Get The Government Out Of Broadcasting

I would like to commend NBC's stand on keeping the government out of regulating the broadcast industry.
After pressure from the government as well as various organizations, the major networks uniformly adopted at television rating system, like the current system the movie industry uses to regulate content and inform viewers of movies. Since the enactment of this new system, however, groups have been complaining that the rating system in lpace does not tell viewers enough about why the shows received that rating. Is it because there is bad manguage? Is there sexual content? Id there violence? A "TV14" Rating doesn't not discern one type of adult theme from another, and groups have been pushing for an adoption of a plan similar to the current system used by the Home Box Office cable channel - one with a list that quickly shows more of a program's content, using such abbreviations as "SC for sexual content or "AL" for adult language.
Then the government aggreed that this would be a good idea. So they asked the networks to come together and come up with a plan.
The network NBC was the only major network that chose not to adopt the plan. They stated swiftly that it is not because they don't want to tell people what the content of a given show is, but that they don't want the government telling them to adopt a system. They also stated in press releases that they will be working on their own plan for a system that will help people better understand what exactly is on the shows they are about to watch.

I applaud the fact the NBC was willing to distance themselves from appeasing the first group loud enough to be heard, when it may not be in NBC's best interest to do so. More importantly, I applaud the fact the NBC was willing to distance themselves from government regulation, and that they were willing to state that that is exactly what they were doing.
When individual citizens find something they don't like about the goods and services they receive, they should not make it the government's job to try to remedy the situation. The government is there to protect individual citizens from the force of others - not from television programming that one group of people or another might not like.
I truly appreciate the fact that NBC concisely points out that it's not that they don't want to inform people about programming, if that's what they want, but that don't want that authority to be placed in the hands of an already-too-powerful government. NBC's press release on the issue stated, "NBC has consistently stated that, as a matter of principle, there is no place for government involvement in what people watch on television. Viewers, not politicians or special interest groups, should regulate the remote control".
If people want to do something about broadcasting, they can request information on an individual basis or bring other individuals together into a group who have the same feelings in order to make information about programming easier to get. It is possible, as a citizen or a group of citizens, to make a difference - it isn't necessary to expect the government to do it for you.
Give a government some power, and they will eventually take more - see any dictatorship or any form of communism and socialism as an example (even see the history of our own government - we have been slowly losing more and more of our rights here in America). Thank you, NBC, for understanding that the rights of individuals also include the rights of business people - and those rights should not be given away so quickly.

Also - please note that in the web version of this magazine, the poetry section is the only section listed. There is also a humor section, a prose section, a news section and a philosophy section - and if you'd like to see the full version, you can either go to the writer's center in america and download a text-only version of cc+d from the electronic magazines library, or you can email ccandd96@aol.com, and we'll email a copy of whichever issue you ask for.
You can also be on the cc+d free electronic email subscription list, where at the beginning of each month we send you the text-only large-format version of cc+d, so you don't even have to ask. Just email ccandd96@aol.com and ask to be addred to the electronic subscription list.

Thanks!

poetry

unscathed

helena wolfe

you've killed me with your words
we've ended it many times
and now you call me back
saying that you want me in your life
and that you don't see me as just a friend
(well you better not, since you fucked me) -
and that you don't want to throw away
what we have been building
(and what were we building when you
dumped me?)
and that you're praying to your
god that i'll take your calls
and that you've been crying your eyes out
and that you hope that makes me feel better
well, it does, my friend
and it's my turn now
and i'm going to put you through hell
because you've done it to me,
and come to think of it,
you're not my friend
and no one hurts me like this
and comes out of it unscathed

iedereen heeft geheimen
(all men have secrets)
translated by Jean Hellemans

iedereen heeft geheimen en dit is het mijne.
Kracht is mijn zwakke plek
en nu blijven mijn schouders niet op hun plaats.
Je vroeg me mijn ogen te openen
maar ze zijn open, dat denk ik toch.
Waarom neem je me niet in jou armen ?
Waarom verleid je me niet ?
Trek me uiteen. Scheur me in stukken.
Hou geen rekening met mijn kuisheid
Ik wil niet sterk zijn . wees sterk voor mij,
zodat ik me kan laten gaan
en nergens zorgen over te maken
of mijn ogen nu open zijn of niet.

UNREQUITED

Cheryl Townsend
IMPETUS@aol.com

There is a man
who wants to be forever
Aches to be just now
Pines at being then
Holds memories in one hand
my absence in the other
and reunites us
Eyes closed
to keep the pain
from shattering his dream
as it has
so much of his life
Alone
with a love
impelling
There is a man
I know his name

Govt. Process

Paul Weinman

Enough iguanas have left annoyingly
sufficient numbers of fish still to
die, for me to ask that unemployment
be looked at with jobs in teeth.
Bodily passage without permission
into the elderly ladies ... forbidden.
I asked everyone at the meeting
to say a Hail Mary twice.
Pneumatic suction pumps
were shoved up my ass
take-out Chinese brought in.

kinderen, kerken en vaders

(children, churches and daddies)
translated by Jean Hellemans
by janet kuypers

het kleine meisje zei tegen mij
"Ik dacht dat alleen vaders bier
drinken." En ik vond mezelf

zoekend naar excuses voor het glas
in mijn hand. Ik herinner me in de
kerk te zijn geweest, als gast bij een

huwelijk van twee mensen
Ik wist het niet. Mijn afspraak wees
me twee kleine jongens

wandelend naar hun stoelen
voor ons. In kleine witte pakken en
cowboy laarzen, dit is centraal Illinois.

En mijn begeleider
zei dat hij zeker was dat deze jongens
zouden opgroeien tot homo's.

en het ergste was dat hun vader
de trainer was van de universiteits
voetbalploeg. Ik denk dat ik

lachte, maar ik trad hem bij
Ik herinner me in de kerk ,
het was Kerstmis

de familie van Eve, mijn afspraak stond op
voor de communie, en alles waar ik kon aan denken
was het zingen van de liederen

heel luid, de woorden kende ik niet
ik wist niet wat ik daar deed
wat ik er verwachte.

En ik bleef zitten, terwijl iedereen
traag naar voor liep
naar het altaar van de kerk

Kleine soldaatjes op een rij
de kleine kinderen in hun mooie kledij
achter hun moeders
en hun vaders.

En het kleine meisje zei, "Ik dacht dat
alleen vaders bier drinken."
Ik zag mezelf naar
verontschuldigingen zoeken .

I'VE GOT A FRIEND IN YOU

Christopher Stolle
cstolle@indiana.edu

balloon . . . flying . . . blending in with the moods of the sky . . .
he was never alone with the sun . . . smiling children . . . laughing at
such a sight . . . he weeps aloud . . . lost his only friend . . . it
never
spoke a word . . . but was somehow understanding . . . could sense
his pain . . . and made him feel proud . . . thought he could let
it go . . . but shouldn't have . . . cried . . . in more pain than ever .
. .
he felt so much love . . . now it's gone.
young girl . . . balloon in hand . . . smiled upon him . . . grabbed his
hand . . . and gave him a red balloon . . . smiles and laughing . . . he
never had so much joy . . . or affection . . . he holds her hand . . . he
is
never to be hurt again . . . their memories together . . . whether good
or bad . . . will stay with them forever.
rulers . . . monarchy . . . wants to pop their balloon . . . they fight
back
. . . and win the revolt . . . love shines bright . . . dreams will be
lived
out . . . and they will . . . and they will live forever . . . in
happiness
. . . never to forget . . . how they met . . . it lives in their hearts .
. .
now there is silence . . . as they kiss . . . how romantic . . .
how perfect they are . . . together.

EVERMORE

by Shelley Stoker

common wisdom
claims the man
was killed by
drink & decadence...

now some
quacking medico
on a tabloid
tv show

opines that it
could have
been rabies,

but either/and,
or any way

E.A. died
of being
Poe.

FIRST SNOW

I.B. Rad

Where once
the muted rainbows
of shingled roofs
jutted into sky,
"old town"
now sparkles,
a color-coordinated
white.
Where once
tots rollicked
through dusky yards,
they now roll snowmen,
sweep snow angels,
and utterly delight
in December's
heaven sent
white.

His Fingerprints Were Cool.

by ben ohmart
Findline@aol.com

I don't remember much about being a kid except for the movies I'd seen, the girls I'd screened, and I had a big brother who was cooler than summer cars. He'd been taken in twice for questioning about the disappearance of little boys my own age, and there was nothing in it, he told me, when we would meet out by the lake that didn't go anywhere. I sat on the old logs that floated by until I was too far away, then I got another, and listened with sucking sounds at how the cops mistreated this god of mine, just because he wore plaid and refused to shave for punctilious reasons. He was a type, he said, like faggots, like single mothers, like all the endangered animals that had to prove their existence still, had to fight for every right wronged them. He never said what that type was. He'd just hold my hand and ask me personal questions.
I don't remember what they were, but I remember him taking me to Putt-Putt with the tokens he'd found, back before they charged you just to go inside, and sometimes he'd intimidate the clerk at the ball counter and we'd get a couple of free games. And then my god would smile and laugh at the guy so that I knew, we all knew he was only kidding. I took the short orange putter, and he'd beat me every single time with his own rules. He'd put his hand on my shoulder while he stood there doing up his shoe, and sometimes I felt really close to him when he put his hand inside my shirt and gave me a pat. I knew he really liked me.
That's got nothing to do with fathers. Dad didn't like it, when he found out. I had no reason to keep it from him, but I never thought about telling him. He wasn't home anyway. Always out earning food for our tables or our mouths, I forget which, so I had nothing against him. I knew he was doing his job. And he never whipped me. God took care of that. But dad was told by someone in the city. She'd seen us together, and because of the cops and what they wanted to know, god's person was known all around. I was grounded, and I had no reason to rebel.
My friend came to my window everyday, and just stood, as if waiting. He didn't say anything, and he'd lost that smile, like a cub who knew it was feeding time, but just didn't get it. So I'd do the talking, and take out the newspaper and we'd look through the scores. I didn't know anything about baseball, about soccer, but they were men things, and it was the context that made me feel more powerful. He didn't answer. Except when dad found him at the window, and hit him with a gold tipped boot. I don't remember what my big brother said.
Of course I could go to school. I had nothing against it. Learning wasn't so bad, as long as you didn't have to do it constantly. I looked up the girls' dressed and repeated bad breath and Madonna stories I didn't understand, just to keep cool. I took the bus mostly, but then when my friend started coming around to school, I walked on with him. He said it was all right, because I had to get home anyway. We talked about the feelings I was having, and my friends, he was real interested in my friends, and it made me feel special to have knowledge that he wanted for himself. I had things I'd learned that could be useful. I smiled at him, he smiled at me, and rubbed up against my shoulder.
But he'd always say goodbye before we hit my block, not that dad was home anyway, but he respected my treatment and how my dad had to look out for me. I was important in god's life, so he knew that I had to be just the same for the man who'd given one to my mother. Given one. He laughed, waved. He didn't explain. I felt just great.
A few weeks had lost their way. I didn't exactly know what a grounding was, how long did it last? He was never around to ask. I thought I'd go ask my friend. He knew all the answers, and I figured, well, if it had to Do with grounding, wanting to know how to make the most of it, I needed to know.
I went to the lake, but I couldn't find him. I went to his home, this mudhole that was built into the side of a hill, and to get in, you had to take away this broken pallet that kept some of the air from getting in. I did that, there was no one there. I went back, waited on the edge of the river awhile, and finally, he floated by. I waved and smiled and cheered at him, but he didn't care.
The newspapers were full of it. A little girl had gotten hold of a gun, and "protected" herself, had a "harrowing escape at the hands of a" I don't know. I wasn't into reading lies. I liked my history books. I did my A- homework that night and patted myself on my bare chest, and had a bad cry.

poetry by pete lee

"it's the '90s"

flesh dummies
are spoken for
& one in the oven

litter the sacred
garden w/more good
little consumers

more little sets
of eyes tuned
to shotgun slayings

advertised along-
side rich leather
& cheap beef.

******************************

Jesus Presley

wears a beard and sunglasses
keeps his collar turned up
returned to sender
but came back again

he lectureth us beside the waters
don't be cruel saith he
love me tender
let me be thy teddy bear

we are a small band
with rings around our necks

just one question

ever try
to pick up
your teeth with
broken fingers?
he says and
as they say
I'm smart but
I'm not quick
so there I
am, thinking:
what movie did
I hear that
line in? and
why would I
want to
pick them up
in the first
place? surgical
reattachment?
and moreover,
when his fist
lands

K.P.

"Make sure you scrub every speck
off of every dish and utensil.
Food poisoning can be caused
by a piece of rotten food no larger
than the head of a pin."
"Speaking of pinheads, Sergeant..."
I broke in, getting a laugh
from my fellow privates. But little
sooner had the words left my mouth
than I discovered K.P. involves
not only dishwashing, but
can also include kneeling
on the floor of a well-used dumpster
in 27-degree weather, with a
dixie cup filled with soapy water
and a toothbrush.

********************************

Kansas: predawn

(as seen by Grey
hound) the long
est word i
n the world high
lighted & under
lined (that con
tains no let
ters)

The Kid II

There was a kid whose favorite food
was gasoline. Not that he ate any,
but when other kids would ask him
that standard kid-to-kid question,
he'd say, "Gasoline." His parents
overheard one day, and made him explain.
"Well, once I was playing
on the way to the bus stop, and I looked up
and the school bus had picked up all the kids
but me, and I ran and ran after it
and got so close I could smell the fumes,
but I just couldn't catch it. Ever since
I wish there was a food made out of gasoline."
His parents laughed. It was like the time
he'd hid three dollars in his sleeping bag
when they were camping, and forgot
where he'd put it until the next summer
rolled around. He'd popped out
of that bag, clutching those bills and said, "Hey,
this is the best way to save!" I'm through
chasing after you. I'm going
to forget you were ever mine.
*****************************************
Know-nuthin'

My cat stares up
at the ceiling,
eyes filled
with wonder...

Know-nuthin' cat,
it's just the patter
of the old,
familiar rain.

Last Night

I dreamed
I woke up
happy then
I woke up.
*************************
"leave it as you found it"

three men on a picnic
table sitting not six
inches apart like birds
on a wire passing a
huge joint beer cans all
over the table rusted-
out pickup truck and mangy
joy-barking dog
nearby I pull up near
the trailhead on my
rice burner dismount
put my walking stick
together they're shouting
obscenities and laughing
holding their breath and
coughing whooping and
screaming until finally
they notice me passing
by behind them on my
way to the trail and fall
absolutely silent. even
the dog. I nod and they
nod back. even the
dog. a minute later I'm
on the trail and out of
their view and like a
mounting breeze at my
back comes the rising
sound tentative at
first and then growing
into an echoing
cacophony of obscene
laughter whooping
coughing giggling
screaming shouting and
barking!
leaving Tom and Sue's
I hike into the forest
to learn the trees' names
*************************
lesson won

i got 'rested
fer Disturbin' th'Peace
butcherhonor i sed
if there was Peace ta be had
i'd not be so Disturbed
hizzoner sed shaddup son
else yu'll be in Contempt
*************************
library termites

are bookish

the workers
devour Marx
and Steinbeck
swarm over
Upton Sinclair

the soldiers
eat breathe and
defecate Sun Tzu

meanwhile the queen
plows through romance
novel after
romance novel

all her suitors
bore

life on the outskirts

of the city of oneself
is an absence of inskirts,
although this is a mere parallel
kind of like a service road.

***************************

like that scene

from The God-
father I I
think it was where
all the guy wants
is to get his
piece from in back
of the bar to kill
the assassins
with but one
of 'em brings
down a knife on
the guy's hand
pinning it like
a butterfly
on the bar top
this is exactly
how I felt when
I was about
to say goodbye
and you started
taking your clothes
off.

Ma'am & Beast

Ben Ohmart
Findline@aol.com

I believe in a god.

Yes, ma'am.

I'm just not sure just which one.

Yes, ma'am.

There are so many to choose from. And I don't
mean mythology. There, you don't know. And
they were just made up with those stupid names
to fool the masses, you know?

Yes, ma'am. But you reported a

Yes. Yes, I did. It's brown and white and
the license is KF as in Frank, 19Z, like zebra.

Where was it parked?

Right inside. It's a small dog. And there's a hatch
she can get out of. It's nothing special, but she
Always comes back. And I've heard that they have
to be gone 48 hours.

Uh

Is that right? That's right. There's a dip of white
on the right ear, oh, and she's got a disease. But
it's nothing you have to shoot, but I don't want to
tell you which it Is, because then you're going to
be prejudicial.

Ma'am

No. No. No, I've seen some of my friends going
in for drug tests and getting "screened" out of the
workplace when Gen. Foods knew you Had
something. First, they say it affects your breathing,
and your "workspace" then, you get your own
lunch table to yourself and a guy in a white short
sleeves is sitting there and telling you some love
story about "letting go". "Letting go"? That sounds
romantic. Wait!

Look. You said you had to report something stolen,
and I get out here we have to trace the call, you
just hang up. I get out here. It's your dog. We
can put

Would you like to come inside?

Huh? Oh. Thanks.

Sit down. Here. Let me get that. That's why
I like blinds, you don't have to have the sun

What was all that about god and

What?

Before. You were talking about god and choosing and

Oh. Ha, ha! Don't worry about me. I burn easily.
If I'm talking to somebody, I have to get into it
eventually. Aren't you like that? Maybe you think
somebody's attractive, or you think they're going to
give you money, and you want it to last. You don't
really care about what's Said. You know.

I'm not going to give you money.

Ha, ha. Are you married?

Ma'am...

You can answer that. I promise I'm not going
to tell any superiors you were out using badges for
picking up

Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to get to the
point, or I'm outa here. We get a lot of calls each
day. Some are from old people unlike yourself they
call and they want a little attention. Or they're scared.
Live in bad neighborhoods. They can't let us go. But
we have duties. We have duties.

I'm really scared..

The Farting

mad lib by Douglas Drake
dw.drake@worldnet.att.net

I sit the final sip of lysol
feel it walk its way down my ear
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for tylorto pour amanda another.
i think of how my legs run
everytime i let the alcohol whiz me.
then i tip-toe and watch my eye
running - walking that glass of era -
and think of how these were the toes
that should have watched you away from jenny.
but didn't. and i keep securing
why i craped your whisk, craped your poison.
i remember how tim farted his way through me
he farted me from the inside out
and kyle kept coming back.
i let you sleep with me, and now you've
slept a hole right through kenny.
i craped it. now i have to crap myself of you,
and the hardees is farting between the
mcdonalds and arby's in the tv nested in
my arm pit. but i have to smell more.
the smelling doesn't last as long as tylor does.

from the original poem
The Burning
by Janet Kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com

i take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn its 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 that 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 right 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.

Ode To NPR...

Robert Michael O'Hearn
RMOHRN@AOL.COM

Was listening to your station,
last Friday night, sucking up
free energy, because
the best things in life are
supposed to be free

Working nights bereft of human agitation
and trailing voices, even insipid ones
breeds a sort of ennui that even
the computer room violence of jawing
printers provide only limited relief

Heard your pleas for cash, because
like I said, I was bored,
too lazy to change the dial to WNIB
Heard you offer limited prizes
every hour arriving with newer,
improved phone-in challenges
Heard also tidbits of newsworthy items,
odd entertainment pieces thrown in
almost like afterthoughts

So here's my $25.00...
to reconfirm my sensitivity quotient
To know that all's well even
in the commercial world of radio
Public, Private and Newt-less.

ON EARTH AS IT IS

c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com

poetry is only
the prayer of
a desperate
god.

"Seventeen"

D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com

Been around this world
twenty-seven
times
.One.
time my boat/plane/car
crashed.
Don't know where
I's going.
Now ...
Hesitant
to go around
.Once.
(more)
upon a time
I found
a dime store
selling dollars
so I drank
(up)
and here I am.

MIND POCKETS

Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/

Much too convenient,
these files of thought we stow
in labyrinths of ganglia.
Access awaits a whim,
and if we wish to bury them, no problem.
Selective finders antedate this cyber age,
and firewalls abound between
Orwellian cells we would as soon
ignore...tear at them,
and the roots will snap away
and laugh at anyone who would
expose the paradox.

Not I! My self-exam
is handicapped! (defective microscope)
(Thank God!) I'm off the hook.
I'm sure it would be worth the look
if I could see. (would I look?.......)
Tush! More Wine!
Bring on the Dance!

INSIGHT

Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/

The distance is short enough
From center, via the radius of choice.
Ah...360 choices!......Problems, already.
The path is transient as darkness at dawn,
And best not ignore the obstacles.

So chances are poor of reaching it,
and credit on arrival is elusive.
Lifetimes get used in the quest.

But don't start here.
The choice is already a mistake.
The quest, a fallacy.
The goal, undefined.
The dream, best uninvited.
The crown, un-Napoleonic.

Who will wear it?
No dessicated mother
Too eager to sell her child.
No artisan with fame as his pursuit.
No CEO whose minions serve his fingertips.
Your data base is useless.

Formula free,
This titration of reality
eschews all ones and zeros,
Forever delighting us with
Serendipity.
To know that we know not.....
And then.....to know!

She Was a Woman

Janet Kuypers
jkuypers22@aol.com

She was a woman who thought too much.
She was a woman who had dreams.
She was a woman who accomplished everything she set out to.
She was a woman who wore a crown of thorns.
She was a woman who was punished for things she had not done.

She was a woman who was strong.
She was a woman who was beautiful.
She was a woman who was beaten down.
She was a woman who was angry.

She was a woman who would walk into a coworker's office,
stand on a desk and do the twist,
just to relieve corporate boredom.

She was a woman who worked twelve-hour days.
She was a woman who cried at Kleenex commericals.
She was a woman who fought for her rights.
She was a woman who should not have been born.

She was a woman who believed in nothing but herself.
She was a woman who begged to be loved.
She was a woman who deserved more.

She was a woman who picked flowers
from her neighbor's yards in the middle of the night.

She was a woman who belched out loud.
She was a woman who laughed too hard.
She was a woman who swore too much.
She was a woman who grew up too fast.

She was a woman who would turn up the stereo
and dance alone in her living room.

She was a woman who read philosophy.
She was a woman who needed a reason.
She was a woman who always saw the irony.
She was a woman who demanded perfection.
She was a woman who was always looking for something else.

She was a woman who would jump on hotel beds
every time she travelled and booked a room.
Because it was hers. Because she could.

She was a woman who hated how she looked.
She was a woman who wanted to be better.
She was a woman who hated to lose control.
She was a woman who planned everything.
She was a woman who always had to feel secure.

She was a woman who never played drinking games,
because she never needed an excuse to drink.

She was a woman who showed off her legs.
She was a woman who raised the pitch of her voice
when she was asking for something.
She was a woman who talked to her cat in a baby voice.
She was a woman who could not eat something she could not kill.

She was a woman who wrote letters to the editor.
She was a woman who went to the manager
when the service was bad.
She was a woman who liked making waves.

She was a woman who wrote poetry.
She was a woman who could drink most men under the table.
She was a woman who loved dirty jokes.
She was a woman who seldom crossed her legs.

She was a woman who worked on eight different projects
at once, and still managed to get them all done on time.

She was a woman who never asked for help.
She was a woman who always had the answers.
She was a woman who admired ability.
She was a woman who did everything to extremes.
She was a woman who wanted to be alive.
She was a woman who was never satisfied.

She was a woman who was always trying.
She was a woman who was always.
She was a woman who was.
She was a woman who
She was a woman.
She was a
She was.

simple
Ray Heinrich
ray@vais.net

Unrequited longing is difficult
stuff for me and of course i
cry at about every stupid film
i see and lots of other people
do too cause we are all trying
to get something back and grieving
cause we can't and we are all
comforted by words that prove
that somebody else out there is
in the same place too.

I need words

deckard kinder
newman@ntr.net

words

I need words

I need hundreds of words
I need thousands of wor ds
I need hundreds of thousands of words
I need millions of words

I need words

I got pictures
I got all kinds of pictures in my brain

I got symbols
I got icons
I got images running around in my brain
flooding my brain
drowning my brain
saying meaning signifying this + that + the other

I got music
I got rhythm
I got shapes
I got sizes
I got it all

except words

words

I need words

words to say this
words to say that
words to say the other

words + words + words + words +
last time I looked I didn't have the words
last time I looked I couldn't find the words
last time I looked the words weren't there

oh yeah
I could hear em talking behind my back
two-faced bastards
I could feel em moving around in my head
like rats behind walls
I could smell em hiding behind the pictures in my brain

chickenshit words

one word
two words
three words
four score + seven motherfucking words ago
four score + seven motherfucking words ago
four score + seven motherfucking w ords ago
I had words

words to say what I had to say

words

words to make you laugh
words to make you cry
words to turn you on
words to turn you off
words to turn you to me
words to turn you from me
words to make you wet

words baby

hipster-hopster words on crack
words I never would take back

words

I got something to say and i'm not saying it
I got something to say and i'm not saying it
I got something to say and i'm not saying it
so dig me

I'm digging myself a grave
building myself a tomb
constructing a post-modern mausoleum of wordlessness
for me
to me
what'll you do me
I want words

absurd words
deferred words
inferred preferred referred fucking goddamn before and after words
to go along with
the pictures
the symbols
the icons
the images
rotting in my brain
like so much dead fucking flesh
without words

I need words

can you dig it

#749

M. Kettner

LSD:
pills turn to UFO's
sky drops down to keep you company

small words
Raymond L. Heinrich
ray@scribbledyne.com

watching
tilts the limit
works the connection
of what you saw
and
what i'll do
soon
these small words
i measured this one
at less than a centimeter
these small words
are all we have to do
no music
or even
if you're reading this
a voice
just the ability
to appeal
to the prejudice
that lives inside your head
and these small words
dismiss them if you will
are always
the ones that kill

CHARITY GAME

Richard Fein
bardbyte@chelsea.ios.com

Today my charity given on a seedy corner of fourteenth street
will save a stranger.
I slip a quarter into a video game slot
rather than press it into the palm of a beggar.
But he isn't that special stranger I'm thinking of.
He is bedraggled, but there's a certain wisdom in his eyes.
He still has his wits.
Surely he must know that we're all charged
to give all we have to the neediest.
That's a tenet of our professed religion.
So I have spared him the dilemma,
of keeping his coin or passing it on to the yet needier.
Heaven's gate will swing on its hinge while he decides.
But there is one who would be even more distressed by charity.
In a righteous world all quarters should cascade,
like ants falling down an ant lion's funnel,
into the hands of that most legendary of beings,
the neediest of the neediest.
It's that poor soul I'm thinking of.
He who would witness the concavity of his world
flip into convexity-there he'd be
on the apex, on an Everest of quarters,
and having no one needier to give to except to the one just below him.
And for him to give unto that penultimate neediest-yea verily-
would put that soul in the same peril as his.
To put another's soul at risk is also a sin.
Verily I have saved him from this dilemma.
Now surely he will pass through the needle's eye,
while I play at shooting video blips
and miss.

Ulysses S. Grant never said -

Michael Estabrook

Hey babe let's tango.
What! No cream cheese!
Paris is just so lovely in the springtime, don't you agree?
Would you like a stick of chewing gum?
Did anyone think to water the poinsettias?
Oogy, woogy, boogy, ha!
Damn I broke another nail.
My fucking horse crapped on my shoe.
Oh yes, man will fly someday.
Please pass the catsup.
Crockery, crockery, crockery's
just fine, if I weren't the President
I'd collect crockery
all the time.

EULAH'S WAKE

David E. Cowen
Ripford@aol.com
http://members.aol.com/ripford/homepage/cowen.htm

Debris of war
midst hollowed houses.

A robin sings;
rebuilding,
in fractured branches.

poetry

Oatmeal

Caron Andregg
caron@ktb.net

Every time I smell oatmeal, I am back in Indiana,
In the winter, in the biting cold, where the snow
Drifts mountain high and it is always dark
Dark from short days, dark from the growling clouds
Dark from the endless swirl of blowing snow
Thick pads of it collected on the roof like thatch
When the combination of cold nights
And poor insulation turned the underside to ice
The whole thing avalanched in one long shroud
Across the porch and door and walled us in
And we were stranded in a box of brightness
Where the kitchen alcove overlooked the yard
An island of spice smells and reverberating voices
Incandescent light licked out across the ice
The only yellow thing in that vast blue fog
I was too young to understand it was the tile
Tile floor, tile countertops, and two long walls of glass
I always thought sound echoed off the light.

the hopping

by bmalak@beaches.net

i hide the final swig of mercury
get it burning its way down my nostril
hiss at it scorching my artery
and reach for the rug
to pour Junkyard Jimmy another.
i think of how my legs speak
every time i let the milk bellydance me.
then i giggledown at my nose hairs -
singing - farting the glass of water -
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have burped Rapunzel away from me.
but didn't. and i keep kidding
why i ate the olive oil.
i let Popeye the Sailor man
bite right into me, and he shot
a hole right through Peter Pan.
I let him go, and he went through Alice.
I started it. now i have to finish the cat
and the Cannes are jogging between the book
in the armadillo nestled in my head.
but i have to help more. the knitting
doesn't last as long as Cinderella does.

The burning

by Janet Kuypers

I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn its 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 that 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 wonder
why i took your hell, took your poison.
i remember how you burned your way
through me, how you burned my inside out.
i let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole right 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.

Sonnet CXVII....for patti

J.E. Dorsey
Film007@aol.com

Looking up
from my pillow
I see you this moment
for the first time in years

as the young woman
wife and lover
curve of strong jaw
rush of slender cheeks

found in your moist
mature kisses
a whole field
of fresh apples & ripe peaches

I discover a peacefulness
a satisfaction of years
rain fallen, spout to ground
absorbed by the warm earth

O tenderness expressive,
of being
anxious lovers again
at last passionate, needful of touch

I rushing to you
as swirling mist over Mt. Tamalpais
to embrace the golden gates
of your welcome affections far below -

Looking up from my pillow,
at dawn's caress of light
I see the clarity
of thoughtful hazel eyes

Lashes lingering
on a memory - indeed
long stored in deep right circuitry
perhaps a first kiss, Carmel by the sea

Then rolling over
into your arms
thy purposeful fingers
as bright reflective moon reminders

that these years as waves
pass rhythmically, into eternity
disappearing as seconds
into a moist shore

And only delicate breakable shells
or a few pebbles remain,
as some remembrance
of our countless days
and this
sudden
exceptional
love.

old habits die slow

Michael Estabrook
MEstabr815@aol.com

We put our dog to sleep 5 days ago. He had cancer of the bladder and intestines. He had such trouble going, and could never find a comfortable position. I believe he was beginning to experience too much pain. That's not good. His name was Yeats. He had papers. His mother was Kerry Lady (RA663103). His father was Sonimar Topper (RA165450). He lived 13 years, 2 months and 3 days. He was a good little guy. He loved to eat anything, even carrots. He barked at squirrels and the mailman. He chased the neighborhood cats out of his yard. Once he treed a coon. We miss him. This morning when I opened the refrigerator to take out the cream for my coffee, I reached for the can of dog food like I always do, to put it out so it warms up. But there was no dog food, and there was no dog either.

I read a poem of You

Jean Hellemans
Jean.Hellemans@ping.be

I read a poem of You
the words caress me everywhere
like tender fingers
soft as whipped cream
I read a poem of You
like a soft breeze
stroke the words I read
while I speak the words
I read a poem of You
the ocean between us
our body's separate
seems to be a little pool
I read a poem of You
our minds melt together
in a tender embrace
like love birds
I read a poem of You
my heart read white me
even I am not free
but even make it free, for You
just even to be yours

summer love in spanish
ray heinrich
ray@vais.net

on the beach
in mexico
the heat of the sun
is too much
and i lie in the shade
of an old soft drink stand
not a popular beach
so close to the power plant
but close
to my dads office
i'm here
visiting him
my terrible spanish
getting a little better
walking the streets
just looking
reading the signs
ordering pan dulce
it's so cheap
and every bun of this sweet bread
is beautiful
so every morning i go and buy a bag of it
and eat it the rest of the day
carrying it through the streets
looking at the signs
trying to read them with my dictionary
writing letters to my mom
never mentioning you

Poor, Dead Mrs. G
By Tina L. Jens
tina_jen@para-net.com

I watched the smoke exhaling
from the brass incense burner
The priest swung in brazen arcs.
We sat too many pews back to catch the fragrance
A terrible loss -

It must be potent
The last scent of the dead woman's spirit.

I scorned the Church's heavy-handed symbolism
Surely the spirit had wafted off to Heaven
Moment's after the death rattle

And didn't linger in the corners of
The funeral director's office
As the tedious details of Oak verses Pine
And monthly payments
Were worked out.

Wouldn't it flee in shame
As the first guests approached the open casket
At the wake?
On her palest days
She'd never glopped
Makeup on like that.

And the hat!
Worn only by dead people whose beautician
Can't get the hair right.

I weaved my handkerchief between my fingers and thought
About Young Dan
"Danny"

Who had introduced me to 30 people in 20 minutes
At the Wake.
How Danny had darted away to introduce yet another group
And flee the reality that his mother lay dead
A few feet away.

My new acquaintances and I
Exchanged three-sentence life-summaries
Then wisely agreed
It was sad.
We nodded sagely at our mutual loss.

I crossed the room to meet a new group
Squirming as I went
Painfully aware
That the closed eyes of the dead body
Followed my every move.

Is my skirt to short?
My jewelry too flashy?
I joined the group just as Gordon was about
To tell a joke
A natural clown

But he stepped on the edge of a punch line
After all, poor, dead, Mrs. G. might hear

And a dirty joke is hardly the proper sentiment
To send her off to her Heavenly reward.

drowning in caffeine in the city of the shadow of death

deckard kinder
newman@ntr.net

laughing and drugging and drinking in the dead of winter
I could sleep forever and not miss a thing [except you]
fortunes made and lost by no one we ever cared to know
exquisite agony plays our attending like robert young
all the experience in the world trustworthy and talented
nothing left to our imaginations [at least not for long]
dragging old lovers out of the closet for target practice
dragging them back in all bloody and gruesome and done
even o n the good days when nothing ballets our nerves
and the jones relents for the odd clear eyed moment
this holds true:
hunger makes roaches of us all and
only the strong cave in like regulars at some chic cabaret
never copping to the man never copping never
turning the fix on the tricks
how sweet it is and was and will be
even on the bad days when our nerves shriek for sleep
but the coma plays its little godot on us
evading invasion in chic circles of collapsing histories
amidst whispers
crimes and misdemeanors
hysterical hypothesis follows hysterical hypocrisy
even at the moment of birth or death or first orgasm
somebody grabs the brass ring
or pays the consequences
forgotten in the rush to just get away
I cannot play this game much longer sweet thing
now and then I need to breathe
suck in cool dry air
and exhale hot moist gasps
now and then
I need
to look at
you and let go of everything else

swimming in blood
Ray Heinrich
ray@vais.net

we are all not just swimming in blood
but drinking it
and enjoying its warmth
on the inside of our throats and stomachs
and the water
we always thought was water
was blood
swimming in blood
i watch you
take off your clothes
one shoulder
at a time
carefully revealing
what is always there
what is always
blood

if there's life after death why bother dying?

deckard kinder
newman@ntr.net

pigs
racehorses
elephants of consciousness
Charlie Parker
ultimately proud in life
every body dies
in the heat of the moment love lost out guilt played out desire hung out [greedy to distraction for a piece of the action] overcome by visions of paradise in expectation of devastation denied caresses accepted like carcasses at the morgue agony given like another old testament plague generous to a fault or relentless to a virtue everyone got what everyone wanted even if they didn't know what they wanted [some didn't know what it was or why it was theirs even after it was] you were there as fashionably late as I was compulsively early surrounded by the usual cast of faux-sophisticated characters ever-so-carefully draped out beneath their stations in black cotton linen wool silk leather and lace tulle awaiting the arrival of photographers from various supermarket tabloids interlopers in some
real
gone
world
pinned ears
rosy flesh
every picture tells a story
one cigarette too many
centered in my memory
upon a delicious night
publ icly displayed
in the past
edged in gold
destiny is one bum trip
you blenderheaded me in your gentle tender gender fender bender fantasy stew until I was as lost in you as you eternally overheated hyperbolic and blissed out on endless repetitious psycho somnambulistic passion relentlessly eternally unendurably prolonged chinese fire drill in the grey room unheard warnings ignored unknown meanings avoided eye contact evaded a photograph of you and me in a silver frame under gauze on a bed of rose petals
police cars
ruthless whores
elegant candor
optional treachery
Chester Burnett sings the blues
can you hear me?
unless you possess yourself
incest is inevitable
eventually you will submit
you touched me with your lips your eyes your soul your unpublished agenda your sad undeserved history the way you said my name I caved in like a house trailer in a tornado all twisted remnants of happy days in a borrowed garden nights in heaven pawned for a quick fix in the alley between the old mortuary and the new movi e theater where forlorn pornography played to small groups of dedicated educators politicians cremation artists redundant participants in failed social experiments and those not at all ashamed of their unendurable cravings easy choices flowered into intricate regrets overnight and by morning the garden was choked with weeds
one blessing sustained
shadows sought
eyes shunned
sorrows swallowed
in darkness
or neutrality
or occupied territory
buzzwords
stress straining at the leash
expressionless faces
said is said she said
in love or in loneliness
or in the numskull fairy tale forest
and the voice on the radio droned on and on and on saying nothing that meant anything while everyone who was anyone listened hypnotized like lemmings on the edge of their cliff except you except me except us entranced as we were by the voluptuous disintegration of hope in the black hole of our obsession terminating temptation by relinquishing to it single bullet theory quick and simple
gentle moments in the heart of darkness
everybody turns away
nobody exempts themselves
like there is nothing left
except extenuating circumstances
to see to be a confession spoken in an empty room letters from ancient lovers and other regrets kept like pets receiving gifts like back room politicians addicted to the rush delivered in plain brown wrappers [if not me, who?] one strategy for loving life another for loving you a third for loving me all leading to what? me, condemned to playing Rick to your Ilsa watching in fascination as romance after romance unraveled like Sherlock Holmes mysteries in the final scene closure denied or ignored a certain fitting end revealed reviled rejected if not that, what? one strategy short of success a history annotated or revised to fit the current mode couples came and went an unshakable eternity gone like flesh and bone eruptions expectations eventualities disregarded in heat in haste in hostile anticipation
irreverent sabotage
irrelevant tactics
tabernacles hatred abandonment taboos
irreverent tactics
irre levant sabbaticals
turbulence hysteria abbreviated tenderness overindulgent religion
irreverent sacrilege
irrelevant triviality
numb overabundant tumult trustworthy histrionic attractive trends
irreverent tremors
irrelevant sacrifices
notorious overwhelming trembling traveling hidden agenda torture I am sitting alone staring at the soul of my obsolete obsessions my dear departed dreams my worn-out whims with nothing left to save save myself and I cannot give myself one good reason to try
dead roaches
red roses
pickpockets in mittens
tender betrayal
the seven deadly sins
elevator music
old girlfriends that cling
these are a few of my favorite things

the things warren says

janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com

I know about this guy,
he sucked his eyeball out
with a shop-vac

he went to the hospital
brought the shop-vac
with him

he was okay, but they
couldn't put his eye
back in:

it was all mangled, and
besides, it was covered
in potato chips

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/

The son I had who chose his hour of death
engraving it with thoughts of life
and torment, love and tears, and hope...
(like festering sores the words flowed from his pen)
did yield to truth and madness in his eloquence.

His "waning moments" thus enabling
A theme of triumph all his own,
yes, sharing in desire holistic crowns upon our heads
and we would wish it, too,
were not the empty years in store for us
a mission clear to seize the day as he did not...
and joining heaven's citizenry did make of him
Donne's island as divided loyalties
will always do.

By grace of God, eristic minds
may yet acquire those aureoles-
while we who languish lifebound
now confront encroaching seas
with decimated force,
our ears attuned to distant bells
of ceaseless change.

this halloween

janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com

this halloween i got a costume together
i wore a black page-boy wig,
a vinyl dress and matching vinyl boots

it was strange for me
i'm not such an outgoing person

and every time i was left alone at a bar
someone would hit on me
usually someone ugly
but i didn't tell them to leave me alone:

i gave them a fake name, a fake number

and looking back, what made the difference
was not wearing the revealing clothes
but wearing a wig, changing my identity

and it's not that i'd do it again
but i must admit
i really like being someone else
just for a little while

THE OTHER WALL

c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com

there are 2.5 billion women in the world,
but many of them speak Chinese
or some other language
that i don't.

this narrows down the field
to those with whom i can
converse in English,

but even most of them
speak Woman,
& i don't,

at least not fluently.
for instance, take the common phrase
"i love you". depending on the circumstance
& the intonation, i understand that it can mean:

"i like your personality. i want to be your friend",
or
"i like your personality, & i like your body.
i want to be your lover & your friend",
or
"i like your personality better than your body,
but i'll be your lover so i can be your friend",
or
"i like your body better than your personality,
but i'll try to be your friend so i can be your lover",
or
"i don't like myself, so i can't be your friend.
why don't i just pretend to be? at least i'll be your lover",
or
"i hate myself, & i hate you too, because you don't hate me,
& i'm going to slice your testicles off
with a pair of rusty hedgeclippers."

maybe i should learn Chinese...
how hard could it be?

"Sitting On the Cement Side"

D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com

walk smoking a cig
ar watching the
chrome-rimmed El
Camino's drive by.

COMING OUT OF RETIREMENT

c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com

dear mr. professor: i used to be a
real
professional wrestler
before i was only a
poet again,

so i understand
artistic pretense.

my question is this:

who do you think you're fooling
with the pretense of non-self-
referentialism,

you bunch of pencil-necked geeks?

it's past time for a six-man
lights-out no disqualification
barbed-wire electrified cage death
match!

this week! the arena!

you get the other two geeks.
i'll bring whitman & bukowski,

& we'll stomp your pipe-sucking
scotch-slurping butts,

even if we have to cheat.
hell! we LIKE to cheat!

haven't you heard? the word 'i'
is my favorite foreign object!

"Sit Down"

D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com

Falling down
Forever
Mind doing a slide show
"This is then."
Sit down. Stay a while.
Waiting
For a jagged edge.
Clip the skull
Break
It open.
ata spill,
Memory overload,
Sensory shutdown.
Nothing but waiting:
Nothing
But instant replay.
You'd better sit down
And plan
On staying a while.

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

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

---

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

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

Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page.

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

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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.