Art by John Yotko

Emblem

The Next time I see you
it’s 38 below, but I cross
the street to be in your path
when you walk past; stop.

Work up a hot pearl from deep
In my lungs, cock my head back
And fire from four feet away - but
It freezes in midair and falls

Shattering at your feet.

Indian Summer

Hot as dust in the throat,
Fall unraveled one night on October.
Cataclysmic orange dries to
Brown amnesia, every leaf
A shred of wanderings and whispers.
The yellow moon steeps autumn,
Brews peppermint and pears.

A woman in a window strums
A guitar, weaving a spell of branches
And desire, drinking twilight
In a wine glass made of bats’ breath.
A train whistle, lizard-long, cuts the dark
While stars like the souls of fireflies
Bead the indigo sky.

Art by John Yotko

Alternatives

I first met him in my classroom,
a fifth grader already too old,
struggling with his name in cursive.
he knew only beginning consonants,
had memorized his way four blocks square,
never dared go his way downtown, would not catch a bus,
read only single syllable words and loud vowels.
Sometimes “the” was too hard to remember.
I did all the paperwork on him,
Tried to line up special help,
Lobbied and lobbied over the months,
But the school year passed too quickly
And forced to pass him on
(“He’s too old,” the principal sighed),
I lost him to a maze.
Eighth grade came, my paperwork caught him:
he began special classes the following year.
Yesterday he came back to me
visiting my after school learning center
still struggling with his name in cursive,
spelling his street wrong, confusing the numbers.
I introduces him to a volunteer tutor,
our black belt in chess. “Teach him.
Perhaps with this game he will want more.”
The tutor set up the board, taught him basics,
played him again and again over hours,
and when closing time approached gave him a book
written for masters. He was that good.
He stuttered when he read the cover,
turned pages as if they were layers of shirt,
but he stopped and paused here and there, looking.
He took the book home holding it tight
as if it were a love come back.
Perhaps on his return he will play chess again,
write his name in flowing cursive,
spell his street without missing vowels,
and dare to ride downtown.

Art by Cheryl Townsend

Seasons 1998

Winter fire burns bright
Warmth flows over my brick hearth
Summer fire is shunned

Grandchildren bring joy,
vigor, love, fun, liveliness
With age comes calm, peace, knowledge

Soft loose wrinkled skin,
white coarse bristly chin whiskers
mark the wise woman

Limbs etched against sky,
full white clouds gathered in close
foretell winter’s snow

Art by Cheryl Townsend

a diamond

What Do You do

The Third or fourth Fourth of September

Sometimes people forget when they
actually deserve a punch

Art by Cheryl Townsend

RICOCHET

On my ‘leventh birthday Rain gave me a spent pistol shell. He polished it up with the mink oil sheen he used on his ‘rows and told me if I held the shell up close, I could see my reflection wrapping round it, even my new gold button earrings Mom gave me at breakfast.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked him. We were sitting on the curb round the corner from my house.
“I found it. You know that hold-up Thursday at the corner pharmacy? Got it from there.”
“Cops usually collect that stuff from the scene,” I said, waving a hornet away. Insects liked my jojoba-smelling hair.
“Missed this one, sister. I found it day after.” Rain was fourteen and his voice jumped up and down. He kept clearing his throat like the jumpy voice was a defect he could fix.
“Ain’t never found nothing before. What were you doing over there, anyway? And if there was a stick-up, how come it wasn’t on the news?” Mom let me stay up summer Fridays to watch the ten o’clock show. I’d’ve seen.
“A gang thing, it was. I mean, that’s what I heard it was. Nobody’ll talk ‘cause nobody wants to get --”
“Usually still a report that a stick-up went down. It’ll say, ‘Police have no suspect. They hope a eyewitness will step forward. If you have information call eight-hundred blah-blah-blah. Don’t gotta give your name.”
Rain’s body squirmed with scorn. “You know how slow them reporters are. Look how long it takes ‘em to catch on to stuff. Them uppity white anchors got some slow-ass synapses.”
I put the shell in my skirt pocket. Had a trunk ‘neath my bed I could lock it up in. “Going down to The Zephyr later?” I asked. Dad was taking me that afternoon. He promised me three extra rolls of quarters on account of my birthday and all.
Rain rose from the curb without using his hands and bopped away. “See you there, sister,” he called, not looking back.
Rain lived six blocks away but it might have been six miles for the difference in neighborhoods. I lived in a split-level with a fenced-in yard; Rain lived in a small cluster of walk-up buildings. The cluster’s pocket park was strewn with works and rubbers, and the cops and the pros prowled the area. Mom often drove past on the way to where that stick-up pharmacy was at. Though we never shopped at that pharmacy, just in the Chinese take-out place beside it.
First time Dad took me to The Zephyr I was eight years old. It was a place of navy blue walls, low lights and mirrored ceilings; a flickering effect came from the pinball machines lined ‘gainst the walls. Bells and cracks sounded everywhere. Zephyr’s where Dad showed me how to play the pinball machines. He was a excellent player, and not much time passed before I was a expert, too. Mostly, only boys played at Zephyr so Mom wouldn’t let me go without Dad as a escort. He’d take me on weekends and even on one or two days after school. Cause of Mom, I could only go then if my homework was done. Fine thing ‘bout it was, after I began beating Dad on all the machines, it got so he’d only play a game or two with me. Gimme a roll of quarters and head for the winey sports bar across the street. Yankees in summers, Rangers in winter. Seemed to always make friends in there but myself, I wasn’t in the business of buddy-making. My Zephyr time was a serious affair. I put supreme effort into improving my scores on each machine, charting ‘em out in a red memo pad I kept in my side pocket. Soon, the boys took notice of me without Dad and gathered round to watch me play. I’d be so tunneled in on the silver ball slinking through the barriers I wasn’t even nervous with the audience. I coiled over the tables like a church worshipper waiting for the preacher to scream Alleluia. I rattled and tilted the tables just like Dad did, and cussed just like he did too when a ball slipped tween the flippers ‘fore I’d got full play outta it.
Word got round ‘bout me and sometimes a boy would get in my face and issue a challenge. That’s what they called it, a challenge. Boy would pick a tough table like No Mercy, cause that machine gave only three balls ‘stead of five and the table was dizzy with gadgets and mirrors, lights. Got no eye-hand coordination? Wasn’t no need for you to be at the No Mercy machine, then. Do just as well to chuck your quarters down the toilet.
Met Rain at Zephyr last year. He was part black, part Korean and had cloudy gray eyes like a murky puddle. He was the undisputed Zephyr wizard. No one had beat Rain’s high score on No Mercy and Zephyr’s manager, Rio, made a sign to that effect, with the highest-score date on it. Sign’s been right beside the change machine ever since.
Everyone at Zephyr wore a uniform, and Rain’s always included a black Harley Davidson tee and a green visor turned at a odd angle. Silver cross dangling from one ear. Had a unusual look to h im all right but his pinball prowess was where the true glamour was. He lifted and shoved the machines while playing, his sugar-melt hips had
a crooked rocking going if rap was piping in. His shoulders and acne chin hitched up and down with the beat, the whole while that shiny pinballl rung through targets, off rebound bumpers, through flags, launch lanes. Once he got fifteen minutes of play off one ball with still two more to come. And this at the ninth and highest level.
I’d hit my first fifteen-minute No Mercy day ‘bout six months after I met Rain. He was not there to be a witness but his posse was, and I counted on ‘em getting the word back to him. Next time I saw Rain in Zephyr, couple days later, I stayed at a low-track table, half-playing, waiting for his homies to split for other machines and leave Rain concentrating by himself. Then I turned my baseball cap backwards and folded a fresh gum stick into my mouth before crossing my goosebumped arms, going up to him and issuing my first challenge. His ass and shoulders rocked to “Rapper’s Delight,” his orange sneaker cut two taps per beat on the purple tiles, slender forearm muscles rippled ‘neath the motorcycle tatt he had there. Still, he took time to give me a once-over and cracked his own chew hard.
“I know all about you. Hear you’re pretty good for a girl.” Thousands of bonus points rung up while he talked. He didn’t even see it happen.
“I’m more than pretty good.” I spoke loudly to push my voice through my throat. “And I’m good for anybody.” I bounced a bit to the spicy lyrics, counting on
my knees not being able to both bob and tremble.
“You’re on, sister,” he said, turning his attention back to the table. “Monday, three o’clock. Bring your crew.”
Truth was, back then I didn’t have no crew to invite to the event. None that could appreciate it, anyhow. Whenever I stepped outside for a tangy sodapop break, I’d see the girls moving in tight knots down the avenue in their pastel jumpers. Knew some of ‘em from school and they had the every-which-wayest hair I’d ever seen. Colored balls, fuzzy rainbow ribbons festooned through their plaits, each head a circus of its own. Heads looked like they were ready for takeoff. Chicks would aim for the pizza joint at exactly noon, letting the clock tell ‘em when to eat ‘stead of their stomachs. Could smell however-old onion ring grease all over that dive. Chicks would stare at me and put their busy heads together, whispering, pointing. Giggling. They didn’t like my uni, which was black Converse high tops, black high-cuff jeans with pockets down the legs, white tee. Pulled my hair back into a ponytail and slapped a cap atop. Nothing fancy. This was not a show-off outfit, it was a working outfit. These dainty chicks? Wouldn’t begin to comprehend. All prettied up in cutesy color s, and for what? For who? Wasn’t ever no boys with ‘em. They’d drop five bucks on a glittery jump rope at the hobby store when a old clothesline worked just as good, made a smarter slap on the blacktop, too.
On that showdown day it was okay not to have a audience after all, since Rain beat me. But only by 5,000 points. I remember how I reacted real low-key ‘bout it. I’d given his ass a good run and he respected me after that; we played a lotta the machines together. Rain had said I was skateboard skinny like a white girl, but that I did everything that counted like a boy. I kept Rain a secret from my parents cause I knew they’d say a kid like Rain is no company for a young lady like me to be keeping. Rain and me got used to doing the circuit, playing all the tables in sequence up to No Mercy and then staying there for a hour at a go. Folks started gathering round every time we reached No Mercy, watching us take turns. They called us the dynamite duo.

Art from Scars (radio telescope) Arecido Observatory, Puerto Rico

One sticky Saturday when I stepped outside for my soda break, I saw Rain yakking with a Spanish girl on the opposite side of the entrance doors. Damaris somebody-or-other. I’d seen her before; was a weird-ass chick who hung out in front of Zephyr but was too chicken to come in. She looked way older, like sixteen, and she wore tight shirts with vertical ribbing that showed the outline of her bra. Her rutty jeans were snug and smooth and she wobbled on chipped brown pumps. (I ask you: who wears pumps to a arcade? Course like I said, she never came in). Was always a cloud of gnats and bees round her on account of the quart of cologne she wore. “The bees are distracted to me,” she’d say, fanning frantically, to whatever boy got out there with her first. Often--like on this day--it was Rain. They talked real low, not touching each other but with their heads close. Rain turned his visor backwards so it wouldn’t be in the way of his leaning. Whole time they whispered they took turns looking over their shoulders, round the street and even in to cars slowing for the stop light. Flighty as she was, Damaris was as watchful as Rain. The pair of ‘em acted like they were working undercover on some classified case. I felt the small dip I get in the center of my tongue whenever I was ‘bout to say something uncouth. But all I did was burp loud grape soda. Rain glanced at me so fast his eyes seemed blurry; but he didn’t say nothing.
My head started hurting from trying so hard to overhear ‘em. I looked across the street at Dad’s bar. Could see the blue-white flicker of three TVs. I’d finally turned and gone back into Zephyr.
Damaris only showed up a couple of Saturdays a month, but that was bad enough cause if Rain was the first to see Damaris gimping round the front door, he’d let me play his quarter out while he left me and went to jaw with her. That could take a hour and sometimes Dad would come and collect me before Rain ever got back in to finish our circuit.
On this ‘leventh birthday, Dad gave me the three birthday quarter rolls and when he went to the sports bar Rain slid over and we started circuiting. We’d just got to Riverboat, the third table, when four Hispanic guys in light silver jackets and identical shades shoved into The Zephyr. Red bandanas tied round their left kneecaps. They even all walked the same step, synched like that dance troupe over at the arts center last month. Quartet bops on a beeline to Rain and me. I’m playing and the short squat one pushes his shoulder hard ‘gainst Rain, sorta leaning into him.
“Rain, know something? You need to learn how to take hints. Signs.” Squat’s voice is heavy, froggy. “Red Fly’s gave you plenty, and he thought you was a bright kid who’d pick up on ‘em.” He turned the corners of his mouth down.
A medium skinny one flanks Rain’s other side. “That’s right. Red Fly’s sorta outta patience, my man.” Puts his elbow on Rain’s shoulder but it’s clear to me that it is not a chummy gesture. “You ain’t showed yourself to be as sharp as we expected.” Rain yanked a unlit cigarette from his mouth. He licked his lips real slow, like ole Mrs. Soren’s calico does when he’s got a fine bead on a sparrow. My pinball drained tween the flippers.
“Shit,” I said real loud and smacked the machine’s glass casing, stinging my palm. None of ‘em paid me no mind.
“All we ever did is talk,” Rain said. “She came around every couple weeks. She works at Mickey D’s around the corner. Last I checked, talking’s not against any law.” His voice was hard, edgy. I ain’t never heard him use that tone before.
“Except for ours.” The third punk grinned like a fun house clown, spoke a quick octave higher than Medium Skinny.
Rain draped himself back over No Mercy’s casing, sorta pouring over the top. He leaned on the motorcycle arm, one foot raised ‘gainst one of the table legs. Course this blocked a huge chunk of my view and I lost another ball.
“She ain’t branded, is she?” Rain spat. “Christ. She hung around and I kept her some company, that’s all. Let’s not make a federal case out of it.”

Art from Scars Arecido Observatory, Puerto Rico

“The feds are better at reading signs.” Fun house’s grin slipped a notch. “Feds don’t mistake a unmistakable sign. Red Fly spoke to you three weeks ago. Said hands off and it couldn’t’ve been clearer.” The grin dimmed altogether.
“Hands off? Hands were never on. “ Rain’s foot was sliding down the table leg but he hoisted it up and replaced it in position.
The first one spoke again. “She’s one of our crew and you was told to stay--”
“I don’t take orders very well.” A thin rope of muscle popped out from the side of his jaw. His motorcycle pitched slightly on his arm as if it had run into sandy dunes. “Threats neither.”
My hands slipped on the flipper buttons; suddenly I wasn’t breathin’ no more. I watched Rain reach slow into his back pocket and shimmy out a gum stick. Unwrapped it as if someone pushed the Slow button on the VCR remote.
The fourth biggest one never did speak but his arm shot out and grabbed Rain’s Harley Davidson logo. Rain nearly flew off his feet, head snapped back, gum dropped on the floor. The squat froggy one rapped his elbow into Rain’s throat and the lot of ‘em began dragging Rain out not the street door but the rear parking lot door, and some folks peeked over their shoulders and some stepped away from their tables but most just glanced quick then kept on playing. I followed the struggling huddle, looking round for some of Rain’s posse but not seeing ‘em there. My face crumpled like Mom’s morning bread dough, my voice pitched so high I couldn’t hardly place it as mine. “Here Rain, I got five dollars. I got five dollars right--”
They practically carried him out the door. I kept swallowing, my chin bucked back ‘gainst my throat. Rain grabbed one of the door handles but couldn’t hold on; the closing door hooked his visor off and it swung on the handle like a Don’t Disturb sign. I removed the visor at the same time I heard first one crack, then another. The four silver jackets sprinted across the lot. Rain turned towards the door and since his arms hung straight down not clutching at nothing, I thought he was okay but then he fell gradual to his knees, toppled over, folding into a soft S. I ran ahead of the Zephyr stampede only now thundering to the door. Got down on all fours to lean close to Rain’s face. Blood came out of his ear, trickled past the silver cross even as his fingers curled up from the ground into a spidery cup I knew was for permanent. My throat ached as if I’d drunk a icy root beer too quick. I slipped my left palm beneath his head to cradle it in my lap, barely feeling the rough pavement under my knees. His blood was warm on my fingers. The memo pad pressed painfully against my hip as the Zephyr crowd circled and pressed around me. No one had said anything ‘bout that stick-up pharmacy and they’d likely say even less about this. Someone’s hand gripped my shoulder with crisp authority, urging me to stand. But my limbs and mouth and eyes and heart went dry and dead; was no telling when they’d come back to my control. I heard the crazy ringing of Zephyr’s abandoned machines, left to settle their own scores. Rain’s mouth opened in a semi-smirk revealin’ the bottom edges of his fine white teeth, his pretty gray eyes open and all shiny shiny shiny.

Art from Scars El Yunque Tropical rain forest, Puerto Rico

AFTERNOON BARBECUE

The women share a secret,
chattering
until we enter their circle,
giggling quietly
when they think we can’t see.
We ask them for a hint
but they only lower their eyes
and smile delicately
from the corners of their mouths.
It only increases our desire
to know.
Perhaps it was something
they did long ago,
consequences notwithstanding,
the memory possesses
a lingering sweetness.
This might explain
their camaraderie,
the way they rest their chins
on the curl of their fists,
stare at each other
with intense intrigue.
Tell us one story
or give us a clue.
Whisper a sentence
or even a word
that might carry
in the warm summer breeze
when you close your eyes
to remember

Art from Scars El Yunque Tropical rain forest, Puerto Rico

Fire Pit

The embers now right
For marshmallowing,

From across the yard
I look beyond the glow

Of the end of my smoke
At my friends, our hosts

And their two s’mores-
Loving dogs, all of them

With faces let up under
The eavesdropping stars,

Not how the Eye of Hell
Flares in silent rage

Each time a joke ignites
And animates the ring

And they gaze as one
Into the flame’s center

As if mocking it
With their pinkish grins.

Art from Scars Iwo Jima, Washington DC

The Patriot Act

It’s not the American way
to protest and complain.
True Patriots never dissent,
for the government always knows best.

Perpetual; surveillance,
Protection through detection;
Those unblinking, covert federal eyes
Even scan your library files.

Screw the rules of due process;
To hell with privacy, too.
The Bill of Rights is an antique,
And liberty is not obsolete.

Thanks to the Patriot Act
The terrorists won’t succeed,
And though we’re not free, by God we’re safe,
Here in our nice snug police state.

Art from Scars Old San Juan, Puerto Rico

Scars ‘97

I wear my scars like badges.
These deep marks show through from under my skin
like war paint on an Apache chief.
Decorated with feathers, the skins of his prey.

I have a scar over my left knee.
It’s left over from a bout with poison ivy
I had after climbing a mountainside.
The four-inch long slice curves around my leg,
almost perfectly defining the muscles in my thigh.

I have a scar on my right shin.
I slipped on a patch of rocks and cut up the lower
half of my leg and filled it with gravel and dirt.
Joe poured hydrogen peroxide on my leg
and wrapped my wounds with paper towels
because the cuts were so wide spread.
An hour later I was on my way home,
so I could tend to my wounds in greater detail.
Tend to my wounds in depth.
Now all that is left is a two-inch line down
the side of my leg. Although it wasn’t a very
deep cut, it looks like it went straight to the bone.

I have a circular scar on my left calf,
from getting off a motorcycle and sliding
my leg over the scalding hot exhaust pipe.
It has been seven years since I gained that scar,
and with each year I see it fade away just a little.
I can still see it, but the memory is slowly slipping away.

My cat scratched me on my wrist once
when we had to give her medication.
Cats don’t like taking pills, or having ointment
dabbed on and liquid poured over their wounds.
When giving her pills, we’d grab all her paws,
pull her head back by the nape of her neck,
pry her jaws wide open so the pill will fall back
and she is forced to swallow it.
But sometimes she’d move too much
and a paw would slip out of our grasp.
And now, over the bone on my left wrist,
a long thin scar stares at me defiantly.

I tell people that if they wake up
with bruises and cuts they don’t remember,
then they must have had fun the night before.
But each marking, each scar is a story,
is a memory. It is a way to remember how you lived.
And it is with these marks that I gauge my living.
It is with these marks that I feel decorated.

Art from Scars Dachau, Germany

Jeremy

I hold him in my arms at the vet’s,
Alone in a room reserved
For the final injection, his warm
Schnauzer-body quieting into heaviness,
Then slipped him, vinyl-bagged,
Into the back seat among blankets,
Cookie crumbs, the ice scraper.

Lori had sniffled in her teenage way,
"Nobody’s going to kill my dog,"
And Jim had simply gone off to work;
So I patted him into the car,
Carried him like a lamb to the slaughter,
Kissed his curly-grey ears.

For weeks I’d watched him
Fall off the back steps, walk into walls,
The tragicomic figure of a canine
Losing its mind. Poor little clown
Went outside to poop, couldn’t remember how,
His senile eyes blank as a jester’s bells,
Tail wagging slowly in vague recognition,
Then not at all.

We buried him in the back yard
The wet afternoon at the foot of the garden,
But the hole was too small
And the stuffed vinyl bag stuck up
In the shape of his ass;
As we lifted him out to deepen the grave,
The carcass slid out in a frigid lump,
And we cried in the rain
And worked with out shovels
To finish the job before dark.

Art from Scars Dachau, Germany

my life changing

and you know now, now that I
think about it, he never knew to ask
and he never knew how to want
and she never knew how to answer
and this was their little world

and this was how they argued
and she was always right
and she always wanted to argue

Art from Scars Old San Juan, Puerto Rico

mean to me

how many times are you
going to pull on me

what do you have to give me
what do you expect of me

when I’ve got nothing
when you’ve got nothing
what are you supposed
to mean to me

Art from Scars Old San Juan, Puerto Rico

Expecting The Stoning

I
You know how you want a popsicle and you want it for the longest time, and you don’t even know what it’s going to taste like when you get it, and then you finally get it and it tastes oh so good and you have some if it and you want to save it so you can have it later. And then you realize that in order to keep the popsicle from disappearing it has to stay in the freezer to avoid melting and becoming just a liquid pile of remains instead of what you wanted.
That it had to stay in the freezer in order to survive, and you couldn’t stay there with it. That it was meant to be cold forever, or consumed.
It was either one or the other. They taught you that fact when you were little. You can’t have it both ways. You can try, and it might be fun at first but everyone knows it will hurt later on.
And it will.

II
I think what I liked the most about us was the theory of romance.
No, wait, it wasn’t that, it was the fact that it was forbidden; you were a friend of a friend and this wasn’t quote unquote supposed to be happening. But I liked the idea of being with you. I would travel across the country to see you. The thought of you and the times we had behind everyone’s backs, those times were like poems to me. Maybe looking back we weren’t technically together when we couldn’t even tell anyone that we we ever together in the first place, but it was still nice for me to fantasize.
And what did it get me?

III
Maybe my problem was that it was all in my head, and maybe I didn’t realize the novelty would wear off for you. You were like the average American and after twenty seconds of watching a television show you’d want to change the channel with the remote on the arm of your chair.
I didn’t know you were a popsicle that would melt when you were exposed to ANY sunlight or ANY heat at ANY time.
I didn’t know you had problems. Don’t we all. We all don’t go to psychiatrists and stay on medications. Maybe I didn’t know how bad your problems were.
I didn’t know you were a snowman that I made in the backyard at my house in the winter when I was little. A snowman that was fully equipped with a carrot nose, like pinocchio, no, wait, like you, with no hair, like you, with black rocks for eyes, like you.
And yeah, that snowman melted with spring, like you, and maybe I should have learned my lesson from that damned snowman.
I guess there was a lot about you I didn’t know because in so many ways I didn’t know you.

IV
I remember how little kids would want to build snowmen in the winter. They didn’t seem to mind the snowman eventually going away.
I hated the cold, so I didn’t play in the snow as much.
Maybe in playing those little games everyone else learned their lesson, maybe they learned something that I should have learned.

V
I should expect the stonings that I am bound to receive for telling you that I know what you have done and that I want the rest of the world to know it too. I will expect the stonings with time, I have been getting used to the punishments for telling the truth, even when people don’t want to hear it.
So, thank you for getting my hopes up and then blowing them away with one breath from your lips like anyone would do to a pile of sand.
(or table salt spilled on the counter)
Because I think I needed to learn that lesson. And in a way, for now, I only have you to thank for it.

Everything Was Alive And Dying

Art from Scars

Then I walked a little further and there was a stray cat. she still had her little neon collar on with a little bell. And she walked a few feet, stretched her front paws, oh, she looked so darling. And then she walked right up to me and she said “thank you.” and I said “for what?” And she just looked at me for a moment, her little ears were standing straight up, and then she said, “you know, in some countries I’m considered a delicacy.” And I said, “how do you know of these things?” And she said. “when somebody eats one of you word gets around.” And then she looked up at me again and said, “and in some countries the cow is sacred. Wouldn’t they love to see how you humans prepare them for slaughter, how you hang them upside-down and slit their throats so their still beating hearts will drain out all the blood for you?” And she said, “isn’t it funny how arbitrary your decision to eat meat is?” And I said, “don’t put me in that category, I don’t eat meat.” and she said “I know.”

And I walked deeper in to the forest; managed to get away from the picnic tables and the outhouses that lined the forest edges. the roaring cars gave way to the rustling of tree branches crackling of fallen leaves under my step.
When the wind tunneled through, the wind whistled and sang as it flew past the bark and leaves.
I walked listened to the crack of dead branches under my feet, and I felt a branch against my shoulder. I looked up and I could hear the trees speak to me, and they said, “thank you for letting the endangered animals live here amongst us. We do think they’re so pretty, and it would be a shame to see them go. And thank you for recycling paper, because you’re saving us for just a little while longer.”
“We’ve been on this planet for so long, embedded in the earth. We do have souls, you know. you can hear it in our songs. We cling with our roots; we don’t want to let go.”
And I said, “But I don’t do much, I don’t do enough.” And they said “We know. But we’ll take what we can get.”

And I woke up in a sweat.
So tell me Bob Dole, so tell me Newt Gingrich, so tell me Pat Bucannan, so tell me Jesse Helms, if you woke up from that dream would you be in a sweat, too?

Do you even know why we should save the rain forest? Oh preserve the delicate balance, just tear the whole forest down, what difference does it make? Put in some orange groves so our concentrate orange juice can be a little cheaper.
Did you know that medical researchers have a very, very hard time trying to come up with synthetic cures for diseases on their own? It helps them out a little if they can first find the substance in nature. A tree that appears in the rain forest may be the only one of its species. Or one like it may be two miles away, instead of right next to it. I wonder how many cures we’ve destroyed to plant more orange groves. Serves us right.

You know my motives aren’t selfless. I know that these things are worthwhile in my life. I’d like to find a cure to these diseases before I die of them, and I’m not just a vegetarian because I think it’s wrong to kill an animal unless I have to. I also know the excess protein pulls the calcium away from my bones and gives me osteoporosis, and the excess fat gives me heart attacks, and I also know that we could be feeding ten times more people with the same resources used for meat production.
You know, I know you’re looking at me and calling me an extremist, but I’m sitting here, looking around me looking at the destruction caused by family values and thinking the right, moral, non-violent decisions are also those extreme ones.

Art from Scars Bison, Wyoming

Everything is linked here. we destroy our animals so we can be wasteful and violent. We destroy our plants, we destroy our earth, we’re even destroying our air. We wreak havoc on the soil, on the atmosphere. We dump our wastes into our lakes. we pump aerosol cans and exhaust pipes.
And you tell me I’m extreme.
And these animals and forests keep calling out to me, the oceans, the wind.

And I’m beginning to think that we just keep doing it because we don’t know how to stop, and deep inside we feel the pain of all that we’ve killed, and we try to control it by popping a chemical-filled pain-killer.
We live through the guilt by taking caffeine, nicotine, or morphine, and we keep ourselves thin with saccharin, and we keep ourselves sane with our alcohol poisoning. And when that’s not enough maybe a line of coke.
Maybe shoot ourselves in the head in front of the mirror in the master bedroom. or maybe just take some pills, or walk into the garage, turn on the car and just fall asleep.

In the wild you have no power over anyone else. now that we’re civilized we create our own wild.
Maybe when we have all this power, the only choice we have is to destroy ourselves.
And so we do.

Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics. One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

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

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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

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Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

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

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

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

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

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

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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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

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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

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

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

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

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

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Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright � through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”, which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

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.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright through Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.