Dusty Dog Reviews
The whole project is hip, anti-academic, the poetry of reluctant grown-ups, picking noses in church. An enjoyable romp! Though also serious.









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






Children, Churches and Daddies
The un-religious, non-family-oriented literary and art magazine

November 1998
volume 104

ccd


poetry


where I belong

janet kuypers
well, I have found
that I must
be the hound
enslaved
cause my hands
and my feet
they are bound
to the ground
and I struggle
to sing
just one sound

so thank you
for singing this song
for showing me wrong
is where I belong

I’m in a haze
yet I’m filled
with this rage
encaged
by the intricate maze
on this stage
and I’m dazed
as I page
through my wage
on the blaze

and thank you
for singing this song
for showing me wrong
is where I belong

I smell the mace
so I cover my face
in case
in my haste
I can trace
the harsh taste
is my pace
in this race
is it all
just a waste

yes, thank you
for singing this song
for showing me wrong
is where I belong


watching you eat a donut

kuypers

(with Lance)


How do I approach this? I remember the lines:
“the optomist and the pessimist,
the difference is quite droll:
the optomist sees the donut
and the pessimist sees the hole”
And I look over, see the consumption of
the wholeness, the nothingness.

I prefer nothing because there’s
a whole lot of nothing
breathing nothing
nothing between the spaces
one naught two naught three.

But there’s always so much to read
between the spaces, between the lines.
You see, it’s all a matter of
what you choose to look for.
What you choose to look for. What you choose to find.

I look at the world and see nothing
I stare into nothing and see the world
I look at nothing and see memory
and all the faces caressed with eyes.

I run my fingers along the table, caressing
the granules flaking from the pastry
between two fingers. Like grains of sand,
ting beads. Caressed. Consumed.
This is nothing. This is everything.


the universe
ray heinrich

upstairs
the rice cooks
and i
must be mindful
of the time
the rice
is not forgiving
done
at a certain time
ready
or gone
i
feel like rice
feel like the long ago
empty plain filled
with rice or wheat or
if necessary
high stalks of corn
lighted by a full moons light
lighted so they direct
our
full attention
to
the flash of weapons firing
the mental
the physical
pieces of metal
fast enough to spin through you
tearing whatever cells happen
to be in the way
out
off
gone
holes
you or i
won’t mention the blood
the red
the original red
not read
as you’re doing now
but red
as the light likes
the inside of us
rejoices when the skin must split
must give way
to the pure color of red
becomes a fountain
celebrating
the end of life
celebrating
the constant suffering
which makes us
pure
even as the portraits of
nixon and
stalin and
reagan and
some germans i won’t name
grin over us
yes
they don’t understand
in their illness
in their constant need
for attention
but we
have only to look
in their direction
to help them
to kiss their useful lips
we
a part of the constant pain
of weapons
of words
of the separation
of germ plasma
of DNA
we are
completely similar
arguing for the fun of it
killing our neighbors
just like the crabgrass
ignoring
the continuity
of us and snails

tragic?

no

the continuity of time
requires all of this
we
are along for the ride

and we kill

and we burn

whoever

we

want

random
molecules
compel

there is no

blame

and

from a place
way too high
to lean
into the wind
to fall
over and over
pointing
if possible
pointing up
so you don’t
see the ground approaching
see the ground
which
in seconds
will crush
your skull
your body

will end
all this talking and words
will end
all this questioning
will end
this complete vacuum
which we call

the universe

the self


Water and Stone
Caron Andregg

I lived among zoo keepers and their stories
Of exotic charges familiar to their eyes
As household dogs.

A tiger-man who’d been so badly mauled
He could hardly hold a spoon
But held no grudges
It’s in the nature of tigers
To pounce and to feed
He watched, in anesthetic shock
Detached and fascinated
As she took another bite.

A woman can no more change a man
Than a man can stop
A woman’s constant changing
It’s in the nature of water and stone
To gnaw at each other
Wear away at sharp carved edges
Or come to know their contours
All so well they lose their sting.

She flows, irresistable
Carving new, deep, secret channels
To leave the old bed dry
He endures, immutable
Himself
A man

And both watch
Detached and fascinated
As time takes another bite.


Words

By Jordana Abraham


words
the power of words
the power of your words
the power of your words mean everything
with words everything could be different

words
the power of words
those little letters and phrases mean so much
they mean so much to me

words
the power of words
those little syllables are all that I have left


You and Her

By Jordana Abraham

You left her behind
You yelled at her
You scorned her
You bruised her

She now bleeds
She now cries
She now leaves
She now hates

You suffocate her
You disturb her
You bother her
You bind her
You killed her

She weeped now
She raged now
She’s dead now

Your fault
Your ownership
Your words
Your actions
Your afflictions
You’re the killer, not her
You’re the murderer
Don’t you see that now?


Your Kiss, Like Bread
Caron Andregg

Your kiss, like bread
sustains me
in the desert of morning.
Your tongue, succulent
marks my oasis, gleaming
amid the grass of my heart
rich as history
solemn as a last meal.


your eyes can play funny tricks

Michael Estabrook

Driving into work,
I’m in the land of the aged,
an old man going 6 mph in the car
in front of me, an old woman
with a stupid looking beret
lopsided on her head in the car behind me,
two old ladies walking on the sidewalk,
another old man coming out of
the Bagel Hut, teetering
with his cane and cup of coffee.
Suddenly up ahead I see
a long white alligator crossing the road.
But the other cars don’t slow down,
don’t see the alligator.
They run it over! Oh my, oh no!
A long white alligator must
be a rare thing so please!
Please don’t run it over, don’t kill it!
I get closer and realize
it’s merely a long sheet of white paper.


the shadow of heaven
Ray Heinrich

we must all be
underneath the shadow of heaven
the latticework
that keeps us
from the real void
the unimaginable

but stop and ask me
what i am doing
what is my presumption
to name a poem ‘the shadow of heaven’
and i will tell you
the real power of a poet
is the power to use
whatever words are available
and the payment is
as always
to be ignored
and sometimes to be burned
but only the best are burned
the freedom of mediocrity
is sublime and total

and as the smoke rises
you don’t need to ask
where the best are
you have only
to lay yourself back
in the shadow of heaven
falling over us all


ways to spend your money

j. kuypers

I spent a week in Los Angeles recently
visited Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Brentwood
I saw the Hollywood sign
and Marilyn Monroe’s handprint in concrete
took my picture with Tom Jones’ star

but the one thing I noticed
was that among the shops
that lined the streets of every neighborhood
there were quite a few pet spas
“pet spas,” i thought, “pet spas”


Water on the Street

j. kuypers

George Eastman
was dumping water
from his outdoor hot tub one day
and the water
was running
down the center
of the street.

Now, from a distance,
it looked like
George Eastman
may have been
watering his lawn;

but people were only allowed
to water their lawns
on certain days of the week.

So when I saw the water
and then I saw
George Eastman,
I said, “Hey, you know -”
pointing to the water

and
George Eastman
interrupted and said,
“I know what you’re thinking, but
I’m not watering my lawn. I’m
dumping out the water
from my hot tub,
and I’m dumping it into the street
because I don’t want the chemicals
to hurt my lawn.”

Well, I didn’t even mention the
sewer grate behind his house
he could have dumped the water into.
I just said,
“Well, if it will hurt your grass,
what will it do to the asphalt on my
street?”

And
George Eastman
started hemming and hawing
as I drove away.


What do we say

j. kuypers

What do we tell our youth
when we let them out on probation
for violent crimes
because there’s no room in our jails
What does it say of us
when a painting of a clown
by John Wayne Gasey
sells for millions
What does it say of our self-esteem
when hundreds of women write letters
to Charles Manson
asking for his hand in marriage
What does it say of our media
when it glorifies these
dark heroes
Dear
Hero
I want to know how your mind works
I want to know why you did it
I want to know how you feel about politics
and love
and marriage
I hope you’re not suffering too much
I love you
What rights do we really take away
from those who take our rights from us?
I hope you’re not suffering too much
Richard Speck, convicted of killing
eight nurses, was videotaped in his
prison cell by cell mates with his
male lover, counting hundred
dollar bills, snorting mounds of
cocaine,
showing off his hormonally-
induced shapely breasts
When a menber of society commits a crime
they relinquish the rights
they have taken from others
in theory
One man in prison filed a lawsuit
against the state
for serving peas to him too many
days in a row
One man in prison filed a lawsuit
against Ann Landers
because she published his letter
where he wrote he killed his wife
One man in prison filed lawsuit
after lawsuit against the state
solely because he felt a great joy
in uselessly spending
the taxpayers’ money
What do we say to all of this
What do we say


poems from pete lee:

War Stories

Not even a vet
(come to find out),
let alone ever
set foot in the ‘Nam.
Buddy,
my wish for you is
just this:
That you wake up
in the middle
of your wildest lie.

*******************
watching clouds

an alligator
that thins
into a
crocodile races
after a fat
white puffer

the croc’s
snout opens
wider as
it draws
closer

then flies
apart before
it can
bite down

this is heavenly
justice

we have a lot in common

among other things
we’re both at that age
where reading gets harder
“and it’s not only
the vision thing” he
says (drugstore specs
perched on his ever-
widening forehead)
“i’ve lost a few
brain cells over the
years” and i
confess “i’ve lost
more than a few...
years and brain cells”

*****************************************
we(e)

blips on the Big
Bang:

no wonder we
admire stability.

*****************************************
What the Moon Hears

The sound trees make in a forest devoid
of human life is a sort of sniggering,
like a clan of contentious hyenas
feasting on the rumor of a lost child.
The blinking moon is an owl’s question
of clouds pushing across its one good eye.
“The wind will tell you who,” whispers the brook,
its white ribbon the moon’s only clue
to the little girl’s passage through the wood.
“Clouds blind worse than koans. Run your light
along my length, and listen to the trees...
The one the wind felled silenced her for good.”

Wheels

I am watching a movie about the humans
The story revolves around a nun raised by coyotes
All the rabbits have died and yet she remains innocent
She lifts her voice like a sack of letters written by illiterates
I am having a religious experience
It is the religion of the wolves

I am studying God and insect life at the same time
I am a skeleton in an anthropomorphology lab
I wear a white coat and pore over microscopes
I have no brain and therefore must rely on instinct
Nothing more than a feeling in my bones
The feeling you get when two or more wolves gather to make a wish

I am all wolves and the pretty people
On the screen encircle me with spears of conversation
Now I’m a dog lying in the kitchen, well that’s better
You can see the wheels turning behind my eyes
I will stare at you until you know my hunger
My thirst, the fact that I have been reinvented

when

when I want to
camp out I open
my bedroom window
pull the covers up
over my head
break out the snacks
the flashlight and
the comics

when my ship calls
for a captain you’ll
find me standing
tall at the prow
of the roof of my
house

when mortal danger
beckons I flip on
the Discovery Channel

and when it’s time
for lovemaking
there you are.

synchronicity

my eyes are going
I’ll be 40 next week

I have no vision
plan at work

examining my face
in the mirror

I can only wonder
if my age shows

God gives us no burden
we can’t withstand.

********************
tease

she shimmies
into her hottest
red skirt swivels
her Hollywood
hips licks
her lips pointedly
with the treble
hook of her tongue
until they bleed
shark attractant

shuts her closet
door with a snap
like she’s closing a
tackle box lid:

time to troll

there

here
to a “t”

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

these dandelions
on my lawn: incongruous
as blondes in grass skirts

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

the thinker

he sat a long time
on that toilet

chin in hand
like a Rodin

pondering
the relationship

between “increment”
and “excrement”

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

this chapel too much

like Superior Court latter-
day saints indeed if J.C.
Hisself walked in here they’d
throw the Book at Him (NO:
shirt/shoes/service)

three ravens

hunched shoulder
to shoulder on
a utility
line.
now
a black
flurry:
four.

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

to know what we are
grains of sand moments in time:
no day at the beach

To the Editor

This poem does not rhyme
nor does it capitalize the words Time,
Spring, or Dust. There are no cats in this poem,
chasing metaphysical balls of string
when they’re not hogging the sofa.
Kissy, kissy, I love no one
for the purposes of this poem.

This poem is not about a poem.
It does not obfuscate the issue
of drenched nuns fleeing naked from my door,
leaving me: alone, alone. No preaching
or self-pity in this Goddamned poem,
no wanton profanity or chopped
prose. I have studied your magazine.
Please send sample copy.

I have nothing against those lousy white women
or their bleeding-heart politics.
A cattle prod against the genitals
shocks in sing-song pentametric iambs,
whereas this poem would not stoop so
low.
To establish that I have no reputation,
please call my good friends at Harper & Row.

You won’t find this poem on any greeting cards.

Best Regards,

P.S. I think this is what you wanted to see.

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

too sexy/turns on the appliances

when the 105mm landed

not 10’ from Hanson who was
sitting on the edge of our
foxhole his jungle-booted
feet dangling in front
of my eyes telling jokes
I’d heard before and eating
a c-rat his top half
took off skyward trailing
an umbilical cord
of shiny pink intestine
unreeling between the mid-
bite top-half Hanson
and the still-seated
jungle-booted Hanson
and then it was over
and his top half hit the
ground like a heavy
kite on a mostly calm
but occasionally gusty day.
**************************
why I can’t get a grant

white
male
born American
heterosexual
never been to prison
don’t teach
no MFA
vote major party
sound mind
sound body
nothing against God
not victimized
not marginalized
not homeless
have a day job
not a joiner
no opus planned
poems easy to understand.

why i won’t be at
zen class today

i fell in the forest
and heard myself.

******************************
The Wind Machines

(after hiking in Tehachapi Pass)

It’s a cancer of Christs
of Rio de Janeiro...

If they were to nail Him to one
of these monster double crosses
they’d have to splay Him out
like that illustration of a man
in (I think) da Vinci’s notebook
then (I imagine) somebody
would be assigned to throw
knives at Him as He spinned...

They send people out on Monday
mornings to catalog the birds
killed over the weekend
once they counted 39 (mostly
immature) golden eagles, after
they brought all the parts together...

This is renewable energy
Don Quixote is fading fast....

******************************
windshield bug

one second fly
ing/the next no
thing/let me
die like that

winter
no birds
flu

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

Winter People

She opens
the drapes
on every window,

turns on
all the lamps
in the house.

She thinks it
brightens the
place up,

which of course
it does.
He thinks

also,
though,
of next month’s

gas & electric
bills: Ah, well.
That’s the price

winter exacts
for a bit of warmth,
a bit of light.


the woman tree

my lovers
ripen
drop
& run off
to the sweaty
mangrove

while the moss
continues to
thicken
along my
nurturing
side.

you enter the room

to a general sucking-
in of male guts

breaths are drawn as
sharply as razors

across throats
grins turn virgin-

white for that one split
second before the sigh:

a deep red

trailblazing in the ‘90s

a man in pink shorts
and white tank top

striding resolutely
down the center

of the biggest indoor mall
in the state

twin plastic water bottles
flopping at his hips

fanny pack stuffed
with provisions.

******************************
Tripping, You Call Your Girlfriend

Recounting the improbable
history of telephones
(not to mention the future
of the coins multiplying
in your pocket), you hold
the world’s largest receiver
in your amazing hand. If
you can get past the cipher lock
barring passage into her mind,
the cops won’t send out a squad
from the steel-and-glass world.
Somehow the complicated edges
of the beautiful quarter match
those of the slot, and now you’re in
for a time, sorting out
her number from Planck’s theorems.
You stand there for a hundred years
while the dial tone ululates
like an Italian siren...
Hello, you say.
Is this my voice?

trying to figure

out where you leave
off and we start’s like
studying Latin:
the suffix “us” points
to a single unit,
and the plural’s “i”

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

Two Introverts

One introvert sits
in a vacant auditorium,
filling it to capacity.

The other one rides
a crowded elevator,
utterly alone.

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

uh-oh
we’ll talk later
here come the extroverts

unmoved & un-

moving except
for one eye that
tracks my presence
rotating & swing-
ing like a battle-
ship radar the
desert grey chuck-
walla lizard’s
beefy forearms serve
to hold his head high
in the knowledge
I could kill him
with the casual
planting of a
boot: Dignity.
*******************
up on the roof

patsy cline
the angelic one
has feathers of stone

i let ‘er fly
in obsolete vinyl

whoop whoop whoop

i fall to
pieces
she whines

next go
the stones

shattered

breaking up
is hard to do.

the veteran

maybe he can’t
clap his hands or
stomp his feet
anymore but
he can do some
things
after all
it only takes one
finger to steady
the barrel
against the wheel-
chair
and one
toe to pull the
trigger

***************************************
The View From Inyokern

Cloud shadows speckle the barren east slope
of the Sierras, as if a light gray cat,
his back to us, lies dreaming of dark gray mice
dancing upon him in mock attack.
We cannot see the great cat’s tail flicking
cars from the freeways far to the south,
nor his great cat’s-feet kicking
over buildings in Fresno to the west.
Up north, near Reno, a great purring rises.

***************************************
virtually wedded

finally crashing
thru the wall, i
passed you: stuck

almost as if
you’d become a
part of it

spark arrestor

as I try to ignite you
thoughts of him are blowing
open the curtains in your room:

I am all thumbs
you are a Zippo in the wind
********************************
speaking of wildflowers

the Wildflower Preservation Society
runs a magazine ad about how
tough wildflowers are
ending with the clever line
“wildflowers: they’re not pansies”

which brings the proverbial
storm of protest from the gay
rights movement for using
one of the oldest pejoratives
for homosexuals

but i think well after all
wildflowers are NOT pansies
pansies ARE a type of flower
and are NOT tough
they DO wilt if you look
at ‘em crosseyed -
ask any gardener -

and furthermore all those
tattooed “guests of the state”
whose very existence keeps
guys like me on the straight and
narrow are some of the
most infamous homosexuals
and are decidedly NOT pansies -

and i don’t know a man
(gay or not) who’d
look at one crosseyed.

spider in my rum

and Coke on the night-
stand in the morning
daddy-longlegs
what an ice cube
becomes as it melts
in a spindly dream
I knock it back
and emerge like
a sack of elbows
hugging the walls,
gut full of silk thread

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

splish splash

just a puddle
in the roadway of life
it was raining
when i
finally left you
every drop of self-
esteem accumulating
in that single hour
now here you come
death grip on the wheel

Still Life

Every fish on my bathroom wallpaper
is swimming in one of two directions.
I, also underwater, observe that
some go it alone, others have paired up
and the rest cling to various schools.
Each must traverse a same-looking network
of two-dimensional sea flora,
plus manage a series of four sharp turns
to arrive back whence it came. I wonder
if their recognition of this is
what has frozen them in mid-kick.
After I turn off the shower,
reentering my own web
of sameness and pointless hurdles,
I know they must steal odd glances
at the rainbow on the shower curtain.
They can see that the rainbow
has two ends, and that each of those ends
is a plastic cloud. But their eyes have walls:
I can almost hear them in there now,
muttering fishlike at their own flat wakes.

sugar

he tears open
the pink and
white bag
the confectionary
sugar tumbles
out onto
his kitchen
counter like
a drug
rests his
stomach on
the counter
lifts the
tablespoon up
past both his
chins hears
Papa saying
to Mama
gimme some
sugar his
lips parted
his breathing
shallow...
gulps and
remembers

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

swoosh
one less mouse
owls don’t leave ransom notes

Verbosity’s Asterisk

By Peter Scott

“You are beautiful
I love you”
He spills like silent tears
Words resounding
Vibrating in disconcerting emptiness
Pausing for due effect
Yet the deer will not answer
Nor move a muscle in reply
A statue of warmth
Stagnantly balanced
Precarious from its odd position
His soul speaks for him
In this moribund clearing
Trees hemming him to his thoughts so deep
Grappling to verbalize this conception
Temporary as it may be
In a mist of silence absolute

And then the foliage resumes
Purring and chirping
Delicious tales of travels in the thicket
Thorn wrought in reflection
Without a care
Reminding him of peaceful senility
While his words vaporize in moments of the past.

TOMORROW HE MAY BE
I.B. Rad

After Stalin’s cultural hack, Zhdanov,
had treated that major Soviet poet, Akhmatova,
to yet another round of denunciation,*
at a select soiree, Akhmatova turned to a tested friend
and through tears brought by too much laughter, whispered,
“Today, Zhdanov is my oppressor,
tomorrow... tomorrow he may be
a footnote to my poetry.”

1. In September 1946 both Akhmatova and Zoshchenko were expelled from the
Union of Writers. In October 1988, under “glasnost”, the expulsion was
rescinded.


WINNERS & STILL CHAMPIONS

c ra mcguirtP> considering they were contemporaries,
although a continent apart,
it seems to me that the actual job
of the mad monk grigori rasputin
was to go about being
the wickedest man
in the world

when aleister crowley was sleeping,
or just didn’t feel up to being
the wickedest man in the world
that day.

it’s too bad they never met:

they’d have made a hell
of a tag team-

the Wizard from The East
& the Beast From the West

-vs-

all of the gods of the dead.


Why I Didn’t Call...

Robert Michael O’Hearn


simply because I froze,
wanted you to ask me
pertinently naively directly
What the hell went wrong?

Now self appointed Oracles
are gloating, prolong ruses.



HEADED WEST

c ra mcguirt


my desk faces the west because
that’s where the window is,
& because, after all
death is to the west,
& words are always death,
in one way or another.
above the hanging plant
above the window
Our Most Terrible Lady
smiles,
knowing my
sins & secrets.
sometime before the
Sun goes down,
everyone will know.


“Why You Can Fuck to Indie Rawk”

D. Michael McNamara


When I dream of us,
I am the only surviving
Wonder Twin
and I form of gelatin:
we are not so much
elements
or inanimates,
but abstracts,
and I cling to your curves
and press against your acutes,
but do not invade.
When we make love,
I wish to escape
entity
and be not foreign,
but extension:
like sound,
there is invasion,
acceptance,
and belonging:
holy may be origin,
but beauty is transcendance.

I’M UP ON IT NOW


considering the cost
of drugs,

& the dangers
of reality,

our best way
of waking up

might be
abstinence

from sleep.


TRANSCIENCE

Bob Ludden


We travel in a cube with invisible walls
On a journey without end or beginning...
Our six-sided perception of reality importunate,
Yet, tempered in mystery before the reach within
...and that a temperament unlimited.

At what price the expansion of consciousness,
And by what instigation?
Forced to slip upon our own matrix of desire,
As fools with fists of open air,
And mouths to beg an enemy to fight.
How then to seek, or gain, or rest?
...or even to create!
What folly our scheme of time.
Ours indeed, and we its prisoner.
So join with me
in cosmic intercourse.
The way is as clear as the will.
The climax...eternal.

THE ULTIMATE SIN


they don’t dance around
the fire at midnight,

or greet the face of Ra
to celebrate the morning.

seldom do they ever
go a-whoring

after strange
gods.

atheists are
boring.


Unititled

Bob Ludden


Multi-dimensional emptiness
Writhes and surges on my monitor,
Its negative ions trembling,
Its form ex nihilo.
Can it wait,
Or yet implode
And answers avalanche from out the west?

Too many answers.
Too imminent, cloying fullness,
To raise the scream from Hell-
My God! I didn’t know!


Unkind Expectations

By Peter Scott

Stagnant describes my lust
Today
As I began to think about it
In a different way
The love is there
Yet doused with expectant water
Thinning our seasoning
So I use the salt
Of a thousand years
Staving hunger
It is only a mater of time
Until they are grains
From a thousand tears
Cascading in a mighty fall
Dispersing once and for all
I am not lacking content
You still rest every night
By my side
Portions per visit
Entertaining in my dreams
And sweet eyes apparent
Guiding my path
Exposing what is not
Yet
Every night?
Creatures of habit
Adapted for change
God told Johnny
There was no Santa Clause
Stated the rules
Spelling with no uncertain terms
Your body is fine
Mind so perfect
Although her’s endears, too
No less than you
Who made the choice
To defy
In homage of custom?
This is not a Dear John
I am little gone
But where did the love go?


Your Johnny of 1917

By Peter Scott

Nailed to the cause
I am strung amongst the crowds
Loftily above
Where none may touch
People hurl eggs
Cracking, drooling from my clothes
Moving along
The procession stays fast
Carrying the cross from street
To street
I watch with nonchalance
!They mean nothing to me
Still the flag is swarmed
I on its shoulders
Additional mass gathers
Catapulting rocks to torment me
I ignore
Deflected they go and shower
Breathing outrage and contempt
Something I know little of
As the parade files onward
Arms of love are arrested the right
To refuse the crowd
Which doesn’t cause anger it
Merely makes me forlorn

Nailed to a sign of regression
In a home you ought to trust
Displayed for the good folk
Who worry you are gifted
!Might you conceivably be
!What only they dream of?
The theory creates a swollen moment
To make a grand statement
Not accepted
Exponential claims are thrust in spite
Words said
Proceeded by a lashing
Of your stake
!Move now!
Sweat drips onto the
Newborn fire
Stoking a cheered reaction
Many find fault in
But dare not speak

Sleep comes
An instant before I wake
I recognize
The land coated in sweet
Candy covered starkness and black
Retained to the cross
My body still remains whole
Often I curse the fortune
!Curse the amber’s dead glare
Pooling and collected
Internally driven
Inexperienced blood
Bursts
Across my heart
And through my palms
Marking where I was abused
Towering over worthless ashes
A slightly perverse color of red

The papers elaborated
On what survivors could not explain
Wrote fictitious commentary
Camouflaging their mental lapse
Interpreted many ways
Why hundreds died
Bloody
Gory deaths
At the hands of something else than believed
Later
All chaos cracked
Away from humanity’s serene utopia
Millions perished then
My only original sin the
Nucleus of so many problems masqueraded
Origin set at one.


< yet to come >
(for my father)

we can write while the ship loads
now
even now when whole bodies and minds
can be saved
these little words
like pictures of flowers
mean something
something like seed
you were the seed
before your eyes
opened on this world
the first looks and amazement
at the colors
at the movement
and a hand reaches
and later
you know
it was your hand reaching
for the toys suspended
above your bed
and you
waking from an infant’s sleep
thinking only in images
these words
these words
were yet to come

Ray Heinrich


you are

j. kuypers


you’re pretty as a picture
you’re as sweet as candy

you are like a brilliant light

you have pearly white teeth
you have chiseled features
you have piercing eyes

you have a heart of gold
and a sandpaper voice

you’re postcard pretty

you’re as meek as a lamb
you’re clean as a bone
you’re as faithful as a dog

you have a steel will
you’re as strong as a bull

you’re drunk as a sailor
you’re like an idiot

you’re like a broken heart
you’re like a zombie


years after the war
Ray Heinrich

he was frightened
by the war
and will not leave their house
she was frightened too
now she is dead

but their conversations go on
years after the war
their conversations
flow
out the doors and windows
and fill the street
making it hard
to walk by
years after the war


why i’ll never get married

j. kuyper>

at work we’ve been looking
for a new employee
we’ve sifted through resumes
we’ve interviewed a few

and some were good
some were very good
and we took some time to decide
and then we called our #1 choice

and they said they wanted
more money than we offered
so we said our goodbyes
and we called our second choice

and they said they couldn’t work
at such a small place
so someone at work said
we should interview some more

and that’s when i knew
at the rate we were going
we’d never find anyone
and no one would want us


TWILIGHT DOG

deckard kinder

someone is lost
[serene otherwise]
between this emptiness
and that
each its own
he limps off
to bathe his heart
you visit him
[every martyred woman does]
no sooner no later
reaching out
until you feel drowsy
or rushed
just so
knowing no more than before
running from him
and his murderous ways
despite his seductions
stop! you say
then you go
in the distance
beyond the last withered rose
an open door
his mouth so moist
keeping the light
regretting no more
alone as always
darker than your dreams


who you tell your dreams to

j. kuypers

we were driving down the freeway
you and me in the pick-up truck
and your girlfriend inbetween
where you could move the gear shift
and it would mean so much to you

and you saw something that you thought
was beautiful, and you said, “look
at the lines, look at how it was made”
and you were inspired by the beauty
of an everyday object no one else noticed

and your girlfriend, riding in the middle
said “that’s him, people think he’s crazy”
and i thought, “no, it just depends on who
you tell your dreams to” but i couldn’t
say it in the truck i wouldn’t say it


wanting to be gardens
Ray Heinrich

we
had wanted to be
gardens
filled with flowers and bees
industrious
fitting into this world
at the joyful places
the bright connections


what are you wearing?
Ray Heinrich

My new pink skin fresh with innocent blood
and the gray fur, rings, needles, and claws
sewn into this jacket you made me into.


WINTER WHITE EARTH

Allison Jenks

Our instruments fit
below the floor and
Beasts live in the ceiling
Looking to recover the
Spaces between our houses.
that need less light.
So tired of riding the white
streets,
This session goes on
Soaking cold winters never told me
where we lost a solar day of confidence.
I have no way to let
My destinations with you
unfold easily
Documents of all I’ve learned unbind
Useless to me now.
I never was and am not believing
in consistent happiness.
This evening measures this feeling
No ceiling space between our souls
or even our cities
There’s a storm pouring and I
beat it every morning
Just in the way you go
Backwards or ahead
Moving unlike
a child or a man
but like someone with no age,
Unconcerned with time
Sure that most of your struggles are
in the past.
Brilliantly grasped in detail.
Falling only into moments with
empty light to fill.
Living generously
Generating the power of multiple lives.
Until it’s the perfect time to leave
and nothing for you to give up
That could make you cry.
I wonder how many souls are inside you and
what they’re like.
the world is painted white when you come
All weak elements are burnt out
Ready for the Milky way
It’s not about making you speak with
Lying distance and speed
The count down has been mistreated
It’s the only way to get through this
powerless road in one winter
Caress of destination.
You called me last winter
Never told me the curtains are on
when pure emotion works through you
Intensely shadowing a body with
every possible muscle pressed.
I hear from you what I think I’ve heard
Only because I’ve said it myself.
The entity of balance
is what you’ve sent
crawling through me
I sit on its back
Facing the torments of my youth
That led me to this
serene bone of time.


tiny little actually very small
Raymond L. Heinrich

a thousand
would fit in your hand
but drop them
and come over here
we’ll clean up later


today, i’m bringing about world peace
Raymond L. Heinrich

This morning i was thinking about world piece
while masturbating in the shower and all that
righteous energy felt so good i hurt myself
but it’s only a little tear and though it did
bleed a lot it was a small price to pay for
bringing about world peace.

After that i went to the grocery store and got
one of those giant bottles of cheap wine and
after a few glasses i can feel it happening
i’m bringing about world peace.


through the window
Ray Heinrich

the shadow of the building
moves
as the sun
forms it into the hand of a giant clock
grabbing the day
and pushing it to one side


these stars treat us too well
ray heinrich

- after a sylvia plath poem

the stars drop silently
each message lit
through years and years
of vacuum
evaporated
all the first sweet essence
until us
poor souls of lead once uranium
linger
turn
like jupiter
who thinks he’s mercury
like saturn
who wants to be distant pluto
willing to give up her rings
for a far dark silence


NORMALITIES

Richard Fein

Lightning bugs use a rhythm of flashes
connecting being to being across the tropic night;
cold lights flashing among palm leaves,
filling hot, humid evening with a luminous and silent dust.
On these normalities hinge their existence,
for male and female can find each other through
the flashing in their faceted eyes.
The harmony of blue flashes, and the tandem of sparkles-
a love song of cool lights.
But there are other normalities,
normalities among normalities,
for eons hungry wasps have mastered the visual melody,
counterfeit love songs of blue flashes,
to lure not to nuptials but to mandibles,
so the wasps also survive.
For eons a duet of normalities,
fulfilling a destiny, betraying a destiny,
a check and balance,
the hammer and anvil of creation.


there again
Raymond L. Heinrich

i’m there again
and i was doing so well
you wrote in your letter
but it can change fast
and today
monday
going against type
was better than
sunday
when the bodies of the dead
were lying around
with their notes
carefully worded
hand lettered
they had pinned to themselves
not wanting us
to misread
to mistake them
for an accident
at least this once
let me make something to remember
after years of peanut butter sandwiches
read one
goodbye i didn’t want to hurt you
but i’ve failed there too
another
don’t let them know
you won’t get the insurance
another
i hope you’re satisfied
bitter
too much
i can’t read any more
but that was yesterday
and now it’s monday


< these songs >

ray heinrich

in these songs
words
carry the tune

< this roof >
(for my father)

from a dirt floor
looking up at a roof
of corrugated
galvanized
iron
the sun
pokes
small rods of dust through the holes
but only a few
this roof
is holding up pretty well
for holding up
eighty-five years

Ray Heinrich


WINTER SUNSET RESCUE

Richard Fein

So tangled
the leafless briar branches
that what is beyond the swamp is seen only
in fragments:
pieces of open field,
the evening sun glaring through twisted stems.
“Come hold me, hold me,” the plea.
With rope secured around the trunk
and vapor steaming from my mouth, I
hurl:
upwards curves the rope,
then down, down
splat into the mire that embraces her.
The quicksand gurgles,
her arms flail, again the plea,
“Come hold me, hold me.”
But the rope remains untouched.
I brace for the tension that would tighten the rope;
the sign that she was struggling to survive,
to at least grab the rope,
but the lifeline remains untouched.
I hear again the panicky plea,
“Come hold me, hold me.”
Calves, knees, thighs, breasts,
all in turn are muddied.
Her hands, her hands,
not an inch toward the rope.
Now my muscles relax.
The rope lies limp across the mud,
one end descends into the murk
around bubbles, the dying effervescence.
I release my grip, my palms
striped with rope burns.
I wet my hands; the cold water dampens the throbbing.
A distant bird calls,
an owl hooting, a crow cawing?
I don’t know.
I know only this:
I couldn’t jump in and hold her.
She didn’t grab for the rope.
It’s dark.
It’s becoming too silent.
It’s becoming too cold
I must go on.

When Elvis Died

I Cried When Elvis Died,
So Many Years Ago.
I Stopped And Sighed,
Just Couldn’t Believe It So.

Elvis Tasted Success
Above All Possible Dreams.
A Life Tasted By Reams
Of Disorderly Schemes.

He Achieved Wealth
And Fame Beyond Belief.
In The End His Name
Was In Sorrows And Grief.

Fame And Fortune’s Game,
Kings Come As They Go.
Would We Worship His Name,
If His Life Was In Flow?

Legends Are Often Made,
By Creating Schemes.
A Drive In Deaths Parade,
Makes Paste For Hero Dreams.

Elvis Was A Great One ,
Perhaps The Greatest Of All.
A Life Too Quickly Done,
Dr. Death Made A Hasty Call..

We Need Our Prospective,
Fantasy Goes Out Of Hand.
Thoughts Corrective,
Not A God!, Only A Man.

A Magician Of Song & Words
Of A Willful Way.
To History He Belongs,
His Music Will Stay And Play.

King Of Rock And Roll,
Immortality Is His Control.
His Loyal Fans Still Abide,,
We All Cried When Elvis Died !.


time to rest
Raymond L. Heinrich

the twilight
your song
and slow
the night starts
like the day
slow
and it is time to rest
no need watching
anymore
the passing day
its fingers
pick your face away
and there
is no need to pretend
it’s better to forget
as this night
covers the day
as the next
will cover it
and the rhythm
of your song
in the twilight
listening to your song
against the bank
and the river
silit


WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN
BY PAUL L. GLAZE

I Will Board My Ship And Take A Cruise.
Heaven Knows , I Have Paid My Dues.
Around The World My Ship Will Sail.
In Every Land, I Will Dwell A Spell.

I Will Tour Tropical Islands So Grand
As I Lay In The Sun To Better My Tan.
Then Cross The Desert In A Caravan
And Explore Jungles Untouched By Man.

To The South Of France Will Be My Choice.
Driven Of Course, In My New Rolls Royce.
Then Off To Monte Carlo I Will Ramble,
And Bet A Million With Every Gamble.

Over Tall Mountains, I Will Fly In A Plane.
Across The \ Lowlands, I’ll Take A Fast Train.
Then To Switzerland I Will Quickly Go,
To Ski The Alps Over Mountains Of Snow.

Being Brave Hearted And Ever So Bold
I Will Stroll In Cold, At The Dark North Pole.
To All The Continents, Myself, I’ll Send.
When It Will Happen, I Know Not When.

I Will Do It All, Then Do It Again.
The Very Moment My Ship Comes In !


waiting for you
Ray Heinrich

i’m sitting in a bus station

it’s 1969 and i’m waiting for you

our bus left 2 hours ago

i’m still waiting for you


VENUS

Allison Jenks

Hours of leaky meteors
Hound the oceanic part of my mind
that sinks for snowy, white soldiers
Back from horrendous scandals-
nights with sharp-toothed jaguars
in their pillows.
The nearest saxophone miles away.
you live there like a
Black dollar rogue
Lurking in
that part of me that is Venus
Rocking metro phases
through the thoughts
I never figured were pliable


weather from the north
ray heinrich

rocks
cliffs
morning breaks
with the waves white
the sky empty
waiting
for weather from the north
the last of a bright sun
followed by years of cloud
horizon to horizon
a gray cotton sheath
a dressing for a wound
the voices
the wind
the notes filled
the baritone waves
the chorus
the seabirds
the last of the sun
the bulb of the planet
it’s fragile glass
sucked of air
evacuated
the sea boils
the birds explode
the rocks are
as they always are
the rocks survive
even the giants feet
the deep sounds
of their footsteps
of drums
slowly marching
with sabers and axes and
whatever else is needed
to render flesh to useful things
like soap and leather
as the giants of wicker
filled with men and women
start to burn
and men and women
watching from
the cliffs
the sea
are listening
to their cries
confusing them
with seabirds
and with children
changing them to music
only music
as the voices sing again
welcoming the clouds this time
welcoming the blanket
made of smoke
and silence


< word meat >

ray heinrich

the shape of the word
lets us forget
what is inside
but inside the word
its shape dissolves

eating the meat of words
letting their sweet blood
flow from our mouths
our teeth deep
inside the words
our shape becomes
the shape of words


Why do you

j. kuypers

Why do you make us wait for you to come back?
Why do you allow suffering?
Why do you aim all hurricanes at mobile home parks?
Why do you let us destroy ourselves?
Why do you obstruct people from gaining knowledge?
Why do no major Hollywood film companies collape in one of your earthquakes?
Why do you let innocent people die for crimes they didn’t commit?
Why do you let the guilty go free?
Why do you fight against progress and technology?
Why do you fill this earth with so much pain?
Why do you not come down here, right now, and show us your face?
Why is it that the less intelligent people are, the more religious they are?
Why do you treat women in the Bible as possessions?
Why do you allow pro-wrestling?
Why do you insist we have faith in you and make us denounce our brains?
Why do you think we’d think you exist?


Untwo

deckard kinder

[Unanswered Questions]

how do you do it
look at him
without thinking of me
without remembering how we met
held each other in the dark
laughed at nothing in particular
rubbed each other
touched softly
and like that
how do you
wrap your arms around him
or your legs
whatever works for you
at the moment
without feeling me
or
how do you forget
us
in
the
beginning
before everything changed
and we simply forgot each other
together

[Unquestioned Answers]

yeah
I’m in love
since you left
with this woman or that
depending on the night
the place
the music
the booze
I’m in love
with the first cushy thing
who makes me feel wanted
smart
sexy
anything at all
I’m in love
because I can be
because I want to be
because it beats not being in love
with this woman or that
when the time is right
which is anytime
at all
tactics for survival

- 1 -
to be to be taken to be taken away
secured seda ted seduced
inside my last memory your succulent kiss
x-rayed exquisite extinct
[except in my craving]
even as the twilight girls dance
reduced to cliff notes of temptation
useless in the flesh
devastatingly
normal
[except in my cave-in]
nothing succeeds like excess
inside my last dream you
and maybe me
touching embracing sweating
noticing nothing beyond our flesh
inspite of the tears
always predicted always projected always planned
manipulated beyond recognition
like an eclipse through a slit
inside my last fantasy
abbreviated to insignificance
vacant and invulnerable
every twitch a step towards death
relentlessly taken
placidly conceded and condoned
sealed with a kiss-off
noted in passing
elevated to an art
compressed condensed constricted
simply an essence of its former self
nothing escapes
avoidance
righteously applied
to be to take to take away

- 2 -
you were born with a ticket to heaven in your hand
destination guaranteed
stamped passport in your back pocket
to heaven baby to heaven
guaranfuck ingteed
eternal ecstacy assured
not a worry in the world
heaven baby heaven
you were born with a ticket to heaven in your hand
locked up like manson sweetheart
not a worry in the world
stamped passport in your back pocket
eternal ecstacy assured
guaranfuckingteed
heaven baby heaven
stamped passport in your back pocket
destination guaranteed
not a worry in the world
to heaven baby to heaven
you were born with a ticket to heaven in your hand
eternal ecstacy assured
heaven baby heaven
not a worry in the world
destination gua \ranteed
fucking goddamn
guaranfuckingteed
to heaven baby to heaven
destination guaranteed
fucking goddamn
stamped passport in your back pocket
eternal ecstacy assured
destination guaranteed
you were born with a ticket to heaven in your hand
and you fucking blew it

- 3 -
do yourself a favor:
tie yourself to god
naked as a junkie’s lie
deliver yourself
never ask favors
doubt nothing
trust like a breast fed baby
dwell on the sunrise
turn inward
delve into your soul
nurse your wounds
take yourself away from where you are
double or nothing
notice little things
dumbfound your critics
name your god after yourself
drive others crazy and yourself sane
number your friends
dress like you’re in mourning
negotiate peace whenever you can
dream a little dream of me
neglect your heart at your own risk
tie yourself to god
do yourself a favor:
tie yourself to god


your soft breath
ray heinrich

tonight
i have dead people
singing to me
it’s as easy
as putting a record on
it’s as easy
as remembering your soft breath
through all these years


years of water
ray heinrich

i dream
of water
and the seals
barking
on the rocks
and i dream
of a deep lake
of navigating
the shores
of the lap and pound
of years of water
of willow strands
growing in a hidden path
of dark waves eating
through wet years
of escaping
and searching
for you
of the touch
of the water
of the fossil cliffs
rising over us


you and me and your girlfriend

j. kuypers

we went out for drinks together
you and me and your girlfriend
to a restaurant in Malibu
with a balcony that hung over the water

had a perfectly lovely time
you and me and your girlfriend
talking about life, catching up
and you suggested that we go out on the balcony

and I thought that would be charming
for you and me and your girlfriend
but we hadn’t paid our bill yet
so your girlfriend told us to go on without her

we stood outside, leaned on the rail
you and me
listened to the water crach on the rocks
below us and we talked

but now it was not about catching up
you and me
it was about ideas, dreams, plans
and before I knew it we were out there

for nearly an hour, and I said,
“what about your girlfriend?”
she was waiting for us all that time
and you said, “oh, yeah” and didn’t move an inch


you feel more

j. kuypers


it’s like this:
run your hand
back and forth
in a line
parallel to
the ground
that’s the world
you see
it’s that line
now raise
your hand
a few inches,
maybe six
above that line
and run your hand
back and forth
and that is you
you’re above it all
you’re better
than them all
you can do more
you succeed more
you feel more
and then,
you see, you
raise your hand
a few inches,
maybe six more
above that line
and run your hand
back and forth
and that is
who you love

and when you feel
you’re above
them all
how will you
find someone
higher?


you’re getting to be a dream
Ray Heinrich

waiting for a laugh
before returning
before signing the required form

you should have been here hours ago

you’re getting to be a dream
i’m getting to be old

my fathers words
my mothers songs
i forget more and more of them

soon
i’ll be returning
but first
i must laugh with your old smile

you’re getting to be a dream
i’m getting to be old


Yellow-Haired Girl

By Peter Scott

I saw you first
From the edge of my eye
Bursting with young exuberance
And joviality
It was the blonde hair
Yearning to be left in itself
That caught my attention
Signaling the eye
Like a hailing flag
Draped from a child’s lemonade stand
Personable
Caught in the midst of business
Yet still able to smile
And ring with youthful passions
While nervous for acceptance
Oh, I accepted you
Played upon a wistful cord
Visualizing the concept
Of living my life
With a stranger I had met
Mere moments ago
And although my flights of fancy faded
You piqued my curiosity
Became the focal point
Of a night
Never meant to be
Stranger still
I was not alone
A graceful woman
With an endearing reflection of youth
Flirted with the concept
Too!
What fortuitous nature
I fervently thought
Choosing my path
How never to say “no”
Without whispering “yes”
One of a trickier game
Getting your address
Could I lose this opportunity
Must I flee this enigmatic girl?
Open in her feelings
Closed in her presence
And the strange possibility of a relationship
Almost like I had known
One day we would kiss in the light
Of fortune’s myriad eventuality.


Utopia

By Peter Scott

I’ve been to paradise
Felt that which I desired
Touched its surface
Then realized
I didn’t want it anymore
Wrong
Conjecture
My mind spins faster
And faster
What do I want?
My dream now corrupted
I need paradise soon
Alas, paradise is no more
I have been there
Loud and happy
Uncomfort fallows
So shall my life be tormented
Long as I search in vain
For a paradise
One which does not exist.


Wandering

By Peter Scott

The mirror is severe
Accentuating a physical imbalance
From the mind
I stare at the image
Contemplating why
Silent spasms
Cause me to falter
Where yesterday I was vibrant

Havoc in the reflection
Metamorphoses to my spirit’s curator
Memories of the past flash
Clash with sudden hate in my smile
Time of the future
And those long ago
Deteriorating into a single display
Darkening in unison
To the bells far distant

My face in the mirror
Is slightly perturbed
With questions I ask
A stone wall in December
Playing with my feet
Head in acknowledgement
Of my crime’s recognized nature
White sprinkles float from the heavens
As I wait by the wall
Gray and charred
New for all purposes great
Dressed for temperance
The chill permeates
Defying my preparation
Standing under and in front
Of the stone
Covered in the advent of winter
I taste my new cloak
Frozen I do not comprehend
If it is acid
Cream & sugar
Or the salt I met before
In a previous journey
Held in a different season
Upon this very land
Brushing the substance now concealing my barrier
I talk in silence to it
Ask for comfort
Leaving a hollow remains
The challenges of reality
Resonating with vibrant cord
Shuttling me back to my reflection
Away and afar
From a destructive grave

Pressures they say
Ought to find shelter in release
Yet when I moved
Created distance between my perils
The steam did evaporate
Exposing the hollow cavities
How alone I was
And am
Wrapped in cellophane with a sticker
Brittle
Hollow
Described as ninety-eight percent chocolate
Only a dollar eighty-nine
Little girls pass by me in the store
Lick their lips
Pleading with Mommy
Or even Daddy...
Who always gives in
A child’s dream
I am easily bought
At home I am opened
Given fresh life in the night air
So sweet am I
They savor my taste
Texture of a rich quality
Taunting themselves and me
Until it is too late
A final push...
And release...
I am back at my store
Undesired in continual craftsmanship
Too sweet for the little girls
Sucking lollipops and red bubble gum
Repackaged in higher grandiloquence
Clerks hide the little nibbles
Ask themselves
Why I do not satisfy?
Oh
There will come a buyer this next day

Suppressing the urge
To voice my anger
Separated now
It takes an act of will
To love your true self
Empathy held strong
But I hear your insane laugh
Eyes mocking with vehement vindictive malice
Used
False tears shed
To let my emotions slide
From your back
Down a spiraling well
Never to be observed again
I’m in that canyon
Where I once was before
I will never let you abuse
So while contemplating with elaborate test
The hole will vanish with spite
Love do justice
Never gall like that!

If you ask “Yes”
I state with solemn rejection
The trial lies forth
Away from mere curiosity
Commitment does not derive
In severed segments
I won’t sit as puppet
Eating your cake
Choose if I’m real

...Or nightmare roaming distant planes.


Untitled

Bob Ludden

A time of silence...and of rising mist
That blurs and then obscures
That paste of leaf and rain that glazes ground
Still soft beneath the frost of late November

And I remember other times when mists of mind
Impose a wall so deep and steep in shadow
That which is real becomes encast in stone
And silence thunders at an empty soul

...and then the question turns the thing around
...and wonder, now the agent of release.
Both wall and ice are temporal,
And the sound of silence the evangelist of peace.

A mist...a secret prayer...
Both cloud, and both disclose
A vision strange to make us question still...
And still...and still..


UNINVOCATION

i won’t construct an amulet
or consecrate a talisman
intended to compel your love
or even your affection.

i won’t recite a spell
set fire to seven candles
evoke the elementals,
or bargain with the devil.

lack of faith does not
forestall these measures,
but i want my magick
to be honest,

so i slay you as a source
of blind desire,
& raise you as a light
to guide my sighted pleasure.


Untitled

Bob Ludden

I bring you fire as offering, my love;
Its fever both a warning and a tribute pure.
No flame can emulate the heat of my desire.
For in my touch burns only ecstasy
We share, yet flesh of one is fused from two-
And in the very act, I press it home
And in its roaring blast, a benediction
to our love...no dross remains
To foul its wake,
For what is left is love immaculate,
And ours alone to chill


IF YOU READ THIS POEM,
THEN YOU WILL DIE

for andrew

you are more afraid than me
of ceasing to be,
or maybe only ceasing
to be able to make sense.

you go after superstition
like a housewife
with a large economy-size
spray can of insecticide

as darkness scurries
into cracks

on its hairy legs.


when ecstasy-slanted

You are an a-wakening
to a burning
of (re)source or extant
material,
which was either
solid (turned to liquid)
or liquid [which is now
shaking hands with asphalt
bending (inverse to the lower back
when ecstasy-slanted)
to meet the horizon
of which Our Stella
is introducing and] now
turned to steam:

The Glimpses you offer
of your Geometric A
and your Corresponding B
are too fragmented (, blurred,
and rising)
for me to place
and identify
this identity flux

d. michael mcnamara


TRY NOT TO THINK OF A WHITE BEAR,

c ra mcguirt

or even better:
try not to
think of god
as a
beautiful
dominitrix
who’ll get you
if you’re good.


VET

c ra mcguirt

i was too young for his jungle
so i never met victor charlie
but i’ve met some violent changes
in my own,

& i’ve stepped onto plenty sharp
& shit-smeared situations.
my own fault for not looking down,
i know.

i’ve been in beaucoup firefights.
i couldn’t always tell
where the rounds were coming from,
or why.

i’ve been wounded, & inflicted
a few wounds of my own.
i haven’t bothered with
a body count.

i’ve called in air support
when i was outnumbered.
more than once it saved me.
sometimes, it was too late.

i’ve been taken prisoner
& tortured by myself,
but i’ll take the credit
for making my escape.

i have no way of knowing
when i’ll go back to the World.
it could be that my time
is shorter than i think.

for now, i have a path
& i’ll go where it takes me.
tonight, like every night

i’m walking point.


Today’s Art
Paul Weinman

Hillside trees hold leaves in browns
yellows that enrichen toward gold.
A few raccoons appear, some squashed
others seeming asleep at roadside
except for maybe a tongue sticking out
giving the clue to its head’s death.
You talk to me of conceptual art
how a spoonful of salt crystals
set on a gallery’s floor - spotlit
can speak of unfulfilled dreams/talents
of poverty-spawned children.
When I ask what style of spoon
you’d use ... you point to a woodchuck
blood and guts; leaves blowing past.


Why I Write...

Robert Michael O’Hearn

I write because I made it
a requirement of my life..

At least, to record for
posterity’s caustic wit,
life’s benign amusement

For sake of gaps accentuated
between teeth; writing to
avert my heart’s clogging

& mind’s frequent wandering;
I’m writing for my life...


WHY I TOLERATE ROSS

c ra mcguirt

i keep a large piece of white posterboard
tacked to the bathroom wall above my toilet,
& a number of colored markers
lying on top of the tank.

one night, i came in to piss,
& ross had written:

‘THE US BUDGET DEFICIT
IS A DIRECT RESULT OF SELFISHNESS,
AND THE ALIENDAMN DEMOCRATS
ARE ALWAYS SQUEALING FOR MORE MONEY
FOR THEIR ALIENDAMN CRYBABY PROGRAMS,
AND IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
IS ABOUT THE EASTER BUNNY.
-ROSS’

in green marker.

i laughed & finished & flushed & went
back to the kitchen to get a beer.
ross was throwing an empty can
into my aluminum recycling bin.

“goddam, don’t you
recycle glass
too?” he
asked.

i do now,
& it wasn’t any
aliendamn crybaby
democrat who convinced me.


YOU CAN’T
c ra mcguirt

i let my daddy read my book.
he said it liked it pretty good-
made him laugh & sad & think.
he didn’t care about the zen,
but i had been expecting that.
my father is a simple man,
& he can’t help not being hip.
we had another couple drinks
(the old man was still drinking then)
& somehow came around to talk
about the girl in chapter ten.
“gator, how could i have been
so stupid? she was so damn cute,
& talented, & loved me, too,
but i was into what’s-her-name
who didn’t want me. do you think
i could find this girl again?
i wonder where she is right now...”
my father took a thoughtful sip
of his McKenna, & he said:
“well, son, if you ask me, i’d bet
she’s probably fucking thomas wolfe.”


Union

By Peter Scott

Reflect for a moment
Lounge pensively
Contemplating the significance brought
By a sensational word
RELATIONSHIP
Taken with nonchalance
And others reverence
What consecrates the boundary
Of definitions?
Born of belief
Each one of us
Individually yet united
Must clarify the term
The root of many subjects
We fail only when abandoning to abstracts
Firm walls can not be built
On the shifting sands

Reverie held passionately
The concept is sacred
While a constant force
Directing every endeavor setting me to task
Not a trifle commitment
Fate hath afforded ample opportunity
Most of which I have taken
Finding myself a frequent
The importance no less overwhelming

A relationship signifies
Everlasting love
And a current tide-wave of emotions
Where none lay closer to heart
My commitment arousing Herculean strength
Always at your defense
I will stand at your side
Not merely deriving from gallantry
A relationship can be
Nothing less than sharing in your soul
Shepparding a part of you to them
Eventually synthesizing into one essence
Given time
Relationships are a prelude to eternity
Whence a deeper understanding is born
The declaration
Of our souls
In minute conversations of confidence and query
Growing from donation of a shoulder
It is an offering and deed to coexist
In form
And soul
Where what’s mine is yours
But paramount to the whole
A relationship inaugurates indefatigable fidelity.


Unity

By Peter Scott

He winces at my pain
Tears when I cry
Answers my thoughts
Understands the fears
Consoling them all away
He doesn’t obey the words
Empathy is his guide
Sometimes it scares me
Sends shudders racing through the spine
His caress is just right
Compromising pseudo-principles
Falsehoods I dare not touch
At the same time his essence
Enriches my personality
Gives me confidence
And love
Two emotions
I’d lived too long without.


Violent Interlude

By Peter Scott

Nestled in a cramped square
Dark
And beneath the world
Curled in a fetal ball
Overhearing my life replayed
I long to remain hidden from view
Content where rarely noticed
Yet able to observe
Carry to task my functions
Dreams pulse fluidly
Transcending ideals before
On future’s door I stand
Staring on a trance
Rocking from one path to another
Caught in my own existence.


jou naam schrijvend

Ik zat daar
in de schaduw
ik nam
een stokje
Ik schreef
jou naam
in de grond
predikte
de eerste zin
van zijn verlangen
dan ben ik
gedoemd
naar de hel
en het kan me niet schelen
de priester zegt
voor alle zekerheid
voor andere
veeg ik zijn naam uit
vanavond
kom ik
terug
morgen
schrijf ik het
opnieuw

(writing your name)
translated by Jean Hellemans


Virgin

By Peter Scott

Passionate thinker
For what do you think now
Bathed in fire
Cleansed with pain
Outside your insides
Then...inside your outsides
Old body passed
A new form from power
Weaker, yet
Bothersome but how true
Spiritual enlightenment
Knew how you did
It was coming
Last night on the bed
Alone but together
You found yourself
Blasphemy!
Lie to yourself all
You want
Passion overtook logic
It came to you
Opening yourself
It came
To you
Denial past what
Is to be done now?
Yesterday you gained it all
The cost being happiness
So many can’t be wrong
“Try it” they called
You did
You lost
Push the feeling to the back
pass forward
Live vicariously
Not through being!!!
Everything is right
A day ago you gained
That most special of gifts
Ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Not evil
Not good
You will feel it again
Inside yourself
Split being
Do not fear
Pain fallows not
Unless you so desire
We will speak again...


waarom ik nooit zal trouwen

op het werk zochten we
naar een nieuwe bediende
we hebben er een paar bekeken
we hebben er enkele ge nterviewd

en sommige waren goed
sommige zelfs heel goed
en we namen onze tijd om te beslissen
om dan onze eerste keuze te bellen

ze zegde meer geld
te willen dan wij voorstelde
we lieten haar gaan
daarom belde we onze tweede keuze

die zei niet te kunnen werken
in zo’n kleine ruimte
waardoor iemand van het werk zei
dat we er meer moesten interviewen

en dan besefte ik
dat we op die manier
nooit iemand zouden vinden
en niemand ons zou willen

(why i’ll never get married)
translated by Jean Hellemans



Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on "Children, Churches and Daddies," April 1997)

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

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

Ed Hamilton, writer

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

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

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet

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


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

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

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

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

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


C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)

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

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

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

Mark Blickley, writer

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


MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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


Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site)

I just checked out the site. It looks great.

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

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs)

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

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

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies)

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

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


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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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


Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)

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

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

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)

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


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

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


Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)

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

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright � © MCMXCIII through © MMXXIII 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.