My biodegradable soul

My biodegradable soul has
been genetically altered before
the altar with Jesoo nailed to the

wood by his deciples/ only Judas
understands what the Messsiah is
going thru/ Judas says toodledoo &

rats on the cat tarnishing his halo &
laying him low, as the blood & cheap
wine flow/ no wonder Jesoo drinks too

much/ his Daddy told him what was about
to happen to him, enough to make the
best of us cross as Judas double crosses

his best of all buddies alerting the fuddyduddies
of the carnival coming to town with Jesoo as
its #1 clown playing with rusty nails & a

hammer to put him in the slammer when he pounds
off to ejaculate suffering throughout the universe/
Universal Pictures about to show him off as the

Supersoul shouting, “Up Up & AWAY!”/ where there’s
a will there’s a whey when you’re the Big Cheese,
if you please/ beware when the Oversoul

crashes to crush God’s children in
the playground & the wail of the
houndog, Elvis, without which

U ain’t nothin’!

The squirrel climbs up the flagpole

The squirrel climbs up the flagpole/ takes
one look around the nation he loves &
hangs himself/ the

eagle sees him rotting for his country &
sees Mitt & Paul doing victory laps &
hangs himself/ Joe

McCarthy & Caligula ask
Putin how they hangin’ Russia, & he says,
“With my rope”/ the rope beomes a

hammer & sicky/ Dick Nixon returns from
China/ Eugene Debs says he’s the last
liberal president/ Bob Woodward opens the

Watergate washing the nation with Nixon’s
blood, & Bernstein has dinner at Elaine’s with
the literati, as Norman Mailer has a fling with

Jesoo/ Moses parts the water so they can get
the Hell out of there as Pete Seeger sings The
Bells of Romney & Obama flunks Debate 101/

Yawah takes stock of
His creation &
sits on the flagpole to
skewer Himself ...

!

The Enemies of the Creative are the Dull Minded
& the Enemy of the Dull Mind is Reality Itself

The enemies of those who live to create are the dull minded
They know only how to standardize and mechanize
These ones would love to see us all alike
Singing the same old tired song all day long
The dull feel secure in a world made boring
By the suppression and denial of diversity, complexity, novelty,
creativity and interconnectedness
Joyfully I say, each of the latter are undeniable parts of our flowing and fluid concrete reality
No matter how much standardization and mechanization the dull minded try to impose
Out leap novelties which refuse to fit their old molds
Demanding creative responses to integrate these new
and startling realities
Up jump complexities that blow the simple mechanical models apart
These Diversities appear from behind the artificial standardized reality and shatter it completely
Requiring humans to create utterly new forms to avoid chaos in human affairs
Meanwhile, the dull minded are left shaking their heads in utter confusion.
For these truths make relativity a fundamental part of the dynamic stream of reality

Gun Raised

Ever since I can remember, my real dad
said that he was going to give me my first shotgun
from his personal collection
when I was old enough; he had at least twenty rifles
in his gun cabinet in his bedroom.

All I ever got was a bb gun, and a life-
time membership to the NRA. I practiced
on a shooting range that my dad set up near a stream

on his land. I shot soda cans full of holes,
almost never missed. I was a natural, said dad.

One time, a blackbird landed near where the cans
were set up, so without thinking,
I aimed, pulled the trigger, and killed the thing.

Its body, blood trickling down its wings,
made me feel ashamed; I vowed never to kill
for sport again. I was afraid

to tell my father because he was a hunter,
often brought home white-tailed deer, had their heads
with huge antlers mounted on his walls.
I hid the blackbird behind a tree.

Ironing

What a funny day for napkins
to insist upon perfection.
Yesterday it was my underwear,
but I don’t mind...the numbing sweep
and swish of the iron
helps fill the void
that sometimes suddenly,
unexpectedly,
sucks my breath like a vacuum.
It connects me
in a way, to my mother
and all mothers
who didn’t live
to see their daughters grow.
I know she did this
I say to myself,
but I don’t know what she thought or felt or saw.
I unplug the iron, struggling to remember
something I must have felt
and at one time known.
I wrap the cord around my neck,
thinking
how this could all end
in some pathetic and failed attempt.
Instead,
I unwrap the cord slowly and
cradle the still cooling iron to my chest,
imagining human warmth.

Small Change

My keys and my guilt rattle in my pockets. It’s a comfort
to know they’re there, though I confess that I’ve long forgotten
what some of them are for. Sometimes they spur my skin,
an awkward and uncomfortable reminder of their presence. Other times
I look for them and can’t find them. I know they’re there
but can’t put my hands on them. I get flustered and begin to panic.

My credit cards and my insecurities I keep hidden.
Wherever I am, I know I can rely on them
to maintain a steady value. They’re transferable,
recognised all over the world. They look insignificant
but count for so much. I’ve memorised their details
yet still fear someone will steal my identity.

My diary and my regrets lie close to my heart. I’d be lost
without their neat prompts and reminders. I’m so busy
but, should I forget anything, they’re there
with everything highlighted and underlined. Instantly
I recall the exact date and time, the place,
the names of everyone involved: even things I’ve missed.

Night Miss

She calls the night her friend
as she whispers in the dark,
catching the ear of moon and star
        who glow brightly in listening.

EGYPT
(Farouk You)

Much discussion about
Fighting in the streets, sniper
SATAN HAS BEEN KILLED
(truncheon smashes rebellion into
a nice, neat conformity)
Fiery debate, swelling of support
The country comes to a
SATAN HAS BEEN KILLED
(truncheon smashes rebellion into
a nice, neat obedience)
Murder and slaughter and high-minded
We shall not be moved and
SATAN HAS BEEN KILLED
(truncheon smashes rebellion into
a nice, neat oligarchy)
And guns stand up to the gunshots
And men kill to end gunshots
And Facebook and millions network
SATAN HAS BEEN—
D’you not see, how this doesn’t work?
In the West, I don’t know if you have it there,
In the West, a game (often for boys) is
“King of the Mountain”
There’s never a clear winner to it
Only that there is one, only one, always, On High
That one, being that moment, The Strong
“One”, being the operative word
Not “oneness”

Galaxina

That PLAYBOY Playmate, long, long ago
The one who got blasted into history
By her boyfriend?
The one STAR 80 was about?
Eric Roberts, early fame?
Mariel Hemingway, when
The whole world thought she could act,
Just because her grandfather is
A literary god and
Her sister was in
The grossest rape scene ever filmed?
That Playmate?
Right, “Dorothy Stratton”
Well, I moved away from a good, dear friend
We kept in touch, off and on
Still do, decades later
But, anyway, he tells me
In an early tape he sent,
That he and another friend met a Playmate
Said the story would be on the next tape,
And I really didn’t want to hear about it,
But I didn’t want to hurt my friend,
So, as was my wont, I made a joke out of it
And said,
“Who was it, Dorothy Stratton?
BAHAHAHAAAA!!”
He managed to be hurt AND tell me the story
Sometimes, I wish I’d been some hairtrigger
Biker
And just punched people

Excision

That’s right. I give up. I don’t want anything. Nothing more
than to work 60-70-80 hours a week for the change that
as a chump, I deserve. I do not want options. I do not
want to influence. I have not earned the privilege
to be heard. Never mind that I was born here and have
no color. Or I have all colors? I forget which. It does
matter right? Just ask a selection of the nine. No matter.
I am not what the founders had in mind. I trust you implicitly
to follow each letter, each word and deed of the paper we
hold close. Without making contact. And I do not need
to know what it actually says. I know you have my back
in your sights just about everywhere I go. My back as in
we are in this together right?. Associations. My back is sore
from labor’s floor. It’s OK. The idea that I hold sway over
my body is unthinkable in this day and of this adult age.
The idea that I command my body - create things of
and produce things from me and do things, eat for example,
for me of all people. Reward it. Pet it. Bathe it. Pet it.
It is the fluke. Like when it breaks and needs repair.
I have nowhere to go and my mortality is my quick
and brilliant mistake. I would not have this body were it
not for you taking my care on your shoulders and twisting
me straight out of desires. Desire to thrive. I care not for how
I will be broken. The lie is that I should care about my
health. I am worth dimes. I know that I am less than
personable. Less than person. Less than how you draw
and redraw me. None shall ask anything of you anymore.
Not even they that should for who and what they are
supposed to do as an estate. A paltry, pasty and salt poor
extension of you. The fourth of you. And therefore not worthy
of being in the same piece as you or breathing the same
air you take. In fact, air is overrated. I would sign over mine.
I don’t want to seem needy or greedy or haughty. I will sleep
under trees for as long as you let them stand. I won’t need
clean water. I can just skin the middle. I will never have what
you have. And I shouldn’t have what you got for I have not
studied enough law yet nor received the proper pedigree yet
to see what it is that I do not have. What I know of as school
is labor. The sweatshop is my community; the stable my
room with many boards. This is where I’ve segregated.
I think that is the right word. And without access to words
where I am most stable among others. My one speck
of normal. I see others. Allow me others like me. Grant me
company. I will just go out and spend what I have. I will
purchase all I can. Like you do. Buy things for my...tree.
I have already stopped asking questions. Forgive me
for thinking that we -
you and i -
were somehow the same. It has never been about us for
as long as I can focus my head to remember. Yesterday.
Last month. 5 years ago. Longer? It has never been about
us.

Please grant me serfdom. Appoint me peasant. Make my
world the third and last world. Give me just one freedom
to start with. And now that you have it all so to speak, speaking
in my own voice I wish you to know that from here, from this
Nth degree, I will be complete again. And when I say you I mean
the collected you, the collection of you beholden only to you.
You are the one I keep my eye on. I keep you close. You are
so small. And for the sake and security of others you will know
regret.

Noted American Painter Andrew Wyeth, 91, Dies

He was born here, lived here.

Three generations of Wyeths,
limited in scale yet rich in associations,
in spite of the scenery:

aging people and brown, dead plants.

Alone for hours, he tramped across the countryside
collecting the hidden melancholy of the pastures:

timelessness of rocks and hills.

“There’s a lot of cornball in that state!” but here

we have scandals hidden in brushstrokes,
hidden in Master Bedrooms
Around the Corner.

Her face tantalizingly unseen,
Christina rested her weight on one Long Limb.
Stray hairs blew towards the very thing which she leaned:

a dilapidated farmhouse, gray and shadowed
alone in the far right corner of a large yellow field

alone against the walls of a dimly lit museum.

When he chafed under criticism, Christina’s World
died in his sleep at his home.

Grass grows thick over tracks to a farmhouse with no lights on.

All the people who have lived here no longer give interviews;
Everything they have to say is on the walls.

You feel the bone structure in this landscape,
because the whole story doesn’t show.

About Caroline N. Simpson

    Caroline N. Simpson is an international teacher, currently residing in Turkey. She has taught English literature at international high schools in Ankara, Turkey, Barcelona, Spain, and currently Izmir, Turkey. Her poetry has been published in Barcelona-based literary magazine, Barcelona Ink, Michigan-based journal, Third Wednesday, and e-zine, Ascent Aspirations.

Aging Mathematics

I am losing
count of how

many beautiful
women

no longer
want me.

Lover’s Paradise

Why that is a good cup
of coffee Michael, why thank
you Michael I said to my self
walking onto the patio to feed
me and the birds flocking
around waiting for the french
bread crumbs I toss out just
so I can hear them chirp away

I think the birds like me Michael,
yes, I think they do Michael,
while I speak to the air
sipping on my good cup
of Peruvian free market organic
freshly ground coffee, sure tastes
delicious, sure does, as I
chat to myself, thinking about
people who talk to their inner
child wondering what to say

See I don’t have that problem
the birds don’t care one way
or the other that I converse
with I over such foolery, for the
birds enjoy my company and
that is all that matters to us,

Absolutely, I certainly agree
with that sentiment Michael
and do you think it’s gonna be
another beautiful day, of course,
isn’t it always for you and me,
and all this freedom assembled for
our cosmopolitan breakfast,

Michael do you think I need
a dog, not really Michael

Something Told Me No

If you ever come near the kids again, I’ll have
my brothers on you so fast, it’ll make your head spin.
She’s standing in the middle of the courtyard,
fists on hips, yelling at the apartment building.
If I have to come back here again you can bet
it’ll be with a goddamn gun, you son of a bitch.
I barely look up over my magazine to watch her walk
away. At the edge of the parking lot she turns
and screams toward me, You better keep your mouth shut,
asshole, or I’ll come for you, too. When her van rolls away,
I swallow the rest of my Pabst in three hard swallows.

It had been a nice Friday night out on my little porch
with my beer, some almonds and Sports Illustrated.
The white van drives in, a big blonde woman gets out.
I almost gave a little wave, but something told me no,
and she went straight to the building across the courtyard,
pushed all the door bells, put her face and hands hard
against the glass. When nothing happened, barely a breeze,
she backed away and the screaming started.

After a few moments of quiet again, I decide
it’s way too dark to read, need another beer anyway.
I go back inside, slide the French doors closed,
click the lock hard twice just to be sure. I get another
beer from the fridge, finish half of it before I’m out
of the kitchen, push my favorite chair as far away
from the window as I can get it before I even think
of sitting down.

Evolution’s Conundrum

Posited Darwin,
absent death
there’d be no evolution
and therefore
thee or me;
albeit true,
what poor compensation
for one
who’s missing
you.

Truth Fairy

Tinker leaves a
doubloon under
your sleep mat
every time you
don’t tell a lie.
That’s why
you’re broke
most of the time
and seldom dream.

reprinted from HANDSHAKE No. 84
(5 Cross Farm, Section Road North, Fearnhead,
Warrington, Cheshire WA2 0QG United Kingdom.)

Male Advocacy Groups

The most famous athlete in the world, a terrifying
new species of predator preys on the homeless–
thongs for men: this can’t be happening!

While gays and feminists favored a future filled with robot
men, I gulped coffee and debated what to pedal
by machine. Contrary to what some women might say

men are still in control. (We sipped a couple of cold ones
in our camp chairs, outraged by the suggestion that we
can be replaced)–the Great American Male will survive!

They can hold simple conversations. (To get off
the couch and try it in a day is madness.) I’ve been
in a man’s world long enough, despite my bike seat’s

constant attempts. We gaze at a full moon and a lunar
eclipse and discuss our options. This makes our lizardlike
scrambles seem much more primal. Skiers who jump

cliffs and rock climber who free solo–(free picture album
for you to keep and treasure,) convinced that living
among sheer pitches makes men invincible.

Untitled (clouds)

It’s a risk, these clouds
gathered in the open, grow huge
take on the shape they need

though once inside this jar
escape is impossible
-you collect a cloud whose mist

no one studies anymore, comes
from a time rain was not yet the rain
pressing against your forehead

and your mouth too has aged
coming from nowhere to open
as some mountainside

believed by all the experts
too high for predators
or a dirt that devours

even its place to hide in flowers
yet you will date the jar
for their scent and later on.

I Died Earlier Tonight

I died earlier tonight
I breathed my last
And threw myself in front of a car –
Driving down the narrow street
This is the street where I used to live

Bam!

Liquid crimson melts into the black asphault
The blood warms the cold pavement
My skin and bones are torn to pieces
Like a complete jigsaw puzzle –
Thrown in the air and landing on concrete

Memories of me are splattered everywhere
Others will forget, even if it takes awhile
My parents will be lied to –
The witnesses will be Pinocchio
“It wasn’t suicide”, they will say
“It was a terrible accident” “The driver couldn’t stop in time”

I’ve been waiting for 5 months
Waiting for this

I want to be with him
He died on this spot too
Right here where I was last standing
The stain of him hasn’t disappeared

He is here
I wrap him closely in my arms
He is alive
We are together and the living are now invisible

Monster

When I was young
I was taught that monsters to not exist
I see the way you look at me now
And know that they were wrong

To Paralysis

The right words never failed
to elude me,
and the wrong ones seemed
to slice at my gums
and burrow uncomfortably along
the insides of my cheeks.

Imagine my delight
when I balanced your name on my tongue
and felt nothing.

I made a mistake.
I confused an anesthetic
with ecstasy.

Death at 6 A.M.

An unexpected struggle
His arms stiff and erect, outstretched
As he feebly struggles to remain aloft,
casting circular waves outward from the murky center
unable to push himself up against the gravity of death.
I dip my spoon in a feeble attempt to snatch him from impending doom,
But I only succeed in stirring his frenzy. On the surface,
He spasms briefly before turning over into the brown water.
Overtaken by it all, he slowly settles to the bottom
Like a piece of soot or a rotten leaf.
He is an empty shell but still
I drag him from the depths and
I gently fold him into the whiteness of my napkin
Before tossing him into the vastness of the garbage can
And ordering another cup of coffee.

Overkill

Gone, the meadow where once
we trod daisies underfoot

Shades of grey looking up, no sign
of redbreast

A blur, the highway’s progress
(shortcut to madness)

Grim, the daily funeral processions
for cock robin

Autumn Leaves

Pavement art
at heaven’s door
left ajar

A love affair, one
summer

Having My Baby

While the world was changing around them
the anti-scientists of the early third millennium
proved the truth of the aphorism that said
some people you don’t have to satirize,
you only have to quote them,
and
they soon gave way to more subtle hucksters

[at that time in history
the anti-statist followers of the atheist Goddess
made unholy common cause with the followers
of a fundamentalist Sky God,
allowing
them to control intimate personal matters
in exchange for their support of government largesse
in the form of tax breaks and such]

And
these hucksters framed their arguments for this
in the ever-enduring way,
that of the profit motive
and the furtherance of private profit,
and the sinister synergy
of subsidies and systemic control
led to the creation of a pregnancy-industrial complex

And
what had been perceived,
mistakenly,
as a war against all women
soon devolved into,
as
all identity politics eventually do,
a matter of class
(always
defined in America as the ability to pay),
and
the classes were defined thus:

First-Class Pregnancy,
where
the wealthy were able to access
the new technologies that reduced
the term of pregnancy to a matter
at first of weeks,
then,
with further refinements of the process,
to a matter of days,
and
further were not limited to
the traditional way of conception;

Second-Class Pregnancy,
where
the once-vast but ever-declining
mass in the middle were held
to the traditional term of pregnancy
and the traditional way of conception
(unless
they were downwardly mobile, in which case):

Third-Class Pregnancy,
where
those convicted of poverty or dissent
or any other crime against society
were sentenced to terms of pregnancy
of varying lengths longer
than the traditional term,
and
were not permitted the traditional way of conception,
instead being artificially inseminated (forcibly)

And
the term of pregnancy wasn’t the only change
in the matter of reproduction;
such change
went hand-in-hand with the science
of geneology
(said science
had a wide variety of trade names
depending on the patenting company,
none of which need to be mentioned)

This science
produced new therapeutic modalities
(again based on the ability to pay)
that meshed well with the term innovations,
starting
with the ability to alter genetic material
to maximize desirable traits
and
minimize,
if not eliminate,
undesirable ones

Some having the desirable traits
but unfortunately at the same time
cursed with limited reproductive capacity
underwent therapies for the purpose
of enhancing that capacity,
while
others underwent the therapies
in a desperate attempt to speed up
the evolutionary process
to enable them to deal with
the effects of the increasing heat

[such effects included
not only the ever-increasing temperatures,
but
the exponential growth of heat-related parasites,
and
the discovery of new kinds of cancers
as well as the growth of the older kinds,
and
other previously unforeseen problems]

But
such treatments could not speed up
evolution fast enough to keep pace
with the changes in the biosphere
(though
such changes did enable the enhanced
fortunate few percent of the population
to find other ways of escape)

And
a different fate awaited those
who were unable to escape,
and
were thus triply doomed,
in
the third millennium’s version
of three-strikes-and-you’re-out:

Strike One:
being
unable to afford either the genetic treatments
or the shorter-term pregnancy;

Strike Two:
having
themselves and all their offspring
be the victims of many mutations
as a result of the underground radiation
released by the human-caused earthquakes;

and
Strike Three:
with
the Second- and Third-Class pregnancies
resulting in ever-increasing rates of termination,
rates
that eventually reached nearly one hundred percent

And as a result of this unacknowledged war
the planet’s population dwindled even further-----

return of the birds

when the fountain was cleared
the trees heard song again
long before the pipes were connected

Pigeon

We are pigeons
We are peasants
Can’t know the past or think of the future
We’re stuck chasing the present

We are pigeons
Huddled together waiting for the bus
Covered in feathers and shit
Watching our lives shed

We are pigeons
Inbred and bastardized
Enlightened by pain and marginalized
Each time the bus comes the fare is higher

We are pigeons
Under heat lamps with razor traps
Missing legs and tracking devices
All for our own good right?

We are pigeons
Dumb but wise
I will hit the mirror
& hope I break the window

The Gift

At a recent reading, I learned that
my body is a gift from God.

A gift can be exchanged, right?
Here I come, Returns Window—
don’t try hiding from me
because if you’re there,
I will find you.

I have had this body long enough
I’m putting in for the six-foot tall
Adonis model.
I’m tired of looking up at
the rest of the adult world.
I’m tired of thin, weak bones.
I’m tired of having my teeth drilled.
I’m tired of seeing my hair turn gray
and disappear.

I want a strong nose, a strong chin
a face that makes women swoon
instead of snicker and turn away.
I want a deep, resonant voice—
no more Woody Allen
through a cheese grater.

What kind of gift is programmed
to self-destruct? Why not a gift
where the skin stays smooth
the kidneys and lungs don’t shut down
the brain doesn’t morph into rice pudding?

You think I’m a whimpering ingrate?
Petulant, selfish, waging satanic
rebellion against divine wisdom?
NO! Were I created in the image
of an immutable, timeless being
I would have a legitimate claim
to a body everlasting.

But I was fashioned out of
starstuff—the oceans, the land,
the air—the energy of the primoridal
Big Bang.
Nothing in this universe,
not even the universe itself,
circumvents the second law
of thermodynamics. We all die.
And when there is no one left
to imagine God, God will die.

My body is not a gift,
but it is suitable material
for a tragicomic rant
for a fleeting moment of entertainment
for an appreciative (perhaps contrary)
audience in this strange,
strange realm we call la vie.

Faces

He was twelve when he first realized he could remove his face;
set it calmly aside
reattach it at will.
Shocked he hadn’t noticed it earlier,
hadn’t felt the small, sturdy latches just behind his ears
Hands trembled
fumbled the first latch,
pressed it forward,
met its spring-loaded resistance

paused

overcame the tension
released into ecstasy that joy of perfect anonymity.

For years he would only remove his face when he was alone
in the bathroom
holding that limp flesh in his hands
slack
unresponsive
detached
part of him.
Not.

Much more malleable off the skull than on,
released from the tension of adhering to phrenological cartography.

He was twenty when he learned he could make more of them
read Elliot in an English class,
fell in love,
began his life’s work.
Prepared faces to meet other faces
sometimes braver
sometimes faces that looked at the sun,
burned out their retinas, saw only fireworks
faces that always wept
that smiled
that listened attentively
that offered sage advice
Warehoused them,
carefully labelled,
each honest if not always true,
they piled like snow drifts.
filled closets.
used them as blankets,
covered his feet in the small hours
began to fear opening the door
they started to spill out,
no room left under the rug,
their weight cumulative, inevitable
the barest whisper
inaudible among the faces
each soundlessly asking the question

Hunting Down Dinner on Highway 13

Stomach’s rumbling like the muffler
on the rusted-out pickup in my rear view mirror
when against the setting sun, I see
The Beefmaster Cafe.
That’s what the sign says framed
with red and white light bulbs
neon footnotes flash “Hickory Smoked
                                                Hickory Smoked
                                                            Hickory Smoked”

Inside, ceiling fans twirl counter-clockwise
as flies fly clockwise around the counter.

He’s the Beefmaster,
with a past as checkered as the tablecloths.
Been here since the farm folded—
don’t know why.
He stands maybe 6’2” in his white apron.
“Ya’ll kin eat outsod. We got music out thar,”
he boasts as the radio’s tin jingle jangles
spill from windows
while he strolls from table to table
and flies buzz in and out.

Mrs. Beefmaster, dressed in nurse-blue polyester hollers,
“Getcha anythang?” as she stands behind
the $3.99 deep-fried
chicken dinner buffet,
turning over corn, carrots,
black-eyed peas that lost their bubble
and mashed potatoes rose fresh on
Beefmaster’s brother’s Texas farm
while flies dive from bin to bin.

Junior Beefmaster
looks as if someone squeezed his head
from top to bottom.
He collects unmatched dishes,
grabs change
brushes crumbs to the floor
as he moves from table to table
while the flies circle him.

And I move, to the cash register
where a 4, 2 and 7 pop up
like stale toast,
toss a 5
while flies lead me out
the dirty screen door.

satan @ sheetz

Rain breaks
loud & hard

I saw satan
he was pumpn gas @ sheetz
I sd
I didnt think u needd gas
he sd
I don’t
but I hav 2 gt out of th rain
wn it rains
wn rain breaks
hard & loud
ovr th hd of anyone
evn th king of hell
must find sheltr
evn th foulst shit
can b washd clean
by a hard rain
& thn wher wd I b?
This palace
of concrete, plastic & glass
& th stnch of gasoline
fills me w/ a powr
2 make th innocnt bleed
but this goddamnd rain
its senslss purity
like belief w/ nothing 2 believe
that fills its senslssnss
w drumming thundr
I pray 2 th rain
I pray 2 it 2 stop
& satan laffd
I askd hm
how long r u gonna keep standn thr w/ that host n yr hand?

as long as it rains
thr’ll b a world
i’ll stop wn th rain dos

excerpt from
“The not enough coffee,
still up all night, lack of direction,
paranoid A.D.D. blues.”

Does anyone have a cigarette?
I’ve been trying to quit,
but,
my interior decorator says
“black Lung is fashionable this year”,
and I AM a trend-setter

4.20.07 1132p

I walk outside and place my hands
on the black Illinois top soil.
I dig deep
and send to you mis caricias.
There’s miles and rivers, mountains
and the rest of the electric land.
I take my time at the Mississippi
her softness and her memories.
Listen to her stories
She’s ever been waitin
to tell my part in her story.
But I’ve my own message to send.
And someone’s waitin on the other side.
I’m trying to figure out
if it’s necessary to describe
the electric land.
A fever dream is what lay ahead of me.
and the message?
I got drunk in Albuquerque.
I’d love to say
it was love and she smiled,
but I lost some feathers
and lucky rocks on that way.
I’d love to tell you that and other happy endings
but this is my story.
I didn’t make it cuz
I had a drink and a drum began to beat.
A drum began to beat and the desert sky opened up.
The desert sky opened up and as I lay there wonderin why me,
I saw that she was on her way back.
I didn’t make it.
But maybe she lay her hands on red rock
dug deep into the crimson clay
looking for me.
Tryin to help me get back home.
That’s the beauty of cross country travel
the tales, the sights, the stories.
the memories.

Momento Mori

only knowing you from afar

every once in a while
i’d see you in the distance
when i’m driving down the street

once i saw you
outside my bedroom window
after the first snowfall
covered the land in a blanket of white,

then i saw you
walking outside alone
looking for your next meal

i think i saw you with your children
as i sat out on the balcony
of a father’s house —
i watched your beauty
in the distance,
but i didn’t watch you alone,
and after a while
someone said to me
that you looked peaceful,
but at another time
they would have shot
and killed you.

as i said,
i only knew you from afar

then one day
i was told
to go outside,
and that’s when i saw you
laying down among the trees,
never to walk away
from my home again

i’ve always only
seen you from afar,
and suddenly,
i could see your organs
shriveled and sunken in
after your skin
had pulled away
as you wasted away
to nothing

suddenly
i could see traces
from your capillaries,
and i could trace
your spine,
outline your rib cage

#

they call this
momento mori,
i thought,
so i grabbed my camera
to photograph you

because
even though,
in so many places,
i’ve seen you,
for some unknown reason,
i needed to
remember you this way.

Glomming off
the Wrestling World

Okay, so I may frequent
the wrong kind of bars,
but the posters I see there
are the same as the ads
I see for Pay-Per-View
wrestling events and matches.
Men shirtless and oiled up,
Flexing, wearing only shorts
& looking as mean as they can.
And all of their oily chests
Are emblazoned with tattoos —
phrases in Chinese writing,
or long swords being thrust
upwards into the wrestler’s neck.

So I walk into a store today,
And standing near a door
is a sign with a poster
of a muscular man looking all
oiled up with a tattoo on his chest.
And it says “MALO”
in a block next to his body,
so I decided to walk over
to this poster of a man
in his shorts, so I could read
what the tattoo said.

It said, “My heart
is the only thing
that’s made of stone.”

This confused me.

I mean, no wrestler
in his right mind
would tattoo that on him.

Then I glanced
at the waistband
on his shorts, and saw
that MALO logo again,
so then I looked over
and saw it was an ad
for underwear
by Mario Lopez.

It’s a shame
that the wrestling world
now has to contend
with someone
like Mario Lopez
trying to glom
off the wrestling image
to sell boxer shorts.

Only Searching

had no job
traveled around the country in my old car

and someone crashed into me
almost killed me right then and there

docs put a tube down my throat
forcing me to breathe for days

they attached an electronic gizmo to my head
to monitor my brain

fed me by shoving a tube through my skin
directly to my stomach

had to re-learn
how to walk, talk, eat

after I finally got free
I reached out to anyone

I almost lost everything
I was only searching for love

Quitting is Always an Option

someone explain to me
why a t-shirt company
prints the phrase “TAP OUT”
everywhere, and people
want to buy it.
I’m sorry, but “tap out”
is what losers do
in a wrestling match
when they can’t take
the pain anymore
and they want to quit.

They tap out.

So why do people
want to purchase
and wear a t-shirt
that advertises
that they want to quit?

Overloaded with Liabilities

Now, I checked into this: This company
      with offices near my house
has assets of over six billion dollars,
      and liabilities
of just over two point three billion.
And according to the assets
      to liabilities ratio,
a common economic indicator
(where your assets should always be
      much bigger than your liabilities),
this company should watch it’s money
      and spend very thriftily until
the company is financially more comfortable
      and can then rest on their assets.

Now, I’m no economics major,
      but I just heard that the
U.S. Government has something like
      two point three trillion in assets,
and sixteen trillion in liabilities.

As I said, I’m no accountant,
      but I know numbers,
and I wonder what the U.S. Government
      has to do, before it can be
financially comfortable and we can begin
      once again to rest on our assets.

Ugly babies need the most love

“Ugly babies need the most love,”
I heard the woman say.
It’s funny how easily she said
how her affection was so dependent
on looks.

Bimbo

At work,
I was placed
behind a table
of loaves
of Bimbo
brand bread

So at work
I competed
with
the
Bimbo
bread
For attention

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 shutterfly ISSN# cc& hardcover art book life, in color and the 2013 collection Post-Apocalyptic. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

Blind Sided

    Vince Dixon said no more $1 bets on that machine. Sharon Dixon sat opposite her luckless spouse. She winked and hit the button on her machine. Three clicks and the lights flashed on top and the machine sang. “I love that sound.”
    “You got the magic touch. Lean over, rub my perfect shaped bald head.” She laughed and complied.
    “Now that will do it.” Vince rubbed his stomach. “I wish that would work for the rumbling in my gut. The buffet didn’t like me...well beautiful, here we go.” He hit the button. The cylinders spun: click, a gold crown, click, another gold crown, click and the third crown. The machine exploded in celebration.
    Sharon’s face lit up, she shot up like she sat on a tack and bear hugged her husband. “Vince, you hit the big jackpot!” She rocked him back and forth. People gather around from the surrounding aisles and cheered.
    Vince displayed a weak smile and rubbed his gut. The machine’s counter spun and spun. “Sharon sit here, I got to get to the toilet.” Vince pushed through the crowd and he prayed to make it. He couldn’t walk to fast or dare go too slow. Vince bumped into a few guys, shouted out an apology and slammed the stall door.
    Thank God, he made it.
    He was sicker than he thought; it took him longer than he thought; good Sharon came with him.
    Time to collect all that dough! Oops, not yet. He shot back in the stall.

    Vince rushed down the aisle to the slots and somebody else sat at the machine. Where was Sharon? He wasn’t gone that long. He scanned the area and spotted a guy in a suit with chopped hair and glasses. He must be a floor manager. “Excuse me.”
    “Yes sir, can I help you?”
    His name tag confirmed Vince’s thought. “Did you see a tall middle aged lady in a blue denim pants suit? She’s big not fat and she wears black rimmed glasses?” The manager hesitated. “She’s my wife and she sat at the machine that hit big.”
    “Well, she headed toward the buffet,” he pointed over Vince’s shoulder.
    “Thanks.” Why the buffet? That was in the opposite direction of the cashier. Maybe she doubled back. He rushed to the cashier. She wouldn’t get cash and it would take time to get a check. Uncle Sam takes his first. He didn’t see her. He hit her cell; no answer. A middle aged cashier claimed Sharon didn’t stop at the cage. A frustrated Vince Dixon sat at the bar. The thought she left him stabbed him in the gut like a dagger.
    Think positive, there was a good reason why she left.
    She’ll call you any minute, relax. He asked another supervisor. She gave him a sympathetic look. “Wait here.” She went in the office and returned. “You didn’t get this from me. She left in a hurry, by herself, and jumped in a cab.”
    A cab, why a cab? We’re two blocks from the resort.

    Vince shoved in his keycard. He promised himself not to shout, but no Sharon. He looked in the bedroom and her luggage was gone. His heart sank when he saw her keycard on the pillow. He smackedTwenty-five years of marriage with no financial power struggles. Their retirement went well; she baked and he wrote. He stayed home a lot. She said she loved his work. Was she bored? We shared everything. Why? Maybe some degenerate was holding her hostage? That had to be it. Don’t kid yourself, Vince.
    You’ve been dumped and she stole your money!
    Staking out the casino would be a waste. Their flight back to Chicago leaves Friday morning; no telling when she plans on cashing it in.
    Dirty bitch! How many years you been lying to me!
    Vince sprang off the bed, looked in the frig and got a beer. He tried her cell for the umpteenth time; no answer. He drank several beers and hit the speed dial. “Hello.”
    “Mindy?”
    “Hey dad, man, you sound drunk. How you all doing in Vegas? Win any money?”
    “Listen...your mom is gone, Mindy.” An eerie silence followed. “Mindy, you there?”
    “What happened dad?” Her voice trembled.
    “Mindy...she isn’t dead or injured or anything.”
    Mindy sighed. “Jesus...you scared me, dad!”
    “Sorry...I hit on a slot for 917K—”
    “What? Are you serious?”
    “Yeah...I went to the toilet and I told to sit on the machine. When I came back she was gone. She didn’t cash it in and when I got back to the suite.” He paused to catch his breath. “Her luggage was gone. She left the keycard and rental keys. That rules out foul play if you ask me.”
    “Dad...I... I don’t know what to say.”
    “You and your mom are close and don’t lie to me Did she say anything about being unhappy?”
    “No, dad...no, nothing at all.” Mindy sighed, “Wait a minute, I’m calling her.” The suspense racked his nerves. “It went to voice mail. You want me and Sammy to come that way?”
    He didn’t need to be pampered or felt sorry for. “No, that’s a long haul from Portland. I’m tired, give everybody my love. And don’t tell anybody about the money...anybody, not even your husband. Got it?”
    “OK dad, be careful.”
    “Good, I’ll call you when I’m home.”

    Vince smiled inward and outward whenever they pulled into the driveway. The custom tri-level with the attached garage and white face brick on all sides became a project for Sharon. She called it her accidental blessing. She drove down a street to avoid a railroad crossing and there it was their retirement home. And, in a few years that dream came true. They didn’t have a lot of money. Their combined pensions met all their financial needs; no stress or strain. They loved each other; all the bad times were behind them.
    “Why Sharon...why you do this?
    No activity in the joint accounts of any kind and her car was still in the garage after two weeks. Her mail hadn’t been diverted. Maybe she’d come to her senses. Could or would he forgive her if she returned? Maybe, but if she were broke or claimed to be; what then? He didn’t know. He might kill her. He’d been drunk for two weeks.
    Get sober and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You got to figure out how to maintain your standard of living.
    Vince pushed back in his tan recliner, pressed a button and the internet came up on the 3D. He tried to access his accounts, but the sight went down.
    Dammit.
    Vince threw a beer can at the TV. It bounced of the flat screen; it spun and tilted on its pedestal. Beer spilled on the white oak entertainment center and the carpet. That was real smart, Vince. He closed his eyes and the room spun toward darkness. He held on.

    Vince ended two weeks of seclusion, drunkenness and tears. He decided to detail his 2002 Camry to perfection. Two days and three coats of wax later he felt better. She looked good, but he made a big mistake when he picked up a pizza. Never park under a tree; the birds had a bad case of diarrhea. His pride and joy was blanketed.
    Dammit!
    No way would he scrub all that shit off. He drove straight to the car wash. Two passes would do it.
    “You hate birds, don’t you?” The teenage attendant said, she laughed and changed his twenty. “Payback time.” The brushless wash worked, but it took three passes, not two.
    Vince pulled out on Kedzie Avenue and headed home. The blow dryers never the job completely and water streamed off the blue Toyota. A cop moved up fast with its lights flashing. He pulled to the right to let him by, but the cop screamed in the speaker “pull over.” He obeyed and focused on the squad car. The door swung open and Vince couldn’t believe who he saw. Detective Leon Gillespie unstrapped his weapon and walk toward him. Well...the big a-hole got demoted to patrolman. “Step out the car, Dixon.”
    Vince eased out the door. “Hey, Leon. What happened, you used to be a detective?” He grinned and Gillespie rolled his eyes. Gillespie hated Vince with a passion. When Attorney Vince Dixon was a public defender a strange slam dunk murder case got dumped in his lap. Easy for the prosecution so they thought. A young black guy sat in jail for two years awaiting trial. No hurry; let him sit, the witnesses were credible; the evidence was circumstantial. He dug deeper and found that a female witness had a glass eye. She stated that she saw the defendant leave the murder scene across the hall. Vince argued that the angle of vision and her glass eye didn’t match. He included other details that, or at the very least, created enough reasonable doubt for an acquittal. He made the DA and Detective Gillespie look like fools.
    The status-quo was pissed!
    The victim, a white female had ties to the mayor’s office and other prominent citizens. The verdict should have propelled Attorney Dixon into the legal stratosphere. But, the system went to work on Vince’s career. It died a slow death. A few loyal friends threw him a bone every now and then, but that died too. A couple of consultations a year gave him a few dollars to stash for the proverbial rainy day. He went to work for the Post Office and he retired twenty years later.
    “None of your business, Dixon...you swerved in the lane. Are you drunk?” Gillespie hissed and got in Vince’s face.
    “No, I don’t drink and drive. You look like a sack of potatoes. A stick of gum won’t hurt either.”
    “Step to the back of the car.”
    Gillespie watched every step he took, and of course, this created a gaper’s block. He got too angry to be embarrassed. “You satisfied, former Detective Gillespie?”
    “No, put your hands behind you.” Vince turned around and the cop cuffed him with zip ties.
    “What’s the charge, fat boy?” Vince spat the question at his enemy.
    “Drunk driving, talk all the shit you like, I’ll have the last laugh this time, Dixon.” Gillespie giggled, put his stubby hands on top of Vince’s head and guided him into the back seat. “Your vehicle will be impounded and ticketed.”

    Gillespie pulled in the back of the Second District station. He handed Vince over to a couple of rookies. They hurried him down a dingy, musty smelling corridor pass several interview rooms. All the ancient CCTV cameras followed them. They pushed through a set of double steel reinforced doors into the squad room. It smelled like a locker room. All eyes looked their way and then returned to whatever they were doing. The tall thin graying desk sergeant gave Vince a dirty look. “What’s his problem?”
    “DUI... Gillespie’s headed this way.” The female rookie tossed a bag with his belongings on the desk.
    The sergeant nodded toward a huge cell in the corner of the squad room. “In the bullpen.”
    Vince sat on the stainless steel bench. It would be a long night. At 4am they cleared the bullpen; Vince stayed and he was released; no charges. He leaned on the bus stop shelter in the damp, hazy morning air. Why no charges? It didn’t make sense, but they still impounded his car. Two hours, three bus rides and a close inspection of his vehicle later, he drove out of the 103rd street auto pound.

    Vince pulled in his driveway, hit the button and the door crept upward.
    Sharon’s Lexus was gone!
    He eased in his space and closed the door. His head ached and his stomach knotted. He opened the door to the house. All the living room furniture was gone; he bought it and now she stole that too. He looked downstairs at his man cave; untouched. Thank God. His heart raced. He rubbed his chest, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Relax, Vince and think. Who helped her move? Was it Gillespie? His detainment and no charges reeked of his crap. He did say he would have the last laugh. The three of them had ties to law enforcement years ago. Sharon was a probation officer before she started teaching. Why would she use his enemy? What did he do to deserve that betrayal?
    Die Sharon! You and your boy!
    Vince saw dolly tracks on the stairs and on the upstairs landing. The bedroom dresser and chest were gone and all her clothes. She left the king size bed. All her important documents and office supplies were gone. He went to the computer/guest room and turned it on. His files remained, hers were deleted. He continued to do inventory; she took half the toilet paper, paper towels, soap and even the plug-in air fresheners. Count your blessings, she didn’t take much. After stealing 900 grand why take anything? A wave of hatred came over him. The phone only rang once since he’d been back from Vegas. That meant all his in-laws knew she left. Did she tell them about the money? Was she having an affair with Gillespie or did she pay him to keep him away? Why fall for that fat fool? She could do better?
    No more speculation; now she was gone.
    A million scenarios ran through his head. He swore he’d never mention the money she stole. He’d really look like a fool. Who would ever think that would happen to them? Who helped her? The curiosity was killing him. Call next door and ask Clarissa, but he didn’t know the number. Thomson’s were good people. Since Gordon’s death Clarissa turned into a cougar and she stayed on the go. God knows she could afford it. She was retired school administrator. He went and rang the bell and got a whiff of Clarissa’s fried chicken. Everybody on the block loved that aroma. Gordon bragged all the time, “The girl can really cook good.”
    The door opened. Clarissa looked like a cooking show hostess. She wore a light blue fitted blouse and her semi- circled cheeks filled out her studded jeans. Her grey streaked blonde hair was pushed back with a blue head band. “Hey Vince, how are you?” She had a genuine smile that relaxed Vince.
    “Terrible...who cares anyway? Don’t feel awkward, but I got to know. Did you see who help Sharon move?”
    Clarissa looked puzzled for a second. Then she started to giggle. “Sharon never liked me. She tried to hide it; it didn’t work.”
    “She envied you; most women do. I can’t blame them.”
    “Well, thank you...A couple of guys who looked like her and there was a fat, sloppy looking cop.”
    Her brothers, they never liked him, but why Gillespie? “Thanks a lot, Clarissa.” Vince turned to leave.
    “Uh...Vince, I know how you feel. I had it happen to my first marriage. So...well...you hungry?”
    Vince spun and smiled. “Yes! And, I promise not to dump on you.”
    She laughed, “Deal, come in and have a seat.” She stepped aside and waved him in.
    Vince sat at the kitchen island with a multitude of pots and pans that hung overhead. He eased back in a custom leather upholstered high back chair. It was surrounded by the latest stainless steel appliances. He stuffed himself with fried chicken, macaroni and cheese and salads. Every time she got up his eyes couldn’t help but undress the six foot beauty. He couldn’t compliment her enough and she insisted he come to dinner on Sunday. He accepted and hugged her good-bye.

    For the past ten years Vince desired to write. He took a creative writing course and jotted down notebooks full of ideas. He put his pen aside several months ago before his martial crisis; writer’s block. He set-up his computer in a corner of the den next to a book shelf. He prayed for inspiration and got to work.
    He heard the mower next door and parted the vertical blinds. He tapped on the window and waved when Clarissa stopped to empty the grass catcher. She smiled and gave him a sexy look that he hadn’t seen in a long time. She finished, stopped and looked at Vince who continued to stare.
    Give her fifteen minutes; when she goes in then make your move.
    He rang the door bell several times. Clarissa came to the door ringing wet in a pink robe that clung to her vanilla skin. She tied a towel around her hair before answering the door. “Hey, Vince—” He grabbed her and gently moved her collar aside and nibbled on her moist neck and inhaled the rose scent of her body wash. He pulled the robe’s belt and caressed her buttocks. They kissed and nibbled on each other mouths. Their lips fit perfectly. She broke away and led him to the bedroom. They ignored the water running in the shower.
    Vince explored every inch of her. For sixty her skin was tight, very few marks and wrinkles. It reminded him of vanilla ice cream with a few sprinkles. Delicious. He wondered if those younger guys appreciated a well preserved woman like her. Was she a promiscuous cougar or what? Don’t think relationship Vince, enjoy the moment and leave.
    They stared at the vaulted ceiling and the fan. Its rotation bathed the exhausted couple in waves of cool air. “That was nice, Clarissa. I never would have thought—”
    She rolled over and cut him off with a kiss. “Don’t try to figure it out just enjoy,” she said and went to the bathroom. They sat in the breakfast nook and talked about everything in the neighborhood. They recalled the one and only block party. “You still plan on writing a book or did you start?” Clarissa asked.
    “Yeah, I plan on it.” Vince looked surprised. “I don’t remember talking about that.”
    “You sure did...you were telling everybody at the table; that was the plan when you retire. I’m a writer too. Remember me telling you?”
    “No, that was years ago. Can I see some of your work?”
    “Of course, babe.” She got up and went in the next room.
    “I’ll be back; I’m going to get some of mine.”
    They read, critiqued and laughed at their work. They compared stacks of rejections. They laughed at the different styles editor’s use. Vince loved Clarissa’s work. She had an eye for detail and he was a good plot guy. That gave birth to a new writing team. Dixon and Thomson sealed the deal between the sheets.
    For the next several months they wrote and submitted their work. The rejections enhanced their determination. And, that team work paid off with an acceptance. No money, but they didn’t care; it was a start. They made love at the end of every story or outline. That happened twice a week; experience taught them don’t wear out your welcome.
    Clarissa had the emotional advantage; she reached and surpassed the summit of her husband’s sudden death. Vince’s trauma had a delayed fuse. Sometimes he dreamed about Sharon ever night and he hated it.
    Think positive, Vince.
    Clarissa’s beautiful, smart and she likes you. She’s not even dating younger men anymore. You’re a lucky man. She’s a good team mate, even when you fight about a scene or idea. She eases you into compromises that work. The girl’s smooth. They didn’t discuss their spouses; smart, very smart. He decided to get a divorce. He didn’t want to pay, but he needed closure. A year later he celebrated it being final.
    Try not to be too pessimistic, but his heart told him.
    You’re in too deep, it’s too soon. Don’t latch on to the first person you like.
    Jesus, the next door neighbor, that looks bad...and she’s a cougar. She might think the same about you. You’re no angel you had a few younger women, remember?
    Fuck all that, you love her, enjoy it!

    Some mutual friends invited them to a black tie anniversary party at the Blue Chip casino. Not one of his favorite places, but Clarissa wanted to go. Her little black dress clung in all the right places and he looked like James Bond in his tuxedo, so he thought, she laughed and agreed. They strolled pass the tables, side stepped clouds of smoke and all the excitement. He heard a distinct female voice, sweet and baritone. He stopped in his tracks.
    It couldn’t be!
    “Vince, what’s wrong?”
    He raised his hand, signally silence. “Wait here.” He turned and walked down a narrow aisle of slots. He stopped by a lady with short grey hair in an oversized green blouse and blue jeans. “Sharon?” She turned and looked up. Her eyes swam in her head, her front teeth were missing and the rest rooting. She reeked of whisky. “Damn, what happened—” Vince stopped. He should be glad to see her like this, but it wasn’t there.
    She grinned, “Stay away...stay away, I’m getting ready to hit...hit. Watch this.” She hit the button. She stared at the machine, hypnotized.
    “Sharon! You talk to Cindy?”
    She looked up, but she didn’t seem to see him. “Stay away...stay away.”
    Vince’s heart broke. This would kill their daughter. He shouldn’t care, but he did. He saw Gillespie wobble down the aisle and excused himself for brushing against everybody. He did a double take when he set eyes on Vince. He dropped his head and looked at Sharon.
    “Hello, Vince, small world ain’t it?”
    “Yeah, too small you fat asshole,” Vince snapped. “What happened to her? Cindy’s worried sick about her mom. You look like shit. You dying too, like my ex or do you just look like it?” Vince wanted to kill him. “I heard you retired, looks like you won’t be enjoying it for long.” The ex-cop’s skin was jaundice and peeled along his hairline.
    Gillespie motioned toward Vince. “Fuck you, Dixon.”
    “That’s what you did to my ex. Now look at her. You two deserve each other. And, the money she stole really looks good on you. Do something right for a change; tell her to call her daughter.” Gillespie snarled and balled up his fist. Vince stood his ground. “Please put your hands on me.” Clarissa walked up and grabbed his arm and whispered they had to go. Vince walked away. Lucky you, Vince two years later you bump into her. That peeled the scab off the bitterness, but the wound didn’t bleed. Good, but part of him hated to see her like that. After twenty-five years, he wouldn’t be human if it didn’t.
    They partied and to Clarissa’s credit she didn’t ask Vince anything. Another reason he loved her. She knew as much as he did about Sharon’s reason for doing whatever. They left the party to play the machines. Clarissa played the $5 dollar slots. Every three bets she hit and on the last bet of the night the machine exploded. She screamed with enjoy. The whole floor seemed to surround her. Vince scanned the crowd and hoped Sharon saw Clarissa hit. They were gone. Clarissa’s jackpot; 1.2 million. After the celebration and Clarissa took care of the business at the office, they drove home in silence. “You OK, baby?”
    “Yeah, I’m good.” He lied. Would the good thing they have change? Time would tell. And how would he tell Cindy about her mom?

    Vince and Clarissa did their major celebrating at home. A bottle and a half of champagne later they were sprawled across the bed. Vince slept off some of the alcohol and woke up to Clarissa’s snoring. After he laid eyes on his ex he couldn’t sleep. The million questions in his mind were normal; get over it and don’t be bitter. Both of them had hangovers and Clarissa worked her magic in the kitchen. They ate in silence. “I’m going to ask this once and that’s it.” She said. “You are OK after last night?”
    Vince shrugged, “As well as can be expected.” He reached, took her hand and kissed it.
    Clarissa sighed, “I had a plan for last night, but your ex pops up and that screwed it up. But, I’m doing it anyway... Will you marry me, Vince Dixon?”
    He blinked. “What?”
    “Will...you...marry...me?”
    Vince cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.”

    Two weeks later the newlyweds’ sun bathed on a beach in Aruba. Vince grabbed his smart phone to check his first of the month savings/checking balance.
    “Clarissa, there’s 400 grand in my account...you didn’t have to do that.”
    “I know, but that’s what a spouse is supposed to do.”
    “True...very true.” Vince laid back, closed his eyes and listened to the wave’s pound the white sands. He’d return the money gradually. He’d loved her generosity, but the love of money destroyed someone he used to care about and adversely affected their only daughter. He’d be happy without it.

The Gleaners

    The Gleaners is a famous French 19^th century painting by Jean Francois Millet. The painting depicts three women picking up leftover seeds in a field. Gleaners are people who pick up scraps. I recently discovered that I was a gleaner. I discovered it one Sunday morning when I scoured for leftover roaches or if I was lucky, complete joints, outside of Lower East Side clubs and bars.
    I did not make this discovery alone. I made it with a fellow poet who calls himself “Orion.” He is a fellow poet who reads his rants at the various open mics that quickly open and close throughout the East Village, Lower East Side, and occasional, abandoned, industrial edges of Brooklyn.
    Orion is homeless. He is schizophrenic. He refuses to take his medication. He does not believe in his illness. He believes that smoking marijuana is good for him.
    I am partially homeless. I sleep on a cigarette-scarred futon in a loft above the Pyramid Club on Avenue A. The Pyramid Club is a Drag Queen club. The loft above the club is a failed rehab and temporary shelter for unknown poets and performers who have fled the suburb-abyss for a more engaging life through poetry, performance, and gleaning.
    I don’t think I’m crazy. Yet I have an illness that I refuse to believe in. That illness is called a job, a mortgage, and a wife who looks pretty like a mannequin, but is hollow like one. I believe that drugs like marijuana, books like Naked Lunch by William Burroughs, and wandering New York City all day and writing about it at night, is good for that illness.
    Sometimes though you need money for things like books and marijuana. Luckily, there are enough lofts, squats, trashcans, cafes, library dumpsters, and other places where I can always steal books. Luckily, I also had Orion show me how to get free marijuana when you are broke.
    “No one goes home right away after the clubs close,” he said. “They smoke marijuana before going home. They smoke it out here because their homes spy on them. Their homes spy on them, and then make reports about them, through their televisions, computers, DVD players, and newspapers like The New York Times.”
    “Don’t forget magazines like The New Yorker,” I reminded.
    “Which is written by the CIA,” he noted.
    I don’t know if The New Yorker is written by the CIA, though I suspect it is written by the PR office of some South African Diamond conglomerate that recently used forced slave labor to dig for the precious rocks in countries like Liberia and Sierra Leone. But Orion was right about all the joints and roaches outside of bars and nightclubs in our neighborhood. There were two stubby joints (or roaches) right outside of The Pyramid Club (and with cherry red lipstick on them; these girls dress to kill). There was half a joint and three roaches outside of the metal bar, King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, on the corner across from Tompkins Square Park and a few more roaches in front of bars like Downtown Beirut and The Mars Bar. On the brown stoop of a tenement on East 7^th street and First Avenue, there was a copy of Friedrich Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. Cool.
    “What do you think of Nietzsche, Orion?”
    “Did you know that he admired Emerson? And that his sister later started a Nazi colony in South America?”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “Yes. And last time I saw him in the hospital, he was still not speaking except to say, ‘God is the next apocalyptic war waiting to be declared in Kansas.’”
    “Hmm.”
    By 10 a.m., Tompkins Square Park was not very crowded. Most of the people who slept in beds instead of cigarette scarred futons were having something called “Brunch” in upscale cafes with names like Song of the Lark or Pilgrims at Tinker Creek. We would have the next hour or so to smoke this joint.
    Orion was an expert at knocking the tobacco out of a cigarette, and filling it in with the unhealthy resin, seeds, marijuana and phlegm of unknown origin from the several joints we gleaned, and which he expertly opened. Sadly, such street skills were beyond me. I had things like an MFA from the Iowa Writers Workshop, which supposedly taught you some useful things, like how to write poems and stories that would get published in magazines secretly underwritten by the PR offices of South African diamond conglomerates that use forced slave labor to dig for their precious rocks in countries like Liberia and Sierra Leone.
    While Orion prepared our “Gleaners” version of brunch, I took in the view of Tompkins Square Park, so far, one of my favorite places in New York City. Despite rumors that were becoming more rampant, the band shell was still standing, and presently, there were six or seven homeless folks bundled and snoring on its stage. Every third of fourth bench had some empty or semi-filled beer bottles nearby. (Neither Orion nor I believed in mixing stray beers together. That’s something that immature Frat boys would do, not immature poets.) The sidewalks might have a new chalked in or spray painted Anarchy “A” sign with a line drawn through it, or a slogan like, “Who’s Fucking Park? Our Fucking Park!” and there was always a rat or few popping out of the trash barrel you just rummaged through and where someone just threw out a copy of Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls in it.
    “Damn! I don’t know what’s worse!” I said. “The rats or people throwing away good literature!”
    Still, I was glad to have found this classic. That makes two in one morning. (Even if some folks may not find classic status in anything written by Jacqueline Susann. But if Jane Austen had a secret guilty pleasure, I suspect that the author of Pride and Prejudice would write books like Valley of the Dolls.)
    “It’s only in the gutter, with the rats and other vermin, where you will find good literature,” Orion said.
    “You got a point there,” I said.
    “I once met a rat who remembered Jack Kerouac and some of the other Beats when they lived in this neighborhood.”
    “Hmm.”
    “Let’s smoke!” Orion said.
    “Good idea!”
    Whatever toxic resin or unknown phlegm inside of this joint was not that bad. I only coughed for a few minutes. Even if this joint had hardly any toxicity in it, I never took more than a few hits. See, I didn’t believe in marijuana as much as I did this city where you could easily find the detritus or whatever else you needed to illegally live, and then smoke or live it right outside in places like Tompkins Square Park, which was still safe from the pilgrims having brunch nearby. For how much longer, who knew. For today though, the park belonged to people like Orion, and also people like me.
    “There are a lot more bars in the West Village,” Orion said after he finished the joint. “We can probably find enough joints and roaches to smoke for the rest of the day, and also sell.”
    “Sounds like a good plan to me,” I said, “except for the part about selling some of the drugs you got for free. That’s like—being a Capitalist.”
    “Hmm, you’re right,” Orion said.
    “I’m just going to sit for a bit, think about my life going nowhere near Wall Street, and then read some great literature.”
    “I met Nietzsche while I was in the hospital.”
    “Hmm.”
    “And I think it was religion, and the people who start wars over it, who are also the same people who ban books or jail or kill authors, is what put him there.”
    “I think you’re right.”

Where Death Exists

    He walked to school that morning in a haze. He tried to remember his dream from last night, but couldn’t. It was a nice spring day. The weather was warm and the trees were green with new buds. Birds chirped. Flowers were blooming. Everything was new and alive.
    He didn’t notice.
    As he walked inside Appledale High School, he didn’t pay any attention to the guys laughing behind him. They realized that he was wearing the same green cargo pants and old grey t-shirt as yesterday. He didn’t. Why couldn’t he remember the dream?
    The bell rang for first hour as he sat down at his desk. The teacher, Mr. Briley, talked about algebra. Formulas and equations, X equals Y and blah blah blah. He didn’t hear him speaking. His mind was focused on one thing, his dream.
    This was the way he spent most of his days. In a bubble. A mental bubble he had created for himself. It allowed him to get through the day without having to deal with things around him. Most people just thought he was shy, maybe a little weird, and that was fine. As long as they left him alone. Let him live in his bubble. He managed to listen in class just enough so that he pulled a C average and stayed under the radar.
    “Ok, for tomorrow you guys need to do questions one through twenty-seven at the end of chapter eight. Don’t forget to show your work!”
    He snapped back to reality as the bell was ringing and students were getting up out of their desks. He grabbed his backpack, unusually heavy today, and headed for the door.
    Through the hall he kept his eyes down. He didn’t want to have to make eye contact or even exchange casual social niceties with anyone. Not today.
    He finished his morning routine as usual, second period History, a quiz in English, followed by fourth period Spanish. It was just a normal day in the life of Alex Martin. Except that he felt different. Besides the frustration he felt over his dream, he felt next to nothing. Numb. The depression and anxiety he was growing used to dealing with day in and day out was pushed back somewhere. And he didn’t care where. Today he just wanted to feel nothing.
    Alex walked into the cafeteria. It was pizza day, his favorite. He didn’t grab a tray and get in line. He didn’t go to his usual table in the corner. Instead, Alex Martin walked to the back of the cafeteria, pulled two 9MM handguns out of his backpack, closed his eyes, and started shooting.
    One bullet went through head cheerleader Stacey Arnold’s chocolate milk carton before landing in Mr. Briley’s chest. The next one went through Brian Walden from the Math Club’s right knee. In the next minute, Alex shot a total of twelve students and teachers. Seven were killed, four were injured. And with his last shot, Alex Martin put a bullet through his brain on a warm spring afternoon in the small, sleepy town of Appledale.

    “It’s time to get up in the morn-ing!” Alex heard his mom calling out like she always did on school days. She was still his alarm clock, and he much preferred her sweet sing-songy voice to sirens going off in his ear.
    He slowly opened his eyes and stretched. Then he remembered what today was as he felt a sharp stab of excitement and nervousness in his stomach.
    It was the first day of sixth grade.
    Alex had been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading this day all summer. He had gotten a new haircut for the occasion a couple of weeks ago. At first, he thought it was a cool new look for him but as the days passed he wondered if he just looked stupid. His mother assured him it looked great and that all the kids at school would love it. He believed her at first, but isn’t that what all mothers say?
    It turned out she was wrong. All the kids at school didn’t love it. In fact, they all seemed to hate it. They either openly made fun of him to his face or snickered to their friends as he walked by.
    “Hey Alex, I really like your hair, where did you get it done?”
    A little rush of excitement went through him and as he turned around to say thank you and confess that it was his mother that cut it, right as the group standing behind him suddenly burst out laughing. Somehow over the summer something had changed. Things like haircuts and the brand of jeans you wore became incredibly important. People also started grouping together and generally disliking anyone who wasn’t in their group for no particular reason.
    By lunchtime it had become apparent that the only person left willing to overlook his new haircut and still be his friend was Mark Lewis. Mark was also confused by the way things were happening and didn’t give much thought to clothing or haircuts.
    And so this was the way sixth grade went for Alex. He did well on his tests, ate lunch with Mark on the playground by the old tractor tire, and tried to stay out of the line of social fire.
    In seventh grade, the new fad was to write the name of the girl or boy you liked on your shoe. There was one name on more shoes than anyone else’s that year and that name was Chasity Kirke. She was pretty and unique, but best of all, new. And to a town this small, that was everything. The boys all fell for her immediately. She was fun and outgoing; her hair was always a different color. One week she would come to school and it would be blonde, the next brown with pink streaks. Most of the girls made fun of her while secretly envying her, wishing they could be that free.
    And for some strange reason Alex could not figure out, this girl became his friend. He couldn’t see why she would want to hang around with him. What could he possibly bring to the table in this friendship? He was quiet and socially awkward. She was beautifully untamed and charming. Every now and then he would tell a funny joke that would make her laugh uncontrollably, but that couldn’t be enough to explain the phenomena that happened when she decided to befriend him.
    Chasity, Alex and Mark quickly became the only people one another counted on. And Alex quickly began to fall in love.
    Most people think of first love as an innocent, naîve perspective on an emotion that a young person cannot yet begin to understand. They forget how real it feels. How maybe the naivety makes it the purest love they will ever feel, before hopes get shattered, hearts broken, and the bitter sting of reality sets in.
    But the way she looked at him wasn’t the way he looked at her. It would be easy to blame her if she were shallow, or scared, or even just a bitch. But she was none of these things. The hard truth was she just didn’t love him. Not the way he loved her. She didn’t have to say this for him to understand. So he suffered in silence and felt grateful she was even his friend to begin with, although sometimes this made it harder.
    Eighth grade came and went. He went from being ridiculed to being invisible. Sometimes he even missed the other kids giving him shit, just for the human interaction. Life at home wasn’t much different. His older sister Heather had just found out she was pregnant and his mother thought of little else. She was constantly talking about baby names, labor, and how having a baby was going to ‘change Heather’s life for the better’.
    His parents had been divorced for a few years now. His father, re-married within a year of the divorce, was so busy with his new family he was beginning to become more of an acquaintance than a father. When they would speak, it was never about anything real.
    “How’s the high school football team looking this year?” His father would ask.
    “My buddy Jim’s boy is starting running back. Alex, you could throw a decent ball when you were younger, why don’t you think about joining the team next year?”
    “I don’t see the need in giving the guys that would love to kick my ass a free pass to do it every day Dad, that’s why.”
    “Oh don’t be ridiculous son. If you gave these guys a chance and stopped being such a goddamn recluse then maybe they would want to be your friend. And watch your language.”
    He would go on to brag about his new stepson Will that was going to college next year on a basketball scholarship.
    “Maybe if you applied yourself a little, you could get a scholarship too and I wouldn’t have to spend so much money to send you to college when you’re probably not going to give a shit about that either.”
    Alex found it easier to just agree with the things his dad said while watching the clock and counting the hours until he could just go back home and sit in his room by himself.
    That summer he walked a lot. Just walked around and tried to clear the thoughts out of his head for even a few minutes. Sometimes his thoughts were exhausting. He just wanted to shut them out, although most times it would be in vain. They clung to his mind like a child clinging to their favorite toy when their sibling walked in the room. When he tried to push them out, they screamed even louder to be heard.
    He wouldn’t tell anyone where he was going, he just got up, went out the door and kept walking. The truth was he didn’t even know where he was going. Some days he would be deep in thought and look up and realize he had no clue where he was.
    By the beginning of freshman year, Chasity and Mark were spending more and more time together without Alex. One day, during lunch, he looked up and caught them looking at each other in a strange way. As soon as he saw the expression in her eyes his stomach hit the ground. He realized he had become an outcast even in his own group of outcasts. It would be better to just be alone, to live inside his own world.
    Six months passed by with Alex living this way. He spoke to no one unless he had to. The sad thing was, no one really noticed. Six months. Six months and no one even noticed that he was still alive. He could have gone on one of his walks and never came back and they wouldn’t even have known the difference.
    One day he decided to try to come back to reality but he found he didn’t understand anyone around him. He felt like he was the only sane person alive and that everyone else was crazy. A lonely soul drifting in a sea of madness.
    He couldn’t believe the things that people would say and do. Living their lives blind but boasting a strong comprehension of the world. Asking what was wrong but not really wanting to know. Convinced something bad would never happen to them and their delusional little world they so happily lived in. Did people actually care about the mundane bullshit they always talked about? Were they really happy or just playing the game?
    He began to believe there was no way he was the only person that felt this way. They all had to be faking. Deep down inside they were screaming to get out of this prison, just like he was. Maybe he was the only one brave enough to admit it. Accept it. Life was not grand or wonderful or special. It was a routine lie passed on for generations to appease society.
    He decided to break the cycle. He decided to set them free. Maybe then they would notice him. No, not only notice but be grateful. Grateful he saved them from this charade.
    The truth is he had spent so much time thinking about death that it really didn’t seem that bad anymore. After they accepted it, they no longer had to deal with the pain, inconvenience, and disappointment of life.
    Fear of death made no sense to him. We should not fear death because where death exists, we do not. We do not mourn for the dead, but for the living.
    These thoughts began to grow like a virus in his mind every day. The only pleasure he ever found was in sleep. It was the only thing he looked forward to anymore. The only way he could escape. He lived in his dreams, they were his real world. He awoke into a bad nightmare every day and fell asleep back into his normalcy at night. He remembered his dreams nearly every night. And the next day, they were what got him through. Every now and then he would wake up and not remember, these were the hardest days of all.
    He laid down and closed his eyes. He hoped tonight his dreams would be especially good.

    He walked to school the next morning in a haze. It was a nice spring day. The weather was warm and the trees were green with new buds. Birds chirped. Flowers were blooming. Everything was new and alive.
    He didn’t notice.
    As he walked inside Appledale High School, he didn’t pay any attention to the guys laughing to each other. They realized that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He didn’t. Why couldn’t he remember the dream?
    The bell rang for first hour as he sat down at his desk. The teacher, Mr. Briley, talked about algebra. Formulas and equations, X equals Y and blah blah blah. He didn’t hear him speaking. His mind was focused on one thing, his dream.
    “Ok, for tomorrow you guys need to answer questions one through twenty-seven at the end of chapter eight. Don’t forget to show your work!
    He snapped back to reality as the bell was ringing and students were getting up out of their desks. He grabbed his backpack, unusually heavy today, and headed for the door.
    Through the hall he kept his eyes down. He didn’t want to have to make eye contact or even exchange casual social niceties with anyone. Not today.
    He finished his morning routine as usual, second period History, a quiz in English, followed by fourth period Spanish. It was just a normal day in the life of Alex Martin.
    Alex walked into the cafeteria. It was pizza day, his favorite. He didn’t grab a tray and get in line. He didn’t go to his usual table in the corner. Instead, Alex Martin walked to the back of the cafeteria, pulled two 9MM handguns out of his backpack, closed his eyes, and started shooting.
    One bullet went through head cheerleader Stacey Arnold’s chocolate milk carton before landing in Mr. Briley’s chest. The next one went through Brian Walden from the Math Club’s right knee. In the next minute Alex shot a total of twelve students and teachers. Seven were killed, four were injured.
    He raised the gun up to his temple. He took a deep breath.
    Suddenly his dream came rushing over him like a tidal wave sucking him out to sea. Now he remembered so clearly.
    He had dreamt about today. Only it was different because she had saved him.
    This girl, she had given him hope for the future, she had stopped him from going down this road, stopped this day from ever happening. She existed only in his dreams, and she had been in many of them.
    She would laugh madly at jokes no one else understood, he told her secrets he never told another soul, and she kept them. She liked his haircut and his old t-shirts. They talked about what their lives would be like after high school, where they would go to college, if they would go to college, the trips they would take, the adventures they would have.
    She would convince him that he wasn’t crazy when the bad thoughts would run through his mind. They made fun of the popular crowd together.
    A figment of his imagination, but she could have been real. In fact, she could have been anyone, his mother, his father, Chasity, Mark, the girl who sat behind him in English, his sister Heather, but she wasn’t. None of them made him feel loved or special the way that she did, and she didn’t exist here.
    So with his last shot, Alex Martin put a bullet through his brain on a warm spring afternoon in the small, sleepy town of Appledale.

The Visit

     “Slow down,” she said, hissing the s sound. “You’re driving way too fast for this road.”
    I grunted, eased back on the accelerator and sighed. I had been thinking about hunting rhinos in Tanganyika. It was something that intrigued me. Except I wasn’t sure that was still the county’s right name. Now it might be one of those “Z” nations: Zambia? Zimbabwe? I curled my trigger finger around the curve of the steering wheel.
    “You must be in one of your moods again,” she said, looking annoyed. “You haven’t said a word for the past half hour.” She was a slender woman, with a pointed nose and a complicated hairdo.
    I didn’t reply. With my left hand I smoothed my graying mustache. I wondered what caliber rifle it would take to bag a rhinoceros. Nothing wimpy. That’s for sure. Maybe like a .50 caliber over and under. A weapon that would coax a smile from Mugumbi, my trusty gunbearer. “Nice gun, bwana,” he would say. “Perfect for trophy.”
    My wife cleared her throat. “I know you are not fond of visiting my mother, but you don’t have to take it out on me. She lives for these visits.”
     “I am not taking it out on you, but I don’t think she even knows who we are any more. She’s on another planet. A dark planet, I would guess”
    She gave me that look. The one that could fry eggs. “Some times I think you are totally dense. Especially when it comes to people. She does too know who we are. And it’s not her fault that the stroke took so much out of her.”
    “Okay. Okay.” I had read somewhere rhinos had incredibly tough hides. It would probably take some kind of armor piercing bullet to bring one down. They were supposed to be surprisingly fast for a 6,000 pound animal. At least for short distances.
    I considered where I would aim. At its head?
    “Your problem,” she said, “is that you really don’t understand what’s in her mind.” She sighed. “She may look incapacitated, but I’m sure she recognizes us, and I know she listens to us. Or, at least to me. And, who’s to say she won’t get better?”
    “Oh, Sure,” I said. “And soon pigs will sing and elephants will skip rope. Dream on.” I remember reading that the front horn of a black rhinoceros can be as long as three and one-half feet. Ground up, it was rumored to be a powerful aphrodisiac. The horn, that’s what the poachers were after. The rest of the carcass would be left to rot. Not by me, though. I’d truck the remains to a taxidermist. “How much to stuff this one?” I would ask. I grinned at the thought.
    “Why are you smiling?” she asked, looking puzzled. “Maybe you’ve had some second thoughts about mother’s condition?”
    “Hardly. Let’s face it. She’s not in the real world.” I shook my head. I wonder where the safari should start. Perhaps Nairobi? That’s what Hemingway would do.
    “Real world, indeed,” she scowled. “Well, who is these days?”
    “Good question,” I answered, and squeezed my trigger finger harder on the steering wheel.

Adventures In The Forbidden Zone

    You hunt up a brick. You don’t just find a brick on a suburban street. You’d think they would just be there. You’d think of bricks as common. But most homes aren’t made out of brick and there’s not just bricks lying around. Not like there used to be. You’d think people would keep bricks in their yards by the garage door, just for casual use. But bricks are actually sometimes hard to come by. You find yourself sneaking around the sides of houses looking for them. Bricks are hard to come by and so are stones perfectly-sized. But what you want is a brick, so never mind the stones. You got to eventually break a piece off someone’s garden to get a brick. Bricks are perfect and that’s why it’s a cliché, but they’re perfect and so they’re desirable clichés. But you mustn’t throw too hard, you’ll throw out your arm. When you throw the brick you finally find at the bottom of someone’s rainspout. Collect the thought: you mustn’t throw out your arm when you throw the brick through your ex-girlfriend’s and/or ex-boyfriend’s window.

9 Minutes

    Anonymous ski mask narrator exposing the world’s worst public transportation system. You ever hear of the 9 minute rule? It’s the rule whereby if you drop something like a candy bar you’re about to eat on the ground you have 9 minutes to pick it up and eat it before the germs come. That means your candy bar could be sitting in a puddle of Hepatitis blood and Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy vomit for 9 full minutes before the germs get to it and you can stand there staring down at your candy bar in the puddle of blood and vomit for 8 minutes and 55 seconds before picking it up and eating it. Once I knew a guy though who dropped his candy bar on bare sidewalk and picked it up and ate it and still got sick, though. That’s the dilemma of a liberal who found out his dog was a conservative. The guilt of having roasted grasshoppers and watching their hoods turn red. Gotta go to where they doff their shoes before entering. Get the kids obsessed with some little thing or every little thing. Those are also all parts of the 9 minute rule. Subsets. Clauses.

Guy J. Jackson bio

    Currently living in Los Angeles, Guy J. Jackson is a writer, performer, and moviemaker, and he can be somewhat found online at http://www.youtube.com/user/guyjjackson. BBC sound engineer Robin The Fog collaborated with Guy on their recent storytelling album “Notes On Cow Life”, downloadable via http://thefogsignals.com.

Macabre Abe

    Abraham Lincoln was lying on his bed. Blankets were clad about at his sockless feet. He watched the alabaster skin of his thin belly, hair covered, move up and down as he breathed. Breathing was a start. His eyes were swollen inside the sockets of his aching skull, empty after a river of tears had flushed through them. The skin of his body was stretched across the bones of his cheeks sullenly; wrinkled and worn from the burden of war and pestilence. Grief was sprinkled with sadness on his lingering depression, that despondent dark motor inside his brain that had captured his soul from time to time, a trepid balancing act throughout his life of fighting off sadness with his now waning buoyant optimism. Those days when optimism was reliable enough to return as seasons do, blossoming like a flower pushing throughout the rich, moist, black soil of Illinois prairie, had now long since passed. Willy died one year ago today.
    President Jefferson and General Lee had since fought aggressively in the bloody war, at Shiloh where more American soldiers were killed in one day than in the Mexican War and both wars with Great Britain combined. At Bull Run fierce, smoky battles were fought twice, almost within shooting distance of the White House during the second battle. New Orleans was the one bright light, where at least the Union held the city and cut off the Rebels from the Gulf of Mexico. At Antietam hope had glimmered for victory like young infatuation, always doomed to fade into something coarser, realism bordering on nihilism as the bodies mounted on each side with nothing accomplished except tens of thousands of graves having been dug. Finally, at Fredericksburg, where the Confederates were sitting the winter out. The President stayed in bed until well past breakfast time.
    Abraham Lincoln glanced at the window of the White House without moving his head. The grey sky outside reminded him of dusk, the twilight of hope and life, the essence of both fading faster than one is comfortable with. It was gloomy outside, soggy and cold. He stared at the slowly swirling grey clouds for a long time.
    Downstairs the screams of his sobbing wife stirred him from his hypnotic gaze. He looked now at the ceiling and then he sighed sadly, mournfully. A tear bubbled up in his eye and it ran in a long wet streak down his haggard, stubbly cheek. It was as if a mountain sat on his chest. His ribs stuck out from his flesh. Laboriously his breaths came as he slid his heavily exhausted calves and feet off of the mattress, the springs beneath squeaking as he moved. Seemingly to have taken years, Abraham stretched slightly and his bones felt ancient as they creaked. The floor boards felt cold on his calloused feet.
    The President of the Union slid his feet languidly, morbidly along the cool, polished floorboards at a sluggish pace and his chest was aching from the heaving he had done as he wept silently and alone through the night as his wife wandered through the dark haunts of the White House screaming. Upon coming to the buffalo skin rug, his trod ceased as he stared numbly at the oak door. The screams echoed up the hallway into his room beneath the crack at the bottom of the door. He turned his head one last time to gaze longingly at his bed as his fingertips gently caressed the shiny door knob.
    Abraham Lincoln did not recall having dressed himself. A stove pipe hat was in his hand. He walked down the steps and as he passed his screaming wife, the crescendo of her screams grew louder yet to her husband’s ears it had become a numb, steady monotone, a shrilly cry he was immune to, a treble beat that was tweaked to a point of seeming to be able to tear apart the fibers of skin itself but Abraham had far more sober matters to contend with this grey morning. As he passed her, Mary lunged at him, clawing at his hat, screaming maddeningly, but he took her firmly with his other hand, long fingers grasping her dress from the evening before, pressing her so hard that finally blood pumped vigorously inside of him, bringing color to his hand. Abraham pointed his hat at the asylum they could see through the window, sitting on a nearby hillside just past a couple of horse drawn carriage filled streets. Mary placed her trembling hands on the cold window, gazing at the tufts of snow on the lawn as she gasped for him to not go there again.
    Abraham Lincoln walked outside into the cold air and put his hat and gloves on. Shivering from the cold and raw nerves, he summoned his carriage and he climbed in, never looking back at his sobbing wife’s breath condensing on the pane of glass. Drifting in a haze of misery, the President watched the wheel of carriage spin around and around in the mud sodden streets until his meditative state was disturbed by the rhythm of the carriage coming to a halt. He looked up to see the sign of Oak Hill cemetery.
    The President felt the blood running inside of him now. Color could be seen in his pale, haggard face as he walked alone along the cemetery path until the driver could only see his top hat bobbing ever so slowly downward below the line of the descending hill. The path was covered in an inch of snow. Mausoleums dotted the rolling hill of the cemetery. Headstones were covered in a dust of snow. The leafless trees shook in a slight wind. Snow on their barren branches sifted away in light wisps. Stepping through the snow in his polished shoes, Abraham turned down another path, a windy path that went downhill further until he came across two marble mausoleums. One had a black iron gate. Clutching the keys in his hand, he opened the gate, stepped inside the vault and he heard his shoes clicking on the floor echo slightly as his breath floated in hurried clouds outside past the iron bars. He shut the gate. A metallic coffin sat on a stone slab.
    Abraham opened the coffin. Willy’s body was lying inside and his attire, a jacket with a white collar folded over the black cloth, was dust free and seemingly brand new. The father sat on the stone beside the casket to view his son’s tender face. The cheeks were gaunt now below closed eyes. The make-up powder on the body’s face was soggy and coagulating in beads, revealing the pallid, colorless flesh that death brings. Abraham sprinkled powder onto his son’s face, applying it with a small barber’s brush and once done, he placed the articles onto the stone slab next to the coffin. He tenderly used his fingertips to swipe away the hair from his son’s powdered forehead up further onto his son’s forehead to make the part. Abraham then leaned his elbow onto his knee. He sat there forlornly. His long, wrinkled palm held up his chin as tears ran over his lips and through his shaking fingers.

Participants of Another Generation

    Excerpt from Lily’s Odyssey (print novel 2010) published with permission by All Things That Matter Press. Its first chapter was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award in Best New Writing.

    Years later, when Dr. Bradford told me about another meeting of incest victims to be held at the student counseling services in White Rapids, I was more prepared: Mark and Jenny were married then, and Uncle Walt and Cal were dead.
    The participants were women of another generation, and again I envied those who remembered what’d happened to them. The incidents they related were pretty much the same, although they also added incidents that the women in that first meeting I attended wouldn’t have thought of as incest: fathers who questioned them minutely and constantly about what they did on dates, or followed them on dates as if they were in competition with their dates, giving their daughters flowers and negligees; fathers undressing in the room or entering their bedrooms when they were dressing; brushing against their daughters, engaging in dirty talk, and cuddling “Daddy’s little girl” on their laps long after childhood. They would tell a daughter how cold their mother was, and how the daughter could keep the family together, and threaten to kill the family pet if not allowed to show “their affection.”
     Maybe times were changing, that things were being recognized for what they were, just as I was becoming more cognizant of the damage that’d been done to me. Whatever the reasons, there was an awareness now of how fathers convey their sexual preoccupations with their daughter’s sexuality—the effects I was still uncovering like some many layered onion. As soon as I’d conclude that there couldn’t be anything more to uncover, another layer would come off in the light of dreams, counseling, reading, and reflection, that’d make me feel I couldn’t breathe and was about to fall into a murky pit. Each time, each revelation would catch me off guard, and it would seem that I was about to shatter, as in the recurring dream of trying to scream and no sound coming when Uncle Walt bent over me in bed. I noticed at the meeting the emphasis placed on trusting gut feelings. It hadn’t been the case years before. This was progress—to be able to trust an inner sensor that what had gone on was indeed sexual. In response to the examples the women brought up, the counselor noted that the definition of abuse was changing, becoming more inclusive. “An adult’s sexual traumatization of a child,” she stated, “is the betrayal of a minor by an adult who is in a position of authority and who exploits his own sexuality to dominate the child physically, spiritually, or psychologically. Incest is still held by many as being an unmentionable topic to be shoved under the rug.”
    She seemed more knowledgeable than the one who spoke at the other incest meeting, but like before, the women were paying very close attention. She looked like a professor and maybe she was.
    “Surveys have found that childhood sexual abuse is a very strong predictor of the likelihood of PTSD.” Likelihood, I reassured myself, doesn’t mean for sure. “The trauma most likely to produce PTSD has been established to be rape.” Again, the word likely, provided reassurance that the dreaded word, rape, might not apply in my case. “Research has shown that trauma is the most severe when it is by a guardian of a child’s safety and well-being. The abused tend to take on aspects of the person who had abused them, since they’d had so much control and influence over them as a child.” That sent a ripple of dreaded apprehension through me, of being too near a cliff. “Victims usually didn’t abuse children themselves, but often adopted some characteristic of the one wielding so much power over them.”
    I told myself it would be a cold day in hell before I’d be anything like my uncle, then realized with a racing heart that I’d used one of his expressions.
    The counselor sounded even more like a professor when she said, “Post-traumatic stress disorder wasn’t even in the diagnostic manual of the American Psychiatric Association until 1980; even now, the disorder is often not diagnosed. Incest is a crime in which the victim is stigmatized as unstable, destined for victimization again if she tells, while the perpetrator almost always goes free. Some victims of abuse develop multiple personalities.” When she concluded, “Trauma destroys the synthesizing capacity of the brain, the normal connection of memory, emotion, and knowledge,” I wrote it down to try and figure it out later.
    The women around me appeared more vocal about what they wouldn’t tolerate, and I was glad that this new generation of women didn’t need to see their reflections in men. I thought of the popular detergent ad in my generation: looking at the dishes you washed to see your reflection, proof that you were a good housewife, a normal woman. But I’d seen things written in chalk on the campus sidewalks revealing an undercurrent against women. A flyer that was distributed noted that one out of three, or four out of ten women have experienced some form of sexual abuse. Things were indeed changing, but they weren’t there yet; for me, not for any of us.
    “Nervous breakdown,” someone said.
    “I overdosed.”
    “Not to tell”
    “Destroy the family”
    “What would people think?”
    “Thought I was bad”
    The voices blended together like a chorus in a Greek Tragedy or a Catholic litany.

About Carol Smallwood

    Carol Smallwood co-edited Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching (McFarland, 2012) on the list of “Best Books for Writers” by Poets & Writers Magazine; Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing (Key Publishing House, 2012); Compartments: Poems on Nature, Femininity, and Other Realms (Anaphora Literary Press, 2011) received a Pushcart nomination. Carol has founded, supports humane societies.

Two Way Street

    His sinister features sent chills and a sense of foreboding through her. Her insides tightened, as his soulless, dark eyes temporarily froze her in place. She felt an immediate dislike and, hatred, although a more primal instinct—fear began filling her psyche.
    Sally had been waitressing for over twenty years, and never had she arrived at such an instant analysis of a person. She was rarely wrong about first impressions, but she hoped, no prayed that this time she was.
    The hulking, giant of a man lumbered to a seat at the counter. Several days unshaven, his thick, greasy, black hair had obviously not seen a comb or soap and water in some time. His mouth was constantly working a toothpick from one side to the other. Momentarily, he stopped as he focused in on Sally.
    As she approached, she winced from what could only be described as an unrelenting stench permeating from his being. It wasn’t just body odor; it had the definite added scent of evil.
    But if Sally was anything, she was a trooper. Regaining her composure, she forced a smile, “Coffee?” she asked.
    After his affirmative nod, her will to remain cool quickly vanished as his canvassing stare surveyed every inch of her. His sinister thoughts were more than obvious. In that second, she felt violated and powerless, her knees buckled and it was all she could do to maintain her self control and retreat to the kitchen.
    The diner was filling rapidly, and a river of coffee was being dispensed 16 ounces at a time. Workers from the two adjacent office buildings took advantage of their last respite before returning to the forty hour grind, by grabbing a cup of Joe and a danish.
    “Everything ok?” asked Billy, the manager, as Sally approached the coffee machine.
    “I’m not sure. That burley guy at the counter gave me some once over.”
    “Oh, come on Sal, you still look like a million bucks. You gotta expect a little flirting from the customers once in a while.”
    “It’s not that. I’ve never felt so shaken. He gives me the willies.”
    “Alright, I’ll keep an eye on him. But you better get moving. This place is really filling up.”
    Sally soon put the man out of her mind, as more customers poured in. She loved the breakfast hours the best, the fast pace gave her such a rush. It was the time of day that she really shined. Taking orders without a pad, never letting a coffee cup empty or failing to cheer up a down customer.
    One of the regulars strolled up to the counter and waived to Sally.
    “Just coffee this morning, I’m running a little behind,” said Rick.
    “Just a sec hun,” replied Sally.
    She brought Rick over a cup to go.
    “We’ve been crazy this morning. I hope the family’s fine. You’ll have to bring them in for Friday’s fish fry.”
    “Maybe we’ll just do that. You take care. I’ve got to run.”
    Sally waved good bye, and headed into the kitchen for a short break. She was about to sit down when she noticed Billy, who was helping the cooks set the orders in the pickup window for the waitresses, race through the swinging doors and out of the kitchen.
    Two cracking sounds that shook all the pot, pans and utensils hanging in the kitchen rang out. Looking through the kitchen pick-up window, Sally was horrified as Billy’s body flew backwards—blood flying everywhere. He had charged the man at the counter when he saw him brandish a firearm, but reached him too late. Billy hit the floor like a ton of bricks, and laid there motionless.
    Panic ensued as the patronage rushed for whatever shelter they could find. A few lucky ones were able to escape out the front door before the gunman trained his gun in that direction
    As screams for help echoed, the large man turned his attention to Rick who was at the cash register. He fired twice hitting Rick’s back and shoulder. Falling down he managed to crawl behind the cash register.
    The man followed to finish him, but turned his attention to a rookie policeman who was desperately trying to unbuckle the strap holding his revolver in his holster.
    “God damit, I can’t unsnap it. Son of a bitch...come on, come on.”
    Sally knelt to aid Billy, but it was obvious that nothing could be done. Slipping on the blood, she regained her footing and ran unnoticed to the back exit. She hid behind the garbage dumpster and tried to gain enough composure to call 911.
    When the young cop finally was able to release the strap and draw his weapon, the madman had already drawn a bead on him. “Pop, pop,” two more shots rang out and the policeman fell to the floor. Another man tried to reach the cop’s gun, only to be the forth victim.
    The rampage continued, as he randomly selected his victims and then at point blank range killed them with head shots. Emptying his first clip, he quickly loaded another and continued to pile up the carnage.
    An elderly woman’s screams drew the gunman’s attention. The woman’s husband stepped in front to shield her, as the gunman closed in.
    But before he could zero his weapon in, a shot came from outside the diner dropping the killer. A fully armored swat team member rushed in and kicked the handgun away from the body. He holstered his weapon and surveyed the bodies—eleven no twelve.
    Several ambulances pulled up to the diner, and E.M.T.s evaluated the victims. All were pronounced dead at the scene except for Rick and the killer, who were swiftly placed on gurneys, moved to the ambulances and rushed to the E.R. at Memorial Hospital.
    The emergency room staff met the incoming rescue squad, and rushed both men to the O.R., where surgical teams were standing by. Monitoring equipment and I.V.s of whole blood were administered to both patients. Surgery began to repair their wounds, but within a few minutes both men flat-lined.
    The crash team worked feverishly on Rick for some time before his heart was pumping on its own again. Attempts to revive the gunman were futile. This team seemed to be just going through the motions—with no intensity in their effort. They commented after on how it was a good thing and saved the tax payers the cost of a trial.
    Surgery to repair Rick’s wounds was successful and he was sent to I.C.U. in critical but stable condition.
    Rick’s wife, Katie waited anxiously for word on her husband. When the Head surgeon Dr. Frank Otto entered the visiting room, she looked for the all telling body language. No clear signal was given at first, but then a smile from the doctor spoke volumes.
    “I think we got to him in the nick of time,” said Dr. Otto. “He lost a lot of blood and gave us a pretty good scare, but I think he’s out of the woods. We’ll keep a good eye on him, for the next few hours.”
    Dr. Otto left the visiting room, and went immediately to find his old friend and colleague Dr. Bernsand.
    “I thought you might be interested in my latest patient?”
    “How so?” said Dr. Bernsand.
    “Well, we lost him for over fifteen minutes. And I know how you are gathering information on life after death cases.”
    “Have you had a chance to talk to him?”
    “No, he’s still in recovery. I thought you might be even more interested in this particular one?”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Well, there were two patients brought in from that shooting at the diner downtown.”
    “Yeah, I heard.”
    “Rick, who survived, and the shooter who didn’t, but what’s interesting is that they both crashed at the exact same time. I know you have an additional twist on the subject of life after death.”
    “Oh, you mean my two way street theory.”
    “Yeah, that’s the one.”
    “Well, it would seem logical,” said Dr. Bernsand, “that if somebody died and went to the afterlife, they would encounter other souls? Also when a body is revived, a temporary path would connect the earthly world to the afterlife.”
    “Sure, I’ll buy that,” said Dr. Otto.
    “So once this path back to humanity is opened,” said Dr. Bernsand. “Who’s to say another soul couldn’t have the same access as the original owner?”
    “Especially, when so many people report their afterlife experience so pleasant, maybe the original owner is in no hurry to return.” said Dr. Otto. “But others might jump at a chance to avoid their feared judgment?”
    “Interesting hypothesis isn’t it,” said Dr. Bernsand.
    “I think it’s a very scary one,” said Dr. Otto
    Six months went by before the diner reopened. They had a grand reopening and invited all of their regular customers to attend. People piled in to support the reopening of the restaurant, with Sally greeting everyone at the door. She had recovered from that terrible day, and was thrilled to meet her old friends, and be back at work.
    Although, she hadn’t been wounded; she did suffer what combat soldiers would call “Shell Shocked” or the more recent term, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” It took several months of therapy before she could work or even mingle with people.
    It was obvious that she had a full recovery. Bouncing from one table to another, with that infectious smile, she certainly looked like her old self. Sally had always been the main reason that people came in here. She was the heart and soul of the place. And everyone was glad things were back to normal, or at least as normal as they could be.
    After taking all the orders in her section, she noticed a familiar face at a back table. It was Rick of all people. She hadn’t the chance to visit him since the ordeal, what with her own problems, and was anxious to see him.
    Excitement filled her, as she moved closer to say hello. Taking a deep breath, she suddenly stopped in her tracks. There was no mistaking that smell. Violently shaking she ran back to kitchen. The other waitresses came over to see what was wrong.
    “What is it Sally?” asked Carol.
    Sally wasn’t coherent. She was in a state of shock.
    “No please, not again,” Sally muttered.
    After finishing a cup of coffee, Rick leaned back in his chair. Casually, he looked over the diner. A sneer settled in on his visage. Reaching into his pocket, he placed a toothpick in his mouth. His fists clenched and opened, as he methodically worked the toothpick from side to side.

The Mysterious Matter of the Spoiled Actress

    Trapworth and I were drinking wine and smoking cigars while discussing local politics. That was when the front doorbell rang.
    “I’ll get it, sir,” I said.
    Trapworth was a former professional boxer who was now an amateur sleuth. While boxing, he used his body. Now, after retiring from the ring, he used his brain. He helped Lt. Heathfield solve many of his toughest murder cases. Numerous killers had been arrested because of Trapworth’s sharp deductive skills.
    As for me, I am Joseph, Trapworth’s butler and friend. I assist him with homicide investigations. Lt. Heathfield often relied on us to smoke out murderers. It has become a sort of hobby of ours.
    I opened the door and saw Lt. Heathfield in the doorway.
    “Good afternoon, Joseph,” he said. “Is Trapworth around?”
    “Yes. He’s in the den. I’ll take you to him.”
    We walked into the den and seated ourselves on the sofa.
    “I’m stuck with another difficult mystery,” Lt. Heathfield said. “I really need your help.”
    Trapworth put out his cigar. “All right. Fill me in with the details.”
    “Our victim, Lucille Banton, might have been murdered by her meek husband, Hondo Banton. Lucille was a stage actress who was used to getting her way. If Hondo wasn’t at her beck and call, she’d nag him about it. Instead of incurring her wrath, he would obey her orders without protest.”
    “That sounds like a solid motive for murder,” Trapworth said. “So why haven’t you arrested Hondo yet?”
    Lt. Heathfield looked disgusted. He said, “Because it seems like Lucille’s death was a suicide. You see, on the fatal night, the couple were in their bedroom with the door closed. Their maid was sweeping the floor in the hallway next to their room. The maid told me that she heard Lucille say, ‘I’m going to kill myself, and you can’t stop me.’ The door opened and out came Hondo, saying hysterically, ‘Dial 911! Lucille has stabbed herself!’ The paramedics arrived 15 minutes later, but it was already too late; Lucille died of her wounds.”
    “So it looks like suicide, yet you’re convinced it was murder, and you’d like Joseph and me to prove it. Right?”
    “That’s exactly right.”
    I snapped my fingers. “Maybe Lucille’s blood got all over Hondo’s clothes. If we found them, we’d be able to prove that he killed her.”
    Trapworth shook his head. “Hondo has probably burned his clothes if they did get blood on them.”
    “What about fingerprints?” Trapworth said. “Were any of Hondo’s prints found on the knife?”
    “No. Only Lucille’s prints were on the knife.”
    “Could Hondo have imitated Lucille’s voice when the threat of suicide was spoken?”
    “I don’t think so. It’s hard enough to imitate a man but mimicking a woman’s voice is next to impossible.”
    “We have a real mystery here,” Trapworth said.
    Lt. Heathfield sighed. “This case has me stumped.”
    “I think Joseph and I should go over to the Bantons’ house and search for evidence that your men may have overlooked.”
    “That sounds like a good idea,” I said.
    Trapworth stood up. “Then let’s get over there!”

    When we knocked on the door, it was answered by a young lady in a maid’s uniform. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
    “You must be the maid,” Trapworth said.
    “Yeah, that’s me. Who are you fellows?”
    “I’m Trapworth, and this is my sidekick, Joseph. We’re assisting the police in Lucille Banton’s murder investigation. May we come in?”
    “Of course.” She held the door open as we walked into the house.
    “We’ll just look around for any evidence that might point the finger of guilt at Hondo Banton,” Trapworth said.
    After going through the other bedrooms and finding nothing, Trapworth said, “There’s one place we haven’t searched yet: the Bantons’ bedroom. Let’s go in there and look for clues.”
    “Lucille Banton must have been a dedicated actress,” I said. “Just look at all the show business items that are in here.”
    We looked around a bit more. Then Trapworth saw a tape recorder on the dresser.
    “I wonder what’s on this tape,” he said.
    “It has dialogue from a mystery play that Mrs. Banton starred in recently,” the maid said.
    “You mean she would record her lines?”
    “Yes, sir. She recorded her speeches so that she could hear them and improve her delivery of them in the future.”
    “May we take this tape recorder with us?”
    “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t,” the maid said. “Just remember to return it once you’re finished with it.”
    “Thank you.” Trapworth tipped his hat and we walked out of the house. We got in the car and headed over to police headquarters.

    Lt. Heathfield was incredulous when we gave him the news. “You mean you’ve cracked the Barton case already?”
    “That’s right,” Trapworth said. “We know how Hondo made his wife’s murder seem like a suicide.”
    He took out the tape recorder and pressed play. “Now listen, Lieutenant,” he said.
    We all heard Lucille say, “I’m going to kill myself, and you can’t stop me.”
    Trapworth turned it off. “That line was from a mystery play titled, ‘Suicide Attempt.’ Lucille recorded her dialogue so that she could study it later and improve her delivery.
    “Hondo stabbed Lucille to death and then played it so the maid would hear it. She would testify that she heard Lucille say that she was going to kill herself.”
    “But how can we prove Hondo did all this?” Lt. Heathfield asked.
    Trapworth smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find Hondo’s prints on the tape.”
    I patted Trapworth on the back. “You’ve done it again, boss. You’ve caught another killer.”
    “Hondo was smart,” Trapworth said. “But I just happen to be a lot smarter!”

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, poetry 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.