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editorial
“Type A” Person
I was in my friend’s car once, and she was driving through the streets of Chicago, and she was letting people in who were getting in the right lane at an intersection when that right lane really should only be used for turning right but they go straight and try to cut off the long line of traffic waiting at the light. Well, as I said, she’s letting these people get in front of her, and she’s stopping at four-way stop intersections and waving other cars to go in front of her, and when she is going she’s going under the speed limit, and I’m thinking, my god, she’s under thirty years old and she’s driving like she’s twice her age and I want to tell her to get going because damnit, I don’t want to die in this car, I’ve got a lot of living to do, I’ve never jumped out of an airplane or made a million dollars or been in a lustful affair with a high-ranking political candidate, and if I am going to go out I surely don’t want to die of boredom while someone else is staying in the most congested lane of traffic when they could just as easily get into the next lane and cut everyone off in front of them when they eventually have to merge, like I would most certainly do.
 And then it occurred to me, and of course it filled me with a complete and utter sense of elation, because I just love being pigeon-holed into stereotypical psychological categories: I really am a Type A person.
There’s an intersection near my house where from one direction you can either go straight or turn right, and there are two streets that merge into this one, both turning right, so the middle street has a “no turn on red” sign. And usually when I’m on this road I’m on the street that’s going straight, the left-most street, and these two streets are on my right, merging into my street. And I always catch the red light on this street, it’s like the traffic gods are displeased with my constant efforts to circumvent their wrath, so I’m always catching the red light at this street, so I’ve learned a new trick: I turn right, onto the first street on my right, but instead of doing a U-turn I turn left at the next block so I can get on that second street, all so I can turn right onto the street I was on originally before both of the other streets get to go so I can beat every one of those slow bastards to the next intersection.
I mean, yes, I’m the one that’s yelling and banging the stering wheel of my car when people on the road are idiots. Yes, I’m that person who has to race so that I can slam on my brakes at that next intersection, only 100 feet away, and yes, I am only driving a Saturn SL1, a sedan with about as much power as a 1982 Ford Mustang, but damnit, I won’t go down without a fight, I will be out there cutting everyone off, weaving in and out of traffic; I will be the one getting there before you, trust me, I will.
And even when I’m tuning the radio while driving, because, you see, I do that and put on my make-up and take notes for work and check over my schedule and if I was the Hindu god BISHNU and had ten arms I’d get a cel phone and send out faxes and eat dinner and write a novel while I was at it, but, as I said, even when I’m tuning the radio while I’m driving I only let the first second-and-a-half of the song play before I’m disgusted and change the dial to the next pre-programmed station, just to instantaneously become disgusted another six times and have to find a tape to play because all those stupid corporate pieces of shit think they should play crap over and over again in order to keep the mindless tuned in.
Well, not me, thank you very much, I don’t have the patience for that.
So, needless to say, I’ve discovered that this is a problem of mine, I wish there was some sort of therapy group for this so I could go to my weekly “Type A Anonymous” meetings, but we’d probably all be pushing each other out of the doorway thirty seconds before the meeting is supposed to start, saying, “Get out of my way ass-hole, you should have thought about being late before you tried to cut me off,” and the meetings themselves would probably be filled with people yelling, “Hey, jerk, I think I was talking, what, do you think you’re god or something, show some respect.“
God, and I know this is a problem of mine, I know this “Type A-ness” transcends into every realm of my life. When I get on the elevator in the morning to get to my office on the eighteenth floor, I try to make the doors close as quickly as possible so no one can get on the elevator with me, because you know, I really do hate all people and surely don’t want to be in a cramped confined space with a bunch of strangers. But when people do get on the same elevator as me, they invariably press the buttons for floors fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, and I start pursing my lips, stopping myself from saying, “Oh, you people couldn’t stand to walk a flight of stairs, you just had to press all of these buttons and stop me from getting to my god-damned floor in a reasonable amount of time.”
Even walking on the sidewalk in the city, I always get stuck behind someone that’s a full foot shorter than me and a full thirty pounds heavier, someone who labors to walk very, very slowly, someone who actually sways rhythmically when they walk, like a metronome, or like a person standing on the edge of a dance floor, rocking back and forth, back and forth all too afraid to actually ask someone to dance, or else afraid to go out and dance and make a fool of themselves in front of the cool people who have figured out what rhythm really is. And I’m walking behind this person, almost tripping over myself because this walking pace is just unnaturally slow, so to pass the time until there’s an opening on the left side of the sidewalk so I can pass them and walk like a human being again I start to mimick them, swaying with my walk, more for my own entertainment than anyone else’s.
Yes, more than a human being I’m a human doing, and I hate having to depend on the schedules of others in order to get ahead of them all.
Yes, I am the person in line at the grocery store with three items, shifting my weight from foot to foot, frantically scanning the other lines, the person who wants to ask the person in front of them, “can’t I get in front of you, I’ve only got three items and you have two full crocery carts full of crap like Cheetos, Pepsi, fish sticks and Haagen Daz Cookie Dough ice cream.” Yes, I am the person who has four different sets of plans for any given evening because if any one event gets too boring I can pick up and say, “Oh, sorry, I’m supposed to be at a meeting by now,” instead of having to tell them that they’re too boring or that I just have no idea whatsoever of how to relax. Yes, I am the person who coasts toward an intersection when I know the timed pattern of the traffic lights, and know that I can manage to get to this intersection without ever having to make a complete stop so when that light does change I can accellerate faster than everyone else, pass everyone by, and have the open road to myself, wide open in front of me.
I’m already guessing that at my funeral, when the long procession of cars is creeping toward the cemetary, I’ll be opening that casket up and whispering to the driver of the hearse, “hey, what do you say we floor it and blow everyone off in line? We could probably grab a beer at the corner bar and still be able to beat everyone to the grave site,” because, as I said, I’m a “Type A” person, and I’m going to make damn sure I do as much living as I possibly can, I’m not going down without a fight, and wherever that god-damned goal line is, I swear, I’ll beat everyone to it.
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Thanks!
poetry
a man calls a woman
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
every time a man calls a woman a "bitch"
the threat of rape lies behind his hostility
every time a man calls a woman a "witch"
he reminds her of the slaughter of millions
whose independence and medical
knowledge threatened male dominance
every time a man makes a joke about rape
or wife-beating he issues a warning to women
Bob Lamm, 1976
every time a man calls a woman a "babe"
he tells her he thinks of her as a child
every time a man calls a woman a "fox"
he tells her she is to be treated like an animal
every time a man calls a woman a "honey"
he tells her she is meant to be consumed
every time a man calls a woman a "doll"
he tells her she is something to be played with
every time a man calls a woman a "bag"
he tells her she is something to be used
every time a man calls a woman a "slit"
he tells her she's a body part, not whole
every time a man calls a woman a "screw"
he tells her she is what he does to her
every time a man calls a woman a "girl"
he tells her she can't think like an adult
every time a man calls a woman a "whore"
he tells her she is wrong for having sex
every time a man calls a woman a "lay"
he tells her she is no good on her feet
every time a man calls a woman anything
less than woman he tells her who's the boss
so yes, we all know who the boss is, boys
you've done such a good job of telling us
REGRETS
deckard kinder
newman@ntr.net
ecstatic memories of you:
nothing but
orgasmic emotional kodachromatic blackmail
don't do this to me I say
softly into the phone
into the no one's home night
to this machine that sounds
amazingly seductively impossibly
heartlessly soullessly breathlessly like you
where are you? I wonder
dodging the real question
never putting myself on the line
agonizing over the impossible
detour follows misdirection follows evasion insatiable
agonizing
succulent
separation growing like a fungus
in my dark obsessions
till you snag me bag me tag me
again [as always]
hardly a moment passes
without some old dredged up reverie
nattering around in my head
every memory a trap
every fantasy a dead end
without end
tender mercies not withstanding
eventually all this will simply vanish
[but until then]
Spirit Love
By Tina L. Jens
tina_jen@para-net.com
Tequila is a fickle lover
Running fast and hot through my veins
Gin has a slow hand
Like a riff from Eric's guitar
Champagne bubbles over my brain
Like hydrogen peroxide across an open wound
Whiskey sears a scar across my heart
No clumsy surgeon could leave
And I go on cataloging alcohols
While my heart grieves
For You.
Only for you.
MIRROR MAN
deckard kinder
newman@ntr.net
I look at your soul
and see myself
you say softly
merciful in disguise
a confession I don't expect
no one can grasp your meaning
in the desert of our lives
pleasure precedes pain
unbroken by your law
love recasts itself in your eyes
as you remove my restraints
there is no one but us
inept except where we are concerned
our heart-shaped world reflects nothing
no mirror can replace like so
life with you
takes its toll
giving way to addiction in no time
replacing the eternal with now
you leave me
eviscerated gutted empty
throwing friction at my reflection
giving way to obsession before I know it
searching nowhere for nothing I can grasp
next?
what is clear is that I love you
sweet mistress
does that bother you?
gratify you?
or simply not matter?
urgent reminder:
love is given away, never lost
everything works this way
women wishes wisdom
everything works this way
you leave me
nothing
to hold on to
give me nothing
to cherish except dreams
until I can find my way alone
solitary silence will be all I have
until I can find my way to you
remembering will be my preserve
replace me you say
tears not withstanding
yet you make it impossible
maybe
you don't really want it this way
everything indicates such
[grasping at straws]
or does it?
[grappling with reality]
salvage yourself you say
until you can save yourself
even though it hurts
you say so many things I cannot understand
gypsy fortunetelling makes more sense
everything makes more sense
yet I listen because it is you
[hypothesis: I'm thinking with my dick]
so what?
thinking only gets me in trouble
you laugh at me
for unknown reasons
systematically using my good parts
do you love me? you ask
everytime I gain strength
unless I have to I answer
knowing the score
temporarily enlightened
eternally uneducated
senselessly in tune
karma bank empty
hell one kiss away
romantic foreplay
elegant skin
despite my best efforts
everything adds up to this:
you own me
now and then you seem to care
skin holds you to me
everything is the way it is because
you couldn't see yourself in my soul
unless I was your soul
COME THE CERTAIN DARK TIMES,
Richard Fein
bardbyte@chelsea.ios.com
I'll need this rainy morning remembrance
of my taking him to school:
he jumping in and out of puddles
ignoring my halfhearted scolding,
a warm, gentle rain falling on all the muted street hues,
his yellow raincoat a bright beacon on this gray day,
his last furtive kiss out of sight from his classmates,
the long line of drizzled-on munchkins,
his last look at me, his final wave.
His final wave.
Iron doors slam shut.
Now pointless, even suspicious, to remain.
But come the certain dark times,
I'll draw on this memory.
< the best >
the music i see out my window
is painted in gray
the letter
opened
and lying on the table
that stands
just beside the sofa
done
in gray-green and off-white
just
like i am
reading
from you
from somewhere
my breast
sits
my mind
lies
the end is too deep
too silly
i keep remembering
the best
Ray Heinrich
ray@vais.net
When I was 17
Michael Estabrook
you couldn't have
convinced me that 30 years
from then I'd be raking leaves
in my front yard
and enjoying it, stopping
only long enough to talk
with the old guy who walks his
cocker spaniel by my house about how
our dogs are getting old
VAMPIRE WHORES (2)
Cheryl Townsend
IMPETUS@aol.com
don't care about blood
or necks but will suck
you just as dry walk the
very darkness of your
dreams
Morbid Outlook #4 April 94
grote man
(tall man)
by janet kuypers
translated by Jean Hellemans
Ik voel uw aanwezigheid in de kamer
een opwelling een beweging
jou lange schaduw bekleedde de hele muur
een vluchtige blik
een vreemdeling
ja ik heb het gevoel je allang te kennen
This you don't hate.
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
From the picture window
the snow drizzling down
fell effortlessly, silently:
I wondered if outside it
was as quiet as it looked.
The snow blanketed the
grass, past the pier his father
made last summer, out
over the lake. Everything
glowed in an untouched
whiteness. No footprints
yet. Just falling snow.
From the couch I looked
at the larger-than-life
snowflakes fall, one after
another, all gently gliding
down to the ground. I could
not look away. And you said:
This is why I like winters.
See, you hate winter in the
city, but this, this you
watch for hours and don't
get tired of. This makes you
smile. This you don't hate.
IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH UNTIL DEATH DO WE PART
Christopher Stolle
cstolle@indiana.edu
cleaning chimneys full of filth.
chipper feelings of satisfaction
as a fire cleanly grows in the hearth
blazing images of fireside stories
and the horror of that fateful day.
embracing the one you loved
never to see again
as their heaviness is now light.
blood-drained, remorse endured
for time ticks on.
taking hand in hand
vows are spoken, rings exchanged
not knowing what the future holds
but nothing will separate
in the mighty temple of love.
women's very existence
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
rape is neither a sex crime
or a crime of passion
rape is not an isolated brutal crime
against women
rape is often premeditated
rape is a crime of violence
rather than sex
it is a crime of violence
against women
it is an attack by men
on women's bodies
on women's feelings
on women's very existence
Bob Lamm, 1976
i still have to take showers a lot. i mean,
every once in a while, no matter how clean
i am to the rest of the world, i have to go
take a shower. i lock all the doors, i close
the shades on the windows, i put a towel
over the bathroom mirror. turn the water on,
piping hot, so steam is billowing out of
the bath tub. i finally undress, open the
curtain, put my foot in, burn my foot with
the water. i wish i could hold my foot there,
just a little longer. i turn down the water.
wait for it to cool down, then step in. then
i just put my head under the shower head. hold
it there for a while. catch my breath. get the
soap. start scrubbing. i use the soap first,
then i get the bath brush. scrub off a layer
of skin. i know this makes no sense. my skin
is red, from the heat, from the scrubbing.
but i know i'm still not getting it off, it's
down there, the molecules are embedded
deep inside of me, and i'll have to rip my skin
off, pull out my organs before it goes away.
but for now all i can do is take showers.
The Feast of All Fools
(From a Letter on Valentine's Day)
Caron Andregg
caron@ktb.net
It is that day, again
And I am here, again
And you are not, again
And I am neglecting, again
Other more important things
There are rumors
I'm the smart one
But it doesn't show.
Strangers eat my words
Rip my skin with thoughts
More courageous than their
Hands will ever be
I can hear them burning
Like wind through dry trees
Down where the round vowels
Suck them in and swallow
Where the darkness crowds around
Where it is always midnight
And someone is always leaving.
And I am here, again
And you are not, again
And maybe just as well
To be possessed, so
By the shadow of your flesh
With no real meat
To cup above the bone
Is the definition of hell.
poetry by pete lee
Litany
My Mazda has 93,000 miles on her odometer.
In the aftermath of my most recent divorce,
I stuffed her with all my worldly possessions and with no force
she was still a sleepable two-seater.
I have four debts totalling 10,436 dollars.
I'm lucky I still draw a good salary.
While the coffee and cigarettes cost me not one calorie,
after the beer I've got to tighten my belt till the buffalo hollers.
I don't know how many operations I've conducted
for the government, yet for not one of them
was I suited. At age 33, with "inner troubles" that stem
from God knows where, I bang on with my drug-bucked head.
Lights keep going out in my apartment; four so far.
(I've had three prophetic dreams in that place,
plus one in which I was stabbed by a man who had no face.)
A weird gust knocked over one of them; the other three were on a linear
connection, and went out one by one. Why does this depress?
My star's falling. Things are manifesting
the dark side of the theory that when life moves from the testing
to the tallying, the final number is always yes.
****************************************************
the literalist the literalist II
having been told looks up "mirror"
he should have his in the dictionary
head examined
& there's his own face
shaves it
lost
not 200 feet over
our desert town
a good 20 miles
from their flyway
a V of Canada geese
honks and veers
this way and that
I'm pulling for them
but it doesn't matter
they become a broken
necklace of black dots
against the sun
rising out of Death
Valley... just as a
fellow desert rat
rattles past in
a decrepit Pontiac
with a message etched
in the dust coating
the dinged-up trunk lid:
honk if you're lost
love & bullets
it's fun watching
society crumble
on Channel 9
our only fear
is that the tv
stations'll go
before all the
rest of it does
forcing us to
open our doors
& watch it all
sans logos
*******************
love in the '60s
we did some acid
together later
I asked her
out for a drink
that night
we coupled
in an old barn
then we flirted
finally I was able
to get her
phone number but
in exchange I had
to tell her my name
I was nervous hoping
she liked me
I couldn't help
dressing her with
my eyes
lover my dyslexic
draws an upside-
wards & backdown
world of the map,
then us places
inwith, handing
holds & smiling -
she at her me
& vision, i
at her & her
perfect accuracy.
******************************
lullaby for a depressive minimalist
la,
la,
la.
practice
being
dead.
******************************
magic moment
her body was
a chafing dish:
fragile, never
used, and utterly
foreign to me
until that moment
she brought it out
ceremoniously.
March 19, 1996
even in dog years
she's younger
"life begins at 40"
(after 40
it's patch,
patch, patch...)
"Hey Pete
it's just a date"
******************
maternal urge
she strips and runs
naked across acres
of brambles then
lies down panting
in the grass while
several dozen deer
ticks wander her
torn flesh like
restless freckles
as they begin
one by one to
settle down
to feed her
expression is one
of slight annoyance...
and no small
satisfaction.
message machine
you can call my body
a darkened room if you like
you can call my soul
a telephone on a stand
in the corner
you can call my eyes
a pair of goldfish
turning as one toward
the sound of your call
as I quietly switch on
Migrations
Certain
birds that overshoot
their destinations
drown alone at sea,
exhausted
and famished,
their chance to breed
behind them,
the spring sun
beckoning still,
their will
to answer
gone,
the splishing
of their wings
on water
a wet,
muted knocking
at a door
that always opens
downward,
where untroubled
fishes flitter
like little suns.
The Jaguar
Caron Andregg
caron@ktb.net
She walked through bright suburban rooms
Cloaked in her own night, like a wild thing
Only seeming to be tame. Like the circus
When it came to your scrap-metal town
And parked its timeless painted,
Peeling vans in a fermata
Out behind the five and dime
Semi-circled, semi-safe,
Palmists and jugglers and freaks,
Creaking rides with barkers quick
To catch the drips of raining coins,
Swoop, scoop, clutch, then look away.
And in the center, the menagerie
Toothless bears and sloths
Without their claws, spiderlike
Cornered in their narrow pens.
Pygmy hippos like hefty bags
Stacked steaming in the sun.
And to the side, a jaguar paced
The measure of his rage
Step, step, drop shouldered,
Turn and twirl and then again
Across his tiny cage.
His coat was spotted in its proper way,
And here and there with mange
And with mishandling.
Yet in the spaces in between
And in the center of each swirl
He carried his own jungle.
Its humid, fecund scent
Smoked up from his hot skin
And burnt your lips with longing.
Then, in a flash, he slashed out your
Slim throat with ancient, liquid eyes
Which were not sad, but only said
"I wait."
SNOWGIRL
I.B. Rad
I B Radeck@aol.com
They found her naked*
propped up by a tree
erect and still
like the white of birches
against new snow
with only a ribbon of red
about her open mouth
to brighten a life
devoid of warmth.
* Paradoxically, when a person is freezing the capillaries in the skin may dilate before death inducing the sensation of unbearable warmth, causing the person to tear off their clothing.
most accurate metaphors
janet kuypers
rape is one of the most savage
one of the most accurate
metaphors for how men
relate to women in this society
it is a political crime
committed by men
as a class
against women
as a class
rape is an attempt by men
to keep all women in line
Bob Lamm, 1976
now there's two ways
this can happen, little girl
you can keep fighting me,
and if that's the case, i'll
have to keep my hand
over your mouth and
this knife at your neck,
or you can relax, enjoy
yourself, make this easier
on the both of us
you know you want this
so stop fighting it
i saw the way you were
looking at me earlier,
the way you stared at me
the way you were dressed
i know what you were thinking
so don't say a word
did you think those drinks
were free
how long did you think
i could wait
it's my turn now
you owe it to me
just do as i say
and no one gets hurt
GOTHAIKU
by Shelley Stoker
sun a scalding tear
sliding down
the face
of sky
night kisses
what hurts.
too much light
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
too much light makes the baby go blind
and too much light makes the moth
rush into the flame
and die in a final
glorious blaze of glory
and I have seen the light
and I have seen it
what is my choice:
burn in the flame
to burst quickly
to die young
or to slowly slip away
to die slowly
day by day
to let people in darkness
pull me in
inch by inch
until the light
kills me
Ik verlangde naar pijn
(i wanted pain) by j. kuypers
translated by Jean Hellemans
Je schreeuwde naar mij aan de kant te gaan.
Je wou dat ik stopte.
Ik reed te hard, zei je,
daarom stampte ik op de remmen
en zette de motor af.
Ik wou uit de auto springen
en weglopen,
lopen tot ik mezelf verloor.
Ja ik wou vallen.
Ik wou op de grond vallen
Ik wou de kille scherpe grint voelen
die in mijn gezicht sneden
en mijn kin openhaalde.
Ik wou pijn om me weer goed te voelen.
Maar jij zat nog in je auto,
klaar om te racen
mijn geest aan te porren,
tot waanzinnigheid , boven alle grenzen heen.
Ik stond geleund tegen mijn auto,
voelde mijn verzwakte adem
mijn krullen vlogen door de wind tegen mijn gelaat
Ik moest me concentreren op mijn adem
de uitdaging in jou macht te geraken negeren
zolang ik ademen en denken kon.
ICED-OVER
Paul Weinman
Random vomit patches
had iced
polka-dotted the thin snow
that covered the flower beds.
He reaches tentatively
across the damp sheets
of his own
to find her.
But, it's only cold
hasn't been rumpled
by her body
for weeks.
The bottle at bedside
is empty again
and thorns
are his mind.
when Patti would fall asleep
Michael Estabrook
her pretty head light
upon my shoulder IÕd concentrate
on keeping as still
as a stuffed otter barely blinking
or even breathing listening
to the space
all around me.
Complex
Richard Fein
bardbyte@chelsea.ios.com
Squashed against the doors I hoped wouldn't fly open, I
was condemned to stand for twenty stations, but there were
compensations,
for after the dark tunnel a view exploded.
Usual sunset business.
Of course being pubescent what I really wanted
was a glimpse of an intimate bedroom scene
from one of the houses that seemed to wobble by.
But the subway was passing at dinnertime,
too early for lawful connubial bliss,
too late for adultery, with husbands home soon.
A line of two family homes, with kitchen lights and aproned women.
A hairpin curve, squeaking brakes, we stopped.
There, fifty feet away, beyond the chasm of door to window,
I saw one of my first loves.
Oh, she was fully clothed, any undressing was in my mind.
About my age. We swapped smiles. She turned her face from side to
side
as if modeling. She could have. Pretty.
The car door parted. I floated
across the gulf, to her bedroom window, almost.
A sudden jerk, I fell on a muscular shoulder.
An annoyed stare robbed me of my last look.
The train made its turn around the curve,
and each passing car was in turn bathed by her bedroom light.
I noted the place and for the next three weeks
happened to be walking down that street.
But the Hollywood coincidence didn't occur, almost never does.
Boy, the time I wasted when I was young!
Years after, in fact just last week, with wife and child in the car,
I managed a wrong turn. Behold! The street!
They asked me where I was going; I didn't really know.
I knew the house had long since been demolished;
a towering co-op complex now casts its shadow on the turning tracks.
FEEDING MRS. SOLIS
David E. Cowen
Ripford@aol.com
http://members.aol.com/ripford/homepage/cowen.htm
A shawled cicada
chisled in a squeaking rocker,
watching mass on a transubstantiated box,
squeezing, like popping beetles,
large black beads connected by silver,
while a small boy at her blue metal kitchen table
guietly unloads a brown bag of pink boiled ham
and Bumblebee tuna;
careful not to interrupt her holy moment
and lose the dollar
promised for his good deed.
use what you had
helena wolfe
i've never had regrets
but i keep wondering
why i gave up what i had
for you, to be with you
if all you were going to do
was fuck me over
and then put me out on
the line to dry
i keep thinking of all the
hell i went through
with the last guy, but at
least he wanted me,
at least he had a big dick
and could get me off
(i've wanted to tell you
you had a small cock,
and you didn't even know how
to use what you had, but then
again, you've never been in a
relationship for more than two
months, how could you ever
learn how to satisfy a woman,
you cock-sucker?) and although
my past relationship was still
dysfunctional at least he
wanted to make that committment
with me, and i threw that
away so that i could go
on this stupid roller-
coaster with you, the man who
offered me in some ways no
more than and in some ways even
less than my ex, so that you
could then after all this crap
throw me away like i am some
sort of piece of trash that was
a little too big for the garbage
disposal but needed to be removed
nonetheless. oh, and i just
keep thinking that it's so ironic
that i was looking for something
more and all i could get was a
bunch of nothing and i hate you
but at least i know now that
you have a really small cock, and
that nyou don't even know how to
use it, and that you have to live with
that. that you're stuck with that.
sylvia plath is my mother
ray heinrich
ray@vais.net
sylvia plath is my mother
i
practiced cutting my finger like her
a few weeks ago
it was
exactly as she said
she
is perfect
the perfect poet
risking everything
and
losing it
and
gaining it
at the same time
i look
at her picture
posted
just to the right of my computer
just beside gary snyder
and the one
smoothly lives
and the other
roughly dies
but looking at the words
left behind
for all i know
they sit side by side
maybe even kiss me in my love for them
mirror images
reflecting paths
down which
any of us
can go
taking your time
ray heinrich
ray@vais.net
knowing
the exact soft place
the muzzle presses
beneath your chin
pointing the barrel
your brain
calculates a path
straight through itself
imagines the bullet
a quiet
leisurely
moment later
deckard kinder
newman.ntr.net
like a reborn
televangelical
capital c christian
preacher
pimping Jesus' love
for the right amount
of cash
I got a mouth on me
and - yea! - I don't know
when to shut it
I am blessed
and I am cursed
and I am conned
by my own swirling
don't be late
take the bait
and pass the plate
from here to eternity
faster than the speed of sound
bullsh it
and I believe
and I believe
and I believe
that this time
unlike every other time
it is going to last
forever
a socially accepted target
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
rape is connected
to the frustration produced
by living in this society
rape is anger
misdirected towards
a socially accepted target:
women
Men and Politics Group, East Bay Men's Center, Statement on Rape
i didn't get the promotion i deserved
i work in a cubicle
the boss doesn't know my name
i put in too much overtime
this tie makes it hard to breathe
this traffic is always in my way
there's all these bills i have to pay
i'm angry all the time
and the damn kids are banging
their toys when i come home
and dinner is never on time
and your looks have just gone to hell
and i hate you
i just want a fucking beer, you bitch
it's all your fault
"The First Time"
D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com
A full face spitting down on me,
playing tricks
on glass
and watching
the same explosion of clouds
as I, but from
a different
perspective.
Most people run away from such things,
but beauty
does not scare me
like it should.
Further from the centre of gravity
I find pieces
of control
and morality.
I once asked an old man "How will I know
when finally
I find
true love?"
He replied "Believe me, you'll know:
it will feel
exactly like
the first time."
SAVING THE PRICE OF
A TICKET TO PARIS
c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com
for Jim Morrison
if i could add graffiti
to your gravestone, Jim
i guess i'd give you
what i plan to have
engraved on mine:
'REST IS DOUBTFUL.
HE WAS POSSESSED
BY MORE OF A
VOICE THAN
HE OWNED.'
the night
D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com
The night I asked her
if she was beautiful
or only looked it,
she asked me
if she could crawl inside
and turn out the lights.
I said I don't think
there's room, but I've got
two kidneys when
I only need one, and
certainly nobody needs
all that intestine, and after
removing some ribs and some
strategic relocation everything
should fit just fine.
That night she said never
you mind and that night
I had an awful feeling
about life without a heart
and so I rang you on the
telephone but you weren't home
and I've still been waiting
all this time to tell you.
Redemption
Robert Michael O'Hearn
RMOHRN@AOL.COM
Youthful girl possessed most fondly in memory,
should have never let go of that Destiny
& you'll revive & revise in imagination
a thousand differing scenarios, all ending
in the same resolution never actualized.
What would it be worth to you to hold sway
over the intermediate course ahead of you?
How better then to intimate & integrate
both the best & worst of times in one space,
objectively overachieving time without pause.
Yet, you will never let go, completely let go
& be on friendlier terms with realization.
You'll forever love agnosticism & doubt more,
even if tomorrow is as uncertain as yesterday,
constantly in arrears. The past with its
attempted revivals, short-term redemptive risks,
never panned out beyond catching your breath.
Perhaps all momentary stays are necessary
as relief stations for your wilting idealism,
to balance out the scales of subversive justice?
Possibly psychological alms remunerated to you
in the name of those who proceeded you, who
suffered more? In all pragmatic matters,
redemptive spirits can embody liquefied joy
riding out the storm on reality's notion & whim
while you continue tap dancing in that corner.
To a decaying body's prospective passing swoon,
I should like to seize upon my creativity as a god,
even if only a mortal repository. Beyond that,
spin the bottle in back of time to point at you:
A daydream still fickle enough to remember Destiny's date.
Sometimes you just have to wander off the planet earth
& subjectively never return home to mother.
Most poets will perhaps write of the betrayal of their love by a former
lover. I have decided to turn this around a bit, and look at our own
tendencies to betray, however small. Autobiographical, you ask? Don't
push too much! But perhaps it applies to many of us.
POSSESSION
Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/
One trace of dust beyond the stratosphere-
That's all it was.
One nanosecond's excrement
From a continuum of time layed plain
Before you, giving of myself
Beyond all thought of gain.
That's how it was, and surely powers above
Would nod in their beneficence,
And beam their benediction to
This celebrant before the altar of his love.
How ready, I, to measure my devotion
In cups of sacrifice, and time, and noble words!
How reticent, to look inside
And find their bottoms rusted near away,
But blind to the contaminant
Which oozes from my ego, still demanding
First, that I possess that object of desire
You have personified.
So thus, I chose the path of strategy.
Pure offering upon my altar
Now impossible...I could not look at it.
No thurible could ever cleanse deception,
For that is what it was...and I was free
to make of it whatever hurt that I could fashion
in my mind, and justify as microscopic.
To claim that I did not betray my love
Betrays myself-that particle of acid
Gnaws insatiably, and rhetoric
May neutralize it only for a time
While I am Everyman.
PC POEM #2
c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com
when people (usually white people)
get hold of more money than they usually have,
& begin to spend it on things they don't really need
(like anything other than food, clothes, rent)
their quaint & curious term for this is
'acting nigger rich.'
it has a cruel element of truth-
when poor people get their pockets full,
it makes them crazy. they want that car,
that stereo, that bag of dope
they've been denied before.
they don't want to wait to spend it
on health insurance 3 months hence.
it's not smart, but we do it,
we poor people,
& sooner or later we're poor again
complaining bitterly about our poverty.
still... 'nigger rich'? however crude,
it does have a certain poetic appeal,
but when you go to describing
the behavior of people who spend
much more than they can possibly afford
on things that they don't really need,
wouldn't 'predominately white
elected government official rich'
be a lot more accurate?
i know this term is much too long,
& it doesn't tickle the tongue
like 'nigger rich',
but goddammit, it's the only
politically correct alternative,
& being concerned with the language,
as well as the people who mangle it,
that's the best i can do for now.
besides, i'm on my way to office town
for 3 or 4 more word processor ribbons,
an extra pack of floppy disks
& a couple more reams of paper,
while i'm still
african-american
affluent.
in their homes or in the streets
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
some women are raped
in their homes or in the streets
by men whom we call "strangers"
some women are raped
in their homes or in the streets
by men we call psychiatrists,
doctors, college professors,
friends, lovers,
husbands and fathers
and some women are raped
in the streets or in offices
by men who merely sit there
and commit rape with looks
with smirks
with insults
with threats
Bob Lamm, 1976
you'll never understand
have you ever felt
that everything you did
from the clothes you chose to wear
to the way you styled your hair
to the way you walked down the street
to the way you sat at your desk
to whether you looked at people
as they passed you in the grocery store
when you picked up the food for the family
have you ever felt
that everything you did
was under the scrutiny
of half the world
that a stare could haunt you
if you looked too confident
or your eyes wandered for too long
and actually caught someone's gaze
or your skirt was too short
or you didn't cross your legs
or if you ate a banana
or happened to lick your lips
have you felt it
well, you're not a woman
ON MEDITATION
Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/
Prayers at an end....
Postured on my little bench
I note the cycle of each breath,
and nothing more.
I long for God
but dare not interpose the thought
(for thought breeds thought)
and such is not of God.
Unlock the mind.
Unlock the heart.
And listen...
Expecting nothing
For that as well must go.
And there at the center,
Ineffable No-thing-ness!
The divine intersection;
the crossroads of the soul and God...
Always new, and never to compare...
And desecrated by my words.
PILGRIMS
c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com
walking along charlotte pike, i saw a buddhist monk
standing by the interstate entrance ramp.
i couldn't read his upheld sign
which seemed written in chinese
yet, was sure it said something wise,
so coming abreast, i thought to pay homage
but why in passing would anyone bow
to a balding man with a cheap black suit
& a cardboard begging 'arkansas'?
we are all far from our temples.
middle-class husbands and fathers
janet kuypers
ccandd96@aol.com
rapists are not peculiar, abnormal men
rapists are very normal masculine men
rapists come in all sizes and shapes
all races and nationalities
all ages and social classes
many are white middle-class husbands and fathers
Bob Lamm, 1976
rapists are not all convicted prisoners
rapists are not all psychopaths
rapists are not all welfare recipients
rapists are not all foaming at the mouth
rapists are not all abused by their parents
rapists are not all sex-depraved
rapists are not all gun-toting criminals
rapists are not all undereducated
rapists are not all jobless
rapists are not all beaten as children
rapists are not all minorities
rapists are not all criminally insane
rapists are in your office
rapists are in your convenience mart
rapists are in your local tavern
rapists are in your school
rapists are in your restaurant
rapists are in your car pool
rapists are in your grocery store
rapists are in your country club
rapists are in your church
rapists are in your family reunion
rapists are in your living room
rapists are in your bed room
they come in all shapes and sizes
they're everywhere
MOMENT
Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/
This gentle kiss of time we cannot hold
is flavored by nuance, yet once defined
is ownerless, and reconstructed echos
twist the mind and drive it out of truth,
disgorging it as dung-What sweetness there?
I reached as if to capture something....
but were it meant for prison it would laugh.
The price of bliss is not this tawdry parallel.
Pure nothingness surpasses that.
Then surely it is lost,
but I would seek beyond reality itself
for mystery of such delight.
O let another dawn bring on its own expedient
and we shall wait, but cautiously, lest we distort
what sense can never know, nor longing e'er forget.
No warning shot....no strategy will win the day.
Catastasis is vain when artifice prevails.
Still wait, though even hope be not the door
to evanescent rapture...gifted once perhaps,
unsought by one, and with no right to seek...
yet there!..................and............there?
POET'S PRAYER
c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com
lord, please
don't let
me be
understood
too quickly.
Out of Mind
Bob Ludden
robert@essex1.com
http://www.essex1.com/people/robert/
We are a human state
consumed with downward paths
and sloughing off excess.
As rivers to the sea...
As carrion...
As food consumed...
As waste discharged...
But then reborn
And to the end made new again
To feed posterity.
Then as by choice we fuel a new discharge
of isms... fetid, putrid death.
Those partisans of age and sex,
of race and military zeal
Those super patriots,
Those little gods of faith
conceived from little minds
and to the end released
To fill the bowels of Hell.
OPEN MIC READING: POET #23
c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com
these are a few of the 400 poems
i wrote over summer vacation:
this first poem
seems to be about something. it's actually about
something else entirely. anyway, i hope you liked it.
thank you. thank you very much.
a little background on this next poem
i don't believe in spending
a lot of time explaining
my poems. i'd rather spend
the same time in explaining
how i don't believe in spending
a lot of time explaining my poems.
thank you. thank you very much.
politically correct poem
racism, war, & polluting the planet
is bad, so don't do it.
thank you. thank you very much.
this particular poem
is short.
thank you. thank you very much.
do i have time for anything else?
no?
thank you. thank you very much.
"Talk"
D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com
After our time there will be talk
of long ago
when mad man come
and swallow sun.
Back when these things happened.
Before language, sky fallen, earth cold.
When we are gone they will speak
of mad man
come like hail storm
here to destroy.
Back when there was only one girl.
She reached out, kissed, tasted the sun.
Palmistry
Robert Michael O'Hearn
RMOHRN@AOL.COM
A small hand blooms, opening flowerless
from a comical fist, cherishing resolve
quite apart from its apparent inaction.
A still hand quite voluntarily revealing
a humble hand, replete with striated lines,
regaling with almost missionary dispatch
a life story, sometimes better left untold.
Both palms appear to you like inset maps
of zigzag roadways depicted in atlases,
coordinates of an unbalanced tipsy life,
like the imbibers silly walk, coming back
at you, breathing hands-down authority.
The day's convoluted mileage snakes onward
as if life lived on a revoked driver's license,
traveling incognito on over back roads.
Lest you forget how to get properly lost?
In truth, my left palm resembles almost
a too perfect portrait inked by the hand
of a Norman Rockwell-like artist. Smooth,
too orderly of lines depicting this life,
of how life might have been or should have
turned out for the better, had I never
browsed enthusiastically through travel brochures,
had I always been more of a pragmatist,
more of a Catholic, drank more holy Perrier water,
blessed with a slice of lemon.
Most lines seem smoother than superhighway lanes.
Other lines seem to flare, shuffled off to the side
with occasional chaotic jagged lines resurfacing
like the character lines on a well worn face,
aged prematurely, blessed with eyes sadder but wiser.
The main line, my heart-line remains fairly straight
and strongly accentuated, somewhat shortchanged
on my right palm, referent to the actual life lived
than the potential on my left palm wants to reveal.
Both lifelines on each palm seem longer than deserved.
Whatever else said, further smacks of a life history
fraught with inconsistency, if not inaccuracy.
The headline hints of a capacity for intellect,
for emotional balance appears deeply furrowed
on both palms, as if steeped in signifying anger
more imitative than intentional: Blinder
in plot to circumscribed reality than what,
until now, my clenched fist thought it knew.
PARLOUR TRICKS
c ra mcguirt
cramcguirt@aol.com
our sibling incest
bad girl games
have given way
to chess.
it might be
for the
best,
but i
still miss my
mischievous sister.
"The Case of the Burnt-Out Firefly"
D. Michael McNamara
RFDD36C@prodigy.com
The case of the burnt-out firefly:
a certain comfort the road holds.
a certain loneliness your lover leaves.
i've got a woman and she is
(she really is)
- but on the nominal tip,
the philological lip, -
all i really need,
all i really dream of,
but
- remember that kid?
always had twenty-seven
(value-packed)
pieces of gum
and still wouldn't share? -
i'm he.
|
Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on "Children, Churches and Daddies," April 1997)
Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the "dirty underwear" of politics.
One piece in this issue is "Crazy," an interview Kuypers conducted with "Madeline," a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia's Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn't go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef's knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover's remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline's monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali's surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.
|
Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer's styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
|
Ed Hamilton, writer
#85 (of children, churches and daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I'm not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious.
As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers') story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.
|
Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.
|
Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet
I'll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers'. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren't they?
|
what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don't consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
|
C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)
cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.
"I really like ("Writing Your Name"). It's one of those kind of things where your eye isn't exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem.
I liked "knowledge" for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.
|
Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor's copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@aol.com... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv
Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page.
|
Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.
|
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
|
Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site)
I just checked out the site. It looks great.
|
Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
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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.
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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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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!!!
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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." Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers' very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there's a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there's a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.
Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We're only an e-mail away. Write to us.
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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.
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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" 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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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!
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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, 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.
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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.
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