November 1998
volume 104

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 � through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author. Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I'll have to kill you. Okay, it's this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you'll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we're gonna print it. It's that simple! Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over. Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It's a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the book "Rinse and Repeat", which has all the 1999 issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us. It's an offer you can't refuse... Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations. Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book. You Have to be Published to be Appreciated. Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It's your call... Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: "Hope Chest in the Attic" captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. "Chain Smoking" depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. "The room of the rape" is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation. Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, "Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment." Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers' very personal layering of her poem across the page. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer's styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere. Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there's a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there's a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship. Published since 1993 No racist, sexist or homophobic material is appreciated; we do accept work of almost any genre of poetry, prose or artwork, though we shy away from concrete poetry and rhyme for rhyme's sake. Do not send originals. Any work sent to Scars Publications on Macintosh disks, text format, will be given special attention over smail-mail submissions. There is no limit to how much you may submit at a time; previously published work accepted.