watching people play, by Janet Kuypers
mom and dad's home in florida is right across
the street from a pool and a pair of tennis courts.
in the mornings, if mom was already out of
the house when i woke up, i'd get dressed,
maybe a swimsuit, maybe shorts and a t-
shirt, and walk outside, down the driveway,
across the street, through the fence and past
the pool to the rows of brown bleachers that
faced the courts. dad might be playing, or
maybe there's a tournament with our neighbors
and friends. and i'd sit next to mom, both of
us with our feet up on the fence around the
tennis courts, just sitting in the sun. that's
how we spent our mornings, watching people play.
wouldn't have to, by Janet Kuypers
whenever i hurt myself
playing when i was little,
roller skating or bicycling
in the driveway, mom would
usually do one of two things:
she'd either try to make me
laugh by asking, "did you
crack the cememt?", or
say she'd cry for me, or get
mad for me, and then she'd
pout, so I wouldn't have to
"VISITING TENNESSEE", by mark blickley
"VISITING TENNESSEE"
Just before noon on Monday, Paul Dankin kicked off his comforter and stretched his six foot three body over his six foot cot, yawning. He instinctively clicked on the tiny clock radio.
Thick fingers clumsily spun the selector dial. It angered Paul that no matter how hard he tried he could not gracefully blend one program into another. His spin of the dial ripped into many stations, creating a garbled static that he hated.
After many seconds of fighting with the dial a clear voice spoke to Paul. He withdrew his hand and placed it under his pillow, smiling. The smile turned to a frown when the staccato bursts of a typewriter indicated that it was one of those twenty-four hour news programs and not a talk show. Paul pulled his hand from under the pillow and was about to attempt another station change, but thought better of it and instead placed his hand on his stomach, kneading a loose roll of flesh.
The newsman finished the last sentence of a story concerning laboratory animals and was recapping the headlines while Paul's fingers crept down his stomach, playfully slapping at his penis.
"Meanwhile, here in New York, the body of Pulitzer Prize winning playwright Tennessee Williams is attracting hundreds of friends and admirers. Williams, noted for his plays "The Glass Menagerie" and "A Streetcar Named Desire," died here late Thursday night of asphyxiation. An autopsy revealed that the playwright had a swallowed a bottle cap. Williams' body will be at Campbell Funeral Home at 81st and Madison Avenue until Tuesday. Hours are ten a.m. till eight p.m. Internment is scheduled for Saturday in St. Louis."
"Yeah, that was a great movie," said Paul Dankin as he cracked his knuckles. "Brando was great." He clicked off the radio. "Tennessee Williams. I just seen that name somewhere."
Paul lay in bed trying to remember where he had seen the name. His hand automatically returned to his penis. The playful slaps soon gave way to a more determined motion. Aroused, his erection pointed him towards a plastic milk crate full of magazines. Dropping the Newsweek and People magazines back into the crate, he returned to the cot with an issue of Puritan. It was not a current issue but it was his favorite porno magazine.
Thumbing through colorful closeups of male and female genitalia spitting at and swallowing each other, Paul emptied himself.
"That's how you spell relief," he grinned, "P-U-R-I-T-A-N. No wonder those pilgrims gave thanks." His laughter ricocheted off the walls of his efficiency apartment; the echo made him nervous.
He flipped through the magazine a second time. Its images bored him. Halfway through the issue a full page photo of a bearded, round-faced man in a large hat smile up at him. Paul stuck his finger on the page to save his place. The article accompanying the picture was an interview with Tennessee Williams.
"Tennessee Williams! Christ, I knew I seen you somewhere. You're alright, Tennessee. No . . . no you're not. You're dead. Choked. Brando'll probably cry. I wonder if he remembers me?"
Paul threw down the magazine, walked over to the door and slowly opened it. He darted his head into the hallway and lunged for the day old Sunday News lying on his neighbors welcome mat. He quickly bolted the door.
Paul opened to the obituaries. His forefinger turned black as it slid down a column of names under Death Notices.
"Watson, Wilhelm, William,B., Williams, M., Williams, T. That's it! 1076 Madison. Till eight. Great!"
Paul stepped into the shower. As he lathered up the shampoo his thoughts turned to his finances. He knew that Tuesday was the first and that his check would be in the mail,but the only cash he had was in coins. He needed a dollar-fifty for a round trip bus ride.
Wrapped in a towel, Paul grabbed at the coat flung over a kitchen chair and shook it over the cot. The clinking of coins on the sheet made Paul smile. There was a good deal more than a dollar fifty splattered across the cot.
The smile still felt strange. In the six years since Pooh Bear Lennox down the hall knocked out three of Paul's teeth, Paul seldom smiled.
Pooh Bear Lennox, who was half Paul's size, claimed that Paul rubbed up against his girlfriend in the elevator. Onlookers were surprised at the beating he gave Paul in the hallway, but Paul's size was a disadvantage. Nobody ever challenged him so he did not know how to defend himself, whereas little Pooh Bear Lennox learned early how to destroy an opponent and nothing pleased him more than to tear into a big man like Paul Dankin.
The neighborhood was amazed at how frightened Paul behaved on the streets, even though he towered over just about everyone around him. Paul reasoned that if little men could beat him up anyone could, including women. In fact, women did. His mother slapped at him from infancy to puberty as did the woman he called Aunt Amy, his mother's lover.
Paul rolled his tongue across the space in his mouth, licking his gums. His face twitched nervously as he stood in front of the closet, rummaging through his clothes, trying to pick his most impressive jacket and tie. Pants were no problem. All he owned were blue jeans.
Paul's eyes lit up as he pulled out a slightly wrinkled, slightly stained gray sports jacket. Beneath its left breast pocket was a frayed yellow patch that stated WTC SECURITY. Embroidered under the letters WTC and above the word SECURITY were the Twin Towers. Paul took a thick red striped tie out of his underwear drawer and dressed.
After parting his hair in the middle and plastering each side of his receding hairline with tonic, Paul brushed his teeth. This was a painful process. Stained a bright yellow by years of neglect, each morning Paul spent ten minutes rubbing his teeth as hard as he could with a brush overflowing with toothpaste. His tooth enamel disappeared years ago but the yellow remained.
Without enamel protection the slightest pressure on his teeth - by his tongue, liquids, or the air - filled his face with pain. These painful facial contortions gave him the look of an idiot, and coupled with his great size, a threatening idiot. He was unaware that he frightened people as much as they frightened him.
Paul grabbed his raincoat, triple locked his door and dropped the newspaper back onto his neighbor's welcome mat. Outside the housing project sat Martha Poseagle from 12 K, clutching an umbrella. She was leaning against a metal sculpture that looked like a frozen game of pick-up sticks.
"Where you goin' Paul?" she asked as he walked past.
Paul stopped and fingered the WTC emblem. "Hey, Martha. A good friend of mine died and I have to see him laid out. Name's Williams."
"William who?" asked Martha Poseagle. "I didn't know you had a friend."
Paul continued walking.
"How'd he die? Somebody kill him?" Martha yelled.
"Choked," Paul called. "Choked to death."
"Goddamn neighborhood," muttered Martha Poseagle. She leaned back on the work of art and patiently waited for another visitor.
***
Before entering Campbell Funeral Home, Paul Dankin groomed himself by looking at his reflection in the glass door. He squinted at a young woman sitting at a desk next to the elevator. She's beautiful, thought Paul as he turned the large doorknob and walked inside.
The woman's head was bowed over a stack of papers; she heard his footsteps. "Good afternoon. Who do you wish to visit?"
"A, um, Williams. Tennessee Williams. From the movies, you know, with Brando."
The woman looked up. She studied Paul's face. "Just a second, sir."
"Yeah, sure."
She disappeared into an office behind her desk. When she returned a man was with her. The man looked at Paul, nodded to the woman, and went back into his office.
"Second floor, sir," she said.
The female elevator operator asked Paul for a name.
"Williams. Tennessee Williams, please. I told the other girl that." His face started to twitch. When the elevator doors snapped shut behind him he hear the operator laughing.
"They sure got some great looking girls working here," Paul said to an elderly man standing in the second floor lobby. "Seen him yet?"
The old man nodded.
"Look okay? Jeez, what a way to go. Think it was suicide?"
The old man shook his head and shuffled over to the elevator. Paul started to walk into the room but pivoted and signed his name with capitals in the guest book. He leafed through the book trying to find celebrity signatures. He was glad Marlon Brando's was not scribbled in it. He had not missed him. Paul wondered if Brando would remember him.
Stepping inside the room felt good. The thick red carpet soothed Paul's feet, relaxing him. The room was huge.
There were many couches and chairs of soft crushed velvet and Paul was determined to sit in them all. The coffin was mounted at the far left of the room. Paul decided to explore that part of the room last.
In the middle of the room was a percolating coffee urn and styrofoam cups. Paul walked over to the coffee, intentionally scraping his toe into the carpet. It cut a line that pleased him. He thought of it as a trail that others would follow. A trail that would eventually lead people to Tennessee.
The annoyed usher standing guard at the wake asked him to lift his feet.
"Yeah, sure," answered Paul.
The coffee was good and hot. Warmth spread throughout his body. He sipped the coffee while surveying the room. Two dozen people were loitering, many of them were crying. Paul watched a fat middle-aged woman swiping at tears with an index finger wrapped in a handkerchief. She moved the finger across his cheeks with the same rhythmic motion as a windshield wiper, causing Paul to wish he had a driver's license and a girlfriend to take for a drive.
Imagining the wind sweeping through his girlfriend's hair as he gunned his convertible around narrow curves, Paul was unaware of hot coffee dribbling down his chin. His delayed reaction to the burning pain was a shriek as the cup dropped out of his hand, splattering coffee across his shoes, socks and the panty hose of a smartly dressed woman fixing her own cup .
The usher walked over to the coffee urn and apologized to the woman. Paul, afraid to look at the woman, mumbled. She squinted at him and walked away with a snarl.
"Please be more careful, sir, " said the usher. "We expect to have quite a few quests and we'd like to maintain the room just as it is."
"Yeah, sure," said Paul.
"And I'd appreciate it if you would continue to lift your feet when walking on our carpet. Please behave yourself, sir."
"Yeah, sure," said Paul.
The usher returned to his position at the far right of the room. He stood at attention with his hands solemnly cupped in front of him, watching Paul.
As soon as the usher turned his back Paul marched over to a couch. Paul lifted his feet up so high that it looked as if he were marching in place.
An attractive blonde sat on the far corner of the couch. She giggled and Paul felt warm again. He plopped down beside her; their knees brushed. The blonde's lips became a tight line as she looked straight ahead.
"Did you know Tennessee Williams?" Paul asked.
The woman ignored him.
"Excuse me, Miss. Did you know Tennessee?"
She turned towards Paul. "No. I admire his work."
"You're beautiful. Are you an actress?"
The blonde coughed.
"Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
"No . . . thanks."
"It's too bad he's dead but we all have to go sometime." "Yes. Me, too." And she was gone.
The couch became a frightening experience for Paul. It was so soft and formless that his body sank into the plush contours, swallowing him. He struggled to free himself but his stomach muscles were weak. He could not lean forward. Pushing against the back cushions for support only made him slip further down the spine of the couch until he could not move at all.
With his body trapped within the couch and no one nearby to help him escape, panic seized him and a high pitched whimper, like the whine of a punished dog, cleared his throat.
The usher hurried over to the couch. With his hands on his hips he glared down at Paul. Paul looked up and sighed; he was rescued.
***
At nine-thirty a.m. sharp, Paul Dankin was dressed and in the lobby awaiting the mail. Leaning against the mailboxes, Paul traced the WTC jacket emblem with his finger. Martha Poseagle, who was rumored to have a crush on the mailman, joined him.
"Good morning, Martha," said Paul.
"Did I miss him?" asked Martha.
"Miss who?"
"Furfante. You know, our mailman."
Paul shook his head.
"You're all spiffed up," said Martha. "Where you going?"
"You'll never believe this, Martha, but I'm meeting with Marlon Brando today."
"The movie star?"
"Yep."
"Good. I'm glad to see you getting out more."
"You look pretty spiffy yourself, Martha."
"How do I smell?"
Paul shrugged. "Okay.""You sure?" Paul nodded. "Yeah, sure." "I thought so. New perfume." They waited together in a nervous silence. When Furfante arrived Martha smiled, as did Paul when Furfante handed him a check.
***
After cashing his check and eating a leisurely breakfast in a Tenth Avenue diner, Paul returned to the Campbell Funeral Home. He walked past the woman sitting next to the elevator and pulling on a thread of his WTC emblem instructed the elevator operator to drop him off on the second floor. Before re-entering the room Paul thumbed through the guest book.
"Still no Brando," he said.
Paul felt comfortable. Everything was familiar, including the usher staring at him. Paul waved. Everything was familiar. Everything except Tennessee. He walked a diagonal line, pausing at the head of the coffin.
"He's as little as a doll," Paul said to a woman kneeling at the prayer stand. Paul studied Tennessee's fleshy face. It had a rich tan that Paul admired. His admiration turned to amusement when he spotted the uneven line between Tennessee's forehead and widow's peak where the makeup ended and his hair began. Paul felt that the makeup could have been stretched, pulled up a bit further to cover the gap. It reminded him of the many cold nights in his apartment when he tried to pull his comforter up over his head, but it was too short and would expose his feet to the cold.
"His feet must be cold but they're not exposed," he remarked to the kneeling woman.
Tennessee's mouth fascinated Paul. The dry lips had begun to part. A thin crack separated the bottom and upper lip. Although Paul leaned over the corpse to get a closer look, he could see no teeth behind the crack. The mouth was opening but Paul could only see a dark empty space. Staring down at the blackness inside Tennessee's mouth, Paul remembered that Tennessee had swallowed his death. He brought his hand up and traced a line across the dead man's lips.
"I got black spaces inside my mouth, too," he whispered.
Paul quickly withdrew his hand and spun around. No one had seen him touch Tennessee. He walked over to a couch, and taking the ashtray from an end table, placed it next to him on the couch while lighting a cigarette. A scolding from the usher prompted Paul to remove the ashtray and place it back on the table.
Paul took long, deep pulls on his cigarette, exhaling so much smoke it made him squint. He was squinting when he saw her enter the room.
continued in the next issue...
mark blickley
best friend, by gabriel athens
"I had a best friend once,"
I said matter-of-factly,
as I stared into the palm of my hand.
You laughed my remarks off a sarcasm.
So I waited for a silence
so that I would have the thrill
of breaking it.
"I had a best friend once-
and he raped me."
There. You wanted to hear it.
How can you break the silence
now? I've taken away your weapons.
Have I taken away your compassion, too?
Tell me what good this knowledge
does you now.
Reminding me doesn't help,
and there's nothing you can do
to make the pain go away.
As you sit there in silence,
I wonder if there must be someone
who can say what needs to be said to me.
A best friend, maybe.
But if only a best friend
can help me now
then I would prefer
not to be helped.
I don't ever want to find
a best friend again.
find myself, by alexandria rand
I had my own ring
but on days I'd forget to wear it.
You had your own vows
but your memry seemed to fail you.
You were foreign to me:
a frightening foreign,
an exciting foreign.
Do I know your name?
Do I care?
Let me just take off my ring,
I thought,
and put it behind
the frame on the dresser
where I cannot see it
tonight.
I was only resigned to the thought:
if I forgot myself with you,
if I was lost with you,
I would only remember again
and soon find myself.
you'll like them, by Janet Kuypers
mom was always cooking things, eating the
strangest things, and trying to convince us to
try them. just because she likes hot peppers
or pickled beets or pigs' feet or oysters
doesn't mean we do. so once mom cooked some
garbanzo beans, wanted me to try them. "you'll
like them, they're low in fat." no, thank you,
mom, i'm not hungry. "but they taste just like
peanuts." no, thanks, mom, i'm really not
hungry.
"they taste just like peanuts."
sandy and i start a conversation.
"just like peanuts," we hear her say again
from the kitchen. i start to laugh. she's still
in there, trying to convince me to eat these
things, and she just keeps repeating that they
taste just like peanuts, in that cute little
high-pitched squeak of hers. "just like peanuts."
"do they taste just like peanuts?" i asked.
they were soft and mushy. nothing like
peanuts. nothing at all.
miranda revised, by larry blazek
You have the right to amass taxable assets
you have the right to work yourself
into an expensive but early grave
you have the right to go into debt
if you become ill, anything you've earned
will be taken away from you
if you're not white
if you're content with less
then you don't deserve to be
an american
backbone family act, by gabriel athens
I
tried
you
actress
part
you
cared
damn
you
feelings
emotions
daughter
nothing
motions
think
family
flashbacks
kill
forget
told
long
cry
leave
closing
more
part
worry
filled
backbone
family
act
the explanation
so i figured i'd have to write out information
that our readers might want to know
in the form of a poem, since
they seldom look over the ads.
ha! i got you, you thought
you were reading a poem, when it's actually
the dreaded advertising. but wait -
you'll actually want to read this, i think.
Okay, it's this simple: send me published
or unpublished poetry, prose or art work
(do not send originals),
along with a SASE for response, to
Children, Churches and Daddies, Scars Publications,
3255 West Belden, Suite #3E, Chicago, Illinois
60647-2559. Then sit by your mailbox and wait.
Pretty soon you'll get your SASE back
with a note 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!
Now, if you're also interested, there are two
books available through scars publications:
one is called "hope chest in the attic" and
the other is called "the window."
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.
The Window is about 180 pages of her newest
stuff. It's hand-bound, paperback, and she'll
even sign it if you beg her enough. Man, it's groovy.
two dollars would cover the cost of printing and
shipping. oh, and four dollars would cover
back issues of cc+d or chapbooks. and make
those checks payable
to me, of course, janet kuypers. gifts are always
appreciated as well. just kidding.
and for you people out there with magazines, just
keep in mind that we here at cc+d are more than
happy to run ad pages for you, if you'll do the same
for us. seems pretty fair.
is that all? yeah, i think that's pretty much it.
now for the real poetry...
some people want to believe, Janet Kuypers
so we were sitting there at
denny's in some suburb of
detroit, i don't know which
suburb it was, but we were
there at like ten in the morning
eastern standard time, i was
grabbing a bite to eat before
i crossed the ambassador bridge
and travelled into canada. you
know, i really only associate
places like denny's with
travelling now, i always
stop at some place like denny's
only when taking a road trip
and just stopping for some
food. i think if i went into a
denny's and i wasn't travelling,
i'd get really confused. well,
anyway, like i said, we were at
denny's, and it was morning, so
the both of us got breakfast.
being a vegetarian, i ordered
eggs with hash browns and toast,
right? and the waitress says
to me, like they always do in
some no-name town in the middle
of america, "yuh don't want any
MEAT?", like it's so unheard of
to not eat meat at breakfast.
so i say, no, no meat, thank you,
and then my friend orders pretty
much the same thing, and we
sit for a while, and talk and
stuff, and then the food comes.
so then she asks me, "you're a
vegetarian, right?" and i say,
yes, and then she goes, "but
you're eating chicken."
and i'm just like, well, no, i'm
not, an egg is an animal by-product,
not animal flesh, and i was about
to say that that was the difference
between being a vegetarian and
being a vegan, and she says,
"but if a chicken sat on it long
enough, it would become
a chicken."
and i'm just like, well, no, it's
an unfertilized egg, there was
never a rooster around that hen,
so it could never become a chicken.
and she's like, well, it's a
chicken, though,
and she just couldn't think
that this wasn't a chicken. and
i'm just thinking, my god, does
she really think that a chicken can
lay eggs without them being
fertilized? like only worms and
stuff can procreate
without two sexes present. so
our voices start getting a little
louder, and then it ends up where
i'm saying "so are you having an
abortion every time you have a
menstrual cycle? are men who
have wet dreams mass murderers?"
and she's looking away and saying
"i'm not listening to you -"
and then i realized that some
people, with logic thrown in their
face, will still believe what
they want to believe.
making classes, by justus e. taylor
"They were identical twins, I mean so much alike that their mother probably couldn't remember which diaper she had just changed. Anyway, that's the way they looked to me. Naturally, I didn't know them all the way back to when they were babies, didn't meet Howard and Henry, those were their names, till I was in high school. The story, from some of their friends, was that they had always been as close as the lips on a dead man, till they got into high school. It seems that Howard asked a girl who was new at school to go out on a date, and she already had a boy friend, so she said no. But that evening she had a fight with the boy friend, so the next day when HenrY happened to ask her, not knowing there were two of them, she thought Howard was asking again, real persistent you know, so she said yes."
"Well, you know, Henry started going out on dates with this Blanche, that was her name, and when Howard found out about it he was crushed. Henry, not being too sure of himself with'; the girl, and she having already told him she liked his asking her out twice, in spite of her turning him down the first time, well he decided he had a chance to get a permanent leg-up on Howard and he took it. He had never liked his own nose, so he told Howard that the girl didn't go out with him (and he made like he was doing Howard a big favor when he said it) because she thought his nose was too big!"
"Howard, of course, said right away that the girl would think Henry's nose was too big too, since twin's noses had to be exactly the same. And that's when Henry put it to Howard that the funny thing was that their noses were not the same, but that he had never wanted to hurt Howard's feelings by telling him that, and neither had their parents. He added that he knew their parents would never confess that there was a difference in their son's noses, no matter how much anYbodY asked them."
"Well, I tell you Tony, for a couple of weeks Henry worried maybe he'd loused it up. But then he got overjoyed when he started seeing Howard linger in front of mirrors, car windows, store fronts, and he even seemed to be trying to see himself in other people's sun glasses. And right along with this he started to give way to Henry. He let Henry into the bathroom first every morning, where they had always taken turns! Henry started getting the biggest baked potato at dinner, and the least burnt toast at breakfast and if they walked down the street together, Howard walked on the inside, near the buildings, like a woman's place, you know. Are you getting in the back, around the heel? A lot of times they miss that."
"To make a long story short, Howard got a real complex about his nose, and never got over it. Story was that he talked to a lot of plastic surgeons about the possibility of having his nose fixed, so it would look like Henry"s. And when their father retired and turned over his builder's supply business to the two boys, Howard insisted that Henry be the company president, with a big salary of course, and he just asked Henry to let him manage one of the branch stores. Which is likely the way it still is. Henry has a real knockout of a wife, I mean a real joint lifter, while Howard got himself the plainest mousey-est looking skirt you've ever seen. On top of that she shoos him around like she was doing him a big favor to spread her wings every once in a while. Watch out for my socks now, don't get any polish on "em, or I'll have to forget about your tip. And don't make me late for work either!"
"Anyway the two boys were not like you and me. The difference between us is real, except maybe that we're both in our fifties. You see, I finished high school, and I bet, it's not your fault I know, but I bet you never finished high school, did you Tony?"
"No, Mr. Meckle, I stopped high school. My father said I was dumb. He found me a job doing deliveries for a day cleaner. It wasn't no bad job either, and my folks needed the money, because of so many kids. But I do OK. I think all of Wall Street comes in here for these shines. Tips pretty good you know Sir, ha ha, yes Sir. That's it, all done."
"Yeah, the shoes look alright now Tony. I think you found the thing you were best suited for, maybe the best shine on Wall Street. It's funny you know, now here I am a supervising margin clerk, and you're a bootblack. I could have been a bootblack, but you never could have been me, because of the way you kind of smell like shoe polish I mean, you understand, no offense but some people, people who were meant to take control of their lives, have a lot more options than some other.And it all comes from showing the other guy that you're made out of better stuff. Right Tony? Here's a dollar. Right? Just like now, you can't wait for your money. I get paid once a week and I can wait for it. But you, you you're willing to take whatever you can get the minute you finish a little job. You should think about that Tony, it's the reason why you're suited for just shining shoes, and why I have a lot more than you!"
"Yes sir, Mr. Meckle, if you didn't have more money than me, I couldn't make nothin' shining your shoes. That's right ain't it? Ha ha, yes Sir, thank you!
Tony's shines in the afternoon were somewhat absent minded, and several times his boss, owner of the shoe repair shop, stopped his work to cast threatening glances from Tony's head to his toes, but it didn't get Tony's attention at all. This was because Tony had made up his mind that he was going to get a bottle of Five Star muscatel, and he was going down by the Brooklyn Bridge that night and find Reeva. Ever since Mr. Meckle had left the stand that morning, he had felt down-hearted and he needed to be with her.
Around eight that night Tony was peering and poking through a dark and sometimes fire-lit forest of cardboard boxes, newspaper pallets, dirty shanties made from old coats that hung between shopping carts and a hurricane fence, while he stumbled, fumbled and called to Reeva, never getting an answer. Then he reached the point where the bridge structure intersected with the ground and he finally saw her dirty and snagged red down coat, wrapped around her and puffing out a few feathers each time she shifter her sitting position against a granite abutment.
"Yeah, Tony, is that you?" she called out slowly, with the thickness of a tongue that could have been pickled by wine. She had started on the wine ten years before, right after she had lost her only three children in a house fire. Tony got down on his hands and knees a few feet away from her and then crawled and planted his body next to hers against the abutment. Having been careful not to make a threatening approach, he next produced the bottle of muscatel, fearful that she might otherwise spew a string of curses at him for bothering her reverie-unless he had brought something to make it last longer! She grinned broadly when the bottle caught and then reflected the light of the several small fires that warmed the general area. She immediately seized it and put it to her lips without even realizing that the cap was still on until she had fought with it for a few moments.
Tony was grateful that the winter night was mild, supplying a minimum amount of cold to make heavy clothing comfortable, but also not even making his breath visible. He thought it would be smart to test Reeva's mood, just in case she was in a mad instead of a happy drunk. After all, she sometimes hurt his organ when she was mad about something. "How you doin' Lovey? he quizzed, while trying vainly to see into the depth of her eyes, which the darkness was protecting. "I'm OK," she mumbled back, easing the bottle to one side of her mouth to let the words out. "But I'd...be a lot better...if that hundred-and-fifty year old bitch...would stop hanging around here. Every time...I come here to sleep, she's here. I'd...like to kick her in her face, always lookin' at me! See her, over there...by those old tires? So goddamn old, ...you want to ...go over there and kick the shit out of her...for me?"
"Not now Reeva, leave her alone. She's maybe gonna die the next time it gets real cold. The old pissy-ass."
Tony had gotten a little concerned when Reeva first mentioned old Olga, thinking she might be in a mad drunk, but from the way she kept on swilling the wine he knew she was actually very pleased with the world at that moment. So with his own hand that was blackened at the cuticles and knuckles from a lifetime of applying shoe polish, he groped in Reeva's lap and found her free hand, which was covered in a deteriorated woolen army glove. He pulled the glove off and placed her hand inside his fly, where she automatically began manipulating him, without ever turning to face him or pausing in her swigs from the bottle of muscatel.
For a brief instant Tony was transported out of his world of wine, and shoes to be shined, and the filthy room that he secretly rented from the crippled woman on Welfare and the sores around his ankles that never healed, and the potato knishes that were his diet, and even the smell of Reeva. As soon as he recovered he became acutely aware of his diminishing bottle of muscatel and he snatched it from Reeva's hand in mid-swallow, making some spill down the front of her red down coat. Then, rising abruptly, he stepped just a foot away from her and urinated on the abutment at the spot where he had been sitting. After closing his pants, and without turning toward her, he threw out his good-bye words: "be seein' you, you dirty old whore. You drunk too much of my wine!"
From an approaching stupor, Reeva answered gloomily, "good-bye Tony...you're all right."
justus e. taylor
philosopher at the blue note, by Janet Kuypers
he seemed so interested in
philosophy, which seemed strange,
sitting at a bar at about one-thirty
in the morning, it didn't seem
the time or place for philosophy.
but i asked questions anyway,
so do you believe in a god, and
if so do you believe in a mono-
or polytheistic religion? and he
answered by saying that everyone
has a god, whether it be their
soul or an icon they pray to
every night before they go to bed.
and that it doesn't matter what
form the god takes for a person,
because the moral values are
similar in most every religion,
what matters is that we have a god
of one sort or another. that most
people don't pay attention to
their spirituality, who they are
or what they really want.
no, they don't, i thought, and was
amazed that this drunk man
was able to formulate cohesive
thoughts at two-thirty in the
morning. but then, of course, he
had to mention something about
sexuality, and then i realized
that it was all one long, drawn-
out come on, then he asked me
for my phone number and i gave
him a fake one, and then he tried
to kiss me, and i pushed him away
and he ended up running out
of the bar. so much for phil-
osophy, i thought, and i went home
once again, alone with my morals,
or values, or whatever the hell
you want to call them, wondering
if there is anyone out there like me.
finest feeling, by alexandria rand
Drench me
in the finest furs
surround me
in the rarest silks of the Orient.
Rest me in the clouds.
I don't care.
I still contend
that the finest feeling
is laying
with my head
on your shoulder
|
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@aol.com... 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
Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page.
|
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 book "Rinse and Repeat", which has all the 1999 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. 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.
Published since 1993
No racist, sexist or homophobic material is appreciated; we do accept work of almost any genre of poetry, prose or artwork, though we shy away from concrete poetry and rhyme for rhyme's sake. Do not send originals. Any work sent to Scars Publications on Macintosh disks, text format, will be given special attention over smail-mail submissions. There is no limit to how much you may submit at a time; previously published work accepted.
|
|
