God exists only in thought

God exists only in thought;
While down in the cellar
And up in the attic
And out in the churchyard
Are spectres at play

Waking Up In Highland Hospital

A black Pink Lady in the hospital
Wheeled around some magazines. I took
The New Yorker - for the play reviews.
“Oh,” she sneered. “You’re the wordy type.” I tossed the magazine back on her cart,
Rolled over, and I said, “To hell with you.” No I didn’t. I just felt a fool.
I’d tried to kill myself. A doctor came
And asked me what the matter was. I said,
“Inside my head’s messed up.” He angrily
Said to me, “Inside your head’s your BRAIN!”
I felt very stupid and confused.
I had bought a six pack and
A burger and some aspirin
And eaten them til I began to puke.
Lying on the bed I listened to
A young and gorgeous orderly say, “Don’t
Take an aspirin for months and months!”
Three times up to bat and one home run.
But do not always count on such success.

Sought Through Prayer and Meditation

With you I have known peace, Lida, and
now you say you’re going crazy.
                                    - James Thurber

He talks to God each morning and evening
and sometimes in between, on his lunch hour,
for he is a righteous man and is guided by the Word
as revealed to him directly in these conversations.

God has told him he must be a stern and loving husband,
that he must instruct me in the proper duties of a wife,
because I am of an inferior species that never can aspire
to the Priesthood. Such is the word of God and Saint Paul.

My duties are to love and cherish and obey, particularly
to obey, to serve him at his pleasure and to bear many children,
to keep a clean house and cook nutritious meals and iron his shirts
and those of our children, who will all be boys.

God has told him that the Ten Commandments
are only the beginning, that he must always seek
direct instruction on how to regulate his household
for maximum comfort and the greater glory of God.

I wanted to talk direct to God too, so today I tried,
and I think I made a connection, but Her advice
did not really make any sense, because all I heard was
Sharpen the icepick and wait.

to Paint

Today
is the day
when I’ve got
to paint
death
I’m not an artist
I’ll do it
it’s my
irresistible
desire’s breath

The canvass
is spread
a large area
appropriately primed
and tested
I’ve got a vision
every inch
covered
nothing
will be wasted

It’s time
to choose
the tools
they’ll help
to create a work
of art’s master
It needs to be
appropriately protected
when finished
to avoid
any accidental
burning disaster

All’s ready
sealed
and delivered
the idea to move
the lower limbs
is ripening
I’m losing
balance
hearing the noise
of the rope
tightening

Now that I’m disowned by God Herself

Now that I’m disowned by God Herself,
I find at my door, the gallon of nuclear waste She sent me.
It makes me realize that life is terminal,

like an atomic leak affecting my power system
& telling me I’ll soon be dead,
now that I’m disowned by God Herself.

God is the nuclear waste that women make of me
to be discarded at a dump to assure that I don’t get over the hump.
It makes me realize that life is terminal.

It’s a family disease, like contaminated water at
a Japanese nuclear power plant,
now that I’m disowned by God Herself,

God as bones in a robe with her sickle up my ass,
eating my dick like a hummingbird under glass.
It makes me realize that life is terminal,

God as my bone in a robe with my pickle in a jar,
seeking Jesoo & the Father, but I can’t find where they are,
now that I’m disowned by God Herself.

O Jesoo, why dost thou condone this travesty.
Must God-the-devil be such a cruel mother?
It makes me realize that life is terminal,

& the soul is germinal.
The disease of life condemns us all,
now that I’m disowned by God Herself.

The destruction of others can be none of my business,
especially when they’re close, like sons & daughters.
It makes me realize that life is terminal

& the best intentions open wounds & gush blood.
The disease of life is life itself.
Now that I’m disowned by God Herself,
it makes me realize that life is terminal.

!

Starving in Kenyan refugee camps

Starving in Kenyan refugee camps,
thousands of Samolians/ all
bone & lethargy/ babies

who can’t hold up their swollen heads/ mothers
of bone bearing death/ agony &
injustice where few care/ piled

in death tents without water/ the
sand blowing, burying them/ moment
for salvation running out/ death the

only answer taking its time giving
more time to suffer as I
eat my banana & drink my juice &

pour raisins & milk on my Wheaties &
wonder why my Times is late/ I
I need to check the ball scores ...

!

Turn the Corner

When I turn the corner,
I’m told I will feel much better.
The corner is so far away.
When I enter daylight
I will be free of the dark.
The black cat will not cross
my path or scratch at my eyes.
Not one drop of blood
will fall on the floor.
The black cat won’t harm me.
My eyes will be safe.
I will open them and see.
I will be awake. I won’t stay
in bed all day with
wet tears on my pillow.
I will bathe in the fountains
of youth. Not one drop of
blood will fall on the floor.
The black cat will not cross
my path. Amnesia won’t
wipe my life away.

Vapor Trails

My ancestors were rocket men of primitive origin
Lacking Kevlar and Aluminum Oxide tile
They cut their teeth on empty toilet tissue rolls,
Hand towel tubes or both taped together with papier-mâché nosecones and
Stabilizer fins snipped from flattened tin-cans
Considering it the height of maturity achieved when they managed manned flights
In recycled concrete pillar forms called sonotubes, finding that those with cementatious residue
Resisted burn-up on re-entry, only slightly better than those without
(No doubt salvaged from off-shore drill rigs and washed clean by the sea)
Though they did lose wind resistance and were dogged by drag from the extra weight, but
Space travel has always been a game of compromise and,
The thing is, they weren’t sissies
There wasn’t a poor sport or cry-baby in the whole bunch of them
Often combining a search for body parts at a hard landing site with a Bar-B-Q
Or clam bake and one story of reconstruction had my kin
Re-assembling fingers of a hand splashed all over fifteen acres, then
Resorting to fisticuffs to settle the argument as to whether
Uncle Wilbur was waving bye to his mom nano seconds before impact
Or flipping off his brother for a sloppy job of taping the tinfoil
It’s hard to say just what happened to genes like that, but
Damnit, I’m happy in a boat......

A Persuasion Called Freedom

In some parts of the world,
all paths to Freedom are (still) blocked
by power-hungry rulers
living in the lap of luxury where others
go hungry, and can but dream
of running fresh, clean, water from a tap
close to hand

In some parts of the world,
all paths to Freedom are (still) haunted
by fighters who lost battles,
but inspired others to continue the war
against the sickest corruption
in the highest places, best feet forward
in global markets

In some parts of the world,
all paths to Freedom (still) ring out loud
and clear with howls
of protest punctuated with the shrapnel,
gunfire and pride
that, oh, so often accompanies integrity
even in the 21st century

In some part of the world,
all paths to Freedom are (still) haunted
by voices of the dead,
inspiring men, women, and children
who know far better
than their so-called betters how to carry
a flag with pride

In some parts of the world,
all paths to Freedom are (still) littered
with human bones,
and while some have name tags attached,
others are identified only
by category, and one of the categories
is G-A-Y

In some parts of the world,
heterosexuality is promoted true enough
to hot-blooded stereotype,
but while some fall for the honeyed hype
from slyly zealous tongues,
others continue to cultivate a culture
of Freedom for all

To Help You Forget

It’s the odor, so clean it makes you want
to gag, that hits you first, as soon as
step through the door of the place
where you’ve stuck what once was
your dad. You see him sitting there
with the other Alzeimer’s zombies
on the day room couch trying to
sing along with some guy dressed
like a cowboy playing folk guitar.
The nurse says they’ll be done
in fifteen minutes; you head back
out to wait in your car.

They called a few weeks ago, said
he was having trouble keeping
his shoes tied, were worried that
he’d trip and fall again. You bought
some ugly Reeboks with Velcro straps,
stopped today to drop them off,
maybe say hello to him, find somebody
to see how else he’s doing.

You sit in the car, windows down,
checking your watch every few minutes.
You can’t help but think about those nights
as a little kid when you and your sister
fell asleep in the back of that big Plymouth
listening to your dad sing that same old song,
something about a cat sneaking in from the stable,
while driving back from dinner at your grandma’s
in Baltimore to home on the Virginia side
of D.C. You dreamily recall him carrying you
out of the car and up the steps to the house,
you clinging drowsily to him all the way
down the hall to your bed.

After ten minutes, you take the shoes back
inside and hand them to the nurse without
looking around, say you think they’ll fit,
tell her to be sure to call you if they don’t.
You walk quickly to your car without looking back,
try to think of a bar you can stop at for a drink
or two on the way home, some place to help you
forget your poor dad and anything else that was
once worth remembering.

Super Neurosis Man

Never ask a psychiatrist
about his professional regrets.
He’ll give you an answer like, I never got
Superman on my couch.
Wanted to dig into that schizoid
treasure trove,
suppressed sexual longings
and delusions of flight,
zipping counterclockwise
around and around the planet Earth
to reverse the otherwise
inexorable
passage of time – delusions strong enough
to bounce bullets off his chest
aggravated by a sense of
complete inadequacy
under the influence of a red sun.
Deep sigh.
As soon as you saw
the matching boots and cape
you just knew
he had some delicious issues
going on.

Jeffrey Park Bio

    Baltimore native Jeffrey Park currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults. His latest poems appear or are forthcoming in Subliminal Interiors, Mobius, Punk Soul Poet, Darkling Magazine, The Camel Saloon and elsewhere.

Poem from
the Netherworld Notebook
(Release)

Neon & chrome landscape
that baptized you
in its Kool-Aid
and rainbow colored
abyss on the television
and then damned you
to the minimum wage
cash register
that teased you
like a casino
slot machine

Cain
must have had
an epiphany
similar to yours
before he left
the fields
for the crime that
would release him
from the bondage
of Heaven

No Shoeboxes Allowed

Just so you know, I got booted out a month ago.
No warning, no thought –
went to work, put in my ten hours, got home
in time to see the locksmith driving away
and a policeman waiting for me, saying
“get your stuff out, you’ve been kicked out.”
So I got my computer, my iPod, my notebooks and my poems
(the important stuff, or at least the stuff that can’t be replaced cheaply)
and moved myself to a motel room up the street.
A few days later I found a furnished one bedroom apartment nearby
and moved in.

I looked at the rules, found this odd gem in the mix:
“No Shoeboxes shall be allowed on the premises.”

I asked the management, their representative said
“There’s been drug dealing here in the past, shoe boxes were used to store the stuff.”
I asked one of the residents, he said
“It’s a class thing, we’re in the poor section and can only afford poor boy shoes.”
Another person overheard us talking and said this:
“I saw someone trying to toss a shoebox, saw him taken away by cops that night.”

A couple days later I took a look in my closet,
saw a closed shoebox sitting there. Not sure if it was there before,
but I looked inside and saw something I didn’t want to see in there.
Wasn’t a camera (thank god) nor was it Child Porn (at least what I saw)
but what I saw there was still nothing I wanted to mess with,
so I closed the box carefully and made sure it was like it was
before I opened it up.

I’m making plans to move elsewhere as we speak.
Not only that, but I’m keeping things quiet;
when I move I want it quick – no muss, no fuss, no warning
as I get the feeling that’s the only way I’ll be able to escape.

Wanted to do one with John...still working on one with just vocal

Dave I did this one with your flattop.

Takeoff From Dallas Love Field

the plane
galloped

down the runway

and leaped
grabbing

into hot air

Core

It’s the last day of May and we watch
faces blending into the sunset. It’s late
and we expected to be alone.

No matter, we bury our beer deep in the sand.
The waves lap over it, obscuring it from view.
We dig deep and furiously when we want another,
scared for a moment that we have lost the spot, or it
has been buried too deep by the waves.

We joke it could be a Genesee beer commercial ‘From the shores of Ontario Lake...’
but the way the constant lapping waves make things disappear
is unsettling to me.
The lake’s core calls to me,
I want to stand in the very center. At the point where America and Canada blur,
the edge of my world.

‘Sturgeon live there’ is my boyfriend’s contribution,
They’ve been there longer than dinosaurs
I’m not sure if it’s true,
but I long to feel the weight of my wet dress pulling me down
in the center of the lake with wise fish circling, waiting for me to join them.
Dusk has left and mothers have called their children in, away
from the siren lapping of the shores.

All that’s left are the degenerates smoking hash around the bonfires,
laughing as the tide inches closer and closer,
and us.
I clumsily dig for another beer, sand shoving deep in my fingernails,
resisting the urge to gaze again to the center of the lake.

Deuteronomy 23:20:
Twenty-First Century Edition

Unto a stranger thou mayest lend money upon usury,
and mayest charge exorbitant fees,
and mayest package mortgage-backed securities
that may prove to be worthless,
and you shall be the only one blessed

Aquarius

Out of the water he walked,
an unfortunate expression on his face.
He stared forward, but the expression was directed at you, or me, or...

The three ponds were quiet around midnight,
and nothing preceded, or announced, or made room for him.
Behind the large evergreen I watched.
The top ice cracked, and there appeared the crown of a head,
suspiciously similar to my own.
Then shoulders, then back, then feet,
then what should have been my retreat, but I stayed.

His body was blue, aqua,
and I did not know if it was actually blue, or just the astonishing moonlight.
Out of the frozen pond, across the frosted grass, and into the street,
I followed behind.
Tucked beneath one large arm and gripped in one large hand was a stone vessel,
one fat, one thin,
full of the freezing pond water.
The water hopped and jumped, splashing to the ground,
shavings and sheets of ice sliding and falling to the pavement,
though the vessels were never any less full.

The wind can bite in that month, bite like a dog, in that freezing month.
That month, designated for the history of black people,
and also for the red and pink-hearted, un-suffocating love between two people.
Ironic; the history of black people, the love between two people.
But nothing was red or pink then, only blue.
Blowing visible blue breath, a cold blue night, under a bright blue moon,
whose light was so dashing, it flattered you.

His legs moved slowly, fluid, though I could barely keep up.
But I walked behind, followed, marveling at the inexplicable familiarity,
and also fearing it.
The water splashed, causing spots of pavement to look scrubbed.
Muddy and broken leaves, left by the previous autumn, were washed clean.
I followed him up hills, down streets, through neighborhoods.
Everything, all of it, looked like somewhere I had been,
somewhere I was, or somewhere I was hoping to go.
He poured water from the vessels in front of everything, purposefully,
and yet they remained forever full.

At an intersection, street lines running oddly through the middle,
no cars to be seen or heard or imagined, he stopped.
Beyond the double yellow street lines, there was chaos,
contrasting the silence on the other side where I stood.
Chaos on the other side; endless stop signs and lights, blinking, flashing,
reds, yellows, greens, yields, round-a-bouts,
and fork, after fork, after fork in the road.
He stood with his back to me, and then he turned to me,
and of course he was me.
Not me, but me...a blue, slower moving, more concentrated, more fluid me.

He looked at me, poured icy water from the bottomless vessels,
and looked at me with my own face.
The water splashed and sparkled in the moonlight, but nothing crossed the yellow lines.
I looked at his face, my face, my better face.
He was me, but not me.
For he was not my age, he was the age, the sign

I stared into my own wiser eyes, unblinking in cold wind.
What do you want me to do? I asked.
This...
Follow you? I asked.
Follow you...

Violently backhanded by understanding, I stood on the quiet side of the yellow lines,
afraid of the chaotic side, but also excited, almost ignited by it.
I stood by myself, with myself, with him,
and he chatted with me for a short time, and a lifetime, about the other side of the lines;
about what to expect from my sign,
about the smooth circles and bloody squares of life,
about the fiction and the truth of love,
about the dumbstruck reality of hate,
about the gift and the curse of my confidence,
about my unpopular disgust with drama,
about my willingness to diagnose a phony,
about the ones who would break their necks to land me,
about the same ones who would never understand me,
about my unconscious tendency to control,
about the assumption people think the way I do,
about disregarding what is expected,
about rage I would provoke by being me,
about not giving a fuck what they think.

Is that Aquarius or me? Aquarius? Or me?
Asking the question aloud made no waves,
as it was drowned out by the chaos on the other side of the lines.
I stood by myself, on the other side, really by myself, knowing the answer to the question
was only another question.
What is the difference?

W. Dontā Andrews Bio

    W. Dontā Andrews lives and writes in Kalamazoo, Michigan. He studied Business Management at Cornerstone University. He studies life for writing material. He founded and has run a regularly attended writers group for the past 6 years. His work was also published in the anthology “All Poetry is Prayer” (Creative Justice Press). Recently he finished his first book, a collection of stories and poetry concentrated on self awareness, or rather the epidemic of its absence in the world today. It includes the pieces accepted for publication in CC&D Magazine. He is currently working on a novel.

Shameless

my son comes home from my mother’s house
and informs me
there’s no such thing as Santa Claus
and I am crushed, I am devastated, he is five
and I got to believe in Santa
until I was nine. “Grandma’s senile,” I console him
he is being so brave and so grave, it’s all I can think, I want
to tell my mom she can never see him again, punish her,
make her see
how hard this day is for me
because no amount of backpedaling
will make Christmas the same for us again

Short Bio

    Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and Slipstream. Her book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese.

Truth

Truth is never where it is supposed to be
there – a dribble at the end of an inadvertent sentence
here – a medicated half admission
it’s what others witness,
I’m here on standby

always socially inadequate
an inverted intention
bypassed by more than convenience
an etching on tossed glass

it separates your breastplate
cleanly, surgically
with a swiftness that leaves you
bleeding -
and you just plain don’t know it -
yet

Mania on Tiptoes

Mania on tiptoes
shattered face drawn gray
shuffling feet drag hopeless grief
eyes praise nonsense rhymes

Mania on tiptoes
lips spit fevered dreams
ragged clothes drape spastic limbs
shoulders beat with shame

Mania on tiptoes
blinding shards of night
sparking mind implodes the soul
madness fuels the blaze

Monday through Friday

I woke up and noticed the aging in the mirror
I walked the dog
I put on a pot of coffee and opened the newspaper
The kids came down for breakfast
My wife asked why I didn’t hang my clothes up
I ate breakfast
My wife told me to wipe my feet after taking the dog for a walk
I dropped my son at school
I went to work
I came home from work and walked the dog
I remembered I hadn’t had sex with my wife in quite a while and wondered why
I asked the kids how their day was
We ate dinner
The kids went to bed
My wife and I watched television
My wife wanted to know why I didn’t appear to be listening when she was talking
We got tired
We went to sleep

How Not To Drown

Well drowning’s not the problem.
It’s trying to swim where you shouldn’t
be in the first place.
It’s treading murky, turbulent seas;
lying on a rocky slope
at the water’s edge
where you know you’re going to
to lose your balance
and plummet in its depths.
With bold, futile strokes you race
against the tide
after just having a hearty meal.

Drowning’s not the problem,
but its fatal consequence;
the issue that ensues
when troubling still waters,
wading waist-deep
on a breezy day
when you know the undertow
might pull you from the shore.
It’s getting wet in the first place;
flirting with an element
that only those with flippers
and the will and way are wise to navigate.

BLACK BOOK PRESS #38

Elimination Rounds

Darlene was one hundred
and four years old
when her grandson Billy
showed her the list.

(He was fifty,
but she still called him Billy.)

The list declared she
was the seventh oldest
in the nation,
and provided locations
for the other six.

He agreed to drive the car.

Taste

Worship
Is not a
Word I
Like to taste.
Sex
Is not a
Word I
Like to swallow.
So what are these
Dreams?
You are
Not
An angel
And I am not
Your
Angel.
So what do
I taste
In my love
In my lust
In my tears
And
In my hunger
That is
Not
Worship
And
Is not sex?
Who am
I
And why
Am
I burning?

Innocence

I see a picture of your face.
in a frame on my mantle.
Then I shatter the frame.
And I gently pull the picture from the frame
and burn that photograph.

You hurt a young child.
You hurt her soul, her body, her heart.
You call my house and talk to my mother.

She tells me it was a lovely conversation with you.
She does not know.

You want me to see a picture
of your newborn niece.
I am afraid when I see her beauty.
I am afraid you will hurt her, too.

It would not be so startling.
I would not loathe you so.
But I was so young.

In These Times

In These Times
Have you learned to
Enjoy Yourself Under This Cover
when everything is only
People vs. Empire
In These Times
I only think of
Somethings that don’t ever help

with my Altered Ink
In These Times
my
Thoughts
are
in a Stream

you want
Another Story?
Well,
In These Times
they’ll tell you
this is only
Good Medicine

but
In These Times
I’m
Not Just Another Pretty Face
and
I’m Glad I Look Like A Terrorist

these
Other Voices
give me
One Part Honor
But more importantly,
Proof I exist

In These Times
it is no longer
Yesterday
When I Was Younger...
I needed the Slate to keep me strong
I needed the Marrow coursing through me
I needed it

Remembering Death

I (from “Harder to Burn”, writtem 09/06/06)

you hear of goth teenagers
liking the idea of posters of caskets
or you see come Halloween
props of caskets at trick stores
and tacky novelty shops

imagine Son of Svengouli
coming out of a casket
to introduce another B horror movie
(or was it Elvira?)
and hey, didn’t one of those tacky tv shows
I don’t know, The Munsters, the Adams Family
didn’t some show have a vampire
that slept in a coffin?

it’s funny, caskets

right now, all I think of
is the cardboard-based casket
we chose for viewing my mother
before she was cremated
you don’t spend for a quality casket
for a cremation,
I mean, a better wood
is harder to burn

so settle for cardboard

so, think of the novelty of caskets
at times like this,
it’s all you can do

II (from “Wanting to Touch a Corpse” written 09/05/06)

when she knew she was dying, I wrote her a letter
telling her that I just wanted to be able to
put my arms around her and hold her for a very long time
to show her that I loved her,
and that she meant that much to me

when I saw her in the coffin
I wanted to touch her hand, touch her cheek
just make some sort of contact with her once more
but
but I knew I couldn’t cope
with feeling her cold dead skin

III (from “Knelt and Cried”, written 09/03/06)

when I saw her in the coffin
I told her that I hope
that I carry on any of her kindness
because that’s they way she’ll live on
because losing her
makes the world a worse place

before I left her
I started to run my hands from my head along my chest
into a cross
because I wanted all of the spirits to know
that she was there
and that she is to be welcomed
because she is blessed
even if it’s only from the likes of me

IV (from “A Little Angel Inside” written 09/11/06)

as the days wore on
it seemed strange,
that on the day the towers fell years ago
where every television station and newspaper
was praising our resolve for all of the death
            that has been forced upon us

well, it seems strange
that this is the day we picked up my mother’s ashes

seems eerily strange

and Kristina from Fuller Funeral Home
even handed me a small maroon bag
tied tightly shut
and she whispered to me,
“these are your mother’s earrings”

it never occurred to me
that the earring would survive
and here they are,
in a little velour bag

when we left Fuller Funeral Home
I think I held that little red bag
like there was a little angel inside
and I had to be delicate
to make sure nothing happened to it
because I was it’s keeper now
I’ll treat it well
and treasure it always
I promise

V (ending from “the Messenger” written 08/31/06)

when I’d tell people about the death
I’d be asked if there was anything I needed

I couldn’t think of any words

I’m the messenger
and I couldn’t think of any words

Supposed to Make Sense

come and make your choice
they say
as half of you
can’t choose amongst yourselves
to save yourselves

and each of you
even with your color-coded lines
can’t even make sense of yourselves

and we’re supposed to make sense
of your childish banter,
your name-calling and your temper tantrums -
we’re supposed to make sense of you ?

I look at all these suitors
asking me to decide
and I wonder:
if it’s not your religion
that keeps me away from you,
if I try not to think
about how you don’t respect women,
I’m still stuck with the notion
that you still can’t do
what you’re supposed to do.

you tell me to decide,
when I know someone else will choose you.

I think it only matters to you
how many of us reject you.

knowing you,
I know you’ll probably brush it off
and come back later
asking for my hand again.

I’m sorry.
maybe you should get back
to courting someone
who doesn’t know any better.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, Chaotic Elements, Fusion, her death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and A Picture’s Worth 1,000 Words, (available a a color and as a b&w photography journalism and art book). Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

They Are Outside

    They are outside. I can hear them just beyond the window, scratching around. Their muffled voices reach me in the shelter.

    Running all silent in here. Sounds are quenched; lights flick off. An appearance of absence is vital. The door is locked and stands coldly.

    I hear them pause in speech, and I imagine their cow-eyes flitting toward my window. Footsteps slow and measured pad to the entrance, and my breath catches as the first knock rings out.

    Again and again it demands. They are outside, and they demand attendance. I hunch behind the peephole or peek between the blinds. All I see is fabric and skin.

Brian Looney Bio

    Brian Looney was born 12/2/85 and is from Albuquerque, NM. He likes it when Lady Poetry kicks him in the head. The harder the better. Check out his website at Reclusewritings.com.

The Tricky Trotters

From the collection of Short Stories
Baker’s Dozen

    If there’s one thing a good Totter is known for it’s his ability to strike a good bargain. Billy explained to the assembled group of eager listeners of a mixture of locals and tourists one night in the snug – all of you know what a Totter is? His question was met with blank stares of those who were not of the fraternity of Cockney families from thereabouts. A Totter, he explained, or a rag-a-bone man as some of you might know him as is a bloke who makes a living from collecting rubbish that no-one wants any more. Rags, bones, tin, paper and any old junk that he can sell on and sometimes, if it’s valuable junk he might give you a penny or if it’s really valuable a tanner – sixpence he explained for the tourists who were not familiar with his vernacular.
    Our local Totters were one of the oldest families in the Docklands’ area –known locally as the Tricky Totters. They didn’t just collect and sell rubbish they specialized in old furniture – old Daddy Mason called his old junk Antiques and he had a shop front in front of his yard where he stored all the crap his sons used to collect around the streets on their handcarts. He particularly liked Victorian looking furniture because that was the kind of stuff that sold better than the modern rubbish. Daddy Mason’s father, Daddy Daddy Mason as he was confusingly known as had certain woodworking skills which were particularly useful when one of the ‘Antiques’ was showing signs of wear and tear and his workshop was continually full of bits and pieces of furniture that were undergoing his loving care and attention.
    Once a month the Tricky Totters would take their pride and joy, a battered old truck that somehow managed to stay in one piece and tour the countryside in search of ‘Antiques’ for Grandpa to work his magic on. This year, since they had toured most of the small villages within striking distance of London, Daddy Mason decided he and the two boys would combine their Antique search with their annual holiday. Their usual holiday destination was somewhere on the East or perhaps the South Coast, somewhere like Brighton or Southend. But this year Daddy Mason decided they would venture further afield. What the general public didn’t know what that Wales was a veritable treasure trove of valuable old furniture which could be had for a song by someone with the astute bargaining skills like Daddy Mason so he said. You watch your old man, he told his sons, and you won’t go far wrong when it comes to negotiating a profitable deal.
    The journey down to South Wales was longer than they had anticipated and Daddy Mason who was nearing his early sixties had to stop on numerous occasions to water the grass alongside the A40. It took them virtually the whole day with the old vehicle demanding a stop to the journey every time they approached a steep hill and the two younger Masons had to get out and push the reluctant vehicle. Arriving late that night the Mason mob found lodgings in a local village pub and after a palatable dinner of home cured ham and several pints of local cider they climbed the rickety old stairs to bed.
    The next morning following their very delicious breakfast of bacon and eggs they prepared to leave in search of treasure. They enquired from the landlord of the pub of any locals who might have some old furniture they might wish to get rid of - nothing fancy like, just any old junk that would otherwise serve perfectly well as firewood. They were told of an old farm some few miles up the road where the farmer, a measly old man named Jones who went to all the local auctions and bought up piles of junk that nobody else wanted. That sounded like just the right place Daddy Mason told his two sons – the Welsh ain’t like us from the East End, he boasted – we know a good deal when we see one.
    As the Landlord of the pub had said the old farm, Bottom End it was called, was hardly spitting distance from the pub and they were at its broken down entrance in no time at all despite the objections of their old truck. The Landlord hadn’t been wrong, Bottom End was a pile of junk more than a farm, piles of unwanted rubbish that nobody had an interest in bidding for at the Auction Sales that Farmer Jones bought for pennies in the hope that he could sell on for a profit. He was very much of the same mind set as the Totter family – a something for nothing character.
    Farmer Jones was not the kind of man to work his fingers to the bone – in fact he was hardly inclined towards anything that even smelled of work as demonstrated by his current attitude, his overindulged mass of flesh sprawled out in a collapsed easy chair. He showed little inclination to assist or even direct their attention to likely places when the Trotter family enquired if they could ‘nose’ around.
    And ‘nose around’ they did with the expertise of experienced hunters, turning over every dilapidated cardboard box and ferreting amongst the contents for treasures undiscovered or unrecognized by previous scavengers and hunters. The boys found the odd silver teaspoon and bone china teacup but it was Daddy Mason who caught his breath in excitement when he clambered over a pile of woodworm rotting junk to discover the old Welsh Dresser. It looked like nothing, made of cheap wood and not embellished with fine carvings – a simple, practical piece of peasant furniture but old, very old indeed as Daddy Mason realized and worth a pretty penny if carefully restored and embellished with some carefully drilled woodworm holes which were Granddad Mason’s specialty. He had the boys clear a way through the piles of junk in order that the Welsh Dresser could be brought out of the gloom of the cowshed for closer inspection.
    Daddy Mason inspected every nook and cranny of the old piece of woodwork and, finally satisfied that his find was indeed genuine he nodded to his two sons and touched the side of his nose to indicate that they should not display any excitement. He gathered up the few other bits and pieces that they had found that could be traded for a profit and made his way back to confront the somnambulant Farmer Jones who seemed less than interested to bargain the few shillings that Daddy Mason argued for the bits and pieces. Asked why he had had his sons haul the old Welsh Dresser out from the pile of junk Daddy Mason said that he thought it was something else but in fact it was as useless a piece of junk as the rest of the rubbish. Good for nothing except perhaps as firewood he opined. If we don’t find anything else we’ll come back and take it off your hands just to fill up the truck he told the sleepy farmer. He passed him a few pound notes and told him they’d come back for it.
    With that parting shot he and his two sons returned to their truck and drove back to the pub. Lunch was a generous portion of the Landlord Wife’s stew washed down with cider and followed by her home-made plumb duff and custard. Daddy Mason was in high spirits as he explained the finer points of his dealings with Farmer Jones. The Welsh Dresser was without a doubt several hundred years old, in near perfect condition – in fact so perfect that Grand Dad Mason would have to work his ageing miracles on it – and it would undoubtedly sell for several hundreds of pounds.
    Satisfied that they had tricked to old Farmer Jones into believing that the Welsh Dresser was worthless they made one or two more desultory visits to other farms in the vicinity before returning to the Jones farm to pick up the valuable antique Welsh Dresser. Farmer Jones said that they’d given him an idea and maybe he’d keep the old dresses after all and offered them their few Pound notes back but Daddy Mason frightened that they might lose this valuable piece added a few more Pounds for Farmer Mason’s palm. Were they really sure they wanted that old piece of firewood he asked them but Daddy Mason insisted. Father Jones pocketed the Pound notes and almost got up out of his armchair but thought better of it instead and yelled for his worker to put the old dresser into the back of the Tricky Trotter’s truck.
    Offering to give Farmer Jones Worker a hand with loading the dresser the Trotters following him into the farmyard but the farm worker said it wasn’t necessary – he’d already loaded it into the truck and as a gesture of goodwill he’d done as Farmer Jones had instructed. Since he’d said it was good only for firewood he’d done them the favor and chopped it up for them and there in the back of their old truck was the Welsh Dresser neatly chopped up onto net piles of firewood.
    “Greed,” said Farmer Jones in the local pub that night – “it works every time. Don’t know how many of them City folks have fallen for that.” he grinned at his audience as he supped his pint of Cider. “That old dresser been sold a dozen times and my old Mother was right – don’t sell anything until you’re sure to get the right price for it. Well. that old piece of firewood has earned me close on a thousand Pound so far and I ain’t parted with it yet! There’s enough greed in the world to earn me a few more Pounds yet!”

Elron

    I was on my way to Dallas and dropped by Max’s place to see if there was anything I could pick up for him. Max had been reading a book of some kind when I walked in and barely glanced up at me when I walked in and passed him to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. I got my coffee and went back to the den and sat down, waiting for him to get to a stopping place.
    He finally closed the book and shaking his head, said, “There really is a sucker born every minute!”
    “What is that you are reading?” I asked.
    “It’s a treatise on L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology,” he replied. “You talk about someone selling a load of poles? That guy could sell Coppertone to Shaka Zulu!”
    “Really? Is that the guy that started out as a science fiction writer?”
    “None other. Hubbard, or Elron as the faithful refer to him, convinced enough people he had the inside track on spirituality and psychology to finance the establishment of a church and convince the federal government it’s legitimate and is entitled to paying no taxes. If anyone ever thought we don’t have religious freedom in this country, they should read about old Elron. That will remove all doubt. Good grief! That’s not religious freedom, it’s religious license.”
    “The big con, huh?”
    “The biggest,” Max said. “He started out with the book Dianetics. It’s sort of a takeoff on yoga, pop psychology and carnival sideshow hocus-pocus. And it was secular, kind of a self-help program. But somewhere along the line, that Dianetics thing sold so well, he decided to take George Orwell at his word and really start making money; so he turned the whole thing into a religion.”
    “Orwell? You mean 1984 Orwell?”
    “Yes, George Orwell said the best way to get rich was to start your own religion or words to that effect. And by golly, old George knew whereof he spoke. It worked like a charm.”
    “What’s the basic idea or premise of this religion, anyway?
    Max chuckled. “I’ll try to remember how it goes. There’s nothing remotely logical or believable in the whole thing:
    “It seems that 75 million years ago, a galactic warlord who went by the name of Kenu, if you can believe that, was in charge of 76 overpopulated planets. Apparently, he wanted to get rid of the overpopulation problem, so he transported billions of the aliens to the planet Earth; only I think he called it Teegeeack.
    It was at that point I broke up and Max had to wait till I stopped giggling.
    “Anyway,” giving me an impatient look, he went on, “Kenu dumped all these beings into volcanoes then vaporized them with hydrogen bombs. This scattered their souls all over hell and half of Georgia. By the way, these souls are called ‘Thetans.’ Then somehow or another, someone rounded up all these Thetans with some device and implanted bad ideas in them, and don’t ask me whose. Anyway, these Thetans are still around and they attach themselves to humans. Because they are pumped full of bad stuff, they cause various problems like alcoholism, drug addiction, depression and all kinds of social ailments. Now when you catch one of these things, or rather it catches you, the only way to get cured is go to a Scientologist who uses an e-meter on you. And by the way, these treatments cost big bucks.”
    “They charge for the treatments?”
    “Big time,” Max said, thin-lipped. Scientology is the only religion I have ever heard of that treats their gospel like intellectual property and charges for it.”
    “S’cuse me,” I said. “They charge their members for being let in on the secrets of their doctrines and their gospel?”
    “They sure do. It’s like if Christians did the same thing, before you could hear about the martyrdom of Jesus, it would cost you several thou.”
    “They get away with that?” I asked. “And these people are considered a non-profit church?”
    “Verily, I say unto you,” Max intoned, “the IRS can’t touch ‘em. But there’s more.”
    He cleared his throat and said, “In 1982 Elron wrote an official Scientology bulletin called Pain and Sex. In it, he stated that the biological act of sex and the body’s ability to feel pain were ‘the invented tools of degradation’ created by psychiatrists millions of years ago. He says that ‘When sex enters the scene, a being fixates and loses power.’ He also said ‘Lovers are very seldom happy.’”
    I sputtered. “He must not have been able to get it up the night before he wrote that one. Is he making money out of this thing?” I asked.
    “Max replied, “No, he’s dead. But the church lives on and apparently does extremely well in the fiscal department. My assessment is that old Elron took a look at Christianity and said to himself, ‘If people believe in all that hocus-pocus, let’s see how far I can stretch it; the farther the better.”
    “That’s a poke at Scientology and Christianity,” I said disapprovingly.
    “You noticed that, did you?” he answered.

Wednesday for Dick

I couldn’t shit again and it was Wednesday.
    I read a book by Drucker and sobbed in my bedroom. The comforter was paisley. The phones were ringing in my apartment. I mocked myself in a pocket mirror for not understanding how to use my cell phone. I listened to a Bruce Springsteen album, and then posed. I stopped posing because Springsteen wouldn’t do it. I started posing again because he always did. I ordered chinese from the Twin Dragon, and when the delivery man arrived I pretended not to be home. I tried to do pushups and did one.
    I went out.
    When I came back I tried to shit again. I laughed at a small statue of a monkey inquisitively holding a skull. I circled both my nipples with a dry erase marker. I wondered what I’d look like with a mustache. I worried about the comment my mailman made concerning my lack of neck girth.
    I was going to grow my hair long again. I needed more collared shirts.
    I left my apartment again, and put a note on the door that read, “Honey, go around back.” I went back inside. I called a former concubine’s cell and asked her if she remembered me. I laid on the couch with my head hanging over the edge, upside down, and became emotional. I hopelessly drifted around my apartment like a ghost, but moaned less than the one that was already there.
    I wondered aloud, “Boxers or briefs?”
    I had no answers.
    I made six protein shakes, drank three, and vomited on my burberry coat. I got in my car and drove away. While coasting through a crosswalk, I yelled nonsense at a man my age. I went food shopping. I came back and parked my car. I couldn’t walk anymore because my legs were sore because I got too many groceries because I was hungry and because I lived on the second floor.
    I tried to shit again and thought about some things.

The Starving Ego

    Dane Biggers had a starving ego. He had had the condition all of his adult life. It didn’t plague him because he had no idea what it was that demanded attention almost constantly; but Biggers condition bothered many who came in contact with him for one reason or another.
    Born in the Great Lakes Region, Biggers left for the West at age ten because his father got transferred to Arizona. Even at that tender age, Biggers had put the cowboy on a lofty pedestal, and during Biggers’s seventies, he had never removed that cowboy from his perch. Living in Arizona gave Dane Biggers his opportunity of a lifetime to become a cowboy, the kind that he avidly read about in pulp western novels. During his teen years Biggers borrowed horses from his friends and rode in the riverbed, but he never saw a cow. He didn’t need a cow to feel like he had arrived at his goal of becoming a cowboy. He found a straw, broad brimmed hat in the river, soaked the brim in hot water and curled it up like he had seen the movie cowboys wear theirs. He never realized that cowboys bought broad brimmed hats to keep off the rain and block the hot Arizona sun, but he didn’t care. He was a cowboy. It was not long before he gained enough weight so that he had difficulty borrowing horses from his friends. Nevertheless, Dane Biggers was a sure enough cowboy because he had ridden in the dry sandy bed of the Salt River that ran through the city of Phoenix. Some called Biggers “a drug store cowboy,” coming close to the truth.
    After graduating from high school he got lucky and entered the local state university where he immediately registered as a major in animal husbandry where anyone wanting to work with cattle enrolled. Dane took all of the animal courses there were except nutrition that required far more knowledge of chemistry than he would ever have. He took English X because it was a required course for those who didn’t do well on the placement test, but he missed most of the classes. He failed and had to repeat the courses three times.
    Somehow he graduated. He didn’t know any more about cattle than when he had registered as a freshman. English grammar was another subject that was either totally dormant or totally missing from his realm of knowledge. However, his announcement to his friends that he was going to seek his fortune in Arkansas caused brows to wrinkle and mouths to open in questionable silence. “In ten years I’ll come back here driving a Thunderbird,” he said. Ten years later he had put a small down payment on a Ford Fairlane. Arkansas had been good to Dane Biggers.
    Over his first ten years as an Arkansan, Biggers had developed an Arkansas accent in his speech that even a lifelong resident of Arkansan couldn’t match. The only term to describe that accent was ‘Phony Hick”, and it was almost unintelligible over the telephone.
    He had married and many were surprised. Those who had become acquainted with Dane Biggers thought that the only woman that would ever marry him would be one who longed to take care of someone. She got him. It could have been that she thought he had tremendous potential as a radio talker about livestock that he knew little about, or it could have been his appointment to the local rodeo board of directors. Dane Biggers had the strong notion that the road to success was to get on the boards of directors of as many organizations as possible. It became Dane’s addiction. However, his principal employment became a position of chicken farm inspector. He got hired because they had noticed his degree in Agriculture from a university that had long been a teacher’s normal school. The job turned out to be perfect for Biggers because he enjoyed palavering with all the chicken farmers and telling them that he had once been a real cowboy in Arizona. He knew that the chances were quite slim that any of those in his audiences would ever make it to Arizona to substantiate anything he said.
    As a member of the local rodeo board of directors, Biggers became further fascinated by rodeo than ever before. His great blunder was believing that rodeo and the life of a cowboy were one in the same. It was about that time when he remembered all of the shoot ‘em stories in the western pulp magazines and pocket books. He loved Zane Gray to the point where Gray became Bigger’s major hero of all time. Biggers decided that he would become a writer of westerns. That decision could have been as bad as moving to Arkansas after graduating from college. He had obviously forgotten or chose to neglect his lack of interest in English grammar. But, that didn’t stop Dan Biggers. Not only did he change his name to one that “sounded cowboy”, he also began writing series westerns that were all under one pen name. The stories were awful. Some editor that had once been employed by the publisher had devised the series and had written “the bible” for it. This meant that every writer hired by the editor to write one of the books for the series had to have the main character seduce four different women in each story. “Sex with a Stetson” was born. And, Sex with a Stetson could have been one reason for the demise of the “Western” in commercial American literature.
    Undaunted by any slowdown in the popularity of “Traditional Westerns”, Biggers wrote his stories and finally, after buddying up with a New York editor and a new York Agent he got a couple published, qualifying him as a member of a writer organization that lived by the notion that they were the most prestigious organization anywhere. Biggers immediately saw that the writer group would be an excellent place to politick his way up their ladder to eventually become president. What he failed to realize that none of the members wanted to become president because all they wanted to do was write. However, Biggers made a plan that would allow him to reach his goal in less than twenty years.
    Throughout all this period of ego feeding one must understand that Dane Biggers was and continues to be a blatant racist, stemming from his deep felt insecurity, the basis of most racism and bigotry. Like most racists Biggers never realized that it is he that is the loser in racism because he is so crippled mentally by racism he cannot expand his mind to accept and intellectually profit from races other than his own. In addition to his bigotry against blacks, Biggers held Mexicans and other Latin people in an enthusiastic contempt. He might have learned this condition while he lived in Arizona close to Phoenix, the capital of bigotry against Mexicans. But those wealthy Phoenicians within or connected to the state government look to the Mexican population for labor. This condition is clearly a remnant of southern slavery, always vehemently denied. Like most bigots, Dane Biggers is quick to deny that he is a racist and refers to himself as an American and a Christian. But, he has never written a Christian novel. Too much research involved in a Christian novel and Biggers would have to start from scratch.
    Year after year Biggers attended the annual convention of the writing group. Year after year, Biggers shook hands with the members until his right hand got sore from all the crushing it took from those who believed in hearty handshakes that were becoming to cowboys used to quick-drawing their revolvers to save ladies of the night. Biggers had a number of drinks with one of the board members one evening during a convention. He was careful to not be too aggressive in asking the board member to nominate him to run for the board of directors to replace a man who had written his last book before collapsing dead in front of the Alamo.
    Biggers ran unopposed and, of course, won a seat on the board of directors. He was constantly mindful that he should not rock the boat even when he disagreed with any decisions that came before the board. The next huge step in the plan arrived while having a conversation about the dying Western with an old time member who was serving his third stint on the board. Biggers convinced the old timer that the group would improve greatly if he, Biggers, were vice president with his new ideas on membership qualifications.
    Bigger’s only opponent was a new member. The opponents name was not familiar to most members who are infrequent conventioneers so Biggers became vice president. He gave out a long sigh upon reaching his long sought after goal because according to the organization’s constitution the vice president, after serving a two-year term, became president. Biggers was happy about that article in the constitution. He could relax at conventions and he had never heard of many tasks given the vice president. But, even becoming vice president of the writer’s group could not fill his still starving ego. Somewhere, along the way, he had become acquainted with a small independent publisher. It must be remembered that Biggers still wrote four sex with a Stetson series novels every year, but the teeth of his ego jaws still gnawed at his psyche. While somewhat basking with his new title, Biggers rummaged around for new awards to finagle, much to the consternation of his fellow writers who were thoroughly convinced that Biggers’ awards for writing were totally unwarranted. However, those doing the awarding were perhaps unaware that Biggers becoming their recipient, diminished the award’s credibility considerably. This was especially true when a non-fiction magazine named him best living western writer. Biggers never wrote non-fiction. Rumors flew that since that magazine depended on their readers to vote, Biggers might have sent in enough ballots, voting for himself, to garner the award. All this further convinced a lot of people that awards are always a “crap-shoot”.
    When Biggers announced that he had become an editor for the small independent publisher, eyes rolled at the thought that Dane Biggers, a writer needing an editor far more than most, had, indeed, become an editor. Biggers’ original plan had not included becoming an editor, it was something that his ego had tossed into the neurotic pot for consideration when stirred.
    Time will tell the possible bitter truth that Biggers, as president, might spell the death knell of the writer group, but there is one ray of positive thought streaming through the morass of negativity. With the advent of electronic books and magazines, Biggers’ creations of sex with a Stetson will no longer use up any more trees.

John Duncklee Bio

    John Duncklee has been a cowboy, rancher, quarter horse breeder, university professor and award winning author of 23 books and myriad articles, poetry and short stories. He is a Western Writers of America Spur award winner for poetry. He lives in Las Cruces, N.M. with his wife, Penny, an accomplished watercolorist.

Descent Into Madness

    She slammed her locker door shut and sat down heavily on the bench, collecting her purse, work bag, which contained her fetal monitoring test to be completed, breath mints, remains of her lunch, hemostats and scissors, hand cream, pens, ID tag, water bottle and the other odds and ends of a working nurse, and picked up the plastic bag containing her white nursing shoes, now splattered with blood, and scrub shirt, soaked with more of the same new mother’s blood. Katrina thought back over the shift wearily, Rushing around, she had barely gotten to work on time, and it was an exhausting shift, with four admits and six deliveries.
    She was the charge nurse and it was very busy. Around 0300 one of the nurses with a diabetic antepartum patient with frequent emesis called her to say the patient was shaking and complaining she felt bad. Her blood sugar was fifty-six and she had been vomiting all day yesterday. Arriving at the patient’s room, Katrina introduced herself and sat down on the bed, noting the patient getting more anxious and sweating. She was drinking apple juice. Giving a diabetic with a low blood sugar juice was good, but why had this happened?
    “Connie, what were you able to eat for dinner?”
    “The only thing I have been able to hold down is apple juice and mashed potatoes. So just mashed potatoes for dinner, nothing else on the tray was appealing,” she replied. “They started me back on insulin today and I told them I couldn’t eat yet. Please don’t leave me alone.”
    Katrina sent the patient’s nurse, Jo, out to call the doctor and look for any mashed potatoes and more apple juice. Sitting there, they chatted about diabetes and how things had been going with this pregnancy. Suddenly, Connie gasped!
    “What is it,” Katrina inquired, reassuringly placing her hand on Connie’s arm.
    “I can’t see you sitting there, “ She replied.
    “Then it’s time for another blood sugar.” This one was forty. Katrina called Jo and the doctor and the nursing supervisor. She had to be very assertive but she made the nursing supervisor go to the Safeway grocery store across the street and get microwavable mashed potatoes.
    Connie quietly whispered, “Are you still there? I can’t hear you anymore.” Katrina nudged herself closer to Connie’s leg and squeezed her hand several times, but never letting go. She had been afraid exactly of this kind of ‘crash’ occurring. Her blood sugar read 30 this time, much lower than the bottom range of 70 a pregnant woman should have. With some mashed potatoes and 2 more cups of apple juice Connie’s blood sugar was up to ninety-eight, her vision was fine, she could hear, and she could try to go back to sleep. Katrina had a long discussion with Dr. White about starting insulin on a patient who was still vomiting. Jo gushed with thanks that she had not been in the room when Connie had said she could not see.
    “I would not have known what to do. How did you get the supervisor to go get mashed potatoes?” Jo queried.
    “Just experience that we would have had a bigger problem if he had not just run across the street for us to get them. It’s a small thing, but it made all the difference in the world for the patient. Be sure to tell the day shift what happened and not to give insulin if she is not eating,” Katrina finished wearily.
    She was then called to see another laboring patient, who came in with the family all jabbering in an unfamiliar language. The only person who spoke up in English to answer any questions looked about twelve. A look and one feel of the strength of her contractions told Katrina this one did not need the triage room, but was a direct admit to a labor suite. She quickly led the patient and family to a room and handed the patient a gown, explaining to undress and she would get her into bed and the fetal monitor started. Going to the computer, Katrina knew there was no labor nurse she could pull from another assignment; she was it. Calling the midwife to come in from home, Katrina turned around as the woman came out of the bathroom, pointing to her crotch. The baby delivered as soon as mom got into bed, without the midwife, a set up delivery table or time for Katrina to get a pair of gloves. “Thank you so much, I feel so much better,” the woman had said, in perfect English. “I was in a lot of pain.”
    This patient’s attitude and gratitude was in sharp contrast to her co-workers’ scathing comments this week, which were running over and over in her mind, like an inane commercial jingle, which, once popped into her consciousness, refused to vacate.
    “Scrubs are getting a little tight, eh?”
    “Your hair’s growing so fast! All the curl’s almost out of it.”
    It’s not like I’m not trying, she thought, blinking back tears, aware such simple comments would mean little to most people. I just got my hair cut and permed nine days ago! My hair was ‘too severe’ in a bun, ‘too casual’ in a clip on top of my head like Erin wears hers, everyone said it was such a shock to see me get it permed and now it’s not curly enough? I took the high road about my appearance, how far do I have to go? And I exercise and swim! She moaned to herself, and got up, trudging out of the fourth floor nurses locker room, down the hall to the elevator and parking garage.
    The crux of the problem was her employee evaluation two weeks ago had been deplorable, all the more incredible because the assistant manager had said none of it should come as a shock to her, although it had been a shattering experience. Katrina’d had no idea there were such multiple negative assessments about her or that numerous patients had complained about her weight and perceived abilities; that she sat down at the computer to chart, she asked relatives to hand her the blood pressure cuff if it was on the opposite side of the bed, and worst of all, pre-teen and teen-aged family members were asked to plug in the fetal monitor as the electrical outlet was 4 inches up from the floor and under a cabinet so that she almost had to get flat on her belly to reach it, whereas a pre/teen was able to plug it in easily. Supposedly her patients were claiming she was ‘too fat’ to take care of them. It had been a devastating meeting, the screaming inside her head making her want to run and hide while all the while trying to appear calm and remain professional as she asked questions to clarify points, answered a few questions she was sure were not legal, like what were her diet and exercise programs, and signed the double dammed document, right where it says this signifies receipt, not agreement, with the contents.
    “Unkempt, unprofessional appearance.” How to take that, especially since this was the first time her weight had been officially discussed. Patients commented, she had been told, that she came into the room breathing heavily, as though, ‘they’ said, she could barely walk, was ‘unable to move them— when they had a good epidural and needed to be turned or in delivery when a family member was required to hold one or both legs back during the ‘pushing phase;”so the nurse could get supplies— did that mean I’m too weak?... and ‘did not seem able to take care of them because of her size’. Having been super-sized the entire fourteen years she had been an RN, seven of them on this same unit, Katrina was confused. I can’t pass a bedpan, run a bed and patient into the C/section room along with the charge nurse or patient’s nurse and the surgical tech and the doctors, diaper a baby or start an IV line because of my size? That hardly seems likely, when I do it all the time, I’m even often the charge nurse, responsible for everything that all the six to twelve nurses do on the unit. I still walk too fast for the laboring women when I take them back into the exam room; I didn’t know there was a minimum speed for nurses!
    Katrina got into her beloved, comfortable, late-model black Chrysler Cirrus, and sat a moment before turning on the engine, the tears flowing now. “I gave up my hair wrap and my long hair, I bought new clothes, use breath mints, see the dentist frequently, all the things I could identify. Goddess! I even employed both an image consultant for my hair and a fashion consultant for my clothes. I had a close friend give me a sniff test, and I always shower directly before work and wear clean scrubs. I can’t hide my size. I feel like I don’t even have a right to exist!”
    Katrina wiped her face and drove carefully out of the garage. “So you finally decided to join us, did you?” “Wish I could get a good sleep like that.” She relived those embarrassing comments from last week at the beginning of the shift, when she had arrived forty minutes late for her third twelve hour night shift in a row. It’s the second time this year, but it’s not as if I don’t set two alarm clocks. Katrina didn’t really want to point out the ultimate reason, that she had central sleep apnea, to her employer. Awakening dozens of times during the night to breathe while her brain, busy in REM or dream sleep, pure and simple, forgot to stimulate a respiratory response, caused her to have to gasp her way awake, breathe, and go back to sleep. Despite medication and the ever-wonderful CPAP machine that blew air into her nose so she did not stop breathing while asleep, it was hard for her to wake up. Becoming conscious enough to get out of bed was a difficult task, all the harder because sleeping exhausted her. She joked that whenever she got up, she was ready for a nap. Falling asleep on the sofa on her days off was not helping, as she wound up not taking her medications, yet, her sleep med was so sedating, that if she took it, she’d need to go to sleep again and sleep around the clock! Now was not the best time for her to have been late again, that was certain. It set off even more alarm bells (haha) in her head that her job was on the line.
    Katrina thought about stopping at the grocery on her way home. She needed to buy a turkey soon, before there were none left, but she was too tired and drained. Like an idiot, she berated herself, I asked to work the night before Thanksgiving (which counted as the night shift holiday), needing the money and not having someone special to share it with, then I invite people over for Thanksgiving, only to find I have to work Thanksgiving night too!
    Katrina undressed, leaving her clothes on the bathroom floor, and climbed into bed, munching a Dove chocolate ice cream bar as she tried to calm down and get into a constructive frame of mind for her days off and back into her book on fat-positive self-esteem. She wanted to be upbeat, really, but she was lonely. Not even anyone to love me, she thought dejectedly. I hate being single!
    She woke to a dark, silent house. Glancing at the clock, she already knew she’d overslept her alarm again. Nine o’clock already on Monday night! Katrina listlessly dragged herself up out of bed and installed herself on the living room couch half an hour later, after eating a sandwich and tending to her piteous Minou Cat’s complaint that she was starving (untrue), unloved (possibly true if she continued to nip people), cold (not true, the heater was on and what was that fur for anyway), and the litter box was stinky (always true, it was a toilet for the Goddess’s sake!) After a while watching TV, she fell asleep for another six hours. She awoke, pissed at herself. ‘WAKE UP,’ she demanded of herself, and DO something! Laundry seemed the most pressing need, boring, but active.
    Eventually, she checked her voicemail. The two messages were both from work. One was to work that night-obviously that was out. The second was from the payroll clerk. Her Thanksgiving holiday (which was separate from the night before Thanksgiving, that netted overtime) could not be paid on her upcoming check, as it was payable after it was earned, not before, despite what the program assistant had told her. So, she was going to be twelve hours short on this paycheck. She’d planned on that money or she would not have stayed home on call one night last week. How the hell was she going to pay the mortgage on time, not to mention her car registration, which was a couple hundred short out of this check to begin with. Time to raid her small savings account, but her brain began shrieking ‘stupid, unworthy, useless’ as a background litany again.
    She washed the dishes and lit a few candles, putting the TV on for company, and fixed herself a comfort meal, steak, caramel-topped cinnamon rolls, with sauteed mushrooms and green beans. Quickly picking a few dishes up afterwards, she knocked over a brand new ceramic cannister she’d just bought last week and had yet to fill with flour. Looking down at the fragments behind her microwave, she just shook her head and left it. Katrina went out with the morning haze that passed for sunrise and got the mail, another error, she soon discovered reading it, as it brought a nice, fat bill from Firestone, her six months deferred payment for her snow tires was up; she’d forgotten all about it.
    She decided she needed a change of ... ‘atmosphere’ ... seemed like the best word. She put on one of her Libana CDs, and carefully cast a circle around herself in her ritual room (or spare bedroom, as it was also called.) She drew the physical boundary with salt, unlike her usual use of incense to define the circle. Calling the four quarters and the Goddess, she smudged herself and did a self-blessing ritual she had learned a few years ago at Wicca summer camp.
     “Goddess, please help me out here,” She beseeched. “I am so anxious about my job and my life right now. I feel like I am being persecuted because of my size. Why am I so fat? Being on insulin does not seem to let me lose weight! Will I gain weight forever? I know I am created in Your image. You know I don’t spend all of my time pigging out! What should I do to make my life better? I don’t want to lose my job and my house and be homeless. I’ve been applying for other jobs for months, I exercise..........Help me!”
    Katrina took a shower, put on one of her favorite dresses and went to the store Tuesday morning. The turkeys were picked over and her favorite brand, Norbest, were all sold already. She knew from prior experience that this was the only store that carried any number of them. Long gone was the day she had brung a turkey home only to find her partner had bought a turkey also, requiring one of them to go back. Nina, ah well, no sense thinking about her, that was ten years of another life. Katrina picked out a nice fresh turkey, selected a bunch of cheery flowers for the holiday table, cranberry sauce, turkey broth and another can of pumpkin she needed for the menu. She was having two friends over. Maybe they’d use her Grandmother’s china and silver, all she had to remember the only unconditional love she felt she had ever really had.
    Stopping at the Chevron gas station, she discovered her wallet was missing. Thanking the Goddess she wasn’t on fumes, she called the grocery store, but it had not been turned in. Cursing all the way home, she thought furiously of all the times she was going to go through that wallet and xerox all the cards, or write them down or even sign up with one of those credit card registrations she so frequently saw stuffed into the bills. She’d have to call the driver’s license bureau and see if they were open the day after Thanksgiving. Can’t write a check where she’d be asked for ID either. Damn it all to hell in a handbasket anyway!
    Katrina turned on the oven and discovered once it was hot and she was putting the turkey in that she had forgotten to remove one of the racks, spilling water and giblets all over the floor. Going over her important papers file, she thought she located all the credit cards and made the calls to report them missing. Going out to the garage in the endless pursuit of laundry, she checked the glove compartment for her insurance certificate. Closing the car door, she glanced in the back seat and dropped the half full soda cup she was putting in the trash all over her dress—her wallet was on the back seat of the car! At least she didn’t have to get another driver’s licence, but all her credit cards were now cancelled..
    Ensconced on the sofa reading the old yet new to her Sunday paper, she dozed off, only to awaken to the blare of the new smoke detectors she’d had her housekeeper install last month. She’d put the turkey in nine hours ago! Opening the front and back doors did not help much. Katrina, coughing, had to pull two of the smoke alarms off the ceiling and disconnect them to shut them up. Pulling the charred turkey out, she splashed her arm with hot grease, which blistered immediately, despite the cold water she promptly applied. She would deal with a new turkey later, or never, she decided.
    Going into work Wednesday evening, traffic was impossible. She was fifteen minutes late, again. Mortified, she walked into the report room, steeling herself for comments. No one was in there! What was the deal, this was very unusual. She changed into scrubs and took the elevator down to the third floor, walking into the unit bravely. Everyone was silent as she walked into the nurses station and her manager was sitting there. Ms. Sandra Watson never stayed late, hers was an 0800 to 1700 type of job and 1930 was not a time she was around. Her extra hours were morning ones. It boded less well as Sandra said, “Come into my office,”
    Following her down the stairs, trying not to huff, be too slow, or fall from missing a step she could not see, Katrina knew something was terribly wrong. Her greatest fear was losing her job and thus her house and all she had. No one in their right mind would hire a floor nurse as big as she; fat-positive she was, but at over three hundred and fifty pounds, she was also realistic. Watson confirmed her worst fears.
    “Katrina,” she began, “I have had complaints about you from six patients in the last two weeks and two charge nurses. You have been late twice in two weeks. You sit down to do vital signs and ask family members to hand you the blood pressure cuff, even asking a family member to move to another seat so you can sit at the computer. They do not feel you can give good care as you are not like the other nurses. This is totally unacceptable. You are too fat to work as a nurse. I have no choice but to terminate you effective immediately. Please clean out your locker and go home. Here is your last paycheck, with two weeks severance pay in lieu of notice”
    Katrina had no idea how she got home safely. She couldn’t see from the tenacious torrent of tears, could hardly breathe from crying searing her sinuses, and didn’t much care if she stomped on the accelerator and closed her eyes on the high rise bridge. Except that she didn’t go home over the high rise bridge on her accustomed way home and the car was on autopilot. She wished she could feel numb, instead of horrified, embarrassed, terrified, angry, stupid, fat, ugly, unloved, depressed and miserable. What was she supposed to do now? It was a very good question, to which she feverently wished she had an answer. “OH Goddess, please help me,” she sobbed! She wanted to hide from the world, and not have to think, not have to try, and always be found wanting.
    Katrina let Minou Cat out as she arrived home, barely noticing her, lost in recollecting another Thanksgiving, nine years ago, when she had been pointedly left out of the festivities at work at another hospital, clearly uninvited to the potluck meal and given responsibility for the whole floor while everyone celebrated. She had not even been told there was a potluck! She had had fish for lunch at home, telling her partner Nina to bring her home a Thanksgiving plate with turkey from the friends she was going to be with while Katrina was at work. Katrina had never dreamed she would be stuck with all the work of the floor while her coworkers of over two years partied without her! Nina had just let her cry when she had gotten home, not even offering her a hug. “Even then,” she murmured, “I should have known the relationship was dying.” Nine years ago, Katrina had gone into the bathroom and taken handfuls of pills. Nina hadn’t stopped her, hadn’t taken her to the hospital, hadn’t called her therapist, or her mother. It would have been so easy, Katrina had realized then, and stopped before taking too many pills.
    Katrina looked down at her hands, hands that had soothed, calmed, massaged, held, comforted, acknowledged and encouraged so many women, and saw them opening bottles of pills. Everything was disjointed, like a dream that switches scenes without segue. She was in the bathroom, and there were empty pill bottles around the sink and on the floor. She was gobbling pills by the handful, tears coursing torrentially down her face. The comments that had been thrown at her for years resounded like a Greek chorus; “You’re too fat to live.” “I ought to run you over right now, fatso” “I’d kill myself if I let myself get that big!”
    She could not get the soul searing taunts she had heard over and over out of her brain, but she was falling further and faster away as she kept scooping up and popping left-over drugs, in the kitchen now, with Vacation—good for sleeping with pain and permanent liver damage; Lor-tabs-good for pain relief, sleep, and heart rhythm changes and liver damage too; Valium—good for mellowing out and sleeping,; Alluvial—good to cause sleep and possibly fatal changes in heart rhythm, Phenergan—no nausea or vomiting....She knew antibiotics, cholesterol drugs or ibuprofen weren’t lethal. She thought she had done so well, was getting her life back on track, but the last two weeks had destroyed it all again.
    Katrina crawled into her waterbed, phone unplugged and pulled the covers over her head. She was already feeling dizzy and very sleepy. Now she wouldn’t have to think, strive to fix ‘unkempt’ and ‘unprofessional,’ worry about how fat she was, if her breath offended, what people thought of her. Probably no one would even hold a funeral, and a casket would be a problem—but not mine, she giggled to herself. She had on her best new lace nightgown, one of three she’d bought hoping to need for a new partner; it wouldn’t do to just be wrapped in a sheet like poor Christina Carrigan.
    Much better just to go to sleep, get away from the name-calling, taunts, disapproving looks, the ‘your hair needs cutting,’ ‘your purse is getting pretty worn,’ ‘maybe you need a breath mint,’ I don’t want you to have a heart attack and die,’ ‘we’ll buy you new clothes when you lose wight,’‘you have such a pretty face.’ ‘It doesn’t come any larger than this,’ ‘you’re late, again,’ ‘I don’t love you anymore and haven’t for a long time,’ ‘you’re too fat to be a cheerleader,’ ‘I didn’t think she could take care of me,’ ‘face it, you’re fat because you don’t bother to take care of yourself,’ nobody wanted you anyway, you fat pig.’
    “I’m not unkempt and unprofessional, damn it!” Katrina asserted.
    “I quite agree.”
    “What?”
    “I said, I quite agree with you. You were not unkempt to begin with and you made some serious changes, cut your lovely hair, changed your mouthwash, worked out several times a week, got a new alarm clock, employed a fashion consultant. The clothing you picked out was very becoming. Stellar, actually. I was very pleased with your selections.”
    “Who are you? Is this some part of myself suddenly getting chatty? Katrina inquired, while becoming very sharply and clearly alert, if not awake, although perhaps she was both. This was not exactly what she thought would happen next. White light, the Goddess looking at her sadly, expressing disappointment, stern lectures, vivid dreams, discovery of a gross miscalculation vis-a-vis religious beliefs perhaps, but not acceptance and agreement with her heart’s opinion!
    “What Name would you like to use for Me?” She laughed with the tinkle of a brook and the music that moves mountains in Her voice. Katrina became aware that she was being held in two or ten or twenty warm, loving arms, just as she had longed for, prayed and visualized the Goddess holding her in times of need and worship, safe, supported, understood, accepted, loved. She saw/knew/intuited a beautiful woman as all women are beautiful, in every culture, time and race, shifting colors, features, sizes, shapes, clothes; brides, amazons, mothers, dykes, crones, wise, accepting, innocent, loving, all real and all One.
    “Aren’t You mad at me?” Katrina ventured. “Killing myself, being a failure.....” She knew being fat wasn’t her fault and she knew she wasn’t going to be weighed for pounds of flesh; good deeds maybe, but not her body size/mass.
    “Anger at My Beloved for freely choosing your own way? I gave you free will. But your life is not over,” Isis/Ishtar/Inanna replied, Queen of Heaven being preeminent in Katrina’s mind at the moment.
    “But Mother Goddess, I took all my pills,” Katrina protested.
    “Yes, you did. Now you have begun to sleep. You cried out to Me and I came, as I always have. You do not always remember. I am She whom you have beseeched and called into Being. I am She who you breathed into immanence with every breath you take, as you so eloquently phrased it once, in sacred space. I am She Who know your heart and when that heart breaks, I must come.”
    “Then this is all in my mind,” Katrina despaired sadly.
    “No! I am She Who created the stars, and all things, and I am that which is attained at the end of all desire, as I believe it is currently phrased. But it is a little like Tinkerbell in that there must be belief/recognition/acceptance of the Divine, the Creatrix or as has been said the old goddesses diminish and fade as another Aspect grows. It is not that I cease to exist but that it is harder to hear ME when belief is weak or gone. I am as MY creation perceives Me, as you also have believed. But you time in this space grows short and your decision awaits you. What would you have of Me?” Her face continued to change as Kore/Isis/Astarte/Innana/Maat/ Demeter/Gaea/Hecate/Diana/Ceridwen/Aradia Spoke.
    “Well, I was fired. People have been complaining about me, about my size....” Katrina trailed off uncertainly.
    “Yes, illegally fired I believe. You have a union and the Americans with Disabilities Act and moral superiority,” She replied, with an amused smile. “If you want to continue your current job. But does it bring happiness anymore? Perhaps a new job would suit this stage of your life better. Have you found work that you like in your job search?”
    “What was that?” Katrina asked, not sure she had heard right. She had not expected a sense of humor and delight, although that had always been a part of her belief about both the Goddess and the universe. Perhaps she was depressed and chained down to the this twelve hour night job for too long. She was always tired and she did slow down on the third shift in a row. There were one or three jobs she’d love to try that she had interviewed for recently. Daytime jobs even! But no one had called her back with a job offer yet.
    “I do indeed delight in a righteous battle and you have right on your side. Fat is not evil. It is form and substance, potential energy, stored light. One of My better creations, actually. Big smile, big burger, big moose, big boat, big house, big fish, big, fat check, big breasts, all of these things are good. Big people, large, fat, stout, queen sized, zaftig, are good. I like them. I like you, Katrina. You are doing things right. Go back to where you were dreaming.” She touched Katrina’s forehead and for an instant, Katrina was immanent Goddess manifest.
    Katrina awoke to sunshine streaming into her home. What day was it? She had been lying on the sofa and there was a wonderful smell in the air. Working nights and sleeping through strange snatches of time, she’d been through the what day is it and even the is it am or pm game. She grabbed the TV channel changer and began clicking channels. That succulent smell sought her attention as she stared at the TV daily news and then slowly followed her nose into the kitchen just as the timer went off. Ding! Katrina opened the oven door and gazed at the beautiful, fat, golden brown turkey within. She took the turkey carefully out of the oven and placed it on the counter to cool before wrapping it for the refrigerator. The ring of the telephone startled her on her way back to the TV. She crossed into the dining room and picked up the receiver.
    “Hello, Katrina, can you come into work tonight?” the staffing office assistant asked. We have seven labor patients and some sick calls already. I know you were able to get your request to be off tonight granted but I was told to call everyone who worked here and wasn’t scheduled.”
    “What time is it?” Katrina murmured, thinking about her ‘dream.’ Hanging up the phone, she told herself, Monday. The staffing office was used to getting “NO” in its various permutations. She didn’t ask if she was still employed there. The phone rang again.
    “May I speak to Katrina, please? This is Madeleine Westron. You interviewed with me a few weeks ago. Are you still interested in the position we have open. I’m sorry not to have gotten back to you sooner, but I had a family emergency and was out of the office for a while. We would provide all the training for you to be a consulting nurse in our call center. We would love to get you started right away.”
    The phone rang a third time. “Three’s the charm,” she thought, almost giddy with whirling emotions of joy and wonder. “Thank you, Great Mother Goddess.”
    “Hello, Katrina, I’m going to bring apple cider for Thanksgiving dinner. Listen, is it ok for me to bring a friend with me? She is a woman of size and a dyke too. She just moved here and is single. I think you’d really like her. She loves science fiction and fantasy too.”
    “Let me tell you about my day so far.”

Into the Breach

    With close examination, I can see the years of my life absorbed into this bar stool like the rings of a tree. I had been drinking a cheap malt liquor from a forty ounce bottle, periodically a swig of bourbon, and any pill I could get my hands on. Mostly the oxy that I looted from my grandpa’s nursing home. I was so high my head was bouncing off the ceiling. This bar was an excavation site for the two years of my life that vanished without a trace, after that I couldn’t get drunk anymore, but I sure did try. I glanced around the bar in a blurred haze, looking for artifacts and clues as to where I vanished. Where did I go? What on earth did I do? I always run into people on the streets who claim to know me. I go with it, not wanting to hurt their feelings, and try to piece together the lost days of my life. I hear stories about the bonfire in Saint Charles where I drove a truck into a tree, or the whorehouse downtown where I threw up on a hooker and cost everyone five hundred dollars for service. It was an accident, but I guess they see enough vomit fetishists to subsidize the market. I had brief thunderstorms of post traumatic stress in this bar, and I had flash backs of a certain situation in the bar bathroom stall. Other than that, I was at a loss.
    It’s Friday night, and all the drunks are crawling through the woodwork. Like fools we get it anywhere we can. The Island Bar was a clichéd cesspool, but they didn’t have a kitchen so you were allowed to smoke. As always, I’ve been wandering from bar to bar with eyes closed. Like Odysseus fighting for his way home. It seems like I have been heading down the wrong road; like I lost my bearings in a darkened miasma of drunken night. I thought I would find my way by now, but I’m still roaming the damp caves buried bellow loves soil and haunted by subliminal longings. The shots of whiskey rained down from heaven above. This was my Odyssey. Forever damned to roam the beer stench corridors of my cowardice in the face of love. We played with the devil’s mechanisms of chance: you might lose a friend, you might fall in love anew, but at the end of the night you will never leave satisfied. I fell on the floor in a pharmaceutical frenzy, and watched the lights burn, seeing two of every neon sign, and the room spun around me as I lay motionless in apathetic indifference, but if you squint real hard and stare deep into the bottle of your condemned horoscope, you realize it could be so much worse.
    I made it home that night, but was afraid to go to sleep. I had been for weeks: nightmare after nightmare, each more ghoulish than the last. This is why the pills were essential, or any drug for that matter: if you went to sleep completely wasted out of your mind you were alright, but if you fell asleep only half wasted, or worse, sober, then the dreams began to haunt every wink. The problem was, you were never sure whether you were sleeping or if the terror was actually taking place in the room, for when you slept the entire room entered your dreams with you, the dirty dishes, the empty bottles, the cum dried socks, the typewriter, the panties some whore left on the floor, the moon burning out the window, headlight peering in from car loads of well fed laughing people, and you were trapped in some dark corner, without solace, starving, hysterical, naked, no reason, no hope, just a dark sweating corner, a corner of flies and filth, the stench of the rotting corpse that is reality, the stench of everything: spiders climbing the walls, eyes through the doorknob, grimy bars, loose whores, malt liquor, cheap cigarettes, madhouses, trees and no trees, light and no light, and realizing that what might as well have been the only woman in this world would never belong to you. I saw myself, covered in blood, with the blood dripping like a leaked faucet from my hair and eyes, but the eyes were black, and it held a whiskey bottle draining in all in an ongoing chug while pacing a lit cigarette just above my chest as I laid in bed sweating, unable to move or cry out in help. And then I awaken to an empty room and the sound of echoing silence.
    I remember waking the next morning and finding everything tarnished with the color of forgotten love. I threw on some clothes, lit a cigarette, and walked back to the bar. Harry was still in there, and he had been waiting for me. Harry and I had a lot in common: we were both cowards. We wanted to survive so we would talk wild and drink our wine while the seconds passed away and the outside world became one of nightmares and gambles. We wanted to live so we avoided anything that could crack our shells. We didn’t want to live too badly, but we still wanted to live, and that meant hiding away where no one could touch us.
    “Back again?” Harry said sitting next to me and motioning the bartender for two beers.
    “I couldn’t sleep too well.”
    “Yeah, I’m the same way. That’s why I don’t bother, I just stay here.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Seven twenty in the morning.”
    “Christ, it feels like three in the morning.”
    “When it comes to the dark nights of the soul, it’s always three in the morning.”
    “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I got a real bad case of the Saint Louis blues.”
    “Believe me, brother, you don’t want to know the real blues. The real blues is where you lost your job, starving, no woman, no mind, no nothing, and you haven’t even got enough to buy a beer. That’s the blues.”
    “It’s starting to look that way.”
    “What’d ya say we do about it then?”
    “What is there to do?”
    Harry leaned in closer, “We work together.”
    “Alright, what do I do?”
    “Now listen, kid: you’re a good talker. You tell a lot of crazy-ass stories, it doesn’t matter if they’re true or not.”
    “They’re true.”
    “Alright, damnit, I’m just saying that it doesn’t matter much. You got a good mouth, that’s all.”
    “I won’t blow you, Harry.”
    “Shut up and listen, smart-ass. Now here’s what we do. There is a class bar down the block. You know it, that one where one of your girls kept running off with those tight-ass military cunts. It’s a sex joint of sorts. They fill it to the brink with minors, not just girls, and those perverts go on parade. It’s still a class place though. Red7 is the name of the club. I’m sure you remember. Just get a little dressed up and move on in there. All you need is money for your first drink. We’ll pool for that. You sit down, nurse your drink, and look around for a guy flashing a roll. They get some real fat ones in there.”
    “Fat guys or fat rolls?”
    “Both. Pay attention. Okay, anyway, you spot the guy and go over to him. You sit down next to him and just turn on that bullshit of yours. He’ll eat it up. You even have a vocabulary. This is the good part. He will buy you drinks all night, and he’ll drink all night. You have to keep him drinking. When closing time comes, lead him down the alley on Second Street. Tell him you will get him some nice young pussy, or cock if that’s what gets him hot and dumb; just tell him anything to get him down that fucking alley. And I’ll be waiting at the end with this.” Harry reached down under the table and pulled out a huge solid wood baseball bat, something a hood might take to your teeth. I wonder if anyone in this city buys a baseball bat for baseball.
    “Holy fuck, Harry, you’ll kill him!”
    “No, no, no, you know as well as anybody, you can’t kill a drunk. Maybe if he was sober it would kill him, but not drunk, it’ll only knock a drunk out. Then we take his wallet and split it two ways: drinks for everyone.”
    “Harry, I can’t do that shit, I’m a nice guy, and I’m just not like that.”
    “Who cares if a fucking perv coughs up a bit of blood? Besides, you’re no nice guy; you’re the meanest and toughest sunovabitch I ever met. That’s why I like you.”
    It only took a few minutes of sitting over my scotch and water before I found one: a big fat one. He was a priest, or at least dressed like one. He probably got tired of the altar boys, and took a spin through the underworld. He had a nice Rolex wristwatch, a handful of gold rings and a full stupid wallet. I sat down and just started talking. He was listening, nodding, laughing heartily and buying drinks. He was a bishop. All my life I have been at the mercy of fat cretins like him. My parents were pastors, and these guys have held my life in their finger tips, moving me around from state to state, losing friends, and pimping out superstitious old ladies at the offering plate and keeping it all for themselves while we struggled to keep the lights on and stay off the streets. I had even been fired from worthless, dull, underpaid and life sucking jobs by fat stupidities like him. It was hard work to keep my hatred from showing. I told him stories about my brief stay in prison, about the gangs, and about the whorehouse on the riverfront. He liked the whorehouse stuff.

    I told him about the time my girlfriend made me shave my pubes, and I got wicked irritated infected lumps all over my groin the same day as my yearly check up, and how the doctor refused to believe that I did this shaving and said that I had syphilis; she insisted on two penicillin shots up my ass and gave me some cream to take home, then my girlfriend went in the medicine cabinet looking for drugs and found it, she dumped me on the spot.
    “God damn.” He said.
    “Yeah.”
    I decided that I wouldn’t mind Harry’s slugger hitting a homer of this fuckers head. Damn, would it be one for the highlight reels. What a useless hunk of shit.
    “You like young boys?” I asked him.
    “You think?”
    “You’re a bishop, and in the red7.”
    “You’re a little old for me.”
    “What about around fourteen and a half?”
    “Oh jesus, yes.”
    “There’s one coming in off the train from Kansas City. He’ll be at my place around two this morning. He’s clean, tight, intelligent, and hard. Now this is a big chance, so I’m asking two hundred bucks, that too much?”
    “No, not at all.”
    “Alright, at two o’clock you come with me to my place. He will be there.”
    Two o’clock finally made it, and I walked him out of there towards the ally. I worried that maybe Harry wouldn’t be there. Perhaps the wine would get to him and he would run. Hopefully he wasn’t too drunk. A blow like that could kill a man, or cripple him for life. We staggered alone in the moonlight. We were all wolves. There was nobody around: nobody at all, it was going to be easy. We crossed the ally, and Harry was there, but as soon as he came out the fat pedo saw him and threw an arm up and ducked. The bat swung over him and hit me right behind the ear. I woke up the next morning on my face. There was dried blood everywhere. I checked my wallet, and the twenty bucks I had to my name was gone. Harry, that cock sucker, rolled me. I never saw him again after that.

Church Money

    Hmmmm—a letter from Rome.
    The Pastor opened it—read it.
    My God no—what are they thinking? What—what kind of crazy idea is this—
    Father! Come here! Read this—
    The young priest came over and read it.
    Interesting, he said—
    Interesting! You call it interesting! I call it blasphemy—
    Father—be careful—it’s the holy father you’re talking about.
    But it is close to blasphemy—Jesus drove the moneylenders from the temple—what would he think of this—what has gotten into the holy father—what is Rome thinking—
    Do we have to do it do you think?
    You tell me—you’re the pastor.
    He looked down.
    My God I’ve never heard of such a thing—such a—foul thing to do to the sacrament of the Holy Eucharist—
    He looked up into the young priest’s clear blue eyes, which were waiting.
    The right thing to do—the right thing to do—is the right thing to do to obey—such an awful rule?
    The eyes waited.
    —but—the right thing—is to obey Rome—
    Yes, said the Pastor. We have to do it. At all the Sunday masses next weekend, we will tell the people. After each mass, we will meet with the ushers so they know what to do.
    Don’t you think we’ll lose parishioners?
    —yes I can see them walking out—I can see them getting right up and walking out—
    The pastor swallowed hard.
    Yes, he said. We may lose a few, but—Rome has spoken.
    The right thing to do—the right thing—keep telling yourself its right—Rome has spoken—Rome has spoken—
    And this is in addition to the regular collection?
    That’s what it says.
    Case closed. That is what it says.
    Rome has spoken.
    The priest explained the new procedure to the parishioners during the sermon of the first mass the following weekend. They sat before him, in stunned silence. After the mass was over, the priest spoke to the Pastor, who had been in the back listening.
    Did I do a good job of explaining it Father?
    Yes. You did a fine job.
    I cringed to hear it—I am still tingling all over from hearing such a thing—
    They seemed to take it well, said the priest.
    Took it well? How could you take such a thing well—
    I think they were stunned, said the Pastor. They don’t know what to think—just like I don’t know what to think. But come on now. We’ve got to go speak to the ushers. You told the ushers to gather in the sacristy, right.
    Oh yes.
    Let’s go.
    Why is my stomach churning so? Why am I shaking—
    In the sacristy, the pastor spoke to the ushers. They were silent, but for one.
    The people won’t like this, said the tallest of the ushers.
    I know, said the pastor—but Rome has spoken.
    Be the voice of Rome—to these men, be the voice of Rome—
    Do you have the hand stamps—and the baskets? asked another usher.
    Well, no—but we will get some by next Sunday—
    A third usher in a brown suit spoke up.
    And what happens if we have to make change, said a third. Do we have to carry change—
    This is a mess, said another. Clearly they haven’t thought this through.
    The pastor nodded patiently as he listened.
    I’m afraid I agree, but—
    They should have just asked for a donation—not exactly two dollars per host.
    Right, whatever the people choose to give—and to complicate it so with hand stamping at the door—I can’t imagine what they were thinking. Just make it a special collection or something—something like that—this is all wrong, Father.
    —I am the voice of Rome—of Christ—
    The pastor raised his hands.
    We have to do it the way Rome says, he said—we have no choice.
    The tallest usher once more spoke for the group.
    Don’t they think things through better when they come up with ideas like this?
    Tell him—say what Christ would say—
    I’m afraid it’s the idea of the Holy Father. He represents Christ on earth—
    The usher threw out his hands.
    Yes but he doesn’t have to stand there making change! he exclaimed.
    They all laughed uneasily. The Pastor spoke with a smile on his face.
    It won’t be so bad. We’ll get through it. All right men?
    One by one, the ushers nodded, and left.
    The Pastor and the priest walked off toward the rectory. As they crossed the rolling lawn, they spoke.
    That went over poorly, said the priest.
    Yes, I agree. But we’ve no choice.
    The following week, the ushers were stationed at the doors with the baskets, change, aand hand stamps. The people began to arrive for the first mass.
    The priest and Pastor were in the sacristy preparing. The tall usher rushed in waving his basket.
    Father—look—no one is giving money!
    Why have you left your station—people are coming in—
    I just thought you ought to know. I checked with the others. The people are just pushing past and almost no one is paying. I think John’s got four dollars. Fisher’s got two. That is it! What are you going to do when they start coming up for communion? How can you turn them away? I really can’t see you turning them away—
    Please, said the Pastor, raising a hand. Please, Mike—please let me think—
    What will we do when they come up—what would Christ do—
    They all looked the the Pastor waiting for what he would say.
    Lord God, what do I say—God give me words—
    He opened his mouth and listened to what he said. The words came strongly.
    We’ve got a mass to celebrate—God will tell us what to do when we get to the communion. It will happen according to God’s will.
    Yes. According to God’s will—
    They went out. They did the mass. In his sermon, the Pastor made no mention of the new arrangement or of how poorly things seemed to go when the people were coming in. He wove his sermon around the parable of the Good Samaritan, and stressed how God’s people should all love one another and help each other through this grinding mill called life. He likened life to a grinding wheel into which the souls of the faithful are fed. The souls either end up as fine meal which may feed many with its goodness, or as dust thrown to the side to be swept away into the trash. He himself had a personal theory that life on this earth was actually purgatory, since it seemed to be one long string of troubles worries and pains right up to death, which then led directly to the mansions of heaven. This was not church doctrine, so he kept it to himself.
    But he believed it.
    At heart, he was a sinner.
    After the sermon the elevation of the bread and wine went smoothly. Time ticked by toward the inevitable communion.
    What am I going to do—what will I do when the first one comes up without the hand stamp that indicates they have paid—lord what will I do—
    As the mass ground on he thought thoughts that might be thought by a condemned man being driven in a cart to the block.
    See—there are still blocks to go—there are three streets to pass over—now two, but no matter—there’s a long way to go—it’s hours more of riding this cart—the last street now, but no matter—there’s the scaffold, look at all the steps leading up, it will take what will seem like years to mount those steps—oh there’s still plenty of time—plenty—
    At last he stood before the altar, holding a host before his face.
    No one came up; he stood there alone.
    What do I do—what do I do—do I just turn and walk away—
    The people sat silently motionless in the pews, stony-faced. They all looked him in the eye. He stood with the host before his face.
    What I do now—is all important—what to do, lord—
    What to do?
    Movement in the pews. A young woman came alone down the aisle. She approached him. All held their breath. The priest glanced at the woman’s hand. It was not stamped. She cupped her hands before her and looked him in the eye.
    Dare not to give me one—dare not to give freely the body of Christ—
    His eye gazed back.
    No, no—you know the new rule—you know, you know, dear God—
    Her eye locked into his. It burned.
    Dare not give freely—
    The church flooded with dead silence.
    Dear God, Dear God—they are all looking at me!
    Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me—
    His hand came down.
    What to do. What will I do—
    The host went in her hand.
    Murmurs filled the church—
    She brought it to her mouth—
    Shouts came up—one, two, from the whirlpool of the murmurs.
    He gave out another host—and another—and another—to those without hand stamps.
    The Church filled to bursting with wild cheering. The pews emptied. They lined up for communion. The communion went on. His hand moved again. And again.
    The people were all smiling, joyous.
    After the mass ended, he went to the sacristy. The young priest beamed and slapped him on the back. Ushers and parishioners crowded around.
    You defied Rome, he exclaimed—you did the right thing. Rome is wrong—
    Yes, said the tall usher. You did the right thing.
    That whole idea was wrong—you showed them—
    You did the right thing Father—
    Good for you, Father—good for you!
    It was a stupid idea—you showed them!
    Yes, Father—you really showed them!
    He turned on them and thrust out his hands.
    No! he said strongly—I have sinned grievously. I no longer deserve to be a priest.
    His hands, which had sinned, shook before him.
    He went to the rectory and packed his bags and went to the bus station. He bought a one-way ticket to New York City. As he sat waiting for the bus, he reflected on what he had done. The sounds of cheering filled his head. He smiled slightly with eyes half closed.
    Purgatory—here I sit in Purgatory. I must go now to the next thing that will strike me, and overcome it, and then go to the next, and overcome that, and to the next—
    I believe in this.
    I believe.
    And it’s what I believe that matters.
    As he mounted the bus steps he knew God had forgiven him.

Occupy Mind Street

    We’re that “AH, HA!” moment personified, but mummified

    We’re the ones who shush at you over the theatrically bona fide

    We’re the creators of characters that cuss at you, rush you, and fuss over you

    We give you kisses in slobbering, smoldering romantic plentitude, or nasty raspberry lippy attitudes

    We delve in everyone’s heavenly bliss, in life’s stinking piss and oh yes, we create that dastardly... hiss, hiss, hiss

    We’re the trusted bookmark to your lives, the mark that survives, we’re the behind the scenes scribes, the lonely artist who forward dives then always imbibes

    We know the lovers of your wives, where affection survives, all the hidden knives, how you strive to rise, how you cunningly devise, how you reprise desire’s fires, we see lives in tumult’s spires, we hear the chorus, the chants and the choirs

    We’re the measurers of the popular, the jocular, as we see deep with our literary binoculars, we’re the hocus-pocus astrologers, the grand inquisitors and time’s horologers

    We’re the smart kids on your blocks, we know words to knock your socks off, we preach or teach you how to boff, when to scoff, when to remain silent or when to feign a cough

    We devise a human stage built pliable, of the tryable, of the sighable, of the cryable, in luxurious sable, in fortitude debatable, our goal through... is the human heart triumphal

    We’re mean machines of words and moments and angles and methods and plans and manly helping hands, of coy loving women waving fans, of roaring and raving grandstands, we’re the originators of political intrigue pages in all foreign lands

    We’re ready to wrangle with the Cyclops of angst, or cranky tellers in banks, rough and roaring Sherman tanks, and the one percent greedy who should give thanks

    We’re the reason you wake to willingly explore, try a French whore, are shaken to the core, know how to hunt boar, build a Dutch door, or know trivia concerning the Peloponnesian War

    We’re the butchers and prophets between the pages first and last, in words that resemble your pasts, college blasts, beauties contrasts, witty lambasts, loquacious forecasts, we’re tellers of life’s right and wrongs, its roughs and rasps

    We’re the smile givers, frown makers, chuckle artists, memory motivators, sensory denouncers, genius detonators, encyclopedic innovators, emotion activators

    We’re the movement of the underground, over ground, above ground, around and around, we’re spellbound in coffee grounds, we’re of minds so god-damned sound

    We’re Hansel and Gretel, Mutt and Jeff, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Odysseus and Penelope, Cagney and Lacy, Mork and Mindy, Hester and Arthur, Wallace and Gromit, Hubie and Bertie, Rhett and Scarlett, Antony and Cleopatra, Mulder and Scully, Herman and Doretha, Jesus and Mary... we’re always between the pages.

    We’re the imagined crowd on your street, the spirit of your future neighborhood, we put the hero on your pedestal, the heroine in your heart...

    With mere words we fly all who are willing to accompany us across the vast sky of chance and circumstance, towards the treasures of mind in this wonderful life....

    For to truly Occupy Mind Street... is to be the writer of destinies....

max keanu bio

    max keanu is a long time resident of Hawaii. max began writing in 2007 after a back injury immobilized him for many months. He is presently working on his third novel and tuning up dozens of short stories and poems for publication.
    As a professional musician on the classical guitar, max performed at many hotels, restaurants, concerts, parties and wedding venues. max has a degree in computer science from the University of Hawaii and is married to a teacher, well known for her ceramic art.
    max has various works published in: Poetry Quarterly, Thrillers, Killers ’n’ Chillers, The Dark Fiction, The Waterhouse Review, Death’s Head Grin, Kaikion, Bewildering Tales, Blood Moon Rising, The Fringe and many more. Anthologies: Zombies Ain’t Funny Anthology (Extreme Zombie Challenge), NorGus Press (Strange Tales), Midwest Literary Magazine (Winter Canons), and Inwood Indiana (Derailed). max has published one novel: Prunella (serialized on Kalkion.com)

An Honest Cop

I
    It had been a horrible Tuesday anyway. Cloudy, rainy, and a little cool for casual outings, the weather must have left the three men with nothing to do. They huddled together, and drank some beer as they popped some old precription pills they’d found upstairs. Eventually, as the day wore on, the pills disappeared, leaving one with a thought. “You know, we should rob a bank. Grab a little cash for another little stash.” And the other two, feeling restless, invincible, addicted, replied in the affirmative. “Okay,” they said together, “why not?”

II
    Jake got into his car. He looked around, and seeing no one, he discreetly opened his glove compartment. Reaching in, he opened a bottle of pills and swallowed one quickly. “All better,” he said, “Now I can focus on what matters most.” He waited a few moments, letting the pill work its magic. Then, Jake opened his notebook and reviewed what each hostage had said as his mouth contorted into a crooked smile.

III
    The three barged into the bank a little after 2 p.m. The last one watched the door, while the first yelled, “this here is a stick up!” The second held his pistol high, firing a round to get the attention of the rift raft patronizing the bank. They all had on silly animal masks, ones that kids wear for Halloween. And due to the cheapness of the rubber, as well as the awkward sizing of the masks, it was hard for the three to see clearly while wearing them.
    The first, who was wearing a monkey mask, began to whoop and hollar as he jumped from teller to teller demanding the cash. The second, who was wearing an elephant mask, began to laugh, yelling, “You tell them, Curious George, you tell them who’s boss now!” But the third, who was wearing a lion’s mask, just stared at the whole thing, as though he were just biding time.

IV
    Jake took another look around before reaching into his glove compartment again. He removed an large vanilla folder, one that he had sealed earlier. Opening it, Jake took a deep breath as he sniffed the contents inside. “Not too bad,” he whispered, “for an honest cop.”

V
    To the three, the robbery seemed to be going just fine. That is, until one of the hostages stood up. He was wearing faded jeans, an old white t-shirt, and a faded army surplus jacket. His hair was long, as was his beard, and he appeared to be homeless. “You know,” the stranger said loudly, “I really think you should shoot me now, and elevate this here robbery to murder if you please. You see, sirs, I’m not happy with my lot in life at the moment, and I’d like to try my luck elsewhere.”
    At this, the monkey stopped jumping and looked behind him. He cocked his head slightly, trying to decide what to make of the hostage’s request. But the elephant had already made a decision. He strolled up to the hostage, and shot him point blank. The man was pushed backwards as he fell to the ground, landing into a heap of others’ arms and legs. Everyone began to panic. The elephant laughed, yelling, “You’re welcome!” “Hey,” the monkey said, “nice shot, Mr. Elephant man.” He then began to whoop and hollar towards the final teller. But the monkey stopped when he heard another shot.

VI
    “Oh, I know,” Jake said, “I guess I could get a new car, a faster one, one guaranteed to attract the ladies with big curves and small brains.” He laughed as he reached into the envelope, and felt the cash run through his fingers.

VII
    The shot hadn’t come from the elephant, but from the lion. He had used the distraction to point his firearm at the others. The lion fell forward, falling to the floor to take cover. The elephant turned to fire, but it was too late, for the lion had rolled over fast, and had already taken his shot, striking the elephant in the chest. The monkey tried to run, for he’d only had fun when there was no real opposition to their plan. But it was no use. The lion waited for the monkey to reach the door before he fired, striking the monkey’s head, and spraying a healthy bit of blood onto the door as the monkey fell into it and slid slowly to the ground.
After all of this, the lion gingerly giggled as he got up from the floor. He briskly walked past the monkey, bending down to grab the money as he strolled out of the bank and disappeared. That’s when someone called the police, and Jake happened to be nearby. After reviewing the bank’s security tapes, he was a smidge proud of his day’s work. “Didn’t you get a look at the guy,” he asked each witness, “You know, the one that shot both thieves?” But no one seemed to know what he was talking about. “He was wearing a mask,” they’d respond, or “we didn’t get a good look at him,” or “it all happened so fast,” leaving the detective little physical evidence to go on. And without a good collaborating description of the suspect, Jake decided it was a waste of time. So, he took a break.

VIII
    Tired and hungry, a homeless man stood beside a busy roadway with a sign. He was begging for people’s spare change, when out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared behind him. “Hey pal,” the man said, “how would you like a little job, one that pays?” The homeless man smiled. “Will you buy me something to eat,” he asked. “Sure,” the man replied. And as the homeless fellow ate, the man described an elaborate prank he’d planned for his friend. “You see,” the man continued, “we’ll be wearing these animal masks, and pretend to be robbing my friend’s bank, but it’s just a joke, you see. It’s for his birthday.”
    “Sure,” the homeless man replied, “what do you need me to do?” The man smiled. “Well, it’s quite simple, really,” he said, “I just need you to stand up and ask to be shot, that’s all.” The homeless man’s face contorted in horror. The man laughed. “Relax, pal,” he said as he reached into his pocket, “I’m a cop.” He showed the man his badge. “See, it’s just a joke. No one will get hurt. I can promise you that,” Jake told him. And with that, the homeless smiled as he finished his meal.

IX
    “Hey, Jake,” a patrolman yelled, “What are you doing out here?” Jake smiled as he placed the money back into his glove compartment and locked it. “Just reviewing the eyewitness testimony, kid,” Jake replied as he got out of his car. “Sounds like they didn’t see much,” the patrolman said, “think you’ll solve it?” Jake smiled as he slapped the patrolman on the back. “Well, kid,” he replied, “it’ll be tough, but I’m sure going to give it my all. I can promise you that.”

To the Girl in the Hallway,
Who Will Never Be the Same

    Things were probably happening in slow motion for her, because I recognized that look in her eyes. She wasn’t looking directly at me; her eyes had a strange but unrelenting focus on him. Her life depended on it. I knew that look:
    Fear, then a slow numbing that creeps up to cover it. She was preparing herself. Preparing herself for what would come next. The name calling. The manipulation. The bloodshot eyes that could only mean he was blacking out. The slap. The close fisted punch. Oh, I knew that look. I knew it well.
    So why didn’t I do anything? I walked past, stared. When she glanced my way I put my head down and pretended not to see. She was cornered with no way out. Helpless. Alone. Scared. And I left her. Left her to the wolves.

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!

    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, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or 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 2012 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.