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 54 - ‘good to the last drop’

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

ISSN 1068-5154

coffeehouse vampire, by Pete Cholewinski Voice of poetic interpretation whispering through mary jane: “I have sixteen personalities, and I dream about death.” Gothic in combat boots, eyes skewer bimbos who “Omigod!” at vampires and evaporate in passing crowds. Blacknailed, tattooed thunderclap of autonomous poison pain, alienating a real world that fears your unexpressed bite. drunk poet, by C Ra McGuirt shit, i am fucked up where’s my gold star? P.S. An Epistolary Tale, by Mark Blickley P.S. An Epistolary Tale 8836 Blvd. E.(Apt. 3K) W.N.Y.,N.J.07093 March 24, 1995 OCCUPANT of Apt. 2K 8836 Blvd. E. W.New York,NJ 07093 Dear Neighbor: Just because I HAVEN’T(any) APPROPRIATE TIME to speak ORALLY to you, therefore I took the liberty to write directly to you in the hope that you’ll be kind enough to take into consideration the following request: Consequently, if you permit me, I’ll ask you(right now), as follows: Did you(ever) anything hear considering someone, or(did you)see) somebody who was looking for me(in front of(my) Apt. 3K, (in the hall) in connection with any message, news, or information) in the past days, weeks, or during the last months, or within the past several years,(somehow, somewhere in the building), ANY TIME? Thank you for your very kind attitude toward the matter. In expectation of your reply IN WRITING EXCLUSIVELY in the near future, I remain, Sincerely, (Q. Shabraya) p.s. : I would not want to create the impression that you’ll not do me a favor that I just requested. If you’re interested regarding our ORAL CONVERSATION AT YOUR AND MY EARLIEST CONVENIENCE, if that is the case, I’ll be glad to talk to you as one gentleman to another, to exchange our views, to discuss about subject that you and I wish. Your(eventual) any FRIENDLY remark, CONSTRUCTIVE objection, LOGICAL observation, RATIONAL comment, etc., WELCOME! It’s not only an APPROPRIATE, BUT HIGHLY DESIRABLE Thanks, again. March 25, 1995 Dear Mr. Q. Shabraya: Thank you for taking the time to write me a letter and to slip it under my door. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, as we have been next door neighbors for close to two years now and we’ve only met three times in the elevator. I’ve appreciated the hello you’ve given me on those three occasions. I find the uniform you wear quite fascinating. As we descended the eleven flights to the building entrance, I inspected your uniform for some insignia, some identification to its origin. Am I correct in assuming that it is the military uniform of an officer of a foreign country? Is it beige, Mr. Shabraya? Its color is quite faded though you’ve kept it in superb condition. I know it must be an old uniform and the proud manner with which you carry yourself when you wear it must mean that it is a uniform that has participated in some grand historical event. Am I correct, sir? Many a time I’ve been tempted to ring your doorbell, Mr. Shabraya, during harsh storms or when the ground is covered with ice. I am much younger than you, sir, and on the three occasions that we’ve shared an elevator ride I couldn’t help but notice your pallor. Although you look fit and strong, and by no means do I think of you as someone not able to take of himself, I’ve wondered if I could not be of assistance when the weather rages. I help out a few other residents of our building during such emergencies. I have not contacted you to see if I could be of assistance because of the typewritten message taped over your doorbell that firmly states -- DO NOT RING THIS BELL UNDER ANY CONDITION OR OVERSIGHT. LEAVE THIS BELL ALONE! LEAVE COMMUNICATIONS WITH SUPER OR RECEPTIONIST ON FIRST FLOOR. THANKS! Mr. Shabraya, during my nearly two years in apartment 2K I have not come across anybody seeking to deliver information to you. Sir, I couldn’t help notice the typed message you taped to your mailbox requesting that your mail be delivered to the floor mat outside your apartment. On two occasions I’ve seen the mailman honoring your request. If I should observe someone trying to contact you, is there some procedure you’d like me to follow in order to relay this information to you? I shall only be too pleased to oblige. Mr. Shabraya, as the walls to these apartments are paper thin, I cannot help hearing you from time to time. I think it is healthy for a man to scream occasionally. I believe it purges the soul the same as water purges the body. Your screams are never disruptive as I am a sound sleeper. Mr. Shabraya, I was wondering, do my screams disturb you? I try hard, very hard, to muffle them with my pillow, but I don’t always succeed. Your screams are never whimpering outbursts of self pity like mine. Your screams never seem to deteriorate into tears. I know- it is unmanly to cry and I hope I have not embarrassed you on the occasions when this has happened to me. You never cry, do you? I have the utmost respect for you because you do not. Please don’t judge me harshly. Every morning I take a walk down Boulevard East with Charlie Turner from 5E and Dr. Sussman. Dr. Sussman is such a nice man. Do you know him? or are you affiliated with Dr. Karapetian? He’s a nice person, too. I was formerly affiliated with Dr. Karapetian. I love walking down the Boulevard and looking over at the Manhattan skyline. I always stroll in my civvies. Do you ever wear civilian clothes, Mr. Shabraya? Once again, thank you for your unexpected correspondence and I look forward to hearing from you again. Respectively Yours, Louis Mirabella P.F.C. U.S.M.C. (Ret.) 138-96-1792 - A positive Mark Blickley driving by his house, by Janet Kuypers I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. I don’t even want to see him again. I don’t want to have to think about him, I don’t want to think about his big eyebrows or the fact that he hunched over a little when he walked or that he hurt me so much. I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, but sometimes when I’m driving I’ll take a little detour and drive by his house. I’ll just drive by, I won’t slow down, I won’t stop by, I won’t say hello, I won’t beat his head in, I won’t even cry. I’ll just drive by, see a few cars in the driveway, see no signs of life through the windows, and then I’ll just keep driving. I don’t know why I do it. He never sees me, and I never see him, although I thought I didn’t want to see him anyway. When I first met him I wasn’t afraid of him. Now I’m so afraid that I have to drive by his house every once in a while, just to remind myself of the fear. We all like the taste of fear, you know, the thought that there’s something out there stronger than us. The thought that there’s something out there we can beat, even if we have to fight to the death. But that can’t be it, no, it just can’t be, I don’t like this fear, I don’t like it. I don’t want to drive by, I want to be able to just go on with my life, to not think about it. I want to be strong again. I want to be strong. So today I did it again, I haven’t done it for a while, drive by his house, but I did it again today. When I turned on to his street I put on my sunglasses so that in case he saw me he couldn’t tell that I was looking. And then I picked up my car phone and acted like I was talking to someone. And I drove by, holding my car phone, talking to my imaginary friend, trying to unobviously glance at the house on my left. There’s a lamppost at the end of his driveway. I always noticed it, the lampshade was a huge glass ball, I always thought it was ugly. This time three cars were there. One of those could have been his. Through the front window, no people, no lights. I drive around a corner, take a turn and get back on the road I was supposed to be on. One day, when I’m driving by and I get that feeling again, that feeling like death, well then, I just might do it again. rainforest coyote, by John Alan Douglas mid morning light slants diagonally across the mute green meadow as coyote is chased across my path by three horses ridden by effete jockey club humans they show no regard for this being this wiry slim svelt animal so much more lithe than their costly overdressed bodies the coyote darts into the heart of the rainforest showing no regard for a poet startled by a pure animal grace and speed and need not a memory i shall hoarde this yellowish supple non-urban animal rests supreme somewhere in the forest next door and in his own coyote way smiles if you read this poem, then you will die, by C Ra McGuirt for andrew you are more afraid than me of ceasing to be or maybe only ceasing to be able to make sense. you go after superstition like a housewife with a large economy-size spray can if incecticide as darkness scurries into cracks on its hairy legs RECYCLABLE GLASS, by Mark Blickley The 7:27 boulevard bus paused at the red light on the corner of Kennedy and Bentley. While staring at the line of cars of idling in front of him, and without turning his head, the driver honked his horn and threw a mechanical wave. This gesture of recognition was directed at the old man making his way down the street. As the light turned green the bus operator glanced in the old man’s direction. Of course he was there. The driver smiled to himself and shook his head. For the past six years at precisely this time the senior citizen had always appeared. It amazed the driver since it was obvious the old man had suffered a stroke. He moved as though his ankles were bound by slave bracelets. As the bus zoomed past the old man halted. By the time he had lifted his head he was waving his walking stick in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. Coughing seized him for a few moments, but he was pleased by the driver’s show of camaraderie. The scorching sun allowed a thick blanket of humidity to hug Jersey City. In retaliation, the old man loosened his tie and unbuttoned the vest concealed under the stain sports jacket. With a determined expression, he began pushing forward. After a few minutes, he succeeded in reaching the end of the block. Checking vigilantly before crossing, he decided to make his move. Everything seemed to be in order: the light was still green, but more importantly, the DO NOT WALK sign was not flashing underneath it. This meant he had at least sixty seconds to execute the crossing. In the past the old man had this street crossing down to fifty-six seconds. But now the government had decreased his time by making it legal for cars to turn right on red lights. This called for more caution. Since the old man’s retirement nineteen years earlier, he had learned that the car horn had replaced the brake when drivers were competing with pedestrians for space. Halfway across the street he panicked. The light changed colors. Horns began to scream. The old man froze. Directly in front of his outstretched walking stick ( a cane was for old geezers) a battered Toyota screeched past. “Get the hell outta the way, ya old fart!” Biting his lip, the old man gaped at the automobile. A young head popped out of the back window. “Why don’t you die?” it shouted, before disappearing into traffic. Two other cars silently whizzed by him. A third car released him from his paved prison by stopping long enough for him to arrive at the opposite corner. Smiling broadly at the driver, he did a playful hop over the curb. The old man felt good. Usually a half-dozen would pass before permitting him to proceed. It was no~t a rarity for him to be trapped in the middle of the street until the light once again turned a comforting green. Things are looking up, he thought, grinning. What disturbed the old man most about his daily journey, however, was the block on which Martinez and Sons Glassware Company was located. The store took up half a street; its windows were lined with mirrors. It bothered the old man to pass this block. No matter how hard he fought the temptation, it was impossible for him not to glance at his image as he crept along. The reflection was an obscenity to him. He would try to reason with it, but it refused to be intimidated. Of all the hardships he endured during his morning excursion, this was the one part that truly angered him. The day was really looking up. The store which usually opened at 8:30 a.m., was closed. This meant that the iron gate was strung across the huge display window, a fact which pleased the old man. When he looked at his reflection he laughed out loud. “Finally caught you! Did you really think you’d overtake me?” His likeness looked as though it had been captured and jailed; his image was peering at him through thick metal bars. The old man threw back his shoulders, disregarding the ache. Picking up his pace somewhat, he reminded the reflection that his birthday feel on the same day and in the same year as Clark Gable’s. “That’s right. 1901. Good Lord, the girls knew it, too.” He pointed an accusing finger at the mirror. “Maybe I forget the exact day, but I’ll never forget all those women.” As he passed the last section of the window he blushed. It wasn’t proper to think of the many young ladies who had awarded him their most prized treasure. A feeling of guilt overtook him. Ashamed of himself, he began drifting back to the day he had met Colleen, the wife he buried shortly after his retirement. The old man took a seat on a bench; overhead hung a sigh, BUS STOP. On the end of the bench sat a young girl dressed in frayed blue jeans cutoffs and a Homey the Clown tee shirt. “Mister,” she asked, “ can you lend me a quarter so I can catch the bus?” No reply. “Excuse me, sir, do you have a quarter I can borrow?” The old man twisted his neck in her direction. He reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of change that he dropped into her hand. The young lady leaped off the bench and giggled. “Gee, thanks! Wow!” Seconds later she disappeared down the street into a candy store. The old man stared at his scuffed shoes. A rumbling sound interrupted his thoughts. A bus door swung open. “How ya colleen’, Pop? Watcha colleen’ at his stop?” The old man frowned. “You’re early, Hector. No trouble I take it? “Naw, it’s this lousy heat. I usually park at the terminal and read the paper but this ain’t got not air conditioning. You know the 343. Only one on the line without air and I get stuck with it. Gonna come aboard?” “No thanks, it’s not time yet. I appreciate your stopping for me, though.” “No sweat, pal. Listen, see ya tomorrow, and take that jacket off or you’ll cook.” “Will do, amigo. Take care.” The old man gave Hector a cheerful smile as the bus roared off, and then checked his watch. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule. “Oh my God, I’m going to be late”’ After pulling himself up, he cursed the once strong arms that had made him the number one laborer at the steamship company. Besides muscle, though, I had brains, too, he thought. Made it all the way up to head bookkeeper by using them. Forget the shell. It’s the brain that matters. ~I’ve got to maintain it. After conquering four more blocks he arrived at his destination. It made him feel good to watch the busy activity associated with the morning opening of the Post Office. He looked up at the flag dangling limply from the mast, as if suffocated from a lack of breeze. It should be firm and upright, he thought, not weak and flabby like his own ancient body. Inside the building were the usual hoards of people in lines. Being fifteen minutes late he feared the worst. Gradually he inched towards the wall lined with post office boxes. “Why, Mr. Quirk, I was worried. I thought something terrible happened.” “No, Ma’am. I guess this humidity took more from me than I had anticipated giving. Kind of you to wait, though.” The old man focused all his attention on the aged woman. How much she reminded him of Colleen! “Well, after all, Mr.Quirk, I mean, Horace, today’s my turn to buy the coffee...” “And I the donuts.” “Correct.” “Have you received your check yet, Mildred?” “Yes. I saw them put yours in, too.” The old man went over to his mailbox and withdrew the envelope inside. “Life sure plays some strange games on us, Mildred. Six years ago we both decided, on the very same day, mind you, to put an end to all those stolen checks every month. Scary how accustomed we had become to missing them.” Mildred nodded in agreement. “You know something, Mildred. Loosing those checks are the best thing that’s happened to me in six years.” Mildred pretended to dismiss the flattery, but the added wrinkles at the corner of her lips gave her away. “It’s funny how us old fogies refuse to use banks. Since ‘31 neither Ted nor myself ever stepped inside of one.” “Colleen always thought I was too angry with banks. I can hear her now, saying, ‘Horace, you shouldn’t resent what happened in the past. It’s dangerous.’ She was some woman, my Colleen.” “She certainly must have been, Mr. Quirk.” Strolling around the corner to the diner gave the old man a thrill, as it had every morning for the past six years. It felt good, it felt natural, to be with a woman. The few times Mildred hadn’t shown up at the Post Office always put him in an extremely melancholy mood for the rest of the day. The little table to the left of the grill was reserved for the elderly couple. Josh, the proprietor, issued strict orders not to seat anyone there until after eight-thirty. As they were led to their seats Horace contemplated Mildred’s appearance. She wore bright red lipstick which showed telltale signs of extended coloring past the outline of her lips. In fact, it reminded the old man of the happy smiles painted around the mouths of circus clowns. The red lipstick made a striking contrast to the black veiled hat pinned to a thin crop of platinum curls. Her eyes were a sparkling gray. Those eyes reminded the old man of something his father had once told him to say about his great-Aunt Kathleen. “Horace, whenever you meet an old woman, say like your Aunt Kathleen, never forget that despite the years she’s still got a young girl’s vanity. I know it’s hard and I brought you up not to lie, but listen, the one safe thing you can compliment on ‘em is their eyes. Leave the wrinkled skin around ‘em alone. Just tell ‘em how beautiful, or lively, or even better, how sparkling their optics are.” There was no need to falsely charm Mildred or~her eyes. What an attractive woman she must have been, mused the old man. Her face, now caked with powder, was probably as smooth and clear as Colleen’s. During their coffee and donuts each spent about twenty minutes bring Ted and Colleen back to life. Neither one would pay much attention to the other; after six years of repetition it didn’t matter. Yet missing these weekday interludes was unthinkable. The old man loved the chance to relive his youth. While talking (or listening), a vivid portrait of himself some sixty years earlier would materialize. What a great day, that day he first met Colleen. A promotion had just been awarded him from longshoreman to bookkeeping clerk. And he was only twenty-nine years old - The clipped moustache (why, you look just like that picture actor, honey!) under the prominent nose was stretched by a perpetual grin that day. Now Horace had to think seriously about settling down and raising a family. This was a tougher decision than most fellows were faced with since young Mr. Quirk was engaged to three girls at the same time. One of his fiancees lived in Hoboken, another over in New York, and the third was a vaudeville dancer in Atlantic City. While mulling over the choices before him at his favorite speakeasy in Union City, in walked the bartender for the upcoming shift with his handsome daughter. Horace was captivated by his eyeful of that exquisite dish. It was lust, later converted to love, at first sight. She had long, wavy nut brown hair off-setting a cute turned up nose. Her pale blue eyes sent an inviting message over to his stool. What a petite figure, firm and well developed . . . “And Ted would pick me up and throw me into the pool right in front of all the children. I pretended to be angry but I loved it!” The old man took his last gulp of chilled coffee and signaled for the check. “Would you like anything else, Mildred?” “No thank you, Horace.” She watched his eyes following the progress of the waiter. “I really enjoyed myself this morning, dear.” The old man nodded. “Yes, but it’s so hard to keep track of time these days. So much to be done yet. Isn’t that so?” Mildred smiled coyly. “Don’t I know, Mr. Quirk! detest all the running around I’m forced to do in order to keep up with this crazy world. I get exhausted just thinking about it.” With this last remark they concluded their visit and returned to their respective schedules: she to a park bench in nearby Bayonne, he to the bus stop across the street. When the bus arrived the old man was visibly upset. Hector was not driving. The doors flung open and the old man was shoved to the end of a line of boarding passengers. After everyone else had paid the fare and secured a seat, the driver waited impatiently for the old man to complete his attack of the high steps leading to the fare box. While the old man strained to maintain his balance via the walking stick, two thoughts flashed into his mind. One was to fall forward should his legs fail him. The second was how differently he was treated when Hector was behind the wheel. Hector made sure no one pushed him around and always helped him up the steep steps. On reaching the top step the old man fumbled for the Senior’s discount pass inside his sports jacket and deposited coins into the machine. As he turned to find a seat a swarm of indignant glances greeted him. He gave pleading looks to the men seated directly behind the driver. They in turn, almost as if on cue, rotated their heads and fixed their eyes on some object outside the window. The bus bolted forward before the old man could get a firm grip on the overhead strap. He was flung to~the other side of the bus. His back smashed into the knees and packages of four horrified women shoppers. Unable to control himself, the old man let out a cry. It was a soft cry, but it lingered. Upon the scolding of the women shoppers two men begrudgingly raised up the old man; one sacrificed his seat. Laughter broke out from the rear of the bus. Perspiration beaded on his bald spot. It began to dribble on to his sports jacket as he tucked his chin into his chest. Once again he drifted off to that first encounter with Colleen. Outside his apartment building children were jumping rope and an impromptu soccer game was in progress. “Hi ya, Mr. Quirk! Wanna play with us?” “Sorry, kids. I’ve had a rough day. I think I’ll go rest these tired old bones, if you don’t mind.” The children giggled. The old man enjoyed children and children liked him. But he knew how defensive most parents were these days, and he was embarrassed by their reactions whenever he stopped to speak to their kids. The old man was appalled by the fear he generated whenever he stopped a young couple to congratulate them on producing the beautiful child they were wheeling in their stroller. His attempts to shake an infant’s hand or stroke underneath a baby’s chin with his finger usually made the parents irritable, and they would quicken their pace. Being around children began to make him feel dirty and he hated that feeling. He comforted himself by imagining that one day these parents would understand the desire of the elderly to once again feel the smooth flesh of youth. A simple touch was a superior memory to any childhood photograph. The old man refused to stop trying to make contact with fresh life. Yet despite the humiliation, he would always mouth a silent pray that none of these parents would experience the horror of outliving their children. The elevator ride to his seventh floor apartment was noisy, slow and as frightening as always. It took him a few minutes of fumbling with his keys, but eventually he gained entrance to his home of forty-seven years. The odor of stale air escaped into the hallway as the door closed behind him. The first thing he did was throw off his sports jacket and switch on the television. He surveyed the apartment. It was filthy. “Well, I give you a good going over this weekend,” he promised the living room. The old man hobbled into the kitchen to prepare his daily staple of cornflakes and milk with fresh fruit. After eating, he left the dishes on the table next to yesterday’s plates and lunged for the bottle of cognac propped up on a kitchen chair. He shook it and was upset. “Did I drink that much yesterday?” he questioned the bottle. The old man phoned the liquor store around the corner to order another. The shopkeeper refused to send it until the previous bills were paid in full. Horace apologized and promised to pay him when his overdue checks arrived. The ploy did not work, however. Clutching the cognac bottle, he passed from the kitchen through the living room to his bedroom. He paused to raise the volume of his television set. Although he disliked watching the set, it’s voices replaced the music that once echoed through his apartment before the radio burned up. The noise gave him a sense of belonging. The old man balanced the bottle of cognac on a night table next to a dusty bible, and walked over to a closet. He pulled out a large cardboard box, dragged it over to the bed. The old man was surprised at how light the box was becoming. He dipped his hands inside the cardboard box. The clinking of glass accompanied his search. When his fingers locked around a heavy piece of crystal he smiled,~and pulled up a large, ornate goblet. The old man carefully poured cognac into the crystal goblet. He swallowed it and poured another. And then another. And still another until he drained the cognac. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and it rolled under the bed, unbroken. Horace stared at the fancy goblet and fingered its engraved designs. When he realized he had no more cognac to pour into it he began to shake. Horace tried to soothe himself by pressing the cool crystal against his cheek. Sorrow gave way to a blazing anger and he heaved the heirloom with all his strength. It crashed into the wall, splintering into pieces of jagged, dangerous glass. About a half hour behind schedule the old man passed out. Mark Blickley blood-n-water, by C Ra McGuirt get it white it’s hot some of our many fringe benefits, by Mary Winters What I like about my office is not ony its unimpeded view of the judges’ parking lot but also the cafeteria door. We see all kinds of deliveries - pizza they claim is made fresh on the premises every day; frozen Mexican specialties. Huge copper vats of God knows what being mixed up in there which if you watch long enough someone will probably spit in (although my worst such story involves a cigarette butt). Plus we see lots of emergency vehicles. Bomb squad about twice a week, though it always tuns out to be nothing. Police cars, ambulances - we open our windows winter and summer to see who is being taken away. Today we enjoyed a convergance of cafeteria and ambulance activity. Young guy passed out and fell down between the vats. They didn’t bother with CPR or mouth-to-mouth resusitation, just folded his hands on his chest and wheeled him off. He was okay but we told our secretary he died. It was the tuna fish. Fastest-acting food poisoning ever. Board of Health is there right now closing down the place, pasting up warning signs. Dozens of people ate the stuff, including judges at their weekly meeting. She cried, but it was worth it. She still believes us. recipe for artistic balance part II, by John Alan Douglas Artistic giants of the world: sculptors painters editors poets novelists particularly film directors: get down on those unused knees and wash scour scrub clean floors ceilings computer table tops. Learn humility humanity balance. Whitman Emerson Lawrence Bukowski John Ford Blake Wordsworth Henry Miller all knew this secret ace. Thus their work reeks not of effete “art” but of honest sweat of common place. ugly house, or how a place holds a feeling, by Janet Kuypers This is an ugly house. I hate the wallpaper in the spare room. Those stupid miniature rooms on the shelves in the spare room, stupid ugly miniature rooms she made, why would anyone want a box of a miniature room anyway? She takes up all the space in there, gets mad at me when I put a flower arrangement in there. I’m sleeping in the room, let me at least put something in there so I don’t feel like I’m sleeping in a hotel that chose a decorator with no taste. Why does she have so much stuff anyway?? She’s got a third of her jewelry and half of her clothes there, and I’m the one who sleeps in the room. I hate the multi-colored carpet in the living room, the barrel chairs with turquoise and melon vinyl coverings. The ugly statues mom is drawn to. A statue has to be inherently ugly for her to like it, I think. The lights hanging from above the bar, the lamp shades are Harvery’s Bristol Cream canisters. That mural of the 5 kids above the couch. I’m at the bottom. I look ugly. It was when I was subordinate and meek and stupid and helpless. Like now. I hate the stained glass hangings in the kitchen windowsill. And you can see the black paint chipping off the refrigerator door so you know mom tried to cover up the turquoise. Silk flowers that look really crappy. The kitchen flowers are the worst. I hate the wood-branch-tree she decorates for any pagan season she thinks of, even if it’s not pagan, let’s decorate the tree anyway, no one will know the wiser. Or the fact that there are nice things in the house, like two Dali prints, but they look ugly here. Art even looks like trash in this place. I hate the lamps hanging in front of those ugly melon colored front doors. And that wind chime hanging from the lamp in the front hallway. That rock garden in the front hallway, it used to have a working fountain in it, but I was too little when it worked, but that’s okay, because I think it would be even more frightening with water running down it. And I hate the playroom, the room i’m sitting in now, look at how cluttered it is, all the jewelry she’ll never get around to selling, all the fabric for clothes she’ll never make, all the exersice equipment that collects dust because she feels she can WALK her way to a perfect body. You know, she doesn’t like me using the treadmill because she thinks I’ll wear out the motor. What difference does it make? Books she’s collected because I collect books. She wants this of mine, I owe her this, I adopted this from her... She’s so petty, and no subtle hint I make makes a difference. She slams on any idea I ever have. She makes me feel I can never be creative, because it won’t work out. And she wonders why I’m insecure. Don’t you get it? You made me this way, I hate what you’ve done to me, I hate what you’ve become, and now I have to sit here and live with you, in this ugly house. And when I move out I’m going to still have to live with myself, with all this insecurity, with all this anger. And I’ll still have the memory of this house in my mind. coquinas, by Janet Kuypers 1 I can’t imagine the number of times I’ve been there visiting Florida, Christmas with my parents a plastic tree decorated with sand dollars and red ribbons eating Christmas dinner listening to Johnny Mathis and after the Irish coffee, father with his brandy snifter in hand mother and the other girls putting away the dishes the carolers would come, walking in front of our home singing “We wish you a merry Christmas” over and over again we would walk outside and the cool breeze almost felt like Christmas after the hot humid days and we would stand on our driveway smile and nod you could see down the road all the candles in paper bags lining the street and for a few lights the bag burned 2 and we would take boat rides off the coast my parents and their friends to a tiny island dad drinking beer sometimes steering the boat control the women sitting together in the shade worrying about their hair i would sit at the front sunglasses, swimsuit and sunburn feeling the wind slapping me in the face and turning my head away from the boat into the wind away from them to face it again docking at a shoreline everyone jumping out little bags in their hands the women go looking for shells the men go barbecue after an hour or two the sandwiches, potato chips eaten the soda and beer almost gone we turn around and head back we have conquered 3 and I remember the coquinas the little shells you could find them alive on the beaches north of the pier in Naples going to the beach I would look for a spot to find them they were all my own they burrowed their way into the sand to avoid the light worming their way away from me I unearthed a group of cocquinas once, fascinated with their color of their shells, the way they moved before they could hide I collected them in a jar, took them home with me what did you teach me what have you taught me to do is this it is this what it has become is this what has become of me of you of us and I took them home I added salt water and sand but I couldn’t feed them I realized soon that they would die so I let them double intender, by C Ra McGuirt some called him hero some called him ass-hole all i know is i called him the lawbook or the gun, by John Alan Douglas ol “Liberty Valance” would have cottoned to yuh newt, yuh sure do remind one of him yuh like muscle guns and prayer but there be no john waynes (“that steak is mine”) to kick in your cronies heads no woody strodes to back ‘im up woody died so recently a brave and good man ignored by the media and jimmy stewart’s pilgrim is long long gone into whimsicality and reruns of “It’s a Wonderful Life” and the master John Ford is dead so you and the spirit of ‘ol “Liberty Valance” now rule the Republican Land with guns muscle prayers - instead of law books. for the late Woody Strode

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.