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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 183, April 2008
The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine
Internet ISSN 1555-1555
see what’s in this issue...
...You can also click here for the e-book/PDF file for this issue.
(The PDF files does not include the third editorial about politica or the Wordslioongers WLUW Radio poetry)
J2K Record Scooper 03, art by David Matson
the boss lady’s editorial
Al Capone caught for tax evasion;
O. J. Simpson caught for robbery
According to a Reuters story from Canada (titled “Simpson jailed as “flight risk” amid media frenzy”) about Orenthal James Simpson, “Simpson was arrested (in Las Vegas) on suspicion of armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, conspiracy and burglary. An expletive-laden audiotape surfaced in which Simpson was apparently heard issuing threats.” Defamer.com even outlined that “Simpson was charged with two counts each of robbery with a deadly weapon and assault with a deadly weapon, and one count each of conspiracy to commit burglary and burglary with a firearm. The first two carry sentences of anywhere from 6 to 70 years in prison. [NY Times]”
Hmm.
You know, I could talk about the war at great length, but when I hear about your favorite murderer and mine, I think I should give you my phone number so you could call to talk to me about O. J. Simpson:
264-8927
I give you my phone number so you can talk to me about either his murderous ways (check out the editorial “DNA Versus Emotion”) or about him recently coming into a private sale of (potentially) his merchandise with goons and a gun.
Wait a minute. How silly of me. That’s not my phone number. That’s O. J. Simpson’s jail I.D. number. Never mind.
But really, it’s convenient when we’re so faced with grappling with either the war in Iraq or the potential presidential candidates, it’s nice to see something in the media taking our little minds away from grappling with the fate of our country. In the past, our recent forays into the media have been about either the death of Ana Nicole Smith, or the inadequacy of Britney Spears with her equally less-than-intelligent husband Kevin Federline and the raising of their two children. It’s nice that we can wrap our minds around crimes following a murderer who got off on technicalities in what most call the “crime of the century.”
The Reuters Canada article even went on to say, Simpson “was denied bail because he was considered a possible flight risk and had no ties to the local community, Clark County Judge Nancy Oesterle said.
An audiotape of the incident, reportedly made by one of the dealers, was released on Monday by the celebrity Web site TMZ.com. In the recording, a man said to be Simpson is heard saying: “Don’t let nobody out of this room ... Think you can steal my shit and sell it?””
In the AP article O. J. Simpson, accused in Las Vegas robbery, says he was reclaiming sports memorabilia, “TMZ said the recording was made on a handheld recorder belonging to Thomas Riccio, co-owner of the auction house Universal Rarities. Riccio did not immediately return a call for comment Monday.
Simpson has said Riccio called him several weeks ago to say some collectors were selling some of his items. Riccio set up a meeting with collectors under the guise that he had a private collector interested in buying Simpson’s items.
Riccio told the site he believed Simpson was planning to confront Alfred Beardsley, who was allegedly planning to auction off Simpson memorabilia. The site said the objects of Simpson anger were Beardsley and another collector, Bruce Fromong.
Simpson was accompanied by men he met at a wedding cocktail party, and they took the collectibles. Fromong said Simpson was the last of the men to enter the hotel room and was not carrying a gun.”
But I think I heard one of the arrested cohorts with Simpson mention something about Simpson having his money in off-shore accounts. If any of that could be proved, there would be new charges brought against Simpson.
Simpson was let out $125,000 bail, and had to relinquish his passport (you know, so he’s not a flight risk), but then I was asked if he would be tried individually or as a group with the other men involved in this robbery? And I figured that he would be tried individually, but then it was suggested to me that maybe he should be tried in a group, you know, to put him in league with all of these other felons in his I-want-my-stuff-back heist.
Speaking of the men he was with in this robbery, someone heard a DJ on Chicago radio call this group of men “O. J.’s Eleven,” which probably had something to so with the fact that O. J. Simpson was the only man out of the 11 involved who didn’t have a felony (isn’t that funny). Well, who knows what the “Eleven” was for, it could have been for the fact that there were 11 charges against Simpson and 10 of them were felonies.
Newsmax.com even talked about Simpson facing jail again, noting that “The Las Vegas police followed textbook criminal procedure, carefully arresting, charging and questioning the accomplice and obtaining two firearms and other evidence before going after O. J.
The accomplice, Walter Alexander, was arrested on two counts of robbery with a deadly weapon, two counts of assault with a deadly weapon, conspiracy to commit robbery, and burglary with a deadly weapon, enough charges to induce a deal with prosecutors.”
But considering Simpson and robbery and felony, it reminds me of how they ended up catching Al Capone: he was in charge of I don’t know how many murders over his career, but they got him by arresting him for tax evasion.
So yeah, people have speculated that this “catching” has been set up, that the police seemed far too eager to find and pounce on Simpson for this crime. And maybe they are, I don’t know — maybe they are working extra-hard to be able to catch Simpson on something, and as my husband said, if the law seems a little slanted against a person, because it is O. J. Simpson, he doesn’t mind the law being slanted this way at all.
But Simpson said “he did nothing wrong and was merely trying to retrieve his own collectibles, personal photos, his Hall of Fame certificate and other items he said had been stolen by a former sports agent” (according to that same Reuters Canada article). And on some levels he’s totally right, those were his things, and he had every right to own the things that were stolen from his home. But all I can think is that there are legal ways to get your stolen belongings back, and there are illegal ways, I mean, O. J. Simpson ways, by getting a few men together with guns, and say to them, “Don’t let nobody out of this room”? And I don’t know if that point’s been brought up to Simpson, because I heard someone say (though I can’t confirm that this is something that really happened) that Simpson told the police a number of times he knew who possessed his stolen goods, but the police didn’t follow up on any of Simpson’s requests. And that may be a true account, that cops won’t take any honest complaints from Simpson seriously because, well, he’s O. J. Simpson, but then if that’s true, the question still begs itself: is the answer to solve problems to do something illegal to correct his problems?
Well, Simpson said so when he was quoted in a Reuters update (UPDATE 6- O. J. Simpson held without bail in Las Vegas robbery): ““I’m O. J. Simpson. How am I going to think that I’m going to rob somebody and get away with it?” he said. “You’ve got to understand, this ain’t somebody going to steal somebody’s drugs or something like that. This is somebody going to get his private (belongings) back. That’s it. That’s not robbery.””
Oh, wait, we’re talking about O. J. Simpson. Maybe doing something illegal is what comes naturally to O. J. Simpson.
But even if there are many people who hope this will be the way to get Simpson in jail for once, CBS News will even remind you that Simpson has even been nick-named the Teflon Defendant because he seems to be able to avoid conviction. In “Think O. J. Is Jail-Bound? Not So Fast,” CBS News point out that “just because O. J. Simpson is disliked by many people does not mean that he is doomed when it comes to his current legal predicament.”
Because CBS News pointed out that he has been prosecuted for many things since the murder trial, and was always acquitted. Here’s a list of some of those legal troubles:
# In 2005, Simpson’s neighbor in suburban Miami called the police to report a fight. Police showed up but no charges were filed.
# In 2004, Satellite television network DirecTV Inc. accused O. J. Simpson in Miami federal court of using illegal electronic devices to pirate its broadcast signals. Simpson was ordered to pay $33,678 in attorneys’ fees and costs.
# In 2003, police responded to a call from Simpson’s teenage daughter. She said she needed help for “an abuse thing.” No charges were filed.
# In 2002, Simpson paid a $130 fine for speeding through a Florida manatee zone in a 30-foot powerboat on the Fourth of July. An arrest warrant was briefly issued for his arrest.
# In 2001, Simpson was cleared of all charges in a Florida case involving an alleged road-rage incident.
So, apparently he’s had his share with trouble from the law, but was never seriously sentenced for any real misdoings.
Maybe he is the Teflon Defendant.
I mentioned that people look to O. J. Simpson for anything related to the news or to crime, and people look for media news in the likes of Anna Nicole Smith or Britney Spears. But when I asked someone in Wisconsin her opinions on the O. J. Simpson robbery, she said she just really didn’t care. Then she added that the news could cover something that’s related to us — not even necessarily about the war, but maybe about something like education, or taking care of the people in this country here.
And I thought she really had a point; when I turn on the television I don’t look to entertainment, I turn to the news — and not that Regis and Kelly crap, or even the Today Show or Good morning America, but I turn to CNN, MSNBC, even Fox News or Headline News, where half of the news right now deals with either terrorist information or the political campaign. But at the same time, I’m still just like some of the drooling masses, who wants to know more about O. J. Simpson, who saw what they thought was a grave injustice in the double-murder trial of the century and wants to somehow see what trouble Simpson can get into now, and if anyone will ever be able to actually put him behind bars. Yeah, it’s a trite and petty desire of the American masses, but don’t be mad if I want to pepper my news with something more media looking for justice when it comes to the Juice.
This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Janet Kuypers
Editor In Chief
December 2008 Internet addition
Want to hear how apologetic O. J. Simpson sounds after his sentence was handed down to him for his kidnapping and robbery charges? Then watch the FOX news video of O. J. Simpson saying he is sorry...
If I Exploited It
Trying a turn a buck on O. J. murdering a family member
In light of what is going on with O. J. Simpson right now, the publication of the “If I Did It” novel (yes, I wrote an editorial about that too) was actually released on September 13th 2007 by the Goldman family, and defamer.com even said that “If I Did It currently sits at the #2 position on the Amazon best seller list, unseated by Alan Greenspan’s The Age of Turbulence” (it was also listed as #1 on best-sellers lists). According to Wikipedia: “In August 2007, a Florida bankruptcy court awarded the rights to the book to the Goldman family to partially satisfy an unpaid civil judgment. The title of the book was expanded to If I Did It: Confessions of the Killer and comments were added to the original manuscript by the Goldman family, the book’s ghostwriter Pablo Fenjves, and journalist Dominick Dunne. . . Rights for the book were transferred to the Goldman family, who will receive 90 per cent of profits, as part of their settlement.” Denise Brown hasa petition out to stop people from purchasing the book, and Nicole’s father, Louis H. Brown, lost when attempting to sue the Goldmans, also trying to stop publication of this .
On September 25th, I heard that the ghostwriter of the book “If I Did It” was interviewed — and the kick in the pants is that the ghostwriter is the man whose dog was in the street barking because the dog heard something wrong during the Brown-Goldwin murders. Pablo Fenjves testified against Simpson 12 years ago, coining one of the most memorable phrases of the trial: “plaintive wail” of a dog. Fenjves, Brown Simpson’s neighbor, testified that he heard a dog crying by the two corpses. Simpson recognized Fenjves from the trial. And when O. J. first met up with Fenjves (and he knew of his dog barking at the time of the murders), Simpson said something to the effect of “Imagine if I had been found guilty based on a barking dog.” And from what I know, PABLO FENJVES seemed sure at that point (if he wasn’t sure before) that O. J. Simpson actually committed those murders — and the funny thing is, O. J. even believes his ghostwriter believes O. J. Simpson murdered Brown and Goldwin.
According to CBS News, Fenjves told The Early Show co-anchor Julie Chen that “It was incredibly compelling. You know, to be given an opportunity to sit in a room with a man that, you know, I personally believed to be a murderer — was just — it was hard to not do it.” Fenjves also said, “I said, ‘I’m sorry, O.J. You know, I — I — thought you were guilty then, and I still think you’re guilty,’ “ Fenjves said. “And he just exploded. He said, ‘I know you do!’ “It was a — very explosive. ‘I know you do!’ very loud and ferocious. And we were alone in — in the hotel suite. But a moment later, he was like — he was back to himself.” And according to the CBS News article, Simpson went back and forth between being jovial and being distressed while Fenjves interviewed him about the murders.
But when it comes to the interviewing for the novel writing, and from what I understand, O. J. would answer questions about what “would” have happened at any given point in the evening, and he would always answer in the third person (like, well, then they would have done X, or they would have killed her first, then him, something like that). But Fenjves would occasionally ask a question where O. J. would answer in the first person.
Like, when Fenjves was asked if this double murder was something that the murderer could have done alone, or would he have needed help from anyone else to kill them.
O. J. would answer a question like that with something to the effect of, “Oh. I couldn’t do that alone. I had to have help.” He would answer while changing from third person to first person in his answers.
Fenjves also asked O. J. at one point, in this “murder scenario,” as the murderer was leaving the crime scene, if he would have turned left or right to leave the alley.
O. J. would answer a question like that with something to the effect of, “I couldn’t turn right because then I’d drive by the limo and the murder scene. So I had to go left.” Once again, he would answer while changing from third person to first person in his answers.
Also according to Fenjves , “He told me that when the Akita, the dog, came out of the house and saw Ron Goldman, the dog wagged his tail,” Fenjves said. “And I thought, ‘Wow. That’s a very telling detail.’ You know, to me, it suggested that the dog knew Ron Goldman. And he had been there before. And that’s not the kind of detail one makes up.”
Fenjves even said it was also disturbing when Simpson gave a hypothetical motive for murdering Nicole in a TV Extra account: “This narcissist is describing this woman in the most unflattering terms and doesn’t even see it,” he said. “I think the message in that is, ‘If I did it, she had it coming.’”
I came across (after Wikipedia) a TMZ.com article that actually had parts of the manuscript before the publication of the book (because apparently the manuscript was leaked on the Internet before the book was actually released). Just because I assume someone else out there has the same sick facination with this whole book scenario that I do, I am going to show for you here what TMZ describes as “a chilling scene” Simpson describes about the murders:
“I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. “What the fuck is that?” I said. “You think you can take me with your karate shit?” He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn’t been so fucking angry I would have laughed in his face. “O.J., come on!” It was Charlie again, pleading. Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn’t seem like anything was registering. Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me blocking my view. “We are fucking done here, man-let’s go!”
I noticed the knife in Charlie’s hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up. “We’re not going anywhere,” I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “You think you’re tough, motherfucker?” I said. I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. “Okay, motherfucker!” I said. “Show me how tough you are!”
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital-with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo. And now?
Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?”
Okay, that’s all I’m going to have. I just wanted you to see a different aspect of the Simpson debacle through the eventual release of this book. Because with the more information you get, it becomes more obvious that trying to wrap your mind around the entire O. J. Simpson escapade is probably impossible, if you haven’t lived through the nightmare yourself.
This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Janet Kuypers
Editor In Chief
Which 3rd Party Candidate will spoil
the chances for Which Major Candidate?
You know, a while ago I heard that Ralph Nader was jumping into the 2008 Presidential elections, and all the pundits and reporters in the 24-hour drive-by media (you know, CNN, MSNBC, FOX News) could talk about was how this might destroy the chances for a Democrat to make it into the White House, because the only major party the Green Party would steal votes from is the Democrat Party. Of course, those news stations will then go on to say that although in 2004 Nader really didn’t make much of an impact at all, people believe that the Green Party really did have an adverse effect on the 2000 election with Gore and Bush.
They seldom mention the Libertarian Party — the only 3rd party ticket that actually could afford ads on election day in the 2004 election, and although they only probably got 3% of the vote it’s a ton more than the Green Party gets. But that party is brought up when someone (who was an Impeachment manager against President Bill Clinton) decides that after switching to the Libertarian Party, they may run for President in the 2008 election.
Bob Barr is the guy’s name, and he has started an exploratory committee for determining the feasibility and potential for running as the third party candidate. Now, I look at the Libertarian Party website, and thet have decided (strangely) that they are going to choose a presidential candidate for the 2008 election by having candidates not only meet criteria for running, but also that they get the most in donation money (because learning how to get the most money will apparently show the candidate how to compete in Washington).
The other kick in the pants I got when I went to the Libertarian Party web site () is that Mike Gravel (yes, if you even saw any of the early Democrat Debates, you’ve seen him) decided to switch parties and run under the Libertarian Party ticket. (In other words, he is running for President in this election under the Libertarian Party, but he hasn’t even made enough money to be one of the major contenders for the Libertarian Party ticket.)
Now, that Mike Gravel thing was just an aside, because as soon as I heard about Bob Barr, I thought of Ron Paul, a once-Libertarian who switched parties and has been running under the Republican ticket recently. Although he was at the earlier Presidential debates (yes, like Gravel), he was so straight-forward with his answers that although a lot of Republicans wouldn’t want him as their candidate for President, a lot of people fell in love with his beliefs. Ron Paul (whom I would like to call the Libertarian dressed in Republican’s clothing) was receiving so much money in donations to his web site that he even said that he didn’t know how to spend all of the money that he has received. Even in my primarily Democratic state of Illinois (because it seems that most everyone in the Chicagoland area is a Democrat), I can’t tell you how many signs for Ron Paul I saw posted in the grass at major intersections. Even when the Primaries came to Illinois, I knew Obama (you know, the guy from Illinois) would overwhelmingly win everything, so I voted for the only Libertarian on the two-party ticket — Ron Paul.
I mean, I thought Ron Paul had changed his ways when he decided to run on the Republican ticket. So after hearing Ron Paul say repeatedly that we should pull all troops out of Iraq, I went to the Libertarian Party web site, and saw splashed all over their front page the fact that we should pull all of our troops out of Iraq. So maybe Ron Paul partially decided to switch to the Republican Party because there was a better chance he’d get more name recognition, and a better chance to be elected for any political position if he was a member of a major party.
But thinking about how people seemed to love Ron Paul in the Republican Party debates, I wondered what Bob Barr’s thoughts on this election would be — especially when the Libertarian Party already has a strange and difficult way to get nominated as an official Libertarian for the candidacy. So I started searching for news stories about Barr’s “exploratory committee,” along with any other information about what Barr might be thinking when it comes to this election. And it was funny that since he used to be a Republican, the first news story I was able to check out was from the fair and balanced FOX News.
The first thing the FOX News article (http://elections.foxnews.com/2008/04/01/report-bob-barr-weighing-presidential-run) pointed out was that “Barr, who joined the Libertarian Party after leaving Congress in 2003, is looking to attract conservatives who are unhappy with the choice of John McCain as the expected Republican presidential nominee.” And for that they’ve made a great point, because a lot of Republicans aren’t fond of McCain (who has appeared on the Daily Show with Jon Stuart so many times that McCain joked about being a staffer with the Daily Show); Rush Limbaugh had even said for I don’t know how long that McCain is not a good candidate (and oddly enough, people believe him blindly).
And FITNews (the first place that reported on the Bob Barr Presidential possibility) even reported that the Texas Republican Rep. Ron Paul would support him (how fitting). Barr even told FITNews (http://www.fitsnews.com/2008/03/31/barr-to-announce-presidential-bid-next-week) that he explained to “the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that his potential Libertarian bid for the White House would be an extension of the Ron Paul movement.”
It is true that when someone like Ron Paul is under the Republican ticket, he is constrained about putting forth his own agenda (as it seems evident that all Republicans other than McCain who were running for the Republican ticket were praising torture for detainees), so there is a chance that Bob Barr on the Libertarian ticket might get his point across in a more accurate manner. And as reported in the Western Standard (http://westernstandard.blogs.com/shotgun/2008/04/bob-barr-revolu.html, posted by Kalim Kassam on April 5, 2008), “On The Sean Hannity Show on April 3rd, Barr said that this election year was “a perfect storm” for a 3rd party like the Libertarian Party to make an impact.”
And yes, he may make an impact, but the impact wouldn’t be that he would win the Presidential election. And I don’t think he thinks he would win either, but what he is doing would help bolster the idea that the two party system America has clung to for so long might not be working so smoothly in the 21st century.
And it makes me laugh to think that in this presidential election, it might be a 3rd party candidate that might be making things difficult for the Republican party and not the Democratic party. With every major party candidate now espousing the beliefs that we should do more to conserve resourses and help the environment (thanks to Al Gore, the scorned lover of the 2000 Presidential election), Ralph Nader’s Green Party run for office probably won’t sway many Democrats to the Green Party ticket (you know, kind of like 2004). So it’s novel to think that the Libertarian Party, which has been the strongest 3rd party on the ticket in recent years, might actually hold the Republican party back, when they seem to already be shaking with McCain as their presumptive nominee.
This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Janet Kuypers
Editor In Chief
poetry
the passionate stuff
Pickle Juiced
Michael Lee Johnson
My skeleton is in
a large glass jar-
x-rayed for dental remains,
half dead, detained
& vibrating in nerves endings.
I walk through
this night pickled juiced,
caged in.
I know who I am by
the words I type,
the fonts I chose,
the poems that
didn’t nurture
in my brain, aborted.
Behind my shack
a trailer park playground
of juvenile tormentors
shove basketballs
through netted rims.
A skinny redhead
named Randy
urinates then
hammers his basketball
against the side of my
bathroom wall for practice-
shatters glass, the scent
of ice blue Aqua Vela
permeates shaky
shadows on the wall.
But these pesky human
insects are gone my midnight.
The displeasure of
the laundry mat doors
slamming relentless against my
living room wall lock down at 1 am.
Cordless, powered by inebriation
I toss this fried skeleton box
into a cheap twin bed,
wrestle with the quiet
for 3 hours.
April 15th, taxes are due.
Poverty is a pair of scissors
cutting dull across the foreskin.
Michael Lee Johnson Bio
Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Itasca, IL after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance writer and poet. He is heavy influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, and Leonard Cohen. 200 plus poems pending publication or published. He is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc; Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: pw.org/directory. Recent publications: The Orange Room Review, Bolts of Silk, Chantarelle’s Notebook, The Foliate Oak Online Literary Magazine, Poetry Cemetery , Official Site of Laura Hird, The Centrifugal Eye, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Scorched Earth Publishing and many others. Published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria Africa, India, and the United Kingdom.
You can also find him in the Illinois Center for the Book.
Michael Lee Johnson’s cc&d chapbook (40 pages, released 06/13/07) The Lost American is available for viewing and for sale (free download, or $5.00 for print copy purchase).
The 57 page chapbook The Lost American: A Tender Touch & A Shade Of Blue is also available for sale at lulu.com for $11.98 here:
http://www.lulu.com/content/936633
The 90 page paperback The Lost American II: From Exile to Freedom is available for $13.93 for sale.
And it is also at IUniverse.
The book is also listed at Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble. Visit his website at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/. He is now the publisher, editor of Poetic Legacy
FRIENDLY FIRE
G.A. Scheinoha
There’s no fighting
the heavy hardware
of the heart.
When you crank out
the big guns;
guilt, anger, fear,
they’ve no choice
but surrender
or be pounded by
the artillery
of their own
regrets.
Sideshow, art by Peter Schwartz
Information on the Artist Peter Schwartz
After years of writing and painting, Peter Schwartz has moved to another medium: photography. In the past his work’s been featured in many prestigious print and online journals including: Existere, Failbetter, Hobart, International Poetry Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Reed, and Willard & Maple. Doing interviews, collaborating with other artists, and pushing the borders of creativity, his mission is to broaden the ways the world sees art. Visit his online gallery at: www.sitrahahra.com.
Cycle
Shannon Krol
The life and death of a woman,
Forgets where she is at.
The life and death of a woman,
Remembers everything.
The life and death of a woman,
Knowing there is no more.
Here lies the death of a woman
Never, she’d be scorned…
All her life she’ll wonder,
If what he said was true.
BROOKLYN DOG DAYS
Mel Waldman
In the Waste Land of Brooklyn, during the dog days,
when the heat is seething but chilling to the psyche,
you’d better watch your back.
It’s Psycho Country, here & now. And even though
Anthony Perkins (as Norman Bates) won’t cut your
heart out while you
cleanse your body and soul (he’s dead, you see), some
innocent-looking psycho will, in the sprawling desert
of Brooklyn,
during the dog days, on the beach-where you’re spread eagle
beneath the omnipotent sun at Brighton or Manhattan Beach
or Coney Island
or in the streets of Flatbush or maybe, back home when you
look into the mirror and discover a strangely familiar face-
smiling sardonically
& a disembodied hand clutching a machete-cuts the stranger,
who is the enemy and, in fact,
you!
BIO
Mel Waldman, Ph. D.
Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, POETICA, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), PBW, NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at , and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at , and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in May 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites. I AM A JEW, a book in which Dr. Waldman examines his Jewish identity through memoir, essays, short stories, poetry, and plays, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2008.
Propaganda
Kenneth DiMaggio
Propaganda is the writing that shows
how everybody is trying to be like
Mr. and Mrs. Popular but your television
is a hallucinogenic window and the rest
of the world does not want to live
in the scripted conformity of a suburban
American high school
And when they are not waging war
the Joint Chiefs of Staff are bagging
the unidentified remains of soldiers at
the cocaine white shopping mall
And when they are not shopping
Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class pour pieces
of Antarctica into their cocktails
while barbecuing tracts of the rain
forest for their neighbors who are
mannequins because they have read
the best selling novel and because
you have not
you get to live with the two headed
frogs and other mutated amphibio-
reptiles in the contaminated trailer
court where each inmate gets
a satellite dish to watch
previously rehearsed live
wrestling and religion
Ohdon’t tell me your
ideology or your religious
affiliationjust quit
your job and let someone else
clean up the mess
the futureis not our responsibility
the futureis our ongoing art project
titledAnarchy
CloseBody09, art by Melanie Monterey
Soldier
Joe Frey
Imagine that at any given moment
he could be killed.
As in a dream, in an unfamiliar
place, with unfamiliar surroundings.
Imagine that every conscious second
of every single day he is alert
and on-guard.
Thankful for every new morning
he wakes to see.
When he speaks to God in prayer -
he means it.
His sincerity is piercing when longing
for his loved ones -
he means it.
When he reaches out in thanks
for each meal before him -
he means it.
When everything he does has a purpose.
A meaning, a well thought out plan
with an end result.
Nothing - absolutely nothing is ever
taken for granted by the soldier.
No one else is more honest, somber and
dyed-in-the-wool than the soldier.
His thoughts, posture and actions
are all genuine.
They speak only what he knows:
Methodical by nature.
When his finger balances precariously
on that lever of fate, his devotion and
all he believes in and is programmed for
is at attention -
and he means it.
Helping Hands, art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz
Porn Stars
I.B. Rad
I was watching porn stars
humping and grunting on TV
while switching on election returns
during less explicit scenes
when I started laughing
at an aroused candidate
going through the motions,
climaxing at what she’d do
if she got in office,
for I knew,
unlike posturing politicians,
at least porn stars
truly do it.
Biography
I.B. Rad is an irreverent civic poet who uses a variety of styles that he thinks are suitable for civic/satirical poetry. His sometimes-controversial work has been published in a number of electronic and hardcopy publications. I.B. and Mrs. Rad live in New York City with an adorable dog, who allows them the run of the house.
Hello Kitty
Sarah Marie
“Don’t you fucking say ‘burning’ again...”
followed by a poorly- calculated
Oh baby baby baby, don’t leave
I join the blond, 5'8", C cup land
(with pre-packaged, conveniently pre-popped cherries),
the very moment that I allowed the
wild-eyed/seductive
savage to
bend me over and
penetrate me with the status quo.
left naked to
sitting on this putrid bathroom sink,
gazing at the [one-dimensional, false] royalty purple
shower curtain.
a blank witness to sexy vice.
all where truth/reality
shrills in falsetto cadence
--to tender eardrums--
so
with hangover subsiding,
I giggle {inanely/stylishly}
it all easing through lips.
So, what do you want to do?
Cat Eye, art by Cheryl Townsend
Let’s Not Watch
the Evening News Tonight
John Grey
Dog broke into the yard,
attacked the tiny poodle.
snapped its back, its neck,
ran off into the woods.<
Dog just did it out
of spite or jealousy,
not hunger
‘cause it left
the poor thing
intact and lying there.<
Now it’s a dog
on the run
in forests of
its ancient ancestors,
maybe guilt-ridden,
maybe fearful,
as if it heard the
man in the hardware store
swear, “I’ll shoot
that mutt on sight.”<
Maybe it’ll meet
up with a mangy pack,
all yelping and growling
rutting, running wild<
The trees could be anything
as the sun drops down
and dark flies high
its skull and cross-bones.
Wild dogs are on the move.
Dead dogs are in the hands
of loved ones.
And we don’t need the news
to tell us that.
This Land is Bad, art by Brian Hosey
The Parched Earth
Bernard Gieske
Leaves bursting with thirst
suicidal descents
into the sands of oblivion below
the final searching
so much brown
green - a lost
bewildered orphan
disappearing children
crucified limbs
flesh torn
slowly from hanging skeletons
we journey through the desert
Bright Images
Eric S. Mackey
Images of life inspire me
Under their bright falling light,
And if I could
I would gather them
And display them
Like paintings in a museum.
Images of a dualistic world
Where opposites are needed
To balance the extremes,
Images of an existence
Between Heaven and Hell,
Images that compensate
For ineffective speech,
Images of being one
With each other and
The Earth as it rotates
And sustains us,
Images of growth through
All that life brings our way,
Images of evolution of
The mind and spirit.
Alien Heart Evolution, art by Junior McLean
Yesterday
Jinesh Patel
Turns out I was rght
You can lie again
You can act decimated
I’m not ready to believe
The boy who cries wolf
The story of our time together
Eventually no one comes
Eventually no one believes
Eventually you are left alone
Return back
Revert through the mirror
Feel the same
Understand the world before I choke
There is no coming back
No green on the other side
We move forward, not back
We are who we are today
We are what we do today
Not before, there is no yesterday
Cry again tomorrow
Cry again next week
Who will come?
I didn’t want to be right
I don’t want to be your wolf
But, Yesterday exists no more
The Hand me Downs
Kimberly Creighton
My daughter
the hand me downs, she takes
she watches as I clean
and babbles as I scrub
waiting for the the hand me downs, she likes
she cries as I bathe her
and sleeps as I touch her
for the hand me downs, she makes
and as she grows and eats
I believe I can teach her
for the hand me downs, she waits
Trading Cards, art by Nick Brazinsky
Firefly
Holly Cross
What the firefly does not want
is to be flipped over,
examined, scrutinized.
Pull out her light, her allure,
her mystery, and she is just a bug.
Deflowered by the fingernail of a child
or pinned by the science of a man,
it is the same. She has been touched,
attached, struggling under sin
and she is ruined.
What the firefly does want
is to float, suspended in time,
blinking with the pulse of nature;
aloof, unaware, unburdened.
To trap her in a jar
would be to change the percussion of the earth.
The rhythm fades
into a faint, but sudden change in the music.
Hiking Boots And Raingear
Ken Fisher
“Are you taking the cruise?”, they asked automatically
On hearing our dreams of Alaska,
Not understanding the lure of the earth-
The mountains, the forest, the tundra’s vast intrigue,
Migration of caribou swept cross the taiga,
Snowfields that cling to the crags long past summer,
Either sparkling in sunlight or camouflaged by the mist.
“Why not the cruise?” they ask in surprise
Until I speak of freedom felt when climbing up a glacier,
Choosing my steps cautiously, planting my resolve
Upon a grinding, crevassed sea of ice, beyond immense,
Cracking underneath my feet, arousing fascination
With motion sensed and understood, felt only in the soul
Ecstatic to be riding ancient snowstorms through the glare.
How does one reveal the spirit of a forest, huge and silent
Wrapping one within vast energy
Which soothes and strengthens
When a hiker settles on a rotting log, and travels inward,
Poised to find enlightenment exposed just momentarily
By whispered breezes, murmurings within the underbrush just barely
Hiding secrets one desires, but might be unprepared for.
I stood just feet from vicious mauling, adrenaline on fire,
Searching grizzly eyes for hints
That they’d warn of aggression.
They didn’t flare, I never blinked, just quickly flicked the shutter,
While he lunged wildly for salmon, gnawing on each flopping morsel,
Permitting me my stealthy crawl toward images imbued with power,
Allowing me a moment that will thrill me to my grave.
I can’t describe the dazzling brilliance on a ridge called Polychrome,
Where I scrambled up loose scree
On trails where Dall sheep graze and amble,
To stand in reverence deep within a grandeur most cannot conceive
Where jagged orange and burnt umber cliffs cut sharply down to emerald
Vegetation clinging to the braided rivers that meander
Infinitely further through a paradise than soaring eagles
Ever could set eyes upon in a lifetime of winged freedom.
I still saw wonders from the water, but tasted sea spray in my grin,
Delirious with our rough passage
Over seas that pounded me
With ocean’s power and it’s gifts, which floated past or arced in triumph
Through my vision for an instant, then to slice back out of view,
With the backdrop of huge glaciers calving with the crack of thunder,
Along a rocky coast where creatures fade back into endless forest.
Hiking, climbing, stalking wildlife, capturing their moods and struggles,
I became Alaska’s essence,
I was offered up it’s soul
To digest through dreams which linger, now absorbed as part of me-
Moose and orca, ptarmigan, wolves that sprang up for a glimpse,
Volcanic cones and huge Denali peaking through the smoky haze,
Settling on a wilderness which stretches to the Arctic Ocean.
They ask me why I didn’t choose banquet meals and shuffleboard,
And I just smile because words cannot answer
What is missing deep within their satisfaction
With what’s lost, when one embraces barriers that needn’t loom
Between joy’s vast experience and echoes in the soul
When living human beings give up living, just for comfort
Upon a ship where most are thankful to belly up to the buffet.
You gave me hyacinths first a year ago
They called me the hyacinth girl
David J. Thompson
Eliot was reading “The Wasteland” at a little theater
on the edge of Bloomsbury. I was there with the Woolfs,
trying to impress them by listening intently with my eyes
squeezed tight, when noise from the stage and gasps
from the audience forced me to look. A woman dressed
in a long, black cape, beret, and boots let a white terrier
loose on the stage. It ran for Eliot immediately, yapping
incessently, jumped up on his leg. Oh, God, no, I heard
Virginia say as she covered her eyes, It’s Vivienne.
The woman in black yelled, Have you missed us, Tom?
Have you missed us at all? We’ve certainly missed you
more than you’ll ever know. Eliot didn’t move at all,
an expression of indistinguishablly frozen wonder or
horror on his face. Men came on stage, pushed her
and grabbed the dog; moved them offstage. Leonard reached
across me to reassure Virginia who was shaking, muttered
something about this bloody awful business under his breath.
Eliot steadied himself on the podium and began to read again,
now with his head down, but all I could hear was the fading
sound of that little white dog that wouldn’t stop barking
even as they carried it away.
Backlot 52, painting by Jay Marvin
prose
the meat and potatoes stuff
Academic Climbing
Pat Dixon
1
“Hi, folks. It’s Lindsey calling. Uh—how are you? Uh—how are you, Gary?”
Gary Martin sucked in his lower lip and gently nibbled it, holding his breath and staring at the top line on his computer screen. His fingertips rested on his keyboard.
“Listen—um—uh—as you may’t be aware, I—we’ve been bringin’ up the issue of censorship in—um—the Faculty Senate—not the Senate—at, at the—uh—Computer Users’ meeting. And we have kinda drafted a resolution—or rather I’ve drafted a resolution as—I’ve e-mailed it—copied it to you sssev—a couple of times on—at the school e-mail. I don’t know if you get that. But the basic thing is that—um—you know—I, I, I drafted a resolution whereas the A-CUC, the Academic Computer Users’ Committee, said that we’re opposed to the—uh—filtering of any kind of—content. And—um—you know we have . . . .”
During Lindsey’s third sentence, Gary took a deep breath through his nostrils and stood up. As her shrill, high voice continued to emanate from his answering machine, he slipped into the light wool jacket he had hung across the back of his home-office chair.
“Bull stool, cow stool, sow stool, chicken stool, elephant stool, whale stool,” he whispered, walking out his back door and into his yard.
Fifteen minutes later he re-entered his house and pressed the “play” button on the white plastic answering machine.
2
“Who’s the message from, hon?” asked Donna Martin, glancing down at the blinking red light next to their phone.
“Lindsey Ames. I saved it for you to interpret to me, but please don’t play it till after we’ve made love. Otherwise it might serve as an anti-aphrodesiac. I played it four hours ago, and I am just now finally recovering.”
“Okay—you saved it, for me to listen to?”
“After love and after supper, both. That’s my recommendation. Did it go okay at work today?”
“The usual same ol’ cut-throat stuff. Charlie and Keith kept trying to torpedo each other during the noon meeting and occasionally fired off little shots towards Ralph and me. Ol’ Andrew nodded approvingly whenever they made some point, and that seemed to encourage them. Ralph and I basically kept our mouths shut, though he did a lot of eye-rolling whenever I looked across at him.”
“He wants you, babes,” Gary said.
“I am for Gary,” she said in mock-robot tones, “after he gives me a five-minute foot rub.”
“Foot rub first,” he said.
3
While Gary finished washing their dinner plates and silverware, Donna sat in the livingroom and played Lindsey Ames’s message. From time to time she wrinkled her nose.
“. . . I, I, I drafted a resolution whereas the A-CUC, the Academic Computer Users’ Committee, said that we’re opposed to the—uh—filtering of any kind of—content. And—um—you know we have obligations obviously to provide for security and— nnn—no illegal activities on the Internet, but content—um—should not be filtered. So—um—though—I got an e-mail from Becky—um—MacLeod, the Senate President, that you wanted the proposals—um—forwarded—no—mmm—the motion made putting the proposals on the floor—thing is, we’re going to have a very—probably a long meeting voting on membership—on Friday. And—um—I, I was kinda anxious to get this—um—censorship issue on the floor, as well as—uh—actually pushing for new—uh—reorganization—with Academic Computing—as a separate—entity—or a distinct entity—so—um—we’re not gonna have time to do all of that. All I hope to do is get the motion made and—um—you know—get the motion made that is—um—about censorship and—um—you know—kinda take it from there. Anyway, give me a call at 676-6480. I’ve been talking with Becky MacLeod, and I said—you know—I would talk to you and maybe would take up your proposals next—at the following meeting. Okay, darling. Take care.”
Donna’s hand hovered over the “delete” button of the answering machine.
“Babes?” she called towards the kitchen. “You want me to save this shit?”
“Nah,” said Gary. “I already talked to her for—oh—ten minutes. So, what did you think that was about?”
“Think?” she said, walking into the kitchen so they wouldn’t have to raise their voices. “That ****ing **** is trying to steal your proposal and put it out as her own while you’re on sick leave.”
Gary turned to face his wife and grinned.
“Shocking! You just used the ‘C’ word—one of the words I can’t use, not even as a term of endearment.”
“Sometimes it’s the only word that does the job, fella. ’Sides, I’m a woman. And it’s not about us getting to change our minds. Anyway, what did you and her talk about?”
“Well, first there was a two-minute minuet where she asked how I’m doing and told me she hoped I was feeling better.”
“But not a peep during the previous four months from her!”
“Now, Donna, the Lindsey is doing the best she can with what the Lord gave her. So anyway I gave her a rather gross, detailed description of what the surgery was like and how my bowel movements are and how my physical rehab is going, and then she asked me if I might be thinking about retiring.”
“Probably has some friend in mind to come in an’ replace you—like what she did when Brian Delany and Willard Ford retired and what she tried to do when Wendy Kaufman was denied tenure.”
“Yuh—that crossed my mind, too. I guess we’re reading from the same page. Then she got around to ‘her’ proposal. Part of her wants to be everyone’s friend, I think, in case she tries to run for department head again, so she was angling to get my permission to substitute her own proposal against Internet censorship for the one I e-mailed to Becky and that Becky forwarded to the whole faculty about three months ago—the one that nobody would put on the floor to be discussed or voted on.”
“Along with your seven other proposals—to abolish praying at Witherspoon’s graduation ceremonies and convocations, to rewrite the forms the department heads use to rate faculty members, to have an Honor Code for everybody, not just the students, and—whatever.”
“Yuh—and have faculty members fill out forms to evaluate their department heads and all the other administration right up to—or down to—the Super. And revising the sick-leave policy. Nothing like a little surgery to make a fella cranky and disinhibit the ol’ brain—that and having a little nose-to-nose with the Reaper. His breath did something, maybe, to my backbone.”
“And your whatever bone—unless it’s the salutary result of being away from that stress factory for a few months—and going to rehab for reconditioning three times a week. Uh—thank you. Thank you very much,” she drawled in a deeper voice.
They both grinned at Donna’s Elvis impression.
“So why did Little Lindsey decide to put out her own motion on censorship? What’s up?” Donna continued.
“Besides wanting to add one more line to her annual list of achievements for the betterment of ol’ Witherspoon Military Academy? And keeping her face—and voice—in the minds of the whole faculty? She said there’s been a questionnaire sent around to the faculty by A-CUC, that Computer Users’ Committee she was assigned to after I got sick. And they determined that about two-thirds of the faculty now is in favor of recommending that the Super remove the censoring program. So, it took a few months, but the direction of the wind seemed clear to her, and she decided to capitalize on it if she could—with my blessing. But, before I’d tell her whether that was all right with me, just for fun and to smoke her out about some of my other proposals that she said she’d put on the floor at the following meeting, I acted a little tangential for a minute or so.”
“Like how? How tangential?”
“I said, ‘Gee, Lindsey, that’s great! Imagine the faculty responding so favorably to the idea of standing up for this!’ An’ I was careful not to sound sarcastic at all. Then I digressed like a ninny and told her what else was great—about how my tastes in classical music have shifted from orchestral pieces to bel canto singing since my operation, especially arias sung by basses, contraltos, and mezzos—and that I’d been buying tons of opera CDs while on sick leave. And I mentioned I’d e-mailed a fan letter to Shirley Verrett and had received a gracious note of thanks back from her. O’ course Lindsey, who projects herself as the expert in all things artistic, pretended to know what I was talking about. She had no clue who Shirley Verrett is or what’s so great about her. She barely knows the difference between—oh—the violinist Arthur Grumiaux and the conductor Arthur Fiedler—or composer Leroy Anderson and contralto Marion Anderson—or Johann Bach and Offenbach—or Cheryl Crowe, a Top Twenties singer she’s heard, or at least heard of, and Cheryl Studer, a diva she hasn’t. And so on—and if I’d really felt mean today, babes, I could’ve asked her which soprano she liked better—Cheryl Studer or Sherrill Milnes—and she’d’ve faked it and made a bogus choice!”
“So what is the right answer, hon?”
“It’s a tricky question. Studer is a soprano, but Sherrill Milnes is really a baritone with a unisex-sounding first name. And Lindsey wouldn’t’ve had a clue.”
“I didn’t have a clue either. What’s that make me?”
Gary’s eyes softened. He took Donna by her shoulders and rubbed his nose against her nose. “Somebody who can be honest about having a gap—somebody who lovably can say—.” He paused and kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips, and then the side of her neck. “Somebody cute and adorable who can honestly admit—like me, most of the time—‘Gee, I’ve got a gap in my knowledge. Can you help fill it in?’”
Donna nuzzled the front of his shirt. “You mean like how you helped fill in my gap a little while ago—upstairs?”
“Funny. Clever. Two more reasons why I nub you, little cutie. And—what were we talking about? I suddenly have a gap.”
“’Bout you telling her, Lindsey, you sent a fan letter and got an answer back?”
“That’s right. Thanks. And here’s an unexpected payoff. Not to be outdone, ol’ Lindsey, who fancies herself the expert in all things artistic, bragged that she’d pressured somebody ‘who—um, uh—works at the Landmark and who—uh, uh—owes me—uh, uh’ to give her two freebie tickets worth $40 each to observe a Marilyn Horne ‘master class’ they were having there—and how she had then played Lady Bountiful with the other ticket—‘uh, uh—this is—uh, uh—entre nous, of—uh,uh—course.’ And then, after this confidential confession, I switched our conversation to the topic of the honor code!”
“What a bitch. Her, I mean. Not you, Gary.”
“You may well say so, sweetie. I couldn’t possibly comment. Anyway, I told her, ‘Concerning what you said before, Lindsey, about the faculty getting gutsy—it makes me have hope, entr’ ourselves, that my favorite two proposals will get passed when you put them forward—the one about abolishing compulsory prayers at ceremonies and the one about instituting an Honor Code for the faculty and the admin. That last one has been a big issue with me ever since I first proposed it five years ago. Did I ever tell you, Lindsey, that I’ve got written evidence that Graham, our peerless little department head, told me and a student that he was going to sign a waver for the kid to drop my course late—and then he made a phone call telling the Dean to disapprove the waver? How’s that for honor, huh, Lindsey?’ I said.”
“You’re bad, Gary.”
“I know. What I was thinking, of course, was how she had done something even worse herself—written a poison-pen letter against Graham to the Sabbatical Committee and then, when she was questioned about it, pointed the blame towards Wendy Kaufman. And three weeks after Wendy got canned, the stupid ‘C’ felt bad, a little, and confessed it to me—with lots of self-justifying bull stool—and elephant stool. Not that I even hinted today that the Honor Code idea was chiefly put into my head by her own actions. Anyway, she had the brass ovaries to tell me, ‘Well—uh, uh—I wouldn’t be too happy about having to sign any Honor Code. I’ve got my own code of honor—uh, uh—and it’s a pretty strict one, but I—uh, uh—wouldn’t want to be forced to adopt an outside kind of code—of any kind.’ By the way, I’m not able to do proper justice to her elocution. So, anyway, then I let that Honor Code issue drop and moved back onto the compulsory prayer issue.”
Gary paused to put a cup of instant coffee in the microwave oven.
“You want a cup, too, hon?” he asked.
“Not now. Maybe when we have some sorbet later,” Donna said.
“So I asked Lindsey about the prayer proposal, and she said that she had no problem with things the way they are—that she—uh, uh—just stood up and closed her eyes and thought—um, um—about other things while the chaplains delivered their sectarian prayers. ‘No skin off my—uh, uh—nose’ was the colorful phrase she used. So I said, ‘But you don’t have any problem about putting the proposals on the floor for me? I’d do it myself if I weren’t on sick leave, and you can just say it’s a favor for a colleague, not something you’re endorsing, if that would make you happy.’ And she said it would be not a problem for her. Then she pulled the conversation back to the proposal that is now ‘her’ proposal about not censoring the Internet at a four-year college—for faculty, the administration top to bottom, and the students. And not even the library can get into some bookstore sites to order books, because, I guess, the words ‘adult’ or ‘sex’ or ‘nude’ appear there.”
He took his coffee mug out of the microwave and set it on the counter top.
“So then the Lindsey said directly, ‘You don’t mind that I’m putting out my own proposal on this issue? I—um, um, uh, uh—told Becky I’d check with you.’ And I said, knowing she would do whatever she wanted regardless of what I felt or said, ‘It’s the good of the—the students—and the faculty at ol’ Witherspoon ‘Cademy that comes first with me. We need to get moving on removing that freakin’ filter as soon as we can.’ So she took that to be a green light from me for her, and she told me to tell you hi and that we’ll all—uh, uh—have to get together when the—uh, uh—term settles down.”
“Oh, right. I’m so looking forward to that.”
“The weird thing is that she has no clue that anyone can see through her crap. And she may even believe it herself as it comes out of her mouth. She and a few Janus-like other folks who shall remain nameless—like Graham (‘Slick’) Osborne and Arthur (‘Art for Art’s Sake’) Quinsey. And Gordon (‘Watch Your Back’) McEwen and Jack (‘Off’) Thiel, to not name a few.”
4
A week later, Gary Martin accessed a copy of the Senate minutes with his home computer and discovered that an alternate proposal recommending the abolishment of the censoring “filter” had been presented by Gordon McEwen and seconded by Arthur Quinsey. Following a brief discussion, the motion had then passed by a show-of-hands vote of 92 to 28, with 5 abstentions. Lindsey Ames’s name did not appear in the minutes. And there was nothing in the minutes about “voting on membership.”
Five weeks later, Gary accessed a copy of the minutes of the next meeting and learned that the administration had responded to the will of the faculty: the policy about “filtered access” to the Internet would be “reviewed by the Superintendent” at the start of the next academic year. Additionally, Gary noted that none of his other proposals had been put on the floor to be debated and voted on.
Worschelle, art by Aaron Wilder
The Lesser Gods
Jim Meirose
The thing the Doctor said to Mike was this; after he snapped the x-rays up onto the highly polished lightpanels he turned stroking his nose and pointed to the x-rays and he said it.
There’s a large tumor there. There. See it? In that space there. That dark blotch.
I see, said Mike. So what does it mean?
It means your behavior and perception is altered. It must be removed—
No! said Mike, waving his arms—no surgery. No braining the pillow in this house of games. Wrecking balls swinging would be dangerous yes, but not this tumor. I think I’ll keep it. What do you say, Doctor?
I have spoken, said the doctor gravely. It needs to come out. But the decision is yours.
Having said this, the Doctor stepped back arms folded and disappeared through the wall next to the x-rays, nodding straight-lipped and wide-eyed as he melted into the wall. His blue eyes were the last to disappear, hanging there a moment, two cold blue dots, and then they melted back away into the beige painted wall and the Doctor was gone.
Mike took a last glance at the x-rays and then he was gone down the hallway with the creaking floor and out the door and out into the sun. He found his sedan across the crowded lot. He got in.
Bosh, perceptions altered, he thought to himself. Just as I could I would renege on such a promise. It couldn’t be kept. It could never ever be kept, in this life.
Never, he said, pulling away in a cloud of fumes. Pan sat in the back, goatfaced, holding his flutes, scratching at his belly with the other hand.
Black are the heavens that hang above on the day you’re told you have a brain tumor—
Hold it, said Pan, shutting off Mike’s words. His cloven hooves beat time on the floorboards as he lifted the flute to his mouth and played a tune that was in time with the rumbling of the sedan’s wheels and the pinging of its engine.
Where do you want of me? asked Mike.
Pan lowered the pipes. The silence filled the car like cement just poured in would fill it.
Let me off on the corner of bumbershoot, said Pan.
Pan’s goat smell filled the car and Mike screwed up his nose but he dared not tell the great God Pan he stinks. Mike sniffed back his nose and the goats stood all around going by, all in the fallow fields all around and he drove quickly through the goat fields until he got to bumbershoot street and its tall green sign. He pulled over onto the rocky shoulder. Here, he told Pan. Bumbershoot street.
Thanks for the lift, said Pan, brushing his hand down his beard. He was always merry and playful even though he was always after one or the other of the nymphs but was always rejected because he was so ugly. He got out into the deep lava flow rolling by and melted quickly out of sight, screaming. Mike nodded gravely.
It was his choice to get out here, he thought. And so, he had to pay—
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
—with Gary Alan, muttered Mike, scratching his side. Best show on TV, that show with Gary Alan. The way he kicks the shovel blade down and the handle just shoots up into his hand. If it was me, it’d just smack me in the face. He saw the show across the windshield before him as on the other side of the back of the big fourdoor the door opened and Dionysus got in. God of the vine. He struggled his way in past the clots of vines filling the backseat and sat straight on the seat cushion and put his hand on the frontseat and spoke to Mike.
Together you rotten apple so if you can, said Dionysus.
What, said Mike, turning around and brushing aside the vines to see.
Never mind. Want some wine? said Dionysus. He held up a goblet with green gemstones studded all around the rim.
Mike pulled the big sedan back out into the traffic. Blue cars went by. And green.
I’m not supposed to drink and drive, protested Mike.
Well, said Dionysus, there are two sides to the fruits of the vine. The jolly joyful part and the dangerous frightening troublemaking part. Your laws must be slanted the way they are because of this. But there’s a case to be made for thinking that drinking will cause you to drive more joyfully, thus more safely.
No, said Mike. Being too joyful behind the wheel is what causes accidents.
So. Dionysus put his hand on the side of his face. I see. I am learning something today. You’re saying it is proper to be dour when driving and then you will not have accidents.
No—not dour, and not joyful, said Mike, waving a finger. But something in between. Besides wine does more than just make you joyful your senses are dulled and your reaction times are slowed and that is the real cause of the accidents- -not being joyful.
Dionysus drained his goblet and filled it again from a large brown bladder of wine he had hung to his side. The vines curled about him.
You should clean this car from time to time, said Dionysus, brushing aside the vines. Say, I’ll get out there—by that pole there. That silver pole. That tall silver pole. That tall silver pole with the red flag waving from it. That pole there—
All right, all right, said Mike.
The car pulled to a stop by the pole on the left and Dionysus got out the door to the right and all the vines went out with him, and as he stepped away from the car door all a great writhing bundle of vines a great blue tractor trailer came by at eighty miles an hour straight into Dionysus and Dionysus disappeared in a flash and a great cloud of leaves fluttered down all around.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Mike gripped the wheel and checked to see if he was sober. For sober is that proper state, in-between. He rapped his chicken-bone on the doorframe and saw the road forked here and the hills went up to the right and sloped down to the left and he decided to go down the hill to the left but Eros got in first, his hair flowing and his loincloth rippling in the wind of his coming. The back seat turned to a luxurious red velvet gold-trimmed ornate couch as Mike quickly drove away. A great swarm of bees engulfed the car, buzzing loud as a freight train.
Rumbling bees scare me, thought Mike. Got to get away.
He pressed his foot harder.
The great cloud of bees fell behind as the sedan gained speed and finally the great cloud of bees was gone. Eros stretched on the red velvet, lounging.
I need sex, said Eros. His golden skin glowed.
I need sex.
So what do you want me to do about it, said Mike, visibly worried and clutching the wheel like a wild-eyed fiend.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Eros leaned forward into Mike’s ear and whispered.
You need sex. From sex flows love. I am the God of love. You’re funny that way you know not believing things fully this way that way like you do your driving, so confidently, so smoothly—
I don’t know what you’re talking about, said Mike, shaking his head. But what you said is wrong. Sex flows from love. Not the other way around.
Then fill up the gas tank of love, guy, exclaimed Eros, and he threw himself back onto the red velvet, laughing. Bring me the head of Buster Brown! Bring me the head of Buster Brown, he cried. He kicked off his red velvet shoes and waved his long slender legs in the air.
Buster Brown? thought Mike.
The big sedan tooled smoothly around curve after curve. There’s a time and place for everything and everything in its place. Buzzards. I saw a buzzard once. The buzzard stood in the road not knowing the sight of it would amaze people. But Buster Brown? I don’t know—
The car struggled against Mike all the way, but he got it around all the downhill curves and the road was straight now going between fields of tall cactii. Mike chomped his bit. The cactii kept growing on either side.
—bring you the head of Buster Brown? I don’t know—
Eros suddenly sat erect.
Shut up! he cried—I’ll get out there, he said, pointing to a particularly tall blazing green cactus by the side of the road about a half mile ahead. For this is the thing dreams are made of, he added, as he pulled back on his velvet shoes. Mike pulled the big sedan over and it stopped up short in a cloud of dust. Eros popped out the back door and the back seat became a back seat again complete with the holes dug in it by the small black dog Mike used to take for rides. Scratch, scratch scratch with the jet black claws. Eros walked a short way into the cactii and then a large winged buzzard came by and lifted him up easily in its claws and flew him off to its nest, to feed its young.
Help me, screamed Eros. Help me—
His voice faded as the dot disappeared in the sky.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Mike leaned back, blinked, and wiped his eyes.
What have I seen—
A tiny baby appeared swathed in cotton blankets on the back seat propped up by a pillow. I am Hebe, said the baby in a clear adult voice. Goddess of youth. Mike turned around and gripped the wheel and the air in the car smelled sweet as a baby and he pulled away from the curb and soon they were roaring along hammer and tongs between great soaring walls of vegetation. Hebe sat in the back seat and turned into a young woman. The baby blanket lay folded in her lap and she sat nude on the rough back seat. Mike blinked—multicolored backseat weave fun furry trips the dry ones trips the wet ones trips trips, he said, and went on further, because she sat there naked. But she didn’t care, just raised her hand to quiet him and looked him in the eye and spoke.
There is an age at which you are too young to drive this car, said Hebe, shaking back her hair. What age is that? she asked, breasts jutting.
I don’t know, said Mike. Thirteen, fourteen maybe—but the law says you need to be seventeen. In this state, that is.
A great jet roared over low followed by another then another then another. Hebe put her hands over her ears.
What was that, she asked thinly.
Jets, said Mike. The car bounced over a crack in the road bouncing Hebe in her seat. Mike looked away.
How old do you have to be to drive jets? asked Hebe.
I’m not sure, said Mike. I’ve never driven a jet. Jetsonic. The power—the meat of the light fantastic—
He went on as they jetted along the blacktop, skimming the surface. The green leafy walls on either side turned to wide grassy fields with the horizon rolling along in the distance.
Still talking, Mike half turned around and shut up when he saw Hebe had turned into an old bent crone with a faceful of wrinkles and gnarled liver spotted hands and flat breasts flapping down the front of her wasted body.
I thought you were the Goddess of youth, said Mike. There were no curbs here to trip over. So what happened? I trip up the stairs and the cat and dog food always goes flying, but you—
You can be young at any age, said Hebe. Shakily she raised a crooked finger pointing to the fields ahead.
I’ll get out there.
Where?
There, she said, and he pulled up to the side of the road just as she aged so much that she died and she fell out onto the shoulder in a heap of rags and flesh and dust after opening the door with her one last reflex.
Goddess of youth, breathed Mike.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Through the still-open door two got quickly in after kicking Hebe’s tiny body to the side and they had sour looking faces, and clenched fists, and black sunken eyes and hard set straight lipless mouths. They were an older woman and a younger man.
Who are you, said Mike, dropping the car into drive gone gassy gassy gone gone as the back door slammed shut. I mean, who are you gassy gassy gone gone gone to space in the mists of the timeless void—
Shut up, said the woman. I am Eris—Goddess of discord. And this is my son, Strife.
—stomping on iron ground strumming a guitar mindlessly and clashing the cymbals loudly and crying afterwards at all the pain you’ve caused—
Strife leaned forward, hair hanging in his eyes.
You were told to shut up. Why won’t you shut up? Look at the road. Its so straight. It should be all spirals and all corkscrews like when you screw a corkscrew in a cork and it comes out pop, pop pop, just like that, pop—
Shut up son, said Eris. You’re as bad as our driver here. Her tangled tresses puffed out hugely. What you’re saying’s not true not true at all the lying cats got your tongue again got it by the tip with its teeth and its bleeding, be careful—you’ll end up with a bloody tongue again—
But Ma—
She shook her head violently and her hands turned to claws.
—never mind but ma here! she cried, slapping Strife on the back of the head. He cringed away.
Why’d you hit me, Ma, you’re always hitting me—
She turned from him and leaned up against the front seatback, looking out the wide curved windshield.
The road is so long, so black, and so straight, she sighed softly into Mike’s large right ear. Mike held the wheel steady—the mountains went by craggy and broken on either side. He spoke.
Have to be careful here of falling rock—
—so long, so black, so straight—
Eris leaned forward and clamped her hand on the wheel and pulled it violently to the side sending the car veering toward the rocky shoulder and Mike slapped her hand down and barely kept the bouncing car right side up must always be right side up you know—shiny side up, greasy side down, cried Mike, fighting the wheel.
Right—there’s a right side, and there’s a wrong side, said Strife from the back seat. Drive more carefully! he half-yelled to Mike. You’ll kill us!
But she’s the one—
Yes, said Eris—drive more carefully! Or you’ll kill us! But we’ve had enough anyway—there, there, there, we want to get out there by those jutting broken rocks our cave is nearby—
Right, added lying Strife—our cave is nearby.
Up there, she said, and she waved her hand with her finger pointed toward the place she wanted Mike to stop and he stopped and one of his front wheels bumped hard over a large rock. They piled out of the car in a tangle. Their smell lay pungent in the car. They went up the rocks climbing like spiders. Loose shards slid and bounced down to the shoulder. The very strife of them, the very strife and discord of them has broken all these rocks, said Mike. I’d better get out of here before I die. Because all the others died, but they haven’t. Unless they’re going to die after I pull away. At any rate—it’s a bad sign I haven’t seen them die, like the others. It’s not right somehow—
The door slammed shut. He pulled away. Soon he was on a long bridge over the blue tossing sea.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
—it’s not right it’s not right it’s not right—
A figure stood hitchhiking. Mike pulled over to the side of the bridge. The sea tossed wildly below throwing up whitecaps. Mike leaned at the hitchhiker.
Gordon? said Mike—Gordon Gillman? I thought you were dead.
Nope. Not dead. Not by your Harry crackers. Can I get a ride? Can you give me a ride? Will you give me a ride? Could you would you should you give me a ride—
Sure, said Mike. The steel bridge trembled from the surge of the stormy sea. Gordon got in all in white—suddenly followed by a blue bearded gentleman in a dark suit with a golden-handled cane.
I am Thanatos, said the gentleman wearily. God of death.
Oh no, said Gordon, and he rolled himself up into a ball on the far side of the back seat from Thanatos. Pointing his cane at Gordon, Thanatos said I am here to take this man he got away from me somehow before but now I am here to take him to the gates of the pit where he belongs—
The blow was not fatal, said Gordon, his head poking out of the ball he had become. Look at me here. I’m here alive, as alive as can be—
Mike drove off. They rumbled gently along the bridge.
Yes it was a fatal blow, said Thanatos. You’re not alive. You just feel alive. Thanatos’ eyes were black holes like in a skull. Mike gripped the wheel, eyes straight ahead, listening, guiding the car when there’s things like this happening around you all you can do is guide the car. Rattle trap shakey bakey. And listen.
No it wasn’t a fatal blow, said Gordon, whitefaced and bugeyed. If it was how could I be here—
But the Cuban hit you hard with the crowbar—
Yes but not hard enough. Look.
Gordon tilted his head. His bald head had a wide crease across it that looked as though it had bled a lot but it had stopped bleeding now thank heavens thought Mike who’d always cared about his car seats and wouldn’t want to get blood on them. Thanatos waved the cane in a frenzy.
Yes it was hard enough. You’re mine. Come. Come to daddy, come now come and I’ll just pick you up like a big white rubber ball and we’ll go down the big crystal stairs to that wide red-hot stone gate—
No! exclaimed Gordon. Mike. Hey Mike—
What, said Mike, his face set straight ahead.
Tell this fool I’m not dead.
I thought you were, said Mike. The papers said you were— You’re not helping! cried Gordon. The car shuddered over an expansion joint in the bridge. The front wheels shimmied like they do when they hit a bump like this so Mike hit the brake slowing down and the wheels straightened out and Gordon tucked his head back into the white ball he’d become and Thanatos pointed with his cane right by Mike’s ear to a spot on the side of the road ahead by a pole set into the railing of the bridge like flock rubbing at the distaff side. You see the crunch. You see the crunch but it doesn’t matter the rattlers gather all around and one at last rears up to strike you and you are very very very afraid—
Shut up! said Thanatos harshly. Here. Let us out here.
Mike shut up and they pulled up by the side and the stainless steel railing went all across and Thanatos gathered up the white ball from the backseat and got out and walked along swinging his cane with one hand and dribbling the big white bouncing ball with the other. The car stood still parked at the side as Thanatos got further and further out along the railing and then leapt over it off the bridge after throwing the ball down into the tossing whitecapped waves. Mike sat open-mouthed. He ran his tongue along the curve of his upper row of teeth before dropping the big sedan down into drive and pulling out onto the road again. The bridge stretched to the far horizon. The water did likewise on all sides. Mike didn’t remember ever being on a bridge like this he couldn’t remember having driven home this way but the car knew the way so it must be all right.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Well, those two must be dead now, he muttered. No need to worry about those two drowned rats. Drowned rats suck up to the meals in front of you and in back of you and behind you it doesn’t matter where the meals are the drowned rats will find you—
A few miles down the road a voice came from the back seat.
Say—driver. Shut up a minute. You’re ten miles an hour over the speed limit.
Right. Ten miles an hour, crackled a second voice.
Better slow down, whistled a third.
Right, droned the first. Mike’s foot went on the brake and he turned around and three ugly blotch-faced pinch-faced women sat in the back seat all dressed in blue and gold and white with long golden hair down to there oh down to there— Mike didn’t know what to do or where they had come from so he pulled over to the side and stopped again by the railing. The sea below was tossing even more strongly now.
How did you get in my car, said Mike.
Never mind how that happened—-it just happened, said the first woman. All I know is it’s illegal to just stop on the shoulder here on a bridge, unless you’re broken-down. She had a large wart in the middle of her left cheek that wiggled as she talked.
Yes it is, said the second. She had a scar down the center of her long nose.
Better start driving, chimed in the third. Her head was larger than normal and she had a unnaturally jutting chin.
Who are you, said Mike, turned around.
Drive and then we’ll tell you. Right now you’re breaking the law.
Right—can’t have you breaking the law, said the second.
We don’t speak to people who break the law.
So drive, said the third.
The women’s black eyes set hard in their faces and with six eyes boring into the back of his head Mike dropped the big sedan back into drive and pulled out on the road. He took her up to cruising speed.
You’re over the speed limit again, said the first.
Yes—you’re breaking the law again, added the second.
Better hit that brake, said the third.
No speed limit signs were coming up so Mike slowed down to about forty and half looked back and asked them What’s the speed limit here? There are no signs.
There were signs but you didn’t pay attention to them, said the first.
Right—you should read all the traffic signs—its the law.
But we’ll let you off this time. The speed limit’s fifty—and turn back around and face front. You’re to keep your eyes on the road.
It’s the law.
Mike kept the car at about forty-five and his palms were sweating and he felt a drop of sweat running down his side under his shirt.
Who are you, he said loudly, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Keep your eyes on the road, we said! they said in unison.
We are the Erinnyes, said the first.
Right—otherwise known as the Furies—we punish crime, added the second.
That’s right, said the third—and if you must know everything like you seem to want to do, we were born of the blood of Uranus when he was castrated.
Mike winced and bit his lower lip hard.
My name is Tisiphone, said the first.
And I am Megaera, added the second.
Call me Alecto, said the third.
The car kept moving toward the horizon and Mike said Glad to meet you—my name is Mike.
A good name.
A nice name.
A strong name.
Sure.
Suddenly the tossing waves disappeared and the bridge expanded out to either side and they were tooling along between wide, long fields of wheat. The fields waved and rippled in the breeze. The sky lay blue above them. They rode along in silence, Mike being careful to watch for any traffic signs and careful to keep the car under forty miles an hour—or had they said the speed limit was fifty—it didn’t matter he’d just keep it at forty and he’d be safe Toby inside says so Toby inside knows all things no matter what happens to this mortal body, Toby will live forever—
Shut up and let us out here, said the Furies in harmony.
Pull over, said Tisiphone. Here—here, on the shoulder. It’s legal here.
Yes its legal here, insisted the others in unison.
Mike pulled over. The passenger side back door opened and they piled out in a tangle of skinny arms legs and flying hair and ugly faces glaring and too-long fingernails clacking.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
The door slammed shut. The Furies were left in a pile by the roadside and Mike smoothly pulled away, glad to be free to drive normally, not paying attention to traffic signs or signs about whether or not to use the shoulder and all those other other things young people highly renovate ventilated rooms in frame houses for and the pound, pound, pound on the joists and timber framing and beams—
The car jounced over some tracks. Again, three women appeared but this time hitchhiking on the side of the road this was a day for hitchhikers this was a day for it yes.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
Three plain women in plain-looking ankle length gowns of a brownish color, each with cropped hair and high heeled boots stood by the side of the road. One held what looked to Mike like a big spool of twine or thread twine is big thread is small it might be twine or thread, he muttered—the middle one held what looked like a ruler, one of those kinds that carpenters use that fold up and fold out that you never see any more, like Mike’s dad used to use in the musty cellar to measure pipes to run out the new sewer line and put in the new gas burner, and the last one carrying a large pair of scissors just dull black scissors not golden or silver just dull black not with any molded plastic handles either but just a plain pair of scissors—the kind you hardly see any more that your grandmother might have had in her heavily beaded sewing-basket—
All right, said the first of the three, sliding into the back seat. You don’t have to go on and on like this,
Mike realized he’d been babbling again so he shut up and let all three of them get in. They sat in the back neatly lined up and proper with their things in their laps and their hands folded over their things like the dog folds one paw over another when he’s pretending to be good when he jumps up in the chair when the master’s husband comes in the room talking—
—but who are you, said Mike, without stopping to take a breath, even as he realized that this was the first time he’d asked any of the many people who’d been in his car today who they were—or maybe it wasn’t—it didn’t matter—.
The rightmost woman looked up and raised her spindle of thread in front of her to quiet Mike. She had a painfully deep dimple in her chin. Mike fought an urge to stick his finger in it.
I am Clotho the spinner, she said.
The middle woman leaned forward and she had one blue eye and one solid white like it was blind.
I am Lachesis, the measurer, she said.
The leftmost woman raised her scissors before her, not in a threatening way, but gently, saying I am Atropos, she who cuts thread. Her face was perfectly round and flat as a frying-pan.
Drive off now, said the dimpled woman. The three leaned back and Mike once more pushed the lever down into drive and the big sedan crunched through the stones of the shoulder and went out on the smooth blacktop picked up speed but for some reason Mike could not bring himself to go any faster than forty. The tires smoothly hummed along. Suddenly the first woman writhed easily and snakily over the seat into the front passenger side and started measuring off lengths of thread along Mike’s arms legs and body. He flinched back.
What are you doing, he said.
Spinning out the proper amount of thread for you, she said. Then, holding the thread in several places to mark the lengths she’d measured off, she slithered back into the back seat snake-like and leaned to the middle woman who began measuring the lengths of thread with the folding and unfolding ruler she carried. The two of them said numbers back and forth.
Ten—
Forty—
Five and six—
And twelve!
That comes to—
Never mind, said the one, shielding her eyes.
Yes, said the middle one, folding her ruler. Never mind. The third flat-faced one spoke.
Just for the record, she said, I have the number. I’ll remember. I always do.
That’s right, she always does, said the middle one with the solid white eye.
Good. So that’s done, said the first one with the dimple.
All right see now, said the flat-faced woman. Let me see the thread let me cut it—
No! said the dimpled woman, clutching the spool of thread to her breast. Not when we’re moving along at, at—
Forty miles an hour, said the white-eyed woman, glancing over Mike’s shoulder.
What were they talking about?
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
What are you talking about, said Mike, half looking back and forth between the road and the women as though the car needed no driver to pay attention that’s how straight the road was that’s how good the car was it’d just go straight on and on forever and forever and forever—
No! Not forever! exclaimed the flat-faced woman with the scissors. She snapped them open and shut a few times. The slicing sound of the metal edge sliding back and forth in the smoothly humming car sent goosebumps down Mike’s spine. Clutch the merit of it and it’ll never get away. The calm before the storm the storm the calm before the sturm und drang. Flash the popeyed buttertool. To the hilt, drive it in to the hilt to kill him, kill them, pull it out and put it back in once or twice. To the hilt to the hilt to the hilt to the hilt—
Alecto grabbed the length of thread from Tisiphone and opened her scissors and put them on the thread.
I’ll do it—regardless of how fast we’re driving and how much this driver babbles.
No, said Megaera. Look. There are several feet left yet to where I finally marked the thread. Its not yet time to cut it. The number hasn’t been reached yet—remember I told you I had the number—
Yes, said the others.
Well. leave it to me. I say he’s got many months yet to live. Aren’t you glad son?
Mike shut up and straightened and pointed to the center of his chest.
Me? You talking to me—
Yes, said Megaera. And even though Alecto here likes to be quick with the scissors, on this fine day you are saved.
For we are the Fates, said the dimpled one. I reel out the length of thread representing the length of your life—
And yes, said the white-eyed one—then I measure that length of thread to see just how long your life should be.
Then, snip! said the round-faced woman. She opened and closed the scissors. I cut the thread on the spot that’s been marked when its time for you to die. My job is simplest of all. But must be done with precision.
They leaned forward at him and all spoke in unison now.
So do you see how lucky you are, human. This day you shall live. Now, they said, raising their crooked fingers to a spot coming up by the side of the road. We want to get off there. Pull over.
Mike pulled the sedan over and the three got out. The flat-faced woman slammed shut the door and Mike quickly pulled away leaving them standing in a cloud of dust. He drove now between fields of blazing flowers. The wild colors made him shield his eyes. He noticed on the back seat a length of thread. Guiding the car with one hand, he leaned back and got the thread.
This might be my life-thread, he thought. And as long as I have it and they don’t, that fat round faced one can’t cut it. I can live forever if I keep this thread.
Live forever.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
The car bounced along the uneven road and there were no more hitchhikers. In the distance a palace appeared with golden spires and turrets and a great golden wall around it and in the front of the wall the gate was lowered and there was a wide moat of pure mercury around the palace and Mike drove his car up the ramp through the gate and stopped up by the tall wide golden ornately carved front door. He stepped out holding the thread. He went across the golden pebbles and turned the golden doorknob and went through the golden doorframe. Outside the walls other cars went by the run down shack and they often thought, who could live there? How could they live? Inside the run down shack Mike got down a golden cigar box from on top of a tall glass fronted heavily gilded and ornately hand-carved cabinet and put the thread in it, coiled. He put the box on top of the cabinet way to the back toward the wall so it couldn’t be seen.
The blacktumored x-rays still hung on the lightpanels, heated.
After turning the heat on under his stewpot on the pearl- inlaid stove he sat heavily on his golden chair by the jewel- encrusted kitchen table. The chair creaked loudly as he sat back and put his feet up on the table and leaned back and locked his hands together behind his head.
There. As long as I have that, I’ll live forever.
The tumble down shack stood leaning crazily about him and he thought, no more doctor. I’ve got a brain tumor? Well its not hurting me. I will live forever.
He sat silently at last. Questions still arose as they always did but when you’re resting like this questions are harmless, they just came up and hit you and kept drifting up past you and spread out across the ceiling like smoke and then they disappear, making any answers meaningless. He fell asleep, surrounded by questions like they were big soft pillows packed comfortably in all around him. A nurse came in the room and switched off the lightpanels. The x-rays became cold in the darkened room. The stew sat bubbling over growing hotter and hotter as the moments, seconds, minutes, hours, years, decades, and centuries passed slicing Mike’s tomorrows and nows into dimly remembered yesterdays as they always do and always will, forever, one thin slice at a time.
This too is the work of the Lesser Gods.
additional poetry
select Janet Kuypers poems from WordSlingers WLUW Radio 88.7 FM, 03/16/08
chicago, west side
Janet Kuypers
she knew who they were coming for
she crouched in front of the window
straddling her chair she moved from the corner
her coffee sat in the window sill
the condensation rising, beading
on the window right about at her eye level.
she took the side of her index finger
periodically and smeared some of the
water away to look into the streets.
the snow was no longer falling on the
west side of Chicago; it just packed
itself darker and deeper into the ground
with every car that drove over it.
she gunshot was ringing in her ear
still. it was so loud. the earth cried
when she pulled that trigger. let out
a loud, violent scream. she could still
hear it. for these few moments, she had to
just stare out the window and wait. she
didn’t know if she should bother running,
if it mattered or not. she couldn’t think.
all she knew was that this time, when
she heard the sirens coming from the
streets, she’d know why they were coming.
she’d know who they were coming for.
gift of motherhood
part one
We need only think of how the gift of motherhood
is often penalized rather than rewarded
even though humanity owes its very survival to this gift
Certainly, much remains to be done
to prevent discrimination against those
who have chosen to be wives and mothers
Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10
“he started in on me again last night,
he had too much to drink, and came home,
drunk, and started yelling at me. he
got home at ten-thirty but wanted to know
why his dinner wasn’t warm. and he wanted
to wake up the kids and play with them,
but i told him it was a school night and
they needed a full night’s rest. i swear,
i can’t tell anyone else this, i have to
keep telling everyone i fell down the
stairs and i burned myself when i was
cooking dinner and i tripped over one of
the kids’ toys or a vase from the book-
shelf i was cleaning fell and hit me in
the face. i’ve come up with a lot of
excuses, i know. but what would the kids
do if i lost him? how could i work and take
care of them? how would they be able to
go to college? i know i keep making up
excuses, but i have to. for the kids.”
Childhood Memories one
Janet Kuypers
I was in the basement, the playroom
that’s where all my toys were, you see
and I had just run in there
after yelling at my family
sitting in the living room
“I hate you”
now, I’ve never said that before to
my family, nor would I ever say
it againI knew better
and I had just run into the playroom
slammed the door shut
I couldn’t have been more than five
and I ran in, and I looked for things
to put in front of the door so they
couldn’t open it and find me
I took one of my chairs
from my little play set
and dragged it over to the door
then I took the little schoolhouse for
Fischer-Price toys, the side opened
up, it had a blackboard and everything
I took that little schoolhouse, put it
on the chair guarding the door
patiently obeying my orders
I was running around looking for
something else I could carry
to the door
when I heard the door knob turn
and my sister, with one arm
pushed all of my toys away
and opened the door
I knew I had been defeated
other horizons
Janet Kuypers
I live in the basement
it’s all I can afford
nothing grows there
but I would have a little plant
at my office desk
every morning
water it watch it grow
I’d take on all those tasks
I’d even have my own partition
I live in a room
with no view
but I don’t need one
no oceans, no skylines
when I make it
I’ll look out the window
at the whole damn city
signs of the times
Janet Kuypers
The president says it’s okay
to be gay, as long as you don’t
tell anyone. Suburban husbands
are murdering doctors who work
at abortion clinics, because they
saved the world from a mass murderer.
Nineteen children are found in a
freezing apartment alone, sharing
one bowl of food on the floor with
a dog. People walk to the churches,
see Mary’s statue crying. One lone
man in New York hears the voice
of God through his dog and kills.
Were the children saved from the
murderer, were they sharing their
food with Godwere they crying
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 2008 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 2008 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
see what’s in this issue...
...You can also click here for the e-book/PDF file for this issue.
(The PDF files does not include the third editorial about politica or the Wordslioongers WLUW Radio poetry)J2K Record Scooper 03, art by David Matson
the boss lady’s editorial
Al Capone caught for tax evasion; O. J. Simpson caught for robbery
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December 2008 Internet additionWant to hear how apologetic O. J. Simpson sounds after his sentence was handed down to him for his kidnapping and robbery charges? Then watch the FOX news video of O. J. Simpson saying he is sorry... |
If I Exploited ItTrying a turn a buck on O. J. murdering a family member
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Which 3rd Party Candidate will spoil |
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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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poetry
the passionate stuff
Pickle JuicedMichael Lee Johnson
My skeleton is in
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Michael Lee Johnson Bio
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FRIENDLY FIREG.A. Scheinoha
There’s no fighting
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Sideshow, art by Peter Schwartz
Information on the Artist Peter Schwartz
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CycleShannon Krol
The life and death of a woman,
Here lies the death of a woman
All her life she’ll wonder,
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BROOKLYN DOG DAYSMel Waldman
In the Waste Land of Brooklyn, during the dog days,
It’s Psycho Country, here & now. And even though
cleanse your body and soul (he’s dead, you see), some
during the dog days, on the beach-where you’re spread eagle
or in the streets of Flatbush or maybe, back home when you
& a disembodied hand clutching a machete-cuts the stranger,
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BIOMel Waldman, Ph. D.
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PropagandaKenneth DiMaggio
Propaganda is the writing that shows
And when they are not waging war
And when they are not shopping
you get to live with the two headed
Oh
the future
the future
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CloseBody09, art by Melanie Monterey
SoldierJoe Frey
Imagine that at any given moment
Imagine that every conscious second
When he speaks to God in prayer -
When he reaches out in thanks
Nothing - absolutely nothing is ever
His thoughts, posture and actions
When his finger balances precariously
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Helping Hands, art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz
Porn StarsI.B. Rad
I was watching porn stars
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Biography
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Hello KittySarah Marie“Don’t you fucking say ‘burning’ again...”
followed by a poorly- calculated
I join the blond, 5'8", C cup land
left naked to a blank witness to sexy vice.
all where truth/reality
so
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Cat Eye, art by Cheryl Townsend
Let’s Not Watch
John Grey |
This Land is Bad, art by Brian Hosey
The Parched EarthBernard Gieske
Leaves bursting with thirst
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Bright ImagesEric S. Mackey
Images of life inspire me
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Alien Heart Evolution, art by Junior McLean
YesterdayJinesh Patel
Turns out I was rght
The boy who cries wolf
Return back
There is no coming back
Cry again tomorrow
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The Hand me DownsKimberly Creighton
My daughter
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Trading Cards, art by Nick Brazinsky
FireflyHolly Cross
What the firefly does not want
Deflowered by the fingernail of a child
What the firefly does want
To trap her in a jar
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Hiking Boots And RaingearKen Fisher
“Are you taking the cruise?”, they asked automatically
“Why not the cruise?” they ask in surprise
How does one reveal the spirit of a forest, huge and silent
I stood just feet from vicious mauling, adrenaline on fire,
I can’t describe the dazzling brilliance on a ridge called Polychrome,
I still saw wonders from the water, but tasted sea spray in my grin,
Hiking, climbing, stalking wildlife, capturing their moods and struggles,
They ask me why I didn’t choose banquet meals and shuffleboard,
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You gave me hyacinths first a year ago
David J. Thompson |
Backlot 52, painting by Jay Marvin
prose
the meat and potatoes stuff
Academic ClimbingPat Dixon
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Worschelle, art by Aaron Wilder
The Lesser GodsJim Meirose
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additional poetry
select Janet Kuypers poems from WordSlingers WLUW Radio 88.7 FM, 03/16/08
chicago, west sideJanet Kuypersshe knew who they were coming for
she crouched in front of the window
on the window right about at her eye level.
the snow was no longer falling on the
she gunshot was ringing in her ear
hear it. for these few moments, she had to
all she knew was that this time, when
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gift of motherhoodpart one
We need only think of how the gift of motherhood Letter to Women, Message of His Holiness POPE JOHN PAUL II, July 10
“he started in on me again last night,
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Childhood Memories oneJanet Kuypers
I was in the basement, the playroom
and I had just run in there
now, I’ve never said that before to
and I had just run into the playroom
and I ran in, and I looked for things
I took one of my chairs
then I took the little schoolhouse for
I was running around looking for I knew I had been defeated
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other horizonsJanet Kuypers
I live in the basement
but I would have a little plant
I’d take on all those tasks
I live in a room
when I make it
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signs of the timesJanet Kuypers
The president says it’s okay
Were the children saved from the
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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?
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:
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.
The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable TechnologyThe 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
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