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Dusty Dog Reviews The whole project is hip, anti-academic, the poetry of reluctant grown-ups, picking noses in church. An enjoyable romp! Though also serious. |
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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. |
A Letter to our Political Leaders
After watching a few of our elections, I noticed that politicians were trying to warm up to the twenty-something crowd. It’s a wise decision: we’re a strong group of intelligent, new voters. And, as a rule, we’re disatisfied with the United States’ current political system. It’s a chance for either party to take a hold of a growing and promising voter group and insure additional votes in future elections.
It would help to know what this group is looking for, though, if there’s a disatisfaction with our current parties, and to understand this, it may help to learn a little more about this group. Although I claim to be no spokesperson for all people aged 20-29, I can give you some insight into how I think, as a member of this “age group.”
I’m a twenty-something. But classifying us “twenty-somethings” or “generation x-ers” by our age is something I as an individual finds insulting. I know that we’re Americans, but I also know that we as a group have differing opinions, and we have a right to those opinions. We can have different views on our careers, or families, our music. And that’s something I value - and I feel like is constantly being taken away from us.
Other pressure groups may want you to pass laws telling them when a rapist moves into their neighborhood, but I know that that just causes more red tape and costs us through tax revenue more dollars, when that information is public; besides, it’s not the government’s responsibility to inform, it the individual’s. Other pressure groups may want you to pass laws telling them that they need to wear their seat belts, but I know that in a Capitalistic society it’s not the government’s role to protect people from themselves, but from the force of others, and that is all. Other pressure groups may want you to pass all sorts of laws, but they are by and large laws that go beyond the jurisdiction of the American government. Other groups may want the government telling them what to do all the time, but I don’t.
Part of the twenty-something’s disatisfaction (if I may speak for the group) with our current parties may be because neither party embodies a consostent set of values. Granted, our government-sponsored school systems teach students in general that philosophy is too difficult a subject for a single person to understand. And religion may not offer a practical solution for anyone that believes in individual rights, the rights this country was founded on (I mean, Christianity telling people that the meek shall inherit the earth and the self-sacrifice for the benefit of others os good directly clashes with the idea than the individual has a brain and the right to use it, the right to claim what they have earned and even become successful). But young people, especially ones who still have a glimmer of hope that there is something out there that makes sense, when all their lives their schools and leaders have kept from them that their mind is the answer, young people want their political parties to make sense. Currently, neither platform, whether Democratic or Republican - is consistent or cohesive.
If a person believes that government intervention beyond the necessities - police protection from the force of others, for example - is worng, neither political party supports them. Republicans believe in less government when it comes to leaving businesses alone - economically the government should let businesses prosper - but when it comes to personal parts of people’s lives - choosing to have an abortion, whether consenting adults want to engage in sexual activities that are not what they consider “the norm,” the kinds of art work people make and see - then Republicans know what’s best for us, and want to tell us what to do.
Democrats believe in less government intervention when it comes to these personal issues, but when it comes to businesses and the economy, Democrats want to be able to regulate industries because they’ll hurt people, they want to be able to tax businesses because big business is bad (Why? No answer.), and they want to be able to take money away from people, via business regulations and taxation, in order to give it away to people who haven’t earned it (there’s no more realistic explanation of the welfare system - other than robbery from the people who produce in this country).
Republicans and Democrats both believe the government should stay out of their business, whatever their business may happen to be. Other people’s business? Feel free to meddle.
Even on more specific subjects both parties split their decisions moralistically. The religious right, a Christian group of Republicans, as well as Republicans in general, will tell you that it’s horrible to kill an unborn child, but it’s okay to kill someone that’s already alive and that has committed a crime (what happened to “turn the other cheek”?). If life is so sacred, why is capital punishment being pushed by Republicans? With our current appeals system, it isestimated that it takes six times as much money to kill someone as it does to keep them in jail for life. And who pays for it? We do, the individuals. The tax payers. The producers.
But the one thing both parties have in common is that they want to take away at least some of our rights. That’s why we’re do disenchanted with the political parties we have today. Republicans want to take away our personal rights, Democrats want to take away our economic rights. Taxation, the Democrats’ answer (so that people can still have goods and services while not working for them) taxation for anything other than the essentials is forcibly taking away what individuals have earned. It’s forcibly taking away people’s money. That’s the definition of robbery. And laws instilled by Republicans to protect our private lives, so that we are just like them, are not only forcibly telling us how to live, but enacting laws that also cause paperwork costs and costs in enforcing them. Who does the government pay for these thing? Taxation, again, which means: we, the individuals, pay for the government telling us what to do.
Every election, I’m sure a good number of people, people with intelligence, people using reason and logic to the best of their ability in making a decision, go to the polls wondering, “Which rights am I willing to lose?”
Well, we shouldn’t be losing any of those rights. We should have less government intervention in all respects of our lives.
I’m a twenty-something. I’m a woman, but I don’t tell the government I need quotas to get a job, because I know that “life, libery and the pursuit of happiness” means just that - it means I can pursue whatever I want. But it doesn’t mean the government should be handing it to me on a platter.
I’m a twenty-something. I’m intelligent, and I don’t need the government protecting me from myslef. That’s not what I’m paying for it to do.
I’m a twenty-something. I’m looking for a political party that embodies not my beliefs, but the belief that people can have their own beliefs (whether or not people choose to live by logic and reason or not is not for the government to control). I’m looking for a political party that knows that individuals can have their lives (that’s the “life” part of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”), they can have the right to keep their lives (that no one has the right to take something that belongs to you, like taxation for the welfare state, or that no one has the right to try to take away your life, unlike what the government does to death-row prisoners, for instance). I’m looking for a political party that knows that individuals have the right to pursue their own goals, without intervention from the government and without help from the government (that you can’t expect handouts, but you also can start a business to sustain your life without being burdened by overtaxation and regulation).
I’m a twenty-something. I’m looking for a political party that embodies not my beliefs, but the belief that people can have their own beliefs. I’m looking for a political party that knows that individuals can have their lives, they can have the right to keep their lives. I’m looking for a political party that knows that individuals have the right to pursue their own goals, without intervention from the government and without help from the government.
I’m a twenty-something, and I’m looking for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Can anyone give it to me?
“A Lost Morning”
Tori L. Wilfred
tori@neo.lrun.com
The moon finishes her lavendering
caressing the lonely marsh,
a frosty mirror of the encircling fragile
skeletons of lanky grass
dead, opaque,
foreshadowing a throbbing past-
a verdant and animated vitality
the replenishing veiled,
the silence, as unadorned
as the watchful railroad tracks
long unremembered,
utter and wise comprehend the expanse.
Then, a parting of the wavering fog,
a splurge of shrewd color on
Nature’s sepian photograph,
A lone mallard conceding splendor
to the dull reflection
with ever-expanding circles of rhythm
rekindling vernal energy.
a mad lib
by doug whitter
dwhitter@dmv.com
i run the final sip of dr. pepper
feel it jump it’s way down my nose
hiss at it scorching my toes
and reach for the book to pour myself another.
Tom thinks of how my arms shout
every time I let the water walk me.
Then I look down at my ears -
crying - lying in the glass of pepsi -
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have sat Doug away from me.
But didn’t. And I keep driving
why I swam in your hell, swam in your tea.
I remember how Debbie shouted her way
through me. Abby corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept fighting back.
I let Becky infect me, and now you’ve
learned a hole through me. I skipped it.
Now I have to rid myself of a dog,
and my cat is snoring between the
shirts in the towel nestled in my finger.
But I have to fly more. The pulling
doesn’t last as long as Chris does.
Jesus M.Trejo
jtrejo@ccr.dsi.uanl.mx
To walk nostalgic sepian streets,
to run glorious magnificent miles
as snowflakes add to leafless branches
and the hiding sun gives breath to night
to let lights sprout from every degree.
Amongst strong winds from northern source,
atop the world on towering shields,
afloat the water from bluest lake,
above it all this town prevails.
I hear,Chicago,the whistling winds,
I see,Chicago,the soaring buildings,
I smell,Chicago,the Michigan waves.
To feed the ear with echoing jazz,
to treat the eye to visible spirit
as a traffic river flows from west to east
and smiling faces hallmark footsteps
like footsteps hallmark smiling shoes.
Across frozen shores on longest winters,
under the streets in tunnels as roots,
along the bridges above hardened river,
inside and out this town is felt.
I hear,Chicago,the cultured notes,
I see,Chicago,the scattered paint,
I smell,Chicago,the perfumed smiles.
To hear,to see,to smell,
to feel Chicago.
Cheryl Townsend
Impetus@aol.com
Sometimes my tits feel
like they are being vacuumed
into someone’s hands anyone’s
hands Like they need to be
Have to be fondled Groped
Sucked Licked Used
Sometimes I brush against
someone something to
appease them To squelch
screaming needs Sometimes
I hide in darkness and
just do it myself Some
times I get lucky and don’t
Cheryl Towmsend
Impetus@aol.com
his pillow with my lipstick
Left a nylon in the crease
of his fitted sheet My patchouli
is an oil that lasts My red hair
is curly and noticeable when
placed just right anywhere
I have planted subliminal
reminders in his subconscious
Made sure I will always be there
when I am not and more so when
someone else is
Christopher Stolle
cstolle@indiana.edu
slices
of bread cut
by bloody knives
that Carrie once held.
dust balls
rolling upon the floor
get the silver-handled broom
and work like Cinderella.
oh, book of fairy tales
haven’t I seen the wizard
or the open brandy bottle
and she wore
purple stockings.
free will
conscience of a mad-man
where suicide is a challenge
met by the arrow of Robin Hood.
murder
running through cemeteries
under full moons of cloudy scenes
in the essence of Sherlock Holmes.
oh, book of folk tales
haven’t I seen the witch
or the shot of gin
and she wore
blue stockings.
description
of some inarticulate object
well beyond imagination
as Edgar Allan Poe writes it.
religious dogma
unscripted scripture of dead seas
where unholy lands are uninhibited
and only Jesus suffers.
oh, book of fairy tales
haven’t I seen the wizard
or the open brandy bottle
and she wore
purple stockings . . .
with a needle in her arm
and a hundred dollars in her purse.
bunny: a conversation with Ashley
dedicated to Jared, an actress
we sat at the church together;
you asking me about how I’ve been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about yo-yos.
You said you didn’t leave it,
and I strained to sleep
why: for Michael, the person of doctoring, the
person whose oak tree is his temple,
the person who will scream to the
death. You loved the thought of
buckets, the thought of holes, of basketball,
of pencil sharpeners. And I ate here
in the swimming pool while you leaped
on the edge. I sweet-toned. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of jumping more dramatic,
renowned, more shallow, more level-headed,
than boring shorts. You’d want to
smash with them one on one, man to
man, with your toenails. And your ears
lit up. I was beginning to engage,
now, only years later. I’ll remember
you with the inhospitable lover in front of
your bunny, and your passion of Ashley.
Mad Lib by Gary Soriano and Janet Kuypers
Eric Siegel
erics@elmhurst.edu
The globe has revolved 36 times
The drought had been for 35
Then the clouds began to form
A sight I had not seen before
Thunder and lightning possessed my world
Wonderous energy, wet and pure
Let me tell you what transpired
Love I found, now expired
A passing storm, fragile and finite
Thank god for rain, the water satisfies
On that fateful day my eyes were wet
The land was dry, the storm had went
Left with dreams, fond memories
Another hill to climb, pray for rain.
She writes about me, and I write about her.
That’s the way it works, you see.
She writes about me, and I write about her
and in our obsessive performing schedules we have
it ends up
she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Irving Park,
and yes, sometimes, Humboldt Park
she writes about me, and I write about her
and she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
and the people know
they know that she’s writing about me and I’m writing about her
because they are friends of ours
and the scene is incestuous to begin with
becau se getting older does not mean getting better
and a larger population does not mean a larger dating pool
they know that she’s writing about me and I’m writing about her
and if they don’t we drop in hints every so often
and they talk
and they giggle
and they say to us
“Hey, didja know she was writing about you last week?”
and
“Hey, didja know he was reading about you over there?”
“And over there?”
“And over there?”
as we hit the dusty trail
of open mics across these big shoulders of ours
and narrowly miss each other
by ten minutes, by five
“God, she was just here, she was just reading something about you”
And sometimes,
sometimes we do end up at the same open mic
where she doesn’t read something about me
and I don’t read something about her
but we still indeed read to each othe Zr
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on
“This next piece is about the way one of my ex-lovers made me feel”
“This next piece is about how important my sexuality is to me”
“This next piece is about how I want to be a writer for a living and if you are thinking of getting involved with me you should understand that up front”
“This next piece is about how I got hurt really badly in a relationship not too far in my past and you better fuckin’ pay attention because I don’t want any idle flirtation from you because I’m too weak and frail from this previous one to be able to take something that you might be doing just because you’re bored and not necessarily actually into it”
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on.
And we sit together
and we laugh
and we drink
and we laugh, and we drink, and we drink, a |nd we talk, and we laugh, and we drink, and we talk and we drink and we laugh and we drink and we drink.
And she goes to the bathroom and my friends run over and say, “Wasn’t that piece about... you know, HER? Doesn’t she know?”
And I say, “Of course she knows. She writes about me and I write about her. It’s how we communicate.”
She understands this because
we are two peas in a pod
cast from the same mold
long-lost siblings separated from birth
and a thousand other metaphors, none of which exactly work
And we have talked about this
and we have decided that having sex together would probably be a good thing
and hell, it seems like a foregone conclusion at this point, not really much we can do about it
But still, we can’t make that final leap
because we are both deathly afraid of losing that
pea
cast
sibling
muse
and all those other metaphors that didn’t work the first time
A xnd so she writes about me and I write about her
and she reads about me and I read about her
It is our way of dating
It is our way of having sex
And she gives me a ride home
and we sit in her car
and she says how regrettable it is that we have to separate for the night
and so I say not if you come in
and so she says do you want me to come in
and so I say do you want to come in
And we both know we’re going to chicken out
but we’re playing a game to see which of us will do it first
which of course... would be me
but as I’m getting out I see a flash of brilliance in her eyes
like tonight was the night she was waiting for me to not back down
like tonight was the night she was waiting for me to insist on her coming in
And I stop and think about that tonight in my bed
typing in my bed
smoking in my bed
as I continue writing about her
as I know that she continues writing about me
I.B. Rad
I B Radeck@aol.com
[Poem baed on incident describe by Chiam Potok in
“The Gates of November, Chronicles of the Slepak Family”]
In 1919, Solomon “Sam” Slepak,
heading a Siberian Peoples Militia,
linked up with Bolshevik partisans
under Nicholas Triapitsin
who, in greeting “Sam,”
invited him to a girlfriend’s birthday party.
That evening,
when Triapitsin was dancing with his sweetheart,
Sam had his men surround the building,
then, drawing his pistol,
arrested an astonished Triapitsin;
ostensibly, because, while drunk,
Triapitsin had made a few
ideologically incorrect remarks.
So, after a hasty trial
with no lawyers, no defense, no appeal,
the “counter revolutionaries,”
Triapstin, his girlfriend, and fellow officers,
were unceremoniously shot,
then dumped into a nearby river.
Such is how rebellions go,
seldom all neat and tidy or heroic;
but rather, just as if
when it comes to that human barbecue called revolution,
“Blood is the best sauce!*”
D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com
What I needed
is for you to board your pirate ship
and sail this ocean
and dig your pirate flag
deep into my soil.
What I did not know
is that you were burying your gold
waiting for me
to come pillage your land,
to make my claims.
So we sit,
guarding the treasures
which we didn’t even want,
staring at each other
from across this distance.
c ra mcguirt
when i was a kid,
i thought rasputin
really fucking cool.
i mean, goddam:
they poisoned him.
he didn’t die.
they stabbed him,
& he didn’t die.
they kicked him down
the cellar steps,
& shot him. still,
he didn’t die,
even when they
threw him in
the river,
& as he sank
through the ice,
he shook a fist
& cursed them
as he finally
died.
of course, this
was all before
i found out that
rasputin,
all three hundred
ugly unwashed
unrepent pounds
of him,
was screwing
the czar’s
old lady,
& realized
that rasputin
was even cooler
than i’d thought.
fast food worker
horsey facey Pop
eye forearms bi
ceps triceps but
tocks turning free
double whoppers in
to muscle showing
off her grease burns
****************************************
fightin’ 40
my muscles ripple
my fat ripples
****************************************
First Date
I belch my heart up onto the table.
Oh, excuse me! I say, all embarrassed.
Then - like coping with spaghetti - some quick
work with the silver, and I suck back up
the noodle-like veins that hang past my chin.
Has something come between us? The waiter
arrives. “Which wine is it that’s good with red
meat?” my date asks, trying to save the day.
I knew she liked me... Now I know how much.
5 a.m.
the bulb in my downcast
reading lamp (just switched
on), reflected in the first cup
of morning coffee, indicates
that the wattage is 09
I sip at it, and it is as if I am
being electrocuted: but very slowly
******************************
flee(t)/ing
deer head shape
in fallen aspen
leaves -
arc, arc, arc,
buck or doe?
dunno.
*****************************
foghorn...
gulls
*****************************
friend or foe?
the garter snake confronts
my walking stick
From the Dictionary
of Occupational Titles
back washer
baller
ball racker
beater (boot & shoe)
bed operator
belly roller
blade boner
blind hooker
boner
bosom presser
bottom-pounder
butt polisher
dukey rider
fur blower
hardener (oils & grease)
hardness tester
head boner
impregnator
layboy tender
mounter I
mounter II
mounter (furniture)
necker
reamer
reproduction technician
ripper (garment)
rubbing-bed operator
shaft sinker
shank boner
stick inserter
stiffener
stringer-up
stripper, latex
tearer (garment)
tip inserter
tip-length checker
top screw
vibrator-equipment tester
Bloodshed Waltz
By Tina L. Jens
tina_jen@para-net.com
I got visions of murder dancing in my head
They’re doing the bloodshed waltz
Bullets and daggers ripping through flesh
In perfect three-quarter time
A bearded grizzled man
With an axe in each hand
Is doing the Lambada
Down a dark hotel hall
A black-eyed woman
In Stilletto heels and matching
Switchblade in her purse
Cha-chas up the stairs
A little old lady
Way past 81
Is putting arsenic in bottles
Of whiskey and rum
Yeah, they’ve got visions of murder
Dancing in their head
They’re doing the bloodshed waltz
Bullets and daggers ripping through flesh
In perfect three-quarter time
Out in the backyard
A little boy picks up his bat
Swings for the cheap seats
And his best friend’s head
A woman in a nameless town
Dreams of the man she’s never had
Puts a pillow over the invalid’s face
And smothers her mother dead
Young and old they’ve all got visions
Visions of murder dancing in their heads
Doing the bloodshed waltz
Bullets and daggers ripping through flesh
In perfect three-quarter time
At night their dreams plague me
The endless ways to murder Everyone I know
The Sports Department at Kmart’s Got a sale on Sunday
Think I’ll go...
Cause I got visions of murder dancing in my head
I’m doing the bloodshed waltz
Bullets and daggers ripping through flesh
In perfect three-quarter time
c ra mcguirt
but at least
one of us is
an asshole,
not that meaning
well would make
either of us
less of an
asshole.
you know
what i mean...
damn. i keep
forgetting
that you
don’t.
MISERY LOVES COMPANY
c ra mcguirt
a few of my creations
are subtle & sublime.
some are stupid. most
are merely lazy.
in other words,
i haven’t done
any worse
than god.
D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com
Evolution
I am a new man, and we are the victims.
Direction
Facing Mexico, my horns cast shadows from the light of the sun bounced off of
the moon.
Equality
From the moon the Earth glows.
Illumine
It is not something picked up by the senses, but a sort of static.
A vibration.
A spot on my body that I would itch even without the irritation.
Prompt
I need your satellite smile.
The gravity-free cavity in your chest.
Transmission
If we pulled ourselves into the other we would still be outlines trying to be a solid.
Confrontation
Certain stars meet again.
Orbital patterns are like instinct.
We knew we’d circle around and past but we never thought we would collide.
Shape
Mass multiplied by form doubled by speed equals want.
Facade
You have called me an antique cathedral waiting for prayer.
Do not leave me.
Segue
Warmer than my blood and colder than my hate.
It is difficult being a misanthrope with you as part of this world.
Structure
I will love you.
by Michael McNeilley
It is 1953, and
I always go to bingo with my mom.
As we get dressed together,
I look at myself
in the mirror
over her dressing table,
then at the picture of
my dad.
My broad features hold
no resemblance
to his dark,
slender good looks.
At bingo,
watching the priest
look at my mother,
I suddenly get the idea
father Muldoon,
with his broad Irish features,
is my real father.
My dad died in Korea.
But Father Muldoon is
right here.
Bingo this day
Bingo and I
win a silver-plated
table lighter.
I take it from Father Muldoon,
but I cannot say the word
“Father” when I try to
thank him.
The old women
look daggers at me
as I carry it back
to my seat.
Vacating wind takes to overwrought comatose sleep
like a backsliding bard does to writers block.
Suddenly both expectations rise up and stare back
at you, lacking cigarettes to chain smoke paper cut doll,
patterning thoughts. Although heavy is the pouring rain.
A child’s iris peers through a full water glass balloons,
like a fly’s antennae stuck in maple syrup.
The ongoing perceptions engage and redact from any purpose
as one mindfully moons other curiosity seekers peering in,
invariably abstracting your innocence from solipsist aims.
Being down equates to what’s up, swinging upside down
from a resident tree limb, swaying like a rocking bat.
A carefree hourglass shifts sand back and forth as
peeping in, flashing irises, characteristically alert,
foreshadow a new moonlight with more petulant cadence.
An old man’s beard becomes like a permanent mole,
while a young man’s torso fruitlessly blazons on.
Another signing off, like the blowing of taps
before life’s perilous adventure even began,
and a full hairline begins its receding adventure.
I see final swig of the milkshake,
feel it talk its way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my neck
and reach for the hounddog to pour myself another.
I think of how the minister screams
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my feet,
swiming, holding the glass of peanut oil -
and jog at how these were the fingers
that should have sung you away from me.
But didn’t. And I keep looking
why I took your flying, took your tomatoe juice.
I drank how you walked your way
through my knees. You listened to the stewardess
from the inside smiling, and the athlete kept running back.
I let the vodka dive in me, and now the girl has
smoked a hole through my shoe. I talked it.
Now I have to rid myself of the exterminator,
and my jump rope is kicking between the
tractors in the scissors nestled in my tooth.
But I have to look more. The trotting
doesn’t wade as long as the janitor does.
the burning
by janet kuypers
I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it’s way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands -
shaking - holding the glass of poison -
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn’t. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you’ve
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn’t last as long as you do.
Jon Powell
In class, at Bloomington, I passed back
your funny note.
And then, years went by.
Love is like that:
it grows, it dies.
Then
you said you
wanted me to come to your MFA graduation,
that no one from Chicago could,
but after that, you wanted to drive
the Gulf coast alone. Something
you needed. In the dawn’s mist
I saw you leave, swallowed
into dunes, sea oats,
the cries of gulls. The morning’s brilliant fog. And
if there is something of this equation
out of kilter,
unbalancing the scales measuring,
it is not tactile,
visible in every spectrum of light,
or through hindsight’s gauze.
It is, rather,
like the deer
we once saw, frozen for one moment, then,
unbound by fear,
leapt away, leaving us
diminished, wanting.
Love is like this:
a deer slips into silver foliage,
someone drives away.
We obey natural laws,
unable, often, to see glimmerings
surrounding us
the tide’s rise and fall,
daybreak’s chrome bled
into the night, or
a city’s death.
Our fathers, and then the ones we loved,
had their hand
in our making.
That’s all we know,
this moment
and no more.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow could grow
unendurable,
unremitting;
or, too fleetingly,
tomorrow might lighten
your fated parting;
though, more plausibly,
through even more tomorrows
we’ll dance the Limbo.
Still, all we know,
each grudging moment,
only that,
and no more.
Ernest Slyman
ERSlyman@MSN.com
Understanding fully the function of art,
The natives of the island Mijjacca
Paint themselves red and orange and blue.
The Mijjacca are the makers of art, making ornaments
Out of clumps of blue clay,
Which they wear on special occasions-
Weddings and funerals, for example.
They see in our faces the faint traces
Of beauty and strength.
We think they study us,
But it may be they have fallen in love
With one of us or all of us.
The hopeless looks on their blue faces,
The quivering lips and the tender smiles
Are prevalent and most intrusive.
We haven’t given our answer as yet.
We’re not ready.
Another ritual
Mark Sonnenfeld
I see dark sweat pants I think murder with knives OJ.
Not medical doctors for Ireland.
Not Amsterdam branches.
he other Saturday night,
I was feelin’ kinda horny
So I went out to a bar,
To find somebody lonely
Already rather full,
Any old saloon would do
But I felt like some freak,
Walking into that zoo
Premonitions of a blonde,
Got me to really thinkin’
So I sat right on down
And started seriously drinkin’
I imagined her big,
Oh so buxom and true
Memories of a fine female,
Who I once knew
One vodka, two vodka,
Three vodka rocks-
This person, that person,
But all I could see were cocks!
So I said to the bartender,
“Where are all the chicks?”
He said “Sorry, daddy,
You’d better settle for dicks!”
Seeing this was certainly not,
A place to find some snatch
I tried to stand on up,
When I suddenly met my match
Lord, she was fiercely stacked!
Huge blonde hair and big jutting ass
I was talkin’ in tongues,
When I made my first pass
I said: “Hey, baby,
What about you and me?”
She said: “Tell me your name-
Mine’s ‘Barbie.’”
“Barbie!” I exclaimed,
Recognizing that sweet lass
The blonde doll from my youth,
Was propositioning my cash!
Fifty for some fun,
Hundred for half-n-half
My pockets were bulging,
And my head full of math
Now a date with a hook,
Was not even anticipated
But let me tell you,
This chick was not over-rated
Titties out to here,
An ass out to there-
I could have sat in a fag bar,
For all I could care
Soon we were in a taxi,
On our way to her place
I thought she was replacing her maxi,
But she was only fixing her face
She had all the right moves,
The swish, the swash, the sashay-
As we stopped at a liquor store
Of course I would pay
The store owner saw us waltz in,
Big furry guy with big busty bimbo
While the look that he gave us,
Should have alerted my libido
We arrived at her apartment,
Me, she, and a fifth of Jack in toe
She asked that I take my shoes off,
Pretty classy place for a hoe
I looked into her bedroom,
Almost expecting to find Ken
She dashed into the bathroom,
Probably to count all her yen
Even more glamorous
She came out ten minutes later,
Looking most fabulous,
So happy that I’d paid her
“It’s just me and you baby,”
She said with a silicone smile
I truly admired her fearsome body,
Thought I’d stay for a while
More womanly a woman,
Than any woman I’d known
She did me way fine,
Until I was well-blown
Always kinda greedy,
When it comes to the fair sex
Never able to get enough,
Must be that femme fatale hex
So I asked how much more,
For a visit to her house of sin
She told me I was so cute,
I could do her for just a fin
As I reached into my wallet,
Barbie poured us a mean stiffy
We drank and were drunken,
Her skimpy top off in a jiffy
I squeezed her ample masses,
She quickly pulled off my tacky shirt
Then I discovered a serious issue,
One I could hardly avert
For as I dived for her privates,
She suddenly presented me with genius
“This Barbie’s not only plastic,
But the girl’s got a huge penis!”
Next thing I knew,
The bitch was on top of me
A master of gender,
And now of endoscopy
I took it with gusto,
I took it with finesse-
I took it from Barbie,
That I must confess
Real chicks sporting lots of work,
Or any other fake plasticky toy
Now evoke thoughts of my Barbie,
Who turned out to be a boy
The experience certainly taught me,
What you see is not always what you get-
What you get might not be what you pay for,
Sexual confusion a sure fire bet
But now I am enlightened,
To the ways of that doll Bar-bie
And understand for the first time,
All her appeal and mystery
For beneath all that plastic,
And those many accessories
There lies something special,
Enough to get ya on yer knees
Now as for that Ken doll,
I certainly cannot speculate
For all that I know,
She might be first rate
With muscles toned and well defined,
Brimming with athletic vim and vigor
Old Ken might be a real trooper
Even without his trusty trigger
Now if you have some imagination,
And can visualize some exotic feats
You might even consider,
A child born to these freaks
They would all live oh so happily,
A swell suburb house or city ren-tal
Just another American family
So typically boring and sadly dysfunctional
But I retain my thoughts of Barbie,
When she was single but not for free
I just love my transsexual Barbie!
A boy who lived to be all she could be
Cheryl Townsend
Impetua@aol.com
was all that I could
think of when she asked
me what he looked like
his creamy ass and
lips my nipples wanted
to meet when he spoke
I knew I needed to hear
his voice whisper my
name into my hair and
his eyes just echoed
my every fantasy in a
hush
Paul Weinman
Propping a dead sparrow
against a backyard rock
I sighed for forgotten fathers
gestured them up from graves
to form a marching band.
Salt is spread on streets
to slow decay, add taste.
Wives of a few howl
hang stained bedsheets
from lightning-struck trees.
As soon as tubas are set
the bits and pieces of men
parade off in random rhythms
tunes no one can remember
make heads or tails of ...
much less, whistle.
helena wolfe
i used to think that i was no good
that i was worthless that i meant nothing
and then i got a good job
and then i got me a ton of money
and then i looked in the mirror
and i realized i was gorgeous
and people laughed at my jokes
and people thought i was talented and strong
and now i look around me
and i can’t find anyone good enough
and i wonder if i expect too much
but i know for a fact that i deserve more
FIVE YEARS AGO THAT AUGUST
by Lyn Lifshin
It was just
four days before.
There was blood already
creeping into maple.
She’d be carried
out in purple velvet,
sleep with sand in
her eyes but there were
still enough hours
to rub her feet, doze
exhausted on the
mattress near the
hospital bed, say it was
ok. It would be as
she had, so often, tho
this time after she said
love she just shook
her head
deckard kinder
newman@ntr.net
I touch you
softly
tenderly
my fingertips
your gentle hand
my fingertips
my tongue
the sweet curve
of your neck
my tongue
my lips
the sensuous sweep
of your back
my lips
your luscious lips
how slow
we go
unhurried
by fear
how slow
leisurely
in love
how
your deep eyes
invite me
unspoken words
unimagined pleasure
unending desire
I touch you
you touch me
we touch
quietly
innocently
my skin
your skin
my breath
your breath
my soul
your soul
your eyes
swallow me
my words
drown you
all in ways
nobody knows
except us
feminine
masculine
blend
become one
as we are
all this
and love
too
We Laugh When We See A Robot.
The Metal Or Plastic Kind.
We Are Pleased We Are Not A Robot,
Created From An Inventors Mind.
But We All Are Really Robots,
Hypnotized In What We Do.
Our Days Are Truly Repetitive.
This Repetition Is Our Clue.
Things We Do On A Daily Basis,
Doing Them Over And Over Again.
Seeing The Same Similar Faces.
Similar Greetings To Them We Send.
This Is Part Of Our Daily Strife,
These Deeds We Have To Fulfill.
Making Changes In Your Life,
May Offer You A Thrill.
Change Places Of Where You Go.
The Style Of Clothes You Wear.
Find New People To Get To Know.
Even The Style Of Your Hair.
So When You See A Robotic Toy
Or A Real One That Even Works
Remember A Laugh, Not To Employ.
You May Find A Robotic Mind,
You Also Now Employ.
by Mark Hartenbach
my machine chants
it’s lunkhead mantra
skipping all
intimate details
in favour
of grandiose statements
that i sometimes
understand,
often do not try
. fire the bud up
when i want
to chew
on disputed notions,
when i need
to quiet
heaven down,
when i need
to assume a stance
& everything points
toward
falling
down.
John Grey
He is never a lost cause.
My thoughts can drag him
back from the dead
and though my hands can’t heal,
my memory can.
I need this chair
and the wall-paper helps,
those flush English ladies
with red umbrellas
and flaired dresses
who have been strolling nowhere
for forty years,
their time well spent
as mine is now,
remembering their
cool, expressionless faces
with his eyes.
We share these ribs
of rocking wood,
even the cricket noises
for with insects
the sameness of their sound
is constantly renewed,
and maybe the smells
of old blankets and furniture,
the touch of curtains
that have sponged up the window light,
bold and purple,
for as long as love
has laughed the anger from these walls.
But the ladies know it best,
they taught color and form
to my quizzing eyes,
they gave him grace and beauty
to lean on,
they carry us back and forth,
across the years,
without cracking open
their faces,
without raising their hands.
Joan Papalia Eisert
m sssstuck
i want me dead
dead and
ssssilent
dead and
ffffluent
you mocked me
when nothing would
come out of my
mouth
my gaping vulnerable
mouth
a cave leading into
boulders
and barricades
suffocating
air was diamond dust
with a red wall
of fire
trapped behind my
you dissolved
you go to hell
Rachel Crawford
luna@pacbell.net
I stole my way
Along the stair
In the hot and humid air
To see what I could see
I saw my mother hanging
Naked from the beam
“Good for you”
I cried with glee
As I pushed
To watch her swing
But when I touched her body
I woke up from my dream
janet kuypers
ccandd@shout.net
It was one of those rites of passage. A Bah
Mitzvah of sorts. But this was bigger, much bigger
than shaving for the first time or getting your period.
This was the chance for all young high school men to
lose their virginity and a chance for all young high
school women to dress up, feel like adults, look pretty.
Everyone felt the driving need to go through this
rite of passage, to not be left out, to be a part of the
group. Either way, you got to take a day off of school.
But like every rite of passage, the high school prom
is probably more traumatic than fun, because no matter
what, you feel like you have to go, and the entire time
you have to look like you’re having fun. Especially for
the photographers. You have to have a perfect record
of your perfect life so you can upstage everyone else.
With every aspect of prom, there was always a
conflict, an expense, or an irony. I mean, this is
supposed to be one of the best times in your life, and
it’s wrought with confusion. First, find a date. Has to
be someone socially acceptable, otherwise it would
be less embarassing to just not go. Then, go
through the trauma of asking your prospective date
to actually go with you, or if you’re a woman, wait
to be asked, which is almost more cruel.
Then, see which of your friends are going,
organize what group you’ll go with to your prom.
Then you have to start working on the details.
For men, this meant transportation, the cheapest
tuxedo, what kind of corsage to buy, something that
pins on, something they wear on their wrist, or
something they carry, like a bouquet. Oh, and don’t forget
the most important part: enough liquor and/or condoms.
Note how suddenly the prospect of multiple hookers
performing anything you’d ever want is both less expensive
and less of a hassle than this quote-unquote “date.”
For women, the details meant picking out the right
dress, the right shoes, the right purse, the right
jewelry, the right perfume, the right make-up, the
right hairstyle. Note how you have to then coordinate
your clothing with your date. So much like real life.
Then, beg your parents to let you wear the dress you
picked out, or keep the make-up and hairstyle the way
you wanted it. Beg your parents to let you borrow their
sportscar. Beg you parents for enough money to pay for
the limo, the flowers, the clothes, the film for the camera.
Beg your parents to let you stay out past curfew, how
about 6 a.m., just this once. But, come on, it’s prom.
Then the Big Day arrives. Ditch school, because you
know, getting you hair done can take hours, and you
want to spend some time in the sun, so you don’t look
as pale as a ghost for the pictures. Then, after getting
ready for an inordinate amount of time, meet up and
take the pictures. Urgh. This usually entails the man
picking up the woman, taking pictures at the woman’s
parent’s house, then going back to the man’s parent’s
house and taking more pictures there. It’s almost
worse than a wedding.
Then finally arrive at Prom. Take more pictures.
Talk to as many friends as you can there, compliment
their dresses and tuxedos. Find out what everyone
else is doing after prom, see if anyone is doing
anything better than you. Note how many women are
repeatedly pulling up their strapless dresses so they
don’t fall out of them. Note how many men are already
drunk, and look, it’s not even dinner yet. Take lots of
pictures with your instamatic camera. Let’s do a group
shot. Oh, let me take a picture with so-and-so.
Then eat. Try to figure out how to eat your salad
without using your knife. Check to see how little all
the women are actually eating. Note how many women
go to the bathroom in groups. In any case, whatever
you do, don’t stop feeling awkward. But keep smiling.
Then the dancing. Try to remember what your father
taught you. Try not to look stiff. Try not to sweat.
Dance in a box. Right foot forward, feet together,
left foot left, feet together, right foot backward, feet
together, right foot right, feet together. Or go for the
high school standby; wrap your arms around each
other and sway, occasionally making out in the middle
of the dance floor. Note how many women have
their lipstick smeared across their cheek, or on their
date’s collar. Note how many bow ties have loosened.
Then collect your things, say your good-byes, take a few
more photos and head out for the after-prom activities.
Possible options include a late dinner, a four-hour boat
cruise, a walk along the lake, a bonfire, bowling, a hotel
party, or the back of dad’s sportscar. Note how disheveled
you look by six a.m.; try to clean yourself up in the car
before you get to your driveway, in case your parents
are waiting for you. Don’t make out for too long as you
say your good-byes in front of your house.
Then, get in the house as quietly as possible, drop all your
clothes into a pile in the middle of your bedroom floor,
and collapse on your bed. Here’s a helpful hint: drink a glass
of water and take a vitamin and some aspirin before
crashing; it will help with the hangover. Try to get
some sleep before the day-after-prom amusement park
trip, and keep in mind that even though prom is over,
your friends will be rehashing it for at least a week.
This is the ritual. Now go to sleep.
anet kuypers
ccandd@shout.net
I’m wondering if there’s something
chemical that brings people together,
something that brings people to their
knees, somethings that sucks them in
And I’m wondering if you’re sensing what I’m
sensing, is it just me, am I making this up
in my head, or when I glance up and catch your
eyes, well, are you actually staring at me
And I’m wondering if it could work out this
time, if we’d have one of those relationships
that no one ever doubts, especially us,
because we know we’ll always be in love
And I’m wondering if you’d find
my neurotic pet-peeves charming
like how I hate it when someone touches
my belly because I’m so self conscious
And I’m wondering why you had to tell me
when we happened to be sitting next to each
other that the fact that our legs were almost
touching was making your heart race
And I’m wondering why I felt the need
to take your cigarette and inhale, exhale
while the filter was still warm from
your lips, there just seconds before
And I’m wondering if a year or two from now,
after we’ve been going out and should have
gotten to the point where we are bored with
each other and sink into a comfortable rut
if you saw me making macaroni and cheese
in the kitchen using margarine and water
because I’m out of milk and I’ve got my hair
pulled back and strands are falling into my
eyes and I’m wearing an oversized button-down
denim shirt and nothing else, well, what
I’m wondering is if you would see me
like this and still think I was sexy
When I glance up and catch your eyes from
across the room, when I see your eyes dart
away, when I feel this chemical reaction, well,
it makes me wonder if you can feel it too
ladies and gentlemen
high above the dancing elephants
and the clowns driving around
in their little cars
honking their horns
high above the lion tamers
with their whips and chairs
is our main attraction
tonight:
all eyes turn to
Athena, the tightrope walker
see her gracefully step
out onto the paper-thin wire
balance high above everyone else
while all eyes are on her
all without a net
would you like to see her
do a flip? a spin? touch the rope
with her tiny, fragile fingers?
Athena will put on the
grandest of shows for you
imagine, if you will, the fear
she must feel:
with one wrong move
she falls to her death
into the mouths of the lions
in between the running clowns
come, see her perform:
watch her walk
watch her move
watch her shake
this is
the greatest show
on earth
Breathe
Caron Andregg caron@ktb.net
Of all our indulgences
I most miss your kiss
The one that steals my breath
The one that drives me mad
Where time becomes an empty glass
Our bodies empty shells
No legs, no hands, no eyes
Oblivious
All that we are is liquid
Slung along spiraling tongues
The click of your fine white teeth
The taste of your mouth
Let me live in that kiss
And please
Don’t make me
Breathe
I’ve been dreaming of you lately.
Usually, in my dreams, I see you
for just a short while,
then you have to leave.
Maybe you tell me you miss me.
Maybe you kiss me.
Last night, when you left me once again
I drove after you
to the airport so I could say
goodbye to you one more time.
In my dreams you’re always with me.
In my dreams you’re always leaving me.
In my dreams I run after you.
Just to say goodbye again.
And what I want to know is
when are these dreams going to stop.
And what I want to know is
are you dreaming of me too.
I daydream about you in the mornings
while my legs are still tangled in my sheets.
I close my eyes, so I can feel you there,
curled up against me. Why -
why do I have to get out of this bed.
And what I want to know is
if you saw me hit by a car
my lifeless body lying in the street
would you hold me up against you,
would you hold my limp arms
in your coarse hands.
Would you rock me to sleep.
Would you cry.
Would you not want to say goodbye.
And what I want to know is
if you saw the car speeding toward me
would you instantly run to me
because life is no longer life
without the one you love.
I know what I would say.
I know my answers.
And what I want to know is
if I will live like this forever.
And what I want to know is
if I’m going to suffer this alone.
And what I want to know is
are you dreaming of me too.
Last Night
I was a trembling woman
who was stirred from sleep
because of an awful ache.
I was warm
too warm
and yet I wrapped
a sock
around my neck
I was cold
too cold
and yet
the tile
on the bathroom floor
felt
so good
against
my cheek.
I crouched over
my slick
toilet seat
looking at
the water
squinting and clenching
my teeth
mumbling
some kind
of prayer.
I feared I would never
get out
of the container of pain
I pleaded voiceless
in the morning
in the morning
I will be allowed
to sleep
without the unseen
rage and flow.
I sat
in the corner
against the wall
I hugged my knees.
And then
I saw you
I felt you take me in your arms
and brush my hair
in a long sweeping motion
I felt your soft strokes
sliding
down my back
and around
across
my belly.
Your eyes knew
as you looked down
and nodded
in understanding
releasing me
quickly
sticking
your
finger
down
my
throat.
Divide it into tiny innocuous steps.
First, go buy a gun. Lots of people have guns.
There’s no crime in having a gun.
Now scope out an individual.
Lots of people look at other people.
There’s no crime in looking at other people.
Pick the gun up. Lots of people hold guns.
There’s no crime in holding a gun.
Extend your arm. Lots of people extend their arms,
many times a day. There’s no crime in extending
your arm.
Point your arm at the individual you scoped out.
Lots of people point at other people.
It might be rude, but there’s no crime
in pointing at other people.
Now line up the individual’s head in front
of the sight of your gun and slowly pull your
index finger toward your face. There’s no crime
in moving your index finger a certain way.
Tim W. Brown
audrelv@tezcat.com
http://www.tezcat.com/~audrelv/
You can’t buy a good rose
in Galena, Illinois. None
with a stem long as a finger
tracing the vein from elbow
to wrist, none unfolding
like a wicked lower lip,
none that smell half so good
as nosing breasts, none
with thorns that prick like wit.
Say it with flowers, they say,
but how with bloodless, juiceless
flowers dried to adorn a door
for all the neighbors to see
or consigned to gather dust
in a sitting room vase?
The florist does his best
with what he stocks, cupping
hands around the flaccid bloom,
blowing pale breath to redden
a rose I’m dying to give my love,
the only rose in town.
The stunted dwarf pines, daredevil
nerves thwarted by gale winds,
balance bar slip knot wet,
sudden rains squall, a hushed deep
breathing each step down the taut wire
towards death, toward the lingering
night show kleig lights, spectators
breeding, reacting, taking bets,
yelling advice from all the opposite
ends; rescue chopper blades hovering,
suspended, cuts the heads from all the trees.
It is in the dark corners
where the fellatio strangers hide,
amidst scattered syringes
flattened on the black asphalt alley
like a trampled garden,
expelling their brief transaction;
as motorcades of polished cars
crawl down the littered avenue
stopping for the dyed blondes
in pink spandex dresses which
reveal their bare buttocks
as they stretch into the smoky lowered windows
to commence negotiations.
Glowing in the horizon,
the Washington phallus stretches
in the yellow light,
caressed by the warm breath
of idling engines stalled at the bridge.
Holly Day
They watch me, as I get on the bus
watch my mouth as I smile
at the bus driver, take my seat
at the front of the bus, their hands
curling into claws, hoping to
knock me out, be the first to get to me
to pull out my teeth, my straight, white teeth
to jam into the empty pits
of their own mouths, to fill in the yellow
jigsaw of their own smile
to look normal, human, with a full set of teeth
if only until my teeth
fall out of their receded sockets
and their days stretch meaningless
waiting for the day
when another tourist
gets on the bus.
Michael Estabrook
MEstabr815@aol.com
There is nothing more annoying than to be recovering from surgery and have someone else complaining of a sore knee or ankle, or rubbing ointment on poison ivy, or looking for the Advil to make this damn headache go away.
A Division of Labor
Richard Fein
bardbyte@chelsea.ios.com
I should have known, even when we were driving home;
the windows were opened, the ocean odors blew in, you asked
if the scent of the familiar would rush
over the antennas and calm our blue-green bug,
and if we might pull over and set it free.
I should have known;
by the time it took you to arrange and rearrange
the pots, pans, butter, spices and spoons,
over and over, that the job would be mine.
With an embarrassed smile you opened your hands.
Like a windup toy its spindly legs jerked forward.
I seized it, up and over into the pot.
And above I held the boiling kettle.
I turned from you to hide my slight wincing,
my face near the rising steam.
A second, two, then directly over the head.
“To kill the brain, the rest is all reflex,” I reassured.
Our meal turned as bright red
as the grasshopper I once burnt
when I was one of old King Lear’s wanton boys
who picked apart bugs for sport.
Later,
candlelight, soft music on the tape, butter over cracked opened shells,
we scooped the meat and drank wine.
Across from me, a steely look as you vowed,
“Next time by myself, no more squeamish silly girl.”
But I thought
if you were silly, then I wish you’d always be silly
in that way.
jeff foster
Brian Zahnd moves across souls
like a famine of the word of God
raising the dust
with tithes and tongues
frenzied as the prophets of Baal
A Paul and Jan hollywood pentecost
Christians devouring christians
while the lions look on
God not calling them to do
half the things they say he does
{did we not build a virtual reality theater?}
{did we not buy Twitty City?}
{sign on another TV station?}
Jeff Fenholt’s maudlin praises
stalking the stage with glib sufficiency
of his own holiness
the vetch clambering quickly up
the surety of heaven
Traveling by satellite covered wagon
selling snake oil
brother John Avanzini’s medicinal 100 fold cure
Rod Parsley’s gospel folded like origami
his wireless microphone
a scepter ordaining
the great falling away
{send in your best love gift
tucking in your personal check}
{start a revival by credit card
calling down a fire of buying
books and tapes by telephone}
How hard it is
for the rich man
to enter the Kingdom of God
Benny Hinn whipping scorpion tails
capturing thoughts, that set themselves u
against how he sees Jesus
aiming his holy ghost scatter gun
to slay by error
and heal in the security
of his sleeping conscience
Kenneth Copeland lurking
like a crocodile in deep waters
an unmarked grave
people unknowinglt walk over
a pharisee laying burdens
lunar as stonehenge
waiting to widow the church
Del Way dreams of gold Harleys in heaven
Mike Purkey blithers and imbibes
LaVerne Tripp mugs the anointing fashionably
Dean and Mary Brown are a lounge lizard act
{did we not prophecy?
did we not drive out demons?
did we not do mighty deeds
in your name?}
Taylor Graham
jalapep@spider.lloyd.com
All night he lumbers with the dream-weight
of outstretched nudes - the ones who flaunt
feverish ripples and saltwater curves,
dry-mouthed wanderings of thigh and
underside of tongue. Such fragments
of dreams. They moan and waggle.
By morning the air gags. He gargles
and wishes she would just come home.
Oh, he would sleep with her conditions.
I control you, you control death.
And together we will conquer life till there’s no
competition left.
We are closer than two friends should ever be.
You’re not just cold steel, you’re life and death to me.
Close to my skin, away from prying eyes.
When our prey stares into the emptines of your soul they seem to be hypnotized.
And as I caress you gently, you light up the night sky.
You are the last thing thing they will ever see, for they’re gone in the blink of an eye.
People call you inanimate, a simple machine to be thrown to the side.
But I decided long ago to make you my life long bride.
They always think that its just me, that I’m just a killer to the bone.
But they don’t know you because if they did, they’d know you have a will of your
own.
You fulfill my lust for power.
You fuel my taste for blood.
You made me realize the pleasure I see in dead flesh lying face down in the mud.
Standing over him, watching him, as the hard rain washes me free of my sin.
No thoughts of my own, only what you tell me, tomorrow night we must do it
again.
As I come to the end of this very true story, its just another chapter closed.
Cold steel.
Cold steel.
Life to those who hold you, and certain death to all that oppose.
Ray Heinrich
Sometimes we all get too caught up in life
in death and i can understand some of this now
but you know it’s a smooth place like a
spring day where we slide from start to finish
just like the weeds the dandelions or roses
some wanted some not but it is all the waves
one after the other each meant each beautiful
in its way we flow one after the other as
important as ants as insignificant and
as beautiful as clouds.
It’s August of ‘94.
The last thing either
Zap or Fish wants
is to feel guilty
about anything.
The concept is imbedded
in the nucleus
of Zap’s every cell.
Fish, on the other hand,
is a slow learner
He calls Zap from Chicago
to thank him
for letting him
have his wife
for the long weekend.
“It’s quite alright,”
Zap tells him.
“I wouldn’t let her go
with just anyone.
I wouldn’t let her go
with a dick-head.”
Fish feels strange,
upon hearing this.
He’s glad he’s not
a dick-head, but
he’s not sure
what Zap means.
It’s the eve
of the new year, 1995.
Fish calls Zap’s wife
long-distance.
She’s been spending
a quiet evening
at home with Zap
and her former lover.
She takes care
to reassure Fish,
when his voice betrays
his trepidation.
It is the morning
of a hot day
in the summer of 1997.
It’s been almost a year
since Fish told Zap’s wife
it was time for him
to get on with his life.
Fish is brushing his teeth.
The toothbrush wanders
too far to the back
of his tongue. This happens
every now and then.
But this time
he comes dangerously close
to vomitting. For some reason
he’s been thinking
about Zap and his wife,
still wondering what it means
to be a dick-head
and if he is one,
or if Zap thinks he is
after what happened
between him and his wife.
Toothpaste starts to run
from the corners of his mouth.
He rinses and spits.
you’re pretty as a picture
you’re as sweet as candy
you are like a brilliant light
you have pearly white teeth
you have chiseled features
you have piercing eyes
you have a heart of gold
and a sandpaper voice
you’re postcard pretty
you’re as meek as a lamb
you’re clean as a bone
you’re as faithful as a dog
you have a steel will
you’re as strong as a bull
you’re drunk as a sailor
you’re like an idiot
you’re like a broken heart
you’re like a zombie
Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/
It’s a gift, isn’t it ...this pain we share?
To be sure, an uninvited muse,
Wearing a new disguise each time he enters.
Fickle fellow, descending on unsuspecting poets,
And even those who never warped a metaphor
May wallow for a time,
Until their very skin bleeds words,
Tumbling out, and rustling underfoot.
Was it a party, or a wake we had?
No matter, he was over there in the corner
And we had our way with him.
A muse, after all, and fair game to poets like us.
Tit for tat, I guess.
Really, now?
There’s something to be said for the old fellow.
Look at us!
No rhetoric in a malted milk;
No passion to the tip of a hat;
No, we owe it all to pain.
.....Always there with a new costume
.....Always teaching us how to love
.....Always giving to us
.....Each other.
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One piece in this issue is “Crazy,& #148; an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,& #148; 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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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I really like (“Writing Your Name& #148;). 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& #148; 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.
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Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv
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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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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.
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Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.& #148; I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies& #148; and “The Room of the Rape& #148; were particularly powerful pieces.
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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.
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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.& #148; 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& #148; 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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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& #148; presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061
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Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic& #148; 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& #148; 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& #148; 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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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, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
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.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic& #148; 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& #148; 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& #148; 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.
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.
ccandd96@scars.tv
Publishers/Designers Of
Sponsors Of
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!
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat& #148;, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive& #148;, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph& #148; and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy& #148;,
which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars& #148; 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.
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...
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.& #148; 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.
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.
the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine
Scars Publications and Design
http://scars.tv
Children, Churches and Daddies magazine
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Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of
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Children, Churches and Daddies copyright
through
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pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.