Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies, April 1997) Children, Churches and Daddies is eclectic, alive and is as contemporary as tomorrow’s news.

Children, Churches and Daddies

Volume 22

The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine

ISSN 1068-5154

the simple machine, by Bill Shields I’m the kind that leaves the screen door open for the rats to come in my windows are broken if you got the rabies or the sniffles I’ve woken up twice with a room full of four-legged bodies dragging pals behind them in human-made carts it’s another Friday night & I’m sitting in the dark with the dark cigarette in the ashtray & nothing but the radio dial for company tomorrow there isn’t any grass to cut or children to visit I got enough food to make it till 2 p.m. if the rats aren’t hungry dreaming of you again, by C. C. Russel Your fingers reaching and your eyes much brighter than a halloween moon TEALEAVES ALL ASWIRL, by Richard King Perkins II There is no hiding in temples. Sleep is in China, an echo Arriving another day. Green dragons Burrow into my secret files. Cloud sharks Will not stop frowning. Amplified, Everything begins to decline. Kites fall from the sky, The North Star Is a pinpoint of chaos, Blinking a step In the proof To rest my eyes. Depleted, I remember breathing water For nine months- Back to the synthetic amnion. In a bathtub filled with cold water, A weak fuchsia is being made- I am a submerged teabag Slowly seeping, Losing my flavor. two dreams, by Alice Olds-Wellington first they came at me with their corrupt teenage wisdom & with their grabby hands. They rocked my head on the living room floor. They went thru all my belongings & found all the cash & I.D. & credit cards. My family & friends were rounded up in the living room while the mongers were expunging my house. That was one dream. The next dream they appeared a little more hostile - like the hundreds of neighbors across the street who deal in drugs, whores pornography & didn’t realize I was in the same business. They all came over - boys & girls - to control me & steal from me. I couldn’t like this. I took one of their razor-sharp machetes & felt the Power of killing. I stabbed four girls & then came up against the young male killer. He had a dagger which he dropped. I picked that up to cut him off. He had a knifing machine with its radar to find my heart no matter where I was. I was not crippled but I couldn’t outfox this. Just before his knife shot itself into me, I woke up. They say that people don’t get killed in their dreams. another misplaced weekend, by C Ra McGuirt last night, i got it up for the read, at which i resisted advances of the hopeless remains of a vampire affair, & kissed off a former friend behind his most recent eternally petty irrational bullshit. after, had supper with phillip & son, finished my brownbagged quart of warm beer, & answered the phone at 2:30 a.m.: it was the vampire, once again calling for blood she refuses to mingle. i snarled across town that the window was closed. sleep took me like a rapist. buzzed awake to work, i did, & made it home just ahead of the Sun, where, blessed & cursed with several days of solitary boredom, i ate some more magical mushrooms, & didn’t get off. the diggers, by Duane Locke The three men are digging It could be a trench It could be a grave It could be a groove to place sewage pipes under a house All the diggers wear white gloves In their back pockets hope plugged with cork One is measuring for the digging must descend to an agreed upon level It is part of the game It was the rules invented for the occasion There should be no unevenness if uneven the unevenness will be overlooked for one cannot live without hope Old joys that have been dead and buried for years are found They are tossed aside a “signature” poem, by Robert Kimm I go in the barn today to let them out 8 geese matched quartets but one - the solo practioner is dead - soppy in the muck. Sad to say remember monster fight betw. him + alpha male ‘bout 3 days ago. So he’s very still neck + head wounds + I pick him up gingerly white curlicue slimers. I pitch him out in the woods: 1) at least the foxes didn’t get him 2) at least the horse-flies’ll go away with the first frost next month 3) at least I can pay child-support. goal and its accessaries, by Colin James Alone atop a barbed wire fence, the escapist flaunts his balance. He takes his time. His poise distracts the markamen. A car waits, its engine rumbles with words. The driver reacts to every sound with fist-clenched glee. The escapist jumps and rolls in a ball of elastic ban gs and string. The marksmen miss. The car roars down the city road. The escapist’s cackling laugh reminds the driver of loose fan belts and female malcontents. The tourists in the trunk feel for their package brochures. A fat lady sparks a light. Underlined in red are hideout and soliloquy. marriage, by Michael T. Corrigan November chains the dark and through its frozen dream, the white flakes fall. You twist the raveled ends and knit my heart. Touch: this is what love was. Fingers rake the windowpanes; you sip from a cracked mug adn shiver; the gale rips at our house’s skin, shrieks at crabbed, denuded trees. The furnace kicks in, and memory: your eyes are wells in the light of the lamp, fingertips turn yarn into patterned years. I hold my hands up, warm them by the fire of you. You puff the lamp out, we embrace, then enter the black throat of the cave. All of it unravels now. I have no song for it, have no words. Our penance is familiar. We huddle, we thirst, we die. It has always been like this, and yet we pretend, we dream, we don’t know why. Visiting the Relics in Their Natural Habitat Still Life, by alan catlin Old women propped up against the wall, stretcher cases confined to-in for the duration patient wings, the mobile, awake summoned for card parties, days out in town, In house “On Golden Pond” movies. those who can still think feel confined: “This is a living hell, that’s what we call it, growing old in hell. I know I’m going to die here. I always thought I’d die at home.” Palling down happens everyday, second strokes, classical face lines ruined by inner tremors, casual rifts; you can see them pressed behind glass, animated museum pieces waving their hands, kissing great grandchildren goodbye forever. evening, by David Castleman Child of our world’s midnight, i could see the floor strewn with a cruel blood, and, beyond windows those icicles groped the trees in solemn gesture. On this bitter human floor, a mother hugged a child close to a patient dug. Was it miraculous wonder the child was unaware it was a sad year? Icicles were swooning as the air thawed. The child understood that every answer must be carved upon the lips, as it drew. Child of an earthly midnight, you may never understand when the mind is wrought intimately by a god you do not know and must not find. Gods who prowl the inner cosmos are subtle, and beyond reproach. she told me her dreams iv, by Janet Kuypers I went to visit some old friends we were going to a party together I went outside to save a space for my car I came back, but they left for the party without me I was abandoned orion, by Janet Kuypers Winter evenings I would look for you. Dancing along the horizon. You were always fighting; the great bear to the north, the bull in the winter. You were my favorite. whenever I could I would look for you: out my window, in my driveway. I remember a nebula lived in the center of your sword. You, spending millenia fighting. You have taught me well. The other night, I looked out my window again; you were there. Receiving strength from me, as I did so many years in you. City Riddles, by mary winters Shrieks and cries between screaming and laughing: domestic violence or news of a boon. A child yelling: kidnapping or joy at Grandma. Front door unlocking: neighbor coming home or robber breaking in. A dog with a bark - or human owner choking; strangled. Yelling men: football game gone wrong or riot coming on. some sounds are unmistakable: airplane landing on your roof, freight train down the middle of the block. phantom pain, by Pearl Mary Wilshaw Diabetic patient wrestled sheets and blankets to scratch purple, gangrenous, maggot infested toes that already dropped off amid the stench of dying inch by inch to find an amputee’s stump. I don’t mail cards on Father’s Day, by cheryl townsend The bruises have lasted nearly 30 some years always just below the surface of my skin an infection just so near erupting festering away with words that ricochet in my head hitting memories here and there like the hands that were almost but not quite there THE SUMMER BUMMER AND THE DAISY, by Ruth Moon Kempher Some time ago- this is not a once upon a time story, because it is very nearly almost true- I knew a dog who was named The Summer Bummer, Sum for short. He was almost all the kind of dog called a German Shepherd because his family came from Germany, where they took care of sheep. There was another part of him that was some other kind of dog. We don’t know what it was, except it must have been some kind of dog that is lazy. The main thing to know abo ut the Summer Bummer is that he was a nice dog, but he was terribly lazy. Even if we lived in Germany, which we don’t, I’m sure he would have ignored all his duties with the sheep. At home, he wouldn’t help with the dishes or the cooking or even sing a song for his supper. He was a dog who just liked to laze. He was SO lazy, he would even refuse to take a bath. Now that is bad. Dogs who do not take baths have a tendency to smell bad. It IS bad. One summer, it was so very bad, with the Summer Bummer refusing to take his baths, that no one would have anything to do with him. When he came into a room, people would pinch their noses and make terrible faces and say “Pooh, pooh, Summer Bummer. You stink.” That is not nice, but that is how it was. The Summer Bummer did not care. He would lie down and stick his tongue out. His tongue would drip. And his tummy would pant. And his tangled coat- O, pooh. It did stink. German Shepherds are proud dogs, you know. They do not like to admit that they have made a mistake. And they also like to have people like them. So the Summer Bummer was very sad. He knew he ought to take a bath so people would let him be close to them again. But on the other hand, he was very lazy. So he was lonesome for a long time. He would lie around a while, but when no one would pay attention to him because he smelled so bad, he would finally get up and go outside all by himself. He would go for a lonesome walk and feel sorry for himself, but he was too lazy to do much else. One day Sum went for a particularly lonesome walk out where there was a big field of daisies and Queen Anne’s lace and all sorts of grass growing up tall. There were little yellow butterflies hopping about in the flowers, but when they got wind of the Summer Bummer, they shook their antenneas in disgust and flew away. O dear. If a butterfly doesn’t like the way you smell, things are very bad, indeed. And the Summer Bummer was SO dirty. O me. You may not believe this, but while he was out in that field feeling lonesome and sorry for himself, a seed from one of the daisies fell into his tangled dirty coat. This seed was just about ready to sprout roots, anyway, but falling into such a dirty place made it think it was time to put roots out, and start to grow. And that is exactly what this silly daisy did. Down went its roots, and up went its stem, and its flower bud shot up. . . It was astonishing. At first, the Summer Bummer didn’t know what was going on. He felt those roots tickle and he thought it was a flea. And do you know, that dog was SO lazy he wouldn’t even bother to scratch a flea. By the time the Summer Bummer came home, that silly daisy had grown up, magic, and the poor dog didn’t know it, but he was walking around with a flower growing out of his coat. I knew he was a dirty dog, but that was too much. “O, Sum!” I said when he came home. “Look! You have a daisy in your coat!” He turned his head as far around as it would go, and sure enough. There was the daisy nodding at him. And Summer Bummer was so happy, he grinned. That daisy was the first thing in a long time to treat him like a friend. This story is getting very long, so I will try to make it short. For a while, they were absolutely inseparable, the Summer Bummer and the daisy. They went out in the sun, and lay in the sun and were perfectly lazy together. But a dog’s coat, no matter how dirty it gets, is not really a good place for a daisy to grow. And the daisy, like all good flowers, needed not just dirt, but water. After a few days of being very thirsty, the daisy began to droop. It was too polite to complain, but it could hardly hold its head up anymore. Then the Summer Bummer was in a fix. What should he do to help his friend? He went so far as to consider taking a bath! But he didn’t do that, not because he was too lazy, but because he thought that soap would be bad for daisy roots. He was considering taking a shower kind of bath when a very nice thing happened to help them both. Outside, it began to rain. Normally, Sum would never go out into the rain. He did not like the feel of rain in his eyes. He did not like to be wet. Wet dogs smell so bad they can even smell themselves! Then he knew how bad things were! But the daisy had been a loyal friend when no one else would pay attention. He actually TROTTED, going out into the garden, where the rain was gently coming down. He went trot trot trot out to the edge of the garden bed, and sat down, and let the lovely warm rain get into his eyes, and soak into his coat, and he sat and he sat, smelling wetter and wetter doggy smells. O dear. He did not like the rain. But the daisy loved it! The daisy felt stronger and stronger from the moment they went trot trot out the door. And when the rain began to soak into Sum’s coat, the daisy stretched out its roots, and held up its head, and began to positively GLOW. The Summer Bummer wanted to be a good friend, and so he sat there feeling half miserable and half proud of himself. He sat just long enough for the daisy to be wet enough to sli de out of his coat, roots and all, right down into the garden, where the roots went down and the daisy began to properly grow. The Summer Bummer is an old dog now, and the daisy is a big bush out in the garden. Now that he’s old, I’m afraid Sum is even lazier than he used to be. But he takes his bath happily every now and then, because he has learned that if you don’t keep yourself properly clean, life can be very complicated. kiwi, by mark blickley Johnny Minassian kicked an empty beer can up and down a freezing subway platform. His sister Kate complained about the noise he was making, but the noise didn’t bother her. She was too embarrassed to join him and that’s what really upset her. Johnny looked like he was having so much fun. He didn’t even seem to care what the other people on the platform thought about the noise he was making. “Stop banging that can around, Johnny,” said his mother “The train’s coming.” Kate ran in front of her brother and gave the beer can a final kick. They both smiled as it scraped across the yellow line and dropped on to the train tracks. “Is Daddy going to die in the war?” asked Kate. Mother shook her head. “Your father’s an airplane mechanic, not a soldier. I doubt he’ll see much action.” As the subway doors were closing behind them a dirty man in sunglasses, carrying a handmade cardboard sign, threw himself at the door. The sliding doors crushed his body like a pair of hungry teeth, but he managed to squeeze his way inside the crowded subway car. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man shouted as the train pulled out. “I’m not a thief or a mugger. Could you please spare some change for a Vietnam Vet that’s hungry? Show your support for our boys over in the Persian Gulf by helping one of their brothers at home.” When the man held out his cup to Johnny the boy grabbed Kate by her arm and mumbled something. “What’s that you say, son?” asked the beggar. “I said you smell,” answered Johnny. At the exact moment the bell rang to end the school day at P.S. 92 in the Bronx, a Scud missile was launched from Iraq into Saudi Arabia. The New York afternoon was bitterly cold as Johnny met Kate at the school entrance. The Saudi Arabian evening was warm as Johnny’s father slept peacefully inside his barracks. By the time Johnny and Kate climbed the three flights of stairs to their apartment, the Scud missile from Iraq had exploded inside their father’s barracks. And by the time Mother returned home from work and prepared supper, Johnny’s father was gone. Forever. Days later, after the military man bringing bad news had left the apartment, what was left of the Minassian family sat in the kitchen, stunned. Kate began to cry. Mother lowered her head into her arms. Johnny became angry. “You said he wouldn’t die!” shouted Johnny at his mother. Kate cried even louder. Mother raised her head. She tried to speak. But when she choked on her first words she decided to give up. Once again she lowered her head into her arms. Johnny grabbed his coat and ran out of the apartment. He could still hear his sister’s sobs echoing in the hallway as he bolted out the building. “Hey, Johnny, wait up!” called out Carlos. Johnny ignored his best friend. When Carlos ran over to him, Johnny took off. Carlos tried to catch up to Johnny but that was impossible. Everyone knew that Johnny Minassian was the fastest runner in the fourth grade, and probably the entire school. And that included sixth graders. When Johnny finally stopped running he was at the entrance of Fine Foods Supermarket. Taped to the store’s front window was a huge photograph of h;s father in his Air Force Reserve uniform. Sergeant Minassian’s frozen smile was framed with yellow ribbon. Johnny stared at the black and white picture. Everyone was younger he asked his father why his smile got so much attention. Frank Minassian pulled his son aside and told him the secret. “You know how much I love fruits and honey, right?” whispered his father. Johnny nodded. “Well, it seems my sweet tooth is very impressive. It’s right here, Johnny.” He pointed to his front tooth. “And when I smile everybody sees it. I think it reminds people of all the wonderful things there are to eat.” When Johnny asked his mother why everyone made such a big fuss over his father’s smile, she said it was because he was so handsome. Johnny disliked her answer. He was glad there was another guy around the house to set things straight. Johnny Minassian quietly made his way through the Fine Food supermarket. A couple of cashiers and a deli clerk called out to him, but Johnny wasn’t listening. Their voices bl.ended in with the shouts for price checks, the beeping of cash registers, the clang of shopping carts, and the cries of cranky children. The produce isle was as exciting as ever. It was like an island in the middle of the store. All that color and all those shapes. And the smells. It smelled like his father. Johnny paused next to a handmade sign stuck in between the avocado and spinach bins. In bold magic marker strokes it p roclaimed - “THE PRODUCE DEPARTMENT IS PROUD OF THEIR MANAGER, FRANK MINASSIAN, WHO IS CURRENTLY SERVING HIS COUNTRY IN THE PERSIAN GULF.” The sign was lettered in red and blue on white cardboard. But its artificial colors were swallowed up by the natural colors of the surrounding fruits and vegetables. No one seemed to notice the sign. A hand dropped on Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny turned and slipped from under the grip. It was Christopher, the assistant produce manager. “How’s my boss doing?” asked Christopher. “Have you gotten any new letters from him yet? He’s really missed around here.” Johnny shrugged and looked past Christopher to the rows of strange and vibrant produce his father had once ordered and organized. He scuffed his way over to the kiwi fruit. Johnny lifted two pieces of kiwi out of the rack. His thumb and index fingers pressed into them. He bruised the tiny green fruit protected by brown fuzz, and then he crushed them. Juice dripped on to the floor. Johnny tossed the damaged fruit back into the rack and left. Had Johnny’s father seen someone destroy his produce like that he would have grabbed the person by the collar and marched him into the security office. But Christopher just stood there with his mouth open. After ordering a clerk to clean up the mess he swung open the doors to the back produce room and turned on the radio. War news. AN EVENING WITH SALVADOR DALI AND DYLAN THOMAS, by gabriel monteleone neruda In the tiny beatnikky hamlet of Sausalito, just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, in the very late forties and in the early fifties was a popular coffeehouse called The Indrawn Breath. Oftentimes, after a tedious day of labor as a truck driver for a local lumberyard, I’d cajole my wife and we’d go spend a gentle evening at the coffeehouse by listening to the poetry-ridden songs of some passing minstrel, or by listening to the fresh and vital apostasies of some local or wandering poet. Being young, these people wanted history to begin with themselves, and urged for everything to be changed. My wife, Dulcinea, had been asked to accompany the farnous painter Salvador Dali in his visit to the area, because she was an accomplished translator and because she was marvelously well informed concerning the histories of our local arts and our local artists. Mr. Dali’s English was lousy and yet he was a curious fellow, and among his myriad requests was to be given a tour of recitals of underclass literatures. Being a generous man, he permitted me to tag along. He laughed heartily to learn that everybody called my wife Dolly, and in his crippled English he joked that now there were two Dollies at our table. Drollery is an honorable, kind humor, and we laughed merrily along with him, knowing that a great man was performing his duty of putting lesser people at their ease. Scheduled to recite his poetry that evening was a youngish though middle-aged man named Dylan Thomas, and being mildly familiar with his florid exuberant work I considered that witnessing Dylan Thomas while my wife and I sat with Dali, was a double treat. Now I consider that it was a triple treat. Scheduled to read at eight, Mr. Thomas arrived a bit late and, I thought, a bit inebriated, but almost immediately upon beginning his act in that deliciously masculine and utterly magnificent voice he seemed to sober remarkably. While performing he drank about two full pitchers of cold icy water, and I wondered just where he was putting it. Mr. Dali made the ancient and venerable joke about his having a hollow leg, but made it in a whisper. I remember that he recited many poems I hadn’t heard before, and I remember that he recited his October poem which I so loved, 2nd which was done so intensely and so stirringly my skin horripilated, goose bumps all over and hairs bristling and a cold shuddering in the nerves. When he was finished reading he came over to our table, Mr. Dali’s presence having made quite a stir among these glitterati. Mr. Thomas and Mr. Dali tried hard to communicate but were mostly unable, since Mr. Thomas knew no Spanish. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I was delighted that my wife and I were available to their incapacity, and I was delighted that our table was too small to accommodate more than four chairs. Mostly these two great artists talked of women and of horses, and a little of boxing. Dali wanted to talk about women, and when Thomas asked him where his wife was, he said that he kept her in the hotel room, and then tried to talk about famous movie actresses. Thomas wanted to talk about horses, and Dali was often polite enough to listen, somewhat. Both men were fervent fans of the brawny bomber, Joe Louis, and both men dismissed Tunney’s long count as being irrelevant. I remember Thomas said he loved George Gascoigne, and Dali said he’d never heard of him. Dali said he loved Cervantes and Thomas said he loved Don Quixote also, but hadn’t read anything else by Shakespeare’s perfect contemporary. Thomas seemed to pretend to being more intellectual than was quite natural for him, and Dali seemed to enjoy being a showman, barking to his contemporaries. Thomas was embarrassed that he was more artist than intellectual, and Dali was proud of it. Thomas was imploding while Dali was exploding and gracefully. If Thomas was a saint a-bleeding, Dali was the holy pope of the surreal. Mr. Thomas looked like an alcoholic cherub, and seemed to be suffering spasms of pain in his eccentric and central nervous system. Several times I noticed that his blubbery lips tightened across his mouth and I almost expected them to snap like a rubber band. His forehead glowed with oil and a sweat hovered upon his entire face. Disappointment and disgust were writ large upon his features, as in Rembrandt’s old self portrait. The coffee that we drank did him no good, gave him no help, no relief He drank apple juice, and mentioned that he was pretending it was the boozy cider from home. I was mostly interested in Mr. Dali, since I knew more about him than I did about Mr. Thomas, and since he was the occasion of the evening. Dali was a remarkable specimen. He was a skinny guy and naturally, I thought, a solitary. He wore a black suit, typically Latin tailoring with very very wide padded shoulders and with wide lapels. He wore a black string tie neatly tied on a soiled white shirt which had a neck far too large for his scrawny little neck. His hair was black as black could be, black as black shoe polish, and was drowned in grease. His mustache was a revelation and was exceptionally long and thin and tightly twisted at the ends into a flamboyant tight circle. His eyebrows were thin and black and, and I was awed by this, they moved independently of each other, like weird black spiders, and skittered all over the upper third of his face as if they were the scarves of ballerinas, waving and floating and whipping. These active eyebrows would dart up to his hairline or skitter alongside an ear or zip down and plunge over an eyeball. Toward the evening’s end both men were wearied from a conversation that required intermediaries, and for a spell they dispensed with us, and in mix of nonverbal language and pidgin each confessed quietly that he had peripheral moments of consciousness when he expected the whole world to recognize him for being the charlatan that he was, to denounce him with sneers of derision and then to consider him never again. I didn’t understand how genius could appreciate itself so scantly, and yet I knew enough to pretend I missed the significance of their confessions completely, and I knew enough not to comment with feigned inaccuracy. While we spoke and while we listened, Mr. Dali doodled on the house’s paper napkins with a soft pencil. When we left, presumably the napkins were tossed out with our cigarette butts, into the general trash. My wife and I drove Mr. Dali to his hotel in San Francisco, to his wife and Pernod, said a smiling goodbye and returned home to Mill Valley, to a tumble-down shanty in a redwood grove and to three improbably conceited cats. I don’t know where Mr. Thomas went, except that he retreated further into unhappiness. This memorable evening was in 1949, 1950, or in 1951, I believe. I do remember that it was on the eleventh of July, since that was my birthday. It was cool and foggy for July, welcomely cool. My wife always liked the cool. Dogfight at the Day Care Center, by george spelvin Kevin was a new child at the center. That’s why he was reaching for the door knob, lachrymously begging to follow his mother. Harry wasn’t much help. He was a conscientious and well trained worker, but he new at the center too. He somehow didn’t have the hang of how to placate frightened newcomers. Harry approached Kevin and said, “Don’t cry. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re going to have fun today.” The tantrum continued. Harry picked up a book from the book shelf. “Let’s go to the block corner and see what we can make with blocks.” The tantrum continued. “Here’s a nice book. Would you like for me to read it to you?” The tantrum continued. Five or ten vain attempts later, the noise of the Kevin’s increased screaming reached the director’s office. The director came out of her office, bent down to Kevin’s eye level, and put her hand on Kevin’s back. “You want your mommy, don’t you?” Kevin nodded. His screaming and crying reduced from fortissimo to forte. “You’re scared that the teachers are going to fuss at you, aren’t you?” Kevin nodded again. His screaming and crying reduced from forte to mezzo forte. “You’re scared that the other kids aren’t going to like you, aren’t you?” Kevin nodded again. His screaming and crying reduced from mezzo forte to mezzo piano. “We’ll try not to fuss at you. Harry is a nice man, and he has a nice book to read to you. Why don’t you go to the book corner with Harry and find out what the book is about?” Kevin nodded again. His crying reduced to a pianissimo and soon stopped altogether. A few other children gathered around to hear Harry read the story. Each child picked up a book from the rack and sai d, “Read this one!” Harry honored each child’s request; thereby prolonging the session to over an hour. While other children came and went, Kevin clung by Harry’s side. Finally the last child wandered to another interest center, inviting Kevin to go with him. Harry went to the door of the director’s office and asked in amazement, “How did you do that!” The director said, “You read a lot, don’t you?” Harry was afraid to say yes, because the director might consider that bragging. The director looked up on the bookshelf and pulled down a few books one by one. She gave Harry a handful of books by Virginia Axline, Haim Ginott, and Thomas Gordon. “I don’t expect all of these books back tomorrow, but return them when you can.” Later, when Harry had time to think, a Top Dog and Under Dog began quarrelling in his mind: Top Dog said, “You should be better with kids than anyone else in this center, and you’re not.” Under Dog answered, “Why should I, and how do you figure that I’m not?” TOP DOG: The director is better working with kids than you are. UNDER DOG: How do you figure that? TOP DOG: Because she was able to get Kevin to stop crying, and you couldn’t. UNDER DOG: She’s had years of experience and I haven’t. TOP DOG: It’s your fault that you haven’t had years of experience. You can make up the difference only by metamorphosing yourself now. UNDER DOG: Suppose I took a crash course in a foreign language. When I arrive at a country that speaks that language, I should be able to speak it as well as anyone who’s been there for several years? TOP DOG: That’s different. UNDER DOG: What’s different about it? TOP DOG: Learning a foreign language is a special skill. UNDER DOG: And working with children isn’t? TOP DOG: Well, you know what I mean. UNDER DOG: I certainly don’t. TOP DOG: Well, maybe working with children is a special skill,but you should be ashamed of yourself for dumping your work on the director like that. UNDER DOG: Why? It seems to me that it would be more constructive to read these books and find out what’s in them. TOP DOG: I’m just trying to help you and you don’t even appreciate it. UNDER DOG: You’re right, I don’t. TOP DOG: If you feel that way, I’ll just leave. UNDER DOG: Cheerio. grey cat in remorse, by larry blazek Grey Cat meows for his sister sniffs everywhere she was the blood she shed when she slipped her head into the closing car door predator understands death better than I a bad dream, by john binns I had a bad dream, I was struck by lightning And there was a hole In my stomach A foot wide, I nearly died But not quite paranoia, by Janet Kuypers we sit here at dinner. I try to breathe. My hands rest on my thighs. I must watch to be sure, everything must be right: the silverware, small fork, large fork, plate, knife, large spoon, small spoon. Water glass. Wine glass. I know no one else sees them: the fish, the red fish, in the curtains along the wall. You have to watch them. My eyes always glance there. They are evil fish. They sit in the curtains, they wait, and then they come out. And the yogurt, the yogurt is the only thing that can save me from them. throw the yogurt, take a spoon, use your hands. Anything. And we sat there before dinner, and he ate his yogurt with his first spoon before I could stop him. How could you do this? How can you save yourself from the evil fish now? Will I have to save you again, do you even understand the danger poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen, dedicated to Steve, a marine, by Janet Kuypers we sat at the poolside together; you asking me about how I’ve been as the sun beat down and we talked about nuclear war. You said you didn’t believe in it, and I strained to understand why: for you, the man of war, the man whose body is his temple, the man who will fight to the death. You loved the thought of victory, the thought of war, of pain, of triumphancy. And I sat there in the swimming pool while you sat on the edge. I paused. Then it occurred to me: you would want a method of fighting more direct, slower, more painful, more personal, than a nuclear war. You’d want to fight them one on one, man to man, with your fists. And your eyes lit up. I was beginning to understand, now, only years later. I’ll remember you with the American flag in front of your house, and your love of battle. Crayons, by Gerald Burns Everyone is giving up crayons. The Chinese have put lead in them. Do their own children color with brush only? Must ours, chewing idly on Periwinkle, lay up in the marrow illnesses like arsenates? No one thinks it deliberate. Most whites are poison. If you paint, Payne’s and Davie’s Gray fraction out to sooty brown, pale blue some colas “warm,” some “cool” most interesting on the level of blacks in a cloak, translating color from local tinge to sculptural. Children given pumpkins to draw pick the orange crayon nearly every time, rub-rub with spaces left (a not) for eyes, mouth. It’s never satisfactory, pitted construction paper taking on this sheen, so unlike in tone, intent, to litho crayon on a stone Lautrec would mix the inks for, Lole Fuller some transparent but never Disney butterfly flecked with - look! - gold paint, even that like some Turner actually rendering pinkish-mauve sunsets, or Church’s icebergs salmon-green. The child imposes, Iridian imperialist “brown” on the turkey, “red” for apple, the s objects like the colors twice removed from any reality or handling. How did Spielberg actually get that lovely brown for Tinker Bell, Franciscans covetous? Those who read Romaunt of the Rose in medieval times imagined colored flowers as like virtue, vice. The color made of wax is always dark. Even the white sullies. Who, looking at thick-printed quarters scribbled on with silver imagined its decay of value as if your dog achieving as you dreamed speech displays a lower-class accent. The crayon taught us why we couldn’t draw. Still, pounded into pegboard holes or that wonderful toy, its colored cylinders rounded at the edges nearly into cubes we’d pound into the table thwarted cause, red in, blue out created unexpected color you might call solid. You’d chew on a broken crayon, always surprised the musty taste, petroleum distillate, was so unlike the color tinted labels named.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.