untitled, by Greg Evason

COLD CAPTIVITY as simple
fact of green part of world,
as simile, as birth,
as grown onion. Thinking of
a poet as a poet, dripping,
leaking, clinging, clustering,
crushing money with.
Eating mind of eater.

untitled, by Greg Evason

NEVER mind so clear.
Tast of pure intellection.
My procreators so surface simple,
so deeply complex. Own nerves
a path as a tick. Time tricking.
We do go around don’t we.
Eye listens to explications,
believing. Exegesis as burn.
The cult as sure as true.
Could begin with any stupid
and build and build to a
glorious apocalypse.

The Old Woman, by Hobo

At six
death was a day off from school
to march in a line
two rows of navy jumpers
on either side of the casket
passed the old women we barely knew
who lived with us in the convent school
but who wasn’t one of the sisters
the woman with braided white hair
somebody’s old aunt perhaps
who always smelled bad at night
who never talked to us
the little ones
who at last was sanctified in the cathedral of St. Fidelis
Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us,
by little girls shuffling past her
wondering what mystery had so suddenly
released us from our tables
and leaving no surprise inside the coffin
but the same sullen old woman
we would now record as our very first death.

medication, by Janet Kuypers

I
I set my alarm for 4:30 instead of 5:30 so I could roll over, take a pill, and fall back asleep. I’d leave two pills on the night stand with a glass of water every night. I could feel the pain in my leg, my hand, when I reached over to take the drugs. I’d feel it in my back, too. And sometimes in my shoulder. The water always tasted warm and dusty. It hurt to hold the pills in my right hand.
I closed my eyes at 4:32. I hated that damn alarm clock. And taking the pills early still wouldn’t make the pain go away before I woke up. I knew that. But I took them anyway. And I tried to fall back asleep. And I dreaded 5:30, when I’d have to move.
5:40, I couldn’t wait any longer, I couldn’t be late, we couldn’t have that, so I’d finally swing my legs to the floor. I’d put on my robe and limp into the kitchen. The trip to the kitchen lasted for hours. And picking up the milk carton from the refrigerator hurt like hell. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, not to me. Just pour the damn milk. I’d wipe the tears from my chin and sit down for breakfast.

II
The doctor doubled the dosage, and he was amazed that I needed this much. He told me to follow the directions strictly, STRICTLY. “You can’t take these in the morning the way you have been,” he’d say. “You have to take them with food.” That doesn’t help when I’m crying from the pain in the morning. But I could get an ulcer, he’d say. And I wouldn’t want that. Of course not. I just wanted the pain to go away.
Take one tablet three times daily, with meals. Do not drink alcohol while on medication. Take with food or milk. Do not skip medication. Do not take aspirin while using this product. Do not operate heavy machinery. May cause ulcers.

III
All I had to do was get through the mornings. The mornings were the hardest part. Just take a little more pain, and by the afternoon it will all be fine. Just fine. An hour after the pills, and I’d start to feel dizzy. I’d stare at a computer screen and it would move, in circles, back and forth. I wanted to grab the screen and make it stay in place. But I’d look at my fingers and they would go in and out of focus. I’d feel my head rocking forward and backward; I couldn’t hold myself still. I’d sit at my desk and my eyes would open and close, open and close. Before I knew it, ten minutes passed and I remembered nothing. I could have been screaming for ten minutes straight and I wouldn’t have known it. Or crying. Or sleeping. Or laughing. Or dying. I had just lost ten minutes of my life, they were just taken away from me, ripped away from me, and I could never get them back.
And I could still feel traces of the pain, lingering in my bones.

IV
I’d sit up at night and just stare at the bottle. It was a big bottle, as if the doctors knew I’d take these drugs forever. Hadn’t it been forever already? I’d open a bottle, look at a pill. They looked big too. Pink and white. What pretty colors. And then I’d think: If one tablet, fifty milligrams, could put me to sleep in the morning, could make me dizzy, could take a part of my life from me, then think about what the other thirty-six could do. 1800 milligrams. It could kill me. I wouldn’t want that. Of course not. But just think, the bottle isn’t even full.
May cause ulcers. May cause dizziness. Side effects may vary for each patient. May cause weight gain. May cause weight loss. May cause drowsiness. May cause irritability. Medication may have to be taken consistently for weeks before expected results. If effects become severe, consult physician immediately.

V
I began to count. In the mornings I took eight pills: one multivitamin, one calcium pill, one niacin pill, one fish oil capsule, one garlic oil pill, and one pink-and-white pain killer that I was special to have, because you need a doctor’s permission to take those. Then I took diet pills: one starch blocker, one that was called a “fat magnet.” As if the diet pills worked anyway. But I still took them. And then I had to watch the clock, take a pink-and-white at one in the afternoon, a different pill at five o’clock, another pink-and-white at six o’clock, and there was also usually sinus medication that I had to take every six hours in there, too. Or was it eight hours? I started to watch the clock all the time, I bought a pill container for my purse so that I would always have my medication with me.
When I’d feel my body start to ache again, I’d look at the clock.
It would be fifteen minutes before I had to take another pill.

My Mother and the Birds, by Lyn Lifshin

One is so white,
then there’s the
one upsidedown,
Honey, don’t
you like to
watch them?
Woodpeckers
are best, better
than the turtles,
the birds are
in the air,
can leave
when they want

Passage, by Christopher Woods

They were young, in their mid-twenties, probably. They drove an old blue Chevrolet truck. Between them, on the seat, sat a brown dog, some sub-phylum of terrier. All this rounded the corner and came to a quiet halt. Then I saw why. They stopped to look at a mattress that leaned against a tree. The matress had been abandoned there, left to stand against that tree, a few days before.
Some of us along the street had discussed the mattress. We wondered who had left it there. No one would admit to owning it, or having put it there. No one. It had just appeared, standing side by side with an oak tree, in the yard of a small apartment house. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere else.
The couple climbed out of their truck to get a better look at that mattress. They climbed out on either side and closed the doors behind them. The dog turned around and, with his head resting on the back of the seat, watched them through the rear window. He would have to watch the mattress inspection from the sidelines, it seemed.
I had been washing the car. But watching that couple with the mattress, beginning to touch it somehow hopefully, was more interesting. I went inside my house and watched them through a window.
Maybe, I considered, this was none of my business. Somehow, I felt this was a private moment. And it was. Of inspection for them, of observation for me. There are so many of these private moments, don’t you think? Who can know how many? But what truly amazes me is how many seem to talke place in public, in full view of anyone who cares to look. And another thing comes to me, that we are better off because of this.
The young couple studied the mattress with a great seriousness. At that moment, nothing else in their lives was so important. Standing in that yard, it was like they were in a store. They looked it over for quality, durability, the promise of long, peaceful sleep. And they did all this without a word passing between them.
When a word did pass, it was the man saying something to the woman. I was not close enough to hear. To me, it sounded like a kind of grunt. Then the woman replied with a similar sound. They had apparently reached some kind of decision.
There was no hesitation then. The man reached out and embraced the mattress with both hands. He lifted it off the ground and away from the tree. Into the air. The woman, maybe concerned that it was too heavy for him, tried to help. She held one side of the mattress with her fingertips. She wasn’t much help to him, of course, but it must have made her feel a part of it. Of helping. Some things, I knew, were simply matters of spirit.
The mattress flew slowly throug hthe air, at last coming to rest in the back of the blue truck. It made a hush sound as it settled into the bed. The dog, head cocked to one side, watched it all.
Their work done, the couple took a last look around the yard, then up the street in either direction. I wondered if they cared that someone might be watching them. Or maybe they were thinking that this same street might provide an additional treasure or two.
A few seconds later, they turned to go. The man followed the woman to her side of the truck. As she began to climb in, I noticed for the first time that she was pregnant. The man was making sure that nothing went wrong. The man then closed the door and started around the truck to his side.
He took the back way to check on the mattress again. He made sure the tailgate was closed tight. Certain everything was ready, he gave the mattress a kind of slap, I don’t know what else to call it. A slap. Nothing cruel or hard, but more a slap of waking, was how it seemed.
I thought of a doctor slapping a baby to clear the lungs. This man slapped that mattress three r four times, until he was satisfied. Until it seemed right.

you’re with me, by Janet Kuypers

I sit in a chair
in a lonely corridor
I’m all alone
but I see you there
You’re in my thoughts
I see your face
imagine your touch
I hear your voice
but you’re no place
You’re in my mind
I’m all alone
but then again, no
for even when
I’m alone
You’re with me

I’m without you, by Paul Weinman

I rush in the hall
people ramming around.
I’m part of a mab
and you’re not here.
You’re in my mind.
I sense your image
grasp for reality.
I try to place you
among this crowd.
You’re nowhere there.
I’m in this mass
but then again, not.
Because when
I’m surrounded
I’m without you.

making it, by C Ra McGuirt

allen’s little brother
andy used to ride
his big wheel around the garage
while allen and me
and david and phillip
practiced being progressive, artistic
seventies rock musicians.
18 years later
andy’s roller over
us all:
a $20,000 contract
with an independent
record label.
visions of mtv
flicker in his eyes.
andy’s already decided
which of his songs
will make the best
soundtracks for commercials,
after he’s bigger than jackson,
george michael, and maybe
elvis.
allen’s working for the state
during the day. he plays at night.
andy doesn’t understand
why allen chooses to use
moog and mirage, software, soul
masks and dancers, movement, mime
darkness, color, silence and light
to make such chump change at his art
when he could be playing something
a lot of people would like.
allen understands he can’t make andy
understand that lots of people like
what they hear because it’s all they hear,
and all they’re likely to be allowed to hear
without some sort of effort
on their part.
allen’s producing a tape for me -
mostly songs, and some poetry
so i’m frequently at his place
and i saw andy the other night
for the second time or so
since the big wheel days.
“congratulations on the new career,”
i said, and added that it was good
to see that success was possible.
andy said: “it isn’t hard.
it’s only a business, after all.”
we promised to exchange our final products.
he went on, and i went in
to get to work on mine.
now i come before you
with my art,
wondering if and how
anyone will remember
allen, andy, or c ra
a hundred years from now.
i’m not sure it’s important,
so long as i remember
all the words
tonight.

untitled, by Lee Whittier

eyem thinking only of this lightbulb
only of this lightbulb above me
eyem thinking only of this lightbulb
this lightbulb the way it
would taste in my mouth if
eye could unhinge
and let it roll and bob stiff and
smokey
eyem thinking only of this lightbulb
this lightbulb the creature
which lives inside and
calls it home can I
entice it out to crawl
down my throat feeling
its way in the dark til
it opens to a luminous cavern and die there
on the soft ground now a fossil
say it again
fossil
oh yea fossil

you once so confidently, by Janet Kuypers

I found you at the pool hall
with your excuses for friends
taking a drag from your filtered cigarette
I don’t even think you inhaled
I hurled my anger at you
the flames from my eyes struck you
but your sculpted hair wasn’t even singed
and you remained as cool
as you imagined yourself to be
and as I turned away
and stormed toward the swinging door
the deafening silence was broken
by a feeble cough
I looked back and saw you
and immobile emotionless statue
with beads of sweat running down your forehead
as I cocked my head
I closed my eyes
and the flames I once hurled were extinguished
as quickly as the cigarette
you once so confidently smoked

Margie, by Lyn Lifshin

I’m five months pregnant
with a child of a
man who raped me. It
was a week before
Christmas. I was outside
K Mart, near closing
time. I realized I didn’t
have my checkbook,
ran out to the car.
The lot was full. I was
near the curb. I ran out
to get it. My car was
open which was odd.
Then I felt a hot
flash. There was a man
near the glove compartment
I was rummaging through. I
just focused on his clothes.
I didn’t know what race
he was, never saw his
face. He penetrated
me anally. I blacked
out, next I felt the
cold air from the car
door being open.
I just drove around.
I couldn’t wreck my
family’s Christmas,
drove until 2 am. I
felt guilty, I thought
I’d never have let anyone
invade my body. I’d have
scratched and torn at him
but it happened so
fas
t. I took three
showers a day to erase
the feeling, the smell.
When I missed my forst
period, I thought
my body was traumatized.
It was a black cloud.
Then I missed my
second period. When I
took the test, they
called to say
congratulations

going out, by Edward Mycue

I went out into the sun of broken glass
for the customary words
everywhere joined
like the ox to the cart.
I went out queer, clumsy, ready
eggshell-skinned
drinking the evening
thickening and soft.
I went out quelling my angers
getting jealous alone
trying it again
before the sunset faded.
I went out thinking
about my sexual mechanics
about a mirror reversal
rerunning choices.

confident women, by Janet Kuypers

I met up with an old friend of mine
for drinks last week. I knew her
in high school, although we weren’t
close friends then. In those days she
needed therapy, had problems with drugs,
I think, or else it was just family
problems. I was a bit insecure myself,
shy, meek, scared of life. Since those days
we matured, we’re now more independent,
self-confident, self-assured women.
It was good to see her again. She
just came back from camping in
Australia; although physically I had
gone nowhere, we both had our stories
to tell over a bottle or two of wine.
And we gossiped, she told me of the
handsome Australian man she fell for,
I told her of the roller-coaster I call
my romantic life. And we laughed.
And then the gossip changed, her
voice lowered, and sounding stern
but quiet, she told me of how a man
broke into her apartment one night
last summer and he tried to rape her,
and after kicking and screaming
in her underwear she managed to
break free and her attacker escaped.
She told me they found the man,
and the trial is scheduled for later
in the month. And she sat there, with
her wine glass in her hand, looking
so confident, as if she knew she
won this battle. Trying not to sound
corny, I told her I could give her
a hug. And she leaned on my shoulder,
and she cried, hiccuping as she
tried to catch her breath. They
would make her recount everything
on the stand, she said, and the defense
lawyers would try to make her sound
promiscuous because she slept
alone in her underwear. I told her I
would go with her to the trial. I told her
she is winning by speaking out.
Self-assured women. Confident women.
How confident are we supposed to be?

Letter to Somalia, by Lee Duke

I swaggered ashore
seasick and already dusty
a savior
on national tv
waved hello to mom at home
but now
Your eyes
I can’t forget
your thin nose
cheekbones
dried breasts
child dying in your arms
I expected niggers
fast-talking
gun-toting
jive-assed
laugh-at-anything ghetto dwellers
living on handouts
Thought I might shoot a few
get a medal
drink some brew
bag a Kalisnikov souvenir
Back home
not a hero
can’t sleep
must know your name
drawn by desolation
starving for you

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You)

She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

the thrill is soon gone, by Todd Kalinski

masked up to the boundaries of fume & being,
secretly conspiring army ants,
greased gut lining
& the great one is soon gone,
pinned to pop sickle sticks
above the enterances of the laboratory,
touch it with delicate finger paints
& watch the glow reverberate slowly at first
but quickly catch like fire in heart of numbness,
where cancer does not fe
ster
but burns thru the shields
& disipates to scald to burn to ebbing sear.

untitled, by Paul Weinman

When we meet
to take them out
for their 51st
mom is so pleased
her beautiful boys
are all there
and we signal
to each not to
mention who isn’t.
I love you all
she smiles and
dad nods, not
hearing.

May 8, by Duane Locke

I.
Climbing up to the window,
he saw
the room was empty
except
for the shadows that crisscrossed
without sources.
II.
The shadows
never shut their dark eyes.
III.
The shadows scream.
IV.
A shadow stumbles.
V.
The men with arrows
stand by the ladder
propped on the window.
The bowmen have no breath.
Their chests never move.
Their mothers stand by
and ring bells.

bio: I who am now classified according to au courant parlance as being “physically challenged” live unemployed in a decaying house with one wife, even more physically challenged than I am, one dog, not physically challenged, and ten cats, not physically challenged, among the viciousness and ugliness of the Tampa slums. I have a Ph. D. specializing in the poetry of Donne to Marvell. I spend my spare time reading postmodern philosophy: Derrida, Lyotard, Lacan, Deleuze, Habermas, Gadamer, Vattimo, Rorty, etc., and listening to old operas, Rossini, Bellini, and Donzetti. Had had over 1,200 poems published in over 400 different magazines. The latest: American Poetry Review and a collection entitled Whoever Speaks of Representation in Our Time published by Ghost Dance Press.

lovelight, by Gregory Nyman

Laura had planned it all week. She’d fretted and fussed about what to wear, what to say, and how to please the man she loved. When the moment was just upon her, she lit the last candle and opened the champagne. It was supposed to be their evening, or at least that’s what he’d promised.
The last time they’d been together, Michael had told her the days of lies and sneaking around were numbered
. With his wife out of the picture and the divorce finalized, he’d planned on devoting all his time and energies to Laura and her needs. Little had he realized how much she’d secretly wanted the same thing.
When her lover showed up two hours late, she displaced her anger and accepted his apologies graciously. It hadn’t mattered if the dinner had been cold, she’d said, just as long as they were together. They could even forego the meal and make up for it in bed. “Evening delight,” she’d whispered in his ear and kissed his neck.
He tensed at her touch and she knew something was wrong. It was as vivid as the girls around her.
Laura cried unashamedly when Michael told her it was over. It’d been her worst fear, and her hopes that it would never rear its head were dashed.
He was supposed to have been everything his poetry said he was, she thought. He’d been her destiny, the one who was going to fill the gap of her loneliness and need. It was going to be...
Something about guilt and marital vows, she heard him say, and with his wife surpringly pregnant, the divorce was off and reconciliation his major concern.
“What about me,” she found herself whimpering, “what about - “
“You?” he laughed cruelly. “Did you think we were going to play Barbie and Ken forever? I was never in this for the poetry. I just wanted to get laid.”
Michael dismissed her like a gnat and his only good-bye had been the horrid smile she once thought was cute. It’d been like she’d never existed. As if all the hours of forbidden love had never happened.
Had he gauged her emotional state with more sensitivity, Michael would’ve never turned his back on her, and he never would’ve been knocked cold when the bottle of champagne connected with the back of his head.
When her twins emerged from the shower, Laura told them not to worry. Michael had just gotten a little excited and she had to calm him down. They were a younger version of their mother, and together, they easily tipped the scales at an even thousand.
“We love you, Daddy,” they said to the figure on the floor, and with a nod from their mother, they spread him out on the floor.
As much as he resisted, Michael couldn’t control the way his body responded to their touch. They took turns with him, but it wasn’t enough for the woman who watched with the bat in her hands. The whole reason for bringing him to this point was to ease the pain and her degradation at being used. Her memory wouldn’t let it rest. Years of misery and lies. Of lost dignity and games. It’d all added up to one thing - HURT - and she damned him to Hell.
When Laura broke his ribs, she remembered his touch. When she pushed the bat through his chest, she remembered his lies. When he screamed, she knocked his teeth into the waiting hands of her daughters. She could’ve easily stuffed the bat up his ass, but instead, she stuck him with the carving knife and covered his body with parafin. The job of drilling a hole in his head was given to her two daughters.
All in all, she thought, it had been a good night, and the romantic evening went on as planned. Asti Spumante, Chopin’s pianissimo, and the pleasure of good company by candelight.
When Michael’s head melted half-way down his face, the combined smells of flesh and wax was overpowering, but once the potpourri simmered, Laura knew she salvaged something out of the relationship. While her lover burned, he’d not only light up her studio, but her life as well. Then she laughed and tipped her glass to the molten man.
It had been their evening after all.

sleep, by M. Kettner

like a fallen rock which doesn’t recall landing
or a movie entered in the middle
platforms melt away
steering wheel detaches from the automobile
gilt edges of vision discernible, though remote
mattress soft and warm as freshly-baked bread
watchdog drags his chain
red reset buttons glow patiently in the dark
deck of cards, ace on top

Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics. One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.

Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

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what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

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C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

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Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

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Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

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Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

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Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright � through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”, which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright through Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.