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

Volume 60

Children, Churches and Daddies
the unreligious, nonfamily-oriented literary and art magazine

ISSN 1068-5154

psychiatric terms, by john alan douglas are generally abused by people too lonely too selfish too hateful too jealous too empty to lead giving loving lives with glad husband or proud wife so they find a happy couple almost any happy couple to infect with their disease of terminally ill jargon and the muck is raked on most generously until two, once warm and full of good cheer become plagued by the superfluous reek of overwrought analysis soon one of the two, the weakest unwittingly adopts this rancid tongue and thus the two are torn apart and so does end the heart this is how the lonely squalid many add to their mirthless crew and daily run the world through AN EVOCATION OF THINGS ELUSIVE, by raymond tod smith With fireworks flaming about our heads, I look over at her and she is an angel beneath bursting orange-tinted napalm, her child's eyes reflecting like two brown, murky mirrors the cinnamon-sparkling sky, the myriad of stars doubled, perhaps tripled, with the metallic-smelling explosions of far-flung charges. And I want to take her hand and tell her the million things on my mind, but she already knows these things, their whole recurring theme. I would like to kiss her once more now upon her ripe, open mouth - once more to taste her teeth with my tongue, to pull her both gently and urgently and feel her angelic breasts against my breathless chest, to feel her hot, holy breath upon my breathless face, upon my eyes wide open with wanting. But we are supposedly past such things. We have, she has, decided that we are better as friends, even though we have come very close to becoming lovers one again, which we have not been in many years. We were as split apart as the cascading charges above us for so long and I mourned her as if she had died and I mourn now for this love which must remain inside me, unrequited, my emotions left wide open, all of my cauterized wounds re-exposed. She has been the greatest gift in a life that otherwise seemed barren, the only thing that ever felt like home to me ... but home should never leave you. If is New Years Eve but I fell neither new nor reborn. I fell very old and the springtime I felt when she slowly reentered my existence has quickly spiraled to winter, with the snow of terrible nights to come already settling within my skin. She stands beside me, miles away, with her brown eyes more spectacle to me than this or any lighted, holiday sky. But I am a damaged item to her unreceptive eyes. All of those years ago when I lost her love, I lost her badly, handled it badly, bungled everything with the incalculable sorrow of a dry and shattered heart upon me. I betrayed the memory of what we were, what we had almost and could have been, by invoking demons from inside me that I never before knew even existed. I cursed her awfully, screamed her name, eructing hollow anathema's into her beautiful, crying face, destroying my conscience with intoxication. I was lost and alone, left without her, upon a world of constant aching and I have this rage to her like an unwrapped present, a gift of love soured by loss, by disaffection, masked in hatred and fear, which was my awful, on only, reaction. The final blast above brings forth applause and I am lost inside its sound, unangered, perhaps having finally learned compassion, something resembling understanding, and love strong enough to let go. I fell the intangible, yet huge, despondency settling down, desperately wishing to kiss her now and, by invoking the old wives tale of a new years kiss, for the year to come, dreading already the nights I will spend imagining her lips pressed to my lips, to my life; the ghost dram of her body, undressed and warm, beside me. As midnight shrieks across the unbalanced stage of my desirous desert, she leans and puts her resplendent lips to my cheek and lets her arms pull me a little closer, though only for a moment. And then the moment is gone, ends untouchabley and the new year begins, a year for rediscovering how it feels to lose what I have never truly possessed, if only because tears and blood and sobriety and new found strength cannot purchase what is too previous to even allow oneself to dream. I consider the empty sound of fireworks ending and how I know its sudden quiet will always haunt me through every exact layer of my loving mind. Never again will I look into an erupting sky without feeling her mouth pull away and leave me. Then, as if somehow repossessed by the amorous spirit we once shared, she pulls me toward her again, arms pure and strong as an unseen sun, and puts her mouth upon my mouth, her hands into my hands. I am easily replenished by the generous warmth of her warmth against me. She pulls an inch away and asks me, weary eyes almost seeming to trust me, to promise, to promise and mean it, to mean it more than anything. I promise her with all of my all and clutch the truth of this promise between us as if it were a tangible object, a ring that fits precisely, linking the fingers of our souls. Beyond any touch or work or kiss, I know I will not wrong her, that I would die before ever wronging her, this astonishing and honest woman who hangs the solid phantom of hope within me like a new and grander moon, again. Never again, I whisper as my heart wells upon its highwire. And she knows this. The sky is more splendid now as we walk together again into the wonderful, frightening world, as if heading toward the home, the true home, within everyone that never leaves us, our fingers linked together like those unseen, and ringed, within us. SHE SAID IT WAS FIVE MONTHS BEFORE I KNEW I WAS PREGNANT, by lyn lifshin I had no idea but I was gaining weight I didn't tell anyone but my boyfriend. He was at another school. I was not sure how to tell my parents. My mother's Japanese and I felt I had to get things together. We were going to get married but I needed time. It would be O.K. once I told them I knew they'd be happy but it had to be a certain way. One night, my eighth month I think I got off the phone. My stomach felt odd, I thought I had a flue, went into the bath room. Then it hurt more. I got on the floor. In 45 minutes the baby was born. I could not believe what was happening. Nature must have took over. I cut the cord. It was like someone watching a movie. I saw someone who looked like me running the water, taking a bath, washing the baby off and I went across the street, bought diapers. Then I saw a travel agency sign and I thought I'd go and take the baby to show my boyfriend. It was like a dream. The next thing, when I went to a pregnancy clinic, for help, for medical help, instead they just took my daughter, stole her hole in the heart, by gabriel athens night before sleep you I light my bed feels missing hole where is lay night alone you feel am complete nothing matters you hand your me sleep my bed hole through heart wish feel alone wish hole away lady and the tramp, for mary, by gary jurechka I am just one of the strays she takes in every now and then, like a hurt child, a wet kitten, or a hungry dog, she offers compassion and understanding and she feeds me and nurses me and makes me feel good for a while, basking in the warmth of her eyes and when I'm strong enough to leave, she opens the door and lets me out into the world until once more, alone and lost and dark, I'm scratching at her door, longing for her shelter, silent eyes pleading, take me in gasoline, by gabriel athens The stench of gasoline makes me ill as the song pounces through my brain "I want you to want me the way that I want you: and I'm tired of fighting I don't think I can fight anymore but I have to I can't let you do this these are my rights and you can't hurt me like this "Then maybe I'll just force you" you say I push you away I try to stop you and all I keep hearing is that damn song I can't escape it "I know that you need me just tell me you want me I want you" I'm too angry to cry and too frightened to scream I shove I move but nothing stops you "You are my sensation a perfect temptation" I wish that song would stop I wish everything would stop your touch scares me and your stare haunts me so I scratch and scream until the novelty is lost for you no I will not tell you I want you for I can't let you do this these are my rights and you just can't do this to me c ra mcguirt moon melting silver against october clouds somethings are more beautiful than death. c ra mcguirt when Noriyo smiles at me scross the ocean sea shrinks to puddle c ra mcguirt kites on late march wind bow to honor Noriyo green fire born again c ra mcguirt Tokyo woman Southern man, 9000 miles just a kiss away The Mayor of Rabbittown, by jerry walraven "The world used to be a magic place," my grandfather said to me one day. I shot him a strange look. I was ten or eleven and only saw my grandfather once or twice a year. He was a scary old man to me then. "Don't believe me, do you?" he said. I tried to stuff my hands further into my pockets but pockets are only so big. I remember wishing I had my old jacket. My old jacket had a hole in the pocket which opened into the lining. I could reach all the way through to the other pocket. It was a great place to hide stuff. Mom threw it out though. All the good stuff gets thrown out. It was autumn. I guess I should mention that. I think it was Thanksgiving but holidays with relatives all kind of blend together. At least they do with me. All I seem to remember is the hum of cars moving along I71 from Columbus to Cleveland. My parents could never agree on which radio station to listen to so the radio stayed off. Besides I always hated being dragged to places where I was the youngest. Nothing to do but sit around and whine. I was a good whiner. "Don't talk much, huh?" Grandfather said. I shook my head. We were walking the dog. The only reason I went was to get out of the house. A bunch of people sitting around smoking, drinking and playing cards make any place uninhabitable. My shoe was untied so I dropped to one knee to tie it. I noticed a big chestnut lying on the sidewalk by my shoe so I picked it up. I was going to put it in my pocket when my grandfather asked to see it. I handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands, rubbed it against his cheek and smelled it. "Nope," he said handing back the chestnut, "it's not one." "One what?" I asked. It was a strange way to treat a chestnut. He looked at me. "You want to know?" I nodded. He rubbed his hand across his chin. "I doubt you'd believe me," he said. "Sure I would," I said, though there was a good chance he would be right. I didn't believe half the stuff grown-ups had told me. Still, it was unusual for one to come right out and admit it. I decided I wanted to hear what he had to say. He didn't need much convincing. "O.K.," he said. "There was a time when every human being had magical powers. Nothing spectacular, mind you. No teleporting or going back and forth through time. You couldn't permanently change the way you looked or the way anyone else looked but there were neat things." "Could you fly?" I asked. "Well, not as such. But you could float. You'd just close your eyes, lean your head back and think about nothing. Then pretty soon you'd open your eyes and you'd be a hundred feet in the air." "Was it fun?" I asked. Now that he mentioned it it sounded kind of scary. He smiled at me. He reached over and I thought, for sure, he was going to ruffle my hair. I really hated it when people did that but he just placed his hand on my shoulder. "I may have given you the wrong impression," he said. "This was before my time. What I'm telling you about was a long, long time ago. I wish I could have been alive then but . . . Anyway, you could do things like that." I took a hand out of my pocket and wiped under my nose. I looked up into the sky and wondered what it would be like to hang in the air like a balloon. "How would they get down?" I asked. "Oh, they could just float back down or, if you really wanted to have fun, you could turn the ground into rubber and just fling yourself down and bounce." I laughed at that one. "Like a trampoline," I said. He nodded. "Just like that, only bigger." I put my hand back into my pocket and felt the chestnut. "What does that have to do with chestnuts?" He didn't answer and I wasn't brave enough to ask him again so we just walked for awhile. I wanted to know what other kinds of magic powers people had then. I wondered if they could turn invisible or walk through walls or if they could shrink down or get really big. Shrinking was my favorite. I always wanted to be really small. Like an ant but with the strength of a human. You'd be able to control your weight too. Sometimes you'd be so light you could fly on a leaf. Grandfather said, "That's the problem with being the Mayor of Rabbittown." I squinted at him and said, "Yes sir". It's a habit I still have. Whenever someone says something that doesn't make sense I always "Sir" or "Ma'am" them. I think Grandfather understood that because he said, "Sorry. I'm 50 used to people not listening I sometimes just talk to myself." He shook his head then turned and winked at me. "I meant to say: I am the Mayor of Rabbittown." He still wasn't making any sense to me so I "sir"ed him again. "Rabbittown," he said, "is where the last of the magic people live. They asked me to be Mayor because I understand them. They have trouble dealing with most of the people today so I'm kind of a go-between. Maybe I'll take you to meet them someday." "That'd be great. But I still don't see what all that has to do with chestnuts." He looked me over. He looked to his right then his left, he was playing a little now- He was going to let me in on the secret. He said, "The residents of Rabbittown make magic chestnuts. Not a lot of them, mind you, but a few. They scatter them all over the world- Even places without chestnut trees. All you have to do is pick one up, hold it tight in your hand and wish." "And your wish comes true?" I asked. He smiled. "Maybe. There's not a lot of magic left I'm afraid, so it has to be a small wish. It also has to be a good wish. A wish for something that would make someone happy. But it's still a wish." "Does Grandma know all this stuff?" "She knows," he answered. "She doesn't believe though. She just thinks I'm losing my mind." He laughed but it wasn't a funny laugh, if you know what I mean. That was probably the only time one of our family get-togethers was too short. We no sooner walked in the door than my parents were ready to leave. It turns out my dad got into a fight with my Uncle Paul and rather than watch them bust up furniture my mom decided to just go home. I didn't get to see my grandfather again until summer. My parents were talking about getting a divorce and wanted some time to themselves so they shipped us kids off to relatives. My brother and sister went to my Uncle Paul's. He probably would have taken me too but worried that he wouldn't be able to watch me. My brother and sister are 14 and 16 so he felt they needed less supervision. I didn't have the heart to tell him they needed more. Besides I was happy to go to my grandfathers. For once the drive to Cleveland didn't seem like a chore. He drove down to pick me up. I thought that was strange. It seemed to me that if my parents were going to ship me off they could at least do the driving. Not that I wanted to listen to them argue the whole way. It just didn't seem fair to my grandfather. When he got there I rushed to the door and said, "Hello Mr. Mayor." He winked at me and said, "Now I was sure you'd forgotten." Then he looked sternly at my dad and nodded. My dad just kind of stood there and looked at us. He didn't have a clue. I understand some of that now. He and Mom had problems and I wasn't one of them so I was placed in a pile of things to do- Later. I'm not complaining. It's actually a nice way to grow up. As long as I didn't get thrown in jail or something I was allowed to do whatever I wanted. We left shortly after that. Grandfather said he didn't believe in the expressways so we took back roads. We traveled through towns with names like Academia and Jelloway- That was my favorite. I said that would probably be a good place to live. You probably got to eat Jello all the time. It was dark out when I finally asked about Rabbittown. "Not so good," was what he said when I asked how things were going there. "Why? what's wrong?" "One of them has died." "How?" I asked. It seemed to me that magic people shouldn't die. It's the world," he said and shook his head. I didn't understand but when I looked over to ask him about it I saw a tear roll down his cheek. I'd never seen a grown-up cry before, except on T.V. and I didn't know what to do so I stared out the window at the darkness. "Sometimes," he said and his voice cracked. He looked my way and smiled a little. Then cleared his throat and started again. "Sometimes the wrong people get ahold of the chestnuts. Bad people, evil people. Anytime someone who has a chestnut does something evil one of the residents die." "But it's not their fault." He nodded. "I know, but that's how it works. There are only 24 of them left now. I'm afraid I'll outlive all of them. Then there won't be a Mayor anymore." I was sad. And, I admit, a little selfish. I was thinking there wasn't going to be any magic left in the world for me. Nothing to wish for. "Isn't there anything we can do?" "What do you mean?" "I don't know," I said. "Can't we help them? Can't we make the world better?" He pulled the car over to the side of the road and, for a second, I thought he was going to tell me to walk but he just sat there and looked at me. "Your grandmother thinks I'm crazy. I look at her and I see hatred in her and I wonder where it came from. I wonder if I put it there with all my talk of the magic in the world. "That's the thing. The magic's still there. I feel it, that's why the magic people understand me. I know it's there and if I could just show her maybe I would see love again." I think I understood that. Maybe that's just hindsight talking but even if I didn't understand completely I understood enough to want to help. "We can do it," I said. He nodded and reached out to me. I put my hand in his and he said, "We should try." We never got the chance though. When we got back we found out my grandmother had suffered a stroke. She was in the hospital. The doctors didn't give her much of a chance. As soon as my parents found out they came up to get me. I wanted to stay. I felt my grandfather needed me to be there but no one asked if I wanted to go. It's no wonder I still have a hard time understanding adults and I guess I am one. I'm 22, if it matters. Just about finished with college and ready to head out into what passes for a real world. I'm not ready but then I doubt I ever will be. I wrote a paper my freshman year here. It was for a basic writing class and we were supposed to write about our career choice- Another term for, "What you want to be when you grow up" but this is Ohio State so they had to make it sound good. Anyway/ I wrote that I wanted to be the Mayor of Rabbittown, just like my grandfather. I went so far as to draw a map of the town and describe my duties. I made Rabbittown into a retirement community. I wimped out, I know but I didn't think magic people would go over too well with Dr. Hanford. I got an A. I sent the paper to my grandfather with a little note. I told him I still had the chestnut from that day and it was as good as magic. Sometimes when I'm down I hold it in my hand and imagine Rabbittown. I imagine I make myself as small as an ant and go cruising through someone's yard, only from my perspective it looks like a jungle. It always pulls me through. It always brings my problems down to size, if you'll pardon the pun. He never responded. About Rabbittown, I mean. He wrote to me all the time and I spent a lot of my vacation time with him but after my grandmother died he never mentioned Rabbittown. My grandfather died last week. That's what started this flood of memories. It's amazing how much you can remember if you try. I took a week off from school to go to the funeral. I think that kind of shocked my dad. I guess he didn't think I really cared. Adults again. It scares me when I catch myself doing some of the things they do. When I got back there was a package on my desk next to a note from my roommate that read: This came while you were gone. Good old Leo, what a wordy devil. I opened the package. Inside was a chestnut and a note in my grandfather's handwriting that said: Use it wisely, but not too wisely. I'm holding it in my hand now and, you know, I can feel it. It pulses. It's like having your hand on a speaker while the radio plays something with a good bass line. It's got a good beat. I suppose it could be my imagination but maybe I'm just not grown up enough to believe that it was all my grandfathers fantasy. At least I hope I'm not. i'm really going this time, by Janet Kuypers i pack my bags say i'm really going this time you throw my bags scream at me to leave before you get more violent and you mean it this time i'm sitting in my car outside the hotel see you at the window holding the drapes back why do i have to think that means you care? why do i came back, asking you if you realize what you've done to me, if you realize what you're about to lose. i'll bet you think you'll call me once and everything will be forgotten. other times, yes, i've forgiven you. i've come back. but i can't take being thrown to the ground, strangled. when i realize what i lost that night, i'm scared. but i have to remember that you lost more. you lost me. i'm really going this time, and you won't see me again. carry this with you, always. this pain, like the pain you've given me. you won't see me. carry this. make me, by alexandria rand You know, you actually do make me wanna shout. And if I didn't know better, I'd say that I have the capacity to make you scream a little, too. You told me that you have good hands. I believed you, but I didn't realize how good they were until you showed me. You know, I'm not so bad myself. Show me how good you are again. soothe me just this once, by Janet Kuypers when i called you from the pay phone at the hotel after he hit me i got your answering machine i tried to tell you as quickly as i could a woman came up to me while i was in the lobby asked if i was okay that's when i realized i was scraped up, bleeding i told her i was fine please just tell me you're at home screening calls pick up the phone you think i brought this on myself, don't you please just this once pick up the phone, listen to me soothe me just this once help me masquerade, by alexandria rand You asked me to the masquerade and I willingly complied but I'm tired of wearing this dress for the feathers in my costume won't stop licking my face and you cannot see the tears falling behind my mask - When you seethe price they pay I'm sure you'll come and join the masquerade, you say but the price is too high for I don't want to wear a mask with you, and I wouls only hope that I don't have to. at least i have this, by Janet Kuypers how far will we push each other? i wonder as we sit in the living room, waging this emotional battle, knowing that in the end it will still be with you having your sex with me, leaving me when you're through with me. that is what i'm here for. that is my function. but at least i have this, at least i can make you fight me a little more for it. i know you'll win in the end, but at least for these few moments, these few fleeting moments, i have this control over you. and then the pain of being with you comes back, and you win. but let me have this. just this. i know i'll get no more. please. like daggers, by alexandria rand I can't think of anything else. like daggers speeding slicing the air the thoughts race through my mind. I can't help but think of his stunning eyes his sensitive touch my weaklessness. How he's torn my life in two. 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. 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... love poem, by alexandria rand You are the air I breathe. you enwrap me you consume me your words your eyes tear through me Life is not I, but we. I want you here tonight. I won't fight it I can't hide it there's nothing to subside it I know that this is right. I can't wait for the time please just hold me please just kiss me please just tell me that you'll miss me When I can say you're mine. i am the woman who loves pain, by Janet Kuypers i am the woman who loves pain i look for you and i usually find you one of you i know you'll all do the same things act the same way i've gotten used to it they tell me i should find someone better that i am settling that this is not love but i've never felt love and although this is pain although i am hurting with you it is better than hurting alone i swear it is here it goes again, by Janet Kuypers maybe this is what i deserve this pain but i can't let you go even if there is someone else on the side doing the same things to me you do i can't let you go i need that connection to you i need that pain i can't be alone even though i'm alone when i'm with you i guess i feel like i'm nothing when i'm with you but then again i'm nothing without you so here it goes here it goes again he joy of seduction, by nancy wakeman I run up the stairs and barge into my best friend's room. "Well," Penny says, staring at herself in the mirror and poking at a pimple, "how did it go?" I'm so embarrassed," I say, pushing my face into a pillow and rocking back and forth. I have a crush on the music director of St. Mary's-in-the-Mountains, alias St. Mag's-in-the-Crags, an Episcopalian boarding school for girls in northern New Hampshire. Everyone has to be in the glee club, but this is the first year I auditioned. Last year I snuck into the alto section and sat there, singing when I thought I could hit the notes, lip-synching when the other altos stared and poked me. This year I risked embarrassment because of Mr. Schneider. Dark, brooding, handsome - he looks like he stepped out of one of the novels I read when I'm supposed to be studying. He's from New York City, the artistic and intellectual center of the world. To me and his other admirers he is the ultimate in hippness and sophistication. I want him to notice me and walk to class with me. "Nancy, I'm dying from suspense. Tell me. Oh, these stupid pimples." "I couldn't hit the notes and then he started playing the "Appassionata Sonata" and I didn't know that it was Beethoven. I mean I knew. But I couldn't say anything." "You were in the music room a long time, Nance. He must like you if he starts playing. When I auditioned it was zip, zip, in and out. No piano playing for me. And when Gina asked him to play Mozart instead of Bach before the church service last Sunday he totally ignored her. You were there. Don't you remember?" Penny always pronounces Bach like batch. "Bach," I correct her, growling the name. No I don't remember because I wasn't there. Penny has a beautiful soprano voice and sings in the choir during Sunday services, so she wouldn't miss me. I don't tell anyone I skip church because I don't want to get caught. Attendance is mandatory. If anyone found out I had been skipping church, I would be way up the creek - way, way up the creek. For the past month I have been hiding in my room on Sunday morning reading THE BREATH OF ZEN, one of the books Mr. Schneider talks about, and meditating. I want to ask Mr. Schneider how to meditate without my feet falling asleep. He always talks about Zen and Henry Miller during Music Appreciation class. He's always saying: "think for yourself," and "I want to teach you more than how to tell the difference between Haydn and Beethoven. I want to open up the world to you." I have been thinking for myself so much that I've decided I can no longer be an Episcopalian. I hate God for making me attend morning and evening prayers every day. I hate kneeling, praying, and Holy Communion. In thinking for myself I have come to the conclusion that I am an Atheist. "Listen Nance," Penny interrupts my brooding and puts her arm around me, "if you want Bill to notice you ... what's sticking me? Nancy what do you carry in your pockets? THE BREATH OF ZEN Really, Nance! What happened to PEYTON PLACE?" "He talks about Zen all the time in class," I mumble. "I know, but that doesn't mean you have to read the stupid book." Penny starts to toss it across the room. I grab it and hug it to my chest. "But I want to," I say. How can I explain to Penny that I want to read all the books Mr. Schneider talks about and listen to every piece of music he plays. I want to read BLACK SPRING by Henry Miller but that's been banned in Boston and the whole United States. It must be sexier than Peyton Place. If only I could go to Paris and read Henry Miller's books and sip an espresso with Henry and Bill in one of those little cafes. If only I could go to New York with Bill and listen to the music of Duke Ellington and Thelonious Monk. My mother would die! She thinks only drug addicts listen to jazz. Bill Schneider says that jazz is the American Classical Music. He puts it right up there with Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. "Well," Penny shrugs, returning to her mirror and her zits, "chacun a son goute." But if I were you, Nance, I'd wear something sexier. Why do you think he walks to class with Hawkins? Because she wears those tight skirts." I listen to Penny because she is so experienced with men. She has dozens of boy friends and is very outgoing. At fourteen I'm fat, shy, wear a size eighteen dress and weigh one-hundred and seventy-five pounds. Penny dumps a pile of clothes on the bed. "What am I going to do," she squeals, "Steven is coming for the dance this weekend and I have these gross zits. Hear, wear this." She pulls out a straight skirt, a batik print in dark greens and browns. I struggle into it. It strains across my stomach and I look pregnant. "That's all right," Penny says, "wear your girdle and it will fit fine. But for God's sake, Nancy," she points at my hairy calves, "shave your legs." Penny always gives me such good advice. "Have you studied for the geometry test tomorrow?" I ask. "Be serious! I haven't touched the damned book. What am I going to do?" I haven't studied either. My head is so full of dreams about Henry, Duke, Thelonious and Bill that it doesn't have room for any more information. "Pop the zits by putting a hot washcloth on them," I say and go to my room to cram for the geometry test. The next day, after breakfast and morning prayers, I hear a voice behind me. "Are you going to class?" Bill Schneider says, falling into step beside me as I walk down the glass corridor that leads to the classrooms. I'm wearing my girdle under Penny's skirt and it feels like I'm wearing a suit of armor. I can hardly breathe. The skirt is so tight I have to concentrate on taking little steps. But my stomach is flat. Here is my chance to talk to Bill about Zen and Henry Miller. The girdle squeezes all the air out of my belly and all the thoughts out of my brain. "Well," he says after a long silence, "looks like there's snow on top of Mount Washington." We can see down the valley, painted in autumn colors of orange, gold, and red, to the white peak of Mount Washington in the distance. "Yes," I whisper. I can hardly talk or breathe. My heart gallops inside my chest. My armpits are wet. Another long silence. "I guess that means no more bare legs," he says, "that's too bad isn't it?" When there is snow on top of Mt. Washington we have to wear stockings. "Yes," I whisper, looking down at my bare, freshly shaved legs, dotted with little band-aids. I drop a book and try to bend down. I grunt loudly, but can't move. Mr. Schneider bends, graceful as a ballet dancer, and sweeps it up. "Zen poetry!" he says with a smile. "Yes," I gasp. The girdle is squeezing my stomach tighter and tighter. I can't breathe. I can't talk. I feel like I'm going to faint. We arrive at the geometry classroom. The door is open and everybody is watching us. I want to die. "Well," he says as he strides down the corridor, "I'll see you in class this afternoon." I mumble an apology to the geometry teacher and wiggle into a seat. Penny leans over and pokes me. "Nancy, what did he say?" she whispers. Penny is right about tight skirts and smooth legs; men like to see smooth shapes. Will I have to spend the rest of my life torturing myself with girdles and razors to get a man to notice me? A tight skirt alone isn't enough. Mr. Schneider wouldn't hang around to listen to my silences. THE BREATH OF ZEN slides to the floor. I stare at the triangles and trapezoids on the blackboard. If I could discover a connection between geometry, jazz, and zen poetry- that would be something to share with Henry Miller and Bill Schneider.

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.