prayer.
    “Why didn’t you let them know your eyes were open, you could see? Why couldn’t you lash out with the force of your femininity?”
    Her question cut through the sounds of passion.
    Ravi stopped pumping. The girl beneath him coiled against a wall like an angered serpent, ready to strike.
    Feet, soft as cotton pads, scrambled on the floor as several other girls ran for their clothes. Girls, who had jasmine garlands coiled around their braids. An intoxicating smell hung in the room. The scent of jasmines, that churned out lust. Jasmines that brides wore on their hair on their wedding nights.
    Hands pulled up trousers, heaped around feet, as the tourists heard her. Malini didn’t bother to count the numbers.
    She walked towards her brother. “My body is young. Sell me like you sell the others. You wanted me to do something useful, right?”
    Ravi closed his eyes against the fierce glow of his sister’s naked skin. His hands shot up, covering his ears.
    Malini stepped closer, and wrenched his hands away. “My body will fetch you a lot of money. It’s the only thing worthwhile to you, isn’t it?”
    Serpents hissed. Forked tongues worked in and out of their mouth as their mouth opened, revealing curved fangs. Their shining bodies wriggled in the heat of excitement. Malini felt the perspiration break loose on her glistening skin.
    “Those girls you sell are also someone’s sisters, someone’s daughters.”
    Malini saw her brother cringe as she stood before him, an overhead neon light glowing her naked skin in its dusky glory, a hand on each hip. Her shadow swallowed him.
    As the girls ran out of the door, Malini smelt the scent. Oh! Her feminine odor. Perspiration, shining like crystal beads, kept breaking on her skin. She let it flow.
    The trickle between her legs had ceased.

    Published in Literary Potpourri in 2002 online and again in their print anthology in the same year. This magazine is also defunct.

Hareendran Kallinkeel Bio

    Hareendran Kallinkeel lives in Kerala, India, after a stint of 15 years in a police organization and five years in Special Forces. After a hiatus of nearly a decade, he has recently returned to fiction writing. Prior to the hiatus, he has been published in online and print magazines. The title story of his short fiction collection, “A Few Ugly Humans,” has earned a Pushcart Prize nomination in 2005.

    Recent publications include Aphelion-Webzine Sep and Oct issues, Scarlet Leaf Review Nov issue, Flash Fiction Magazine and Pif Magazine Dec issue. Three stories forthcoming in Djed Press and one in Lunaris Review.

The Baby
and it’s coming fast...

    I had just gotten off the phone with Emily, an old friend I met at the Arts department in my senior year at Auburn. We were making plans for a reunion with a few other classmates and planned on meeting up, possibly in the Big Apple. After hanging up the phone I started thinking about those days, and a memory came to mind of an almost surreal and twisted night after leaving a party in the old dorm.
    With pooled money I left the celebration of our coming graduation; sent on a mission to pick up some powder to keep the party rolling. Being the only one there who knew where to go, I was elected because I could score. I’d been to this dealer’s twice before. My friend Chris called me a cab; I was too gassed to drive. The cab arrived 20 minutes later. It was around 11:00pm. To a little more than a shack on the outskirts of the city was my destination. I had to make the run alone and get back quick.
    Once telling him my destination I sat back and started to think this was a bad idea. I didn’t have a friend for backup, and I’d only been to this house during daylight hours. The curly, white haired black cabby had no conversation for me on the drive. There were two pine tree air fresheners hanging from a cracked rear view mirror trying to cover the scent of cigar smoke. I’ve always hated the smell of cigar smoke- reminded me of a son of a bitch, old bastard from my neighborhood as a kid. Those fucking pine air fresheners were just as bad. The two smells in combination was nauseating. I opened my window.
    The taxi driver pulled out front of the dingy, unlit house. There were a couple of dark figures standing off the right side of the place. They looked like they were smoking as I saw a flame of a lighter erupt and the glow of what looked like a cigarette. My cabby wouldn’t pull in the driveway. I told him to wait. He demanded payment first. Did that, told him it would only take a second. He said he’d wait ten minutes, and if I didn’t make it, he’d be history.
    I didn’t waste time and walked up to the front door, knocked twice and walked through the kitchen door. The only source of light was a fat white candle sitting on the table and one on the counter by the sink. The two windows over the sink had cardboard duct taped over their broken glass. I saw a huge cockroach running its ass off across the counter top.
    I looked around- all eyes turned to me. I felt their mistrust. Someone at the table spat it out. “What dat white mutha fucka doin’ here?” I cringed inside. A skinny black chick in a turban spoke her paranoia. “He da mutha fuckin’ po-leece!” A big man; fearsome looking, so black he looked purple, with beads of sweat on his wide brow responded, “He look like Five-O to me too...” Scary fucking house, I was out of my element, the only white guy there.
    I’d witnessed this scene before. Half a dozen crack heads seated at the kitchen table. All were anxious, bug eyed; “sucking the devil’s dick” as I’d heard it said. Thankfully I’d met a guy sitting there before. I smiled and feeling stupid, flipped him the peace sign- he nodded to me and mumbled. “He all right- S’up Z man?” Everyone went back to the business at hand.
    ...Bic lighters flared- glass pipes glowed red- followed by inhaling a white stream of obsession, holding it in, to exhale a cloud of heaven.
    One chick, weird as bat shit, had a fucked up facial thing going on, repeatedly pulling her left shoulder up and down followed by a quick twist of the head then stretched her mouth open wide. She repeated the bizarre shit but no one seemed to notice but me. Like I said, this place was weird as hell and I was uneasy. In little more than a whisper, she said to the guy next to her, “Come’on baby, pass that bitch ova here. Why you be keepin’ that shit all to yo-self?” Another guy was on his hands and knees searching the floor for crumbs of rock.
    As much as I wanted to turn around and head back out the door, I was on a mission and had to follow through. The party back at school was waiting on me and I needed to make this fast. I saw Benny come out of the back room and he spotted me. He was the old black guy I was looking for. Benny was alright by me. Met him a year back at a swank dive in the city, a bar called Moe’s. He cooked the crack and sold powder, and would let folks stay to smoke, always ready to sell more until all their money was gone, then he’d boot their lame asses out. Pulling him aside I told him what I needed and that a cab was waiting.
    Benny walked me into a back bedroom; one behind a doorway covered with a blanket. This room, like the kitchen, was also creepy as shit. My gut told me it was a trap, to turn around and get the fuck out of there, but that wasn’t happening. The alcohol gave me the balls I needed to stay. I paid Benny, he handed me two grams of coke, told me I needed to go. No problem.
    Sassy, a young black, teen hooker staggered from the bathroom holding her belly like her guts were leaking through her fingers. She was fifteen or sixteen years old and a crack whore. She survived without a conscience and prostituted with no protection in this shanty ghetto neighborhood; an ominous section of the city of shotgun houses dubbed, “New Town” She was agonizing and cried out, “It’s comin’, just like the last time!” For her, the pregnancy was no more than a temporary inconvenience. Sassy thought of one thing, to be free of the parasite inside her. She made a pitiful sound.
    I made a quick decision- told her I had a cab out front. I may have felt little compassion for her, more like disgust, as there was no remorse in her, but she needed help. I’d heard a little of her history from Benny and just couldn’t leave without offering help. She was about to deliver a baby with no more care for the experience than she had for her fucked up on bootleg liquor daddy’s beatings and the other despicable shit I’d heard he’d done to her and her sister.
    I ran out front, handed the cabby a twenty, told him I needed to get someone to the hospital, went back inside for Sassy, came out guiding her up the driveway and helping her into the car. She was going to the hospital, but might get jail time when they found out about her crack use and resultant pregnancy; an attempted murder charge in that state. The cabby headed to Jackson Hospital. We three drove the 6 or so miles to get there.
    “Ma belly feelin’ awful as a mutha fucka...” she moaned. Enveloped in the stink of cigar smoke, the silent cabby wheeled through traffic. Her water broke in the back seat. She screamed. The cabby raged at her, slamming the steering wheel with both fists. “Bitch, you gots’ta be kiddin’me! Fuckin’ my shit up! Look at all that stinkin’ mess I gots’ta clean up now! You jus’nigga trash is what you is!”
    The hospital was looming in the distance, could see the neon letters two blocks away above the building’s top floor. Cabby stopped at the ER door and she was out in of the car as fast as her legs allowed, bent over, holding her stomach with her right hand left raised reaching to push open the door. She was trailing blood. I thanked the driver, tipped him 10 bucks. He said nothing. I turned and trotted into the waiting room.
    Sassy was already through the door and had staggered forward towards check-in desk. There was blood running down the inside of her thighs and onto the tiled floor around her feet. She was hunched and moaning. A red headed nurse standing by scurried away to grab a wheelchair then reappeared followed by another nurse on the run. Straight to the exam room they all went and pulled curtains.
    Her child was coming fast. Sassy’s strangled words, “Fuck this shit- get it outa me!” was the last I heard. I felt sober, like a shot of adrenaline hit me, and moved in a hurry to get away. There I left her- didn’t want to answer any questions. I found a phone near the front entrance. I called another cab and walked to the boulevard to wait.
    Back to the dorm I went- didn’t feel much like partying anymore. Everyone was on my ass for taking so long. I kept my mouth shut to everybody except Chris. I told him the entire story later on. They didn’t need to know all that went down. I’d never do that run again. Not at night anyway.
    I found out more of Sassy’s tale months later while at Moe’s having a beer with Chris. That’s when I saw Benny. He told me that after I left his house; the following morning, Sassy had given a false name, miscarried twins then escaped her room at the hospital. No doubt she did that for fear of being arrested. But the experience didn’t stop her.
    She went back to her stomping grounds- back on the pipe, and back on the street selling her ass for chump change and crack rock. I just shook my head, but inside my skull I screamed, wanting to put down each and every crack dealer in the city. “Bang - Bang- You’re All Dead!”
    But that’s just how it was.

Patch...

    The night before was a nightmare. It had been happing on a regular basis. Me and my girlfriend got into it once again. When Terri had too much to drink she’d get mean as hell and ran her mouth like a whore that didn’t get paid. She’d come in the door with an asshole attitude after being out all day and most of the night. She drank, partied, and drugged with a group of people from work that I stayed away from. I did my share of all the above, as she did hers, and no problem, but man, she got ugly as fuck after drinking hard liquor the day before. It just got better after she came in the door.
    I didn’t know it at time, but she’d been getting freaky with another chick who was part of the unusual collection of co-workers she partied with. My friend Billy told me about it after the she and I split up a couple years later. I was a sucker for punishment I guess, but I put up with it, so that makes me accountable. She’s dead now. What I wouldn’t give for one more guilt trip...
    That morning, I needed to get away for the day. I didn’t want to deal with her so I split before she got her spiteful, hung-over ass out of bed. The wind was up and getting stronger that New England morning in late October. The weather outside was cold and soggy. It was the perfect time to pack up my foul weather gear and go fishing. I was gone in no time.
    A couple hours before driving over the bridge to Jamestown, I sat inside of my 69 Volkswagen smoking a bone and listening to Frank Zappa’s new album, ‘Joes Garage’ on my Pioneer Super Tuner II cassette player. Man, that thing rocked; state of the art at the time. I took a hit, thinking about the situation back home and what I should do about the whole situation. “Fuck it!” I said out loud. “Just another day in joy land...”
    It was the off season so the parking lot at Narragansett State Beach was near empty. I got out of the car, lit a smoke and propped myself against the bubble front fender of my old Beetle, Lulu. I was watching a group of die hard surfers. The coming storm was generating huge rollers. The surfers were eating up this opportunity in wet suits, sitting on their long boards offshore, waiting for that perfect wave. Their torsos, sitting atop the sleds, appeared and disappeared between the oncoming waves, looking like corks popping up and down as they came into, and out of view.
    I put out the cigarette, got back in Lulu, started her up, and continued the drive over Verrazano bridge from Narragansett to Jamestown. I stopped at a package store in town for beer, ice, and more cigarettes. I stowed the beer and ice in my Coleman cooler. Nearing my destination, I passed the 18^th century windmill on the island and saw work was underway. I was happy to see that. The historical society was funding a restoration of the antiquated structure.
    At the bottom of the hill I passed over the small bridge and wheeled into the gravel parking lot of the bait shop. The shop sat off to the left of the throughway at an inlet surrounded by long marine grass and sea heather. I felt at home. I grabbed a half dozen green crabs, clam worms, some extra sinkers, and hooks. The owner, Eric, told me fishing had been pretty poor, but I just wanted to relax; fish or no fish, didn’t matter. He wished me luck, I said my goodbye, left the shop and headed to a spot at the tip of the island where I’ve pretty much always had decent luck.
    I met Patch that same afternoon. His first name was actually, Manny, last name, Silva. He and I hit it off right away. We met at the rocky point that jutted out into the Atlantic off to the right of the old Beavertail lighthouse. The water was angry as hell, thunderous, and huge. A bad ass squall from the northeast was on the way. Nor’easters can be bitching with the impact of a hurricane in New England, and this one was coming hard and fast.
    His friends called him ‘Patch’. Manny was one of the good guys. Family meant everything to him. He loved Elvis, cigars, Portuguese wine, and Jack Daniels whiskey. Manny made his own wine and grew tobacco. He told me it was illegal. I never knew anyone that grew tobacco in their gardens, though there were still plantations in Connecticut, next state over. I knew a family there in South Windsor that had been growers for umpteen generations, going back to the 1700’s. My grandfather had made wine all his life too, so that gave Manny and I something to talk about when we first met.
    He was a natural born storyteller and let me into his life over the years after getting to know him as a close friend. It would happen when he had a few drinks and feeling no pain. He’d occasionally tell me of his experiences during the war, but it wasn’t something you’d normally hear come out of his mouth. He brought me into his world with those tales, and seemed always to have a new one to tell, hardly ever repeated the same one twice.
    I remember his stories of battle like I was there. He spoke of French wine, cognac, and the beautiful women he’d met, danced with, kissed, but never about his sexual exploits. He wasn’t a boaster. He told me stories of hate and extreme violence, of love and sadness, the horror of Panzer tanks, and deadly pill boxes; stories of the enemy’s resolve, bravery, and his compassion for them. I remember his first.
    Manny looked at me, head tilted to the side. “They wasn’t all Nazi bastards ya know- most was just like us- had wives and kids, moms and pops, and brothers and sisters that they loved. No different than you and me. They had a country to defend and die for, just like us. You know, Zane, war baffles me, don’t make no fuckin’ sense. And here we are now, friends and allies with those same Germans; same as the Japanese. Try to figure that out... like it was all for nothing. And then, here we got the Russkies, who was an ally in that blood bath, but now we’re in a fuckin’ cold war with ole Ivan- what the fuck is that all about?” All I could do was nod in agreement.
    Manny told me his father was a fisherman from Portugal who married his mother, a fifteen year old gal from his hometown, Sintra, before coming to America. There in the town of Bristol, Rhode Island, they raised a large family. His dad continued with what he knew best, and until he was too feeble to continue, remained a fisherman. Manny and his siblings were first generation, native born, Portuguese Americans, and he was proud to say it. He had five brothers and three sisters. Manny was a boat builder, despite his handicap, before he retired and handed the family business, ‘Silva Boat Manufacturing’, over to his two sons. They built wooden fishing skiffs made with sturdy oak, dinghies, and small sailboats. His personal craft, he personally built. It was a motor boat of hard-wearing mahogany. It was a ribbed, natural beauty; 21 feet long, no paint. The varnished mahogany was old school; a thing of beauty from a bygone era. He and I enjoyed many days out on the water in that hand crafted cruiser. He named it “Fatima” after his wife.
    I’ve always enjoyed the Atlantic’s rage, so did Manny. We both grew up on the water just down the bay from where we met. The town of Bristol, he called home. Me, I grew up in Barrington, two towns down the shore from Bristol. Manny wore a long and wiry, salt and pepper beard- had one eye, and a prosthetic leg. The day we met he was wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap, woolen blue Navy Pea coat, red checked flannel shirt, cuffed jeans, and work boots. The right side of Manny’s face was scarred and he wore a black eye patch covering what was underneath.
    For a guy his age, he was in great shape, didn’t have any excess body fat; a solidly built man. He wasn’t tall, but stocky with a thick barrel chest. He had a powerful grip that caught me off guard that first time giving it a shake. His fingers were short, stout, and callused; his arms muscular. He offered his hand, I stuck mine out. He grabbed hold quick before I had the chance to get a firm hold, and squeezed my fingers like they were in a vice. He shook my hand up and down like he meant it. Man, it pained the hell out those four fingers of my right hand, but I didn’t let on; never made the same mistake twice.
    He moved around with relative ease despite being minus one leg and the prosthetic. Patch lost both his leg and eye fighting in Europe near the end of World War II. He was 18 years old when he signed up in 1943, quit school at sixteen and tried signing up there at the beginning, despite his parent’s objections, was turned down, so he waited it out. Manny never saw need to go back and finish his education.
    His division was attached to Patton’s 3rd Army. It happened in June of 1945 in an trampled pasture outside of a French village on the front lines. Manny was a machine gunner; part of a three man squad. They were catching rifle, mortar, and machine gun fire, hustling for cover, him carrying his 50 caliber gun, his two buddies; one carrying the ammo, the other a tripod. Manny told me his buddy of near two years, the one carrying the ammo, just disappeared when that mine went off. His friend was an Irish kid from Providence, Rhode Island.
    They became tight, though they’d never met before at home, after finding each other in the same outfit. In a subdued voice and looking downcast, he told me. “I was told at the hospital they didn’t find enough of him to bury. Danny was no more‘en ten, maybe fifteen feet away from me when he hit that land mine. Poor bastard... I went to visit his family after the war and gave them his last letter. We both give one another letters in case t’other didn’t make it out. We knew we was headed into a hornets nest, and man, them Germans was waitin’, fightin’ for their very way of life, families, and homeland. We was right at their back door, there at the Bulge, and they was givin’ us fuckin’ hell to pay. I’m here to tell ya Zane- if’n ya wanna know what the horror of war is- well, you ain’t gonna find it in no fuckin’ movie, I tell ya. We was in it thick of it and I don’t ever wish that shit on another livin’ soul.”
    He lit a Lucky Strike while I sat up on a boulder holding my fishing pole. He reeled in his line in to re-bait. I put down my pole, hopped down, opened the cooler, and pulled out a beer. I cracked it open and waited. Patch took a hit off his pint bottle, placed it back in his coat pocket. His mind was still somewhere else. He baited and cast his line back out, reeled it in taught, and set his pole down against a boulder that had a thick vein of white quartz running through it. Manny said it was his rock. I laughed. His fishing line now extending out into the surf, he went on with his story.
    “Yup, Zane, just above my right knee, they took ‘er off in that Army field hospital.” He shook his head, flipped open his Zippo lighter, relit his cigar and puffed mightily. After a minute or so he went on with his story, a distant look in his one good eye.
    “Yup, it got fucked all to hell when that God awful mine went off.” Manny made the sign of the cross after saying this. “My left eye got tore’d right outa my fuckin’ head. I went down hard and lay there in shock; a terrible ringin’ in both my ears, I had a mouthful of blood and dirt- didn’t know what hit me, but I looks down and sees part of my leg is gone and realizes I can’t see outa my right eye. It was gone. I passed out. They had to write me a note cuz I couldn’t hear nothin’, telling me they couldn’t save my knee and that I lost my right eye. They cut off what was left of my lower leg right above the joint- said I was lucky to be alive. Hell, I told the doctor to fuck off and leave me alone. I couldn’t hear nothing for weeks after I came to. Took a while and I still don’t hear so well neither. I was thinkin’ at the time, it would’a been better to be dead, than livin’ without a leg and havin’ one eye. I didn’t want to talk to no one.”
    I didn’t know what to say, just shook my head side to side. I felt a bit off balance. I just met the guy and he’s telling me all this. My father went through that war in Europe, also Army, but he was closed mouthed about the whole affair so I had nothing to add to his story. My own life experience seemed pretty puny compared to what this man was telling me. I had lost my good friend Gary in Vietnam and told Manny so. Sounded lame as it was coming out of my mouth. He nodded, said he was sorry to hear it and asked where he was buried. I told him Gary was at our home town cemetery. Manny said that when his number was up; he wanted to be buried at the Veterans cemetery with a military funeral, guns and all. I upended my can, finished my beer, reached over, dropped the empty in my cooler, grabbed another, cracked it open and handed one to Patch. He thanked me and started up again after passing his bottle over to me.
    “Yup, Uncle Sam sent me home on a U.S. Navy hospital ship with hundreds of other wounded guys and it smelled awful, liked death. Was a long trip home and all I could think of was surviving the battlefield, only to get sunk out in the Atlantic by a fuckin’ U Boat on my way back to the states, and here I was with one leg and couldn’t swim!”
    He laughed at himself then continued. “But we got back to Philadelphia in due time. Yeah, I got to see Christmas back in the states, but a lotta my buddies were still back there, freezin’ to death in a shit storm of dyin’ and screamin’ at the ‘Battle of the Bulge’, as the Americans called it; Germans called it something else. That was the final, pretty much to end it all fight. Germany was beaten all to hell. The allied bombin’ of her cities was a horrible price to pay for the civilians of Germany, Zane... but that’s just how shit was. Anyway, I got sent on a train to the V.A. in Providence after a time in that Philly hospital. That’s where I met my wife, Maria. She was a young immigrant; an Italian gal who was there volunteerin’ pretty much as a clean up lady, but she were a comfort giver for sure. All the guys had their eye on her. I fell ass over tea kettle in love with that black haired beauty.”
    Manny relit his cigar, wet his lips with a pull off the beer, then picked up where he left off. That guy was living the memory. “Her skin was olive like mine, eyes so dark brown they was near black. And ya know what? She didn’t give two shits ‘bout me bein’ all fucked up. We got married 17 months later. She loved me regardless- a fine woman and wife, couldn’t find better, and a great mother to my two boys and daughter. I never forget to tell and show her how much I love her... yup, a real sweetheart is what she is.”
    Manny spoke plain, to the point, his words were simple- his company, a pleasure. I caught a good dose of the reasonable that afternoon mixed with a measure of new found humanity, gratitude for my life, and a peace settled in. I sure loved listening to him; just being around him- his common sense, grit, and leather, molded from a lifetime of experience. Patch was a shoot from the hip kind of a guy, didn’t mince words. His was a life of sound logic and the man gave everyone respect, but don’t cross him.
    For eleven years following that day in Jamestown, I got to know the man until, Patch was no more. He died of a heart attack while fishing out on the waters of Narragansett Bay in that mahogany he built and loved so much. It happened at Potters Cove off Prudence Island one day in May of 1993. I was living in Germany at the time, attending a university there, painting, and studying art history so I couldn’t make the funeral.
    It was a heartbreaking day when I received the phone call from my buddy, Dave. As was his wish, Manny was planted, as he referred to it, at the Rhode Island Veteran’s Cemetery in North Kingston with a full military funeral, guns ‘n all. Dave took a picture and sent it to me of the soldiers attending, standing erect, holding their rifles towards the sky. I choked up at that, have the picture still.
    While there in Deutschland, I had visited some of the battle sites he told me about and had participated in. I saw the grave markers of the fallen German soldiers at the site in the burgh of “Alten Kirschen” which means “Old Cherries” I stood before a larger than life, bronze statue of a helmeted German soldier in his long winter coat, holding his rifle by the barrel, butt on the ground, head bowed. I felt a sadness, as though I knew him in a way.
    While making the rounds I still visit Patch at the cemetery and head down to his quartz veined rock in Jamestown, whenever I get back up north. Acceptance, forgiveness, perseverance, and courage, his message... and he’s still close by.
    “Hey, Patch- ya old coot!” - “Back to ya, ya dumb young shit!”
    Manny was an ole timer that I liked and loved...

the Many Faces of Mr. Stupid

    I avoid anger early in the morning, but this morning it was a struggle. I answered the page to go to the inner office which meant I was being fired. That infamous part of the World’s Largest Beverage Depot partitioned by glass panels was the manager’s idea of humiliation and not a comfortable fit for overweight guys like myself. Customers glanced at me as they shopped for whatever alcoholic beverage they liked. Thank God, I decided to look for another job, after my brown-nosing co-worker whose forklift shattered a skid of expensive cognac. I figured he would lie and say I did it since he used my fork because his battery died. I should’ve known Sammy was going to screw up. He’d hit his flask more often than usual. Rarely could you smell it, but that day was different. I warned him about going to the casino, beginner’s luck doesn’t last long, but who listens to me. Mr. Tanke was in the area, I knew his strategy was to display me to my co-workers and let me percolate on the situation and hope I would explode. You wish! I’m way too smart for that no telling what would happen after I was escorted, vertically or horizontally, out of the store. If someone did a dastardly deed who would be the prime suspect? No, Mr. Tanke, not me. His arrogance coupled with pride in helping the family build a large wholesale liquor distribution business didn’t impress me. I watched the six feet plus, workout daily and health conscious dieter walk down the aisle toward me. The smirk on his face said, you’re fired, Amos. He squeezed past me and sat.
    “Mr. Amos Stalls, how are you today?”
    “Now I’m Mr. earlier I was Amos as usual. Get to the point, Mr. Tanke, I’m too old for games.”
    He cleared his throat and opened the desk drawer and fingered through a folder. “What happened the other day?”
    As if he didn’t know; his mind wasn’t already made up. “Sammy used my fork because his battery was dead, so he said anyway.”
    “And.”
    “And...and what? He damaged that shipment not me.” With no witnesses, it was his word against mine. His won. Tanke stared at me for a minute with his close-set eyes that resembled a person with some sort of syndrome.
    “You been with us for—”
    “Two years, never been late or took a sick or personal day. Do you believe me or what?”
    He sighed and slammed the folder shut. “It doesn’t matter business has slowed. Your seniority says I lay you off. I’m sorry.” He reopened the folder. “But your record gets you this.” He handed me an envelope. “Don’t open it now, it’s a month’s severance pay. And, don’t thank me either—”
    “Just leave now, right?” The cut-off got me an arched eyebrow with smart ass written all over it. I slipped the envelope in my pocket and saw a couple of coworkers stocking a section of cognac by the rare and collectible beverage room turn their heads not quick enough. Nosy bastards, if I was supposed to be embarrassed, I wasn’t. But, what would a forklift driver scorned do?
    Drop a hint about a bottle here and there being opened and resealed or glitches with the inventory scanner? He might know already. I stood quickly and Tanke’s eyes bucked, now he was in defense mode. “You know, Tanke, thanks for the opportunity to work here.” I extended my hand, he stood surprised at the gesture. We shook. Why burn down a bridge, I’d probably need a reference.
    “Ok, Amos, good luck.”
    Now I was Amos again. It was a tight fit in that space that’s when I got a whiff of Mr. Stupid on his breath. It smelled like wine or cognac. Was he an undercover drunk or what? He held out his hand. “Oh, I forgot, my locker key and ID badge. My locker’s empty.” I should ask for a bottle of what he’s drinking, but instead I stepped out of the cubicle and walked past the liqueur section, the least rotated stock in the building. That garbage didn’t sell why they kept it was anybody’s guess. Several couples crowded the locally brewed beer aisles that led to the warehouse and the dock. Several coworkers got on their phones. My guess, they called Sammy to warn him I’m headed that way.
    There was only one trailer being unloaded. Sammy backed out of it driving my fork. He turned it and avoided eye contact. “Hey Sammy.” He pretended not to hear and drove the load in the opposite direction. And there went my so-called friend another lesson learned in my forty years of life. No great loss, true friends are few and far between, old people told me that one. I waved at the guys on the dock and made a beeline to my car. It hesitated when I turned the key, now I know where part of that check was headed. My cell vibrated, email. Great!! A job interview in a week. That called for a celebration.

    The temptation to visit my favorite watering hole overwhelmed my annual ritual to stay sober for six months a year. But, several more good job offers got me sitting at the bar watching my favorite barmaid pour a shot of my favorite concoction, rum with a Miller on the side.
    “Leslie, what happened to your knuckles?” She shrugged with a look of disgust. “Sorry.” I felt bad; I spoke before I thought.
    “That’s ok, I need to dump on somebody and you’re the lucky guy. Me and my man had been partying and got into a heated stupid argument. He grabbed me. I over reacted and my MMA training kicked in.” She was a small woman very attractive and almost in tears. “I don’t mean to cry in your beer, but I don’t know what to do.”
    Mr. Stupid strikes again.
    “I know the feeling.” What do you say? I had my own problems, at least she was working. “Pray about it, if you’re into that.”
    “That’s sweet, be right back.” She hurried to serve another customer at the end of the bar.
    Who would’ve thought she had mixed martial arts experience. Brutal sport for such an attractive woman. I turned my beer several times. Did I want it? Yes and no. Leslie returned with a concerned expression on her pretty face. “What’s on your mind?”
    “Got fired a few weeks ago, got a few job offers too.”
    “That’s good, right?” She smiled. “Congrats,” and downed my shot of rum and poured another. “That’s how it’s done, Amos.”
    “I guess, but—” I looked at all the different sizes and shapes of the bottles of alcohol that lined the wall. Most people who drank didn’t need to. It created more problem then it solved.
    “But what?”
    “Never mind.” My phone sounded off...an email. I couldn’t believe it. Solomon Tanke asked would I be interested in reinstatement, if so, report Monday at the usual time. Sounds good, but what made the owner get involved, he spent most of his time abroad?
    Don’t let your imagination runaway with you, Amos. If and when you walk in the door you’ll a feel of what’s going on. Whose there and who isn’t will say a lot.
    I’ll put the other interviews on hold, if possible. “Sorry, Leslie, don’t mean to be rude.” I peeled off a twenty. “Got to go.”
    Good bye, Mr. Stupid, but not today.

Woman, Window Shopping

    The line moves forward as I load my groceries onto the worn conveyor belt. I look up and notice the girl behind the register—pouty lips curled up in barely perceptible condescension.
    I flip the diamond side of my wedding band to the inside of my palm, even though I know she could care less. Watching as she slides tonight’s menu and a Maxim for my husband over the red light of the scanner, I see that her frown has turned into an absent-minded smile. She asks how I am in a disinterested voice.
    How am I? I think. Forty and unsure. “Fine, thank you. How are you?”
    “Fifty three forty one.” She yawns.
    “I like your nail polish. What color is it?” I ask. The grocery store fades away as I lean over the counter to run my hands on top of her shellacked nails and intertwine my fingers with hers. They are smooth.
    “It’s called purple,” she retorts sarcastically as she flattens her eyebrows and pops her gum.
    I’m back at the register with my unpolished hands to themselves, where they’ve been the entire time.
    “Fifty three forty one,” she reminds me.
    Can I have your number? I want to say. Instead: “Here you go.” I pull my credit card from my worn wallet.
    “Just slide it right there. Or if you have a chip, just stick it in.”
    But I put it in the wrong way. Embarrassed, I laugh nervously. “Haven’t gotten used to those damned things yet.”
    Her manicured fingertips click against the card as they insert it forcefully into the machine for me. “All you have to do is sign now, m’am.”
    I can’t ask her. I want to but I’m a wannabe.
    She puts the bags in my cart, and as I turn around: “Ma’m—”
    “Yes?” I turn, heart fluttering.
    Suddenly I’m standing at the tiled island in the kitchen unloading the groceries when I find the name of an obscure hotel scribbled on the back of the receipt. I will meet her there mid-day, under the pretext of a pedicure. That’s what I’ll tell my husband, and he will grunt dismissively from behind the magazine, his hands in his pants. She and I will make love instead. Rolling around. Touching her, touching me. Touching each other and ourselves.
    “I asked if you want me to take this out to your car for you?” I’m in the store again, standing underneath a flickering fluorescent light. She doesn’t really want to.
    I roll my eyes, push the buggy out the door, and turn the diamond of my wedding band outward.
    Outside, an unhurried husband on his cell phone walks lazily behind a hurried wife and three boys. She smiles despairingly in my direction.
    Now she and I are in the car, flattening the bread and bruising the apples. We crush a carton of milk creating a white explosion. But we don’t care.
    A horn blares as I drift aimlessly through the parking lot.

How Father Holt Got Transferred to Iowa

    Of all times and all places, Father Patrick Holt should not have disgraced himself at the Immaculate Conception Church during a funeral.
    The ceremony was lovely, befitting the beloved stature of the now-deceased widow of Danville’s richest transportation guru. Had Pastor Curtis had a choice he would never have asked him to deliver the eulogy, but a post-flu laryngitis made it necessary. He was thankful he’d lived until the Holt disaster struck.
    “It was situational, the absurdity of death itself,” Holt asserted in his defense. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone. I read what was printed. And, if Enrique hadn’t giggled, no one would have noticed.”
    Curtis still couldn’t talk. Doctor Young had insisted he rest his voice but saying the mass in a hoarse whisper seemed to be an acceptable exception. Until now. As Young predicted, his face reddened with by rage, Father Curtis was unable to vent audibly. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on his desk while he rested his face in the palm of his left hand and shook his head slowly from side to side in despair.
    “I’ve never been a great public speaker or a good reader, which is why I always like to read things beforehand. If I’d had more time, maybe I could have caught your typos before...”
    Curtis jumped from his chair, ran to the door, opened it, and pointed to Holt. Then to the hallway.
    Holt approached his superior warily, checking for a weapon as he drew near, and ducked as he slipped past. The door banged shut after him.
    Seated outside the rectory office on an old church pew was the boy who started the debacle ball rolling: thirteen-year-old Enrique Basilone. The bane of every teacher at IC School. Would he think Holt’s unceremonious ejection from Curtis’ office as funny as his funeral faux pas?
    Enrique avoided eye contact, his chin resting on his chest to ensure his gaze fell on his shoes, but Fr. Holt saw his shoulders shaking. The little bastard was still laughing.
    Holt hurried down the hallway that led to the second front door that opened to a foyer and the first front door. Once inside the foyer, Holy pondered his options. Suicide. Transfer. Public apology. Confession. A whole new career. Maybe this was God’s way of making him rethink his vocation. Maybe it was time he went home to Indiana.
    He opened the first front door and saw a woman with a cane climbing the rectory stairs. On the porch, she looked up and came face to face with the man who ruined her sister’s funeral.
    “I’m so sorry,” Holt blurted. “I want you to know that.” He stepped back and held the door for her.
    “If you’d known my sister, Father Holt, you’d know she had a wonderful time at your expense.”
    “Then you haven’t come to have me burned at the stake?”
    She rested on her cane. “Patty Pettiboner, CEO of the Danville Fucking Company? Father, that was the funniest, truest eulogy I’ve ever heard. Patty was one wild gal.” He flitted to the second front door and held it open. Poor old soul. Perhaps she could smooth Curtis’ ruffled feathers. “It’s too bad you ran out. You would have heard people laugh. Well, some of them. Mostly the men.”
    “I couldn’t stop laughing. Believe me, I tried. But Enrique kept making giggle suppression noises...”
    “We all have that one friend, the one who gets us sent to the principal’s office very time the biology teacher says the word vagina. Patty was that friend for me.”
    “Please...tell Father Curtis that.”
     “I’ve already sent him a note. I’ll make a donation to the mortgage fund.”
    Enrique was walking towards them wearing that smile all kids wear when they’ve just heard adult bullshit. In his hand were some 3X5 cards. Had Father Curtis admonished him in print?
    As though he could read minds, Enrique held up the cards and waved. “Father Curtis is resting his voice,” Holt whispered to Patty’s sister as she came inside and side-stepped the exiting adolescent.
    Curtis came out of his office. Was he waiting for her, or ready for round two in the Father Holt Grudge Match? He motioned them both to his office where they sat in front of Curtis’ desk like students about to receive detention. Although mute, Curtis was prepared. He gave the dowager a stack of cards too.
    Appreciate your forgiveness, but successful parish work requires a
    priest to be respected not ridiculed by the altar boys every time he says
    mass. Holt I can get rid of, but Enrique and the other students will stay.
    Some of them will knock up their girlfriends and stay forever.

    She read the card and handed it to Father Holt. “Was it all that bad, Father Curtis? A little Christian charity would go a long way here,” Mrs. Langly said. Did she expect charity from a Pastor of a working-class coal town? Curtis scribbled on a card and handed it to her, and she to Holt:
    If he doesn’t go, I’ll kill him.
    “No parish will take him without a letter of recommendation, Father Curtis. They’ll think he’s part of that musical chair nonsense that happened with the molestations. Why don’t you refrain from murder until I can talk to the Archbishop in Dubuque. He’s my nephew.”
    Curtis glared at Holt and solemnly shook his head yes.
     “I’m sure Father Holt has talents that are yet unrecognized.”
    Curtis shook his head no, scribbled again, and handed a card to Mrs. Langly that she did not pass to Holt.
    Congenitally stupid. High price for musical chairs.
    Iowa was the place for the nice young man of cheerful and contrite countenance. He wouldn’t get wrinkles until sixty or break any hearts. She kept her checkbook in her purse and left, wondering why so many believe Jesus was a sourpuss. At her nephew’s ordination, she and Patty had laughed uncontrollably when he’d referred to Mary as the Immaculate Contraption.

About Jenean McBrearty (2018),/h2>

    Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, who taught Political Science and Sociology. Her fiction, poetry, and photographs have been published in over two-hundred print and on-line journals. She won the Eastern Kentucky English Department Award for Graduate Creative Non-fiction in 2011, and a Silver Pen Award in 2015 for her noir short story: Red’s Not Your Color. Her novels and short story collections can be found on Amazon and Lulu.com.

Shattered Windowpane

    Bobby Jones’s sweat-covered shirt stuck to his body like glue. His long, mostly gray hair dangled well past his shoulders. A bright spotlight highlighted his tall, lean body as he stood center-stage. His well-worn guitar was slung over his shoulder. The band, barely visible in the dim blue stage lights, played behind him.
    Bobby leaned into the microphone and sang the last lines of his Country ballad. “You shattered my heart... like a rock... through a windowpane.”
    He backed away from the microphone and strummed the last chords of the song, accompanied with a cry from the steel guitar. Bobby, in his early fifties, looked much older than his years. It was easy to see that years of being on the road had taken its toll. However, he still looked like a million dollars, dressed in jeans that were heavily starched with an ironed crease down the front. Silver-tipped black Western boots matched his black long-sleeve shirt. He slowly bowed to the audience.
    Bobby leaned back into the microphone and shouted to the crowd as he held his guitar high over his head. “Thank you and good night!”
    The spot-light dimmed as Bobby and the band quickly made their exit. The arena lights came up on thousands of cheering fans. The audience, a mix of young and old, all wanted more, even though the band had already completed three encores. Many in attendance copied Bobby’s look of silver-tipped Western boots, jeans, and a fancy black Western shirt.
    As Bobby stepped off the stage, a roadie quickly took his guitar and handed him a towel. Another handed a full Jack Daniel’s bottle. Bobby’s road manager, Steve Hicks, grabbed his arm as the two continued to walk backstage.
    “Great show! You were fantastic tonight,” Steve said. Steve was of average height, thin, well-dressed, and known in the industry for running a tight ship.
    Backstage chaos ensued, with a mixture of musicians, roadies, and special guests all trying to get a glimpse of the star. Bobby and Steve made their way to a dressing room door labeled “BOBBY JONES.”
    On each side of the dressing room door stood bodyguards. As Steve and Bobby entered, Steve instructed the men, “No one, and I mean no one, gets in here tonight except me and Mark Gooden from ROLLING STONE!” Steve eyeballed both men. “Are we clear on that?”
    The two men nodded to confirm.
    Steve continued, “Did I tell you that you’re both doing a great job?” Upon receiving the compliment, both men stood a little straighter and taller.
    In the center of the dressing room was a large, worn, Oriental rug, with three comfortable leather chairs positioned in a semicircle. To the far side of the room was a white-linen-covered table with a buffet of food and drinks. Bobby collapsed into one of the chairs. He took long swigs directly from the Jack Daniel’s bottle.
    Steve closed the door and turned to Bobby. “Man, they are eating up the new you!”
    Bobby nodded. “Thanks.”
    “I need to take care of some things,” Steve said. “You relax, and Mark Gooden will be here in ten. Are you ready for this? I just found out that Rolling Stone is giving you the cover!” Steve’s whole body flinched with excitement. “Mark called me just before the show started and asked for a little bit of your time. Man, you are back on top of the world.”
    Bobby replied, “Yeah, I’ll give him all the time he wants.”
    Steve gave a little fist bump of approval “Great! Ok, you need anything, just ask one of the guys outside.” Steve turned and quickly left the room.
    Bobby eased back in the chair, the towel draped over his head, looking like a prize fighter after a twelve-round match. Exhausted, his head dropped, his eyes closed. As he started to relax his mind began to drift.

    He had been deep into the bottle, with little or no sleep. He’d spent money he did not have and recently finalized a divorce from his fourth wife. He had lost the ability to write one hit song after another. His fan base had drifted. He hadn’t had a new song or album in more years than he could count
    Bobby’s career started when he was fifteen. He quit school to play guitar in a traveling country band. Soon he was the front-man, gaining attention from the press, as his fan base rapidly grew. Life on the road was one long party. He’d picked up the habit of smoking and learned to enjoy the taste of Jack Daniel’s. His love of excess drinking gained Bobby numerous invitations to spend a night in local jail cells. Many photos floated around over the years with Bobby collapsed off-stage with his old friend Jack, or being carted off by the local authorities.
    Bobby’s first love was his guitar and music. He also had a soft spot for the pretty girls, married women, included that came to his shows. Keeping angry husbands distracted was a full-time job for security staff, as well as keeping them out of his hotel room and off the tour bus.
    Despite his wild life-style and habits, he was born with a gift to write songs. During many long bus rides, band members would challenge him by pulling little scraps of paper out of a big jar. Each piece of paper had a word written on it. From that one word, a new song was written. Many times, Bobby and the boys would be playing a new song that an hour earlier was nothing more than a word scribbled on a scrap of paper.
    However, the years of over-indulging were taking their toll on Bobby. He would end shows early because he just lacked the stamina to play three hour shows. His ability to write his own material had slipped to the point that most of his new material was now penned by others. Ticket sales to his shows steadily dropped off. Over the past few months, he could see more and more empty sets at the end of each show when the stadium lights were brought up.
    An old musician friend had been aware that Bobby was in a downward spiral in every aspect of his life. If Bobby didn’t do something soon, his career as an entertainer would tragically end. This friend offered Bobby the use of his cabin in the woods of Tennessee.
    Bobby’s mind drifted deeper. He remembered the day he first entered the cabin. The old rustic furniture seemed to welcome him. It spoke - “Come, relax, enjoy.” The back porch had two Adirondack chairs that overlooked a large lake. It was beautiful and peaceful. Not a soul to be seen for miles.
    He remembered the first time he entered the master bedroom. As he pulled the curtains back to take a look at the view, he experienced a jolt that resonated deep within his body. One of the glass windowpanes was shattered. At that moment, looking at the shattered glass, a whisper of a melody started to dance in the back of his head. The melody was not clear, more like a dull hum from behind a stage curtain that could not push its way through all of the other clutter.
    He sat at a table with his Jack and a folder of new songs that had been written for him by new up-and-coming entertainers. Not happy with any of them, he slammed the folder shut, picked up his guitar, and tried to write a new song. Gone were the days when he could rattle out a hit song with ease. His hands were shaking, and when he tried to sing, the notes came out flat and off key.
    That night, Bobby decided to make some real changes in his life.
    He poured his booze down the kitchen sink. He then slept for a few hours, his first uninterrupted sleep in many nights. As he slept the faint melody tickled his dreams.
    The next morning, after a cup of strong coffee, Bobby took a long walk through the woods. When he got back to the cabin, Bobby called Calvin, the owner of the General Store at the bottom of the road. He ordered food and supplies for a long stay. Most importantly, Bobby asked Calvin to bring him a dozen notebooks and two dozen pencils.

    Each morning, Bobby started with a walk. Each day, his walks got longer. Bobby was a good cook, and he prepared all of his own meals. For the first time in many months he enjoyed the taste of real food rather than the fast food he had been surviving on. His nights were filled with writing by the light of a fire and an old kerosene lamp. When he was tired he went to bed, and fell into a long restful sleep with the bedroom window wide open.
    After a couple weeks, Bobby felt stronger and more clearheaded. By the end of the first month, he added push-ups to his walking routine and started to jump rope. Through it all, the vision of the broken windowpane haunted him. In his mind, he held an image of all the details of the shattered glass. How the fractures radiated to the edges of the wooden window frame; how in between each of the primary fractures there were smaller fractures and how little shards of glass dusted the windowsill. Through the hum in his mind, Bobby knew that, deep inside, there was a song, a good song, and he was going to keep digging until he had it.
    From the age of seventeen, Bobby had enjoyed the taste of Jack Daniels. From then on, he’d always had a bottle of Jack in his hand. It had become his trademark, of sorts. He hung on to it, like a baby with a security blanket. It was one habit Bobby could just not break, but he knew that he could not go through life holding on to an empty whiskey bottle.
    One morning, he developed a solution that would let him hold on to his beloved bottle, without the temptation of whiskey. He boiled a pot of water and steeped ten or so tea bags, then filled the Jack Daniels bottle with tea.
    That afternoon as he sat on the back porch, deep in thought, Bobby reached for the bottle at his side. He cracked a slight smile and took a long drink. Bobby had a new little secret. A secret that would allow him to drink from his bottle as much as he wanted, without the least little buzz. Sitting quietly, Bobby slid back into his thoughts.
    Three months passed, when Bobby received a note from his manager, suggesting that it was time to get back to work. He was rested, strong, and sober. His notebooks were filled with a collection of new songs, songs he wanted to share with his band, his fans and the world. However, he still had one more song to write. The vision of the shattered windowpane was still an itch deep in his brain. An itch he needed to scratch.

    The morning air was cool as Bobby sat on the back porch with a cup of fresh coffee and a plate of old-fashioned donuts. Calvin’s wife sent the homemade donuts along with his weekly supplies. They reminded Bobby of the ones his mother made. A heavy cake donut, fried crisp, then given a heavy sprinkle of powdered sugar. A fresh donut and a cup of strong coffee were all any man could want in life.
    Just as Bobby finished his coffee, music and words started to flow clearly through his head. He stumbled across the porch into the house, grabbed his guitar, his writing pad.
    Within an hour, he had the song that had haunted him from the first day. A few hours later, all of the lines, chords, and solos were in place. Bobby dropped his stub of a pencil onto the table, took a long look at the tattered notebook and knew, deep in his soul that he had written the best song of his career. Now it was time to go home.

    Two months later, Bobby and his band were in the studio. They launched a new album that hit gold within a couple of weeks and platinum shortly after.
    Everyone associated with Bobby’s music was in the middle of putting together a new US and World Tour.

    A light knock on the dressing room door brought Bobby out of his deep thoughts, and Mark Gooden entered the room. Mark held his arms out to give a big hug. “Bobby! Fantastic show! What a fantastic show!” Mark looked like a bit of a nerd, with slightly unkempt hair, big dark-framed glasses and clothes that were out of fashion.
    Bobby tried to get up, but did not have the strength. He pointed to one of the leather chairs and said, “Come on in. Have a seat,” and then pointed to the table, “Please, help yourself.”
    Mark settled into one of the leather chairs, took a look over at the table. “No thank you, maybe later.”
    Mark pulled out a pen and small notepad from his bag. “Thanks for taking time to sit with me,” he said. “Man, you look and sound better than you ever have.”
    “Thanks,” Bobby replied with a big smile.
    Mark took a deep breath, paused for a second, and then dove right into his interview. “Bobby, you have a new album and a hit single from the album’s title. Tell me about “Shattered Windowpane.” It’s your best song to date. What inspired you?”
    Bobby leaned forward, looked Mark directly into his eyes. “I stopped drinking.” Bobby then took a long swig from his Jack Daniels bottle. He pulled the bottle away and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. He then broke into a loud laugh as he carefully placed the bottle down by his chair and said. “Well... it all started when...”
    As Mark listened, he feverishly took notes. He had no need to ask questions. Everything Bobby said was pure gold. “You just can’t make this stuff up,” Mark thought to himself.

    Two months after the interviewed with ROLLING STONE, Bobby was in New Orleans for a concert. He eased out of on the hotel’s side doors for an early morning walk. He was rounding the corner on his way back to the hotel when he spotted a coffee shop with a little news stand just outside of the shop. At the news stand, Bobby found the newest edition of ROLLING STONE with him on the cover. Bobby purchased a copy, along with a newspaper, and headed into the coffee shop.
    He took a booth towards the back of the shop, ordered a large cup of black coffee and a sugar-covered donut. The headline to his photo read, “Bobby Jones tells how he pulled his career out of the ashes!” Bobby flipped through the magazine until he reached the article. The four-page article was accompanied with many photos of him relaxing, working in the studio, on stage, and on the tour bus. None of the photos included his old friend Jack.
    The article opened, “Bobby Jones sits exhausted after his opening show in Dallas and opens up about how he destroyed his life, his music, and relationships.” The article continued on how getting away from life in a cabin in the woods and how a shattered windowpane ignited the spark that allowed him to find his way back to music and provided the inspiration for his latest song, “Shattered Windowpane.”
    After completing the article, Bobby placed a twenty-dollar bill on top of the check for $4.50, as well as an autographed copy of the magazine.

My Children’s Grand Expedition

    We were preparing to move out of Chicago into the northwestern suburbs. Things weren’t too easy for my brother and me. Adjusting to the idea of leaving my kindergarten class in Chicago’s Hyde Park and my longtime friends was difficult. Being a five-year-old child, what I wouldn’t do to let my parents know how I felt. That was the time I started biting my three-year-old brother Don, jealous about the attention he received for doing the little things to get ready—going with Dad to buy the newspaper with its ads for houses, keeping his things neatly packed away for the “Moving” time, and helping our mother organize things to pack away.
    The thought of never seeing my friends of this neighborhood made me very insecure. One night, a Tuesday, I was particularly angry and upset. I felt that I had to finally voice my considered opinion.
    “You just want to leave me behind,” I would scream in the middle of the night, “Well go ahead, I don’t want to go!”
    “And no one,” whimpering myself back to sleep, “can make me!”
    Then on Wednesday night, I noticed that Dad came home late from God knows where, very drunk. Mom was very concerned about his state of mind.
    “Where have you been, Bill?” she anxiously asked.
    “Out with Grant Miller, one of my clients, darling,” he slurred his words as he spoke, unsteady on his feet. A big bear of a man, he seemed to me to be a giant hovering over my mother, whom I saw as a small fragile woman. In this strange condition, he frankly scared me.
    “And you didn’t even call to say that you’d be home late,” she accused him, “Where’s your sense of family? I was worried about you. I wondered if you had had an accident. What was I supposed to think?”
    “I’m sorry my dear,” he said, “I’ll let you know where I am next time. I promise.”
    I knew better than Mom apparently did. I believed his promise to be an empty one. This was his third night coming home late without calling Mom. I had counted how often this had happened this past week.
    One cold Saturday afternoon, March 9, my brother and I were playing in the backyard, which was practically the size of a postage stamp and was a bald spot of earth. My parents were visiting the neighbors, so they didn’t pay much attention to what we were doing. Then I had this brilliant idea. I would take my friends and Don on a grand expedition. In the backyard were me, Don, and three other boys my age of five-years-old: Bobby Howard, Jeremy Barnes, and Sammy Rae Washington.
    And it wasn’t until twelve hours later that my parents learned the story of our grand expedition—
    From our backyard, 53^rd and Drexel we traveled by bus to Garfield and Ashland—a long ways from home—to see our family friends, the Forewalters. We had a little money gathered from the odd change around the house to get there.
    “Bobby! Jeremy! Sammy Rae! We’ve now got $1.50,” I said with excitement, “That’s enough to take us someplace elsewhere in the city. Let’s go on a grand expedition.”
    I was especially confident that we had the resources to make the trip. After all, I had gone to the Forewalters with my parents by public transportation and knew the route to take.
    Joseph and Meg Forewalter, painters and sculptors who always managed to support themselves with their artwork, lived in the true Bohemian style. They had a house large enough for a zoo of animals and several guests, including their children, staying for various lengths of time. Even separated couples, who were awaiting divorce, would stay in different rooms across and down the hall from each other.
    And everyone cooperated, unlike at my house. Even if the separated couples hadn’t been able to live together under their own roof, somehow, they could get along while at the Forewalters. It was one of the original models of coop living.
    “Any friend of Meg (or Joe),” the policy of the house was, “Is a friend of mine—even if I can no longer stand him (or her).”
    We arrived at their home at 4:00 pm, two hours after our departure from my family’s home. We were all excited to be at this wonderful new place and instantly felt at home the entire time of our visit. The Forewalters environment was truly magical for us and our time flew by. We were so engaged in what was happening with games and lively play that the time flew by and we couldn’t sleep at all. The next morning, the Forewalters decided that it was time to contact the parents of us missing children. When Meg and Joe contacted each child’s parents, they put Bobby, Jeremy and Sammy Rae on the phone to reassure his Mom or Dad that the boy was perfectly safe and content to return when the parent could come to the Forewalters home to pick the child up to go home.
    So, when Megan decided finally to call my parents, I was prepared to listen in on the phone call.
    [Mom and Dad are both frantic on the phone call despite the reassurances of Meg and Joe. Dad is understandably upset while Mom tries to calm him down. Both reluctantly agree to wait until that Sunday afternoon to pick up their kids. That next day, they discover a home that they decide to buy before arriving at the Forewalters. This discovery puts Dad into a more peaceful frame of mind. Editor’s note.]
    By four o’clock Sunday, two very proud people were coming to pick up Don and me.
    “Allen, have you been a good boy for the Forewalters?” a mellow Dad asked me, his oldest, putting out his big arms.
    I shied away, not knowing whether my father was going to hug me or slug me. He had that look on his face. The look that said one thing—like, “You little shit!”—when the words— “I love you.”—would come out, to completely confuse me.
    The hug came fiercely, without warning, without the word-lash I had expected, the tongue-lashing I cringed from. I was lifted and launched, but Dad didn’t let go. A sigh of relief escaped me, a sharp breath of joy.
    “Oh, Daddy!” I then cried quite happily, “I missed you! I love you!”
    “Oh, sport!” Dad echoed my relief and joy, “You’re my boy. Your mother and I both love you! We missed you too!”
    “Please don’t do this to us again, Allen!” Mom laughed with me and Dad, “We want what is best for you and Donald. We don’t want to lose you.”
    “Did you find a house, Daddy, Mommy?” Don asked eagerly.
    “We don’t know yet,” she lied, not wishing to break the spell between Dad and us. Peace in the family is so often a fragile thing.
    The next thing that I remember was our parents lovingly tucking us into bed, letting us stay home from school the next day to get more rest. One month later, once the papers for the home were signed and the payments were made, we did move out to the suburbs, though. We then moved all of our things and ourselves to the unincorporated area of Niles, IL. Although I was reassured that my parents actually loved me, I was still uncertain about the future of living in a new place. But that, as they say, is yet another story.

About the Artist—Allen F. McNair (in his own words)

    I am a self-taught artist and poet who is inspired daily by the wonders of life around me, my present and past experiences, and both the inner and outer beauty of all women. From individual poetic portrayals in my early years of writing, I have graduated to writing an epic saga mentioned below.
    I work mainly in marker art on paper, yet I have also worked in watercolor on paper, and acrylic pen and brush on canvas. Those works in marker art have been on 11" X 14" and 14" X 17" Bristol paper. Although painting contemporary subjects, I have mainly created illustrations that depict a future planet earth and other worlds more heavenly. These illustrations reveal a fascinating world of dreams and mental communication between the human and alien characters in our future. Other works of art included in this collection depict subjects from our contemporary world.
    I enjoy working mostly in Prismacolor markers for their vibrant color palate and the control I have over the use of this medium. I have most recently worked with Blick Studio Markers and their Studio Brush Markers as well. I also like the control I have when using an acrylic pen. When I am not portraying the interaction between human beings in a future world, I then use geometric shapes to create futuristic vehicles traveling above a pristine world.
    My proudest achievement is the self-publishing of my book, I Dream of A’maresh, a science fiction epic poem which is reflected in the several illustrations that can be seen in Chicago in the 27^th American Disabilities Act Celebration at the James R. Thompson Center July 17 through July 22, 2017. A few of these works of art were once displayed in the July 2015 ADA Celebration at this same location. Some of them were shown at the Orange Restaurant in Lincoln Park last April 4, 2016. Others were also presented at the Orange Restaurant in Roscoe Village March 10 through May 28, 2015. I have likewise exhibited my work at the Gallery Cabaret in August 2016.
    I have performed in an original production based on true stories for the Thresholds Theater Arts Project at the Theater Building. I have also taught classes in creative writing and performance at both the National Alliance for Mentally Ill (NAMI) and at Trilogy.
    I love watching science fiction, fantasy, and action in movies and reading those genres in literature in my spare time. I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Chicago with my 6 year-old white and ginger cat, Butterscotch. Previously, I had a black and white long-haired cat named Kit Kat, who lived to be 20 years old.

My Second Answer To An Old White Well Off Trump Voter

    I truly feel nice about where you all are in the worldly sense, no esoteric rhetoric intended. But your missives continue to confuse me to some extent.
    You say that you are happy. Yet before you said that you wanted a new world order, not the existing one that you felt would last for another thirty years without Trump. Now you have your new world order. It is one that any geopolitical analysis of places us at the hind tit of humanity. Millions will die because of it. It is hard for me to understand how much happiness can come from that.
    I am disappointed that most of your priorities have been achieved. Yet now it seems that you, in an academic sense, publicly lament some of these things. However there is, like Trump, no real tone of loss nor empathy in your words. This tragedy is, as we can plainly see, the underpinning of the leader that you voted for. And, while you may have started to scratch the surface of doubt in the man, it seems that his happiness du jour or big tax cut may be pulling you along.
    When we finally see what he has destroyed you will either be ashamed of your small part in it or deny it. Remember your thought about the “values that we grew up with.” They were not all good but since Trump has no finesse, they all must go. It is good that you can still reference them. I rue such a loss as well.
    I don’t know if your present take is an attempt to moderate your past statements or not. But I must say that, to me, such statements seem incongruent with any take on the present. To this extent I believe that you have fallen for the typical flim flam man. I consider you naive in this or at least not one of the pros in this field. Therefore you deserve some leniency. You were my best friend, though I know now that I was a burden that you gracefully bore. Because of that I give you more room to move without condemnation.
    In my years I have started to look at this country in terms of its political geography. The people of your area were Trump’s strongest supporters....and still are. I can tell you that the world, a much bigger and more significant place than a string of hills, sees our hind tit, where we now feed, as wretched. It will not support any growth either. Too bad, it didn’t have to be this way. But it is and as one who has lived it enough to know, “deliverance” and the dueling banjos is just the preschool for the legacy that Trump’s ride will leave this time.
    I do not feel safe there. Not so much from the affront of ignorance but from the asset it is to Trump. His asset is plenty smart enough.
    Surely you can see that this administration, from the beginning, conspired to enrich themselves and/or join the Russian oligarchy, american style.
    I’m as socialistic as the next person but oligarchies are not part of real socialism. In the end I just want Trump to get what he has earned. This country will never be as good as it was unless there is a mass vengeance of this sort.
    Lastly, you are not the only one who has proposed happiness as a succor for this illness but I will take a different path simply to calm the anxiety I face when dealing with such leaders as ours. You and I are different now, I expect, but I don’t think either of us believes happiness is everything. With your exceptional tolerance and yin for a little HONEST fun you were good to me. And I tried to reciprocate when I could. I hope you get my drift. Thanks for your message. Best to you all—stay aware of your surroundings and remember your mistake: “You knew damn well he was a snake before you took him in.” —Charles

Presidents through the years,
and the closing of the American mind

    I am proud to have written editorials for cc&d magazine for years (they actually started in 1996). When I first wrote editorials, they may have been either about news stories recently reported, like “DNA Versus emotion” concerning the O.J. Simpson trial and the “If I Did It” aftermath (and the Ron Goldman editorial “If I Exploited It”), or they may have been about broader issues (like sexism in “Beauty First” or “Sexism in a Nutshell,” vegetarianism in “Swallowing Where Meat Comes From,” the Rainforest by questioning “Does Rainforest Café Love the Rainforest?”). I did a number of editorials on climate change/global warming or even about volunteering, but later I moved toward talking about political news, from questioning the death penalty in “Let’s Decide Who To Kill,” or “Do People Want Justice, or Just a Good Hanging?” to “Balancing the Budget” to actually writing “a Letter to our Political Leaders.”
    With the new millennium I started seeing many changes not only in news stories but also in our government... I wrote about Terri Schiavo in “Deciding our Life and Death,” “Child Molesters & JonBenet Ramsey,” the battle over when life begins (in “When Does Life Begin?”), “Anna Nicole Smith,” and even opioid addiction in “Drugging Ourselves into a Stupor.” I wrote about Fox News in “FOX Wants to Legally Lie” and even about “The Liberal Media.” As the years passed I started incorporating political issues into my editorials, from “The Assumption of Health-Care” and “U.S. Healthcare & Canadian Healthcare” and “Free Healthcare and the Poor” to “Letting Free Speech Slide.” I wrote about the economic status of the U.S., and the repeated military conflicts (I won’t call them wars with Iran or any middle-eastern countries; only Congress can declare war, and they haven’t done that since WWII). But once George W. Bush’s second term started it was fun to write about the problems with politics during the George W. Bush presidency.
    Personally, I think the readers ate it up. Because if there is a liberal base to the readers of cc&d, I think they ate my editorials up with a spoon.
    And it was fun writing about Hillary running for office, and Obama, and it was particularly fun picking through the massive list of Republicans hoping for the chance to run for President of the United States. Being from Chicago, and hearing how this Junior Senator got his seat because there was no one running against him, and how he’d sit on the L train with his Blackberry to communicate so he couldn’t be cornered in his office for one-on-one meetings, I was fascinated to see how every liberal location (yes, including Chicago) just completely fell head-over-heels in love with Barrack Obama.
    So when Obama won the election (and was granted a Nobel Peace Prize before he even became President, doing nothing to earn him that Nobel Prize), I started looking into the choices he made as President, and I started to write editorials about it (like I did with the previous Republican President).
    And when I released the editorial “The Cost of Compassion Might Be Too High,” it questioned the choices President Obama was making (the way I did with the past Presidents). And that is when I got the backlash from readers who disagreed with me and thought that everything their Democrat President did was proper. I went into back-and-forth discussions with one or two readers, pointing out how some of the decisions Obama was making to “help” the world might be making it worse for people who are poor and can’t afford to abide by every mandate he was setting. They agreed, but they still didn’t like me contradicting their savior.
    And that is when I learned that sometimes in this country, once some people make up their mind about their party or their candidate (the same way some also do about their religion), their decision is set in stone; cemented in place, and any reasonable argument against their position falls on deaf ears.
    I think that experience startled me, and pushed me away from writing editorials about our political leaders. Granted, I have written a few about the influx of potential Republican nominees for President after Obama’s two-term stint was ending (because really, it was funny), but the more I looked at the ways both parties acted, the more I could see both sides contribute negatively to a lot of issues. Democrats would call Republicans violent, yet it was almost always far-left groups that would start riots at Republican events (see “the Clash of the Titans: Chicago Violence and Donald Trump”). And although I did make statements about both the left and the right in this most recent presidential escapade, the more I look at it (even the Trump Presidency) the more I can see two sides to every issue. For example, Trump said he wanted to build a wall that Mexico will pay for (Really? then read “Putting Up Walls Is Never the Solution”), but immigration viewpoints have changed, and he has talked with Democrats to try to get things done. And we’ll see in time how tax cuts help businesses and the American people... But what I won’t do is blindly say that one party is wrong all the time. Because if I thought that way, that would only show how blind I was to trying to politically accomplish anything.

— Janet K.
Editor in Chief

A Progressive Philosophy for Teacher Education

    After spending an adventuresome three years teaching public secondary school in Marion and Broward Counties, Florida, the teacher-philosopher, Amanda Rosaleigh Blake, received a fellowship to begin her Ph.D. She intended to study social and philosophical foundations of education. This broad interdisciplinary teacher-education field involves a synthesis of philosophy and the human (social) sciences. It also includes research emphases in history, philosophy, and anthropology. The twenty-four year old Blake was excited about this new development in her career. Amanda taught some undergraduate courses in social and philosophical foundations in the second and final year of her doctoral program. The income from these classes replaced that provided by her one year fellowship.
    When Amanda taught high school she approached these courses from a thoroughly progressive point of view. This included, among other things, two fundamental ideas. First, the activities were geared to incorporate existing pupil interests. Second, the various contemporary issues covered in the classes were looked at from a broad multidisciplinary perspective. Amanda intended to extend these progressive methods into her teacher-education classes. This would be easier at the teacher education level than at the high school one since the students were already interested in the material. After all, it related directly to their soon to be career.
    She introduced the social and philosophical foundations of education by putting the principles of progressive education in the context of the history and development of human consciousness. This allowed the prospective teachers to situate their own and their students needs and desires and their values and beliefs regarding education in a larger cultural context. A primary concept she used to present the development and history of the human mind was world view. This term refers to the broadest, most basic, and fundamental assumptions one makes about the world in which they live. The concept of world view can be applied to characterize entire societies and cultures. It can also refer to narrower situations such as small groups or even a single individual. In short, all human groups large and small and all individuals have world views.
    Amanda introduced this idea to her teacher education students by presenting the four most important views of the world which have characterized the history of Western Civilization. The earliest of these held by ancient humans as they moved from non-verbal, semi-conscious homo sapiens and potential humans to conscious, verbal beings was a poetic and non-rational view. She told her students by way of example that early humans no doubt had to confront severe and frightening thunder storms. They might have imagined, since imagination was their strongest faculty, the dark clouds, the roar of the thunder, and the lightening rods to be an angry god throwing rods and yelling at them to do certain things. They were to care for their children, institute marriage, and establish a religion based on that god’s honor. They called the god Jove. Their entire world view was a series of such poetic metaphors. They thought in poetic metaphors as rational thought had not yet developed. The teacher education students were fascinated and intrigued by this way of viewing the origin of human consciousness.
    John Sinclair, one of the students in the first class in which she made this presentation, said enthusiastically, “I have never heard the origin of the human mind presented in such a fascinating, original, and imaginative way.”
    Several of the other students agreed excitedly to which Amanda responded, “I’m glad this approach appeals to you. The Poetic World View dominated all of the hunting and gathering societies that characterized early human history.” Before the class moved on Amanda and her students tried to imagine how those students in the early poetic societies were educated. Amanda lost no opportunity to stimulate her teacher-education students’ creative faculties. Amanda was gratified by their fascination with a new approach to human history as they saw it. She did wonder when the schools were going to catch up with historical research. Since the emergence of The New Science of Giambattista Vico in 1748, the idea of the poetic world view as involved with the origin of humanity had been central to historical research.
    “Gradually,” Amanda continued, “the major aspects of agriculture, horticulture and animal husbandry, were developed.” Here Amanda paused and giggled. “Guess what, my fellow women students? It was our gender which predominantly developed these two aspects of agriculture. These developments allowed humans to settle in one place and freed them from perpetual hunting and gathering. Until very recently our dear male historians left this salient fact out of the history books.” A wave of excitement traveled over the women in the class with several having comments.
    Catherine Taylor, a confirmed feminist said, “In my women’s group we recently discussed how history has been mainly ‘His Story.’ We decided it is high time that ‘Her Story’ is retrieved. One of our members’ uncovered research that in early times in some societies women had important positions. One example given was that of women generals in the military.”
    “Yeah,” several of the woman chimed in agreement. The class discussed these ideas for the rest of that period. When the students got in a discussion among themselves, Amanda always let it continue until the students’ comments had exhausted themselves. This particular discussion lasted for twenty minutes into the next period the following day. Amanda was delighted. After this she continued with her lecture on world views. She noted that since the invention of agriculture allowed human societies to live in one place, it permitted them to begin developing civilizations, both in small villages and large cities. With these stable settlements came the creation of rational thought. The early forms of the academic disciplines followed this development. These early versions looked quite differently than they do today.
    For example, Amanda told her teacher-education students “that the earlier form of astronomy was governed by the work of an Egyptian named Ptolemy. In his view, the universe was a dualistic structure. The spiritual realm was the superior one and equated with the masculine aspects of things. Below it was the physical one. It was inferior to the spiritual and equated with the feminine aspect of things. Needless to say, this was a thoroughly anti-woman perspective. Ptolemy’s universe was also ordered and regular with an aesthetic bent. The various heavenly bodies traveled around each other in the most perfect way one can imagine. That of course was the circle. In this ordered scheme, the earth sits at the center of the universe.
    All of the other heavenly bodies revolved around it. We know now that the orbits of the various heavenly bodies are ellipses. Also, we also know that the earth is not at the center of the universe, and that the latter is larger than Ptolemy could imagine.
    Ptolemy’s rational picture of the universe was part of the Greek World View espoused by Plato and Socrates. In these early times the two philosophers established a variety of progressive education.” Amanda’s students were most interested in the Greek World View, especially the version of progressive education involved in it. Amanda read passages from Plato’s “Dialogues” which set forth the elements of this early method. It involved asking the students leading questions which prompted him or her to gradually arrive at the correct or most appropriate answer to a problem or situation. The examples of the progressive method in Plato’s writings came from geometry and other aspects of math. There were two math education majors in Amanda’s first foundations class. They were Nanette Futral, a beautiful brunette from a small town one hundred miles south of Gainesville, and Jeff Scott, a handsome lad from Jacksonville. Both students told Amanda that they thought they could use a modified version of the Platonic-Socratic method in teaching geometry and trigonometry. They even gave examples of problems which might be dealt with by this modified method.
    Amanda concluded that, “the Greek World View dominated western society until it began to crumble at the end of the Middle Ages in the l6th Century. The impetus for this was the immensely influential philosophy of the French thinker Rene Descartes; two of Descartes cardinal principles are expressed in his assertions, ‘I think, therefore I am,’ and that the universe is written in the language of mathematics and mechanics. Like the Greek World View Descartes Mechanical World View is dualistic but in a different sense. There is the objective dimension which is rational, mechanical, and quantitative. It is superior to the subjective dimension which is qualitative. It contains feeling, color, and other sensuous qualities. Quality is definitely inferior and secondary to quantity. In fact, quality exists only in the mind; whereas quantity has an objective reality. This aspect of the third world view received an indignant response from Amanda’s students. She thoroughly agreed with their responses.
    As Anne Beal put it, “In short, dear Mr. Descartes sees feelings, color, song, all aspects of art and history, and other qualities as having a reality inferior to that of mechanical subjects.” Other students made related responses.
    “You and the others have got it Anne.” Amanda responded.
     John Bryan of Atlanta, a future literature teacher, said angrily, “This Mechanical View has resulted in an over emphasis in English on grammar, which although important is often boring to students and to a neglect of the more interesting areas of poetry and other literary subjects.“
    Sandy Lumpkin, also of Atlanta and a literature major, snapped, “John is so right, and the influence of this disgusting mechanical world view has even spread to the natural sciences themselves. Physics and chemistry are often focused way too much on the purely mathematical aspects of the subjects. The profound philosophies and theories underlying the advances in 20^th century natural science are rarely covered. One important example is the philosophy underlying Heisenberg’s theory of uncertainty.”
    “Yes,” Amanda agreed, “Heisenberg has written a wonderful book on these philosophical ideas.”
    Theresa Cook, a talented art education major, sighed, “Yes, and what we read about in Raymond Callahan’s book Education and the Cult of Efficiency* indicated that the application of that hideous Taylor System to the public schools was a tragedy of immense proportions. The ideas involved in trying to turn the schools into images of business are truly insane, It was crazy how everyone was jumping on the bandwagon of turning the schools into models of the factory system.”
    (*A required reading for the class)

    “I agree with all of you,” Amanda replied. “It was a disgusting spectacle and it isn’t dead yet. Every time progressive principles are attacked by reactionary predators, they do so in the name of advocating a business model for our public education system. The Mechanical World View gripped Western civilization from the time Newtonian Physics consolidated it all in the 17^th century until the latter part of the 19^th and early part of the 20^th centuries. During the latter time period organic theories began to appear in the work of such scientists as Albert Einstein and Werner Heisenberg. The work of these and other scientists relativized the rigid absolutes of the Mechanical View and what was left of the Greek World View. The world began to look like a great organism rather than a great machine. The only constants were dynamic processes, such as energy and change. From the common sense perspective all sorts of seeming paradoxes characterizes our everyday reality. The observing subject can not be separated from the observed object. They influence each other in subtle and not so subtle ways. The whole is not always the same as the sum of its parts. It might be greater or less.
    After reading Callahan and related sources on the Mechanical World View, the students read authors who had transcended mechanism and were operating according to the Organic World View. They read John Dewey’s Experience and Education;the factory system..” J. Krishnmurti’s On Education; Dare the school Build a New Social Order? by George S. Counts; Kenneth Benne’s Education for Tragedy and other essays on Organic Education, and two articles Amanda had written and published. In addition to the required reading, Amanda selected several books which were written from a general organic perspective and among which the student could select the one which most appealed to them. These included Tom Robbin’s novel concerning alternative life styles and spiritual growth and needs, Another Roadside Attraction; Robert Pirsig’s autobiographical work concerning human development, parent-child relationships, and mental health, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; Andrew Weil’s book refuting many of the narrow minded misconceptions concerning marijuana and other illegal and legal drugs, The Natural Mind: Drugs and the Higher Consciousness; Philip Slater’s organic critique of the mechanistic aspects still hanging on in our society, The Pursuit of Loneliness; and Fritjof Capra’s The Tao of Physics, which compares mechanical Newtonian physics with contemporary organic physics, and also dealt with some social and educational implications of the latter.
    At the very end of the course, Amanda talked with the students about the needs of teaching to reach true professional status and what this would take. For instance, one consequence of the mechanical structuring of schools was to place students and teachers, the two most important actors in schools, as subordinates at the bottom of that structure. Autonomy for teachers and greater rights for their clients were needed, among other things. In addition, strong professional associations which can protect teachers from authoritarian administrators and school board members are needed. These organizations are increasingly becoming a reality.
    Finally, Amanda’s students always got to choose what form their evaluation would take. When she talked about the various forms of exams and writing papers most students always chose writing papers, although a few opted for open book, open notes essay exams, These two evaluation methods gave an expansiveness to the students’ capacities that was not allowed by multiple choice, true-false, and other mechanical means of evaluation. The students wrote three papers or took three essay exams the fourth week, the seventh week, and at the end of the quarter. It created much work for Amanda, but she preferred this to mechanical evaluations. She wanted to stay as true as possible to the emerging Organic World View.