1982, under the “GOOD FOOD” sign

I didn’t judge you by your skin color
I thought we were just talking, you know
Not that we know each other,
I’ve taken you at face value
Like the Krishna at O’Hare airport
Or the Children of God
The dude from the Divine Light Mission,
I took you at face value
But
You want money, too
And, I don’t know you
And, I never give candy to strangers
Because
Those who ever ask
Want it for vices I don’t approve
I know this, and hold it in my wallet
The money I tell you I don’t have,
You want it for some thing I wouldn’t do
See, I already know me well enough
To know there’s not much I’d ever do
I don’t judge you
But, your vices are yours
I can buy 3 Butterfingers with my dollar

Eagles
(find the punchline on your own)

Stealing from a Redd Foxx joke,
I told my friend my mother cooked us an
Eagle
For Thanksgiving
Before I could continue on, grimfaced, he said,
“I Tell You What,
That’s NOT GOOOOOD!!!”,
Like we, on welfare, in subsidized housing
At that time
Had obtained the National Bird
For Thanks
Something even epicureans pay their firstborn for
On the Black Market,
....Jesus...
Then again, I’m the tightest-assed, prissiest Puritan
You’ll ever chance to meet,
And the same guy
Got tightlipped/upset/quietly furious
When one night, I jokingly offered cocaine
There Was No cocaine...
Just like there Was No eagle...
But, he was terribly hot and bothered
By how illegal were my nonexistent crimes

(These are the kind of people
Who shook my hand in Life and
Called me “friend”)

I try to shoot myself

I try to shoot myself/ I
put the shotgun in my mouth &
BOOM!        I miss/ my

tongue gets full of buckshot &
I cannot babble/ I must
communicate with scrabble/ my

email is blocked by rabble/ I
put my head in the sewer &
leave the rest of me in the grass with

the top of Ernest’s head too
disgusting to be read/ I
take his brains to bed too splattered

for pillow talk, but
feathers of a bird stick together especially
when they’re glued with blood/ Ketchum

looks like kechup pours like blood in
a bottle or Ernest’s skull/ I
try to shoot myself & - BOOM! - bring
the mop, bring the broom . . .

!

Most people are full of shit

Most people are full of shit/ I
shove my big wooden spoon down
my throat & shovel it out/ piles &

piles of absolute lies to gentle falsies to
prove our greatness to the world/ like
Barry Bonds with his chemical muscles

hitting them out like never before as his
atrophied dick can’t get it up, & Hank
Aaron who stays out of the pharmacy

maintaining his manhood is bested in the
record books but maintains his dignity, &
Sosa & Clemens also don’t make the hall as

my spoon keeps pulling it out until I’m
buried in it/ perhaps I should try to forget &
be human, because my arm’s tired &

the spoon sticks in my bowels & breaks, &
nobody’s inviting me to the Bigs to
try again . . .

!

Hundreds of souls fly

Hundreds of souls fly
out of American prisons/ our
#1 rehab/ more spirits in

them than anywhere else in
the world/ shoved into the
washing machine to drown/ a-

nother accomplishment of
Ronnie Reagan & the right
wing flyboys/

America’s
spirit & all its glory stuffed
in its prisons &

poured out as monsters, &
when we crumble & break, we
build another prison to

murder & house our collective
conscience rotting & making
us believe our stench/ God

bless America & her graveyard
running
out of room ...

!

I Walked Behind

Both my dad, and my step-
dad, they did it: walked ten feet ahead of my mother and I,
and even just I. I walked behind.

One odd time, I thought, “He is my Dad,
I’ll go up to him,
you know, see what he’s doing,”
but he pushed me back, denied the unvalued love
I had to give. Stupid kid.

I asked my Mom
(she let me walk beside her) why he was acting like that.
She said, “Oh, he’s just that way.”

I was too young to question
this further for motive, just accepted the boundary
as the way it was for me.
The possibility that it could or should have been different
didn’t even occur to me. I walked behind.

No Smoke

Fire can’t be trusted, its dark heart
dancing, read in charred papers,
scandals and lies, the smell of smoke,
broken promises and last year’s
Christmas trees. See, there are words
drifting before your eyes, twisting
to what you want them to be: a promise
a rumour, a prayer. Better to trust
air or water, better still
earth. Deep below, a rumble.
Ignore it.

Chocolate Covered Cherry Diet

I gave up listening
to chocolate-covered cherries
telling me how much weight I have gained.
The mirror in the bathroom
was getting pissed at losing its job.
So I told the little delights
to can it,
banishing them to the back of the ‘fridge
to chew the fat with that
pudgy appliance.

Some Feelings Never Go Away

It’s that kind of hysteria
like
when you’re sitting in church
at your father’s funeral,
and someone leans in and whispers
“Hey, do you want a chocolate Velamint?”
and you laugh
and laugh
and can’t stop laughing,
even though your dad
has been cast in marble, laid out
as cold
as a pint
of mint chocolate
chip.

Say goodnight Eloise!

Dear Abby,
I have this spot see
that I think is cheating
not on me, but on
my tooth paste, I just
can’t seem to get
white enough,
but Dear Abby, please
if you could offer
just a bit of advice
my future depends
upon your coveted words,
and whether or not
I see him again,
So Dear Abby, I get
what you say, from
the bottom of my heart
and I’ll know better
next time when he
asked for a kiss,
the cad still stinks
from Aqua Velvet
and tumblers of gin
sincerely, lost in
love forever again.

For Russia’s Punk Group, “Pussy Riot”*

As heretic church and state
sanctify
the reigning Antichrist,
discordant punk band nuns
do time
for jackhammer lines
while weeping Jesus grieves,
“Who among you
are more Christian
than these?”

* Written after watching the 2013 documentary, “Pussy Riot - A Punk Prayer”.

Unshelling

Broken shells seem more like empty graves
than a sign of birth
so he enters the world a misfit
waiting to be filled with instinct
or some other form of guidance which never comes.

He stumbles through wild forests
and human gatherings with equal uncertainty,
never flying more than a foot off the ground.

It is November, filled with somber day
and sluggish rain and he begins slamming into walls,
determined to migrate,
until his feathers are broken and bleeding.

The doctors, with their hammers and chisels,
cannot ease his trauma
so he constructs an aerie where he’ll keep
until springtime.

He’ll have a season to dream his only dream—
the full memory of his gestation;
remembering it’s much easier to build a nest
than to crawl back inside his mother.

When a Young Therapist Gushes Guilt
after His Patient's Suicide

When a young therapist gushes guilt after his patient’s suicide,
he drops into a desolate abyss and disappears.

“Why?” he shrieks in the catacombs of his mournful mind, as a
wildfire sweeps across his private wasteland of lamentations
and melting brain matter.

“Why?” he whispers as his sacred identity of healer and fixer
dissolves, disintegrates, and dies in a frozen nanosecond.

“Why?”

 
Now, in his first year of practice, imprinted in his shattered psyche
is the traumatic image of a hopeless man hanging high, swaying
back and forth above a wooden rocking chair, beneath a cracked
ceiling, inside a merciless, suffocative noose in a seething
suicide room,

a dead thing dangling and drowning in nothingness,
without a soul or the whisper of immortality.

 
“Why?” he howls from the abyss, gushing guilt throughout his long
endless night of unbearable grief, one elongated night or decades
stretching across a vast desert of despair or salvation.

What path will he choose?
Victim or survivor?
Fallen angel or healer?

A young therapist dreams. Within this visionary dream,
an alchemist transforms darkness into light and light
into the gold of love and redemption.

What path will he choose?
What do you believe in the
labyrinth of your
broken
soul?

BIO

    Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

Entertainment
( 1920 to present )

The guy who sat
2 seats
behind you
in the 10th
grade
who
could
fart louder
than anyone
in school,
the same guy who
came up
to you at
a high school
dance
and
brushed
his
fingers under
your nose
and
said:
“smell”
after
being
in the back
seat
with your ex-
girl friend.

This
guy
has
become
a
STAR:
writing
his
autobiography,
which is
being made
into a
movie
with him
starring.
He’s
giving
interviews
about the
profundity
of his
popularity,
and
on
a special
tv show
he came
flying
down from
the ceiling
on pulleys
and when
he landed
he farted
and huge
puffs
of smoke
and flames
shot
all
over
the stage.

There was
a French
guy
who
toured
all the
finest
theaters of
Europe
in the
1920’s,
who
could
blow out
candles
and
make
his
ass
talk
and sing
Parisian
lullabies
and
I bet
he
got
rich
and
got
a lot
of
pussy
too.

In Refusing to Rise,
a Great Line of Poetry is Written.

“They thought it queer I didn’t rise.
I thought a lie would be queerer.” –Emily Dickinson.

Even if the hysteria was for Jesus
in 19^th century Amherst
instead of for the devil in
17^th century Salem
one 16-year old girl refused
to rise for salvation in
a classroom filled with girls
who rose on the promise
of going to Heaven but
when the teacher called upon
Emily Dickinson she was already
writing poetry when she replied
how queer it was to be saved
and even queerer to tell a lie
and so Emily stayed seated
while the rest of her corseted
world piously suffocated
(And also probably
when Emily decided
never to be delivered
seeing how piety
puppeted her classmates)

And even if she had yet
to write 1775 poems

in refusing to rise with the rest
of a world that stood up for neither
lie nor truth but simply because
it was decreed

was one of Emily Dickinson’s
finest lines of poetry

On What Constitutes a Sport

Many activities are called sports
I offer three criteria I believe necessary
for an activity to be called a sport;
they are not listed here in order of importance,
none is predicated on another,
all must be met

One.
Objective judging must be more important
than subjective judging; i.e.,
if artistic merit is the primary thing being judged,
it’s not a sport
Thus, figure skating, diving, gymnastics,
and most so-called extreme sports fall short
This isn’t to say that those who those aren’t athletic,
or that objective judging is always correct,
or that mistakes made don’t affect the outcome,
only that no amount of corruption
from French or Soviet-bloc official
can turn a flyball caught by the outfielder into a homerun,
or say that a basket witnessed by the world wasn’t a basket
(okay, a rare exception or two on the basket example)

Two.
The person using the equipment must be more important
than the equipment being used;
thus, any ‘motor’ sport falls short,
but, say, bicycling does not:
I could have the highest-tech bike imaginable,
Lance Armstrong could have an old no-tech Schwinn,
and he would still win by a wide margin

Three.
There must be some period of time,
no matter how short that period,
when a person is approaching maximum physical capacity;
where such capacity is never remotely approached
(golf, bowling, darts, poker, etc.)
the activity can’t be considered a sport

Let the debate begin

Vernon Eugene at the Civil War Roundtable

Vernon Eugene almost gets his ass whipped
clowning at the Civil War Roundtable
telling the white mustachioed colonels

lips dripping blood from sixteen-ounce T-bones
the theme for next year’s lectures ought to be
‘Queering the War of Northern Aggression’

laughs his stringy-haired skinny self silly
making up prospective presentations
‘Come back to the tent, Private Finn, honey’

or ‘Bobby Lee and the wee drummer boy:
flim-flam paradiddles, lover’s snares, and
tickling the high-hat with stiff wire brushes’

khaki-vest bald-head red-faced Collins
spits out half-masticated potatoes
with sour cream and bellows ‘That’s heresy’

Esther falls down in a dead faint, ‘Oh, my
Lawd, Scarlet’s got the vapors,’ shrills Vernon
and makes a farting sound with tongue twixt lips

tiptoe dancing the hallway, he offers
‘How the Lonely Bull Runs Up Manassas’
flees the fierce fusillade of fisticuffs

cackling ‘Blow me, said the gay cannoneer’
at the French door fires a final volley
‘So, boys, why you think they call it Stonewall?’

William Robison Bio

    William Robison teaches history at Southeastern Louisiana University and has published considerable nonfiction on early modern England, his most recent work being The Tudors in Film and Television (McFarland, 2012), co-authored with Sue Parrill. For more info, see http://www.tudorsonfilm.com.

    He is also a musician and a maker of short films, both which the curious can check out at http://www.myspace.com/562067730.

    Poetry is a newer form of expression for Robison, but recently hwe has had poems accepted by Amethyst Arsenic, amphibi.us, Anemone Sidecar, Apollo’s Lyre, Asinine Poetry, Carcinogenic Poetry, decomP magazinE, Forge, Mayday Magazine, On Spec, and Paddlefish.

Mostly about a Color

Two yards of thin blue silk—a woman
makes a dress out of these. The blue silk
dress moves across her body like a blue wave
when she enters the sea. The swimmer in the
thin blue silk dress drowns in the sea. The blue
sea reclaims itself. Two yards of thin blue silk
float away; a wave.

Isolation

I’m just a kid in cut out clothes
A strnger hiding deep withing the hollows of my soul.
The traffic of the city
reminds me
of a distant place
where I can always be
alone

less hi more ku

a wise man tells his daughter
you are the sun i always wanted

city vein

my soul is scattered all over this city
like a network of veins coursing through my body
a system of blue and red lines
where my heart’s been set aflame and scattered like ashes
under the brotherhood of city lights
city lines of circuitry
city lies you said to me
city life, sing to me, sin to me
sinking in a lake of flashbacks
paralyzed with memory
the dejavu wellspring of misery and pain
where giants stood tall, trendy for the world to witness
where the mighty are shot down, crushed and forgotten
dirty memories, images plastered on the walls
Nightly Rituals
ritualistic symphony of metal and electricity
gridlock city sanctuary
city rat sacraments
sociopath street preachers with fractured minds
and microcosms on wheels unlocking endless possibilities..

my soul is a part of this city

Chicago “L”

The skyscraper scaffolding
Sky writing high-rise lives in the sky
The Michigan morning
Rolling in dense as dreams
Over Lakeshore Drive
From the lake
Around the legs of the city
Covering the city... damp
Cheek bones, glasses, on polished stone sweat
The lake is a graveyard
And some days the city
And the lake, are one.

The little brown boys
White socked
And tip capped and kicking
Soccer in the gate yard,
Where the ashes of burnt downs used to be
Lawn bearded like a 15 year old now
In exhaust coated grass.

The toll bridges
Old troll bridges
Grass growing through
The untrod concrete,
And tolling
Bells of clock towers
Or road crossings
Or draw bridges
Or funerals.
Car horn trumpeting,
Trumpets too
In the flash mob
To the pan handler
Playing to the rush-hour-few
Who aren’t rushing

Windows reflect windows
And sparks speeding
Barking, clacking raised tracks and voices.
Hip hop and purse drop
As she grabs down
To stop the dress
Swirling around her in the rush of wind
The dress was black
With white dots
And when it moved
In this July wave of heat
It almost looked like falling snow.
Deals and no deals
Raw deals
And the way she wept next to me
Into her gone silent cell
Surrounded and abandoned
By strangers.
Up above
The sun or moon,
The few stars that poke through
The night of lit night lights
Of the towers, head lights
The city
Living city
Windy because it is breathing city
Inhaling the world,
Exhaling the ghosts
Sun beat, cold beat, red-blue city
Heart beat city.
Slow beat eternal city.
Arterially traveling its pathways
The trains sparking across synaptic gaps,
Track-lines growing, gnawing deep
And the beat of the lake,
The clawing waves
Who look to the city
Who know the meaning of patience
Who wait for the fall of:

Brick walls close as an eyelash
Barios, bars, 24/7’s
Blinking lit with the sidewalk smokers
And the score on the wall,
And everything baseball
And everything,
And evry-thing
And-ev-ry-thing
And-ev-ry-thing
And-ev-ry-thing

Dreams 12/3/12

So I was in the cul-de-sac on my street,
and I had to use the washroom,
so I thought of going to the bathroom
in my house; it was really gorgeous,
the bathroom in my house,
it had floor-to-ceiling windows,
so you could see the world
while you are going to the bathroom;
but I figured that since people were
on my street, all going to a neighbor’s
garage sale, that I shouldn’t use my
bathroom where everyone could see me
sitting on the toilet...

Looking back, why did I have
a bathroom like that, with
floor-to-ceiling windows,
in a populated area? I mean,
did I want this exposed bathroom
so I could feel like I could
commune with nature or something?
I don’t get it.

Either way, I walked to a neighbor’s house,
I assume I asked their permission
to use the bathroom but I can’t remember,
and I went to the small bathroom,
closed the door, pulled my pants down
and sat on the toilet. And I looked up
and saw that this bathroom had two doors
on two opposite adjacent walls,
and that’s when someone walked in
and went through the other door.
And I thought, wait a minute,
I’m using this bathroom, why did someone
pay no attention and just walk through,
but then someone else walked in
to walk through the other door again.
So I said, “Excuse me, what are you doing,
I’m using the bathroom here,”
and they responded,
“but this is the only way to get through.”
And I’m sure there was another way through,
but I then realized that these were people
for the garage sale, and they were
just walking through to look at more
of my neighbor’s belongings for sale.
As more people came walking through,
I couldn’t believe that strangers
were walking through this bathroom,
never even noticing me
while I was sitting on the toilet
with my pants down,
because they were so focused
on looking through someone else’s belongings.

I don’t know,
I don’t think I have bathroom issues,
but
I just don’t like feeling so
exposed.

Dreams 12/6/12

I was in my house,
and I heard a bunch of men
come in through the front door.
I recognized the voices,
and I was near the bathroom
at the end of the hall,
so I walked into the bathroom.
I pretty much closed the door
when I heard my blond friend
(which I haven’t seen in forever)
start talking loudly to another guy
(I want to say that guy was short,
and fatter, and he had black hair,
and I don’t even know the guy,
but that’s probably all irrelevant),
well, he was saying something like,
“Come over here so I can
kiss you and slobber all over you—”

And this really surprised me,
he’s not gay, and he’s not extroverted,
so this really confused me
as I tried to keep the bathroom door
closed as I listened to him
while I stood in the dark.

But I didn’t realize that he just
walked right to the bathroom
I was hiding in and use the facilities,
so he opened the door and saw me there.
So, I said I was just coming in,
and I reached over to turn on the light,
and the light did not come on.
So then I tried the next switch,
then the next switch,
and none of the lights were working.
So I left, apparently to get a bulb,
but first I walked to the bedroom
and saw you, and I apparently
forgot about the light bulbs
and told you what I heard the blonde say.
And your response was very
nonchalant, and you said that this
was normal, that men experiment
with being gay every once in a while.
And really,
that was the most ludicrous thing
you could have ever said,
and it woke me up.

Lost my Breath

I looked at you
disheveled
spilling your words to me

I
I almost lost my breath

it was just

that
seeing you
and hearing those words
well
I was speechless

Etched into that Tombstone

I’ve seen my tombstone

and the date etched in that stone
is before we met

and you say I saved you
and you say I was what you needed

I know you cannot answer,
but where is what I needed
back when that date
        was etched on that tombstone?

and what, now I am here,
unable to be everything for you —
I’m your savior now?

I had no one to save me
on that fateful day,
        etched in stone

how can I save you
when I don’t know how to save myself

###

was it music
was it science that saved me

because it brings me to tears
to know that I’m here

what, because of science

science is what I rely on
and thanks to science,
I am left here

with this hole

with this tombstone,
and with this hole

###

yes, you’ve made me feel less alone
and this hole would consume the Universe
if you were not here

but like a Black Hole
this void
is never satiated
it keeps wanting more
it keeps swallowing everything around it
in

until nothing can escape

###

I know, I know
galaxies thrive
with a Black Hole at their core
so
is this how
I’m supposed to survive and thrive now?

maybe I should know
that everything now
is just icing on the cake
because I lived through that date

and I saw that date
etched on that tombstone
because I died so long ago

so I just have to remember:

all this joy

and more importantly,

all this pain

this is all
icing on the cake

You Can’t Tell

Garret’s Lament

I know I truly belong to her.
And I know I can never come to her,
she can never claim me as her own.
So I am reduced to
waiting outside here,
standing at vigil;
year after year,
waiting for fleeting glimpses
as she walks by.

I know she cannot come to me,
I know this is a line
she cannot cross,
that woman, with those morals
that keep her from me,
as my stiff wooden bones
keep me from running to her.

I know Bartholomew stands guard
while I wait, but he does
whatever I say, he lets me
go on thinking of her this way,
lets me go thinking of how
we are truly meant to be.

I know it’s sad, that I cannot be
a part of her life, lead her minions
in her annual desires to join
us together in the world,
but I have been hardened
by the coldness of time,
when all I can do in this world
is wait for her arrival,
even if it is only to see
her gaze at me endearingly
before she leaves my sights again.

If you happen to see me,
and think you see a tear
rolling down my wooden exterior,
know that it is not tears.
Because my wooden heart
has turned to stone,
so I could keep this steely gaze
as I continue to wait for her.

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, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the 2013 ISSN# color art book Life, in Color, and Post Apocalyptic. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

Circles

    The dealer’s hand passed over the chips and numbers signaling all bets final while the ball descended from its journey around the roulette wheel as onlookers held their breath. Uncle Mario’s eyes followed it past the colored and numbered notches that held the players dreams and fantasies. The back of his motorized chair lifted him further to see that pearly pebble land on — 24 black. He pushed the lines from the portable oxygen tank aside and collected half his winnings and placed the others on the adjacent number. His health had deteriorated over the past month, so the request to go to the casino, though inconvenient, was understandable. He smiled while sweat trickled down through the wrinkles that intersected at the bottom of his face before falling into the handkerchief I dabbed on his chin. “Remember Circles, Amos?” He asked with a trembling voice.
    “That was a long time ago, but how could I forget.” I’d never forget that little dog. The puppy that almost gave me, a short, skinny nine year old, a heart attack and ulcer.
    Uncle Mario told me to watch that little mutt in the back yard while he went to the bathroom. That was easy enough, he’s just a furry one-eyed puppy going to fertilize the grass, my uncle would say. So I thought. He ran around the yard, turning in circles while chasing his tail; that he never caught. He settled down at the back fence and did his business. He sniffed along the chain link barrier to freedom, stopped, turned and looked at me. I called him and he took off running toward me. I turned to open the patio door, but he stopped and went back to the fence and started digging. I walked but, I should’ve run toward his escape route when he slipped under it. I hollered at him and ran to the gate. Locked; I shook and kicked it and watched him run along the side before he darted into the heavy shrubs of the woods. I instinctively grabbed the fence ready to climb it, but remembered the last time. It cost me six stitches.
    Any minute my uncle would be looking for Circles.
     What would I say? He just slipped under the fence, he’ll be right back. Find the dog or you’re dead.
    The side gate was locked. I ran inside and saw the bathroom light under the door. I walked past; I just knew it would open. Thank God it didn’t. I heard my mom call when I ran out the front. “Back in a minute, Mom.” I ducked through the gap in the hedge row of the neighbor’s property and I saw my best friend Billie polishing his bike. “Billie, I need to find Circles, he slipped through the big fence,” I said. “They’ll kill me if anything happens to him.” I hopped on my bike I left in his yard, he followed and we headed to the break in the fence. “I saw him run along the path.”
    “If he ran into the brush you won’t see him from here, we got to ride closer to Cumberland Freeway,” Billie said. “There rats in there bigger than Circles; hope we find him before they do,” he snickered, holding back a smile. The bright morning sun tightened his slanted eyes deepening his yellow complexion. “It’s just a dog, get another one.”
    “Tell my uncle that. Circles...here Circles!” I hoped he would hear and come cutting through the woods. My other puppy ran away when I wasn’t looking and I blamed it on some big boys who said they would jump on me if I didn’t give them the dog. If I lose Circles, he’ll never trust me again and I’ll never get anything.
     Uncle Mario called the tiny one-eyed puppy his friend gave him; magical. “Watch this he told me and my mom.” He sat the dog down, against mom’s wishes on the carpet, and held up a doggie treat. He spun like a top, round and round, chasing his tail then stopped. Uncle Mario wrote down the number of times he spun. Then took out a pair of cubes with dots on them and threw it on the floor. “See Laurie, I told you. This puppy is special,” he said, his eyes beaming.
    “What does that mean, Uncle Mario?” I asked.
    He held them up. “See these things; these are dices and I—”
    “Mario, don’t you dare,” she snapped. “Go in your room, Amos.” I went to my room, slammed the door and cracked it pressing my ear against it. “Mario you better not teach him about dice, roulette, cards or none of that crap.” To be such a little woman with an innocence written on a pale narrow face, she got real loud, real quick.
    “O.K. relax.”
    I lost his gold mine. That’s what he’d say. He would hate me. “Billie, you go that way and I’ll ride toward the freeway overpass.”
    “No! The bums live there. They might kill us or something. He probably went this way.” Billie said, fear written on his face. We pedaled down the slippery path and I almost fell into the rocks and broken branches trying to avoid a swarm of insects hovering in the humidity. I shouted his name, again and again and hoped he’d hear. We stopped were the path split and looked down at the freeway and further up where it dropped off and lead to Mill Creek. The waves of heat drifted quietly through the woods, and with it came the faint sound of my mom’s voice. “Billie, did you hear that?”
    “What?”
    “I thought I heard my mom.” I pushed my bike in the bushes and hid behind a tree and saw my mom walking along the big fence. “Billie, hide, there’s my mom.” He ran behind the tree opposite me.
    “Why are we hiding from your mom, Amos?”
    “I can’t go home without Circles.” My mom gave up and left. I picked up my bike and we continued the search.
    “Amos, you think that puppy came this far?” Billie asked.
    “Maybe, let’s ride down by the creek and go back toward the freeway overpass,” I said.
    “No. That’s where the scary man is, down by Mill Creek.”
    “The who?”
    “The scary man, he’s real big and hairy with dirty, nasty clothes. He’ll kill us. You go, I ain’t going.” Billie got on his bike and rode back up the path.
    “Billie...Billie come back!” He was scared, now so was I, but I had to keep going. The path took a sudden drop so I walked my bike down by the water. I saw ragged tents and chairs partially hidden in the bushes. Clothes were hanging on a line in the trees. I stopped; I thought I heard a puppy barking. I walked closer when the flap of one of the tents flew open. I froze when a huge man came running out. He stood over me and looked down at the top of my head. I peered straight up into a face almost hidden by a bushy beard and long stringy hair that had small pieces of lint in it. The skin around his bloodshot eyes wrinkled when he shouted, “What do you want around here kid?” He frowned and snatched a towel from around his neck. He had a thundering voice like my teachers. “You heard me,” he growled. “What do you want?”
    “Plea...please don’t kill me mister, I’m...I’m looking for my dog. I thought I heard him barking.”
     He started laughing. “Quit shaking, relax kid, I’m not going to hurt you. Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
    “No school today, sir.”
    “Calm down, kid. You’re safe here. Wait right there.” He went inside his tent and brought out a little puppy. “This is Lucky, my dog. What’s your dog’s name?”
    “Circles, he’s my uncle’s. I lost him. I’m in big trouble if I don’t find him.”
    “You’ll find him. Where do you live?”
    “Up there, behind the big fence.” I pointed, he looked and smiled.
    “Rich kid huh,” he said. “I use to teach kids like you. Go home, if anything happens to you the cops will be down here harassing us...Go!”
    I got on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could on the creek’s banks toward the freeway overpass. I couldn’t wait to tell Billie I talked to the scary man. He wasn’t so scary after all. I saw a few fishing poles, maybe he would teach me to fish like Uncle Mario promised to do one day. The path started to smooth out the closer I got to the freeway. I went up an incline across a bike and runner’s path and back toward the forest.
    I hit a downed tree branch and flew over the handle bars and my foot caught the bike’s
    frame and the handgrips slammed into my stomach. I laid there clutching my gut. When I finally caught my breath I uncurled and saw the bike’s wheel still spinning, it reminded me when my uncle let me take a peek at him playing with his roulette wheel in his room. I had to get up and find Circles. My legs ached; I closed my eyes and heard someone step on a branch.
    “Oh, are you hurt honey?” A lady’s voice asked, in a baby-like tone.
    “No, I’m OK,” I said, without opening my eyes.
    “Well, get up!” My mom screamed. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you!”
    My mom got a bull horn for a voice. Joggers stopped, looking. I was embarrassed, but that didn’t stop the tongue lashing. “I went over Billie’s. You were sleep so I didn’t want to wake you.”
    The frown on her face loosened. “You’re not supposed to go pass the big fence, you know that.”
    “I’m sorry, mom.” She grabbed my arm and shook me. I raised my other arm to duck a slap.
    “Get that bike and go home. I’m two inches off your butt, hurry up!”
    “I don’t have keys, is Uncle Mario home?” She had on a jogging suit, so she might be a little while.
    “Mario left, but the back door is unlocked.”
    My uncle probably went to look for us. Maybe she didn’t know Circles was missing? I shifted to high gear and put some distance between me and my jogging mom. I had good momentum when I turned on to the narrow path coasting to the opening in the big fence. I waited until she saw me get off my bike. I waved and went inside and heard barking down the hall.
    Circles!
    I ran to my uncle’s room, knocked on the door easing it open. The little puppy ran into my legs trying to jump up and he started spinning. I picked him up and hugged him. “Boy, I’m glad to see you, you little mutt.”
    “Where have you been, Amos?” my uncle asked, struggling to stand from a sitting on the floor. He leaned on his cane and brushed back the silver hair that dangled in his face.
    “Circles dug a hole under the big fence and ran; I went to look for him.” I hugged my uncle. “I’m glad you found him.”
    “He wasn’t lost. He crawled under the fence when I came out. You were gone,” he said. “You know you’re supposed to tell someone when you leave.”
    “I was scared you would hate me for losing your dog.”
    “I can’t hate you Amos, even if you lost Circles,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Let me show you what he can do...and don’t tell your mom, she’ll kill me. Deal?”
    “Deal.” I was thrilled that my uncle wasn’t mad. I looked around his room at all the pictures of horses in the papers, racing forms and notes with numbers stuck to the walls. He also had a small roulette wheel on a table in the middle of the floor. He held out a doggie treat and made Circles spin and he wrote down the number of spins. Then he took the ball and put it on the wheel. He placed chips on the board and the ball landed on the number.
     “See that...magic. I love it.” His eyes glowed, but I still didn’t understand. I started to ask when the back slammed. “Here comes Laurie.” We rushed into the hall. “Shhh...” He closed the door and we walked toward the kitchen.
    “Mario, you’re back,” my mom said. She frowned at me. “And you, young man are grounded for the rest of the day, in your room. Go take a shower and put on some clean clothes, you’re filthy. Mario let’s talk.”
    They went to the living room probably to have one of their loud arguments.
     Confined to my room didn’t mean I couldn’t use the phone, so I called Billie. “Guess what?” I saw and talked to the scary man.”
    “You lying, he would’ve killed you,” Billie said.
    “I’m not lying.” My door flew open.
    “No phone calls,” my mom said.
    “I have to go I’ll talk to you later.” I stretched out on the bed and wondered did Billie tell my mom I went past the big fence, but as long as the dog was safe that’s all that mattered. That little one-eyed mutt was smarter then I thought.
    When mom wasn’t around sometimes Uncle Mario taught me to play: poker, cards, shoot craps and showed me his roulette system.
    I mastered it. I tried to teach Billie and others, but I was still the best.
    Uncle Mario was thrilled I had the gift, but like so many people with the gift, he didn’t know when to quit. I knew when to leave it alone. I never really liked to gamble. I thought it was cool because grown-ups did it. That day at the casino I lost all my money. I looked around at the people; some won, most lost. This wasn’t for me.
    16 red— Uncle Mario smiled and nodded to a cheering crowd and raked in his winnings. “Cash-out,” he said, and collected his chips. “Circles would be proud, Amos.”
    “Speaking of dogs, Uncle Mario, remember my first puppy?”
    “Yeah, the one you lost, but said the big boys took,” he laughed. “What about him?”
    “You knew all along. Why didn’t you all say something?”
    “It wasn’t your fault. You were just a scared little kid, so we forgot about it.” He leaned back in the elevated reclining wheel chair and it descended to the sitting position. His hand trembled slightly when he put two hundred dollar chips in my hand. “That’s for you. Don’t forget to tip the valet.” We waited for the car and Uncle Mario coughed and rubbed his chest. His hand dropped to the side of the chair.
     I shook him, “Uncle Mario, Uncle Mario...”

Encore

    You are the heavens, you are the earth; you are their god and the breath in their lungs. You hold infinite power in your hands. And you would give it up in a heartbeat for a decent night’s rest.
    Chanting fills your ears as you make your way through the long, dimly lit corridor. The forty-watt light fixtures shake gently on the chains holding them, flickering against the walls like a malfunctioning strobe light, shivering against the decibels of noise resonating through the venue. Your pace is steady, barely allowing time to soak it all in: the adoration, the love, the mantra of your name on their lips. It’s something you once reveled in, couldn’t get enough of, but not tonight. You want to convince yourself it will all be over soon. But you know better. It’s nothing more than a game you play with yourself night after night after night. And it breaks your soul to accept the fact that the game has become stale.
    You push open the door of the greenroom and make your way to the chair in front of your assigned dressing table. There’s already a folded white towel hanging over the ragged, imitation leather arm. You grab it, sit down, and start wiping off your bare chest, arms, around your neck and finally bury your face in the terrycloth. Breathing in, the faint odor of the laundry soap fills your lungs, calming you, preparing you for what’s eventually to come. You take a look in the mirror but keep your eyes away from your reflection. You haven’t the strength to look at yourself, yet in the corner of your eye you almost make out what you used to be, what they originally fell in love with, what they’re anxiously awaiting the return of.
    Jago. Jago. Jago.
    The door bursts open and your partners in crime file in: your drummer, your bassist, your lead guitarist. You can handle them, but it’s the others you don’t want to deal with yet – a few young girls, a few specially selected fans, a lone reporter – one you trust, along with a photographer who’s promised not to photograph you unfavorably. It’s not a bad crowd and you trick yourself into breathing a sigh of relief before Mal, your tour manager, appears in the mirror walking through the door. He drops a box of promotional t-shirts by the door and swaggers through the room.
    “Brilliant, mate,” he shouts to you, his deep, East End accent piercing the din rumbling throughout the room. “Fucking through the roof.”
    He makes his way toward you, stopping at the craft table to sink his hand into a bowl of peanuts before shoving them into his mouth. You look when he reaches you. He’s holding two freshly opened Newcastles in one hand. He swallows his peanuts, takes a swig from his bottle, and holds out the other to you. You take it although you don’t feel like drinking tonight. There hasn’t been any call for celebration over the last year and he knows it. Yet, true to his form, he makes every effort to cheer you up. It’s one of his many jobs.
    “What’d I tell you?” Mal finishes half his ale and sets the bottle on the dressing table. He leans against it and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Whole house, fucking sold out.”
    He lights the cigarette and takes a drag. The smoke wafts around and you take in a deep breath, teasing yourself with the traces of nicotine hanging thinly in the air. He blows out a thick cloud and you give in, snatch the cigarette from him, and ingest it into your lungs.
    “I thought you were giving up,” he says, taking out another cigarette. He scratches his balding head before he lights it.
    You shrug and take another drag. “I’ve never been good at quitting.”
    “It’s changing your voice,” Mal reminds you. He takes another sip of his ale. “You’re not able to hit the notes you used to.”
    You shake your head and rub your temple, weary of the conversation. It’s the same bullshit each night: Mal reminding you of what you were and what you’re becoming. If it’s not the cigarettes now, then it used to be the alcohol or pot. You know your limits, far better than he’ll ever realize, regardless of how many years he’s been by your side.
    Looking around, you’re relieved it’s not as bad as it could be. Across the room, Lee, the drummer, is relaxed in his chair, twirling a drumstick between his fore and middle fingers, chatting with the longhaired blonde on his knee. You noticed her in the front row during the fourth song, swaying to your music, mouthing the words along with your voice. She’s a typical American fan – ratted blonde hair, short black, leather skirt, stilettos, fishnet pantyhose with a tear in the knee – a tear which looks accidental although you know it’s deliberate. Lee places his free hand on her upper thigh and whispers in her ear. She laughs, tosses her hair over her shoulder, then starts twisting her finger through a lock of Lee’s long, black hair. Lee’s getting laid tonight. Hell, Lee gets laid every night. The thought makes you laugh, amused for a second you had a doubt. He likes to play the game, as if he has to actually work to get them. If he didn’t have the thrill of the kill, you’ve no doubt he’d be a monk by now.
    Dale, the other guitarist, sits at his table alone, eyes closed to his reflection, breathing steadily, contemplatively, calmly. Things have changed since he shaved his head and turned to Buddhism - so much so that you can barely deal with him on most nights, can’t stand to listen to his ideas about enlightenment, turning against life’s temptations and inner peace. It’s annoying, but you have to admit it’s made him a better guitarist. Now, he channels any negative thoughts into his playing. That’s the way it should be.
    In the other corner, John, your bassist, leans against his dressing table, carefully applying superglue to the latest lesions on his fingertips. With each application, he snaps his finger back, grimaces, and waves his hand back and forth before he settles on blowing on his finger. It’s evidence of what you knew all along: he’s not ready for the constant demands of the road. He’s new, he’s cocky, and he’s young, but you don’t hold it against him. He happens to be one of the best bassists you’ve ever come across, although you’d never admit it to him. And it’s not a bad thing that he idolizes you, everything you’ve written, and everything you play. But his presence was only meant to be temporary while Dutch finished up his third stay in rehab – a break that never came to an end when Dutch discovered he preferred the desert life to playing sold-out shows every night. He bought a farm and horses. You laughed when you heard, remembering the nights when all he wanted was horse, escaping to back allies, meeting up with the lowliest low-lifes of south London, knowing at any moment a knife or a bad hit would have ended it all. Now he’s changed and it’s brought him peace, it’s brought him serenity. It saved his life and you could never begrudge one of your best friends that honor. He’s one of the few.
    “Do you think he’ll make it?” Mal takes your attention again when he catches you staring at John. “He fucked up the bridge again on Blood Falling. Didn’t you notice?”

John Yotko photo of a woman painting what she heard at a concert

>     “No.” You take the final sip of your ale before placing the empty bottle on the table. “It’s a tricky passage. It’s always been.”
    “Still, it’s time he played it right. This encore has to be perfect.”
    Mal takes too much upon himself. He’s spent years in this business, negotiating deals, getting you everything you’ve ever wanted, playing mother hen to you and the rest of the band. He’s a good friend, a rarity, but even he doesn’t have a clue as to the change that’s been coming over you. You’re not sure you know it yourself.
    Jago. Jago. Jago.
    The chanting is relentless. You know you’ll keep hearing it long after you leave tonight, when your head finally hits the pillow, alone, in whatever hotel they’ve put you. You’ll close your eyes and still see the multitude of multi-thousands in a sea as far as your eyes can see – your sea of tranquility. The sea is the same, no matter where you go. Christ, where are you anyway? Cleveland? Detroit? Houston? Are you sure you’re even in America? You remember getting on the plane last night. For the life of you, you can’t remember where it landed.
    “Right.” Mal stands and grunts, stretches his arms out as if he’s exhausted and walks away. “I need a piss.” He passes the craft table again, grabs another bottle, looks around the room and adjusts the straining waistband of his pants. “Okay, boys, you have five minutes before encore.”
    You finally look at your reflection in the mirror. So much has changed, so many things have gone away and you don’t know where. Your long, dark hair is thinning a little on top, the bags under your eyes are so heavy you wonder how any woman in the world can still find you attractive. If you didn’t keep up with your regimen of weights on the bus, no telling how out of shape you’d really be. You look down at your stomach and notice with odd amusement a few gray hairs surrounding your belly button. Oh yeah, that’s sexy all right.
    “Hey.” You turn around in your chair, catching Mal before he hits the door. “Did you check with will call? Did she get the tickets? Is she here tonight?”
    Mal gives you that dreaded look. He bites his lip and shakes his head. “Sorry, mate.”
    You nod and he walks out the door. Looking back at the mirror, you stare at yourself until your drying eyes fade into the haze surrounding you.
     ?It was all so simple in the beginning, when music was an exciting mystery. It didn’t take much to draw you in, to capture you, to make itself your first mistress. Who knew that young man from Memphis could draw you in as he did. You watched with fascination as you laid in front of the television, your Tonka trucks displayed in front of you and a small, black metal T-Bird still in your hand. Something changed in you. By the time the Liverpool boys came on the scene you fully understood your life’s calling. And when Dylan went electric, it burned in your soul and you stopped at nothing to become the best.
    You learned to play by watching the best at every opportunity, whether watching the fingers of each guitarist or studying their sound until your subconscious thought in notes. You learned to touch and handle a guitar long before you discovered how to touch a woman, making it sing, breathe, and moan with ease. It came alive under your fingertips and entered your blood.
    Others recognized it, too. You played every shitty club that would accept you, giving small samples of your gift until the right person came along who would undeniably understand your talent. His promises came a little at a time – first more gigs, second women, third drugs, until there was nothing left to offer but the record contract. But it came at a price, didn’t it? You could have fought harder on the name change, but something about Jago sounded heavier, deeper, more mysterious, more dangerous, more British, less Jewish. From that moment on, you were lost in a world that promised everything, would drain you of your last breath and turn away if you fell. You were at the beginning of a burnout when she came on the scene. And immediately you could feel the breath enter your lungs again.
    It was simple fate, that day on the crosswalk of Abbey Road when she first walked by. Something about her eyes caught your attention. She smiled gently, her auburn hair catching the breeze, a lonesome lock falling gently over her shoulder, inviting you to take in the sexiness of her neck framed delicately in an unbuttoned white silk collar. In your head, you named her Lovely Rita, committed her smile to memory and thought about it for days. Truly, fate was on your side when you found her again at the Tower of London, shuffling a throng of children past the Crown Jewels, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the finely embedded gems of the coronation crown behind her thin-frame glasses. Her hair was tied in a long braid, hanging over her shoulder, inviting you once again to take in the beauty of her neck, making you wonder what she smelled like. The surrounding children stared at her in wonder as she whispered the history of the jewels to them, and you hung on to every word she said, imagining what her whisper would sound like against your ear. Finally, taking a deep breath and running your fingers through your hair, you worked up the nerve to approach her. All you wanted was her name.
    “Have you ever wanted to be immortalized in song?” you said to her, realizing immediately it sounded better in your head.
    She looked at your ponytail, your leather jacket and boots, and gripped the hands of her students standing by. “I take it you’re a musician?”
    Captivated by her neck again, you saw the nervous lump form in her throat.
    “That’s right, love.”
    You could tell she was trying to let you down easy. She wouldn’t even give you the honor of her smile again. “I’m really more of a symphony girl. Sorry.”
    Then she walked away. It almost knocked the wind out of you. You couldn’t back down, not without a fight.
    “Did you ever stop to think that symphony orchestras are nothing but cover bands for the elite?”
    She stopped, turned back to you and stared, her light eyes sparkling as she worked out the epiphany in her head. Finally, that beautiful smile spread across her lips. You knew you had her and you promised then you wouldn’t let her go.
    Mara. Mara. Mara.
    It was simple in the beginning. Natural. You played and teased each other with nothing but your eyes, both too shy to go too far. The past had been filled with countless, nameless women, women who served their purpose, gave you what you needed while giving them what they wanted. You never had a single regret when you walked away. But Mara was different. It took all your courage just to hold her hand. And when that first night came, the night she invited you to stay at her flat, awake with each other until the dawn, she held you tight, breathing your name against your ear, her arms caressing your shoulders, fingers running through your hair, her legs still wrapped around you. You were safe in her cocoon – unafraid, no longer holding uncertainties, no longer searching for something you never knew you needed.
    She entered your world with ease. The invitations, the parties, the all-nighters proved she could handle whatever came her way. She was so damn smart, so damn sophisticated. She became more than a girlfriend. She opened to you a different world you’d never imagined conquering alone. When the record label got nervous, she put them at ease; when the venue managers tried to take higher percentages, she negotiated breakthroughs. When you and the guys argued over chords, melodies, and lyrics, she kept her mouth shut.
    When the tracks first appeared on her arms, you pretended not to notice.
    It wasn’t a big deal when it first started. Everybody experiments in some way. Hell, you had done it a time or two, but never went through that ever-rumored need it would take over. Your constitution and will were stronger than that. So why didn’t she possess that same strength? Why couldn’t you have been strong enough for both?
    A year has passed since you both hit bottom. It was noon, and you were still passed out when the phone relentlessly began to ring. Rushing to the hospital, you considered it luck the new tour hadn’t started. After dealing with the doctor’s questions, you found Mara lying on the bed, staring out the window, half asleep. The darkness under her eyes was barely discernible from the redness and vacancy they contained. Sitting beside her, gripping her frail hand, your eyes trailed up to the fresh marks and tried not to think about your son’s tiny body, deprived of his first breath. When she noticed you, the smile spread across her lips again, a pale comparison of what it used to be, her darkened teeth incapable of the brilliancy they once held.
    “Do you still want to immortalize me in song?”
    You hid your eyes, refusing to let her see the disappointment, the shame you felt knowing you were more responsible than she.
    “It’s no big deal,” she said, drifting out. You kept your eyes on the I.V. drip, unable to find the strength to look at her. “We can always try again.”
    But you knew better. From that moment you understood there was no trying again. God only gave these chances once in life and you had both blown it. Tears would have been easy to explain, but pulling your hand away from her desperate grip, getting up, and walking out the door was not.
    The fear returned. You ran across the planet and you couldn’t get away from it, couldn’t shake it, couldn’t loosen its stranglehold. You searched every corner to find some semblance of her, testing your sobriety every night, searching in unknown eyes, between unknown legs, for someone that reminded you of her and the way she was, the way she used to be before you entered her life. It’s only been in the last two months that you’ve heard she’s finally cleaned up, gotten her life back on track. She’s teaching again – this time to addicted teens. You can find yourself taking a moment from your own pity and despair to smile, your heart filled with relief that she’s still alive, and living again – living without you. In the same moment, despair returns when you realize you can never go back to her as you are, not as a star, not as Jago.
    You have to give it up. Wholeheartedly.
    It can’t be done, can it? There is no walking away, no matter what the rumors claim. Perhaps it’s the reason you think the greats had it easy, dying at early ages, forever young in the eyes of their fans despite the fact their deaths carried so many indignities: heart-attack in the bath, gun to the head, bottle in the hand, pills in the mouth, needle in the arm, choking on vomit, slouched over a toilet. Where would you be buried? What dark memorial stone would they erect for you? How long would it take before somebody claimed they saw you at Burger King?
    A peal of laughter fills the room, dragging you out of your stupor. The blonde on Lee’s leg slaps him across the shoulder and continues to laugh. You take the final drag from the cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. You settle back again and give yourself one last chance to get her out of your mind.
    The photographer approaches and takes your picture. You don’t smile, you don’t acknowledge him. He captures you the way you want to be remembered, sitting comfortably in a dark, leather dressing chair, the lights around the mirror casting a warm glow over you, your eyes lost in your reflection, sweat covering your body, your hair damp from the energies of the show, your elbow on the armrest, your forefinger against your mouth, lost in thought. It will be beautiful if it’s in black and white.
    Jago. Jago. Jago.
    The chanting returns when Mal pushes open the door. This time he’s carrying a bunch of roses. An amused expression covers his face and a faint streak of red lipstick is smeared against his chin.

Trumpet Solo, photo by Cheryl Townsend

>     “Guess who these are for?” he says, throwing the flowers on your table.
    You lean forward, count the roses and settle back. “Fourteen’s an odd number.”
    “Can you guess what she did if I promised to deliver them to you personally?” Mal laughs and wipes the lipstick off his chin with the back of his hand. He’s being a complete prick right now. There’s an old saying in the business, if you can’t be a rock star, at least be on the road crew. The money’s not the same, but the chicks are free.
    Mal takes a long, hard look at you. You’re not being as fun as he’s used to. “What the fuck’s wrong with you tonight? You’ve been in this mood ever since we left Phoenix.”
    You take in a short breath, relieved you’re in the United States. You’re not so lost after all.
    Mal kicks the chair. “Seriously, Jay, what’s the matter?”
    “I’ve a lot on my mind.”
    “What? Mara?” He shakes his head, and rolls his eyes. “Again with this, you’re fucking losing your mind, mate.”
    You shrug. It’s pointless explaining anything to Mal. He tries to be understanding, often chucks it up to your artistic temperament, but he’ll never understand the fracture Mara left in your soul.
    “I have to know.”
    “Know what? If she’s passing out every night with a needle in her arm, if she’s blowing some bloke in the back of a pub for a fix?”
    The look you shoot him shuts him up. “She’s not doing it anymore.”
    “Right. A leopard and its spots, eh? What makes you certain?”
    You feel yourself giving in, unable to give a logical answer. You want to close your eyes, fall asleep, and block out the entire world until you’re able to find her, find her smile, rediscover the joy you gave each other until you wake up in her arms again and realize it was nothing but a bad dream. “I’m not. But it wouldn’t take much to find out.”
    Mal shakes his head and smirks. He’s hating this conversation. He breathes out deeply, takes out another cigarette and lights it.
    “Whatever.” He exhales his latest drag. In the mirror, you see the white cloud hanging ominously above you. It’s fitting. “You’ve got twenty-two more dates on this tour. After it’s over, do what you need to. But right now, you’ve got one minute to get back on that stage. There are over fifty thousand fans out there waiting.”
    Mal’s little tantrum amuses you. “What do you think they’ll put on my tombstone?”
    It gets the reaction you’re hoping for. Mal grabs his knee and lowers himself until he’s looking you in the eye. “Here lies Jago Brix, a brilliant bastard who lost it over a woman. What the fuck are you talking about?”
    You close your eyes and take in a deep breath. It’s the only thing that gives you the slightest tranquility these days. “I think I’m through.”
    “What are you on about?”
    You rise from your chair and throw the towel to the ground. You smile at him, the same smile that makes the women wild, cup your hand around Mal’s neck, shake his hand and whisper, “Hey, man, it’s an encore.”
    You want to laugh out loud and prove to everyone that maybe you’ve lost it after all. But maybe it’s better to take it one step at a time. You spread out your arms, wide enough to hold the entire world; you look at everyone in the room as you take backwards steps towards the door. You catch their confusion, their inability to understand your actions and the new madness that’s overcome you. Mal’s announcement that it’s time to head back to the stage hasn’t been made. It’s what they’ve been waiting for.
    “Goodnight, my beauties. You’ve been a lovely audience.”
    You take a bow, whip back up and salute them, an action they’ve seen you do every night since the band came together. Only this time, you’re doing it to them. You effortlessly pivot on your heels and head toward the door. You grab a t-shirt from the box and throw open the door, already breathing easier. Right before the door shuts, you hear Mal shout, “What the holy fuck?”
    The door slams, echoing down the corridor. The chanting continues, as loud as it was before. The voices are thick with desperation. They’re having doubts, you can sense it. They’re beginning to realize you might not come back. You don’t want to revel in it, but something about it feels good. It just feels right.
    The stage is to the left, the rest of the world is to the right. You’re really not sure what to do. You only have a few bucks in your pocket, but you only need a few for a phone call anyway. If you’re lucky, she’ll answer. If you’re luckier, she’ll forgive you. It’s a chance you’re willing to take. Either way, with a clearer conscience, you’ll finally get a good night’s sleep.

Blues Man, art by Brian Forrest

    I looked down the street. For blocks, it was utter chaos. College students out for a night of drinking on the weekends always packed these streets. Now they were diving for cover. The males dove on the females. I saw one guy who looked like a major jock dive on a girl he was with. She looked sorority. Everyone was out on balconies and porches for blocks down the street, and they’re all yelling, “Someone’s got a gun! Get down!” I watched students bolt between alleys or dive behind front yard bushes or duck behind parked cars. I read in the paper the next day that a panhandler down the street wielded a stick, waving it at students, yelling at them to keep away, and that someone had a gun.
    Again, Smakoz’s roommates screamed at us to get inside, so we dashed in, Fly locked and shut the door. Why would The Young Black Males come back?
    All we needed was an action movie soundtrack. We heard sirens. That spelled bad news for Bumsy and crew. So many of us underage with a keg in the basement. Bumsy went down there and grabbed the microphone from Smooch: “LOCK THE DOORS! ALL OF THEM! NO ONE GETS IN OR OUT!” I trailed Bums through the basement as he fought his way through the crowd (“MOVE MOVE MOVE!”) to the keg, and he put a cup over the nozzle, a sign its shut down. He screamed at the surrounding kids, “NO MORE BEER! GET AWAY FROM THE TAP!” I remember thinking, when I write about Bumsy’s rage, will I use just exclamation points, or ALL CAPS and exclamation points? I headed back upstairs to the kitchen, to my sister and Hand Job.
    My sister asked, “Ray, did someone get shot?”
    “In the leg. I think one of The Young Black Males came back.”
    Hand Job told my sister, “Okay, if cops come in here, if they want to know your age, they won’t ask you directly, that’d make it too easy for you to lie. Instead, they’ll ask you your birthdate. So you got to be ready to lie about your birthdate. So you were born, let’s see, today’s December 14^th, 1991....say you were born October 5^th, 1968.
    “Gotcha” my sister said.
    But my sister wasn’t worried. She had a casual, “Oh well” attitude towards the whole thing. “I just didn’t know all college parties were like this,” she said.
    “They’re not,” we all said at once. “
    “Only at Pitt,” I said. “Our clique, we’re victims, not brawlers.”
    We all made up appropriate birth dates, and just hoped the cops would not ask to see our driver’s licenses.
    “Borderline personality Disorder” Debbie said, “Someone hide me if the cops come. I’m only eighteen.
    D was fidgety. His ankle pumped up and down on the kitchen floor. “We are so fucked if the cops come in here,” he said. And they would be Pittsburgh Police—the worst of the worst, according to the DOJ—and not campus cops. Uh oh.
    D made everyone, including me, anxious. So I left back down to the basement and sat on their century old, grungy sofa. The crowd murmured nervously. Elizabitch came down and went up to the keg. Bumsy screamed, “NO BEER! GET AWAY FROM IT!” Elizabitch turned red with hurt. For many semesters after that she always brought her own beer to The Zoo. She never used a keg there again. Elizabitch walked back up to the kitchen, Bumsy followed.
    Someone banged like crazy on the basement door. None of the homeowners were there to forbid anyone to open it. Some girl shrugged, looked askance at her friends, and unlocked and opened it. Hatchet Face burst in, sobbing, and rushed up to Jen Harkless—she was still at the party—and fell into her arms, wild with tears. They just hugged and hugged. Tina was Hatchet’s real name. I tried to jostle my way over and get close enough to hear what she was saying, but she was too incoherent and panicky.
    So we waited out the aftermath of the shooting. The red of the siren flashed intermittently through the basement windows. Some of the kids were thrilled, others were apathetic. Rapist Chris kept bugging me, “She lied...The girl is psycho...Now I bet I’ll get a bad rep.”
    “No, no,” I assured him. “Everyone will forget.” Eventually the basement door was unlocked by the kids and the party slowly drained away. I headed upstairs. In the kitchen, Hand Job slobbered all over my sister. Bumsy sat next to him and Elizabitch leaned against the oven, looking mad. “They let someone in downstairs,” I said. “Hatchet Face. Tina. It wasn’t me who let her in. She ran in crying and hugged Harkless.”
    This irritated Elizabitch more. She frowned. “That’s all she does at parties,” Elizabitch said. “Cry and feel sorry for herself.” This was true, and the girls always complained about it. Hatchet Face knew she herself was Nasty with a capital N. When her last boyfriend dumped her—not so handsome himself—he told her straight to her face she was ugly, and wanted nothing more to do with her. Ever since, at many parties, she’d break down.
    One Zoo party, many a night ago, she was slumped into the antique sofa in the basement, eyes red and veiny. I was bored, so I sat down next to her and asked her what was wrong.
    “I’m ugly.”
    “No you’re not. Don’t say that about yourself.” I said it casually, and I think she picked up on that.
    “You’re lying, don’t lie to me, Ray. I’ve heard it from more than one person. I am ugly.”
    “No, no...”
    She got mad. “I don’t trust you. Get up and leave me alone.”
    “Cool, cool,” I walked over and sat down with Catholic Girls School Melissa and Borderline Personality Disorder Debbie.
    Then Doug “Pretty Boy” McKenzie sat down net to Hatchet Face. Looking back on it, Pretty Boy was the most mature out of all of us, so much so that we associated him with homosexuality. One night Smakoz almost killed him: “Don’t laugh at me, you faggot! I’ll knock your teeth down your throat!” He hadn’t been smiling at Smakoz, the latter misunderstood. Pretty Boy always told us the three nigger limit was wrong.
    He asked, “Tina, what’s the matter?”
    “I’m ugly. Todd said so.”
    “Well, you know, this is college. The older you get, the more you’ll be around men who are less concerned with looks and more concerned with personality.” That calmed her down. I envied him. How did he come up with an answer like that?
    That was Tina’s aka Hatchet Face’s dilemma in a nutshell. Back to the Party to End All Parties...Bums asked me to go outside and take a look and see if the cops were still around, to see if it was okay to start the party up again. I walked outside, expecting a SWAT team, sirens, yellow and black crime scene tape, but all the LE were gone. Hatchet Face stood outside, in front of The Zoo, more composed than she was before.
    “Hey, Tina, what happened before that you were all upset about?”
    “You know Knute and Crowder?
    “Yeah, they live right there, they come to a lot of Zoo parties.”
    I was in Knute’s bedroom, and we were making out, and Crowder’s his frat brother, and he came in and tried to get in on it, like make it a threesome. And I didn’t want to, and they got pretty rough.” She spoke with a bitter smile.
    I stifled a laugh. “Oh no,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    She perked up. “Ray, here they come.” She hid behind me as Knute and Crowder left their apartment with their ZBT jackets on. They didn’t spot Hatchet Face, they just talked about that Edie Sedgwick song by The Cult. Hatchet Face stepped out from behind me. “Thank you, Ray.”
    I walked back into the kitchen. The overhead light was bright, and it brought out the grainy detail to the chunky brown stains atop the oven, the empty cups of beer and empty beer bottles, the multi-directional footprints of mud on the kitchen floor. Everyone was eating Pretty Boy’s specially made fries he cooked up to keep us there for a while, so no one drove home too drunk. I hated sticking around after parties to help clean up. “The coast is clear, guys,” I said. Hand Job got my sister’s phone number. The party started back up, but too many people had left, so it went from “party” to “gathering,” or “Sausage Fest” if you keep in mind those who stayed around were all male.
    The shooting made third page in the Sunday Edition of the Pittsburgh Press. However, it did not make the Campus newspaper, the Pitt News. Wesley Posfar, the president of Pitt, and his asslicking Director of Security, Robert Bosco, censored a lot of the crime on campus. Cracker-on-cracker violence, that got lip service, but nigger-on-cracker violence didn’t make the Pitt News. One night a student left the Cathedral of Learning at two a.m. Two Young Black Males hid behind the exit, and they jumped him. They got one punch in before he broke free and ran, screaming for help. They chased him.
    “Ain’t no one going to help you, white boy!”
    The kicker was the victim stopped at the Campus PD door, which should always be open and occupied, and banged for help. But no one was there. Laughable. The kid did get away, but Wesley Posfar and Robert Bosco had to spin it, so they referred to it as “simple assault,” totally ignoring the fact it would have been much more serious if the Young Black Males had caught the victim. We hated this. Not only were we human punching bags, but the Pres and his cronies muffled our cries.
    So did that gang of Young Black Males return later that night? Who got shot? Did we, the student body, finally get justice? Did someone finally hit back? Was the shooting victim one of the gang that beat down Smakoz?
    The Wedsnday night a few days after the party, Smooch and I stopped by his apartment above The Zoo. Smakoz said that while he was in the ER getting stitched up, his roommates had taken his guns and shot at a random black passer by. But the victim had nothing to do with the party or anything, just a black student walking down the street. So nope, there was no justice. No one hit back.
    “My roommates, I can’t believe they used my S and W’s. I was so mad at them for that. The cops confiscated both guns as evidence, so I know I’ll never get them back. I was so pissed at them. My grandfather gave them to me.”
    Then he went off about the blacks. “If I see those niggers again, they’re history!”
    I remembered Bi-Chris knew one of them. I debated whether or not to tell him. That’d put her in an awkward position because Smakoz would come down on her like a sledgehammer to find out who he was, and where he lived. But, I could gain favor with the redoubtable Smakzoz if I told him.
    “You know, Bi-Chris knew one of them.”
    “No way,” Smooch said.
    “Who’s Bi Chris?” Smakoz asked.
    “Christine Shautell,” I said. “I’ll show you her next party.” (And I did, but what happened as a result is another eighteen pager. Suffice it to say Smakoz didn’t get the revenge he was looking for, and Bi Chris never trusted me again).
    “What’d Smitty say about the whole thing,” Smakoz asked.
    “We haven’t heard from him since,” Smooch said.
    Smakoz gave an embarrassed smile. “Smitty didn’t have anything to do wth it. He didn’t know any of them,” he said. “I was just so mad. Like an hour after I went off on him, he came to my door to see if I was okay, and I slammed it in his face.”
    Smooch and I laughed. For real.
    But the more Smakoz talked, the more worked up he got. Soon his face was red. It wasn’t funny anymore. Smooch and I looked at each other. He was making us anxious and our giggles became forced and we tried to calm him down by laughing away his rage. It wasn’t working. “If I see them again I’ll beat their heads in.” but he never did. They were lost into a world we used to think of as ours. Smooch and I were happy to get out of the apartment.
    We rarely saw Smitty after that. He just stopped coming around. I saw him by Dexter Hall, and when he said hi to me he looked down at the sidewalk. Later, I talked with Jen Harkless in the Cathedral, and I asked her, “Why Smitty doesn’t come around anymore?”
    “Maybe he’s too smart,” she said.
    And...our gang moved on. Smakoz and The Zoo ended on a bad note because of the loud music. He stomped downstairs and came within a hair’s breadth of clocking Fly. We all graduated. For a while the crew stayed in Pittsburgh, but the job situation was so awful, so many moved out of state to find work. Girlfriends turned into wives and couples and they spent more and more evenings at home, together and alone, and not at a bar or a party. I moved to LA and became an advertising executive. There’s nothing left for me in Pittsburgh. Our clique is pretty much scattered about and belly up. I can’t find any of them on Facebook.
    But I’ve retained all my ideologies from my college days, and so...I owe to U of Pitt: Thank you for my education.

Hospital Memories

    In a four-bed hospital ward, sixteen-year-old Eric Casey was conscious after a few days but bed and then wheelchair-bound for nine weeks. A farm accident put him there. Cheesecloth soaked in a vinegar-smelling solution covered his thighs and shins to encourage saprophytes to consume the dead flesh. His doctor said that these bacteria did the work of maggots in cleaning wounds. The stench reminded him of decaying carcasses in the pasture.
    During the day muted AM radio played “Skokiann,” “Rock Around the Clock,” “Make Love to Me,” “My Secret Love” and other top tunes.
    Interspersed were news headlines. Rocky Marciano beat Ezzard Charles to retain the heavyweight title. The Army-McCarthy hearings ended.
    Every Sunday family and friends came a hundred miles to visit. His daily human contacts were the ever-changing patients in his ward and the hospital staff. Sometimes ward mates could be interesting and diverting.
    “The son-of-a bitch shot me, Eric. With a 410. He hunted quail with that gun so the shot was no bigger than number six, but he was at close range and damned near killed me. Hell, I was in Korea. Cold winters. I shivered like a dog passing chicken bones. But nobody drew a bead on me personally as far as I know.”
    “Why would anyone do that to a likeable and funny guy like you, Art?”
    “He thought I was messing with his wife. But he didn’t have to shoot me. What a sorehead! Course he knew I could whip him if I got ahold of him.”
    Eric didn’t doubt it. Art had forearms like Popeye and shoulders like a bull. Eric was rangy, lean like cattle living on the range not in a feedlot. He was just under six feet and compared to Art looked more like the weakling in the Atlas body-building ads. Work in the sun gave both a deeply tanned face but a forehead white almost from eyebrows to crewcut.
    During his long stay, his ward mates changed. One was waiting to die from cancer. Several were comatose or unconscious much of the time. Among those who could communicate were patients whose main conversation consisted of reports on their condition. One complained frequently that botched surgery left him unable to hold his water.
    Several doors from his ward he found a fellow sixteen-year-old who introduced him to wheel chair drag racing. They used short stretches of the hall when it was empty. With all their strength they “burned out,” leaving skid marks on the floor. Maintenance workers complained and the staff forbade this sport.
    Student nurses did most of the work, from treating festering wounds to cleaning bedpans and pisspots, and making beds. More important to Eric, they boosted morale. “Bedside manner?” Student nurses had that.
    Even the plain ones looked fetching in their starched nipped-waist uniforms, blue narrow striped blouses, white aprons, and pillbox hats on the backs of their heads. Despite their tasks they managed to look spotless. They had a heavy workload but sometimes did favors that made his world a little sweeter.
    “Angela, I can’t get to sleep. Got time for a backrub with that delicious-smelling lotion?” “I know it’s late Lorrie, but I’d really like a peanut-butter sandwich.”
    His fifth-floor ward overlooked the roof of the student nurses’ dormitory where they sunbathed.
    “When are you going to be working on your tan, Kate? Will you be on my end of the roof?”
    “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. I don’t want to take your mind off your rehab.”
    “Rehab don’t take any mind.”
    That was the problem; the mindless daily routine of rehab. In the short time Art was in the ward, he never failed to be interesting. He was coarse and funny, not comatose, incommunicative, or complaining. The encounters with student nurses were brief. They tried to distribute their attention as broadly as possible.
    Increasingly he turned inward, searching memories of the small world he inhabited before the crippling accident. He sorted his experiences into good and bad, likes and dislikes. Lengthy hospitalization provided him the opportunity to examine and evaluate his life as a restless teenager could not.
    He thought about work, play, school, sports, and romance.
    At the time of the accident he worked part-time for Herb Schwetmann. He was a neighbor who farmed a section of land, four times his family’s acreage.
    “I have three sons who went to college. They didn’t want to be farmers. Can’t blame them. I don’t see a good future for farmers. At least not most farmers.”
    Schwetmann took off his engineer’s cap and wiped his brow on his green Dickey’s shirt sleeves. He was one of the few farmers who did not wear bib overalls and grey shirts. Eric remembered his father’s complaint that those who did not fasten the bib’s side buttons and did not wear underwear could show their privates. Mr. Schwetmann wore Dickey’s pants with a leather belt. Like most his age, Eric wore denim jeans and patterned shirts.
    “There’s a race for bigger and better in tractors and machinery to make your time in the field worth it. You’ll need more acreage, bigger farms, and more and more farmers will be giving up and getting steady jobs and a paycheck they can count on. Farms the size of your dad’s won’t support a family anymore.”
    He thought of his dad’s purchase, several years ago, of a Ford tractor with rear-mounted, hydraulic lift equipment. “It’s got all the new fangled stuff to make farming easier,” his dad told him. It pulled a mounted two-bottom, fourteen inch plow.
    “See that John Deere G over there, Eric? You see how much bigger it is than the A standing next to it? The G is the biggest row crop tractor. Pulls a three-bottom sixteen inch plow. But it’s old. Going to be replaced by bigger and better.”
    Eric nodded. “Can I drive it?”
    “Sure can. You have to watch out for the hand clutch. It’s sticky. You have to push hard, push past the kink in it. Otherwise it won’t engage and you might just lurch forward and stop.”
    He liked to drive tractors but not long days cultivating rows of corn. The endless rounds reminded him of a mouse treading a wheel in a cage. He liked putting up hay because this was a task shared by small farmers like his dad, who had joined crews for cooperative labor such as harvests or cutting wood in the winter. This was economically important, especially for small farmers, and a social occasion for young and old.
    Conversations serious and frivolous, gossip, jokes, and pranks mixed fun with the toil. There was constant banter between Eric and other kids in the crew.
    “Bet you can’t throw this brome bale over the wagon like I did, Eric.”
    “You dumb ass. All you need is to stack the bales four-high. Anything more is wasted effort.”
    “I saved your life. I shot a low-flying shit-eating bird.”
    “Did you clean him and eat him?”
    Eric remembered hand fishing along a half mile of creek with an age-mate on the work-crew. They searched beaver and muskrat holes, sunken logs, and brush.
    “They’re too slick and strong to hold, Ed.”
    “You have to get into their gills, Eric. Look out for the spines behind the gills and on top of the catfish. You get stuck with them and it’ll sting for a while.”
    “There’s one in this hole. He’s clamped my fingers in his mouth! Ow! Feels like being squeezed by a big pair of pliers.”
    “That’s ‘cause he’s got rough ridges in his mouth, not teeth like a walleye. That just helps you hold him. You got him!”
    They caught a dozen channel cats, one weighing six pounds, and a half dozen carp and buffalo. The local judgment was that carp from running streams were better eating than catfish. Carp from still, stagnant water took on the flavor of the water and the bottom, and might have a bad taste. Twenty miles to the east, on the Missouri River, several commercial fishermen caught and sold carp, as well as catfish, although the relentless channeling of the river greatly reduced the habitat required for the large harvests of Eric’s grandfather’s day.
    Less pleasant for Eric to recall was his first romance in which he had peaks of ecstasy and despair within six months. He found tall, athletic Sarah irresistible with her prominent chin, wide-set green eyes, Italian bob haircut, and easy smile. She was a year younger.
     “Hey Sarah, why don’t you ride your pony over to my place? I’ll jump on behind you and we can get our cows in to milk.”
    “I got my own chores to do and if I get on a horse with you it won’t be to round up the cows.”
    “You mean we might find something else to do?”
    “Yeah. As long as you mind your manners. I don’t want to have to wrestle you. I’m afraid I’d hurt you.”
    He saw her throw hay bales and scoop ear corn into the crib. She was strong and agile and the best volleyball player in their high school’s conference.
    Both had driven cars in the country since they were fourteen. Licensed to drive at sixteen, he could take her to the closest town, ten miles from their rural high school. Here there were two theatres, one showing “A,” the other “B” movies. The car and the movies provided opportunities to release passions. They explored one another and tried things that they’d heard lovers did.
    “Why do they call it French kissing?”
    “Guess it’s because they invented it.”
    “The older girls say it makes them hot.”
    “You take their word for it? Don’t you know?”
    “A girl has to keep some things to herself.”
    There were town girls considered prettier by his friends but his thought and feelings focused on Sarah. It must be love, he thought, because for him no other girl existed. Sarah must feel the same.
    “You and your folks coming to the school carnival? There’ll be people from all over.”
    “Yeah. We’re coming with Larry’s folks. Old family friends. I promised to make him feel at home in our school event.”
    “Larry? Old friends? You never mentioned him before.”
    “Through our families I’ve known him ever since I can remember. He goes to school in Brown county.”
    They talked about the school carnival for a week afterward. He could not accept that family loyalty required her to accompany Larry all evening.
    “I don’t like threesomes.”
    “This was strictly social, not romantic like when you and I go out together. I was the only one he knew there.”
    “Well, you didn’t have to lay hands on him!”
    “You don’t understand. We played together as kids.”
    He could not let it go. With pain he remembered telling her after a fit of temper that they were through. His pride would not let him take those words back.
    “Just as well,” she said. “When you grow up maybe we can get together again.”
    He thought about their rural high school, a consolidation of precincts with one-room schools called Wolf Creek Union. When it was created thirty-five years before, some did not have autos and those who did found the dirt roads irregularly passable. It was ten miles from the nearest town and in severe snow and mud it could be reached only by foot or horse. Some said that the decline of the population and improved roads made Wolf Creek obsolete.
    Thirty-two high school students attended. Nineteen boys went out for six-man football, basketball, and track. A boy with arms atrophied by Polio served as student manager, school comedian, class officer, and spirit-lifter. All twelve girls, including Sarah, played volleyball. The superintendent governed the school, coached the men’s sports, and taught history and government. Eric conflicted with him in all three roles.
    At his request, Mr. Oestman reevaluated his essay in American history. He left even more red ink on Eric’s paper and did not raise his grade.
    “I’m trying to help you improve your essay. You have to be able to accept correction in anything you undertake in life or you’re not going to learn.”
    He offered advice on football. “Coach Oestman, Salem puts its ends out to the sidelines and throws the ball. That’s how they beat us last year.”
    “No Eric. We need to run the ball. Last year we didn’t and that’s why we lost.”
    “But they ran better than we did out of their formation.”
    “Look! You play and leave the coaching to me.”
    He learned that a team-mate took Sarah to town. In the locker room Eric confronted him.
     “Cal, I hear you’re chasing Sarah.”
     “I wouldn’t call it chasing. She sure as hell isn’t running.”
     Eric threw him to the concrete floor, leaving an abrasion on his forehead where it struck the wall. The coach walked into the room at this moment. Neither boy would give an explanation, so the coach concluded the matter the next day. A witness and Cal’s swollen and blue forehead testified against Eric.
    “Eric, you’re suspended from practice and benched for the next game. For your own good as well as the team’s. You need to learn to respect authority and the players need to know that nobody can put their personal interest ahead of the team.”
    A week later the coach told him that the team wanted him to return.
    “You don’t have to tell me what the team thinks. I’m not playing football anymore.”
    He knew that built-up resentment about Sarah, his coach and teacher, and his team-mate, drove his actions, but he could not stop himself. Standing at an open assembly hall window on the second floor, he saw Mr. Oestman, the sum of all authority, walking below. He threw the cherry bomb twenty feet behind him. The superintendent did not look back when it exploded as Eric expected. He looked up into Eric’s eyes. The wooden stairs reverberated as he stomped to the second floor.
    “Now you’ve done it! You’re going to pay for this. I’m tired of this rebellion and disrespect.”
    The penalty was suspension from school for the rest of the year with no make-up of work missed. Eric cared enough about grades to ask Mr. Oestman to reconsider the grade on his history essay. His parents wanted him to go to college because they thought college was the key to whatever was better in life. Like Mr. Schwetmann, they did not see a future for small farmers like themselves.
    For Schwetmann, a future in farming required more land, bigger machinery, and chemicals to kill weeds and pests, and to fertilize crops. He read this in Progressive Farmer and other publications that kept the farmer up to date and urged modernization. Eric’s father said he’d heard of stuff like this being used “back east,” but used no chemicals except for 2-4-D to kill Canadian thistles and other broadleaf weeds in the pasture and around the place.
    “You see the leaves on the new corn, Eric? I’m going to put together something on the G I can use to kill what’s causing this. The A has the cultivator on it and I’ll need it for the weeds in the corn. I hate to use that big heavy thing for this, but the G would otherwise be idle until I plow wheat stubble.”
    Eric looked at the clutter of hoses and aluminum pipes across the tractor. Attached to the horizontal pipes were nozzles aimed down for the corn rows. Strapped to the back was a fifty-five gallon oil drum filled with a repellent smelling liquid and connected to a tangle of hoses. To avoid this mess, he did not mount the tractor from rear as usual. Instead, standing in front of the huge back wheel he grabbed a hand hold and pulled himself up enough so that he could put a foot on the pulley and vault into the seat. He was agile and foolish enough to do this.
    The improvised spraying rig was not working well. The nozzles kept clogging and backed-up chemical dripped. He repeatedly dismounted to clean them and then reclaim his position behind the steering wheel. On his last such athletic effort, in seeking a hand-hold he grabbed the hand clutch. It did not stay engaged. It was “sticky” as Mr. Schwetmann said.
    The tractor lurched forward, knocked him down and stopped on top of him. There it remained for three and a half hours. The neighbor who found him did not know what to do.
     “I’ll go home and get my axle jack and lift it off you.”
     “Just drive the damned thing off!”
    Clutch engaged, the tractor would have knocked him down and left him behind with a broken pelvis but likely no permanent damage. After three and a half hours of compression and the steady drip of corrosive chemicals he had extensive and enduring muscle and nerve damage. After nine weeks in the hospital he left with braces on his legs, large skin grafts, and extensive scarring on his legs and his stomach where the skin for grafting was removed. He refused to wear the braces and within a month walked unaided with a limp. He would not play football or run track again.
    He talked as little as possible about the accident because people asked how it happened. He did not want to explain that he recklessly vaulted into the tractor seat from in front, over the pulley. People might say, “The kid’s got no judgment.”
    Diverting the questioner’s attention was his common tactic.
    “What was it like pinned under a John Deere G all afternoon?”
    “Boring. I had no top-tunes radio to listen to or magazines to read.”

Mrs. Henderson

    My 35^th birthday and I’m piling into the belly of an enormous armored vehicle painted to resemble the desert. The average age of combat deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan is 26. I’m an old man here.
     February rains have churned the fine sand into thick brown mud that coats our boots. I haven’t had a shower in two weeks. It’s not worth the trouble high-stepping through the muck to the leaky shower tent. We piss in Gatorade bottles in the middle of the night instead of getting fully dressed to walk to the port-a-john five feet behind our tent. By the time you get back to your tent, you need a shower again.
    Knocking the mud off my boots before stepping up, I hear the fellas yelling at the new kid to get out of my seat. He doesn’t know any better. He’s been here less than twelve hours. Not long enough to need a shower yet. Not long enough to even be hungry for rubbery ham or watery rice yet.
    They shut up when I climb the ladder into the back of the vehicle. I tell them not to worry about it. I’ll sit somewhere else. It’s a short drive out of the wire to resupply the guard force at the adjacent base. I wedge myself into an empty bench seat between two other guys, facing the new kid.
    The truck jerks to a start and then rumbles to the outer gate. The new kid is smiling, looking straight ahead at the window over my shoulder, craning his neck to get his first glimpse of indian country.
    He’s hoping for bad guys. I can tell by he way his tongue snakes out and licks his dry upper lip. He’ll write to his mom about his bravery. I don’t tell him there aren’t many bad guys in this area.
    I pull a folded envelope from my small shoulder pocket—a letter from my brother. By the time I’m done reading it, the ride will be over. In his looping, ball-point script, he says if he wins the Powerball he’ll save me a few bucks. He’s sure his numbers are solid, even though the odds are 1 in 175 million. The next page talks about my wife, so I’d rather not finish.
    I cram the letter back into my shoulder pocket and look down at the grooves in the metal floor. Cigarette butts around our feet jump at every rut, pothole, and furrow in the dirt road. White Marlboro Lights with the tan stripe hop up and down. Light brown Newports with mint green letters shudder and roll. A Red Lucky Strike bullseye is crushed between the slats of my bench.
    The blast begins as a bright light stabbing my eyes from the window behind the new kid. The thump that follows collapses my ear canals, turning everything into muffled echoes, like being submerged in a bathtub. The perpendicular force pushes the 24-ton truck into a deadly balancing act, leaving the vehicle poised frozen on its driver-side tires, but the explosion trumps gravity. Our gear-laden bodies bounce and jerk within the biting restraints as the truck crashes on its side. The static of a hundred televisions fills the cab as the steel beast grinds down gravel and dirt to the bottom of an embankment.
     I’m looking up through the opposite window, shattered and jagged from the blast, at the cloudless desert sky. A tiny toy airplane moves across the sky, leaving behind a thin white trail.
    I’ll be on one of those in a few weeks.
    A voice I don’t recognize asks if everyone is okay. The muffled bathtub turns into a piercing ring. Reminds me of the beeping prompts in the cheap headphones during a hearing test, only this beeping won’t stop.
    Drip
    Drip
    Drip
    Shit. There’s blood on my shoulder. By the time the third drop of blood plops onto me, I have my rifle in hand and am crawling to the rear hatch of the vehicle. I look up at the new kid, who sits dangling limp from his seat. Two men are unbuckling him, smeared with his blood as they struggle to release his dead weight from the harness.
    As I move on hands and knees to the rear of the truck, a jagged strip of metal tears into my shoulder, adding a trickle of my own blood under the already drying triangle of droplets from the new kid.
    I stand outside the toppled vehicle, counting all the heads of my people. The new kid is brought out last. He is laid down on the ground. I kneel down and turn his face toward me, smooth skin already cooling under my grip. Not even here long enough to need a shave yet.
    I take his helmet off, not sure why, probably because when we rest we take our helmets off. His hair is already losing its heat. It feels like the hair of a baby doll.
    A corspman drapes a green wool blanket over him, covering his face until he can be moved and cleaned up to be sent home.
    Before the new kid’s done bleeding, before his drops of blood are completely dry on my shoulder, I peel off the shirt. I want out of it.
    There was a 1 in 502,000 chance of this type of accident. As our convoy drove by, one bad artillery round sat on a wooden pallet, waiting to be fired at the enemy. The powerful, premature explosion set off the surrounding ammunition like a string of firecrackers, pushing our enormous vehicle onto its side and down the embankment.
    American tax dollars hard at work, killing a kid not even old enough to buy a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
    The doc said there was a 1 in 256,000 chance of the tiny steel fragment embedding itself in the back of the new kid’s skull. The metal fragment penetrated the four-inch opening between the bottom of the kid’s helmet and collar of his flak jacket and drilled into the base of his skull.
    I am taller than the new kid. The shard would have bounced off of the thick plates in my Kevlar vest. The new kid would have been staring up at the toy airplane. I would have asked him if he was okay. He would be pissed that we wouldn’t leave the wire until our truck got fixed.
    Not even here long enough to have a bad haircut from the Filipino who also washes the trays after dinner. Not even there long enough to unpack his sea bag.
    After talking to the doc, I fish the bloody shirt out of the garbage. My other ones are in worse shape from fading, unserviceable tears, and frayed seams.

    We’re flying home in the belly of a C-17, and I’m sitting in the middle seat of a cramped row of five chairs. My kneecaps are pushed out of place from being wedged behind the seat in front of me. When I lean my head back in the awkward seat, my right trapezius feels like it’s being impaled by an ice pick. I can’t sleep.
    My captain passes me a brown folder. Over the drone of the jet engines he tells me I should go visit the new kid’s mother when we get home. I have to look again at the new kid’s name.
    Joseph J. Henderson- 16 Pritchard Court, Tampa, FL
    Odds are I’ll forget and have to look again.
    I look down at my pistol holster to make sure the magazine is unloaded for flight. I’m wearing the shirt I tried to throw away. I’ve been commissioned and the brick red circles are my badge to prove it.

    Driving in the cracked, leather bucket seat of the Toyota pickup my wife left me in the divorce, the Florida summer makes my back sweat through my shirt. Prickly heat in my back, ass, and legs makes the drive an eternity with a broken air conditioner. The open window only circulates stuffy, humid air as I speed down Highway 17-92.
    The shitty radio speakers crackle under a talk-radio voice proclaiming our superiority, using words like “surge,” “democratic republic,” and “high water mark.”
    Sitting patiently in the passenger seat is a white Hammermill paper box. It’s filled with things we hadn’t sent to the new kid’s family yet: T-shirts, change from his dresser drawer, letters from a girlfriend, some DVDs, odd socks with no partners, a soft pack of Camels with two cigarettes left, a tarnished Zippo lighter, some worn paperbacks.
    The bloody shirt sits in the passenger seat of my truck, too. The new kid coming for a ride with me, riding shotgun. Feels weird to throw it away. It would be like throwing away his ear or his finger or something, wouldn’t it?
    I have to look again:

    Like having to walk through the deep desert mud to take a piss, I don’t want to step in the dirt. My kneecaps are pushed up into the dashboard under the steering wheel as I sit in the road outside the new kid’s house, finishing my Winston Light. But, like in the desert, you have to move eventually, no matter if it’s for a full bladder or an order from a captain. I step out of the tiny cab and crush the white filter into the asphalt.
    I walk up the creaky wooden steps to a screen door without a screen. The small white pennant adorned with two gold stars hanging in the window is telling me, “get the fuck outta here, we’ve had enough.”
     I stand at the screen door, looking down at the toe of my left brown cowboy boot digging between the slats of the porch. I ring the doorbell, hoping it’s one of those doorbells that barely rings and the people don’t hear it, so later they say, Oh, I didn’t hear the doorbell, I’m sorry.
    But the loud ding-dong carries clearly within the house to announce my presence.
    There’s a 1 in 5 chance she’s out grocery shopping or playing bridge.
    A tall, handsome woman with dull, auburn hair opens the door, forcing a smile across the corners of her mouth into her cheeks, where smiles don’t go anymore.
    I tell her my name is Matthew. I don’t tell her my nickname. I don’t want to be comfortable here.
    She says she’s glad I came.
    We sit and have tea on the worn sofa. I can smell death, stale but sweet, a corpse that won’t leave. A picture of an older man sits leaning on the end table, smiling at me. Pictures of divorced spouses aren’t left smiling on end tables.
    She points at a picture of a pretty girl on the end table next to her. A folded American flag lays in front of the frame. She says Joey wanted to be like his big sister, Victoria. She died over the Hindu-Kush Mountains in a C-130.
    Odds of a plane crashing are 1 in 675,638.
    Chances of a plane crashing in an obscure mountain range that most Americans have never heard of—data unavailable.
    We finish our tea without saying anything else. As she sips, she stares ahead at a spot just over the television. I follow her eyes to the spot, but it’s just a smudge on the cream colored wall. Her head cocks slightly every few minutes as she stares. The only sound in the stuffy silence is the tink of our tea cups and saucers.
    After walking our empty dishes to the kitchen, she takes my arm and leads me to his room. She points to a long pair of white socks hanging on the wall. Each sock has a number written on it in blue fabric paint—42 and 41. She says those socks are the ones he wore during the state championship basketball game last year. He made the winning shot—a fade away three-pointer with three defenders in his face.
    A fluke. A Hail Mary. A buzzer beater. A lucky shot.
    She walks over the dark shag carpet and sits on his bed, her weight wrinkling the tightly pulled blue comforter. She says she had to sign for him to join because he was only seventeen.
    Not even old enough to vote yet.
    She picks up a stuffed monkey reclined on a pillow. It says “ZIP” on his yellow shirt. He wears those white gloves rolled up like Mickey Mouse. Clutching him to her chest, and asks about my family. I lean against the doorjamb and talk to the ground, not wanting to see her cry from hearing the things her son will never do.
    The toe of my boot scratches designs into the thick carpeting while I talk. O’s and X’s and L’s and stars. The carpet is the deep mud. I don’t want to get dirty but I can’t leave.
    She stands up and smoothes the wrinkles from his bed. As we walk back down the hall, she points out a cracked half-moon of plaster about knee height. She says that’s where Joey and his sister were wrestling and laughing before she shipped off.
    There’s a 1 in 3 chance she’ll ask me to stay for dinner.
    We sit eating crusty meatloaf and cold cauliflower and scalloped potatoes at the round table tucked in the corner of the small kitchen. I have to get up and push the chair in whenever she needs to get something out of the fridge behind me. She says this was her husband’s favorite dinner, but Joey hated it. I choke down the meatloaf and potatoes.
    Finally, she lets me leave. While she holds the screen door open, I see graphite lines marking her children’s heights along the doorjamb. Sporadic markings follow their formative years. At nearly eye level, I read the last entries:
    Victoria-17 yrs
    Joey-17 yrs...The high water mark of the Henderson family.
    She follows me out to my car and stands staring at the cracked sidewalk. I see the white Hammermill box. I forgot to give it to her. Hefting the box from the seat by the cutout triangular handles, I tell her I’ll bring it inside for her. She’s ignoring me and staring at the shirt where it sits on the seat.
    She says she can fix it up for me if I have a little time. Not wanting to deny her a few more minutes of company, I say okay.
    She disappears down the hallway while I set the box on the couch.
    A medicine cabinet squeals and clicks shut while I stare at Joseph’s picture. Same slight smile wrinkles at the corner of his mouth. Looks like he wants to kill bad guys and tell his mom how brave he is.
     Water runs in the bathroom while I hold Victoria’s folded flag, rubbing my thumbs over the smooth, satiny stars and stripes.
    Drawers open and close, followed by silence, while I sit next to the box and stare at the smudge on the cream colored wall over the television.
    A chair screeches on a wooden floor, followed by footsteps approaching from the hallway.
    She walks up to me and hands me my shirt. The blood is gone, small wet circles the only proof of their existence. The rip is stitched neatly with tan thread. Mrs. Henderson’s smile fits perfectly now, pushing her cheeks up to her misting eyes.

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 2013 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.