Don’t Ask Why, by larry blazek

Don’t ask why
ask who what
their habits
where they live
how if they want it
done any special way -
if you look at the photo
and as
why do you want to hit
such a cute babe kid guy
you’re dead
don’t ask why

useful phrases in foreign languages

FRENCH
Je suis terrorement du tout les produits du lait.
I’m frightened of all dairy products.
Pourquoi no fittez-vous pas votre outfittes, Monsieur Poseur du Vanitie?
Why do you ware small children’s clothing, Mr. Frontman?
DUTCH
We koed noot zee U bijk bezween onze bus and het kanaal.
We couldn’t see your bicycle between our bus and the canal.
GERMAN
Deiner Film mit den explitzit insectenschadenfreude sehr interessant war.
Your film depicting insect surgery was very interesting.
ITALIAN
Reppulsc?tto.
I smell bad.
Perch? sonno nos pontante e crianne?
Why are they pointing at us and weeping?

memorial day, by charles ardinger

Not immune to graveyard magic: stand for instance
Where my friend’s boy, dead the day he was born, is buried.
Under a faultless blue sky and a breeze like a phantom lullaby stroking
Yesterday’s flags as softly as fingers in an infant’s hair:
Things
Change
For instance and may be forgotten as a storefront where
The shadows glowed once, throbbed with passionate voices
And then reverted to simple darkness and the silence
Of a crowd of shrugging standers by, myself included: Strange
Things
Don’t last for instants: gone in a day like my friend’s boy,
Disappeared like a cloud in a rainbow, moving north and east
Like friends I’ll miss: yes, I remember, not immune
To a future that looks like a wall of ice on a day in June.

how do you want to die?, by david cooper

I’d like to die quickly, say, in a plane crash. But if
they’re going to get me, they’re going to get me,
even in church. Remember the time we were attending
Mass in Hyannis Port and the whole pew behind us
was filled with reporters? I turned and asked them,
“did you ever stop to think that if anyone took
a shot at me, they might get one of you guys first?”
Now, Jackie loves that bubbletop because it keeps
her hair from getting windblown. But there’s no way
around it. They put me in a bubbletop and I can’t
get to the people. I want them to feel I am
the President of The United States, their
President of The United States. I belong to them
- they don’t belong to me. You can’t stop a guy,
can you? If someone tried with a high-power rifle
and a telescopic sight during a downtown parade,
there would be so much noise and confetti that
nobody would even be able to point and say,
“it came from that window”. If this is the way
life is, if this is the way it’s going to end,
this is the way it’s going to end. God,
I hat to go to Texas. I hate to go,
I just hate like hell to go. I have
a terrible felling about going. I wish
this was a week from today, wish
we had this over with. We’re going
into real nut country.
ATTRIBUTION: A composite of President John F. Kennedy’s private remarks to Florida Senator George Smathers, Peace Corps Deputy Director Bill Haddad and White House aid Ken O’Donnell as quoted in Ralph G. Martin’s A Hero For Our Time (NY: Macmillan, 1983) pp. 539-540.

changing the locks, by Janet Kuypers

and the children
got older, borrowed the car
or got picked up by friends
to go out
and when one was leaving
mom would joke around
and say
she was going to change
the locks
or mom and dad were going
to move away
and leave no
forwarding address
they never did that, though
they were always there

in the courtyard, by manuela barbuiani

Old Teresa sits in the middle of the courtyard waiting to die. Her head falls out of her hand now and then and her mouth emits strange painful sounds. The court yard is silent except for the fountain in its center, the fountain which Teresa’s husband built by crossing two boards together which swirl like a ceiling fan and wet all around. In a corner of the yard is a young girl with her back turned to Teresa. She sits at a cherry wood desk, writing intensely. It is to her that Old Teresa has confessed that she is awaiting to die, today, in the afternoon heat. Once in a while, the girl turns to look at Old Teresa who sits in her green velvet armchair in the middle of the courtyard. She sees Teresa’s hand slipping away from her head incessantly and her large body slowly approaching the ground.
A man with dark wrinkled skin enters the yard carrying a brown paper bag. His name is Pepino. His body is unbalanced by his bulging pants pockets which cause him to be wider than he is long. He walks unevenly to where Old Teresa is sitting and sets the bag at her feet. He taps her shoulder. Old Teresa opens her right eye slowly then her left. She first looks over to where the girl is writing then to the short man bending in front of her.
“Here they are, can I go now?” he asks. His face has become sprinkled by the water of the fountain next to him.
“I’m waiting to die today,” Old Teresa says.
“Can I go now?” the man repeats, then leaves without awaiting an answer.
The girl has turned her attention to Old Teresa who is struggling with the brown paper bag. Finally, she retrieves a large pair of worn out army boots. She smiles.
“Come here,” she says to the girl.
The girl quickly moves near Old Teresa.
The old woman’s movements have become fast and excited. She puts the boots on and lets the braided string fall to the side. The girl follows her movements.
“I love them. Now I am ready for war,” Old Teresa says.
“War?” the girl asks.
“War with death,” Teresa answers.
The girl returns to her desk.
“It sure worked for my husband and my three boys. It was long ago, I know. But believe me every time they slipped into these boots, for sure, they died. “
“The same boots?” the girl asks with her back turned once again.
“Yes. They always brought me back the bodies and the boots. The least they could do for men who served their country, they used to say.”
Old Teresa waits for a response and looks in the direction of the desk. The girl continues writing. Her floral dress falls below her knees and her long black hair is lose on her back.
The afternoon sun has set behind the large wooden door. The courtyard is submerged in green golden light amongst the green fountain, the green chair and Teresa’s green dress .
Old Teresa has once more fallen asleep. She slowly slips off the chair and pulls herself back up again. Her loud snore echoes throughout the courtyard. Her thick legs spread apart in the glory of her oversized army boots.
When Old Teresa awakens, the courtyard around her is dark and she is cold from the fountain water which has switched direction and entirely wetted her small head of hair. The girl is still at the desk writing under the glare of a rusty oil lamp. Old Teresa has slept with her weight on her hip and mumbles under her breath while readjusting herself. The girl does not turn.
“Christ and all. I haven’t even died yet!” Old Teresa exclaims.
The old wrinkled man appears again from behind the wooden door.
“You missed supper, Teresa,” he says standing in front of her with his hands behind his back and his eyes focused on the wet pavement.
“Well, just bring it out here,” she says
“It’s cold now.”
“What difference does it make? It makes no difference,” she says.
Pepino leaves while mumbling under his breath and closes the door loudly behind him.
“You figure he could put all that money in the bank sometimes. All that money, he just carries it around in his pocket like it’s bird food,” Teresa says while looking around for her cane. “Do you realize that man has never once gone to the bank.” She bends forward and starts to wander her hand all around the pavement as though she were blind. “Nobody does he trust,” she places the cane in front of her and leans all her weight into it. “It’s all the money he’s ever made, just carries it in his pockets. Just in his pockets. Never washed those pants. God!” She raises her large body groaning like a wild animal. She stands on her three legs looking at the fountain and shaking her head. “Damn thing!” She leans into her cane and looks down at her boots.
“I love them,” she utters.
She begins to walk around the fountain with great effort. She circles it many times before the wrinkled man appears again. He carries a large tray which he sets on the ground. He leaves again and comes back with a small table. He sets the table in front of the green velvet chair and places the tray on top of it.
“i’m going to bed,” Old Teresa says.
“What?” the man cries.
“I’m going to bed, I said. Bring my cot out here. I want to sleep outside tonight.”
The man turns mumbling heavily under his breath and shaking his head violently from side to side.
Old Teresa walks over to the table and looks at the food, “Oh well,” she says.
Pepino comes back with a folded cot. He wheels it loudly into the yard, speaking over the sound of the wheels. “You wore me out today Teresa. First those damn boots than this. All of it I do it. I just get paid to clean the courtyard”.
“You crazy old man!” she says walking over to her chair.
Pepino turns and shuts the heavy door behind him.
Teresa picks up a small slice of yellow cheese from the tray of food. She looks down at the small mound of rice with green peas in the center of the plate. Next to the plate is carafe of red wine, a small glass and a peeled apple. Old Teresa pours wine in the glass and drinks quickly.
“Well, I guess i’m not going to die today, “ she says speaking in the girl’s direction.
Such a strange girL she thinks. Two weeks ago she appeared at the door of the courtyard with a pen and a book and asked to come in and write. “I just need a place to write for a while,” she said. It was a strange thing to ask but Teresa was not able to drive the girl away, so she asked Pepino to find a nice desk for the girl and a chair and a lamp. Since that day, she has sat at the desk writing endlessly. The girl told Teresa that to show her gratitude, she would write Teresa’s life. She would sit there for as long as Teresa wished. Teresa would let her know when to end. Teresa was flattered instantly.
She throws her body heavily on the cot causing the mattress to touch the ground. She looks at the dark sky above her then moves to her side.
“For sure, tomorrow, i’m going to die, “ she mumbles one last time under her breath.

Teresa awakens under a burning sun and Pepino shaking her violently. She sits on the cot and brushes her gray stringy hair away from her face.
“Is it time for breakfast?” she asks Pepino.
“Breakfast? You foolish old woman. It is two in the afternoon.”
Teresa remembers when there was a time she did not awake before afternoon. When her husband kept her in bed past lunch time. She was a young girl then with eternity facing her. Everyday her husband would say to her: “Don’t go yet Teresa. What in the world is waiting for you but me right here?” So she would return to his body, inside his inescapable embrace because she knew that he was right, there was nothing awaiting her aside from him. It saddened her sometimes. Since his death, she has never opened her eyes before afternoon.
Pepino is still standing, facing her.
“Lunch then. Bring me my lunch. i’m hungry.”
Pepino walks through the courtyard and exits through the large wooden door.
Old Teresa looks to the far angle of the courtyard where the girl still sits writing at the table. Old Teresa rises and moves to the girl. She walks slowly on top of the pebble stones with her heavy black army boots still on her feet. When she reaches the girl she leans over her shoulder. She steps back in surprise and lifts the girl to her feet.
“But it is blank! How can it be!” Old Teresa screams while shaking the girl like a rag doll. The girl remains expressionless. She looks back at the table, glares at the book unable to stay away from its presence, needing to return to it.
“Speak, you silly girl, speak.”
“It is not blank, Teresa. It’s full of words.”
“Are you crazy? What words? I don’t see any words,” Old Teresa screams in the girl’s ear raising the book to her face.
“You just have to look closer, you’ll see. The words are there,” the girl says.
“Ah! Ah!” Old Teresa screams letting go of the girl and of the book. “You sit there all day long and write and write but it is blank! I better forget it all or i’ll go mad.”
Old Teresa returns to her chair and awaits her food. She does not know when this death of hers will finally come but it is making her angry. She pulls her dress higher above her knees and pats her belly gently with her hands. She massages her large breast inside their eternal brassier. It occurs to her that perhaps she has not yet died because there is something which has been left undone. She thinks that perhaps God will not let her go until she has made love one last time. She knows that her body will not be a pleasure to touch or that her skin will not be so wonderful to smell but after all it won’t be so bad, someone won’t mind it so much. Yes, indeed, she would make love one last time and then die.
Pepino waLks through the door with his pockets still full of money and the tray of food in his hands. It occurs to Old Teresa that Pepino is not so sweet- smelling himself and that his body is as scaly and old as hers.
“Pepino will you make love to me?”
The tray of food falls from Pepino’s hands and resonates loudly throughout the courtyard. He does not look at Old Teresa and instead begins to run toward the door.
“Pepino!” Old Teresa orders.
Pepino slowly turns around and walks towards her with his head bent to the ground.
“It’ll clean up the food,” he says.
“No need, i’ll be dead soon.”
“i’m going to leave now,” he hesitates towards the door again.
“Come here, Pepino. You need to fold my cot.”
Pepino moves to the cot and bends to release the springs. Old Teresa watches his buttocks as he bends further. Not so bad, she thinks.
“Leave it there now,” she says.
“Listen Teresa, this is too much for me,” Pepino’s face is lost in desperation
“How long has it been for you?” Old Teresa asks signaling for him to come closer.
“Since my woman died. But that’s not the point.”
“Don’t you want to? It won’t be so bad. You may like it. My old man sure did!” she says slapping her knees. “Listen i’m going to go upstairs. i’m going to wash up for you and make myself look nice. You11 see, i’ll surprise you,” Old Teresa says passing her hand through her hair.
Pepino raises his eyes from the pavement and looks at her face. Teresa’s smile has become soft. Her eyes are sparkling like a young girl’s.
“Give me ten minutes then come up,” she says rising from her chair. She moves to him and touches his hair. “Maybe you can clean yourself up a bit in the fountain.n She bounces quickly across the yard carrying her weight behind her while her large rear end moves to some unknown rhythm. She can be heard breathing restlessly as she disappears up the stairs. One last time, she looks down at Pepino. He has removed his pants and is lying motionless in the fountain with his hand plugging his nose and bubbles coming through his mouth.

The bedroom is dark at this time of day. The sky is filled with wind and Old Teresa can smell the rain approaching. She sits naked on the bed. Her hair is wet and combed close to her scalp; her skin smells like moss. Her breasts fall like two wrinkled fruits to her thighs. Her hands rest behind her back awaiting to feel a man one last time.
It is not long before Pepino walks through the door. He stands half in the shadow, half in the light. Teresa unexpectedly feels the need to cover her body somehow. She moves her hands to her knees but realizes that she will never be able to cover it all.
Pepino closes the door behind him and walks to Teresa. He removes his shirt, his pants filled with money and his shorts. He stands straight in front of her, allowing her to look at him, to see him, to still change her mind. He is a thin man with dark, cracked skin from head to toe.
Old Teresa can almost see his heart through the translucence of his skin.
Pepino walks closer to Teresa, falls to his knees, and places his head on her naked thighs. Teresa touches his hair, it is softer than she had expected, much like her own. She lifts his face and looks into his eyes and realizes that he is no longer Pepino but only a man.
In the cave-like room, waiting for the rain to arrive, Pepino and Teresa move their bodies close to one another on the bed. Pepino restlessly kisses her cheeks, her head, her chin, but never her lips because in her lips he would taste her age. He is moving fast, almost frantically on top of her. Teresa lies still with her eyes shut. Pepino touches her skin as though he were kneading dough, his hands wander all around. Pepino’s body soon becomes hard and it isn’t long before Teresa opens her eyes wide and screams and sees the cat on the window sill. The cat appears to be fascinated with the way Pepino moves up and down, raising his body so high above Teresa, almost touching the low ceiling, and then throwing himself back down crushing her skin on all sides. The cat sits shameless watching the two bodies rub one another like two giant pieces of leather.
It is not long before Pepino’s body falls one last time and rolls off the side of the bed, falling flat on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Old Teresa, realizing that Pepino has made quite an extreme move, looks quickly on to the floor. “Pepino,” she utters while wrapping the sheet around her. She leaves the bed and moves to his side. “Pepino, what are you doing now?” Pepino’s eyes ignore her . Teresa puts her head to his chest then his stomach. “What are you doing Pepino?” she asks again. She taps him lightly then shakes him from side to side but he remains limp in her arms.
Teresa stands and wraps the white sheet closer around her. She opens and closes the door and begins to descend the stairs with her long train following her. Her face has become long, her eyes filled with rage, her fists tight on both sides of her body. She descends slowly realizing that death has once again betrayed her.
The girl is still at her desk with the lamp lit next to her moving hand. Her hair dances all around in the wind. Writing nothing again, Teresa thinks. Teresa places herself fully on her chair, sitting straight like a queen ready for war.
“i’m sorry,” the girl says without changing position.
“What the hell are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry for Pepino.”
“What do you know about that man?”
“I know what you know.”
“What are you writing for Christ’s sake?” Teresa yells across the courtyard to no one in particular.
The girl slowly turns to Teresa and covers her with her eyes. Teresa thinks that the girl appears older tonight, as though she is slowly aging just by sitting there and writing at her desk. Teresa wonders if she really is writing her life and how long it will take her. She rises from the chair and carries her body and her long white sheet to the desk. She bends over the girl’s shoulder.
“Incredible!” she shouts.
“What is it?” the girl asks.
“What is this ink you use?” Teresa asks taking the pen in her hand.
“What are you talking about?”
“It can’t be ink,” Teresa says shaking the pen up and down in front of her.
“You will break it that way,” the girl says taking the pen from Teresa’s hand.
“You must be a fool to think that you are writing something when it is always blank,” Teresa says making her way back to her chair.
“And you must be a fool not to see,” the girl shouts back writing on the last page.
“And you-” Teresa turns violently. But the girl is no longer at the desk. Teresa’s eyes circle the courtyard and return to the desk. The girl has vanished. She has not taken the book with her and has left without a sound. “That silly girl. That silly, silly girl,” she moans under her breath.
The wind has gained strength and Teresa knows the rain will arrive soon. She thinks of Pepino lying naked and cold on her floor with the cat still gazing his way. She raises her eyes and sees dark clouds moving closer to the courtyard. “You must have misunderstood me!” she yells to the sky.
She slowly makes her way back to her chair with the book in her hands. The pages follow the wind and flip between her fingers. She lowers her head and finds the thick black letters sinking deep within the fiber of the paper she carries. But her eyes are old and tired, and no longer have the youth to dance across a page.
The thunder shouts loudly above the courtyard, and Old Teresa knows that death is finally in the sky.

manuela barbuiani

first son, by daniel crocker

remember
father
sitting
w/ me
and older brother
said
drunk
all drunk
srunk w/ brother
drunk w/ friends
“hey,” he said,
“my dad
told me
on death bed,
i don’t love you,
i never loved you.”
my dad said
drunk
“i want you to know,
your daddy loves you,
god, your daddy loves you.”
Later
years,
sober
dad says,
“it’s dan i feel sorry for,
i had money before
been laid off ever since,
ain’t been able to buy him
what i bought richie,
but then again,richie is my first son,
& there is something special
about that,
i could never love anyone
like i love him...
my first son.

The Patriot, by john hayes

On Independence Day
and other times
as appropriate to the occasion
I fly the flag
from the deck
of my split level home
with wall-to-wall carpet
and the president’s
autographed portrait
and a washing machine.
I’m keen to support my president’s
wars and our ten basic rights
but it’s a shame
there are those
who misuse them.
I wave my flag
my president
and really think that
those who oppose
don’t deserve the same rights
as patriots who
like myself would never abuse,
let alone use
them.

cocktail hour, by Janet Kuypers

I remember when I was little
when dad would come home
from work, mom would always
have two gin martinis ready
for them. She’d put the glasses
in the freezer, with ice cubes
in them, an hour before he was
due home. That was their time
to sit together, talk about their
day.
Sometimes they’d joke, is it
cocktail hour yet?, and they’d
look at the time, 4:55, close
enough.
So little vermouth that some-
times they’d pour a capful of
vermouth in, swirl it around
in the glass with the ice cubes,
then pour the extra vermouth
out.
I never liked gin; the smell is
too strong. But I always think
of the end of the day when I
smell a martini.
And at restaurants, too, dad
would always order for them.
two dry martinis, on the rocks,
with a twist. You know, some
things just flow off your
tongue when you’ve heard them
said enough. two dry martinis,
on the rocks, with a twist.

hard contract, by john alan douglas

Some lives the gods grant
only one chance
at pure happiness
but with a hitch:
that during this brave
rainbow bubble of
existential bliss
each occupant is
tragically unawareof all of this.
So when the magic
is burst beyond a kiss,
each man each woman
shall look back look back
upon a golden age
unrecoverable as mist.

picking time, by caren m. lissner

In fifth grade, I learned a lot about math, spelling, and ostracism.
Mr. Romani taught me about math. Mrs. Simmons taught me about spelling.
My classmates taught me about ostracism.
Throughout grade school, I tried to remain inconspicuous, the reason being that my shyness, studiousness and short stature opened me up to all sorts of teasing - although any one of the three traits would have been enough. It seemed like the more my classmates saw of me, the more they could find to pick on. I got by with a few friends and a burning desire to grow up and break loose from the miserable prison of pre-adolescence.
But there were several times when the spotlight shined on those of us who were trying to duck the wrath of our tormentors. Our status was exposed whenever the gym teacher lined us up against the wall and commanded two of our more popular peers to “pick teams” in order of who was the most skilled (or, more commonly, who their friends were). A few of us were, as happens in most elementary schools, always chosen last. But there were even more reasons for concern outside of gym, because often in other classes, our teachers would make us to pick partners or groups with whom to work on various class projects. It always seemed to me that in elementary school there was entirely too much “picking” going on.
There is one incident that sticks out in my mind. It was Mrs. King’s class, fifth grade, and I spent the first six hours of the day cringing in dread of social studies, which was always the last subject just before school let out. I knew that we were set to begin a unit in Latin America that day, and that our teacher was going to tell us to pick groups with whom to do a report on a Latin American nation of our choice.
The thought gnawed at me all through science, while everyone else was concentrating on a nature film. I put my head on my desk and watched as a bear ran toward a group of wildebeest. He managed to attack one of them. The other wildebeests immediately bounded away to safety without looking back.
The film ended, and I pulled out a pack of gum that I’d brought on purpose because of social studies. In elementary school, candy was the greatest friend-magnet ever invented.
“Can I have some?” asked a girl named Jodi Mason, who wasn’t a good friend but was nice enough to me sometimes. I gave it to her quickly, knowing that she was my only hope. Having gum would increase my market value if Jodi Mason remembered about it during picking time.
“Does anyone have any questions about the film?” Mrs. King asked us, and as usual, nobody said anything. “Any comments?” I hoped that somebody would generate a huge discussion, and we wouldn’t have time for social studies. Carol Anderson raised her hand.
“Why didn’t all of the wildebeests stay and try to help their friend?” she asked.
Mrs. King said that it was probably in their nature to run, and then it was time for social studies.

Mrs. King walked to the front of the room. The butterflies in my stomach went into a frenzy.
I tried to will her to say that we didn’t have time to start groups today. I did a lot of willing in elementary school, and many times I prayed for ESP. One time I’d silently put a curse on the bicycle of the girl across the street from me after she’d gotten her friends to make faces at my little brother on the bus. She fell off the bike and twisted her ankle the next day. I got scared after that and decided I that I would limit my curses to minor cuts and abrasions.
But today, it appeared that my psychic powers were not with me.
“Okay,” Mrs. King said. “Alyssa will pass out lists of Latin-American countries for you to do your project on. I need everybody to get into groups of three or four people. We only have ten minutes left, so for today just decide on a country. We’ll do more tomorrow.”
At once the calls went out. Harriet Ballentine, Kimmy Shipman, and Beth Craig pushed their desks together, and motioned eagerly for Lisa Wallace to join them. Clusters formed like in a chemical reaction. I just didn’t have the courage to ask someone to join their group and risk the humiliation of being rejected. But if I didn’t think fast, I would have to endure the slightly more bearable humiliation of going up to Mrs. King and mumbling, “I’m not in a group.”
I looked around the room. Only one other girl wasn’t in a group: a shy, southern girl named Jennifer Pratt. Jennifer Pratt was the most common target of teasing in our class. Her main problem was that she was, to put it euphemistically, overdeveloped for her age. The second most common teasing victim in my class was a short, quiet student named Sylvia Gomez, who unfortunately was absent that day, making me feel even less secure. Within the ranks of the taunted, I was thankful for Jen and Sylvia, because they kept the attention off me, and kept me from being last-picked.
I did have some friends in my grade, but none of them had ended up in my class that year. Besides, they were a minority, and wouldn’t exactly stand up to the popular kids.
I thought for a second. There was still hope. I opted for my second favorite defense mechanism, after the ESP trick: the bathroom escape.
I asked Mrs. King to let me go, and she did. I walked down the white halls to the bathroom and entered the first stall, which was the only one with a lock that worked. My plan was simple: when I eventually returned to the classroom and had no where to go, it would be obvious to everyone that I had simply been in the bathroom during “picking” time, and Mrs. King would quickly put me into a group. No embarrassment, no sitting in the corner looking friendless and lost.
I crouched on the toilet for several minutes, straining to read the writing on the walls that revealed that Heather loved Mike forever and that Van Halen was #1. Then I stared at the ceiling and began to think. Why did Mrs. King leave the selection of a Latin American country up to us? Couldn’t she see that everyone would pick Mexico? No one had even heard of Ecuador and Paraguay.
After a while, I left the stall and trudged slowly down the empty hallway, testing how loudly I could squeak my shoes against the cold floor. It had begun to rain, and I stopped to watch the raindrops chase each other in zigzag patterns down the hallway’s large glass windows. I stood for a minute, watching them.
When I finally returned to the classroom, Mrs. King was in the corner talking to Dawn Forrest’s group. I unsuccessfully willed her to look at me. Everyone seemed busy, except Jennifer Pratt, the aforementioned puberty queen. Jen was doing her math homework so as not to be obvious. She looked up, and we sort of looked at each other, wondering if either of us would have the guts to ask the other to join her.
But we were both shy and insecure, and the bell rang. I ran to the closet, grabbed my blue raincoat and headed for the bus. I knew I would have to face social studies again the next day, but I tried to concentrate on other things.
When I got home, I helped my little brother with his kindergarten homework. My father was supposed to be the one to help, but he said he’d had a tough day. I wondered what was so tough about any day an adult could have. If you didn’t like the people you were with, you could leave. If you didn’t want to play a game, you didn’t have to.

The next day, social studies started an hour before school was to end. There was no way I could stay in the bathroom for a whole hour. I looked back at Jennifer and Sylvia, who were both alone, glancing around quickly and pulling out work to do. I decided that I would tell Mrs. King that all three of us needed to be put into groups. Probably, she would get up and direct the three of us to form our own group, which would be fine. In fact, it would be pretty good. I arose from my seat and slowly made my way around the clusters of desks toward the front of the room.

On the way up, I passed Jodi Mason’s group. She was with Allison Lord and Vicki Donahue. They weren’t the most popular girls in the class, but they were semi-popular. I had been in a group with them once before, and I had ended up doing most of the research, while the three of them worked on the cover.
Jodi looked up at me, and then smiled. “Hey, you’re not in a group?” she asked. I replied that I wasn’t. Jodi exchanged glances with her friends. “We only have three,” she said. “Remember last time you worked with us, and we got an A?”
All three of them smiled sweetly. I looked at Mrs. King, who was sitting at her desk concentrating intently on her gradebook.
“Come on; we’re doing Mexico,” Jodi said to me, motioning toward an empty spot.
“Yeah, come on,” Allison purred.
Vicki smiled and nodded.
“Okay,” I said, pushing a desk together with theirs. I sat down with them, and I looked back at Sylvia and Jen, and I felt a lot like a wildebeest.

caren m. lissner

delbert’s debut, by james v. burchill

It’s disaster time, something I had avoided for decades, a family reunion. My sister had insisted I be there for her grandson’s one-year birthday party. Since the whole family would be at her house, I as the oldest member of said family, had relented. So here I was in a house full of kids, babies, and people I didn’t remember ever seeing before.I figured I would stay awhile, say some hellos and beat it.
Being naturally shy I found a corner and dug in.
Sipping my drink I thought, God, times sure have changed.
“Uncle Jim, how are you?” Screamed a young lady.
“Jeff, look it’s Uncle Jim.”
Another stranger came over, shook my hand and asked.
“Uncle Jim, what are you doing now? It must be tough since Aunt Gert died?”
“Nothing,” I said. “ Yes, I sure miss aunt Gert. Excuse me, there’s someone I have to see.” Holy jeez,I thought. Who the hell were they, and who the hell is aunt Gert?
A thoroughly ugly young man came up and said, “ Hello Uncle Jim, I’m your nephew Charles. “
“Yes, yes Charley,” I said. “How are you? “
So this was Charley. I remember my mother saying, on learning of his pious ways, “why the hell can’t he be like the rest of us?”
Getting rid of this sanctimonious dude, I thought I would say my good-byes and scram.
“Uncle Jim, here’s the birthday boy,” cried another demented soul.
“Yes, yes fine boy, fine lad,” I said.
“Here, hold him,” said the strange person. “ I have to help mom in the kitchen.” Thrusting the baby in my arms she ran off.
“Well, partner,” I said. let’s sit down.”
Getting a look at the guest of honor. I thought, “He has the coldest eyes I ever saw on a human being. This baby looks like a vicious W.C. Fields.”
It grabbed my tie with a death grip, yanking with all its compact might. Leaning over, I whispered into the little fiends ear. “Let go, or I’ll break your nose.”
The baby let go, looked at me with those deadly eyes, and with his lip curled, he gurgled something in ancient Gaelic. Then he smiled and put his arms around me.
A man’s voice above me said, “ thanks Uncle Jim. I’ll take Delbert now.”
“Who the hell are you?” I snarled.
“I’m Jack,” he answered,”you know Marcie’s husband.”
I started to hand the baby over to this nerd, when little Delbert wrapped his body around me.
“You’ll get this kid over my dead body,” I said as I stood up and left whomever he was standing there.
“Oh, there you are,” said the woman who had given me Delbert, who was now nuzzling my ear.
Reluctantly, I handed the cold-eyed villain over.
“Well, I have to go, see you,” I said. As I reached the door, the woman holding Delbert said. “Uncle Jim, would you like to baby-sit Delbert?”
Looking into Delbert’s hard, ice-cold eyes, catching the perpetual sneer on his lips.
I said, “you bet I would.”

james v. burchill

50 YEARS AGO TODAY ANNE FRANK WROTE HER LAST DIARY ENTRY, by lyn lifshin

the sky heavy as lead
“we are quite as mice”,
she said after days
of waiting. Some
thing, sudden as
boys who stand up
in the back of a pick
up truck, not realizing
it is about to go
under a bridge
slashes light. The
footsteps for once
not imagined. Crumbs
of rye bread on the
table still. Some
where in a drawer,
daguerreotypes
of some Shoshanna’s
eyes before the
bayonets. Anne’s,
“the atmosphere is
sleepy”, still
wet on paper

another 2 a.m., by gary jurechka

another night
wraps around me
and I’m all there is
alone
watching reruns of
Taxi and Cheers and
The Mary Tyler Moore Show,
popping sleeping pills with Pepsi,
smoking cigarettes and
trying to decipher all this
but I only find I’m unsure
and I want to do something that matters
but nothing matters
Oh, numb this soul,
quell this burning swell of passion
so that I may sleep
and dream
dreams I won’t remember

especially at breakfast, by Janet Kuypers

mom was always cooking things, eating the
strangest things, especially at breakfast.
some mornings, felling especially groggy, i’d
walk down the stairs to find mom eating a
plate of cold pigs’ feet. only my mother.

like flu that just won’t go away, by c ra mcguirt

many of my friends
are either afraid
they might have AIDS,
or glad
they had the test
that proves
they probably
don’t.
apparently,
no one’s
told them yet:
the reports are back,
and we all tested positive
for DEATH

please go home, by c ra mcguirt

there is no tree
no buddha
& no contest
please go home

cometh, by c.c. russel

The trees are bare
of the curl of leaf,
provide no cover,
stand stark & slender.
And all the stretched-out
contours of the land
are pure white,
soft and snow-like,
leave route memories
where he travels.
Yet, still,
under the ice
pools are green,
and look away
when he tries
to skate on them.
How does a man
love a maiden
when she will not melt?

squid, by Janet Kuypers

once i was sitting in the living room,
i just got home from school, and i
said i need to go wash my hands. so i
walked upstairs, went over to the
kitchen sink. mom, sitting in the living
room, didn’t mention that the sink
was half-full of raw squid for her dinner.
I shriek. mom laughs.
“are their beady little eyes looking
up at you?” she asked.
the little devil. i’m upstairs, in the
kitchen, shrieking, and she’s laughing.
it is kind of funny, looking back.

bondage, by carl herr

I.
The empty promises they gave me
flickered like neon signs
in Times Square
where I waited for them in the art gallery
One woman played the guitar
the other sang
but their sweet music
was nowhere to be heard here
Late night: the gallery closed
and they still weren’t there
“Was it me?”, I wondered
or did they go off
on some kind of acid trip
The one I wanted to relate to
sat there at the last coffee house
with such a sense of apartness
Head down in her hands
Crying
Smothered by the poisoned fumes of cigarette smoke
I wanted to approach her
perhaps to comfort her
but she was far too melancholy and morose
and I felt like the mate of a black widow spider
approaching her on the web
afraid of imminent death
I retreated
As I fell out into the open air
flickering embers of the Great White Way
lay scattered
Stores shuttered down on 42nd Street
waiting for some kind of rebirth
only a few porno shops remained
I passed by the strip show I had visited
years ago
on the day
I first went on medication
I remembered
scrambling up the staircase
past walls splattered with paint
I was immediately
mother like taken in
by a stripper
who took all my money
and then pointed the sign stating,
“No Refunds”
as the song chanted, “I’ve got the power”
enclosed in an isolation booth
watching her spread
the pink essence of her cunt
I realized
that walls have two sides
The strip show burned down a year later
and the remains
are covered with sheet metal barriers
I passed by
Entered an X-rated video store
and picked up a video simply entitled, “Pain”
It was made in Germany of course
and the translation of the captions
described a man getting tattooed
and promised the viewer plenty of blood
I’m no stranger to pain
for I’ve been seduced the Stellazine
fucked over by Haldo
l
only to be raped by Lithium
Pain
Its my fix
Pain
Its a way of like
for the three women I know
who are incest survivors
each one living a different lie
Suddenly I’m awakened walking down Forty-Deuce
by a conman
who promises me his women
Instant companionship
Fuck me; Fuck me; fuck me
then pay the price
The only one who chose to meet me at the art gallery
was a friend of mine
She’s a dominatrix
and she came in her tight pants and cheap blonde hair
She’s quitting the business, she says
Going to see a shrink
but I long for what she is leaving behind
Yeah man
I wanna be tied down
tied down like a mental patient
tied down like Sylvia Plath receiving insulin shock
tied down like a political prisoner of war
II.
Now I’m wandering around Main Street
as the night creeps in
I see the comforting Thorazine blue glow
of television
suffocating the dwindling lives of the elderly
trapped in their apartments
The homeless man with the matted dreadlocks
heads for the supermarket with his collection of cans
and the elderly Hasidic Jew
who prowls ominously in front of the 7-11 all day
goes home to his world of redemption and ritual
The bus spills over with humanity
fat black women with seething thighs
Korean women with faces
shriveled like rotten apples
betraying the toll of time
and old Jewish women
who paint their faces like whores
wearing dead animals on their backs
dragging their husbands who hack and spit
their last breaths
School buses
have gone home
letting off hordes of Catholic school girls
who hike up their skirts
revealing pale white flesh
Somewhere my friend who is retarded
comes home form the day treatment center
provoking disgust among fellow travelers
who avoid the hands clutching at
handrails with that tell-tale shake
Melaril does that to a person
I come home in time for my obese flatulent roommate
to come shuffling into the house
wolfing down McDonald’s and Cheers
and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue
The couple next door
scream hat words
and their poodle yips in anxiety
I open the window
and the faces of children
appear at the window across the courtyard
trying to peer into my window
My room stifles
like an isolation room in a psychiatric ward
I have few respites
from this life
for I grew up schizophrenic in a schizophrenic town
The elementary school I attended
was abandoned and is disintegrating
along with all hope I ever placed in the town
I only found peace in the library
watching the sun set over the bay
and listening to electric church bells
cry over the lost virginity of Catholic school girls
I watched the train pull away from the town
to a place without oppression
Once my mother took me on the train
to visit my piano teacher
Dave Brubeck was playing “Maria” from West Side Story
Big wet snowflakes fell
I sat on his waterbed
and stared at his antiques and foreign trinkets
He gave me a pre-Columbian bird of jade
worth hundreds of dollars
I later found out he had given me part of his life
for six months later he died of AIDS
I vowed to find a niche in this world
and one day I took the train there
and saw if for myself
I know my parents were proud when I entered Vassar
but I left the home of the liberal fascists
and wandered around
the battered remains of the Lower East Side
At a hard-core matinee
in Loisaida
I came to see
God is My Co-Pilot
I stood watching
transfixed
in the basement
covered with graffitied cryptic symbols
Others in front moshed
moving like free radicals
No one stared at me
though I’m far from punk
and for an instant
I was part of their community
and I’ve been hospitalized a couple of times
since my days of wandering
but it didn’t do shit
and I’m back in college
didn’t do shit either
Someday they’ll be a high school reunion
What the fuck will I tell them then
when they ask me where I am today
Will I be the poster child for Psychiatric medication
the avant-garde artist
the freak
or just somebody people want to avoid
My true being is neither here nor there and
someday I’ll learn
the people I thought were following me
were following their own illusions
and the people I felt hated me
were experiencing isolation and confusion
for only when you’ve been dead inside all your life
and you’ve escaped this burden
can you experience true freedom
and life as it should be

all women lie out loud, by paul weinman

all women lie out loud and here’s how.
Weakness is my strength
I let women want to mother me.
Lead them into my lair showing need
showing my hunger for suckle
my baby eyes and sweet smiles
want that cuddling, hugging up tight.
And women will give that
and more with promises of care
with assurances of love and support.
But then, when I’ve led them
to suck me in, their real selves rise
raises up that spector of control.

low baller, by paul weinman

I ache to feel you again

sense your presence
its sexual seepings
I shiver with longing for your touch
both of your fingerprints trailing my skin
and mine doing the same to yours
I stiffen with heat of smell
that exudes
which enclouds
smothers sense of reasoning
your sexuality
our skin has to merge
with all its ins and outs
let’s get down

O How I Love Nice Pairs, by ian griffin

0
I just don’t know anything original
to write when I know the words
of the song on the radio.
The tuner’s worn bald like a tired tire
on my set.
Up between the windows I’m feeling pink
and I’m not quite sure if I could still
see what I saw two seconds ago.
And on the day her breath was clear to me,
my heart beat like a little lower down.
It smelled like scratch and sniff stickers.
1
Right now it sounds like someone’s
whispering at my window, but I’m on story
2 and there isn’t a ledge.
Perhaps it’s the xylophone getting me
again: it’s loosening a tooth,
a fat yellow molar.
I can almost pry it out with my tongue.
I can taste the blood that’s sneaking
out from under it: root blood.
I’ll make it into a meal.
Haven’t had the chance to eat all day.

waving goodbye, by geoff stevens

Left me
the sea,
draining my flesh,
leeches in rivulets,
letting
gelation
set in.
Beached
like a whale
I let waders
walk over me
peck their way,
on pink legs
racing
down runnels,
water rushing
past them
to the salt sedge
of estuary.
Slit down the vein
I am breached
on the edge
of like;
in the spume,
the Boss Man
cleans his knife.

old man osbourne, by victor salinas

His eye
glows
like Slivers of Sunshine,
thru a door
as he watches the
sidewalk & children
from behind the curtains
the old lady’s been gone
for about six months
so he lights up a Pall Mall
with no hesitation
is it
memory calling
or a visual punm
to Pedestrians
But there he stands
motionless
and afternoon releases
its anguish
w/ a bit of sound and mist
lightly
Jake moves his head
and the mosquitoes waive their fists
because of the dust
and his eyes get a better view
of who’s walking by
Outside
Jakes Bible
worn and sticky
next to a photograph
in color
of Iwijima
lies like a corpse
not yet
dried completely
from behind the curtains
he looks at a great American Tale
great American tragedy
only to sink away again
to cereal, and his Bible
and planets among the sounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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