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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. |
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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 175, August 2007
The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine
Internet ISSN 1555-1555
In This Issue...
... Starting with art by Melanie Monterey, then
The Boss Lady’s Editorial on Anna Nicole Smith
AIDSwatch with Different Ways of Stopping AIDS Globally
News You Can Use on the possibiity on Gay Rights in Congress
Poetry by Renee St. Louis, and Sarah Deckard, art by Jay Marvin, poetry by Je’free, art by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz, poetry by Mary Kolesnikova, and Mel Waldman, and Peter Martin, and Ray Karpovage, and Je’free, and Cindy Forsburg, and Paul Baker, and Graham Fulton, art by Aaron Wilder , and poetry by Anna Cates, art by David Matson , and poetry by David Lawrence, and Michael Ceraolo, and Peter Magliocco, art by Cheryl Townsend, and Kyle J. Warnica, and Eric Obame.
Prose by , and Bob Wenger, and Damion Hamilton.
(art is sprinkled throughout the issue...)
the boss lady’s editorial
Anna Nicole Smith:
the Fascination with the embodiment of all of America’s Stereotypes
You heard it on the news at great length about the passing of Anna Nicole Smith on February 8th this year. And yes, I’m sure we’d all say that she was some generic bimbo stereotype, and you don’t know why on earth I’d be talking about it. But I bring it up because even though I didn’t get Playboy (surprise surprise), and even though I don’t really remember her Guess advertisements (though I have to say that her hair and emulation of Marilyn Monroe was really phenomenal in those ads...), and even though I don’t think I saw more than a episode’s worth of the Anna Nicole Smith Show” (only long enough to see how dependent on drinking wine on television really was for the drunkard), well, even though I wasn’t really a “supporter” of her lifestyle, I was transfixed to any drive-by media news footage of news on Anna Nicole Smith’s death. And I tried to figure out why.
I heard people talk immediately after her passing about what a bubbly personality she had, and how genuine she was, and how straight-forward she was. And all I could think whenever I heard anyone talk that way, was that people will only say the nicest things after a person passes, but she was a stripper who married Texas billionaire/oil tycoon/octogenarian J. Howard Marshall and felt she had due an f-load of money when he died, who drank like a sieve and ballooned (only to get a company to pay her for advertising to lose weight).
Oh, I shouldn’t be so mean. This 39 year-old woman, who just had a baby daughter, witnessed her son’s death. I can tell you how horrendous it is to lose a parent (I wouldn’t even wish that on my worst enemy), but I can only guess that it’s exponentially worse to lose your child. And what’s even worse is that every report indicated her bond and love of her son, which was so great, and she referred to her son as “her rock.” as the only one she could talk with and the only one she could share her life with. It has to be terrifying to go through the loss of a son you are so incredibly close to.
But tie these two points together, people after her passing talked about how nice she was, then talked about the Hell she went through in losing her son shortly before her death. Tie her son’s death with the fact that she was fighting for money from her marriage, which she thought should have been hers. Tie that with the fact that she was able to balloon to a preposterous weight (I think I heard reports that she was once 220 pounds), and then lost it in such a short period of time (she lost that much weight in months, not years). She had an f-load of stressors in her life, and all of this could cave had such an extreme effect on her, Poor thing.
But I’m not the only one who has sounded mean when talking about her — I saw tabloids after her passing with headlines suggesting “Someone killed both her and her son,” magazines with “photos of her death scene.” And after her passing at least 4 or 5 men have claimed that they were the father of Anna Nicole’s baby daughter, from Howard K. Stern (who is listed as Dannielynn’s father on her birth certificate) to photographer Larry Birkhead, to ZaZa Gabor’s husband to a bodyguard of Anna Nicole’s to the Immigration officer in the Bahamas (they assume that as the father they’d stand to get a lot of Smith’s money to raise her daughter). And they argued in courts over every last detail for Smith — her estranged mother wanted to get her daughter’s body for burial in Texas, while potential fathers argued for needing DNA to prove the child’s father, all while Anna Nicole Smith decomposed in the Bahamas waiting for people to make up their minds. And the sad thing is that smith didn’t even have an updated will — her will (which the mother argued was invalid because it was never filed in court) stated that everything of her’s was to go to her son Danny, who died right around the time Dannielynn was born, months before Smith died.
Even after her passing, people drew the comparison between her and Marilyn Monroe (you know, they even had the same hair style for a bit, and they both had an untimely death at an earlier age...), but anyone with any knowledge will remember that the type known to court Marilyn Monroe were well-known playwrights (like Arthur Miller, who married her), versus Smith’s choice an aged tycoon who was close to death to marry. Marilyn Monroe is still considered an icon; Smith, like the commonality of her last name, will be forgotten with the next big entertainment story.
Speaking of the commonality of her last name, consider that Anna Nicole “Smith” isn’t even really her real name. I mean, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with the most-common-name-in-the-United-States ‘Smith,’ but when I heard that this wasn’t even her real name, I wondered how awful was her last name had to originally be, to decide to change it to Smith? But when I heard the name Smith, I thought that in a way, she strove for being generic.
Wait, that sounds rude again. Let me rephrase that: she was striving to be the generic icon.
What the Hell does that mean? Well, think of the name, it’s not something anyone would be offended by... Think of her breast implants — they’re almost comically huge and can look offensive, but most men would disagree with calling them “comically” anything, or calling them offensive (they don’t mind the pain women go through to please them... and trust me, breast implants that large are painful) Think of her blonde hair (I’m positive that every strange of hair on her head isn’t her natural hair color). Think of her gaudy excesses, from her money, to her excess in breast size, to her excesses in drinking wine at every opportunity on her reality television show, to the fact that if she ever attended any Hollywood function, the largest entourage of dressers and stylists and guards had to accompany her. And in some ways, all of these things make her look like the generic icon.
And I wondered why I was fascinated with watching the news to learn about Anna Nicole Smith’s passing. Well, maybe because she’s that generic icon who seemed to stumble into more accomplishment than she worked for, and maybe she was not the smartest thing and she was able to reap these successes. She was able to grab a big piece of that American Pie that we all want a larger slice of, so... So I don’t know why learning about her death was fascinating, but it was. In that gory, simple way, it was.
Tunku Varadiarajan even wrote in the Wall Street Journal (02/13/07) even wrote that in her pursuit of wealth, in her fight with the family of her dead husband for money, she was also looking for “validation in litigation” — which is probably something we all want, wanting to feel better simply because we have more money. Anna Nicole Smith only took the excesses of a lot of things that a lot of us in part want, and took them to such a radical extremes that it may have led to her death. She supersized everything in her life, and by seeing her recovery from her crash and burn in the 90s to a way to generically display her faults in her reality television show, she somehow became, in some respects in America’s eyes, larger than life.
And the additional draw of her was that she was so accessible — the media wanted to know about her, and she even displayed herself in her television show. She broadcast her weight loss by getting paid for showing herself off with TrimSpa. Any news reports on the money she would get after her husband’s death was covered in the news. The birth of her daughter and the death of her son — especially when they happened in the Bahamas — were really covered in the news.
So yeah, she was in your face, whether you wanted it or not. But a lot of people were allowed to be voyeurs, and if that didn’t apply to people, then reality television show wouldn’t be so popular. People wanted to see her, maybe because they wanted to see when she would self-destruct. Because even if she had a lot of demons in her past, and compounded on the baggage she carried for altering her persona (she wanted to appear like Marilyn Monroe, and people are silly enough to associate her with Monroe now after her death). It doesn’t matter if she chose to highlight her blonde hair or have huge breast implants, it’s still baggage to your psyche, trust me, and she carried the baggage of losing her son after losing a husband whose death kept her fighting in trials for what she thought was here. She may have had an beaming smile on the outside at all times, but models and dancers learn how to put on the right faces to make everyone smile. If you dug under her surface to see what she was really like, you might not have found anything — literally. It’s not nice to speak poorly of the dead, but this generic icon was literally that — all of the glitz and glam, all the fame and fortune, but no substance. And like a good actress, she spouted her lines on cue and gave the right smile to please everyone... Possibly everyone except herself.
The 24-hour media allowed us to be voyeurs, and we watched fiascos like her estranged mother wanting to move Anna Nicole’s body for burial in Texas, even though Anna Nicole had her son buried in the Bahamas and specifically said that she wanted to be buried with her son (I think she even bought plots for the both of them when her son died). So we’ve been forces to be bystanders in this hillbilly feud when one dead girl managed to stumble into a lot of money before her death. And as I said before, Anna Nicole Smith, like the commonality of her last name, will be forgotten with the next big entertainment story. And lucky us: less than two weeks after Anna Nicole Smith’s passing, Britney Spears (huge pop icon who married one of her dancers after a 50 hour Las Vegas wedding to a high school sweetheart, and even had a stupid reality show like Anna Nicole Smith...) shaved her head and had two tattoos.
See, I told you, there will always be someone to steal the spotlight from any insane Hollywood story...
This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Janet Kuypers
Editor In Chief
AIDSwatch
Different Ways of Stopping AIDS
Medications for Herpes, circumcisions helpful for third world countries
An AP article published in the Naples Daily News (02/22/07) outlines that for people in poor countries (where people can’t afford AIDS medications) and because of the stigma of having AIDS, researchers have looked for innovative ways to at least stop the spread of AIDS. Out of 40,000 new infections of HIV annually (along with 4.3 million new cases), and previous studies have shown that herpes infections in patients (on average) triple a person’s chances of getting HIV from someone, and it can also make AIDS three times more “spreadable” from an infected person to another (because herpes sores on the genitals can easily become infected, allowing for an easy transmission of HIV from one person to another).
Because many people who have AIDs (who are contracted with HIV) also are infected with the herpes type 2 virus, the latest study conducted in Africa (and published in the New England Journal of Medicine 02/22/07) found that “women who too the herpes drug valacyclovic has less HIV in their blood and in their genital secretions.”
From this study, there is no correlation made between whether or not this drug (from GlaxoSmithKline PLC) actually reduces the transmission of the AIDS virus. But there is a direct correlation with the amount of the virus someone has in their system and their ability to transmit that virus to other people. Alicia Chang reported in the AP article, “Researchers recently found that circumcisions lowers the risk of spreading HIV, and they hope the same will prove true of treating herpes.”
The study did not receive grants from Glaxo to come to these conclusions (and a larger study was funded by the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation); this “study involved researchers from France, England and Burkina Faso” (Burkina Faso is the town in Africa where the study took place), and it was funded by the French national AIDS research foundation, ANRS.
Dr. Laverne Corey (a leading researcher at the University of Washington) said “it does open some potential avenues to slowing down the AIDS epidemic.”
The study results shows that the AIDS virus was reduced in the body from 20,000 virus copies in the system to 8,000, which is markedly lower, and helps to stop the transmission of HIV from one person to another.
News You Can Use
Gay Rights in congress?
Janert Kuypers, reporter and commentatorDaily News (02/25/07), this Congress may be the first to pass major federal gay rights bills.
People on both sides of the political fence believe at least two bills will pass: one if a hate-crime bill that would incorporate an anti-gay bias in hate crimes, and the other that would outlaw workplace discrimination (because of sexual orientation).
Though these two bills may stand a good chance of passing, people feel that there is still to much opposition to removing the “don’t ask, don’t tell” military policies that still otherwise ban gay and lesbians from any branch of the militaty.
If any of these are passed, they would then move to the White House for approval, and if they do pass, I look forward to seeing what President Bush will do when these bills come to his office.
Body 22, art by Melanie Monterey
poetry
the passionate stuff
Vickie Lynn / Anna Nicole
Renee St. Louis
In death, she is seen
everywhere, every picture
strangely damning,
as if excess of image destined
her to expire. Each photo reeks
of exploitation, denied depth
at every turn even now. Playmate
pictorials and tabloid tearjerkers
aren’t made to last and perhaps
that is the real and lasting
tragedy of this story. Painting
herself in images of another,
also not long for this life,
pretty girl becomes iconic pose,
bombshell, quaking in the
aftermath of her own abjected
neutron - object power.
She accomplishes nothing,
sees nothing, processes nothing
beyond the yearning, always, for more
love, sex, pictures, desires,
food, friends, dreams, hope.
Forty years of feminism fuels
four extra years of feminine wiles--
freedom apparently means losing
weight, sleep, and self, but making
it almost to forty.
Who would be so damned
dumb, wanting to live as the dead,
sculpting self to emerge as
butterfly, but one already pinned?
Marilyn too died drunk, drugged,
dragged through the wreck of heroic
whoredom. Accidental fulfillment
of prophesy put two women
lacking in irony, but alike in
shame, in the hands of the same petty
pimp who would make a fortune
selling her sex and denying her soul.
Somehow, we are meant to be comforted
by the claim that while one was tragic,
a lost and broken dreaming doll possessed
by none but loved by many, Vickie
was nothing more than tissue,
window dressing surrounding the empty
box that was her only
gift.
Superficial
Sarah Deckard
All my life they taught me to be superficial,
to speak of the weather and traveling conditions,
and to inquire about their health,
They told me to be interested in shopping and clothes,
and spend my time trying to catch a man,
They instructed me to comment on the latest news,
to agree with popular opinion, and avoid confrontation,
They taught me to share my latest worldly achievements,
but to do so with modesty,
They reminded me to compliment and complement,
and of course, to always be congenial and polite.
And all the while passion was searing my soul,
I wanted to scream my true feelings,
and speak of how shallow and blind they all were,
I sought to chide them for their petty concerns,
I wished to cry out “Break free of convention!”
to shout that they did not have to conform,
I desired to tell them not to dwell on the corporal world,
and seek the liberation of their souls,
I longed to be free of society,
I yearned for a place to belong,
I was interested in Knowledge and seeking the ultimate Truth,
I wanted to inquire the meaning of life and find the path to enlightenment,
I sought to discover myself,
to unravel the paradoxes of life, and learn of new dimensions,
I craved to bare my wounded spirit,
to share my shattered ideals and tattered dreams,
to confess how empty and pointless all life seemed,
I burned to ask for succour because I felt so lost,
to beg someone to really listen,
to ask if anyone could really understand me,
But I never did,
I shut my mouth and let my heart smolder on in silence,
my mind grapple alone,
my soul wander on weary and scarred,
because I didn’t want to burst the bubble of their frivolous thoughts,
to pierce the shallow veil around their paper doll lives,
and let harsh reality seep in to taint their ordered world . . . .
After all, being outspoken is not socially acceptable,
and real honesty isn’t polite.
Tax Cuts, painting by Jay Marvin
To an Impassive Love
Je’free
I hear a lower sound than silence
that echoes a void reply
to the calls of my desire
I lay wide open as a thirsty ground
waiting for a drop of affection
from the heavens above
I yearn to sail inside your heart;
Learn more than vessels & arteries;
Feel emotions within your skin
I crave to ascertain that you long
to unfold the future with me,
not let love wilt to ashes in the wind
Considering, artt by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz
HEARTS
Mary Kolesnikova
A diamond-grey snake, anxiety coils around my chest and
I can feel my heart beating, beating and lurching
occasionally like a slipped gear.
To think that I am made of such machinery, that one
beat off or one too many
will end it for me; all this and I cannot breathe when
I can hear my heart.
Imagine. Inside me there is a muscle that must keep
squeezing every second,
standing between me and death.
ONE DARK, CUTTING MOMENT
Mel Waldman
I’m just one dark, cutting moment away from insanity,
one breathless second from brutality,
a burgeoning beast
at one invisible point of demarcation,
separating
good
&
evil,
when the Devil calls, wearing the mask of righteous rage
& I succumb or saunter off,
a weary traveler in the
eternal labyrinth,
stumbling upon safety,
a rock of inaction,
while my twin donates his soul for the mere illusion of
omnipotence,
swallowing the transient power of rage,
& rushing through the Waste Land like a mad bull in heat,
heading toward a
black hole
that will devour his flesh,
feasting upon his hubris,
in one dark, cutting moment from which there is no return
Two Uses for Alka-Seltzer Bottles
Peter Martin
Alka-Seltzer used to come in
long thick glass bottles
like test tubes with flat bottoms.
Tablets the size of fat quarters
went plop, plop, fizz, fizz
oh what a relief it is
in glasses of water
downed quickly for sour stomach
or hangovers. Drinking undissolved
chunks was common.
One summer in Mishicot
I watched my cousin Billy
use an empty Alka-Seltzer bottle
on his girlfriend who giggled
that it was cold.
We were fifteen and playing
improvisational games.
The summer before I started college
I worked at Monarch Range Co.
where I saw an Alka-Seltzer bottle
used for a different purpose.
My foreman had taken me
to the first aid station
to treat a sheet metal cut
on my wrist.
As he rummaged through
a medicine cabinet, he pulled out
an Alka-Seltzer bottle
to show me souvenirs
collected at the plant
and kept in formaldehyde.
I held the bottle to the light
and stared at severed fingers,
fingertips and a single thumb.
There was grime under
the fingernails, and black grease
stained the shriveled skin.
Shears, brakes and presses
had cut the pieces clean,
like meat ends in a butcher’s deli.
The formaldehyde swirled
when I shook the bottle
and the fingers moved
as if waving.
I went carefully back to work,
thinking about how successful I would be
at my studies in the fall.
A Mudpuddle Faced Gurgling
Ray Karpovage
She says she likes the smell of rain
the way it pounds against the thirst
chasing dust up from the earth. I tell her
what she’s smelling is dirt. She shrugs
her shoulders and says “Well then
I guess I like the smell of dirt.”
When she was little she would splash
through puddles in new school shoes
and look up as the downpour
slicked her hair black and straight.
She got what she wished for today
and then some. It rained till dams
stretched, cracked and flooded
oily roads. Ran mud like freight
trains through houses with white water
brown. And left only family portraits
hanging crooked on lonely, splattered walls.
Her wishing filled arroyos,
washing graves with gravel that
flooded cemeteries with unwanted life
bypassing eternal snooze and accidentally
waking the should’ve been dead.
Her prayers came true today
and I tried to warn her, A FEMA
check only goes so far. And the sky,
it can be an ugly thing when egged on.
She sits now, looking out on what
used to be her front yard
slapping at mosquitoes and breathing in
that rotten taste of dirt and rain.
Immature
Je’free
Kick off our boots here;
But here, where we lay our hats
isn’t necessarily home,
for we take 1 step up the stairs,
then take 2 steps down,
each time we speak in riddles
like tangled threads crawling our heads
Lately, I touch you, and you shy away
like a snail into its shell,
inept to let your armor fall down
in a pile at your feet
Where will you hide next
when your mask is gone?
You blur & stir truth & lies,
as I’m blinded by 50 thousand tears,
needing you to kill the pain
like a tourniquet
We have become stones
in each other’s shoe,
unabling us to cradle one another
when unfixed hinges give in,
and walls tumble down
Why can I not melt in you arms,
and vanish as the night falls anymore?
You can not even look in my eyes
like open doors down to my core,
unlike before
Maybe, I should see you
when you turn 40,
when our broken wings & halos
have repaired from this blizzard,
and the hole in your pocket is sewn,
enabling you not to drop,
but keep, the love I give
WALK IN LIGHT
Cindy Forsburg
Sometimes I feel as if
I am walking through the world alone,
singing the songs I have taught myself.
Away from the kindred circle,
I carry the past and the future
on my own.
Won’t you
wrap me up in days of light.
Set my feet on ancient streets
where I feel the cool steps of my ancestors.
Show me the stars that are in my blood.
Make a place for me around the fire—
tell me your old stories
so I know how to belong.
Joy Division
Graham Fulton
In the German History part of the store,
peeping between the bestselling tomes
on Adolf’s wife and final weeks,
The Beginner’s Guide to Cunnilingus.
Everything you could need to know:
minora, majora. I push it away,
fight to recall the reason I’m here:
hate on a worldcracking scale, fear.
V2 rockets, life’s too short.
What is a clitoris? Where to find it.
Strength through joy, death is a bore.
Advanced techniques, flanking the spot.
I keep diving back for one more glance.
Picture the heart of the girl, I assume,
who hid it there to enlighten my day.
Make love, not war, if you get the chance.
Squeeze it until it complains.
Paul Baker
She does not like bugs.
My trap will bend your hairs.
To slay an ice cube, you inhale.
Creeping along the surf is becoming ant.
My only regret is the spinning wheel.
Paper-thin dinosaurs become heavily talkative.
Bore a column thru stained-glass windows.
Becoming purple. Cold teeth. Glistening milk.
Emotions overload whelming a bored vertical.
Swirling Mexopotamia proffers berets.
Oozing green mixes religions but not faiths.
Compact pages are fewer than 85 degrees.
Recline a mutilation and receive a cream pie.
His riches amaze me but disappoint.
Brown eyes in sockets replaced my manifesto.
Philosophical eateries bent a strand for sun.
Downhill skiers reduce inflammation.
EverGreed, art by Aaron Wilder
AMERICA
Anna Cates
David Lee Roth once said
drinking a cup of toe nail clippings
you think is cold Coke is distasteful.
So too is finding a DoMe
in a woman you supposed a generative feminist.
But the DoYou’s pick-up line is different:
“You’re religious right.”
She tells you that she’s ugly.
She points her finger to her chest.
She drives you across town.
She drives herself.
Be careful how you tell her no.
She left the bedroom door wide open.
She sighed to her son in bed,
“Oh, you’re so much better-looking than your father,”
to spite his incest with their daughter.
She thought she’d get him back
in America—
home of the broken pillar
home of the broken dick
land of tobacco and corn.
Spring, 2006,
in the year of our Lord
Jesus Christ, King of kings
a Florida woman is arrested.
Her crime? She laid a stillborn child.
Sirens howl. Police cars
arrive in a Vegas of lights.
Somebody watches from the window
in America—
land of the Quaker in makeup—
In America
home of the broken dream
of the miscarried embryo’s $10,000 funeral.
In America
grotesque caricatures huddle
under steeples like dunce caps
and burble prayers like frogs.
In America
under the dunce cap
they boast they bred like dogs—
two nothing-but-worms intertwining.
Shine the spotlight.
In America
under the dunce cap
the rotted corpus remains within—
In America
where an Adam—
all mud and ribs—
had his dick broken by an angry wife.
In America
under God
sometimes a dick gets busted.
In America
an old Quakeress warned,
“If you open your mouth too wide
you’ll never shut it again.”
Shine the dental light—
In America
where the victimarchist batters her broken arm
where Walt Whitman sprawled out—naked—
upon the grass
where Jews await the Christ
and scientists the next mutation
where George Washington Carver ground nuts
where lightning struck and shattered a dead tree.
In America
the Holy Roller says F.R.O.G.
stands for “fully reliant on God.”
His Harley’s bumper sticker bears a cross.
His leather jacket’s button reads,
“Jehovah Jirah, My Provider”
in America
home of seven fattened cows—
hens with tongues—
In America
where the Church landed to escape the Church
where the Church persecuted the Church
where Puritan expelled Quaker
where freedom equals diversity
and diversity equals freedom—
In America
where gay couples begged the Quakers to marry them
and the Quakers replied, “Marriage is between
one man and one women,” as if to say
“No bigamy, please,”
in America
where African equals peanut butter
and Indian equals corn.
In America
a fetus is left
in the toilet at the high school prom
and the Preacher says that’s
the worst evil in America
and demonic minions blush
in America
home of the broken dick of a father
who doesn’t look as good as his son.
In America
the Baptist Minister’s wife
says she’s lost one.
Call the police!
In America
a Quaker wears his collar
loosely like a noose—
In America
home of the Wolarys and the Paynes—
In America
that formed the anti-unification confederacy
for diversity in a fractured society
where a spiked heel sunk into mud
and a Bibled Fonz burnt rubber
where an angry mob charred bras
and the enemy became
monkey, pig, worm—
the ugly mouth has spoken.
In America
home of the broken dream of bathroom patrol
the intolerable weak womb
the empty cowboy hat
the Baptist Minister’s wife
changes her story to “a large bowel movement.”
In America
she leaves the bathroom door wide open.
In America
somebody says “Amen.”
Raise the torch light!
In America
she’ll never be religious right again.
Their mouths remain wide open—
aghast!
In America
land of tobacco and corn
In America
home of Quakers
gargoyles,
frogs.
Chess 2ThRt 01, art by David Matson
THE ISLAMIZATION OF MOROCCO
(after Olivier Guitta’s article, in The Weekly Standard)
David Lawrence
They bombed four spots in Casablanca.
That’s what happens when you confuse
An exotic location with al-Qaeda.
Where’s Humphrey Bogart when we need him?
The Nazis in Rick’s Café shot
More discriminately.
The terrorists are homegrown
Like funky pot.
Two society women confuse terror
With fashion, try
On designer bomb belts,
Repeat their cause by rote but don’t care.
They just want to blow themselves up for
The pure oblivion of it.
Who would want an Islamic caliphate?
Islamic men like to degrade their women in hijabs,
Hating the west
And wanting to destroy America as badly
As Ward Churchill.
He’s not an Indian,
His identity plagiarized along with his work.
The Moroccan society women don’t have a cause.
They borrow irrelevant ones like liberate Palestine
Or destroy Israel and the U.S.
Who are we to them?
Who likes a Palestinian?
Certainly not a Moroccan.
Not even a Palestinian.
We are a solid country with morals as valuable as tusks,
As solid as tons.
The fly should enjoy the elephant’s back
Not destroy it.
Respect is appreciation of our trunk.
We are filled with good aspirations and Republican feet.
The Moroccan official newspaper, At-Tajdid, stated
That Islamic Moroccans believe
The 2004 tsunamis were a punishment by God
For not following true Islam.
Pat Robinson said the same thing about lapsed Christians
Causing the flood in New Orleans.
What’s the difference between a priest
And an imam?
The imam likes decapitation,
Thinks Mohammed had a good idea.
It’s hard to do the crawl in a flood when you’re headless.
Technology Upgrade (2)
for Kathy
Michael Ceraolo
Her fingers fly forth across the keys
at a truly astounding speed,
making a music for my ears only,
like the sound of the old-time telegraph
And the end result is a music too,
ready to fly forth from cyberspace
to the eyes and ears of a waiting world
The Death of Words
Peter Magliocco
The bare bark of your skin
does not glisten superficially
as the medicine woman inserts her needle,
letting the white mucous expand
within you. What revenant fans
linger by your door’s phosphorescent shimmer;
they recite a T.V. commercial litany
for i-pods in their precious finery.
Chet Baker’s trumpet wails
in ecstasy, through a gilded night
where Dutch women smile in wedded bliss.
His true music hurtles an unheard melody
across the vaporous river wend
bearing morning fog’s lament --
but only those who have drowned
begin to rise, & listen.
Doll Red Dress, art by Cheryl Townsend
Untitled
Kyle J. Warnica
barbie doll
tossed on your bed
not appreciated
fashionable
the drunkards fodder
bar-bee doll
pressure unites us
i object
the cage you play in
the glass of your pressed back
humanity says to tap you
says to feed
yet unlovable
oh unlovable
you are too dirty a deed
Pluto
Eric Obame
Denied like a child from an affair long ago
Denied because of my size
Denied because of my friends
Denied because my lifestyle differs from my sister’s
All but one
But my petite stature cannot change what I am
But the Kuiper Belt boys cannot change what I am
But my Neptune crossing orbit cannot change what I am
I am your little sister Pluto
Mercury’s orbit around Father is off-center like mine
Deviates from the norm like mine
But no one questions her bond, because he is by her side
Is it because I look more like my sisters before the asteroid belt
Than the fat ones outside
That I am denied like a crime committed?
Or is it because I live furthest away?
Neptune and I trade places every two hundred and forty-eight years
For about twenty years, she is last
But still, she is accepted
She is a big ball of gas, instead of rock hard like Venus
Mars, Mercury, Earth and myself
I am closer to her, than to any of my sisters
But this housing discrimination just is not fair
Like you, I am round and beautiful
I have a daughter, Charon
Like you have a daughter or daughters
I will not allow you to deny her from her father
She is of me, and I am just like you
Except smaller
I am your little sister Pluto
prose
the meat and potatoes stuff
Hunting Hunters
Bob Wenger
“He’s the one,” the man using the binoculars says to himself. He sits partly concealed in a clump of brush and watches the hunter across the canyon. He lowers his binoculars, works the bolt on his rifle loading a bullet and cocking it.
Bryce, the watched man, sits on a rock with his rifle cradled across his lap. He watches the shadows trickle down the opposite canyon wall as though those shadows are draining from the canyon out onto the desert at the canyon mouth, to evaporate and return later that day. As morning dawns, birds chirp and a slight breeze rustles the leaves surrounding where he sits. Fall has arrived in the high country. The scrub oak leaves have turned different shades of red and the few aspens are starting to turn yellow.
Bryce hiked from his camp in the next canyon, Dry Canyon, over the ridge behind him to this canyon before daybreak. He used a flashlight to see the trail that led out of the canyon and over the ridge. The temperature last night was near freezing, making it necessary for Bryce to wear a heavy coat. That heavy coat now serves as a cushion between the rock and his butt. The temperature will rise as the sun peeks over Deseret Peak to the east at the canyon head. Today will be another mild, calm day with a clear, pale blue sky, typical of fall in these mountains of Western Utah. Temperatures here at 9,000 to 10,000 ft. should be around 50 degrees again today.
Bryce sits in the Stansbury Mountains for the start of Utah’s annual deer hunt. He took a few days off work and drove his Jeep Wrangler to Dry Canyon on the western slope of the Stansburys, where he made camp. He drove from Salt Lake City Utah, located sixty miles to the east. Bryce lives in an apartment on the Avenues, an older section of Salt Lake City near the State Capitol building. He has lived in the apartment for over a year since his divorce—she got the house.
The Stansbury Mountains are a small mountain range running north and south. Skull Valley, part of the Great Salt Lake Desert, is to the west and Tooele Valley is to the east. Deseret Peak is the tallest mountain within the range at 12,000 ft.
Bryce scouted his observation point in this canyon the day before after he made camp. Dry Canyon is the only canyon with a road on the western slope. There is no water in the canyon, thus the name. He wants to hunt in this canyon, Willow Canyon, because of the stream at the canyon floor and the willows growing along the bank. He knows the amount of forage in Willow Canyon will attract more deer, especially the trophy buck he hunts. The canyon terrain is varied with large and small boulders, clumps of five or six-foot scrub oak, juniper and pinion pine with open areas of sagebrush and bunch grass. There are scatterings of Douglas fir, blue spruce and aspens. The thicker forests of spruce, fir, Ponderosa pine and aspen are farther up the canyon toward Deseret Peak. Bryce intends to go to the bigger timber later on today if he doesn’t shoot his deer early.
Bryce’s hike from the canyon to this spot was a little strenuous and he’s enjoying the rest. He isn’t out of shape although he has put on a few extra pounds since living alone and eating out a lot. He’s 6’1”, with black hair worn long. His dark skin tans easily, complements of a Native American somewhere in his past. He has brown eyes that are almost black—so dark you can’t see the pupils.
Bryce sits on the rock and relaxes while a slight breeze carries the smell of pine and sagebrush. While he rests, he’s pondering some problems developing in his life. Teresa, his ex-wife, is threatening to take him back to court in an attempt to get part of an insurance settlement he received when his parents were killed in an auto accident several years ago. Bryce is an only child and the amount is substantial. Bryce doesn’t think she has any rights to the money although they were married at the time of the accident. Her worthless, greedy new boyfriend is encouraging her to attempt to take some of the settlement.
Teresa, a pretty, petite blond with blue eyes, sits at the kitchen table doing her nails. She’s thinking about how she got into this mess. She’s willing to leave Bryce alone but Bob wants some of that insurance money and is willing to do anything he can to get it. He is soooooo lazy and figures if she can get that money, he won’t have to work.
Bob, tall and skinny with long stringy brown hair, walks into the kitchen, “That nail polish smell will knock you out.” he barks.
“Sorry,” Teresa answers. “It’s the remover, not the polish.”
“It still stinks,” he returns.
Always wanting the last word, Teresa thinks.
“I’d like to use some of it on that ex-husband of yours and knock him out,” Bob boasts. “Why does he think he can keep all that money? It’s a community property state and you have every right to some of it. Even your lawyer says so.”
“I’m not so sure,” she answers. “I’d like some of it but his name is the only one on the policy.”
“What about his life insurance? Are you still the beneficiary?” Bob questions.
“I don’t know for sure. I think so. He doesn’t have anyone else to leave it to and I don’t think he’s that mad at me,” Teresa answers as she looks down at her nails avoiding his gaze.
“Do you think it’s finished?” Bob replies.
Teresa looks at him thinking you’ve completely changed the subject again, like you always do.
“What?” she asks with a puzzled look.
“You know?”
“I hope so,” she states, suddenly realizing what he’s talking about.
Bryce is also having problems at work and has a sinking feeling in his stomach when he thinks about returning. The problems center around his inspector job. He works for the government and accepts aircraft parts manufactured by a company that sells the parts to the government. The parts are installed into a top-secret and expensive aircraft. His supervisors recently ordered him to accept defective parts. This is contrary to his ethics and his position as an inspector. Bryce suspects his managers want to be hired by the contractor into lucrative positions after they retire from the government. They are willing to ignore the problems to please the contractor.
He’s considering taking his concerns to higher government officials. He knows he will be protected as a “whistle blower” and he also knows working conditions will become very difficult if he does. He will eventually lose his job on some other pretense, or will resign because of harassment.
Bryce is so fed up with work that he called his boss before he came to the mountains and left a voicemail telling him he wouldn’t be back for at least a week, maybe two. He originally planned to hunt on the weekend but changed his mind. He might not have a job when he returns but he doesn’t care.
Charlie, Bryce’s boss, sits at his desk even though it’s Saturday. He came to work to finish up some paperwork or he wouldn’t be here on a Saturday. Charlie is a skinny weasel of a man that has smoked most of his life. At least when he’s here on a weekend, he can smoke at his desk. He’s never been happy with the smoking regulations implemented years ago making smokers go outside to smoke.
After listening to Bryce’s message on his voicemail he speaks to his voicemail, “You won’t be in for a week? So what, I don’t think you’ll ever come back. That will make things a whole lot easier. I’ll fix you trying to mess with my retirement plans.”
Tyler, not the name on his forged Utah driver’s license or deer hunting permit, is the man crouched in the scrub-oak watching Bryce. Tyler is located half a mile away and lower down the canyons opposite slope. Tyler drove to the mouth of Willow Canyon yesterday and hiked up the canyon along the stream to this vantage point. He spent a cold night on the mountain but has food, water and warm clothing along with his Remington 7mm. magnum rifle. He drove six hundred miles to the mountains from Las Vegas, where he works as a part-time waiter in whichever casino is paying the most money at the time he returns from business trips like this.
Tyler is the exact opposite of the man he watches. He has short blond hair and blue eyes and at 5’8”, is shorter. Tyler is also a killer. He watches Bryce excitedly and with anticipation. He was in Vietnam for two tours of duty and killed many Viet Cong during the war. When he was sent home after the fall of Siagon, he decided he enjoyed killing so much that he would continue. He set a macabre goal to kill a person in every state of the union. Most people would be satisfied visiting every state in the union, not Tyler. He not only wanted to visit each state, but also wanted to kill someone while he was visiting and take something from that person to add to his collection. He has recently started this gruesome quest and was successful in a couple of western states. He knew deer hunting was the perfect opportunity for his unusual desires. He had read that hunters are accidentally shot and killed or wounded by stray bullets almost every hunting season. He used hunting to accomplish his goal in California and his home state of Nevada. He has a ring and engraved watch for trophies.
Soon after his return from Viet Nam, Tyler advertised in national hunting magazines as a mercenary. He decided he would fight in wars throughout the world and get paid for it. That would satisfy his desire to kill. It didn’t matter where or for whom he was killing. He would fight on the side paying the most money. He reasoned there were always conflicts in Asia, Africa or South America, he would go where and when needed, anywhere in the world. He has a valid passport and can travel anywhere except into some communist countries.
Tyler was surprised the first time someone answered his ad. The person didn’t want to hire him as a mercenary but instead wanted him to assassinate someone in his home state of Nevada. Tyler decided it must have something to do with the gambling industry but it really didn’t matter, as long as he was paid. After that successful job, he began taking assassination jobs to meet his new goal of killing in every state. He only accepted jobs in a state he hadn’t killed in. He now advertised as a problem solver, if you have a problem, he could solve it by any means necessary.
This assassination request had been sent to him a month ago. He sent the requester a picture of himself and other vital statistics including age, weight, height and description of his car. The contract had him receiving $10,000 in cash up front with another $15,000 after he sends an I.D. from the victim. A week later, the cash, information about the target, a forged Utah driver’s license, phony car registration and Utah license plates appeared in his post office box. The hunt began the next day after he quit his job and drove to Utah.
Bryce notices another hunter across the canyon watching him. The man sits concealed in some brush. He wears the required florescent hunting vest but is still difficult to see. Bryce realizes there probably won’t be any deer on that side of the canyon with a hunter in the area, he may as well go back over the ridge and see if he can spot one in Dry Canyon.
Bryce stands up, turns and starts climbing the slope toward the ridge. He tops the ridge, hears something running through the brush behind him and sees a buck burst out of some scrub oak and run over the ridge. Before he can raise his gun, he hears a shot from behind him. Instantly, something tugs at his coat sleeve and stings his arm. “What the...” Bryce shouts as he dives over the ridge and hunkers down below the ridge line. Bryce realizes he’s been shot. That hunter must have been watching the deer when Bryce thought he was watching him. When Bryce moved, it spooked the deer and the hunter fired. Bryce, shaking a little, takes off his coat and shirt and sees the bullet has nicked the skin on his left arm below the armpit. It passed between his side and upper arm. The wound is only a scratch. He wonders if he should yell at the hunter. It was certainly an accident and he isn’t hurt badly. Besides, if he sticks his head back over the ridge, the hunter might think the deer has doubled back and take another shot at him. He decides to return to camp and put antiseptic and a dressing on the scratch and forget about it.
The next morning, Bryce walks along a trail a mile further up Dry Canyon. It’s another beautiful day for deer hunting. The sun is shining and the wind is calm with an occasional slight breeze rustling the aspen leaves and causing the pines to sigh. It is very peaceful and Bryce enjoys his hike. A couple of squawking crows are flying above and occasionally he hears the cry of a hawk circling higher up. The pine and aspen forest is thicker at this altitude due to more moisture in the form of rain and snow falling as the clouds rise and cool. He walks quietly, then stops and remains still, listening and watching for any moving deer. Bryce walks tentatively. He is still a little wary remembering yesterday’s close call.
Suddenly, he hears a shot fired from above and behind him. The bullet hits a rock beyond Bryce, the whining bullet ricochets away into the woods. Bryce instinctively ducks and takes cover in some brush. “That was another close one,” he mutters. Another accident? Are deer moving my way and is another hunter shooting at them?
Bryce moves off into the trees and hunkers down to wait and see if a deer moves into the range of his gun.
Bryce sits concealed in the scrub oak. He hasn’t seen any deer or other hunters. While he is uncomfortably squatting in the brush, he considers the two close calls in as many days. Bryce is beginning to think that these shots aren’t accidental. Maybe someone is shooting at him purposely. If so, who and why?
Bryce had a similar close call while hunting several years ago. He was walking along a ridge when a hunter across the canyon shot at a deer that ran over the ridge in front of Bryce. The bullets sounded like angry bees as they passed over Bryce’s head. He dropped on the trail and yelled, “There’s another hunter up here.” The person that shot yelled back and asked Bryce to go down into the canyon and look for the deer. Bryce yelled back, “You missed him, he ran over the ridge. Look for yourself.” He apparently didn’t believe Bryce so as Bryce watched; the other hunter hiked to the canyon bottom, and then began climbing Bryce’s side of the canyon. Bryce continued hiking along the top of the canyon, but well below the ridgeline.
After a few minutes, Bryce becomes bored sitting and waiting. He moves out of the brush and continues his hike up the canyon moving slowly and staying in as much cover as he can find. He hopes there won’t be any more bullets coming anywhere near him for the rest of the hunt.
Santos drives his old beat-up pickup truck with the weathered cab-over camper into Dry Canyon. It sways like an old tugboat in a rough sea, rattling and banging as it bounces from rock to rock. He makes slow progress. He hopes the truck and camper will hold together until he finds a turn-off into a side canyon or a place where he can conceal his truck in the scrub oak and pinion pine.
Santos is a tall, dark complexioned Hispanic who wears a full black beard. He was, until recently, working on farms in the valley east of the mountains. The crops are harvested and his wages spent. He needs money. When Santos needs cash, he steals anything he can, pawning or selling the stolen goods.
Although he will be deer hunting for the food it will provide, Santos will be scouting other camps in the canyon with the intent of robbing unattended camps. He hopes to steal anything of value such as camp stoves, lanterns and coolers. Food in coolers will be a bonus. His camper, which he lives in, isn’t well stocked with provisions. Santos knows most people will lock their valuable items such as guns and cameras in their vehicles. He also knows it isn’t unusual for a door on a truck or car to be accidentally left unlocked while the hunter or hunters are out chasing deer. If he finds something really valuable, he will be out of the canyon immediately, like a lottery winner rushing to cash in the winning ticket.
He passed one camp on the drive into the canyon and hoped there are more farther up the road. He will find them while he’s hunting.
Bryce sits in his camp that night near the campfire, enjoying the warmth and hypnotic dancing flames. His propane lantern provides additional light. He’s thinking about the near misses of the last couple of days and how lucky he is to be able to sit here in the quiet and enjoy watching the clear night sky, containing thousands of stars splashed across the deep black of space. He hears coyotes yipping in the distance, barking at the half moon that casts a silvery glow around camp. The coyotes suddenly stop barking while a cloud passes across the moon as though they are startled by the sudden darkening.
Suddenly, the crack of a rifle shot echoes up and down the canyon. Bryce hears a thump behind him as the side of his canvas tent is forced inward, followed by a loud clang as something metal is hit. Bryce instinctively dives and rolls until he is away from the fire and lantern light. He scrambles on his hands and knees farther away from camp and sits among boulders and brush.
“That shot was no accident,” he talks to the night. Whoever fired that isn’t deer hunting. It’s too dark.
Hours later, after the campfire has died, Bryce throws a rock at the lantern still casting it’s light around camp. He misses on the first throw but connects on the second, breaking the glass chimney and knocking the mantel away. The light dies. There is still a soft hiss as the propane escapes. He hurries into camp, grabs his rifle, his coat and, after stuffing some food and a bottle of water into a backpack, shoulders it and leaves camp. He pauses to turn off the lantern; he doesn’t want to start a forest fire if a stray ember were to blow near the lantern. He climbs the canyon slope away from his camp until he is far up the mountain.
When he’s well up the mountain and away from camp, he pauses and looks behind him toward camp. He is now almost convinced there have been three attempts on his life. If the shooter is trying to kill him, he’s a terrible shot. If he’s trying to scare Bryce, he’s doing a good job. Bryce decides, after some more thought, rather than run which was his first idea, he will fight back and first find the other hunter’s camp or vehicle then go from there. He wants to find something to show him who is stalking him and why. He thinks it’s the hunter he saw on the first day of the deer hunt.
Bryce remembers there’s a parking area at the mouth of Willow Canyon. Since he saw the other hunter in Willow Canyon, he might locate the man’s vehicle in the parking lot.
Bryce hikes out of Dry Canyon that night, using the light of the half-moon to help guide him. He didn’t want to drive. The hunter might know Bryce’s vehicle and be watching for his Jeep. He walks and jogs following the road, a pale path that stretches ahead of him, illuminated by the moon and bordered by the darker trees and brush. He cuts cross-country after he’s out of the canyon and hikes along the mountain base to the parking lot. There’s one car in the lot, a white Ford Taurus. Bryce notices the Utah license plates on the car. They’re wrong. These are truck plates with three numbers, then three letters. Car plates in Utah have two letters, followed by four numbers.
After donning rubber surgical gloves he uses to clean deer, Bryce bashes the passenger side window in with a rock, opens the door, uses the rock to shatter the dome light and, using the flashlight he brought, rummages through the Ford. The glove compartment holds a Utah car registration with the right characters but the wrong sequence, like the plate. The name on the registration is Wayne Smith. The only other interesting item is a crumpled receipt lying on the floor of the back seat, a gas receipt from a 7-11 in Las Vegas. The name on the receipt is Tyler Brown.
“Is that your real name?” Bryce speaks out loud. Have you driven from Las Vegas with stolen license plates and a forged registration to kill or scare me for some reason and make it look like a hunting accident? Are you here on your own or has someone sent you?
Bryce finds no answers in the Taurus. I’ll find answers, he thinks. “Tyler, if that’s your name, I’m coming after you!” he says with narrowed eyes and a set jaw as he looks to the east at the shadow of Deseret Peak.
While Bryce is hiking out of the canyon, Tyler sits in the dark among the trees a quarter mile from Bryce’s camp. He’s thinking he can’t believe his bad luck. The shot he took on the first day as the man crossed the ridge appeared to hit him right in the back, but when Tyler crossed the canyon to collect a token from his kill, the man was gone. Tyler must have just missed. Shooting uphill obviously spoiled his aim.
The second time he shot as the man hiked up the canyon, the bullet must have gone right over his head and hit a rock. Tyler remembers hearing the ricochet. After a short hike and reaching the area where the body should have been, like the day before, the man was gone. That shot had been downhill and that bullet must have gone a little high.
The shot tonight was a total screw-up. Tyler was confused by the shadows that were dancing around camp cast by the moon, the campfire and the lantern. He must have targeted the man’s shadow on the tent. After shooting, he waited a while then moved closer to the camp. There was enough light to show there was no dead body and for the third time, the target was gone. His Jeep was still parked near the camp but the camp was empty.
Tyler moves deeper into the trees to wait. He’ll watch the camp and decide how to finish this, especially if the hunted is now aware he is being hunted.
Bryce returns to the area of his camp late that night. He slowly and quietly moves among the trees to wait for dawn. He is sitting fifty yards from his camp and a hundred yards from where Tyler sits on the opposite side of the canyon. There isn’t a lot to see, only a few dying embers from the campfire. It is still quite dark. The half moon has almost set in the west but is still casting some light. There’s enough light to see movement but not much else.
Bryce thinks about the situation. When the sun comes up, he might be able to see Tyler if Tyler is also watching his camp. It will make him feel good to send a shot Tyler’s way for a change. He’s not sure he wants to kill Tyler, maybe just nick him like he nicked Bryce the other day. If Tyler knows he’s also being hunted, maybe he’ll leave the canyon and go back to Vegas.
Bryce is glad he brought his coat and backpack. It’s cold and the small amount of food he brought feels good in his stomach. He’s tired. It was a long hike to and from the parking lot. He’s thinking what a heck of a night it’s been. He’s been shot at again. He’s been scrambling around in the dirt and walking his butt off to end up right back at his camp. Now he has to sit in the cold instead of laying warm in his sleeping bag.
Bryce lies back against the hill and dozes off.
The next morning, Santos walks along the Dry Canyon road. He saw a camp yesterday that looked promising. The camp was back in the trees in a little clearing. There was a new Jeep Wrangler parked there but nobody around even though it was near sundown. He intends to scout the camp again today and if he still sees no one, he will raid it.
He stops in the trees, takes off his bright hunting vest and watches the camp. It’s quiet except for the birds chirping and a slight breeze rustling the trees. There isn’t any movement in or near the camp. He enters the camp. He notices the lantern has been knocked over and wonders why? He thinks maybe the wind blew it. He doesn’t think he’ll take it since it’s broken. He walks into the tent after slowly easing the flap aside. The owner of the camp could still be sleeping. Once inside, he sees the tent is unoccupied and rummages through Bryce’s things. He finds a nice red flannel-hunting shirt that should fit perfectly. After putting on the shirt, he looks through the rest of the tent. “There isn’t anything here worth anything camper,” he speaks to the unknown owner of the camp. “I’ll look in your Jeep if it’s open.”
Santos leaves the tent. He bends down to have another look at the lantern and is shot in the back. The bullet breaks his spine and fragments lodge in his heart, killing him instantly. He falls face down across the lantern and lies still. The birds quit chirping and remain quiet while the shot echoes up and down the canyon. The dead deaf ears of Santos no longer can hear even the echoes.
Bryce is suddenly alert. There’s someone in his camp. He can see a man moving around. Bryce didn’t see where he came from. He was suddenly there, looking around camp. The man enters Bryce’s tent. After a couple of minutes, the visitor leaves the tent wearing one of Bryce’s shirts.
Are you Tyler? he thinks. He raises his rifle and watches the man through the scope.
Before Bryce can consider what to do, a shot cracks and the man falls face down on the ground. The way he falls, immediately and then not moving, indicates he is killed instantly. Bryce can’t believe what he sees. He lowers his gun. Could I have accidentally fired? He doesn’t remember chambering a round, which would have cocked the rifle. He checks the gun, and it’s not cocked. The safety is still on.
Who are you if not Tyler? Who killed you? he wonders.
“Tyler,” he speaks softly. “You screwed up man, you thought that guy was me.”
It’s time to finish this, he thinks as he hunkers down into the brush.
“Lets see if you show yourself, Tyler,” he whispers with a little smile.
Tyler is also watching Santos though he didn’t notice him until Santos walked back out of the tent. Tyler was also napping after his long night of watching.
Is that the same man? he asks himself. That has to be him. “Come on, turn around so I can get a better look at you,” he quietly speaks to the man in camp.
When Santos bends down to look at the tipped over lantern, Tyler decides to shoot. He quickly chambers a bullet, raises his rifle and pulls the trigger. He watches the man fall face down. The rifle shot echoes up and down the canyon as he slowly lowers his rifle. “Good shot,” he tells himself. “His blood-soaked shirt with my bullet hole in it will make a nice trophy.”
Tyler scrambles down the slope and walks into Bryce’s camp. He bends over, grabs a shoulder and rolls the man over to look at his face. He sees this guy has a beard.
I don’t remember the man I’ve been watching having a beard, he thinks. Could this be this man’s camp I’ve been watching for two days? Or have I shot the wrong man?
Tyler feels the first rush of panic; he realizes that he may have made a terrible mistake and better get away quickly. He looks up as he hears the sound of a rifle shot the same time a bullet tears through his throat, spinning him around and knocking him on his back. The bullet knocks him temporarily unconscious, breaks his throat box and cuts his carotid artery.
Tyler slowly comes awake. He can’t turn his head and can only stare straight up at the sky.
What happened? He realizes he has been shot and is dying. He begins to cry.
He senses someone in camp. A shadow falls across him. A shaded face appears looking down at him. Tyler thinks it’s the man he’s been hunting. He tries to beg for help but can only grunt as his blood drains down his neck, soaking the ground under his head.
As soon as Tyler falls, Bryce jumps up and starts running and sliding down the slope toward his camp, raising a cloud of dust as he hurries, rocks and dirt cascading down around him. He slowly walks into camp with his rifle cocked. He walks to where Tyler has fallen, purposely keeping the sun behind him so the man will only see a shadow. Tyler is grunting and gurgling as he stares at the shadowed face above him.
“Who are you?” Bryce asks when the man stops grunting. “Are you Tyler?”
The man on the ground appears to nod.
“Why are you hunting me?” Bryce speaks. “Who sent you?”
Tyler can’t respond. Bryce notices his eyes have a fixed stare. He is dead.
Bryce walks to the other man and looks at his lifeless face. He doesn’t recognize him. Bryce walks out of camp, squats in the shade of a large pine and looks back at the carnage. He asks himself what just happened? He thinks the man with the beard was stealing from his camp and Tyler thought he was Bryce.
“Lucky for me Tyler made a few mistakes in the last couple of days.” he speaks to himself.
Bryce gets up, walks to Tyler and rolls him over. He takes Tyler’s wallet out of his pants pocket, opens it and scans what he finds. The license is a Utah driver’s license in the name of Wayne Smith, like the Taurus registration. There are a couple of credit cards with the same name. The only thing of interest is an appointment card for a psychiatrist in Las Vegas. Only the doctor’s name is on the card.
Bryce walks back under the pines and squats down. He must think.
A while later, he walks back into camp, goes into his tent and puts on more of the rubber gloves. He leaves his tent and walks to the bearded man. He picks up the man’s carbine and levers the handle loading a shell. He shoots Tyler in the stomach and puts the rifle back near the bearded man’s hand. Bryce hopes that whoever finds these two will think there was a shootout and both lost. Now there will be a bullet in each one from the other’s gun. The fact that one of them was shot in the back may confuse the authorities but it doesn’t matter as long as they don’t figure out there was a third person involved. Bryce looked at Tyler’s wound and saw that the bullet that killed him passed through his throat and is now somewhere in the dirt beyond camp. He doubts it will be found.
Bryce leaves his camp intact. He takes his personal items and anything that could identify him and loads his Jeep. He wipes everything he touched that might hold a print.
After loading, he turns and surveys the camp one more time. The two bodies lay where they have fallen. Bryce hopes someone comes along well after he leaves but before the crows and coyotes do too much damage to the corpses.
He has taken one thing from Tyler, the appointment card. He will stop at Tyler’s Ford Taurus and take the gas receipt from the station in Las Vegas. He may find something else in the car now that the sun is up. He will drive to Las Vegas after stopping at his apartment and packing some things. He is going to find out who Tyler is and where he lives in Vegas. He will attempt to discover why Tyler was either sent here to Utah or came on his own. Bryce hopes that someone at the doctor’s office can help or someone at the gas station will remember the man that drove the white Ford Taurus. Hopefully, the gas station and doctor’s office are near Tyler’s place and he was a regular customer.
He has already asked for a couple of weeks off work so that won’t be a problem. Besides, if Charlie is somehow involved in this, he won’t be going back to that job without some Federal cops.
While driving back into Salt Lake City, Bryce decides to stop at his old house. He wants to see the look on Teresa and Bob’s faces when he shows up on their doorstep. If they had anything to do with sending Tyler after him, they might have a strange reaction when he appears.
Bryce drives up in front of the house, parks the Jeep and walks to the front door. He rings the bell and waits. He can hear someone approaching from the back of the house. Teresa opens the door and stares at Bryce with the startled look he thought he might see.
“What are you doing here?” she asks him through the screen door. “I thought you were hunting?”
“I haven’t left yet.” he answers. “I need to get some stuff out of the basement. Can I come in?”
“I don’t think Bob wants you here. Maybe I better get it for you.”
“Where is the bum? I need to see him.” Bryce answers.
“I heard that,” Bob says as he walks down the hall with a cold stare directed at Bryce.
“What do you want?” he asks as he stops behind Teresa.
“Tyler sent me,” Bryce says.
“Who?”
“Tyler, or Wayne, some guy from Vegas I met hunting.”
Bob and Teresa both stare with open mouths. The color has drained out of Teresa’s face.
“I thought you said you hadn’t left yet?” Teresa states with a little quiver in her voice.
“I lied,” Bryce answers.
“Hey Bob”, he adds, “still interested in trying to get that inheritance money? Forget it or the cops are going to find out who Tyler is, or was, and who sent him.”
Bryce turns his back on them and casually walks down the sidewalk. He decides he won’t have to go to Vegas after all.
Explode
Damion Hamilton
Tony was really mad now. It was one of those things that really shouldn’t have bothered him, but for some reason had piqued his nerves now. Someone had called him horseface. It was childish thing to say, and he remembered people saying things like that to each other all the time, especially when he was younger, but this really bothered him this time, and he felt as if he were about to explode from rage. Why did people say such things to each other, he thought. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it were a kid who had uttered this inanity, but it was an adult. And it wasn’t addressed to him personally, he just heard it in passing, and saw those people laughing at him. They didn’t think he heard, but he did. Now he stood in the mirror studying his reflection. Perhaps he did have a horse’s face. But what was wrong with looking like a horse. Tony liked horses.
He went over certain things in his life, and they began to make sense. Perhaps people only judged people, for the most part by their appearance. And this would explain why, he felt like an outsider for most of his life. He looked in the mirror, and said this face had done it. He felt that throughout his life people were laughing at him, now he knew why. He felt rage; he felt the blood racing through his body, the heart pounding like an orchestra in his ears. The solitude of his room made him hate himself. So he had to leave his room, he wanted to hate somebody else.
He began driving up and down the streets with anger imbibing his thoughts. The streets were sparse though. He drove more reckless than normal, tailgating cars, and cutting drivers off. He wanted some conflict, and to prove himself in a conflict. He was waiting at a red light, and car pulled up behind him, with this guy’s music blaring loudly, Tony sneered at the guy, but he paid him no attention. Tony looked in the mirror and studied, noticing a real horse face. He studied the mirror for some time, and didn’t notice that the light had changed from red to green. The guy, behind him blew, and Tony was startled and angered from being awaked from his reverie. He flipped the guy off, and guy proceeded to swear badly at him, and honked his horn vigorously. Tony signaled for him to pull over at the next light, but the guy kept on driving. One couldn’t avoid something that would anger them, everyday it seemed. His heart was pumping adrenaline and hatred through his body strongly now. He had to calm down, so he stopped off at a liquor store to get some beer. He stopped at a local parking lot and proceeded to drink the beer until it soothed his nerves. He wanted to go somewhere. But where? He got a train somewhere he knew there would be a lot of people around, a local entertainment district. He walked around with a vague notion, that he wanted to start some trouble with someone. He didn’t know with whom though. He sat on a bench and watched people walk up and down the street. He felt as if he could take most of the guys though. As he walked he gave the air of violence, so people avoided him as he passed. A feeling of violence compounded with a longing for sex, as he stared as the female bodies walking down the street, while he snarled at the men. He saw a few people give strange glances and he saw smile on their faces. Were they laughing at his horse’s face? He wanted to ask them were they laughing at him. But he figured he wouldn’t get an honest answer. Thus he went along vaguely angered; not knowing were to channel his rage.
He sat outside of a coffeeshop, and brooded, watched people moving along the boulevard. It felt good to sit down and brood for a moment, and watch people do things. Where were they going? What plans did they have? He could lose himself in a crowd, and in a large crowd, of so many different types of people he didn’t feel so out of place. He watched people, even though he pretended not to watch, especially when someone made eye contact with him. He hated being stared at himself, so he knew how others might feel if he stared at them for too long. A giant walked past, a man who stood about seven feet tall, Tony wondered how would it feel to be that big. When one was that large, one couldn’t just blend in with the crowd. He remembered one time in particular when he was little drunk, he walked up to guy who was about his size and asked him tall he was, and the man seemed rather annoyed with him, and ashamed, even though Tony was filled with gleeful awe. He vowed he wouldn’t do that again, even though he wanted to. When one sits down and watches a parade of bodies’ walk by, one can lose themselves to that parade of bodies. The self and all one’s problems seem to go away. One is apart of the crowd, but one is at the distance.
Most of time in coffeehouses people seem to be in pairs, or groups; but Tony watched a rather large woman sit down at a table adjacent to him. He looked at her directly and quickly glanced away, he kept dreaming and watched the crowds of people walk by. As he watched people, it felt as if he was being watched. He looked in the woman’s direction and saw that she was staring at him. Was she staring at his horse’s face? He began to grow angered. He couldn’t just sit down somewhere, without someone staring at him.
He looked at her directly and asked, “what are you looking at.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for staring, I just was wondering why are sitting alone?”
This mollified Tony. “Oh, I just come here to people watch, that’s all— it’s relaxing.”
“Yeah, I know, but it seems a little lonely to me. When everybody is together on such a fine day. It’s hard to be alone, with so many have somebody.”
“Yeah, I know.
“Would you like some company.”
Yeah, I don’t mind.”
She got up and proceeded to sit at his table. She was shabbily dressed, and quite large, but had a kind and pretty face.
“There’s a lot of people around, aren’t there,” she said. “But I’m sure that most of the guys here are probably gay.”
Tony was thinking the same thing. “But not quite gay, they call them metrosexuals. They seem to gravitate towards places like this though. They do have a certain look though—clean cut, well shaven and stylishly dressed.”
“Well, I think they are all gay. None of them want a date. Don’t any of them like women?”
“A lot of them, probably have plenty of girlfriends though.”
“Well would you happen to be interested in a date?”
“What kind of date?”
“Well, you know what kind of date,” she said while blushing. “A big strong guy like you. I know you are not a fag.”
“Oh, that kind of date.”
“Yeah, I recently fell on some hard times. And I needed some money to buy things. And my parents kicked me out of their house. So I was wondering if we went on date, if you could help me out?”
“Yeah, I would love to help you out, but what is your name?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Lisa. And yours.”
“Tony.”
“Well why don’t we leave here, and go someplace better. I got a spot.”
“Yeah, I’ll just finish this first.”
Tony quickly drained about a third of a cup of coffee he had, and got up and threw it in the trash. Lisa smiled at him, and he returned a wry one. And they were off.
It was obvious that girl was a prostitute, and this annoyed Tony’s great self-pride. He wondered what people were thinking as he walked with her. She took him to an apartment complex, making affectionate gestures towards him: grabbing his hand, and stroking his arm. She complimented his appearance, and this was able to curb some of the anxiety he had, in regards to his appearance. The apartment complex, was in an area just on the edge of the entertainment district, it was in a dingy low rent area, he saw a couple of hard, sluggish individuals hanging around. She nodded to them, and they made their way through the corridors of the building.
He had an innate feeling that he should not go with her, but he felt impaled all the same, she grabbed him by the hand as they navigated through the dark corridors of the building. There was a sense of danger, for him, because he did not know her. And had heard stories all the time of prostitutes leading guys somewhere to get beaten or robbed. She sensed his nervousness, tried to mollify him, by rubbing his arms and talking sweetly.
“Come on baby, relax,” she said. She opened up a doorway which led to fire escape. No one was around; the building seemed barely populated, as he followed her hesitantly.
“I really shouldn’t do this,” he said rather weakly.
She looked at him, and smiled, while she felt the crouch of his pants.
When she started caressing his pants, Tony knew that he was not leaving. It felt too good. He was being caressed by stranger, and there was something dangerous and exciting about it. Prostitution was illegal. He felt so lonely most of the time, but her hands were right there; near him. He closed his eyes and moaned as she stroked him more vigorously. He forgot all about his sorrows, and how he looked and how he felt. Here was another human being smiling at him: touching, caressing him, and looking into his eyes. This felt good. Even though she was a prostitute. He felt as if a police officer would come onto the patio at any second. He had to hurry it up. He ejaculated and felt pretty good. He resigned himself, into that state of bliss for a couple of minutes. They caressed, and when looked up, she was laughing at him, and looking in his face. Tony asked her, what was she laughing at; but she said nothing. Tony presumed that she was laughing at his face. He felt red-hot rage building up inside of him. There was the feeling of injustice—as if being tricked by her kindness. He grabbed her, and began choking her, and when she got down on her knees, he began to punch her. And when she began lying on the ground, he began to kick her. “Shut up bitch,” was all he said, while pleading for him to stop.
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.
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.
Internet ISSN 1555-1555
In This Issue...
... Starting with art by Melanie Monterey, then
The Boss Lady’s Editorial on Anna Nicole Smith
AIDSwatch with Different Ways of Stopping AIDS Globally
News You Can Use on the possibiity on Gay Rights in Congress
Poetry by Renee St. Louis, and Sarah Deckard, art by Jay Marvin, poetry by Je’free, art by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz, poetry by Mary Kolesnikova, and Mel Waldman, and Peter Martin, and Ray Karpovage, and Je’free, and Cindy Forsburg, and Paul Baker, and Graham Fulton, art by Aaron Wilder , and poetry by Anna Cates, art by David Matson , and poetry by David Lawrence, and Michael Ceraolo, and Peter Magliocco, art by Cheryl Townsend, and Kyle J. Warnica, and Eric Obame.
Prose by , and Bob Wenger, and Damion Hamilton.
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the boss lady’s editorial |
Anna Nicole Smith: |
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| Granted, some people in the United States don’t think she’s worth much, but many foreigners — well, many foreign men — think Anna Nicole Smith embodies America very literally. People in repressed cultures marvel at the brassy blonde hair. The fact that she’s been able to sweet-talk her way into her fame and fortune is even something of an American dream; I think a small part of a lot of people in this country would wish that something would happen to them so they’d suddenly have a lot of money, or that they’d be thrown into the spotlight and gain any fame they can substitute for recognition. |
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This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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Janet Kuypers
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AIDSwatch
Different Ways of Stopping AIDS |
News You Can Use
Gay Rights in congress?Janert Kuypers, reporter and commentatorDaily News (02/25/07), this Congress may be the first to pass major federal gay rights bills.
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Body 22, art by Melanie Monterey
poetry
the passionate stuff
Vickie Lynn / Anna NicoleRenee St. Louis
In death, she is seen
|
SuperficialSarah Deckard
All my life they taught me to be superficial,
And all the while passion was searing my soul,
But I never did,
|
Tax Cuts, painting by Jay Marvin
To an Impassive LoveJe’free
I hear a lower sound than silence
I lay wide open as a thirsty ground
I yearn to sail inside your heart;
I crave to ascertain that you long
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Considering, artt by Edward Michael O’durr Supranowicz
HEARTSMary Kolesnikova
A diamond-grey snake, anxiety coils around my chest and
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ONE DARK, CUTTING MOMENTMel Waldman
I’m just one dark, cutting moment away from insanity,
at one invisible point of demarcation,
good when the Devil calls, wearing the mask of righteous rage
& I succumb or saunter off,
stumbling upon safety,
while my twin donates his soul for the mere illusion of swallowing the transient power of rage,
& rushing through the Waste Land like a mad bull in heat,
that will devour his flesh, in one dark, cutting moment from which there is no return
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Two Uses for Alka-Seltzer BottlesPeter Martin
Alka-Seltzer used to come in
One summer in Mishicot
The summer before I started college
There was grime under
I went carefully back to work,
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A Mudpuddle Faced GurglingRay Karpovage
She says she likes the smell of rain
When she was little she would splash
She got what she wished for today
Her wishing filled arroyos,
Her prayers came true today
She sits now, looking out on what
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ImmatureJe’free
Kick off our boots here;
Lately, I touch you, and you shy away
You blur & stir truth & lies,
We have become stones
Why can I not melt in you arms,
Maybe, I should see you
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WALK IN LIGHTCindy Forsburg
Sometimes I feel as if
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Joy DivisionGraham Fulton
In the German History part of the store,
Everything you could need to know:
V2 rockets, life’s too short.
I keep diving back for one more glance.
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Squeeze it until it complains.Paul Baker
She does not like bugs.
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EverGreed, art by Aaron Wilder
AMERICAAnna Cates
David Lee Roth once said
So too is finding a DoMe
But the DoYou’s pick-up line is different:
She tells you that she’s ugly.
Be careful how you tell her no.
Spring, 2006,
Somebody watches from the window
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
In America
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Chess 2ThRt 01, art by David Matson
THE ISLAMIZATION OF MOROCCO(after Olivier Guitta’s article, in The Weekly Standard)David Lawrence
They bombed four spots in Casablanca.
Who would want an Islamic caliphate?
The Moroccan official newspaper, At-Tajdid, stated
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Technology Upgrade (2)for KathyMichael Ceraolo
Her fingers fly forth across the keys
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The Death of WordsPeter Magliocco
The bare bark of your skin
within you. What revenant fans
Chet Baker’s trumpet wails
across the vaporous river wend
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Doll Red Dress, art by Cheryl Townsend
UntitledKyle J. Warnica
barbie doll
the cage you play in
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PlutoEric Obame
Denied like a child from an affair long ago
Mercury’s orbit around Father is off-center like mine
Like you, I am round and beautiful
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prose
the meat and potatoes stuff
Hunting HuntersBob Wenger
“He’s the one,” the man using the binoculars says to himself. He sits partly concealed in a clump of brush and watches the hunter across the canyon. He lowers his binoculars, works the bolt on his rifle loading a bullet and cocking it.
After listening to Bryce’s message on his voicemail he speaks to his voicemail, “You won’t be in for a week? So what, I don’t think you’ll ever come back. That will make things a whole lot easier. I’ll fix you trying to mess with my retirement plans.”
As soon as Tyler falls, Bryce jumps up and starts running and sliding down the slope toward his camp, raising a cloud of dust as he hurries, rocks and dirt cascading down around him. He slowly walks into camp with his rifle cocked. He walks to where Tyler has fallen, purposely keeping the sun behind him so the man will only see a shadow. Tyler is grunting and gurgling as he stares at the shadowed face above him.
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ExplodeDamion Hamilton
Tony was really mad now. It was one of those things that really shouldn’t have bothered him, but for some reason had piqued his nerves now. Someone had called him horseface. It was childish thing to say, and he remembered people saying things like that to each other all the time, especially when he was younger, but this really bothered him this time, and he felt as if he were about to explode from rage. Why did people say such things to each other, he thought. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it were a kid who had uttered this inanity, but it was an adult. And it wasn’t addressed to him personally, he just heard it in passing, and saw those people laughing at him. They didn’t think he heard, but he did. Now he stood in the mirror studying his reflection. Perhaps he did have a horse’s face. But what was wrong with looking like a horse. Tony liked horses.
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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.
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.
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. 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
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
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions: 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.
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.
Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.
Mark Blickley, writer 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.
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
Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.
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, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over. 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.
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 (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. 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.
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