cc&d magazine, Scars Publications and Design

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

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

Volume 174, July 2007

The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine
Internet ISSN 1555-1555

cc&d issue

In This Issue...
    The Boss Lady’s Editorial on global warming from Chicago to China...
    Eye on the Sky and art by Melanie Monterey.
    Poetry by Je’free , and Mel Waldman , and Mary Kolesnikova , and Sara Crawford , and Tegan Kehoe , and IB Rad , and Peter Martin , and Ray Karpovage , and another poem by Je’free , and Graham Fulton , and Paul Baker , and Peter Magliocco , art by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz , poetry by Johnny Freereign , poetry by Robert Alton McMakin , poetry by Kyle J. Warnica , art by Cheryl Townsend , poetry by Philsy , and Barbara Brackney .
    Prose by Pat Dixon , art by Aaron Wilder , prose by Edward C. Burton , and G.A. Scheinoha , and Damion Hamilton .

(art is sprinkled throughout the issue...)

the boss lady’s editorial

Global Warming: reports from Chicago to China?

looking for climate correction from at home in Chicago all the way to China
    I look for news stories that relate to global warming, and I saw one in the Wall Street Journal (02/12/07) that made me think that some change might be coming somewhere in the world when it comes to taking more care of the world we live in.
    You see, when I looked into what parts of the world were contributing greenhouse gases that would contribute to global warming, the United States was extremely high. And even though the U.S. would not sign on with the Kyoto Treaty they started, there are parts of the United States that try to do something to help lower the carbon emissions. But the reasons why the U.S. wouldn’t sign on with the treaty was because of the way it treated third world countries differently; with the treaty, third world countries would not be forced to the same restrictions and guidelines for releasing carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. And countries like China and India, with the recent massive influx of corporations and cars, they are not forced to the same guidelines as other larger countries.
    Now, China is a real stickler for this one, because most of their energy is derived from coal, which is worse for greenhouse gas emissions to the planet. And with China’s new desire to have the big energy-consuming American-styled life, and China is emerging as the world’s largest polluter; they currently are the second largest emitter of greenhouse gases, and scientists say China will soon pass the U.S. (if it hasn’t done so already).
    But in the Wall Street Journal, I read the headline: “China Tilts Green,” that “climate concerns” are swaying Beijing... So I read on.
    If you’ve read my other pieces on global warming (mid-October November 2006 and June 2007), global warming effects the weather on the planet — the fact that hurricanes and typhoons and droughts, along with record-breaking balmy weather in Beijing, has made people there wonder if problems with global warming can effect the entire country. Not only have they experienced more problems with violent weather conditions, but rising temperatures because of global warming could even threaten the nation’s food security.
    Scientists have pointed out that China could be affected by climate alterations. Coastal flooding from melting polar ice caps (have you heard that the lower half of Florida could be lost with the melting of the polar ice caps? I’ve read those threats more than once, and seen it while watching an Inconvenient Truth...) would destroy major costal cities (including Shanghai and Shenzhen), and higher temperatures would devastate many Chinese farmers (who currently barely scratch by in in semiarid portions of the country). Also, many parts of China depend on rivers that get their water from glacier flow. You’d think that the melting of the glaciers would mean more water, but it wouldn’t be more water everywhere — while some coastal areas would be flooded, other places which depended on river flow from the glaciers would now not have those glaciers to bring water into their rivers. This would mean that although some places would be destroyed because of too much water, other places would lose any access to water and be destroyed. This is particularly difficult for some parts of China, because these places that depend on that water are already among the areas with the lower per-capita supply of water.
    As I mentioned, because of global warming, some places would get a lot of water (from violent storms, or rising tides), but because there’s only so much water on this planet, other parts of the world would become even drier, and lose even more water.
    These estimates were sobering to the people in China, because estimates evaluated estimate “crop shortages, increased floods in the rich costal river deltas and higher energy use to ward off mounting heat.”
    Yes, use more energy. Becomes something of a downward spiral, doesn’t it?
    You see, in the past representatives of China would state (accurately) that their greenhouse gas emissions were far lower than the west’s, and making the changes necessary would cost too much money for them. But in recent years, their manufacturing has dramatically increased, and it has been proven that only recently China’s greenhouse gas emissions have taken a sharp upturn, making them more on par with their U.S counterparts. And when the see that the effects of global warming could raise water levels for major costal cities, they not only see that areas could no longer be habitable, but they also see that their exporting (which has jumped in recent years) would have to stop from those same costal towns.
    Postulated were not attempts to cap the greenhouse gases emitted in a year, but to lower the greenhouse gas emissions to a lower level than the previous year. And that is a good sign, especially from a country that has become a powerhouse in these emissions, whose energy comes from the less-efficient use of coal.
    And yeah, I look for these signs from anywhere as a positive sign. I hear that areas in New York are attempting greener lives (from hybrid taxis and luxury cars to building greener skyscrapers), and I feel disappointed that Chicago (as such a huge city) doesn’t do enough. I see the number of lights that are on the plethora of expressways here, and I see the gorgeous buildings that Chicago is famous for — from it’s old district buildings to it’s miraculous skyscrapers — and know that all of these buildings use a ton of energy, from the heat to the lighting to the alarms to the elevators.
    And I’m sorry, I love architecture (must be the Dutch side of me), b ut I want to find a way to make those same buildings more energy efficient.
    But then I read from the Daily Herald (02/14/07, Happy Valentine’s Day back then) for metropolitan Chicago the headline “Blagojevich wants panel to figure out how to reduce greenhouse gases.” This Associated Press article explained hot the governor wanted a state advisory group to “cut the production of heat-trapping gases to 1990 levels by 2020...” This common benchmark was also used in California, and lawmakers like John McCain and Barrack Obama (our Chicago connection to the presidential election, since Hillary Clinton left her Illinois home she grew up in to be the first lady, then a senator in New York) support these measures in Congress.
    Now, the state of Illinois recently bucked federal limits for mercury emissions, but they approved coal-fired power plants to reduce mercury emissions by 90% by 2009. And even the director of the Environmental Council that this was “definitely ambitious,” since Jonathan Goldman understood the scope of the problem, but a lot will come out of the recommendations of the new advisory group.
    Members of this group will include people from labor unions, the utilities, environmental and consumer groups. They’ll look into ways to make new homes and cars more efficient, and they’ll look at “how electricity is generated and the fuels that people use,’ said Steve Frenkel, the policy director for the government office. Now, this group will advise Blagojevich what needs to be done to meet his goals (and where this will include changes in allow or through other administrative changes).
    It’s a lot of work, but as I said, it’s a good sign, to see that people (right here and on the other side of the world) are trying to make a change.

•••
    I forgot that the easiest way for me to get any info on global warming was to just look at a newspaper ever few days, because trust me, they’ll be something in there to make you think twice. I read in the Naples Daily News (02/16/07) That January 2007 was the hottest January in recorded history ever. The headline said it was die to El Niño and to global warming. Now, I know that February got stupid cold in Chicago (like it usually does every year), and I know that New York and the northeast had a ton of snow dumped on it in February, but I remember vividly that January was painfully warmer than any other January I remembered in my life. The highs were in the 50s for at least one week in January, and this was the time of year the New Jersey even had their spring flowers blooming because of the warm weather (that won’t mess up the cycle of animals, relying on these plants who bloomed five months earlier than they should have...). But a warming El Niño and a gradually warming world made January 2007 a record-breaker for temperatures (temperatures are measured by the world’s land wand water temperatures combined, and these temperatures have been measured since 1980). And usually when temperatures go up, they go up less than one percentage — and in January 2007, the temperature was 3.4 degrees warmer than last year.
    This Seth Borenstein AP article also pointed out that this warmer weather was spurred on in part to an unusually warm Siberia, northern Asia, Europe and Canada (well, they didn’t mention Chicago, but it was unusually warm here too), according to the U.S. National Climactic Data Center in Asheville, NC.
    So, maybe we life to always go above and beyond what’s expected of us, but the overachiever in us might not want to rest on the laurels of these numbers. We may have started a cycle that we can’t just stop (so the heating doesn’t destroy us), and these higher temperatures in some places may cause that violent weather that disrupts our lives in other ways. There’s too vast an assortment of other options that will also occur with every little change we see in the world — since nature is one big interlocked cycle, everything is linked here, and one little change here will translate to many changes everywhere.

•••
    Read a little note in the Naples Daily News (02/19/07) another small article about a strain for a form of flu that’s new once again to the population. “H5N1 bird flu strain in 2 suburban districts” was the headline of this news-in-brief, explaining that in Moscow, a Russian official found a fourth outbreak of dead domestic poultry in the Taldom district (north of Moscow). As of yet there are no human cases, but... I even saw another AP headline in the Naples Daily News (02/27/07) that read “Government says first vaccine against bird flu even less effective that thought.” It’s conforting to think that with the new diseases that are springing up that could affect us, we can’t find effective ways to fight them... I think of all of the recent past pandemics I’ve heard broadcast in the news (I even remember seeing a news photo of a Chinese woman with the words “SARS” printed in big red capital letters on her surgical mask because of the fear of this at-the-time news disease), and it makes me think that due to the fact that (A) people consume so much meat on this planet, and (B) people don’t often take enough of the the right measured to sanitize any food that may have been clean in the first place, as well as (C) new diseases springing up in the world because of climate change, allowing new diseases to flourish in new temperatures, are all factors in the presence of new diseases springing up in the world the we humans have to be prepared for. Climate change, alone with the choices that we humans make in the world, contribute to this continuing and growing problem.

•••
    And you know, when I think of political rants I’ve listened to before about human political rights, I’ve heard the argument that people should have the right to do what worked best for them in their life, and if that means that nature takes second place, then... then nature be damned. It sounds rude, but the major contention is that people shouldn’t sacrifice their right to things like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness to take care of small animals or trees in a forest. People mean more than that. Their argument is that is we cared too much about these things, then all we’d do is sacrifice ourselves as humans for it — we wouldn’t be able to cut down trees to build homes or for firewood (granted, the wood has to have been dead long enough to be dry for firewood...), and we wouldn’t be able to ride horses, or keep pets, or kill animals for food (or use their skin for your leather, either). Now, I know I’m a vegetarian, because I don’t have to support animal death to function well in this world, but I don’t stop other people from choosing to allow slaughtered animals in their lives. And the point this political argument made is that people should have the right to do what they think is best — even if that means killing animals, or cutting down trees for house lumber (or razing rain forest land to plant orange groves, so Americans can have cheaper orange juice). People should have thee right to do these things if they feel it is in their best interest.
    And as a supported of individual rights, I’m otherwise for this argument, “tree huggers” who tell you that cars are evil take it a little too far in my book, and people can make the choice to have a car if they want to (or feel they need to). But, if you consider this argument, I’d hope the proponents of this political stance would see that saving the world - i.e., reducing carbon emissions, might actually be what’s best for them as humans in the long run. Maybe if people start taking care of the world more, the world will be in good enough shape to sustain its inhabitants until your old age. It sounds far-fetched, but I don’t think it’s too much of a sacrifice to use a hybrid sedan instead of a gas-guzzling SUV to go from point A to point B, and I don’t think it’s too much of a hassle to not leave lights on when you’re not in a room, or even to unplug your television, or even unplug you recharger for you cellular phone (yes, these things pull electricity even if they’re not on and even if they’re not charging anything). And keeping these kind of little points in mind really isn’t that much of a sacrifice — and you’ll be rewarded for it by the world later in life. Trust me.
    I even read additional potential support for people caring about the future of the planet they live on — like I heard how actor Orlando Bloom is planning to build his home in London as completely green: Bloom even said, “It’s got solan panels on the roof, energy-efficient light bulbs —newer technology basically that is environmentally friendly.” Bloom even added, “It doesn’t have to be overwhelming, there are simple things we can do.”
    He’s right, and Susan Solomon, who is a scientist at the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association who “was instrumental in developing the Intergovernmental Panel on Climactic Change,” even said (in an AP article I saw in the Naples Daily News, 02/20/07) even said that she was “incredibly encouraged” about “public understanding of the dangers of global warming.” The panel she helped develop released a report that reaffirmed the effects and viability of global warming, that there is a 90% chance it has been exacerbated by human activity. The report even reminds the world that changes in things like rain and snow are effected by global warming — so if you see strange weather patterns (like a ton of snow in the entire state of New York in February, maybe this explains why these things happen to our climate).
    It is sad that attempts to change these weather changes that we see now won’t occur immediately (like, if I stop using energy or powering anything to emit greenhouse gases for a year, that doesn’t mean Chicago will be free of horrendous weather next winter...), but changes will occur, even if the results will only be long-term results. Saw an AP article by Aiofee White in the Naples Daily News (02/21/07) that people are looking for long-term changes. The headline read that “EU ministers agree to 20% cut in greenhouse gas emissions by 2020,” where they reported that in Bruxelles (Brussels, Belgium) the ambitious target may also lead to “mandatory caps for cars and pollution allowances for airplanes.” Although this may be a harder goal to hit for the new members of the EU, but that cumulative target could go as low as 30% below the 1990 levels “if other industrial countries sign on to a global effort.” In Germany, many people spoke of a “moral duty toward future generations in their talks,” and these numbers still had to be approved by the EU later, but they are looking to have a stronger system in place by 2009, and this would be a good goal to reach for after the Kyoto Protocol expires in 2012.
    Granted, the Bush administration isn’t signed on with the Kyoto Treaty (which it started), but they say they’re interested in looking for new technologies to combat global warming. I’m sure you’re probably hear Bush talk to Switch Grass, and others have talked of corn (with ethanol). Granted, we can’t produce enough corn to clear us of the oil addiction we have to the Middle East, but Bush even stated in his State of the Union Address in 2007 that we should reduce 20% less gasoline over the next 10 years, and according to an AP article 02/24/07 Bush was looking over same hybrid cars, like an all-electric SUV on the White House lawn 02/23/07. President Bush even said, “I firmly believe that the goal I laid out — that Americans will use 20% less gasoline over the next 10 years — is going to be achieved, and here’s living proof of how we’re going to get there.”
    The EU ministers advanced discussions on imposing carbon emission limits for new cars (as well as using more wind, solar and possibly nuclear energy rather than depending on carbon-rich fossil fuels), but around the world we have to try as many avenues as physically possible to help us get through this probably self-induced climate change, which can effect out planet for generations.

This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Janet Kuypers
Editor In Chief

Eye on the Sky

New Horizons Sets Its Sights on Jupiter
    NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft is on the doorstep of the solar system’s largest planet. The spacecraft will study and swing past Jupiter, increasing speed on its voyage toward Pluto, the Kuiper Belt and beyond.
    The fastest spacecraft ever launched, New Horizons will make its closest pass to Jupiter on Feb. 28, 2007. Jupiter’s gravity will accelerate New Horizons away from the sun by an additional 9,000 miles per hour, pushing it past 52,000 mph and hurling it toward a pass through the Pluto system in July 2015.
    The New Horizons mission team will use the flyby to put the probe’s systems and seven science instruments through the paces of more than 700 observations of Jupiter and its four largest moons. The planned observations from January through June include scans of Jupiter’s turbulent, stormy atmosphere; a detailed survey of its ring system; and a detailed study of Jupiter’s moons.

NASA Spacecraft En Route to Pluto Prepares for Jupiter Encounter
    WASHINGTON - NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft is on the doorstep of the solar system’s largest planet. The spacecraft will study and swing past Jupiter, increasing speed on its voyage toward Pluto, the Kuiper Belt and beyond. The fastest spacecraft ever launched, New Horizons will make its closest pass to Jupiter on Feb. 28, 2007. Jupiter’s gravity will accelerate New Horizons away from the sun by an additional 9,000 miles per hour, pushing it past 52,000 mph and hurling it toward a pass through the Pluto system in July 2015.
    “Our highest priority is to get the spacecraft safely through the gravity assist and on its way to Pluto,” says New Horizons Principal Investigator Alan Stern, of the Southwest Research Institute, Boulder, Colo. “We also have an incredible opportunity to conduct a real-world encounter stress test to wring out our procedures and techniques, and to collect some valuable science data.”
    The New Horizons mission team will use the flyby to put the probe’s systems and seven science instruments through the paces of more than 700 observations of Jupiter and its four largest moons. The planned observations from January through June include scans of Jupiter’s turbulent, stormy atmosphere; a detailed survey of its ring system; and a detailed study of Jupiter’s moons.
    The spacecraft also will take the first-ever trip down the long “tail” of Jupiter’s magnetosphere, a wide stream of charged particles that extends tens of millions of miles beyond the planet, and the first close-up look at the “Little Red Spot,” a nascent storm south of Jupiter’s famous Great Red Spot.
    Much of the data from the Jupiter flyby will not be sent back to Earth until after the spacecraft’s closest approach to the planet. New Horizons’ main priority during the Jupiter close approach phase is to observe the planet and store data on its recorders before orienting its main antenna to transmit information home beginning in early March.
    “Since launch, New Horizons will reach Jupiter faster than any of NASA’s previous spacecraft and begin a year of extraordinary planetary science to complement future exploration activities,” says Jim Green acting director, Planetary Science Division, NASA headquarters, Washington.
    New Horizons has undergone a full range of system and instrument checkouts, instrument calibrations, flight software enhancements, and three propulsive maneuvers to adjust its trajectory.
    After an eight-year cruise from Jupiter across the expanse of the outer solar system, New Horizons will conduct a five-month-long study of Pluto and its three moons in 2015. Scientific research will include studying the global geology, mapping surface compositions and temperatures, and examining Pluto’s atmospheric composition and structure. A potential extended mission would conduct similar studies of one or more smaller worlds in the Kuiper Belt, the region of ancient, rocky, icy planetary building blocks far beyond Neptune’s orbit.
    New Horizons is the first mission in NASA’s New Frontiers Program of medium-class spacecraft exploration projects. The Applied Physics Laboratory, Laurel, Md., manages the mission for NASA’s Science Mission Directorate, Washington. The mission team also includes NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center, Greenbelt, Md.; NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Pasadena, Calif.; the U.S. Department of Energy, Washington; Southwest Research Institute, Boulder, Colo.; and several corporations and university partners.
    For more information on New Horizons on the Internet, visit: http://www.nasa.gov/newhorizons.

CloseBody00, art by Melanie Monterey

poetry

the passionate stuff

Knocking on the Government’s Door
Je’free
Gus is a 25 year-old father
of 6 sickly children,
his liability that contoured
creases on his forehead,
adding 2 decades to his age
He wore a persistent
lethargic expression, and
malnourished legs
that framed the same old
hand-me-down, dilapidated
trousers every morning
Nothing else geared him,
but that pushiness of poverty,
to pouch a piece of cabbage
from the wet market, secretly;
and, nourish an expectant
famished family
In some days,
when his mission fails,
he goes home with discontent
to a rubbish plague-ridden hut
of no bedroom, no bathroom;
but a ravenous brood
whose only alternative is to wait
until Gus gets luckier,
maybe tomorrow;
But, for now,
each day is as bleak
as their sparkless future

TERROR IN CYBERSPACE
Mel Waldman
The war is everywhere, in Iraq and Afghanistan,
and right here on American soil.
The war is everywhere, in both physical and virtual
reality, bombs exploding in every dimension.
Now, there’s terror in Cyberspace, where terrorists
meet in chat rooms and jihadist Web sites,
creating chaos, launching words of destruction and
bombs of propaganda,
recruiting, training, cybermobilizing, radicalizing,
teaching hatred, bigotry, and methods of killing.
The war is ubiquitous. In Cyberspace, radicals engage
in cyberattacks, while fueling violence in the physical
world.
The war is omnipresent. But so is the desire for peace
among all the peoples of the world.
In the dark landscape of terror, we must launch words
of creation and love, for only the good will of all can
bring permanent peace.
Now, there’s terror in Cyberspace and the war is
everywhere. What shall we do?

THE BREAKFAST ROOM
Mary Kolesnikova
She sat in the breakfast room
reading an important book
written with importance
and meant for important people.
She sat and spit important words at me
just to see how far they’d go
and how complex they’d sound
after her lips had stolen them.
I don’t think she knew the words,
just their lofty gravitas.
They left black eyes left and right
that she admired in mirrored hallways.

Spinning
Sara Crawford
Westerners are fleeing war-torn Lebanon,
CNN.com broke the news to me this morning,
Christians are talking about the end of our days,
Suddenly, I have become estranged.
CNN.com broke the news to me this morning,
my outstretched hand longs to communicate.
Suddenly, I have become estranged.
My head spins with thoughts of you.
My outstretched hand longs to communicate,
the particles between us are on fire,
my head spins with thoughts of you,
floating through this town, separated by wheels and glass.
The particles between us are on fire,
I look away for fear of the urgency of now,
floating through this town, separated by wheels and glass,
Tonight, I’ll close my eyes, but sleep won’t come.
I look away for fear of the urgency of now,
Christians are talking about the end of our days.
Tonight, I’ll close my eyes, but sleep won’t come.
Westerners are fleeing war-torn Lebanon.

(history)
Tegan Kehoe
What
is
this
thing
we
call
memory
because
I
have
memories
that
are
not
mine.
Image begets
an allusion
where did
this come
from this
language that
tells what
to remember?
Some concepts
emerge as sentences
symbols like a rabbit’s foot
but these,
these are from life
how are they now itemized
trivialized
sidebar stories in a magazine?
Images...
...
happen,
we recall
what we know we all saw
it’s a token
yes, by now we all know
that we all watched two towers fall
on our tvs.
Words happen too,
a murky idea
of cultural memory
do you remember your grandmother’s genocide?
Because I don’t
not you
and further removed
generation by generation.
Maybe my tokens
are like your genetic memory
pieces of things that aren’t really ours
even though they are attached to us
we carry them around in our pockets
like coins to spend.

The Book of Job, a True History.
IB Rad
As in most others,
our history begins
in the beginning
or, actually, more toward the middle,
with God protesting
Satan had subverted his works
and the Devil objecting
that the Lord was an imposter
and that, instead of Satan toppling from Grace,
it was God and His hapless minions
who were banished to that arctic void,
now euphemistically termed Heaven.
In retort, an offended God thundered,
with a sonic blast
that would have felled all but Satan,
“It was YOU who lost the contest!
And it was I who birthed the earth,
crafting humans to my likeness,
breathing life into Adam
and afterwards, Eve.
Then, when Adam opened his eyes
and beheld the virgin Eve,
it was you, Satan,
who thrust lust into his heart
and defiled the innocence of my creation.”
And thus Satan answered,
“If mankind was made in your image
truly a demon you must be
for who else but an archfiend could beget
the avarice and savagery of their being.
And as you’re the self-proclaimed icon
of all that’s “good,”
humankind cannot be in your image
but surely must mirror mine.
It is I who took your ill formed clay
and provided that craving for continuation
that molded human evolution.
But then, to sabotage my work,
you sent a pestilence of rabbis, ministers,
holy men, priests, and other pious parasites,
to grow rich and sleek
on human fear and gullibility
and to provide the carrot and the stick
to goad mankind to toe your line.
So priestly acolytes scribed your holy writ,
alleging the “righteous” would be rewarded with heaven
and the “sinner” would face eternal damnation.”
“Desist!” cried God.
“Your sophistry and wit is academic;
why quibble over details
when we can let man freely choose between us?”
“Agreed!” jeered Satan, embracing the Creator’s challenge.
“Then, let us test a representative human,” proceeded God,
an ever dutiful and patient person, like, ah…,Job.
Each will reveal his path for Job’s ascendancy
and then we’ll see who reaps Job’s soul.”
“Resolved!” Roared the Devil,
“Let our contest begin
even though, should I win,
your minions will surely claim
my victory as your own.”
And so God spoke, “Job, Do you hear me?”
“Yes, my Lord and master,” trembled a startled Job.
“Job, your God and this apostate archangel, Satan,
have a proposition for you.
Each of us will argue
for your devotion to his goals
and then you must choose
which overture most pleases you.”
And thus God began,
“Job, if you follow my commandments
and live a temperate, spiritual life
of pious devotion to your Lord,
a life of abstinence
and penitence for the sin of Adam,
I offer you a perpetual paradise
in which you’ll dwell with your Creator,
gliding airily through the cosmos
to endlessly sing my praises.
“That sounds mighty good, my Lord,” mumbled Job.
“And now,” coaxed Satan,
“Hear my proposition, Job,
so that you may tell us
which is more to your liking.
Job, my sole commandment
is that you enjoy life to the fullest,
without contrition or constraint.
In short, I offer you an existence
in which you’ll have matchless riches
with which to indulge your every passion
and to maintain a long and gratifying life,
though, with none of God’s illusory immortality.
But then, you won’t suffer that eternal torment
of having to endlessly hymn God’s praises.”
Job thought a moment, though perhaps,
it was more like a day,
and then artfully replied,
“Satan, your offer rewards my basic inclinations
and conforms more to my true nature,
so I must generally choose to do your bidding.
However, my dear Lord,
you know I truly love and worship you
and pay lip service to your every commandment,
so it’s truly an article of my unflagging faith
that some day you’ll reward me with heaven.”
And then, while the Almighty brooded
and roundly cursed
humanity’s sanctimony and ingratitude,
Lucifer exulted,
“While Your holy fools may, in time,
vainly seek to attain compliance
by trying to terrify mankind,
much as a parent does an errant child,
humankind, by heart and deed,
will remain forever mine.”

Ideals Lost in Sand Storms
Peter Magliocco
Give us Madonna’s panties to wrap
over the face of a federal bureaucrat
made in his image: George W. Bush
waxing in euphoric steep deceit
grey money-changers of Halliburton dance
round the desecrated tomb of Saddam
looking for the martyr who lost his head
while nukes from Iran & Korea target America
waiting to silence dismay of turncoats,
& all huddle giving solace in crawlspaces
so the gold standard is spiked
by missing legs of soldiers
crippled in combat?
Wild dogs of Baghdad eat medical waste
flowing like a mecca’s honey
from wounds of dehumanized Christs
retching over student remains
car-bombed on a winter’s day ...
Then asphodels wilt on scarified brows
for apes to mimick the descent of Man.

I Followed God Down a Rabbit Hole
and Got my Head Stuck
Ray Karpovage
Schizophrenic mind twistings
uncorking repressed thoughts
from crevices, dust ladden
should have probably
remained hidden. I am
but a shadow of my own humanity
beneath these duct tape screams
breathes a reality not
withstanding and without. So wash
it down with a quenching gulp
of life and drink to Death
while chasing fruitless truth
in circles like a wagging tail.

Crazy Who?
Je’free
Can we call them valid retards,
the loose-screwed brains,
when it was just us, mere mortals,
who have drawn the line
between “sanity & insanity”?
Do we define normal with accuracy;
or, do we become
the cuckoo minds;
As those we diagnose dummy
become witnesses to real reality?
What if they are reacting to,
and living in a world
truer than what we have
created & branded as “ideal”?
Who knows if those
we identify fools
are the geniuses; and,
they are calling us -
the stupid, the idiot ones?
What if their dimension
is more genuine; and
our universe, all seems
nothing, but illusion?
Then, who is crazier than who?

Brief
Graham Fulton
Danang, Vietnam
The curator of the museum
of American war crimes sits beside me
on a bench    in the gardens
next to the mellow Asian flowers
asks me if I’m married if not
why not    straight    to the point
I tell her I’ve never fallen
in love with anyone    yet
it seems the right
answer to send out to her heart
the first question they always ask
A curious land
She searches my eyes    smiles and nods
then hurries off    gone forever
Later I see her
sitting beside someone else
next to the Huey gunship wreck
asking if they’re married    if not
why not    straight

Contemplating the last regime.
Paul Baker
In a German bar
In a Polish city
With a scintillating woman
My stool spins beneath me.
An atmosphere of combs splices
     gingerbread.
A melody wreathes like smoke the
     chandelier.
Bits, bytes, and quarks undermine Visas.
Immigration becomes noxious.
Ex-migration fries in trucks.
Snow laces waxed candies.
Scottish plaid questions my authority.
Postage stamps in a peanut butter jar.
Cracked spoons indict Richard Nixon.
Celery Cats. Licorice leopards.
Mandolin monkeys. Tipsy tigers.
Wobbly wildebeests.
Australian cabbage leaks 3-in-1 oil.
It was a big cabbage.
A very big freakin’ cabbage.
You can’t touch my cabbage.
But you’re still cool.
Don’t push it. Be a cigarette.

Ideals Lost in Sand Storms
Peter Magliocco
Give us Madonna’s panties to wrap
over the face of a federal bureaucrat
made in his image: George W. Bush
waxing in euphoric steep deceit
grey money-changers of Halliburton dance
round the desecrated tomb of Saddam
looking for the martyr who lost his head
while nukes from Iran & Korea target America
waiting to silence dismay of turncoats,
& all huddle giving solace in crawlspaces
so the gold standard is spiked
by missing legs of soldiers
crippled in combat?
Wild dogs of Baghdad eat medical waste
flowing like a mecca’s honey
from wounds of dehumanized Christs
retching over student remains
car-bombed on a winter’s day ...
Then asphodels wilt on scarified brows
for apes to mimick the descent of Man.

King of the Mountain, art by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz

Bear
Johnny Freereign
Big Powerful Bear
Whose strength is compared to rock
Threatening presence

STRESSED
Robert Alton McMakin
I got so stressed stuck in the same place of this race again, pressed face
down drowning again, in a puddle I actually put myself in, when then the
macallan spins the time I’m in, like a neglected little kid, and this
feeling of qualm lingers in as I start praying for calmness again, on bended
bleeding knees repenting my sins, that shouldn’t even begin to deserve to
make me be as disturbed as my nerves apparently were, while lingered rumors
stirred me up by using all the wrong thoughts that so-called friends brought
up, since then is when my mind will greedily gobble it all up, switch-
swatch and boggle it up, flip-flop and tossing it up, questioning quaint
quibble of quandary ghost stories torn from forlorn mornings, matching
exactly the masked answers of the questions I’ve been asking but of course I
won’t follow it up, take one big bite and swallow the whole thing up, so the
squeeze of the weave of these particular weeds weighed indeed so heavy upon
my chest that the best I could express my distress was to throw it all back
up, yearning to stop this burning pit of unrest I keep trying to press into
the bereft within myself, to suddenly stand naked and alone, undressed,
standing a fool and nothing less, with pictures in my mind reminding me for
the thousandth time what it was I possessed and what it was I had left,
listening to old folk lore of days of yore, maybe even a wee bit before, but
imagining more than what most have in store, hence, the reminicse of a
gentle strumpet’s kiss mixed with maybe that same mistress’s caress, wrongs
long gone but still on hums a song that I danced to, scores of chords that
will entrance you, induce you, then seduces you, willfully influcences me to
go the extra step, even though there are no stairs left, just a public
promise, not anonymous, that I pray both sides kept, crept in high tide to
rise like the undeniable truth, backed by irrefutable proof, not just
colorful exaggerated daydream fantasies that don’t matter, but of two
unbreakable characters fused by the same infallible answer.

Girl Impervious
Kyle J. Warnica
porcelain doll
tossed on your pedestal
admired
not enjoyed
viewed but not touched
poor-slain doll
fearing the distance
society’s bounds gape between us
the glass keeps you in
the cage keeps you back
oh you know i would tap
know i would feed
yet beloved
oh beloved
you plead the gentlest of deeds

Funny Face 1, art by Cheryl Townsend

Clowning, art by Cheryl Townsend

Funny Face 2, art by Cheryl Townsend

Walking Life and Death
Philsy
If only for
your legs...
your thighs,
your calves, feet
by meters(1 and 34/40th)
just legs,
& a cute little
waist
& a blonde’s beauty
worth death.
‘til you,
seemed gay.
Then (to legs) there is you,
now
...life’s worth dying for.

Time for Some Help
Barbara Brackney
We’re down to poor peoples’ eggs--
the ones with blood spots or gummy bones, so
my mom knows she’d better get married.
She found the Sergeant last night and liked him right away--
he won big at poker, bought a car and had cash leftover.
She’s giving him the treatment--time alone for a week.
We live in a hotel--there’s nobody there who can look out for me--
that’s why she left me at this rooming house.
I make bacon grease and sugar sandwiches
for breakfast and lunch...a woman makes dinner.
I don’t have to talk to anybody.
There’s a huge stack of comics to read.
I know she’ll hook the guy,
and things will be better.

prose

the meat and potatoes stuff

The Pledge
Pat Dixon
    Delta Iota Pi is not our fraternity’s real name, but during the past three years it just as well could be. Everybody on campus openly calls us the DIPs, including ourselves sometimes, and I have to admit that our last two groups of pledges brought together the biggest collection of social losers, nerds, fruit cakes, and all-around a-holes ever assembled in one frat house since this college first opened its doors sixty years ago. And, if we’re lucky, we can keep this title safely for the next three or four years.
    Like a lot of other private midwest colleges, our school has been on the brink of closing down since as far back as any of us can remember. This probably is why they began recruiting so many of us easterners who have never belonged to its founder’s faith and who never have to attend the mandatory chapel services.
    I won’t bother describing the campus or the town because I don’t want anybody to track down where we really are, but it turns out now that it’s lucky for us that they both are as sleepy-stupid as they’re sleepy-boring. My friend Tom Brown used to say, “The good news is, if the enemy ever capture these people, they’ll never get anything out of ’em.”
    The only non-brothers who ever come into our frat house now—except for Mother Wickersham, our housemother—are the fire inspectors and the dean of students, and all of them are suffering from old-timer’s disease and don’t suspect a thing. Or, rather, they probably suspect a lot of things about our majorly odd little brotherhood, but not, of course, the main thing.
    The doings that earned us the massively open contempt of our fellow students, Greeks and non-Greeks, males and (alas!) females, as well as most teachers, all administrators, and (less openly) many local merchants, are these: we have actively been recruiting our newest brothers from amongst the people that they consider the wretchedest refuse on campus. If a guy looks weak or geeky, we rush him. If he spends all his time locked inside his dorm room and is nicknamed “Portnoy,” we track him down and get him to pledge. If he has absolutely no friends, has never been on a single date in his whole life, and it seems like his parents left him here at this little college in hopes he’d never find his way back home, we beat a path to his little door and absolutely beg him on bended knees to join us.
    Not a single new jock or would-be stud or future B.M.O.C. ever gets invited to our rush parties. And no girls ever get asked up to our house—and at this point probably none of them would ever come here even if they were asked. As I say, sometimes even we call ourselves the DIPs, and the few of us who try to date usually have to drive to the city forty miles north of here where we’re not well known.
    This is my senior year, and I’ll be graduating in about four months—with high honors, to be truthful about it—if things keep going all right, that is. And I’m pleased to report that this year’s crop of pledges are the all-time dippiest bunch yet. Although the past three years have often been a real strain in many ways and I’ll be glad when I can leave here, I am pretty well pleased with what we’ve accomplished so far as a group—and I even like to take credit for at least some of the key policy decisions we’ve made. Of course, we aren’t out of the proverbial old woods yet, and probably we won’t be for at least three more years at the earliest, and of course the whole lug-nut thing can come tumbling in on us at almost any minute—possibly getting some of us sent to prison for a good chunk of time. Still, I’ve almost gotten used to living with our situation on a daily basis, and I usually don’t even worry about any aspect of it very much any more.
    This situation, as I call it, all started the night we had our last “normal” bunch of pledges here for a party. Mother Wickersham came down that night to our rec room for an hour or so to do her usual bit—smile and nod and mumble at the new guys—and we gave her some of the punch and cookies and let her see a few of the magic tricks before we helped her back to her little rooms on the first floor. Back in the old days we used to be grateful that she was mainly deaf and nearly always highly confused whenever we’d bring our dates in for the night, but now we consider her an even more valuable treasure.
    The magician we hired was the basic cause of the problem. A half dozen of the older brothers had seen him perform in a small nightclub in a city about fifty miles south of here, and he’d seemed like a really sharp guy, so they asked him if he ever did frat parties. His answer was yes, and his price was right.
    The Great Cardoza is what he called himself then, and he did a lot of those really neat looking tricks that you can see in the thick magic catalogues. For instance, he “produced” a bright red lacy bra right out of Mother W.’s sleeve and then changed it into a bright red silk scarf before she had a chance to see clearly what it was. We thought he was pretty tactful, too, like when he was blindfolded with putty covering his eyes and some idiot held up a condom and asked him to identify what it was. Cardoza just grinned a little and said, “The vibrations in my finger tips tell me that you’re holding up some type of protective equipment—yes, it protects people from all sorts of horrible, disgusting diseases as well as the consequences of indiscrete behavior,” and then he quickly answered another brother’s questions about a gold watch hanging on a gold chain while Mother W. was mumbling, “What was that? I didn’t see what he was holding up. What was it?”
    During the refreshments intermission, we let her think the show was totally over so she’d just go upstairs to bed and we could start the real fun. At the nightclub, the brothers had seen Cardoza hypnotize volunteers from the audience, and after hearing what sorts of things he could do, we all agreed that that kind of thing would make a majorly positive impression on the new group of pledges.
    After Mother W. was out of the rec room, the first thing Cardoza did was hypnotize a pledge, making him think he was as stiff as a two-by-four so he could be laid out straight across a couple of high-backed chairs with only his neck and ankles resting on the tops of them. Then he had the kid stand back up and “feel rested,” and he told him that, after he woke up and heard the words “fat chance,” he would not be able to see anybody’s clothes, his own included, until the words “slim chance” were said.
    Cardoza told the kid to wake up feeling alert and rested, thanked him, and told him to sit back down. The kid laughed as he sat down, saying, “I guess some people just can’t be hypnotized after all!” Cardoza pretended to ignore him and said to the frat bar tender, “I’d like some real German beer, but I guess there’s a fat chance I’ll be able to have any tonight.” At those words, the kid jumped up as if he’d been jabbed by a knitting needle in the butt. He held his hands over his crotch and looked at the rest of us in a highly nervous and suspicious manner—and we all just howled with laughter at him and reached our hands out towards him, poking his shoulders and arms and asking what was wrong. The kid ran over to a far corner and held a large sofa cushion in front of himself, while Cardoza made all kinds of double-entendre remarks about the “gay” time we were all going to be having. Then, as the kid edged towards the stairs with a hockey stick held up to brain anyone who touched him, Cardoza said, “Well, maybe there’s a slim chance I’ll try to hypnotize somebody else, assuming anyone is brave enough.” At that point the kid with the hockey stick relaxed, threw the cushion at one of us, and started to laugh. We all thought it was pretty funny, but at least three-forths of us were sure it had been faked—that the Great Cardoza had set it up in advance with the kid—though we still wondered how the kid could have stayed straight across those two chairs.
    Anyway, one of our pledges was a big Army vet we’d nicknamed Babe, and he was the good sport who volunteered to be next. Cardoza hypnotized him quickly and then regressed him backwards mentally to when he was fourteen. It was a gut-buster to see this six-foot-four, 260-pounder reliving his first hot date, getting all aroused and nervous at the same time. Next Cardoza regressed him to age seven, and it was also funny seeing Babe relive getting chewed out after school by his old second-grade teacher for hitting a littler kid. Well, sort of funny, until Babe started to cry and blubbered that he wouldn’t do it ever again if the teacher would please just let him go home to his aunt’s and not keep him any later. Next Cardoza told Babe that when he awoke he would be like a three-month-old baby and would act like one until Cardoza told him it was “time to rise and shine.”
    I think there was probably some sort of Catch-22 built into these instructions. Being an infant in his mind, it seems that Babe had no idea about words grown-ups can use and what they might mean. Cardoza told us later that he’d never had anything like this ever happen before—and had never heard of it happening to anyone else.
    We all had a meeting later that night and decided we would have to solve this problem ourselves. Otherwise Cardoza would most likely be arrested, and then the dean would probably take our frat charter away and maybe suspend some of us as examples to the rest of the college, or some crud like that. Then, if we ever got re-chartered, we’d have to live in one of the dorms the way a couple of other suspended frats have had to do.
    Well, since Babe was then twenty-three and he had no living relatives except his old aunt that had raised him till he left home at fifteen, we thought we’d just take a chance that nobody would come looking for him. After a week we sent some typed post cards to his teachers and the registrar saying that he was going to be living in a commune in Colorado and wanted to withdraw from college, at least for a while. Two of the frat brothers drove west for about eight hours and mailed the cards from some place called Goodland, Kansas.
    The rest of us got to work meanwhile down in the basement and partitioned off and sound-proofed a narrow secret little bedroom as best we could. We even have some trick paneling over its door. Around this same time, Cardoza spent three weeks putting out discreet questions to other hypnotists to try to figure out what might help. And during the first four months Cardoza came down here about fifteen times to try to re-hypnotize Babe—but he had no luck. Then, sad to say, Cardoza got himself creamed by some New Yorkers on the interstate and was totaled from the waist down. So after that we were on our own.
    Anyhow, we have been taking turns playing with and cleaning up after our twenty-six-year-old, six-foot-four infant who eats like an elephant and poops like a bull moose. Or vice versa. Our master plan is to keep this up until Babe reaches age six or seven inside his head again, and then, hopefully, we’ll get him re-hypnotized and brought back to adulthood. Of course he’ll be instructed to forget all about staying in our frat house basement for all those years. He’ll probably be told to remember hitting his head while living in Colorado, or something like that. If Cardoza is still alive then, maybe we’ll take ol’ Babe in a van up to his house to do it. If we can’t do it that way, one of us will just have to take a shot at hypnotizing him ourselves here. Lord knows, we’ll have plenty of time to learn how.
    Till then, our frat will keep pledging the geekiest social misfits in the college every year. Mainly, we’ve found that they’re a kind of double protection for our problem child. And they can also understand why that is so and can then even feel proud of their special value in this unique situation. Not only are they loyal and trustworthy out of a warped g.d. kind of gratitude that somebody would want them to join a group—they also just naturally help to keep most other people from wanting to come near our frat house. Right?
    I’ll admit that at first it was hard for me—a B.M.O.C. wannabe—to get used to some of “them,” and I was more than a little worried at first about our frat’s deteriorating status in general and my own personal reputation in particular. Mother W. made it clear that she was also bent quite massively out of shape about most of our pledge choices, and even now she keeps to her rooms most of the time and mumbles a lot more than she ever used to about how she’d like to quit. Still, she manages to find a few of these new guys each year who activate her old dried-up maternal instinct in some little way or other. And the one really weird thing is that scholastically we’ve become the top frat in the whole college—which further helps to keep us ostracized.
    Assuming that we do succeed—mainly due, of course, to my unknown future brothers who right this very moment are being treated like infected leper crap in their high school classrooms and just about everywhere else—it will be interesting to see where we go from there as a fraternity. My own belief is that our redirected brotherhood will have enough momentum and esprit de corps by that time to keep itself going with the same selection criteria we’ve had to adopt for this special period of emergency. I know we’d never write these criteria into the by-laws, and our name will never officially be changed to Delta Iota Pi—but even if these things did happen, I’d still be proud to come back here for my fifth, tenth, and twentieth reunions to meet the old-timers and to get to know the current crop of DIPs. From my personal experience over the past three years, I’ve found that they usually have a lot more inside of them than most of the popular pretty people I’ve met.

For God and Country, art by Aaron Wilder

The Favor
Edward C. Burton
    Your name is Kate, Katherine if you want to be formal, but your closest friends call you Kat. You aren’t doing so bad six years in the Big Apple and you are still a file clerk albeit in one of the megapublishing houses on fortyfifth street. You could be doing worse.
    There is one thing missing, though. You’ve had a few opportunities in your young life, but something has always happened to screw it up. Charles was nice and wealthy. Gray hair on a man’s temples really did give him character. His designer power suits and high dollar expense accounts manifested his affluence. He would fly up at least once a month, and the two of you would spend ecstatic weekends together. He even offered to move you to a nicer apartment. Then you found out that he was married.
    Michael had been nice too. At least he had started out that way. He was the epitome of youth, as impulsive and capricious as an hyperactive kid. Then the relationship began to take root. The more deeply seeded it became, the more aloof Michael became. Hanging out with his friends began taking first place over hang-ing out with you. When he was around, he lost his impulsiveness, and he became as spontaneous as a street corner mailbox. He began bragging so much about being a man that you knew he never could truly be one. You left him.
    And now here you are. Some girl just fumbled her cocaine vial into the sink next to you as you are trying to ruffle your perm after the wind has had its way with it. You watch the girl scramble for the coke with terrified eyes. The water wasn’t running; she didn’t lose any save for the minuscule grains that mingled with the standing drips in the bottom of the basin encircling the drain. The still water dissolved them up with its own greed. You hear the girl swear, and you wonder why this place doesn’t have a restroom security person, it is a fancy enough place. Supposed to be anyway.
    You take your eyes off of yourself in the mirror and look past your own shoulder. The restroom is filled with confused girls void of a sense of direction. Girls like yourself? You certainly hope not. That is why there is not restroom security. None would fit in this place.
    You elbow your way through the cigarette smoke and the crowd of women who are far too tarnished and defiled to be considered debutantes. These are the girls who killed the word. It takes a whole minute to move twenty feet to the door. You hope you won’t have to come back for a pee later on.
    Through the door you step into a world of blackness pierced with colored strobe lights and tiny pastel beams aimed at multisided geometric orbs suspended from the ceiling over the not big enough dance floor. Some new wave techno sounding song is blaring over the club’s stereo system piloted by two guys in a tiny booth built into the wall and positioned slightly above the level of the dance floor. The dance floor hosts an array of people. Handsome couples move in bizarre and unsynchronized movements as they try to animate themselves to the music beat. A single beam of light occasionally hovers above a good looking man or a girl with a face much prettier than yours. You move around to the side of the dance floor and hope that you aren’t asked to dance. You hate this song. The crowd here is not half as bad as the one in the small restroom, but it still takes time to make your way to the bar.
    The bar is more civilized, slightly. At least there is a steady supply of light, soft and almost warm. Though his baggy white shirt and black vest would look better on a circus clown, one of the bartenders catches your eye. His light face framed by a close cut red beard and a clean haircut give off the impression of a man who is reserved. He is a flurry of action, mixing drinks and setting them atop serving trays. You imagine a rainy night and your car breaking down. This man would stop to offer you a ride, and you wouldn’t hesitate to climb into his car. You snap back into reality, it could never happen. This is New York City; you don’t have a car.
    You order a sloe gin fizz from a different bartender, one who happens to be closer to the seat you chose. The bartender looks too young. He has a high school face, and he takes your order and fills it with a mechanical, almost shaky, unsure way. He takes your money without looking at you, and it appears that he said thank you to the countertop. You can’t keep your eyes from his tip jar which would be empty except for three quarters. You grin to yourself. You can see bills crumpled into the other bartender’s jar from your seat.
    You take the skinny plastic straw supplied with your drink and stab at the red syrupy liquid a few times before taking a sip of it. It is sweet and cold. It reminds you of the KoolAid that you used to drink as a kid. You feel like swiveling around your barstool and checking out the dance floor from the safety of the bar, but it is not a stool you are sitting on. It is a fancy tall wooden chair with a slight back to it. So you turn sideways so you can observe the dance floor.
    You see a trio of guys sitting together at a table on the side. They have short hair, military you suppose. On the outskirts of the dance floor you see a few girls enviously watching the floor. Some of them are smoking and tapping the top of the small counter that winds its way around the perimeter of the dance area. You wonder why the three guys don’t approach these women and ask them to dance.
    You move to the front of your seat again to get a sip of your mixed drink. As you turn to face the front you see that someone has taken the chair next to you. A man, tall, not handsome, but something striking about his English chin and grave face. He is staring into a freshly drawn draft beer before him. You take a chance and observe more closely in hopes that he won’t catch you looking. No ring.
    The peculiar thing about him is the way he carries himself. He has a faraway look. You find it easy to discern that he is in the club in body, but his mind is miles away. You decide to be a little crazy, leaning toward him and cupping your hand to the side of your mouth so your words will cut through the dance music. “That music really helps a person’s thinking doesn’t it?”
    The man doesn’t seem to notice the question, not at first. He slowly turns his face to meet yours and a deep passing shadow obscures parts of his face momentarily giving him the appearance of a fleshed out skull with no eyes. You feel a cold chill and wish you had never got his attention. He leans toward you, “I beg your pardon?” he asks.
    “Um. . . I said that the loud music is conducive to thinking, huh? But I meant the opposite, see, actually I think this would be the worst place in the world to think.” A chagrining smile is stuck on your face like a Halloween mask.
    The man offers a closedlipped smile, and you see his head move as if he chuckled to where you couldn’t hear it. “I can think of worse places,” he says before proffering a big, clean white hand. “I’m William.”
    You reach out and accept his big hand. You can tell by the feel of it that it contains great strength. You give the man your name, and you go on to tell him that this is your first time in this place. He slides his chair over to where it is much closer to yours, then he tells you the same, that he just happened to be walking by and stepped inside to see what the place was about.
     He runs his index finger around the top of his beer glass and asks you, “So, Katherine, what is it that you do for a livelihood?” With that question you notice his British accent.
    You pick up your drink then set it down again. You tell him what publishing house you work for, not explaining that your exact job title is file clerk. He doesn’t seem impressed. You ascribe it to his being a foreigner and possibly not being in the know to such American things. You ask him what he does.
    He chuckles. “I’m not employed. No need. I’m financially independent.”
    You hope he doesn’t see your jaw drop. “Really?” Your eyes widen. “Must be truly nice,” you say as you nod your head.
    He smiles and says nothing. Then a girl comes up from behind and hollers in your ear, “Is he with you?” You glare at her wondering where she got such nerve. All you can do is shrug your shoulders, look at the man quickly, and shake your head. The girl, wearing a short sheen green dress darts over to the man and casually places her arm around his neck. You don’t know what she asks him, but he looks at you embarrassingly and question-ingly at the same time. Then he turns to the girl and loudly says, “But I don’t dance.”
    The girl refuses to take that for an answer. She starts tugging on the man’s shirt sleeve like a puppy dog. “Okay, okay,” the man laughs. He looks your way in one of those “let-me-succumb-toherfornowbutI’llberightback” looks. He gets up from his chair and follows the girl to the dance floor.
    As you see him walk, you notice that he is taller than you thought. Well over six feet. His dark slacks and white dress shirt aren’t exactly designer material, but they become the man nicely. And as for the man himself, his collar length, gelfree hair, and his white untanned skin give you the impression that he isn’t into fashions. Perhaps that is just what adds to his mystique. You watch him dance, he seems to be able to hold his own. His partner in her green dress calls a lot of attention to herself, throwing her long hair around and rotating her feminine curves entrapped in the tightfitting dress that encases them. The man slightly turns away from the girl and stares down toward the floor. You can see that he has detached himself from the girl, and she is too much into herself to notice. You are glad.
    Mercifully, the current song ends, and the man walks briskly off of the dance floor. He turns to blow a quick kiss to his dance partner. She ignores him, looking at the disc jockey booth as if to coerce them into starting the next song by her mere presence.
    “I’m sorry about that,” the man tells you.
    “Oh, don’t be. There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you return, touching his wrist to reiterate your sincerity. “You better drink your beer; it’s going to get warm,” you say after having noticed while he was dancing that he hadn’t touched it.
    “That’s okay, I’m not much of a beer man anyway,” he answers. He picks up his coat and moves closer to you almost touching your ears with his lips. “I’d like to suggest that we go elsewhere where we can talk and not be distracted.”
    You love his British accent. Woman in green, eat your heart out! You nod your head and scoop up your own jacket. He pulls your seat away from the bar in a genteel manner. You bow your head in gratitude. And even though you conduct yourself like a real lady as you walk around the side of the dance floor making your way to the exit, you can’t help scouting around with your eyes for the girl in the green dress. You get to the door without seeing her, too bad.
    The man opens the door for you, and the night air is biting. The man wraps one of his slender long arms around you. Under any other circumstances you would consider this being a bit too forward. Considering this particular man, however, and the cold night, you silently acquise.
    The two of you step off of the main street and go under the archway of a small park. The man leads you along the way through a gentle twisting ancient sidewalk. A faint mist rolls under-foot. An appearance by Lon Chaney’s Wolfman would make the scene complete. You snuggle just a bit closer to the man. A jogger runs by. Her loudly colored outfit seems to shout out in the night. For the second or two it takes her to run by you can hear music blasting minutely from her radio headphones. You think she is crazy for running through the park this late at night by herself. You look back to watch her disappear into the mist. You hear a distant dog bellow, and the hair on your neck stiffens.
    Without a word the man directs the two of you through the park and onto an adjoining street filled with older houses. He stops at one of the two storey houses, a dingy gray one with rotted wood siding and a look like it has been vacated for at least the last two hundred years or so. He opens the creaking front door and a dim hallway light illuminates a stairway leading directly up a flight of stairs. The faded red wine carpet that dons its steps stinks of age. You follow the man’s lead up the steps. You feel compelled to tiptoe though you don’t know why. The stairs still creak in protest to your soft steps.
    At the top of the stairs the man produces a key and uses it to access a badly tarnished door. He opens it and steps to the side to allow you to enter first. You step inside with a bit of reservation. You can see by the scant light of the hallway that the man is smiling reassuringly. Perhaps you are a fool, but you trust him.
    He steps in behind you and turns on a light. You are taken aback by the fact that the upstairs apartment has no furniture. You wheel around to find the man still smiling. He nods and closes his eyes. “You think I’m strange, right? I have no need for furniture.” He directs you to the kitchen where he says he will get you something to drink. You walk behind him to the kitchen, ignoring the little voice inside you telling you that you must leave.
    The kitchen is as bare as the rest of the apartment save for an old Frigidaire refrigerator that looks like a prop from some fifties movie. He makes his way to a cupboard and pulls out an expensive looking wine. He pours you a glass, and you feel something comforting in the sound of the pouring liquid. You aren’t a wine connoisseur, but it doesn’t take an expert to know that the wine wasn’t purchased at a corner liquour store.
    You question the man as to why he doesn’t pour himself a glass, and he tells you that he isn’t thirsty. You smile regardless whether or not he meant it as a joke. He offers you a seat on a huge exquisite rug on the floor of what would be considered the living room. You take a seat, and the man descends to sit a space away from you. Then he begins to talk about himself.
    “I first arrived in your country in 1865.” He looks at you to assess your disbelief.
    You merely stare at him and savor your wine. Your simple stare reveals your disbelief.
    “Do you have a compact mirror in your purse?” he asks you.
    You nod and reach slowly for your purse as you wonder what in the world he wants with your compact mirror. Then you know, you’ve seen too many movies.
    He takes the compact and first holds it open on you. Your own eyes stare back at you from your reflection. “You are quite attractive,” the man says. “Now look, and don’t be frightened.” He extends the mirror out and points it downward to where the whole of his presence should saturate its glass surface. The mirror does not pick him up at all. He holds it against his face and moves it to where you can plainly see. The man’s reflection simply does not exist.
    A silent scream tries to tear from your mouth. You topple your glass of wine, and you start to make a dash for the door.
    “Wait!” the man commands.
    You freeze in your tracks. You have no choice. Your mind plays out your obituary already. You envision the shock on your parents’ faces when they get the news.
    “I told you not to be frightened. You will not be harmed,” he says. You don’t know where it stems from, but there is something strangely consoling in the man’s voice. “Please, sit. I wasn’t finished. I have more to tell you.”
    You sit.
    The man looks at you in an attempt to patronize your show of concern. He hands your compact mirror back to you. “I came to this country a very young man. Wanderlust, I suppose you could call it. See, I loved a girl once. She contracted pneumonia and died, and I thought I could never love anybody again. But working in London, I eventually met someone else I thought I could love as much. As time went on, I saw someone else. I began to realize that a man could have more than one real love in a single lifetime.
    “I wanted more than my seventy years. There were so many women to be loved. So many women. . . and so few years.”
    You continue to listen with a mix of sympathy and horror.
    “I began studying the black arts. Anything to gain power, to perpetuate my own life. I wanted anything to be able to madly love beautiful women for centuries on end. I was eventually able to come into being one of the undead.” He pauses, and you lean forward almost abetting the words from his mouth. “I became one of the undead to find that I no longer had the capacity to love. You see, vampires cannot love. It is impossible.” The man looks down at the wooden floor then up again into your eyes. “I have lived with this curse long enough.” He rises from his seat and goes to a closet. He returns with a wooden mallet and what looks like a freshly made wooden stake.
    Just like in the movies, your little voice says.
    “I brought you here so you could destroy me,” the man says as he sticks the mallet out toward you.
    “Destroy you?” you echo. Shaking your head, you slowly rise from your own seat on the floor.
    The man’s face bears a look of seriousness. “You must. I’m not joking. I sought you out specially for this.”
    “No,” you dissent. On the verge of panic, adrenaline is pumping itself into your brain; you are sharp. “I just happened to be the first person you saw in that club.”
    The man shakes his head. “It has taken me whole lifetimes to perfect, but I’ve developed a rather keen judge of character. I knew what I was doing when I set eyes on you.”
    “Why don’t you just pull the curtains when the sun comes up?” you ask the man.
    A mock smile creases his thin lips. “Now, there is nothing romantic about dispatching one’s life in such a manner as that, now is there?”
    “Why don’t you get someone else?” You are surprised at the mounting hysteria in your voice. You thought you had more control over your emotions.
    Now the man chuckles, “No, only you, Katherine.”
    You bolt like a cornered wild animal. You run to the door and weep tears of joy when you find it unlocked. You subconsciously pat your purse which you’ve managed to scoop up in your fleeting. You hear the man giving chase. You unconsciously lean forward as you fly down the old staircase causing your upper body to be ahead of your legs. You have to clutch the stair rail to keep from falling down. You don’t want to look back because you know the man will be upon you.
    “Katherine!”
    His voice wants to rupture your eardrums. You can feel his icy presence on the back of your neck. You grab the tarnished door handle that separates you from the outside. You twist it knowing that if it doesn’t give, your heart is going to beat itself out of the top of your head. It gives. You throw the door open and dart out of the decrepit house. “I won’t forget this; you know my secret!” he says bold and strong.
    The sunlight is blinding. You scream out like a regal horn trumpeting in the new morning as you run as fast as your legs will carry you. When you are far enough away you look back at the old house along with the other older houses next to and across the street from it. You notice that the door on the old house was closed behind you.
    You face the front and continue onward until your own tears blur the way. You have to slow to a walk to wipe your eyes and get your breath which has betrayed you and departed like a once trusted friend.
    As you step onboard an early morning subway you wonder what time the bus station opens. You will run. You will get as far away as you possibly can. And you will pray that he never finds you.

SANDERSVILLE
G.A. Scheinoha
    Somewhere there is a land of sanders. Not so much an actual geography as the territorial outlines, confines of a remote village.
    The only ones who have been there, other than the sanders are the sandees; those whose lives needed a light touch up. Something more than the emery board applied to the cuticles down at the nail salon in the mall.
    In some cases though, they might’ve taken the rubbing to new highs. . . or lows. The bottom sanders for example, lit into their jobs with such a relish, any visitors to the village had the darndest time sitting. Naturally, they had to be let go.
    The belt sanders didn’t realize they were suppose to use long paper strips covered in grit, not file away at folks’ belts. Usually while they wore them. Again, the pink slips fell.
    Fortunately, not everyone’s out of work. The rotary sanders remain busy spinning away. A bit lightheaded perhaps, but still gainfully employed.

Convicted
Damion Hamilton
    Charlie had just gotten out of jail. He had been there for twelve years. He was Twenty when he went in; now he was thirty-two. He walked the once familiar streets, as if he had just seen them for the thirst time. Though some of the businesses had changed names and changed owners, or were once knocked down, or burned down. Things were still the same for the most part. The laundry mats, the small shops, the gas stations, the restaurants were still there. But everything seemed smaller, and he was aware that he was not very young anymore, and the teenagers walking the boulevard reminded him of this fact. His build was a little stockier, his gait heavier, and faints of lines began to show on his face. Where did the time go? All that time in the pen, he was lucky to still be alive. So this was what freedom was like. He had forgotten what it had felt like. He watched the young kids walking around—they were so carefree, in their thoughts and bodies. They were young and soft: he felt the urge to want to slap a couple of them, to let them know what pain felt like it, in case they had never been introduced to it. He felt the violence increase in him. Some kid had nearly ran over his shoe on a bicycle. He wanted to run after him, grab, choke him..... But he better not do that... he had just gotten out of jail, remember. He thought that he better go into a local bar for a drink, to calm down, and to make plans for the future.
    The bar was sparsely populated, which was the way he liked all bars. He sat down near the bartender and looked up at the television without seeing anyone. The barkeep eventually came over; he smiled at him sarcastically. He ordered a screwdriver, and sipped the thing quickly, not wanted to get drunk, but due to nerves. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed someone watching him, they were also alone, or perhaps they were with someone, who went to the restroom. The kid was in his mid twenties, and had an imaginative, curious, yet someone innocent looks in his face, which made Charlie curious. He made eye contact, and the kid smiled back at them. Charlie got up, and made his way towards him, and sat down next to him.
    “My name’s Charlie, my man how are ya?”
    He stuck out his had, and shook, his arm firmly.
    “I’m pretty tired, just a little bored, I guess. Not a lot of interesting things, or people around.”
    “Shit, you can say that again. Mind if I smoke?’
    Charlie pulled out his cigarette before kid could reply.
    “I didn’t get your name my man?”
    “Name’s Tony.”
    “Well Tony, my man, I just got outta jail man. Twelve years in there. Can you imagine that? Twelve years. I’m trying to get used to this newfound freedom. I’m used to people telling me what to do all day long. This freedom stuff is hard.”
    “Twelve years? I can’t imagine doing twelve years.”
    “And you don’t want to imagine it. Trust me.”
    Charlie looked forward as if he was not seeing anything.
    “Yeah, a long time man. In jail, I didn’t want a calendar—everyday is the same day, same building, same walls same sex. Can you believe that there were no women around? Even all the guards are men. I’m not gay or anything, but being in there, something breathing starts to look in pretty good.
    “Yeah, I couldn’t take it man. But you can be prison without being in prison—that’s what people say.”
    “But shit, it’s not like actual prison. At least on the outside you can go for walk, or go to a mall or bar, ball game. But in there—you’re just there. I was twenty when I went in. Now I’m thirty-two. And it seems as if the best years of my life were stolen from me. Early twenties, mid twenties, late twenties. Look around this bar for a second. What do ya see? A bunch of people in there twenties. I’m just about the oldest guy in the bar.
    He took a long gulp out of the drink, and took a drag off his cigarette.
    “May I ask—what did you go to jail for?”
    “It was for robbery. I had a little bit of a drug problem, and made a dumb mistake of robbing a bank. Shouldn’t a did it. But when you’re young and full of fire, ya think that ya can do anything. It’s crazy.
    “Sorry about your misfortune sir, but I think that a lot of people feel as if they are in prison, and like they are being held back, as if there’s a party, going on in the world, and you are not invited to it.”
    “Yeah, you may be right. But you know the tragedy of being in prison. Is that you are not the same person, you were yesterday, as you were today. Know what I’m sayin? Like you are a different person when you are fourteen, as opposed to when you are twenty-one, and twenty-eight or forty. And a lot of my years were taken by prison.”
    “But sir, what I’m sayin is I feel like I’m in prison too. A lot of people feel this way, but I don’t let it bother me. You know what my life is like? I get up and go to work, and go home, or sometimes go to a bar. And I seem like I never have enough money to buy things that I want or need. And the love of women is beyond me. We have all these desires and wishes and hopes and they go unfulfilled. But what can you do? Where can you go? I think we watch television too much. And see all the celebrities, seemingly living the good life or see people on commercials buying things and smiling. Then we think that we are missing out on something. We see people out and we don’t know them, and they seem happier, and more successful than we are, and we feel cheated. Ya know... Like the world is a big giant party and we are not apart it.”
    “But shit, the years I can’t get back.”
    “I think that we should forget our pasts. And think about the present, and live the best way that we know how, within our means. Ya know. And don’t worry about what we don’t have.
    “Well, I guess you are right.”
    He took a final gulp of his drink.
    “Say, want another one? It’s on me.”
    Tony motioned for the bartender to come over, and asked for another screwdriver. He gave it to Charlie and drank aggressively.
    “Shit man, there are a lot of prostitutes walking around over here.”
    Tony began laughing.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Those girls are not prostitutes, most of them are college students.”
    “Dressed like that?” He said incredulously.
    “Well that’s how they dress nowadays. I guess that’s just an MTV influence.”
    “They’re not hoes?”
    “No” I guess you have been away a long time.
    “Know where I can get a hooker. A crack whore preferably.
    “Not really, things around here, are rather clean and sterile. But if you hang around long enough; I’m sure they’ll find you.
    “Thanks man. It was nice talking to you.”
    The two men continued drinking, and for duration of their stay in the neither man said another thing to the other.

    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@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.

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.

    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.

    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!!!

    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, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
    Brian B. Braddock, WrI 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 © 1993 through 2006 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.
    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 © 1993 through 2006 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 Copyright © 1993 through 2006 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.

Volume 174, July 2007

In This Issue...

the boss lady’s editorial

Global Warming: reports from Chicago to China?

looking for climate correction from at home in Chicago all the way to China

Eye on the Sky

New Horizons Sets Its Sights on Jupiter

NASA Spacecraft En Route to Pluto Prepares for Jupiter Encounter

CloseBody00, art by Melanie Monterey

poetry

the passionate stuff

Knocking on the Government’s Door

TERROR IN CYBERSPACE

THE BREAKFAST ROOM

Spinning

(history)

The Book of Job, a True History.

Ideals Lost in Sand Storms

I Followed God Down a Rabbit Hole and Got my Head Stuck

Crazy Who?

Brief

Contemplating the last regime.

Ideals Lost in Sand Storms

King of the Mountain, art by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz

Bear

STRESSED

Girl Impervious

Funny Face 1, art by Cheryl Townsend

Clowning, art by Cheryl Townsend

Funny Face 2, art by Cheryl Townsend

Walking Life and Death

Time for Some Help

prose

the meat and potatoes stuff

The Pledge

For God and Country, art by Aaron Wilder

The Favor

SANDERSVILLE

Convicted

I Followed God Down a Rabbit Hole
and Got my Head Stuck