Children, Churches and Daddies

september 1996

v83

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

In hysterics, we danced as we
crashed the Chinese New Year's Ball.
You taught me how to waltz.
Blushing, I listened
to your best friend ask me
if you were opening up sexually.
I told him there was no problem.
I remember when we filled
the prophecy of your horoscope
by sharing champagne at the
fireplace at the end of the week.
We even toasted marshmallows.
Nervous, I stood in the amphitheater
and serenaded you.
I'm sure I sang off key, but
you said you loved my voice.
You gave me a long-stemmed rose
when you made me dinner,
when we went downtown,
when you came back from church.
I kept those roses.
Teeth chattering, we sat on a tire
and kissed at the playground at
midnight.
It was bitter cold, but I didn't care.
The thought of you
puts a sparkle in my eye
and I can't help but smile
whenever I see you.
How could I not love you?

I knew I had to.
And so I walked into their bedroom
and killed them.
A gun to the head:
my stepfather first,
then my mother,
awakening to her death.

As I opened the door
my room smelled like burning
as the black wax
coated my carpet.
I sat on the floor,
pulled out the book
and began to read.
"You must do it, my son,"
the voice said to me.
I know.

Every once in a while
I see the same scene again:
I lay in the bed
the field of daffodils
with you draped over me
folding over me
conforming to my body
like a rustling curtain
rippling in the breeze from an open window.
I do not sleep.
I couldn't,
I would never want to.
Our contours interlock,
our limbs intertwine.
Your breath rolls down my stomach
like the breeze that brought you to me.
I take your hand,
and although you sleep
you seem to hold me
with all the intensity you possess.
And with each beat of your heart,
with your heat,
comes the cool night air in the wind
caressing me
until the light from the morning sun
awakens our silhouette.

I wondered if you'd have the patience
to wait for the ice cubes to melt
in time they will

as you sat next to me
head hanging down
you swirled your cocktail glass
the ice cubes crashed with one another
and beads of sweat dripped from the rim
all I could do was sit there
shoulders back
eyes fixed in the wall

I'm sorry

Did I give you too many ice cubes
you asked for them

The wretched irony becomes apparent.
You twitch and climb through the entangling web
crawl through the intricate maze
to learn that you will never reach the end
but a terrifying minotaur
only the center
the heart
where the most horrifying evil preys
the towering walls grow arms
an infinite sum of groping
overpowering arms
there is nowhere to run and hide
as the walls stretch taller touching the sky
they creak and move closer
while the arms reach and pull you
the tentacles grab you
and try to destroy you
the sky turns a deep dark black
an infinite black
there is no hope
the solid ground begins to melt
as the blades of grass become sharpened knives
cutting
slicing
the treacherous teeth of the animal below
suck you down
and consume you
there is nowhere to go but forward
as you write in agony
go forward
forward
with the only hope
that soon the monstrous insidious nightmare
the desperation
the pain
will end

From the platform the speaker gave a signal that Dana and I did not hear.
The masss moved as one toward the northern end of the Mall where
Constitution Avenue passed between square gray government buildings.
We poured onto a street cordoned off by a row of squad cars flashing their
lights and a blue line of riot-helmeted police wearing fatigues.
In the distance we could see the White House. I wondered if Nixon was
watching us from behind its shaded windows. Antennas bristled from the
roof that held machine guns and Stinger missiles, according to Dana.
The march route marked by flashing police cars and police on foot and
horseback led away from the White House toward the Capitol end of the
Mall. At the sight of the President's house the mass stopped
spontaneously. An angry roar erupted from thousands of throats, growing
louder as those behind us took it up.
Beside me Dana howled longer and louder than most. His eyes flashed with
excitement and he could not stand still even when the march halted. He
scampered through the ragged ranks slapping backs and giving hugs, as if
by touching others he could share the runaway energy that charged his
body.
The march started up again, not turning on its assigned route but heading
straight for the police line. I closed my eyes and I was on the highest
roller coaster in an amusement park. The restraining bar had just lowered
to lock me in. No longer could I escape. Ahead the track soared to straight
to the sun until it fell into loops of terror. All I could do was hang on and
grit my teeth.

Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh
Dare to struggle, dare to win!

The chant began in a single bullhorn and echoed back from ten thousand
voices. Fists jabbed at the sky. Viet Cong flags with their yellow stars
unfurled for the TV cameras. From Georgia came a wagon pulled by mules
and the Hog Farmers from California danced around us in their whacky
clothes and painted faces.
A monkey-like man with a whispy beard inched his way atop an equestrian
statue. He carefully mounted the horse's back, sat behind a forgotten Civil
War general, and stripped naked. A woman joined him and like a pair of
nude circus riders they posed together in the sunshine.
Only a few yards separated us from the police. An officer on horseback
bellowed at us through a bullhorn to remain orderly. Ahead the crowd took
up an angry shout, but I could not make out the words. Dana took me by one
hand and formed those around us into a phalanx of bodies clasped together
and moving relentlessly forward into the maelstrom.

Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh!
Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh!
Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh!

The first gas canister sounded like a distant pistol shot when it exploded.
I flinched and looked around me. Instead of running from the sound and the
smoke, the mass moved toward it.
"It's not tear gas, man," screamed someone. "It's CS!"
"CS!" shouted another. "It's CS!" I had no idea what CS was.
Bandannas went around noses and mouths. I had none.
The gas stung our eyes and throats but didn't stop the mass from
advancing on the police line that separated us from the White House fence.
The second or third whiff made me cough. Up close, the gas became tiny
white crystals sparkling in the sunlight. I remember thinking that it
didn't smell any worse and looked prettier than Calumet City on a
windless day. Now and then a brave fool picked up one of the smoking
canisters and heaved it back at the police lines to the crowd's delight.

The streets belong to the people!
The streets belong to the people!
The streets belong to the people!

Behind Plexiglas shields and plastic helmets, the police linked up and
moved forward to clear the street. The front line stopped. Dana's phalanx
dissolved. In the gas and the chaos, people began to panic. Some fell to
the ground, gasping for air. Others doubled over and vomited or sat down
in the street, unable to move. Those who fled ran into each other or into
the police line. Threatened, several swung nightsticks. Blood flowed from
foreheads and tears from eyes. An order was given and more sticks fell.
Police grabbed struggling protesters by the arms and legs and hauled them
back through their ranks to be arrested. Soon the mass backed away and
once more a no man's land of twenty yards separated the two sides.
Above helicopters circled. Clouds of white gas made it look as though war
had come to the nation's front door. Television cameras mounted on
nearby buildings zoomed in on the action. Microphones picked up the
screams of sirens and wounded. Parents watched their children rioting in
the streets of Washington and tried to understand.
The shock of the first encounter wore off quickly. We grew accustomed to
the gas and we learned to give the police their space. Back and forth
across Constitution Avenue the tide surged all day hours but never got any
closer to the White House. A steady stream of gassed and bleeding youths
made their way to groups of soft-eyed men and women wearing red cross
armbands. By four exhaustion consumed both sides and the action ceased.
"Man, you blew me away," said Dana as we dangled our sore feet in the
shallow water of the Reflecting Pool. "Robby Right On, that's who you are.
You're a righteous dude."
I still remember how his praise made me glow. I had met the test and
been accepted. For the first time in my life, I felt full membership in my
generation and it was glorious high.

Pitch a penny, watch it fall
In the middle of the Mall.
Heads I win and tails you lose
Til I get those homesick blues.

In the evening we joined a group from Florida in a ramshackle camp called
Peace City pitched near the Tidal Basin and the Mall. A bottle of sweet
Annie Greensprings wine from the Floridians passed around the circle.
Like warriors after their first battle, we told our stories of the day,
small deeds that through time would grow into legends. We talked until
the sun set.
I wasn't surprised when Dana left the circle and returned with a woman.
Her name was Fiona Thompson. She had an English accent, a slight figure
and blond hair cut short like a boy's. Fiona worked for the British
Ambassador as an au pair to his two children. She'd come to witness the
demonstration.
Dana told stories of Chicago's streets, the Convention and the Days of
Rage, the trial of the Chicago Seven and the sit-ins that shut down the
schools. Fiona listened enraptured. As hard as I try, I cannot recall the
features of her face except for the way her eyes laughed easily. In the
dusk we dined beneath a fringe of pink blossomed cherry trees on granola
bars and brown rice cooked over a Coleman stove.
From the Floridians, we learned that the first day had been a feint to
confuse the authorities and to sort out fellow travelers. On the morrow
the real D-Days would begin. The secret plan was to close down the city
of Washington by blockading the choke points of a city built for carriages:
the bridges across the Potomac, the circles designed by Pierre L'Enfant.
When government employees could not get to work, the government would
be forced to close until Nixon ended the war.
We ended the night at Fiona's Georgetown apartment, the converted
basement of a Nineteenth Century town house on a quiet street of gas
lights and shade trees. When she invited Dana into her bedroom, I took the
living room couch.
I awoke early morning to see her standing above me, taking off a
terrycloth robe. She had left Dana in the night to come to me. We made
love on her couch, neither of us speaking, afraid to break the spell.
Without saying a word she returned to Dana. The next morning I wasn't
quite sure that it hadn't been a dream.
Dana ran into someone he knew from Chicago who knew someone who knew
someone else high up on the Days of Dissent steering committee. Seems
they needed a courier, someone they could trust with a car, to deliver
strike orders to the headquarters of units camped out all over the city. In
Dana's car, we kept watch in the afternoon outside a church basement
where the shadowy leaders met secretly to draw up the targets and assign
them to cadres of protesters. By six, we were one of two couriers
navigating through rush hour traffic with duplicate sets of orders.
With the help of a drug store map we located each of the camps by
midnight. A misty spring rain softened the night air and fogged the
windshield. I rolled down the window, stuck my face outside and sniffed
the air like a dog, smelling the exhaust and the sensual perfume of lilies
of the valley. Washington's streetlights threw a warm yellow light that
somehow seemed friendlier than the harsh blue-whiteness of the South
Side.

Find a penny for good luck
Watch your back, you better duck
Heads I lose and tails you win
Round and round we go again

We returned to Fiona's to sleep when the route was run. Again that night
she invited Dana to her bed and again she left him early in the morning to
come to me. This time she didn't leave. At first light she went for a
paper and day-old bagels and returned to me. We ate them with coffee and
talked until Dana awoke. He seemed to guess nothing about our secret
tryst, nor did we tell him.
The nearest D-Day target was Key Bridge, a long bridge over the Potomac
that feeds into Georgetown. We set off on foot, not sure what we would
find. Dana was unusually quiet, as if he had a premonition of the coming
disaster. By the time we arrived, Days of Dissent had failed.
The police and army had arrived first and cleared every demonstrator from
the bridge. The same happened at every site and by nine a.m. traffic
flowed smoothly throughout the city. Somehow the cops had learned our
targets and were waiting when the demonstrators showed up. Every jail
in the city quickly filled so they shipped the rest to RFK Stadium.
In disgust, Dana arranged to have himself arrested and sent to RFK. I
stayed with Fiona the two nights he was in there and took his place in her
bed while he spent the time huddled beneath a Red Cross blanket near the
fifty yard line. I'd been with only one woman before her and she must have
found me to be a challenge.
Dana and I drove back to Chicago before the first rumors began to
circulate about Dana in Washington. Someone powerful fingered him as
the spy who provided the target sites to the authorities. When it was
discovered that the other courier's list included only ten of the twelve
sites that the police shut down, his guilt was assumed.

Toss a penny in the sky
Heads I live and tails you die.
Who's

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 weakness.
How he's torn my life in two.

prose

III. Fiona

Despite its name, the Public Eye seems a good choice. It's a quiet
restaurant with decent food handy to the downtown hotel where Fiona is
staying. Best of all, they know me and I can count on a secluded table.
The maitre d' brings Fiona to my table. I recognize her instantly, for the
years have been kind. Hair silver, no longer blonde, still is cut short but
stylish. Her figure is trim from diet and exercise. Lines wrinkle her
forehead but her complexion still glows youthfully and her eyes light up
just as I remember. She wears a tailored business suit that flatters her
legs and an expensive perfume. I notice no wedding band.
She gives me a hug. We order cocktails. She inquires about me politely. I
tell her very little of the tragedy that my life has become.
"It's been a long time," I say, to kick things off.
"You must think I'm bizarre to call on you after all these years. Especially
since I never kept in touch at the time."
She drinks her martini nervously and I say nothing. "I'm buying, by the
way," she says.
I nod in thanks and drink my beer.
"You see, I couldn't get in touch with you," she says. "I was not what I
seemed. But I liked you a lot and if conditions had been different, who
knows?"
Her question can't be answered, so I don't try.
"I've come to tell you that, and more. You've a right to know."
"I'm not quite sure what you've told me so far."
"Robby, people will tell you that I was the spy, but it's not true. It's soon
going to come out that I was working for the FBI in those days, and that
part is true. I'm mentioned in a pending book based on files that have
recently become available through the Freedom of Information Act."
"Why? What did you do?"
She avoids my eyes. "Nixon thought the ambassador secretly supported the
anti-war movement. He wanted all the dirt on him that I could get. So
they hired me. I got a lot."
"You spied for Nixon on your own nation's ambassador?"
"I'm no more English than you are. In fact, I'm Irish. The Bureau found me
at Georgetown University, set me up with my cover and trained me
thoroughly to play the role. It paid my way through college and I had a job
the day I graduated. I don't live in London. I never left Washington. But I
wasn't the D-Days spy."
My head spins. She didn't make love to me because she wanted to - nor
because Dana sent her to me. I was her mark, a source for information.
She's ripped open the soft tissue of my soul. I'm surprised to feel no pain.
When the shock wears off in a minute or two, then it will start to hurt.
"You, you did it for the money?"
"No, I did it for the anger. It was the only time I had to be young. I felt
cheated, Robby. My twenties were to be my dream years, the time when
this little girl from a little place you've never heard of would wear pretty
dresses and dance all night on the arms of handsome, wholesome men.
Then she would marry one of them and raise babies. But no. You people
had to fuck it up. My world became a raging inferno of drugs and politics,
hate and tension. I lost the only chance I would ever have in my life to be
young."
"You still sound angry."
"I'm still trying to deal with it."
The waiter hovers over my shoulder and we order. She wants grilled tuna
and I ask for a rare steak with french fries.
"It was the only youth I had, too, Fiona. It was the only time any of us had.
I guess it didn't work out very well for either of us."
"Well, don't blame me. I fought with every ounce of energy in my being to
save a piece of my dream, just a small corner where I could go and live the
life I'd planned. But even that was impossible. Everywhere, everything,
everyone was for the war or against the war. There was no time to be
young, to kiss on a street corner, to make love on a golden hillside in the
springtime. No. Springtimes were for demonstrations. Hillsides were for
rallies. Streets were for people. Except for this person."
She speaks with such startling vehemence that a couple at an adjoining
table stops talking to eavesdrop. Fiona notices and calms herself.
"So why are you telling me all this now, Fiona? Why did you search me
out? I don't get it."
"Robby, you're not the only one who's stuck in time."
Her use of that term surprises me. Has she too seen Dana's ghost?
"No, I didn't give the list of targets to the Bureau. There never was a spy.
The Bureau didn't need one. Those steering committee jokers were so
badly organized and their security was so lax, we just had to pay
attention. Hell, anyone who drives to work in Washington could figure out
where the targets would be."
A frightening thought occurs to me. "Did you know steering committee
suspected Dana of being the spy? Did you know about the Red Banner?"
"Hey, there was no Red Banner. That was just Movement tough talk. I'm
the one who tipped him off when he called to invite me to visit him in
Chicago. I told him to be careful. So what does he do? He goes out
drinking with you until all hours of the night and gets himself killed.
What else could I do? When Dana died, I felt so guilty. I managed to get
the Chicago police off your case, it was the least I could do."
I don't know what to say so I say nothing. I think of the fat father at the
Vietnam Memorial. Our food arrives and we eat in silence.
"They arrested some street punk a year later," she says. "They found
Dana's ring on him."
For some reason, I feel better. Perhaps its knowing the truth after all
these years.
"Hard to believe it's been twenty-five years since all of that," I say.
"Yes," she says. "I think that's long enough to mourn, don't you?" The check
arrives and she pays it with a gold card.
"I think so," I reply. "Do you think that there's time left to dream again?"
"I don't know," she says. "I thought you might have the answer."
"I don't know either. I'd like to find out. Can dinner be on me next time?"
The smile in her eyes gives me my answer.

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.

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.

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 would only hope
that I don't have to.

my eyes
no longer see
I close them
my hands
are numb
I no longer feel
my heart
is cold
I cannot love

The naivity is over.
Now we must put our little toys away
and stop playing house.
This is the real thing,
and I won't fool around anymore.
Not with you.

You threw around the words
"I love you"
as if they were no more than water
as if you really didn't know
their value.

But this isn't a game,
and when I get hurt
kissing it
won't make it better.

If I have to -
I'll put on the mask
I'll play the game
the facade
Oh, I'll do it -
I'll go through the motions
I'll live with the lies
the fantasy world.
Just to spend my nights with you.

10. Free education for all children in public schools. Abolition of

children's factory labour in its present form. Combination of education

with industrial production, &c., &c.

When, in the course of development, class distinctions have disappeared,

and all production has been concentrated in the hands of a vast association

of the whole nation, the public power will lose its political character.

Political power, properly so called, is merely the organised power of one

class for oppressing another. If the proletariat during its contest with

the bourgeoisie is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organise

itself as a class, if, by means of a revolution, it makes itself the ruling

class, and, as such, sweeps away by force the old conditions of production,

then it will, along with these conditions, have swept away the conditions

for the existence of class antagonisms and of classes generally, and will

thereby have abolished its own supremacy as a class.

In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class

antagonisms, we shall have an association, in which the free development

of each is the condition for the free development of all.

III SOCIALIST AND COMMUNIST LITERATURE

1. REACTIONARY SOCIALISM

A. Feudal Socialism

Owing to their historical position, it became the vocation of the

aristocracies of France and England to write pamphlets against modern

bourgeois society. In the French revolution of July 1830, and in the

English reform agitation, these aristocracies again succumbed to the

hateful upstart. Thenceforth, a serious political contest was altogether

out of the question. A literary battle alone remained possible. But even in

the domain of literature the old cries of the restoration period had become

impossible.

In order to arouse sympathy, the aristocracy were obliged to lose sight,

apparently, of their own interests, and to formulate their indictment

against the bourgeoisie in the interest of the exploited working class

alone. Thus the aristocracy took their revenge by singing lampoons on

their new master, and whispering in his ears sinister prophecies of

coming catastrophe.

In this way arose Feudal Socialism: half lamentation, half lampoon; half

echo of the past, half menace of the future; at times, by its bitter, witty

and incisive criticism, striking the bourgeoisie to the very heart's core;

but always ludicrous in its effect, through total incapacity to comprehend

the march of modern history.

The aristocracy, in order to rally the people to them, waved the

proletarian alms-bag in front for a banner. But the people, so often as it

joined them, saw on their hindquarters the old feudal coats of arms, and

deserted with loud and irreverent laughter.

One section of the French Legitimists and "Young England" exhibited this

spectacle.

In pointing out that their mode of exploitation was different to that of the

bourgeoisie, the feudalists forget that they exploited under circumstances

and conditions that were quite different, and that are now antiquated. In

showing that, under their rule, the modern proletariat never existed, they

forget that the modern bourgeoisie is the necessary offspring of their own

form of society.

For the rest, so little do they conceal the reactionary character of their

criticism that their chief accusation against the bourgeoisie amounts to

this, that under the bourgeois regime a class is being developed, which is

destined to cut up root and branch the old order of society.

What they upbraid the bourgeoisie with is not so much that it creates a

proletariat, as that it creates a revolutionary proletariat.

In political practice, therefore, they join in all coercive measures against

the working class; and in ordinary life, despite their high falutin phrases,

they stoop to pick up the golden apples dropped from the tree of industry,

and to barter truth, love, and honour for traffic in wool, beetroot-sugar,

and potato spirits.

As the parson has ever gone band in hand with the landlord, so has Clerical

Socialism with Feudal Socialism.

Nothing is easier than to give Christian asceticism a Socialist tinge. Has

not Christianity declaimed against private property, against marriage,

against the State? Has it not preached in the place of these, charity and

poverty, celibacy and mortification of the flesh, monastic life and Mother

Church? Christian Socialism is but the holy, water with which the priest

consecrates the heart-burnings of the aristocrat.

B. Petty-Bourgeois Socialism

The feudal aristocracy was not the only class that has ruined by the

bourgeoisie, not the only class whose conditions of existence pined and

perished in the atmosphere of modern bourgeois society. The mediaeval

burgesses and the small peasant proprietors were the precursors of the

modern bourgeoisie. In those countries which are but little developed,

industrially and commercially, these two classes still vegetate side by

side with the rising bourgeoisie.

In countries where modern civilisation has become fully developed, a new

class of petty bourgeois has been formed, fluctuating between proletariat

and bourgeoisie and ever renewing itself as a supplementary part of

bourgeois society. The individual members of this class, however, are

being constantly hurled down into the proletariat by the action of

competition, and, as modern industry develops, they even see the moment

approaching when they will completely disappear as an independent

section of modern society, to be replaced, in manufactures, agriculture

and commerce, by overlookers, bailiffs and shopmen.

In countries like France, where the peasants constitute far more than half

of the population, it was natural that writers who sided with the

proletariat against the bourgeoisie, should use, in their criticism of the

bourgeois regime, the standard of the peasant and petty bourgeois, and

from the standpoint of these intermediate classes should take up the

cudgels for the working class. Thus arose petty-bourgeois Socialism.

Sismondi was the head of this school, not only in France but also in

England.

This school of Socialism dissected with great acuteness the

contradictions in the conditions of modern production. It laid bare the

hypocritical apologies of economists. It proved, incontrovertibly, the

disastrous effects of machinery and division of labour; the concentration

of capital and land in a few hands; overproduction and crises; it pointed

out the inevitable ruin of the petty bourgeois and peasant, the misery of

the proletariat, the anarchy in production, the crying inequalities in the

distribution of wealth, the industrial war of extermination between

nations, the dissolution of old moral bonds, of the old family relations, of

the old nationalities.

In its positive aims, however, this form of Socialism aspires either to

restoring the old means of production and of exchange, and with them the

old property relations, and the old society, or to cramping the modern

means of production and of exchange, within the framework of the old

property relations that have been, and were bound to be, exploded by those

means. In either case, it is both reactionary and Utopian.

Its last words are: corporate guilds for manufacture, patriarchal relations

in agriculture.

Ultimately, when stubborn historical facts had dispersed all intoxicating

effects of self-deception, this form of Socialism ended in a miserable fit

of the blues.

C. German, or "True," Socialism

The Socialist and Communist literature of France, a literature that

originated under the pressure of a bourgeoisie in power, and that was the

expression of the struggle against this power, was introduced into

Germany at a time when the bourgeoisie, in that country, had just begun

its contest with feudal absolutism.

German philosophers, would-be philosophers, and beaux esprits, eagerly

seized on this literature, only forgetting, that when these writings

immigrated from France into Germany, French social conditions had not

immigrated along with them. In contact with German social conditions,

this French literature lost all its immediate practical significance, and

assumed a purely literary aspect. Thus, to the German philosophers of the

eighteenth century, the demands of the first French Revolution were

nothing more than the demands of "Practical Reason" in general, and the

utterance of the will of the revolutionary French bourgeoisie signified in

their eyes the law of pure Will, of Will as it was bound to be, of true

human Will generally.

The world of the German literate consisted solely in bringing the new

French ideas into harmony with their ancient philosophical conscience, or

rather, in annexing the French ideas without deserting their own

philosophic point of view.

This annexation took place in the same way in which a foreign language is

appropriated, namely, by translation.

It is well known how the monks wrote silly lives of Catholic Saints over

the manuscripts on which the classical works of ancient heathendom had

been written. The German literate reversed this process with the profane

French literature. They wrote their philosophical nonsense beneath the

French original. For instance, beneath the French criticism of the

economic functions of money, they wrote "Alienation of Humanity," and

beneath the French criticism of the bourgeois State they wrote

"dethronement of the Category of the General," and so forth.

The introduction of these philosophical phrases at the back of the French

historical criticisms they dubbed "Philosophy of Action," "True Socialism,"

"German Science of Socialism," "Philosophical Foundation of Socialism,"

and so on.

The French Socialist and Communist literature was thus completely

emasculated. And, since it ceased in the hands of the German to express

the struggle of one class with the other, he felt conscious of having

overcome "French one-sidedness" and of representing, not true

requirements, but the requirements of truth; not the interests of the

proletariat, but the interests of Human Nature, of Man in general, who

belongs to no class, has no reality, who exists only in the misty realm of

philosophical fantasy.

This German Socialism, which took its schoolboy task so seriously and

solemnly, and extolled its poor stock-in-trade in such mountebank

fashion, meanwhile gradually lost its pedantic innocence.

The fight of the German, and especially, of the Prussian bourgeoisie,

against feudal aristocracy and absolute monarchy, in other words, the

liberal movement, became more earnest.

By this, the long wished-for opportunity was offered to "True" Socialism

of confronting the political movement with the Socialist demands, of

hurling the traditional anathemas against liberalism, against

representative government, against bourgeois competition, bourgeois

freedom of the press, bourgeois legislation, bourgeois liberty and

equality, and of preaching to the masses that they had nothing to gain, and

everything to lose, by this bourgeois movement. German Socialism forgot,

in the nick of time, that the French criticism, whose silly echo it was,

presupposed the existence of modern bourgeois society, with its

corresponding economic conditions of existence, and the political

constitution adapted thereto, the very things whose attainment was the

object of the pending struggle in Germany.

To the absolute governments, with their following of parsons, professors,

country squires and officials, it served as a welcome scarecrow against

the threatening bourgeoisie.

It was a sweet finish after the bitter pills of floggings and bullets with

which these same governments, just at that time, dosed the German

working-class risings.

While this "True" Socialism thus served the governments as a weapon for

fighting the German bourgeoisie, it, at the same time, directly

represented a reactionary interest, the interest of the German Philistines.

In Germany the petty-bourgeois class, a relic of the sixteenth century, and

since then constantly cropping up again under various forms, is the real

social basis of the existing state of things.

To preserve this class is to preserve the existing state of things in

Germany. The industrial and political supremacy of the bourgeoisie

threatens it with certain destruction; on the one hand, from the

concentration of capital; on the other, from the rise of a revolutionary

proletariat. "True" Socialism appeared to kill these two birds with one

stone. It spread like an epidemic.

The robe of speculative cobwebs, embroidered with flowers of rhetoric,

steeped in the dew of sickly sentiment, this transcendental robe in which

the German Socialists wrapped their sorry "eternal truths," all skin and

bone, served to wonderfully increase the sale of their goods amongst such

a public.

And on its part, German Socialism recognised, more and more, its own

calling as the bombastic representative of the petty- bourgeois Philistine.

It proclaimed the German nation to be the model nation, and the German

petty Philistine to be the typical man. To every villainous meanness of

this model man it gave a hidden, higher, Socialistic interpretation, the

exact contrary of its real character. It went to the extreme length of

directly opposing the "brutally destructive" tendency of Communism, and

of proclaiming its supreme and impartial contempt of all class struggles.

With very few exceptions, all the so-called Socialist and Communist

publications that now (1847) circulate in Germany belong to the domain of

this foul and enervating literature.

2. CONSERVATIVE, OR BOURGEOIS, SOCIALISM

A part of the bourgeoisie is desirous of redressing social grievances, in

order to secure the continued existence of bourgeois society.

To this section belong economists, philanthropists, humanitarians,

improvers of the condition of the working class, organisers of charity,

members of societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, temperance

fanatics, hole-and-corner reformers of every imaginable kind. This form

of Socialism has, moreover, been worked out into complete systems.

We may site Proudhon's Philosophie de la Misere as an example of this

form.

The Socialistic bourgeois want all the advantages of modern social

conditions without the struggles and dangers necessarily resulting

therefrom. They desire the existing state of society minus its

revolutionary and disintegrating elements. They wish for a bourgeoisie

without a proletariat. The bourgeoisie naturally conceives the world in

which it is supreme to be the best; and bourgeois Socialism develops this

comfortable conception into various more or less complete systems. In

requiring the proletariat to carry out such a system, and thereby to march

straightway into the social New Jerusalem, it but requires in reality, that

the proletariat should remain within the bounds of existing society, but

should cast away all its hateful ideas concerning the bourgeoisie.

A second and more practical, but less systematic, form of this Socialism

sought to depreciate every revolutionary movement in the eyes of the

working class, by showing that no mere political reform, but only a change

in the material conditions of existence, in

...

I saw you there
dancing
throwing her on the floor
like another one of your toys.
I had to pull out my army knife
and slit your face;
I had to watch the
blood stream from your open wounds
at the same speed as the apologies
that parted from your lips.
It was almost hard
to keep up with your show,
but I must admit
that it was good entertainment.

You know,
I still couldn't help but notice
that your pocket knife
was bigger than the one I bought
for myself.
An extra blade or two,
a better pair of tweezers.
And you were so proud
of your little gadgets,
and you were so sure
that it was a better pocket knife.
But I can't help but think
that not only does mine
do the job,
but it does the job well,
and because you never use yours
it's all just a waste.

We do not here refer to that literature which, in every great modern

revolution, has always given voice to the demands of the proletariat, such

as the writings of Babeuf and others.

The first direct attempts of the proletariat to attain its own ends, made

in times of universal excitement, when feudal society was being

overthrown, these attempts necessarily failed, owing to the then

undeveloped state of the proletariat, as well as to the absence of the

economic conditions for its emancipation, conditions that had yet to be

produced, and could be produced by the impending bourgeois epoch alone.

The revolutionary literature that accompanied these first movements of

the proletariat had necessarily a reactionary character. It inculcated

universal asceticism and social levelling in its crudest form.

The Socialist and Communist systems properly so called, those of Saint-

Simon, Fourier, Owen and others, spring into existence in the early

undeveloped period, described above, of the struggle between proletariat

and bourgeoisie (see Section 1. Bourgeois and Proletarians).

The founders of these systems see, indeed, the class antagonisms, as well

as the action of the decomposing elements, in the prevailing form of

society. But the proletariat, as yet in its infancy, offers to them the

spectacle of a class without any historical initiative or any independent

political movement.

Since the development of class antagonism keeps even pace with the

development of industry, the economic situation, as they find it, does not

as yet offer to them the material conditions for the emancipation of the

proletariat. They therefore search after a new social science, after new

social laws, that are to create these conditions.

Historical action is to yield to their personal inventive action,

historically created conditions of emancipation to fantastic ones, and the

gradual, spontaneous class-organisation of the proletariat to the

organisation of society specially contrived by these inventors. Future

history resolves itself, in their eyes, into the propaganda and the

practical carrying out of their social plans.

In the formation of their plans they are conscious of caring chiefly for the

interests of the working class, as being the most suffering class. Only

from the point of view of being the most suffering class does the

proletariat exist for them.

The undeveloped state of the class struggle, as well as their own

surroundings, causes Socialists of this kind to consider themselves far

superior to all class antagonisms. They want to improve the condition of

every member of society, even that of the most favoured. Hence, they

habitually appeal to society at large, without distinction of class; nay, by

preference, to the ruling class. For how can people, when once they

understand their system, fail to see in it the best possible plan of the

best possible state of society?

Hence, they reject all political, and especially all revolutionary, action;

they wish to attain their ends by peaceful means, and endeavour, by small

experiments, necessarily doomed to failure, and by the force of example,

to pave the way for the new social Gospel.

Such fantastic pictures of future society, painted at a time when the

proletariat is still in a very undeveloped state and has but a fantastic

conception of its own position correspond with the first instinctive

yearnings of that class for a general reconstruction of society.

But these Socialist and Communist publications contain also a critical

element. They attack every principle of existing society. Hence they are

full of the most valuable materials for the enlightenment of the working

class. The practical measures proposed in them - -such as the abolition

of the distinction between town and country, of the family, of the carrying

on of industries for the account of private individuals, and of the wage

system, the proclamation of social harmony, the conversion of the

functions of the State into a mere superintendence of production, all these

proposals, point solely to the disappearance of class antagonisms which

were, at that time, only just cropping up, and which, in these publications,

are recognised in their earliest, indistinct and undefined forms only.

These proposals, therefore, are of a purely Utopian character.

The significance of Critical-Utopian Socialism and Communism bears an

inverse relation to historical development. In proportion as the modern

class struggle develops and takes definite shape, this fantastic standing

apart from the contest, these fantastic attacks on it, lose all practical

value and all theoretical justification. Therefore, although the

originators of these systems were, in many respects, revolutionary, their

disciples have, in every case, formed mere reactionary sects. They hold

fast by the original views of their masters, in opposition to the

progressive historical development of the proletariat. They, therefore,

endeavour, and that consistently, to deaden the class struggle and to

reconcile the class antagonisms. They still dream of experimental

realisation of their social Utopias, of founding isolated "phalansteres," of

establishing "Home Colonies," of setting up a "Little Icaria" - duodecimo

editions of the New Jerusalem - and to realise all these castles in the

air, they are compelled to appeal to the feelings and purses of the

bourgeois. By degrees they sink into the category of the reactionary

conservative Socialists depicted above, differing from these only by more

systematic pedantry, and by their fanatical and superstitious belief in the

miraculous effects of their social science.

They, therefore, violently oppose all political action on the part of the

working class; such action, according to them, can only result from blind

unbelief in the new Gospel.

The Owenites in England, and the Fourierists in France, respectively,

oppose the Chartists and the Reformistes.

IV. POSITION OF THE COMMUNISTS IN RELATION TO THE VARIOUS EXISTING

OPPOSITION PARTIES

Section II has made clear the relations of the Communists to the existing

working-class parties, such as the Chartists in England and the Agrarian

Reformers in America.

The Communists fight for the attainment of the immediate aims, for the

enforcement of the momentary interests of the working class; but in the

movement of the present, they also represent and take care of the future

of that movement. In France the Communists ally themselves with the

Social-Democrats, against the conservative and radical bourgeoisie,

reserving, however, the right to take up a critical position in regard to

phrases and illusions traditionally handed down from the great Revolution.

In Switzerland they support the Radicals, without losing sight of the fact

that this party consists of antagonistic elements, partly of Democratic

Socialists, in the French sense, partly of radical bourgeois.

In Poland they support the party that insists on an agrarian revolution as

the prime condition for national emancipation, that party which fomented

the insurrection of Cracow in 1846.

In Germany they fight with the bourgeoisie whenever it acts in a

revolutionary way, against the absolute monarchy, the feudal squirearchy,

and the petty bourgeoisie.

But they never cease, for a single instant, to instil into the working class

the clearest possible recognition of the hostile antagonism between

bourgeoisie and proletariat, in order that the German workers may

straightaway use, as so many weapons against the bourgeoisie, the social

and political conditions that the bourgeoisie must necessarily introduce

along with its supremacy, and in order that, after the fall of the

reactionary classes in Germany, the fight against the bourgeoisie itself

may immediately begin.

The Communists turn their attention chiefly to Germany, because that

country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution that is bound to be carried

out under more advanced conditions of European civilisation, and with a

much more developed proletariat, than that of England was in the

seventeenth, and of France in the eighteenth century, and because the

bourgeois revolution in Germany will be but the prelude to an immediately

following proletarian revolution.

In short, the Communists everywhere support every revolutionary

movement against the existing social and political order of things.

In all these movements they bring to the front, as the leading question in

each, the property question, no matter what its degree of development at

the time.

Finally, they labour everywhere for the union and agreement of the

democratic parties of all countries.

The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly

declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of

all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a

Communistic revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their

chains. They have a world to win.

WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor's copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@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.

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It's a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 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.