Why Picasso seldom traveled

Why Picasso seldom traveled, except
around the Paris countryside to
pick up nymphets before he

died at age 91 - all images he
cared to paint came from inside his
soul, not from the outside/ his

women were beautiful on canvas when
they first got together/ but when ready for
the next one, the beautiful image got ugly, &

he always had the next one ready before
disposing of the image now ugly/ thus
sparing Pablo of any relationship at all/ seen

at coffeehouses with Bracht to discuss painting as
Modigliani spent all his money on paints &
starved himself to death with his girlfriend / O

love & beauty is all U need to know, for
everything else is deprivation &
HORROR ...

!

child beaten

child beaten/ having to
fend for himself against
mad parents screaming

screaming/ father
back from Nam where
shell burst in his ear/ mother

screaming bereft of reality running
away dying young/ everybody an
alcoholic to survive/ a

drug addict to change reality in
order to survive/ soul
murdered/ world of

horror/ twisted suffering/ children
caring for themselves/ caring
for their parents feeding their

parents/ vulture spirits hovering
over them/ devouring them
flowers weeping wilting

weeping wilting as
the sky
            dies ...

!

Dark Ages
(an incubus named “Smelliel”)

Ignorance can be French silk pie
There’s nothing wrong with ignorance
Only ever except when it
Permeates to the point
Of Not washing and keeping clean,
I’ve been in depressions, I’ve let myself go
I’ve stood before pizza guys, ashamed
Yet not enough to have jumped in and
Become human
Before ever ordering to begin with,
But, a lifetime of filth
With rare moments to the contrary?
A lifetime of grossness and guck and stink
You couldn’t carve with a Ginsu?
A lifetime of that?
Partychat tidbitters, quickdraw relate
“People in the Dark Ages lived very short lives”,
Yes, they did, tids, but
It wasn’t because they didn’t have the AMA
And head’s up, all you atheists
There was an actual demon involved

Waiting For the Cop to Leave

Oh, yay
He came around to the back
As If
I wouldn’t answer Now, if
I swallowed my uvula
I told Barney Fife, on the phone
What the problem was
I told him, “because, it’s a crime”,
When he asked what was expected of Them
I told him, noooo, I don’t want to talk with anyone,
I just want it taken care of
It isn’t being taken care of
So, I then get the knock, not the perps

You know why Joe Good Citizen, gets the knock,
In Pleasantville, USA?
3, count ‘em, 3:
1) The cops want to be the ones to “discover” a crime
Translation: traffic tickets/headline murders ONLY
2) You aren’t supposed to tell Them
Translation: the uniform really Does change a person
3) We live in an Amerika of “shut up and sit down”
Translation: “Shut up and sit down!
Now, place your hands behind your conscience
And interlock your free will”

Poem #1 from
The White Trash Book of the Dead

What the Law calls
Grand Theft Auto is just
a 16-or-17 year old boy’s
personal rodeo with some
lawyer’s imported motor vehicle

And for his girlfriend for
whom everyone from her
teachers to her minister
expects to get pregnant
—she shoplifts their boutiques
and pinches jewelry from
their McMansions she cleans

And if between the two of them
the only book they read is some rural
American horror from Stephen King
—they’re both literate enough
to discern the next war that will
make one of them a flag-draped
casket-closed hero and the other
a fast-food cashier widow between
the advertisements for South African
diamonds and summer rentals at
the Vinyard or the Hamptons

And if the two of them will
never write more than
a couple of stolen checks

they both have enough
piss & vinegar and maybe
your credit card & Mercedes
to rewrite their future
and not the one
written by their country

The Modigliani Daughters

Modigliani painted my portrait the century before
my mother hung the poster on her college dorm room wall.

Daydreaming, she stared at my effigy:
tall slender neck, head slightly askew,
straight brown hair tied loosely in a bun,
long skinny nose. She stared for hours

in between studying to become the biologist she did,
imagining herself to be the wife and mother she would,

but never dreaming
she’d absorbed Modigliani’s crooked ratios
and years later would conjure me up,
the Modigliani daughter,
graceful and severe.

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.

Lonely

He reminds me of stained restroom floors
And adult bookstores from the 1980s

I go to his house for our first date
His bedroom has a solo, exposed
Light bulb hanging from the ceiling
On an unstable string
And I know how it feels

He playfully tells me to shut up
Even though I wasn’t speaking
And, strangely, I do

He kisses me with violent lips
And I feel like we are at war

I notice his ankle bracelet
The kind assigned by the court
I later look online and find
He is a sex offender
And the best date I’ve had in months

soldier of the king bee

or some sort of alternative botheration
charging the forces of modern life
with all the anger a drone can muster

Christopher Mulrooney Bio

    Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in Tulane Review, Pacific Review, Orbis, and Weyfarers.

The Doctors Were Wrong

I put the open end of the gun
Into my mouth
It tastes like New Year’s Eve
Party horns, hats, and whistles

I weep blood as it goes off
Tears splatter on my unfinished poems
The doctors were wrong
There was something wrong with me

Apocalyptic Haiku

procrastination
would will end in December
put it off till then

Reprinted from APOCALYPSE:
POETRY FROMTHE END OF THE WORLD,
Dec. 2012.)

Morality tale

The dog and the cat were the best
of friends. The dog was grateful
for the friendship as none of his
dog friends had cat friends of their own.

He often offered her his dish of food
or a freshly dug-up bone. She was
not interested in these gifts. She turned
away and washed her face vigorously.

He wagged his tail at her and barked
when she walked by. She found this
behavior alarming. She hissed a bit
then stretched and went on sitting

in the sun, bemused by the ways of dogs.
Then he, tail wagging, ate her food.

Reflections on Monet’s Waterlilies

If thoughts are reflections on life, dabbing down lilies
was just projecting his mind’s reflective mirror through
his eyes back onto the cloudy screen it picked up on,
so by now the brook was just a banner to smear paint on.
Man! this was everything gone Pollock-like agogo,
abstract expressionist images on steroids,
impressions bleeding beyond their margin of error.

His glaucoma soaked into the fibers of the
canvas, and as if a snapshot brought him to life,
as if a mirror could be our creator,
the oils were painting an old brushman laying
on images overlapping like metaphors mixing, which
sooner or later Poetry will say though awful is lawful
given connections are so fuzzy wuzzy anyway
and hybrid vigor invigorates the species and
“Whatever woiks, woiks,” Gospel according to Yogi Berra.

The way champagne inspires the body,
so paint and sailcloth possessed his grip
and bristle-shank, the whiskers whispering themselves
across the surface the way a waterbug skates across a pond.
This made him feel he was not alone in the world,
reciprocity the equal sign as the baseline for knowledge,
the equal sign as ex-nihilo an invention
as Justice, the Zero-factor, and the slap of metaphor.

The wand of his brush wove this way, that way, with
pigments ricocheting in a smear tactic of reflections
back to the suckered-in eye so easily snookered
it’s funny, it’s sad, and sometimes sublime
as in this case in which he rested his case on
reflecting on how beautiful life’s vagaries really are.

the Zen of Personal Space

Looking for a shortcut to nowhere,
found a pretty little road
that turned out to be nothing more
than a dead end at a ring of dark water,
no way round

Tossing stones in a ring of dark water,
nothing much else to do
but watch ever-widening circles
pass out of sight like poetic shadows
in a weepy, leafy, light

Among poetic shadows in a leafy light,
a face darting in and out
like the Cheshire Cat in a classic take
on escapism from the chaos of our reality
into sheer pandemonium

No escape, only ever-widening circles
across a ring of dark water,
subject to the swing of a human arm,
measure of a human eye, raging of a beast
left impotent by despair

Surely, plaintive cries growing weaker
like ripples on a ring of dark water
chasing The Cat into the same nowhere
that’s begging a shortcut, respite for mind,
body, and spirit

Mind, body, and spirit engaging with time
to suss the integrity of imagination,
let ripples in a leafy light lent us by whim
or other of nature suggest a way yet to cross
a ring of dark water

In the End

the descendants of laboratory rats
of humanity, crude pumped from Arlington Cemetery

compared to the oil the dinosaurs left behind
the waste will seem limitless
even to environmentalists.

A Suggestion

We were living
together.

As lovers.

Also we ate spaghetti
and meat balls.

And drank
a cup of wine
now and then.

That is all
I have to say.

As I suggest
we were lovers.

Together

A moment of silence
is an everlasting joy
and a paradise.

Diesel Punk Pathway

The Comanche code talker
read his granddaughter’s
public library verse stack
noting all the encrypted
language and other evasion
separating one class of
people from the next, now
he better understood his
grandson’s punk rock band
converting vacant rooms
into sonic stompathons for
gateway greed behaviors

Hell Hound Drinkery

A big pack of red cross war dogs
emerge out of great uncle Oscar’s

memory chasing after an old beer
truck with motorcycle side car

attachments carrying extra kegs
of medical brewski where German

machine gunners must have ridden
earlier in the war as trench mouth

Americans and late comers follow
ammonia, iodine dog vapor to ale

Oh, Jesus

Her name is Tracy K Smith
and when she reads her poetry of
didactic imagery,

she is soft and sensual as

D.H. Lawrence when
he leans that way. She says, my body

is a myth.
In South Africa, there is a storm

over the discovery of Lucy’s cousins
asleep in a cave for one point nine
million years.

They have small brains
and large pelvises,

They have ape arms

and human hands,
which screws all the theories
about why we left the trees for the ground.
“They’re going to have to rewrite

the textbooks.”

I’m smoking out here on the porch
Listening to the interview;
It’s tough for my fundamentalist soul.
My father died in my arms, and...
nothing happened.
“If God didn’t exist, we’d have to invent him.”
A part of the brain, when magnetized,
makes God appear, and talk to you.
Ego, id, super-ego...
“cogito, ergo sum?”
Does my essence have substance?
Does it cower in the face of annihilation

and become inventive?
Will it live forever?
Ego, id, super-ego...
Will it it take the leap like Søren?

Will it leap for cosmic joy?

Our Fallen

Walking the streets of Africa,
these massacres occur so unexpected
the other night some Marines died,
never be resurrected
everyone’s got a day & time,
nothing in life’s perfected
their families cry,
these are the times we see life in perspective
the purpose for the hurting,
these modern day disasters
I wish that I could call it,
I feel no one would answer
prayers for the dead
but they live on
as we continue fighting
these are my brothers,
this is family, we stand as one united
for all Marines who witnessed death but just couldn’t escape
may the Lord’s angels give you peace, and guide you to his gates

Lost

Lost in the vast snow;
Last man in my universe,
Breathing snow and death.

Buried in the Snow

Buried in the snow,
alone in the vastness, the
Sun melts my coffin.

After Death

After death dissolves,
it’s over and nothing’s left,
only snow for miles

BIO

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

Home Recipe for Sharia Justice

In a small atoll
mix a smaller framed girl,
no older than fifteen
with distillate of fear
choose one lean,
sun baked
season with isolation,
truss the legs, the arms,
pin back the head,
carefully stuff a filthy rag in her mouth
stab repeatedly,
allow the shame to marinate,
penetrate the bone
separate from family
pull out
let soak for three years
whip until murdered

Urban Om

The motor in my fridge starts again,
and rattles the bottles like bells.
The sink drips a drum basin of oblivion,
and the couple below me fight on a muffled stage,
reminding me that it’s good to be alone.
The rest of the sounds are my own:
a mumble, a laugh, faces in the mirror, the guitar, farts, creaking chair.
Everything except the occasional siren of the city outside,
someone having awful adventure.

Life is happening outside, the neon oil pane,
and this time it’s not mine.
I have the pleasure to watch, which is the greatest pleasure of all.
The voyeur, like God must have graduated from time and trial long ago
to rest a belly full of galaxies, nebulae smoke-rings birthing stars,
and I howl such loneliness,
out loud and long,
but the echo back makes me laugh.

Then the sun returns, as brass smiles ooze molten honey,
and start again the butter churning women, gooey with love,
the white noise of traffic.
We’re all off to labor, whipping ourselves to sleep.
We tow the line of time,
knowing that somewhere in the back of our minds,
it’s building something.
Somewhere we’ve been, somewhere we’re remembering,
but don’t want it given away just yet.

A veil hints the blushing Goddess of ever pulsing love.
She is everything, but more modest that any one of us.
Somewhere deep down in our genes and dreams,
you and me and this tree and the cigarettes burning away in the sky
are no different.
All but cogs spinning in the same puny clock
In circles, arms interlocked to bigger jokes and gestures,
that are no less important.
A jest with purpose.
Friction that burns and warms, as we tow the line of time,
until time itself is revealed as a prank,
and eternity rewinds past forward,
family trees and food chains pull the reins out from under the four-horsemen,
and the web of life implodes, like the big bang remembering,
and every atom splits,
and the gates acquit,
and Ganesh forgets,
and there is no death,
but life is not what it is now,
no now.

Bad Buddhist

I am a bad Buddhist
as I was a bad Catholic
            indulging in sins of questioning
            asking if the Pope’s hat weighs on his brain.
I have no patience for deprivation,
            see no sense in Lent’s longings.
Orgasms unleash Nirvana
            with or without propagating the faith with progeny.
I imagine Paradise draped in vineyards.

I am a bad Buddhist—
as I was a bad Christian
            encouraging Jesus to forego my soul
                        enjoying life as his father intended.
            replacing macabre crucifixes with color—
            knowing parables are like rubber bands
                        of value only to stretch and bundle ideas
                        into bite-size half truths,
fighting fear’s grip because it is the one true source of evil.

As I’d be a bad Muslim
            opening to non-believers
            breaking Ramadan with mid-day feasts
            balking at rituals
                        that hinder springing from the moment.
            not fasting, chanting or rising
                        to meditate in dawn’s lemonade.
My soul flushes nonsense
            In night’s solemn solitude.
            
As I might be a bad Jew
            waving pork on a fork
            suggesting holy lands be shared
            requesting cremation
            passing up pilgrimages
                        to seek out “plain” people
                                    whose lives tell their own bible stories.

I am a bad Buddhist
            wearing the label as philosophical shorthand
to reveal leanings, however fragile.
Inward journeys trample paths
where I greet flaws,
commend virtues
and know they can be interchangeable.

Sensei’s wisdom mingles with poets and artists
            whose work is also divinely inspired.
Reaching, I tap energy some call “god”
Enlightenment flickers,
            feeds love and openness.
My prayers are born in moments for gratitude and desire.

I follow peacemakers and curse warriors
            for there is nothing so divine as love,
            nothing so sacred as smiles
            and no stronger victor than truth
                        —which is owned by no one.

Also published at chicagopoetry.com

Untitled

Sometimes, feels like the last 15 years were spent by someone else
and then, it was me.
I’m the motherfucker,
I’m the enemy, I’m the reason.
It was my fault,
I killed Kennedy,
I paid for the poison,
the lives flushed were mine,
the loves lost were mine.

I opened the wrong door, turned on the wrong light,
went North ‘steada home,
went South ‘steada your place,
sat while you danced, drank while you danced,
danced when you wanted to talk,
smiled when you caught me looking at you,
played fun when it was time to get serious,
took that cab,
fell in the snow.

Goddamn organ grinder fucking monkey!
I chained my self.
I wore the monkey suit with pride, with glee.
Struttin’ around tellin’ the same bullshit stories,
surly, the same surly.

Wearing blinders that were meant for cowards,
I had mine fitted.
Watched Fred Fucking Anderson soar,
introducing me to dreams, synapses rewired
and clicked on by drums,
by sweat, by legs and cunts and asses,
eyes, and that spot on your arm:
the freckle I always owned,
the spot I claimed for only me,
forgetting now which one was mine,
letting someone else connect the dots!

Why does night have to be so short?

Love! Love! Love!
Three words I’ve yet to decipher, another thing I mislaid.
Nostalgia for it in the same way that I miss Mexico,
but I was raised in concrete and brick and green tree,
grey sidewalk sandpaper,
gypsies and that goddamn belt/overseer/rapist/slumlord/justice
that meted out welts
and screams
and death threats for ten years.

Platform shoes but never looking cool,
haircuts, and never looking cool,
tears on dirty cheeks (how the fuck were they always dirty?),
and gasping for breath,
thunder and fear and love and lust,
pride! pride...

Alleyways, shining in Chinatown with last night’s piss and this morning’s rain.

Nostalgia, for someone else’s stories, smells that went into different noses,

I’m running outta steam faster than a drum solo...
the trouble with life, the arm, baby strollers with broken wheels.
When will I get a meaningful erection again doc?
When did I ever mean an erection?
“Who let that guy in?”

I’m staring across a room and feel my blood rise,
‘cause that’s all I have left.
I’m all growls. It’s not even 4 AM.

I miss being whispered to.
I give to everyone but myself.
What I keep are the regrets and the jealousies.
I hate the look of my breath on the baker’s window.

Je suis desolee.
Je Desiree Tous!!!
Tous Motherfucker!!!
Le Tous!!!

My god, I forgot your freckles!
I said I would never forget them.

The Secret Jar

These things are yours,
these burdens you carry around
like so much ash,
you own them
just as they, in turn,
own you.

What you inherit,
you pass down
in the same manner
as they were passed to you.

You place your inheritance
in a jar, bury it in some deep place
in the soul’s garden,
watch it grow by the year.

Dying to Live
Reincarnation Blues

dying all the time,
waking up,
breathing,
taking in everything the universe has to offer.
living each moment like a snowflake.
experiencing every second of my tumbling,
and melting on the ground.
new life as a drop of water,
evaporation,
new life as fog,
returning to the clouds,
dying,
all the time.
collecting memories and lifetimes,
by the billion.
as i pass from one life to the next.
never seeing,
god,
goddess,
creator,
sun,
moon,
this is the nature of things,
matter cannot be created or destroyed,
only changed.
change.
waking up,
sleep to awake.
breathing,
oxygen to co-2,
in and out a hundred lifetimes,
just by changing my mind.
universes of possibilities,
created and destroyed,
dying all the time,
and living to tell the tale,
life to death,
to life to death,
to life to change,
to death to change,
to live.
in-between heartbeats.
in moments.
knowing it will end.
they say you have but one life,
don’t waste it.
i have a thousand a day,
i probably waste them all,
such is the nature of change,
dying all the time,
but choosing life.

Letter to a Stranger

Last night
I sat on the living room rug
watching the all night movie
that flashed upon the wall
in this house I have constructed

I grabbed my pistol, sprung to my feet
when I heard the trap door creak
You rose from the basement
Drew me towards you with your crystal medallion

I laid down the pistol
Took another step forward
But you slid back into the basement
and locked the trap door

I shifted my eyes back to the wall
A quintet on stage
I swayed gently to a guitar solo
Lead singer stepped back to the mic.
Her medallion had a crystal stone

I turned off the projector
But the images remained
Her voice
or was it your voice
still in my head

I tried to call you
But the wires connecting my town with yours
had all been cut
And the only rent a car within 30 miles
went out of business just a few days ago
No train or bus station near you

But it doesn’t really matter
Even if my words reached your ears
they would only dissolve
before they seeped inside

I know I may never drive you
out of the basement
But I
won’t spend another week
building monuments
to connections no longer working

Black man in Paris

Riding the r.e.r
Watching the graffiti scream
From ghetto buildings
As I enter paris
A deaf mute running
A hustle
Gets no sympathy from
The passengers
Watching blacks speak French
And wondering can color link
Us into kinship?
Eating a baguette at gare de lyon
As beggars wear their hunger
On their faces
Smoking gauloises and drinking
Café au laits
At porte de bagnolet
Watching a black and white couple
On the metro kissing shamelessly
Heading to the eiffel tower
To be dwarfed by its phallic
Shadow
Wondering will I always be
Alone?

Oklahoma water-surfing

Watched Oklahoma tornado news today,
with video of a storefront
with walls caved in
after a water surge.

One “Danger: Wet Floor” sign
water-surfed the flooded floor.

Foreign Farmer

“’Til the cows come home”?

but I don’t own any cows
so they’d have no idea
how to get here.

But the land I live on
used to be a dairy farm,
so would cow ghosts
come back
to this foreign farmer?

Looking for a Worthy Adversary
(an extreme sestina variation)

I’ve been looking for a worthy adversary
someone I can lock horns with —
though my life makes more sense when I’m alone
it’s not nearly as interesting

alone, it’s not nearly as intreesting,
so I look for a worthy adversary
someone I can battle to the death with
because it can’t be about love, you see
love can’t exist on the terms I demand
it’s never that pure

what I demand is never that purse,
as I’m looking for a worthy adversary
I slither up to you like a snake
and I tempt you with a golden apple

I tempt you with that golden apple
but all I’m offering you
is fruit from the tree of knowledge

this snake gives you the tree of knowledge
because all this time I’ve been playing a part
an actress on stage, spouting lines on cue
but that role was tiresome,
those lights came on night after night
and I still had to play my part

I played my part
until my night off, where I saw your show
your protagonist was doing what I was doing
right down to faking it with those who don’t matter
right down to going home and still feeling empty

I play my part, I still feel empty
but I liked to see your boiling underneath
no one else could see

I know what that emotion really means

when I know what that emotion really means
I wonder if we can get together
and write our own play

if we wrote our own play,
it would be a masterful performance
curtains would close,
we’d hold each other’s hands
as we leave the stage
and the audience would know there’s a happy ending

when I know there’s a happy ending
I walk out on to the set
and there you stand, in front, stage left
I wait for my cue to make my move
none of the rest of the scene matters

if the rest of the scene doesn’t really matter,
I wonder if the audience would see what we have...
maybe they’d like our little play,
maybe they wouldn’t
who really cares

who really cares
because after I tempted you
you now tempt me and tease me and torment me
and tell me everything I was afraid to believe

I was afraid to believe
and now you talk,
you reach your hand into my brain
and pull out my thoughts
and shove them into your mouth
and spit them back at me

you spit my thoughts back at me again
and instead of filling me with terror
it fills me with joy

it fills me with joy
because I thought I’d lock horns
with that worthy adversary —
but now every day is like Valentine’s Day,
it’s like candy and flowers and springtime
and hearts and cupids and sunshine

and these cliches are beginning to make sense

no longer locking horns,
and everything making sense,
I stand here like a statue
after the performance of our lifetime
and wait for the reviews

as I wait for the reviews
I wonder what they’ll say
though none of it matters

none of it matters
because I know what you are going to say
it’s everything that I’ve always wanted to say

all I ever wanted to say
is now you, taking my thoughts again
and shoving them into your mouth again
and spitting them back at me again
so I will wait for you to come on stage again
where we have our happy ending
and you tell me what I already know

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).

Why The Bees Are Hiding, Or: How One Girl Ate Chicago -

    It began very simply and like most things. It was the spring, and she was hungry. Not for only filling her stomach but for the act of eating. Hell of a long way from apples and chocolate- soon my apartment was going without walls. Pieces of my roommate lodged in her back molars.

    A humble hunger pang that never quit shaped itself into savory flavors of Wacker Drive skyscrapers, all cake-like, crumbling. Uptown cafes each chilly juice boxes. Then the exquisite sprouting sandwich of the Lincoln Park Conservatory with a side of Lake Shore Drive- pieces of the longest noodle.

    She wasn’t going to any mecca, she would have it built in her stomach, she would become it.
    She would piss a line, and the line would become time.
    She would shit gold and the gold would become shit and the transformed little shits gods of gold beside the golden piss river.

    Her wild eyes and mouth told me about dreams of supper in the white jungle. Where tender sweetened orchid meat was served atop slabs of flash-fried supergiant koi on plates the size of park benches. Rich purplewood and mirrorglass milks flavored with blackbee honey poured out slow and generous jar by singing jar. And the melongrape carafes pouring, stacking in coinshapes the juice melting upward, each becoming its own glass. Each tasting of smoothed mosaics coaxing a glowing heat from the teeth and color from the eyes. The delicate lava-seared butterfly and fresh pearpalm salad matched a dessert of cocoa sugar dusted over crisp ripe alligator hearts; their strawberry-creme taste turning rose the moon and language into pepper and bubbles in the throat. Then the tongue worked deliciously over the edges of the mouth, itself a crag of unchewed coral...

    Nobody rode the train anymore on account of all the missing tracks. And she was getting full by then, going missing for weeks at a time.
    One afternoon I go looking, and by evening I’ve found her on Mars.

    Here she’s grown a third-eye, her hair now a blue flame. She embraces me and suddenly my heart is an appendage on the end of my hand.
    She’s speaking a language that’s sounding like numbers pronounced upside down and backwards, and I sense she’s making some argument for the unified field. Here, she is probably executing the last desires of superconciousness, a thing not yet mute in the face of those classically, spectacularly poor communicators: “Money” and “Art”.

    Even if I didn’t comprehend, it sounded pretty enough for me to want to spend my whole summer vacation right there, building typewriters out of martian sand so I could write screenplays or poems to build Chicago all over again, elsewhere.

Centenarium

    “A ticket for jay-walking in a wheelchair? How do you give somebody a ticket for jay-walking in a wheelchair? Well motorized scooter, but it’s still a wheelchair. A hot sunny day, no traffic and nobody on the corner, but you two stop me anyway.” Floyd Lukey pulled out a bandanna and dabbed the sweat that trickled down his wrinkled ebony face. The traffic aides exchanged looks. They towered over the elderly man on their two-wheeled vehicles, one in front, and the other behind.
    “You’re always jaywalkin’ or ridin’. The law applies to scooters, wheelchairs, airplanes, jets and even...rocketships. This time we ain’t ignorin’ it. ID please.” The sarcastic boxy built blonde held out her hand. He grimaced when he leaned back, unlatched his arthritic hands from the controls and reached inside is shirt to display the picture ID. She looked. “Mr. Floyd Lukey.”
    “Call me Floyd Lucky.”
    “You’re very well spoken for someone your age. Today is your birthday, you’re a hundred?”
    “Yes, I am; thank you. That’s why they call me lucky. And, my father told me, speak well and people will listen, articulation has its benefits.”
    “You’re blessed, I should be so lucky.” Floyd nodded and she handed him his ID. “Don’t jay-walk Mr. Lukey.” They got on their strange vehicles.
    “Wait, what are those things you’re riding?” Floyd pulled closer and noticed JP had parked his SUV and walked toward them. No surprise, he always followed discreetly, so he thought, when his grandpa planned on riding more than a block.
    “Something wrong, officers?” JP asked.
    “It’s OK, JP.” Floyd motioned his hand to calm down. “They are just leaving. Look at those things.”
    “It’s a Segway, sir. Go online to Segway.com.” The traffic aides turned and left. JP looked at his watch. “Grandpa, you’ve got a deadline.”
    “JP Mack! You’ve been telling me all week. Relax you’re about to retire. Your hair’s grey with a hole in your stomach. Calm down. We’re right down the street. I’ll be out before you can park. And, you don’t have to follow me, I’m fine.”

    Archibald Tooney’s expansive frame rotated in his chair and worked up a sweat trying to swat a fly. The elusive intruder buzzed, bobbed and weaved aggravating the tax assessor. The ‘Big A’ his friends called him or the bosses ass by his enemies, heard the elevator doors open and the whine of a scooter’s motor. His nemesis arrived and made the deadline. He put on a political smile when Floyd entered. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lukey.” Tooney extended his hand.
    “Save it, Tooney.”
    He withdrew his hand and eyed the envelope in Floyd’s hand. “When can we settle our dispute and get on a first name basis?”
    “When hell freezes; unless you reinstate your predecessor’s assessment formula. Our part of the city can least afford the increase.”
    That shattered Tooney’s plastic smile and turned him cherry red. “Not going to happen!”
    “What’s the point, Tooney?”
    “Fairness, Floyd.”
    “No, you aren’t, Archibald.” Floyd moved closer. “We know you could care less about us old feeble minded seniors. So, Mr. Tooney, the tax revolt continues. Here’s our letter reinvigorating our position.”
    Tooney leaned back and gave Floyd a contemptuous look and tossed the letter aside. “O.L.D.C.A.T.S. (Organized Labor Democratic Coalition against Taxes) got a nice ring, but you’ll lose in the end. I’ve never understood your organization anyway,” Tooney snapped.
    “It’s simple...Archibald. A bunch of very old cats with sound minds got together and decided to fight the county politicians. What do we have to lose? Our lives?” Floyd giggled. “Our average age is eighty. Yes, Mr. Tooney, we live to crawl up your ass. So get ready. Oh...that shell game you arranged with county funds to keep those clinics open, of course they’ll close after the election, won’t fool the people.”
    Tooney sprang to his feet. “People need health care! I’m doing what I can regardless what you think, Mr. Lukey.”
    “Sit down, Archibald, relax. A man your size can’t afford to get your pressure up.” Tooney eased back in his seat. “Again, that will fool some, but not all.”
    “Everybody pays their fare share, regardless, Mr. Lukey.”
    “And...that writing leaders of the coalition tickets for parking in the wrong direction in front of their houses won’t work.”
    “That’s the city. I’m the county.” Tooney grinned.
    “True, but the alderman, your good friend, sits on the Police Budget Committee...Surprise!”
    Tooney blinked, guilt registered on his pitted face.
    “Remember, Archibald, I’ve forgotten more than you have learned.” Floyd laughed, hit reverse and left.

    Floyd turned on his computer, grabbed the mouse and his fingers went to work and printed the info on the Segway. He opened his cell phone and hit the speed dial. A groggy voice answered. “Hello.”
    “AL, what are you doing?”
    “Looking at TV, you sound excited.”
    “The traffic people stopped me today on those Segway things. I went online and printed some info on them.”
    “Segway’s , those are nice. You can rent them at Belle Isle amusement park, their expensive and you have to wait a while. Floyd you’re not thinking about buying one are you?”
    “I thought about it.”
    “You know your back’s bad. You have to stand up straight to ride one. Why do you want one anyway? You got the top of the line indoor/outdoor, customized at that.”
    Floyd tossed the info on his bed. “Thanks for the encouragement. Maybe you’re right, but I still love it.”
    AL sighed. “Love it, but don’t kid yourself. Anyway, you know we got to make a move on Tooney soon.”
    “I know. He knows some people have exhausted their escrow accounts just to survive. Holding out until threatened with a tax sale is senseless. I have to go and don’t forget to plug up your chair.”
    Floyd tossed and turned all night, finally darkness and dreams came only to be interrupted by sledge and jack-hammers. He felt for the switch on his bed, and rose to get his walker. He looked out the window and saw crews working on the ramp to his driveway, on city property, the other on the side walk, his property. He started to yell out the window, when his phone vibrated on the dresser.
    “Hello!”
    “Floyd, the Water Department is tearing up my sidewalk and driveway. They’re saying something is wrong with the pipes. That’s bull! Other organizers have the same problem.”
    “Me too, it’s Tooney.”
    “How? Tooney’s county; this is city shit!”
    “Trust me, it’s him.”
    “Well, you’re the president. So do something!”
    “Relax! I have a plan; it’s drastic, but guaranteed to rattle some cages.”
    “Well, I don’t want to die in jail.” AL said.
    “Nothing so melodramatic, but you might spend the night in jail.” With escalating anger, Floyd watched the crew scoop up blocks of concrete and sod. His head ached, a sign his pressure was up. “Listen AL, be cool. I’m on it. I have to go.”

    Two weeks passed since the sidewalks and driveways were removed. They got the usual run around from the Mayor’s office and Councilman Pasler. Planks replaced sidewalks, a nightmare for scooters. They separated and made them get stuck; some toppled and were injured. Floyd phone rang often and he assured the people soon they would make a move on Tooney.
    He sat on the porch and watched squirrels run up and down the trees. The mailman voiced frustration walking through the mud. He handed Floyd a letter. He reached for his glasses and slit it open. ‘The cost of replacing the sidewalks, which the city will pay half, will be rolled into your next assessment. Timely payment will assure timely repairs: estimated cost $500.’ Floyd crumbled up the letter and threw it. The nerve of that SOB. He pulled out his phone. “AL, did you get the mail?”
    “Yeah, I was getting ready to call. That dirty—-”
    “Listen,” Floyd interrupted. “We start making calls. It’s time to deal with Tooney and company. When will he be in Pasler’s office?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Good. You have your chains and mask?”
    “Yeah, I can’t wait.”
    “JP will be there in a minute to pick them up. Don’t forget to charge your scooter.” Floyd reminded him, knowing he’d leave home on a half charge.

    JP shook his grandpa. His snoring seemed to rattle the rafters. He was exhausted from being on the phone until midnight. “Grandpa, wake up. Crystal’s on the phone.” Floyd rolled over, rubbed his eyes and sighed. He fumbled with the receiver, cleared his throat and pressed speaker.
    “Hello.”
    “Get up...Tooney just got to the office. We’re headed that way.” Crystal said. Oldcats senior organizer needed oxygen; a result of smoking and she knew everybody on oxygen in the area. Their presence was vital.
    “OK.” Floyd sent JP ahead with the equipment to find a space in front of Pasler’s office. He whisked past abandoned and foreclosed homes headed for AL’s. He saw him struggle to maneuver his chair on the planks to the street. Every time he looked at AL’s snow white hair and beard he reminded him of father time. The leader of Oldcats and his protégé accelerated side by side toward the intersection of 16^th and Grove.

    The newly sandblasted county/city administration building had been fitted with floor to ceiling smoked glass and state of the art sliding and revolving doors. A twenty foot setback made room for concrete barriers, provided by a grant from Homeland Security to protect from terrorist attacks.
    Tooney and his cohorts sat by the corner windows drinking coffee and peered at the passers-by. At 9am, ‘The Big A’ noticed the crowd gathering on the corners. A couple of vehicles were stalled in the intersection and JP Mack, Lukey’s grandson parked in front. Tooney walked outside and saw hundreds of people, old people, people in motorized wheel chairs and some being pushed in wheel chairs came in all four directions.
    One of them stood out; Floyd Lukey led the pack.
    When he got to the intersection, their eyes met. Tooney looked bewildered; Floyd looked hateful and determined. Tooney retreated inside and his colleagues scattered like roaches. Floyd drove his scooter through the paralyzed intersection to JP’s truck. He and AL got their gas masks, chains and the bull horn. JP grabbed the signs and distributed them. The crowd expanded and traffic backed up across the bridge over I-94. Across the bridge the local news paper and a big cable news network shared a building, walking distance from the demonstration. By now they’d heard; just what Floyd planned.
    Floyd and the Oldcats chained their scooters to the barricades and the slotted manhole covers on the curb. Floyd figured the cops wouldn’t have bolt cutters big enough to remove the chains and won’t dare use torches around the oxygen. The elderly were surrounded by their children and grandchildren to protect them from police brutality. The crowd chanted slogans about Tooney and his conspiracy. Floyd noticed the mounted police gather in force around the perimeter; he hoped they be in full riot gear. He turned, raised his arms and muted the crowd. The president spoke into the horn. “Archibald Tooney...come out; confront the seniors you inconvenience and despise.” All eyes focused on the door; no Tooney. Young people passed out copies of the letter the assessor’s office mailed, but with pictures of the abandoned work sites, explaining the protest. “Archibald, are you there? Come out, Archibald. Don’t be afraid. We won’t hurt you,” insulted Floyd. A news crew broke through the crowd, the same time as Chief of Police, Hugh Forsen.
    “Mr. Floyd Lukey.” They said, simultaneously. “I’m Diane Foster.” The wrinkles in Floyd’s face tightened and he smiled at the bronze skinned reporter, her skin glistened from the humidity.
    “Call me Floyd Lucky.”
    “Excuse me, Ms. Foster.” The chief eased the reporter aside. “Mr. Lukey, if you don’t disburse this protest you will be arrested.” He raised his bull horn and repeated the order to the muted crowd. The chief stood in eerie silence and frowned; his icy blue eyes scanned the hundreds of faces that mirrored his expression. “I’m smarter than you think, Mr. Lukey. We ain’t hurtin’ anybody unless you force us too. I ain’t blowin’ my career,” he said, calmly.
    Floyd smiled at the stocky gray haired cop and spoke into his horn. Chief, I respectfully decline and you, Tooney and Pasler can kiss my one hundred year old ass.” The crowd roared with laughter and cheers. The city’s top cop beet red nose flared.
    “Suit yourself.” He signaled and officers exited a mobile command center with portable saws designed to cut through metal and concrete.
    The cops escorted the Oldcats to a lift van. They secured their scooters to the plate and they descended inside for the three block ride to police headquarters. Floyd spread the word; once they get arrested go home. Floyd looked at his people and tears of pride formed. Now they’d been heard.
    JP sat in police headquarters. The halls reeked of sweat and mildew. He sighed, leaned back, closed his eyes and waited for his grandpa’s release.

    The president of Oldcats adjusted the back of his bed upward. He felt for the remote and the screen came to life. The reporter Diane Foster stood next to Floyd while he was being cuffed. The camera panned over the crowd while he explained the protest. Then the mayor started talking. He heard enough of his crap. He turned to the Cartoon Network; when the Road Runner stuck his tongue out at the Coyote, his cell rang. He snatched it. “Hello.”
    “Mr. Lukey...This is Mayor Reams. How are you this morning?”
    Floyd adjusted the volume. “Who?”
    “Mayor Reams. I thought I’d give you a heads up on Tooney. The party’s not backing him in the primary. Congrats, Lukey.”
    “Well, thanks Mr. Mayor. I’m still not voting for you.” Floyd laughed when the mayor hung up.
    Floyd sat in his rocking chair and made plans to exercise and strengthen his back so he could ride a Segway.

15 Minute Depression Session

    “You gave me a twenty dollar bill, Mr. Earl Winsom.”
    Earl leaned into the small window of the secretary’s cubicle. Marie snarled at him and recounted the money. Earl felt all eyes on him. “If I offended you asking why you’re wearing plastic gloves, I’m sorry. But, that’s why you missed the two twenties. Its new money, it stuck together.”
    The expectant mother mumbled something in Spanish. She rubbed her fingers together and picked up the bill. “OK, watch this, Mr. Winsom.” She balled up the money and straightened it. The bills separated slightly.
    “See, I told you.” Earl laughed and looked around at the people in the waiting room. “Do we get to see Dr. Robbins or what?”
    Marie sighed and wrote the receipt. “Yes, Mr. Winsom, here’s your receipt, have a seat. Dr. Robbins is running late, but he should be here any minute.”
    “Do I have a balance?”
    “You always have a balance...forty dollars. Are you going to shock me and pay?” She brushed her long black hair back and tied a band around it.
    “No, not today.”
    “Why am I not surprised?”
    Smart butt. Well one thing about the irritating conversation with Marie, it took his mind off his early morning gout flare-up. He hobbled to his seat next to his wife. Tammy moved the magazine in his seat by the water cooler. Small plastic chairs lined the wall of the waiting room. Three doctor’s practices were squeezed into the suite. The wallpaper started to separate and patients expressed contempt for the oversized abstract paintings that attempted to hide the ripples.
    Their doctors told them to lose weight, but Robbins said the same thing. Why would a shrink tell them to lose weight? He rubbed Tammy’s knee and whispered in her ear. “Let’s hope he’s near.”
     “We’ll be in and out in less than fifteen minutes.” Tammy said.
    “You hope. Robbins got nerve telling us to lose weight. I’m only two fifty and you’re at two that’s not too bad. We look good for fifty plus with salt and pepper hair. I still love those hazel eyes, but look at these people.”
    “What’s wrong with the people? Nothing I see.”
    “Relax, you will.”
    She adjusted her blouse and reached into the magazine rack. “Here read something, you’re upsetting me. I don’t need to be stressed when he gets here.”
    Earl spread the magazine across his lap and tried to concentrate on an article in the New Yorker. A young lady with an I-PAD sat across from him. She crossed her legs and kept tapping her foot to some kind of rhythm.
    It was nerve racking!
    He caught her eye and smiled. She frowned and swiped the surface of her tablet. How do you tell her to stop? Ask her a dumb question, but remember you’re in a psychiatrist office. She could be crazy. Ignore it, talk to your wife. “Tammy you want to get breakfast after this?”
    “Um...maybe, maybe not.” She continued to page through her book. The door opened, an elderly couple struggled through in get in. The old man’s scooter got hung up on the threshold. Earl got a whiff of whiskey. No wonder he had trouble. He held the door and the guy’s wife thanked him.
    “That was nice of you, Mr. Winsom.” Tammy smiled and continued to read.
    Earl sighed, “That idiot should know how to get through the door by now.” He looked at his watch. “Where the hell is the doctor?” Tammy gave him a reassuring rub on the leg. “If we’re late with the insurance premium I wonder what they’d think about that.”
    “I’m OK with it Earl...my goodness.”
    “You pay good money for service, not to mention the co-pay.”
    The door opened, in walked a young guy in dirty worn jeans and a soiled t-shirt. He shouted in his phone and startled everybody. “I’m at the doctor’s office I’ll call you back.”
    “Ten minutes...ten more minutes and we leave, I can’t take it.”
    “OK, Earl.” Tammy said. The door opened again this time it was Dr. Robbins walked in, spoke to Marie and grabbed some files. He stood in the middle of the waiting room and apologized for being late.
    The Winsom’s greeted Dr. Robbins, sat on a contemporary leather sofa. Earl’s complaint it was too spongy meant nothing. The corner office with more tasteless oil paintings overlooked the building parking lot and Eastern Ave. The breath taking autumn view of colors eased Earl’s anxiety. Earl insisted on being formal with his former brother in law. He’d been divorced from Jasmine for years when they started seeing Robbins. Their choice of doctors was limited by the HMO. Small world, but what could he do about it? His ex’s death still didn’t ease the funny feeling about being his patient.
    “Earl, Tammy says you think taking your med’s causes the weight gain. Why is that?”
    “Well look at you, Robbins, you’re tall, medium built, graying around the temples and your glasses aren’t thick as mine. Why do you care? I see you’re still packing them in, Robbins. When do we get the full hour?”
    “See what I mean, doctor?” Tammy asked.
    Doctor Robbins looked at his watch. “Earl, take the medicine. You might have gained because you don’t take it. Lose it regardless, both of you. Don’t play with your depression. You have regressed; you don’t need that emotional toxin, suspicion and paranoia. Remember, I’m not just a shrink, but an MD. I’ll determine when and how you stop the medication.” The doctor scribbled something in his notes and gave the Winsom’s a prescription. “Stick with it; I’ll see you in three months. OK, Earl?”
    “OK.” Earl checked his watch, fifteen minutes to the second. Nice work if you can get it.

    Earl Winsom handed Marie eight tens. “That should cover my balance. And how are you today?”
    “I’m fine Mr. Winsom, you look well and you’ve lost a lot of weight.”
    Earl smiled. “Fifty pounds in three months. I love it.”
    “Have a seat the doctor will be right with you.”

Why I am not a Southern Baptist

    When I was a girl of ten, my mother said to me in a falsely casual voice, “Michael you’re old enough to join the church if you want. “
    Nothing about the Protestant Church had ever had any significant meaning to me, either positive or negative. Neither at the cognitive or the feeling level was I able to identify with the “truths” and values promoted by the Southern Baptist Church to which she belonged. In short, until now the theology of the Baptists was outside of me. I gave it little thought. When I foolishly decided to follow my mother’s manipulative suggestion, I was a conventionally moral child. In this case, I made my moral decision on the basis of whether or not it pleased my significant other. The other aspect of this moral level is “my country, church, society, group, right or wrong,”
    My decision was thus made partly as “nice” girl who was pleasing her mother. It also occurred to me that perhaps the values and meanings would become significant to me, and at the same time, I might become a better person. After answering the Baptists’ absurd “Alter Call” one Sunday morning, and participating in a soggy immersion baptism two weeks later, no such changes came about. The only alteration I experienced was that in addition to attending Sunday School, I was made to sit through what was from the beginning an intolerably boring Sunday morning church service.
    
    All too soon I began to feel serious hostilities toward the church and my mother. They became worse when she began to insist that I attend the evening service, and prior to that at 6:30 P. M., Training Union. The purpose of the latter I never did get. It seemed to be a tedious repetition of only a slightly less dull Sunday School. I was beginning to despise Sunday School. Previously it had been a social occasion I did not mind. Now though I minded anything that had to do with organized religion.
    This was encouraged by the fact that I soon moved beyond conventional morality. I could perceive the flaws in the conventional stage of moral reasoning and actions. Persons at this level believed their perspectives were the sole correct ones. Seeing the negatives for human relations and affairs connected with these stances was accompanied by increases in the feelings of being violated by an authoritarian, rigid, narrow-minded, and bigoted Baptist theology.
    I was not free from this coercion until I entered college. By this time I despised my mother in the area of spirituality. I despised the church as well. I received a sadistic pleasure out of refusing to accompany my mother to church during the Christmas break. I had become a conscious agnostic when I was less than thirteen. Soon after I left for college, I was openly an atheist. As I began to declare my identity to my peers, I was surprised that most of my friends were “god fearing” Christians and many of those attended church regularly. Only a few of these friends, who were born into the most progressive Jewish families, were an exception to this discouraging conformity.
    I have reflected at length as to why I never embraced the Christianity promoted by the Southern Baptists or any religion. Much of it had to do with the people other than my mother with whom I had associations with as a child and youth. The most important of these was my paternal grandfather who with my grandmother lived across the street from me until I left for college. All of the evidence points to the fact Pop, or Justin, was an unqualified atheist. From the time he was twelve he never darkened the door of a church to my knowledge, except as a pallbearer at a funeral. Neither did my grandmother with the sole exception of when she visited her daughter who had married an unusually progressive and socially conscious Baptist minister. However, she was never as vocal about these matters as Justin.
     He rebelled against going to church with his parents when he was twelve. His parents had been religious abolitionists during and prior to the Civil War. They were not strong enough to oppose slavery on human values alone. They had to have god on their side. Unlike, my authoritarian mother and wimpy father, my great grandparents were true progressive democrats. To them god was a democrat who championed all of the progressive causes. They even included all children in the circle of respect and human rights. They accepted Justin’s decision to stop attending church.
    Justin was fond of saying, “When you’re dead, you’re dead.” If asked to explain he would say that, “We know nothing of death, other than we are relatively certain it awaits each person at the end of his or her life. What lies beyond death, we haven’t a clue. However, there is no rational or empirical reason why we should postulate an after life.” Another clue to his feelings came out shortly after he and my grandmother moved with their children back to Florida in the 1920’s. He was forty-five at the time. Justin had lived in Florida for ten years in his youth when his family moved there from Connecticut in 1885. My grandmother, Sarah Morse Simmons, told me this story about my grandfather. A bible thumping woman accosted him for not attending church. Pop said to her, “Look Mrs. So-and-So, I went to church enough in my younger days to last a life time.”
    My father’s role in my oppression was inexcusable. He rarely attended church except to please my mother. When I asked him why he supported her in coercing me, his explanation was utterly inane and totally hilarious. It was also hypocritical. He told me that I was receiving a religious education at that bigoted Baptist Church. If I did not receive it, he insisted, I might fall prey to some fundamentalist type who would convert me into “being a religious fanatic.” He could not have been so stupid as to believe what I was receiving was an education. Even the most naîve adult and most children can readily perceive that what the Southern Baptist promoted was hardly worthy of that term. It perpetuated propaganda, bigotry, authoritarianism, sexism, and several other negative descriptors.
    Besides the hostility with which I had to deal for a number of years, there was another aspect to this dismal scene that was agonizing for a child to wrestle. My father had not joined any organized church. To the Southern Baptist this was a ticket to a hot eternity. Moreover, one’s membership had better be in one of the Protestant sects just to be safe. I asked my mother if she bought this aspect of the Baptist beliefs. Instead of giving an intelligent and responsible answer the tyrant said, “Maybe he will join the church before he dies.”
    I was in psychic pain for a few days. I wept, worried, and fretted. In the end, however, it turned out to be a good thing. Whatever my dad’s faults, he was one of the most kind, generous, warm hearted and loving human beings I ever knew. After a few days I decided that I could neither trust, love, or even believe in a god who would send him and his father to hell. I was freed to become an atheist.

Snowman-ster

    A band of snow that fell late last night brought a sense of innocence to the blanketed small neighborhood of Alexandria, MN. People were often victims to the wretched wintery blues, but not the community of Park View. The adept people of the cul-de-sac brought in the snow day with joy and excitement.
    Every lucrative home was complete with a loving family. Husbands’ usually worked their nine to five’s, children went to school willingly, and everyone anticipated a snow day. Children would be at home or at a friend’s house enjoying time off, husbands would call-in and start their Paid Time Off early, and mothers would have their time around a fireplace over at an elite residence’s home. Gossip usually helped fuel the fire during these occasions, and no one would be hurt by any of the absurd allegations.
    But, Park View was cursed in one strange way. Whenever something felt out of place unimaginable things would take toll. Like when the Watsons decided to build a snowman a few weeks before Christmas. The fifteen foot snowman was marvelous in height, but when little Maggie placed a rope around its neck instead of a neck tie problems started to come forth. Miss Watson went into severe depression, Mr. Watson’s workplace took a drastic slump in the stock market, and little Maggie didn’t receive anything for Christmas that year. They couldn’t afford any presents because Miss Watson’s mother, little Maggie’s secret Santa, had passed away. Mr. Watson’s attachment to his neck ties was the family’s biggest downfall. Superstitions you might say, but I beg to differ.
    Take for instanw our prime family; the Chagrins. They usually took things for granted also, but now since Dad (because his name is to symbolize authority and morals) was spending most of his time at home, that framework of perfection seemed to vanish.
    Dad sat at the large table with his two kids. Their silence was a result of disconnect. Dad didn’t have anything to do with it. He couldn’t calm a circus of picnic ants with a flamethrower and a steamroller. The tiled tabletop displayed a sun flower which resembled what his oldest child, Rebecca, meant to him. Junior, a bit more uncivil and fast paced was always quick to get the job done correctly or not.
    Dad watched Rebecca rock and dance around in her chair like a caffeinated ballerina for quite some time. The constant squeaking of her chair which was marking up the floor irritated him. But, how could he say something, his kids barely knew him. His persuasiveness during conference sales meetings worked well in the market, but at home it was a whole different ball game.
     “Stop it, please,” Dad said.
    “May I be excused?” Rebecca responded, calming herself into a stable manner. Her natural blushed cheeks were covered with taco sauce. She wiped them with a napkin and started rocking in her seat again. Her anxiety made him feel weak.
    “Have you had enough of Mom’s famous tacos?” he asked staring at the microwave past the empty chair across from him. He wished his wife was around to uphold his meek discipline. “You know she works hard to provide you kids with such delectable dishes.”
    “I know, and I’m full, can I be excused?” Rebecca persisted rubbing her tummy in an achy fashion. He realized that she urgently had to attend other matters. “Please!” she wailed. The momentary buzzing from her high voice made his head spin like a washer machine.
    He relieved her of her post and watched her fly out of her chair to put her plate into the sink. Junior didn’t pay the exchange any mind, and Dad wondered if he suffered from ADD.
    Junior slopped up the last bit of sauce with his tortilla, and jumped out of his chair like a puny rocket. “Junior,” Dad shouted as he tried to make a daring escape. “Do you want to help me with the dishes?”
    “No, not really,” he responded.
    Dad rose from his seat and sat the plates into the sink. “Okay then, is all your homework done?” he asked.
    “Sure is, sir!”
    Dad looked at the blank assignments still attached to the refrigerator and shook his head. He didn’t know how to get these children to take him seriously. Whenever their mother was around the house would be spotless, homework would be done, and the kids would be off reading a book. She always said to be patient; well his patience was running low.
    “Okay then, you and your sister get bundled up and meet me outside for a little snowball fight,” Dad demanded. He stared at the snow covered backyard contemplating his next move. After rinsing off the dishes, he threw on his brown boots, his jacket and gloves, and headed for the door.
    The blustering chill of the wind made his blood withdraw into his core; his fingers went numb almost instantly. It was only four below but he barely had been outside as of lately. He started to construct a snowman around himself. His resilient attempt to prove his relevancy within his own home made his ego grow ten times greater than the Grinch’s.
    He covered his face and the drilled holes out for his eyes. The faint sounds of laughter filled his ears; the kids were out in the front yard playing. He began groaning loudly trying to get the children’s attention. “Ohhh! EEEE!” he shouted like a sissified elephant with a thorn in his foot. The children ran into the backyard expecting to see their father, but instead the yard was silent with a mild wind blowing the drifts of snow across the lawn. The children started searching high and low for him. They scavenged around the yard and even into the shed like expert detectives, but to their surprise their father was nowhere to be found.
    “Dad,” Junior cried out, “Where are you?”
    The snowman started laughing wickedly with an irking cough that sounded like he was unclogging his wind pipe. “He’s gone you moronic child,” the snowman said in a raspy and deep toned voice.
    The children made their way toward him hoping to clarify what he had said. “What do you mean he’s gone Mr. Snowman?”
    “Stop,” the Snowman shouted. The children came to a sudden halt and gazed on in fear. “Don’t come any closer or you shall perish like your simpleminded father.”
    “What? Why?” Rebecca questioned him. “You’re only a snowman without arms or feet, and you look pretty skinny.”
    “You’re right little girl. I am just a mere fragile snowman, but I have great power,” he emphasized with a loud cry. “I can turn humans into ice. Your father is now on his way to the North Pole as a frozen ornament to hang on Santa’s 50 foot tree.”
    “NO!”
    “Yes, and if you two don’t do what I say then he will perish forever. Good news though,” he announced with sympathy. “I can call him back and he will reappear before your very eyes.”
    “Please Mr. Snowman bring him back we’ll do anything,” Rebecca said while Junior wiped his watery eyes. The children had a look of disbelief and horror buried into their faces.
    “Only if you do what I say and quickly now, the North Pole isn’t as far as you think.”
    “Okay what do you want from us Mr. Snowman?” Rebecca asked.
    “First your name,” the snowman said with a mild cough.
    “I’m Rebecca sir and this here is my stubby little brother Daniel.”
    “But you can call me Junior,” he added.
    “Okay then, I wants you, Ms. Rebecca to go and wash those dishes. I can see the pile from here and it’s disgusting. And Sir Junior, place your father’s hat on my head, I am getting a head cold,” the snowman said erupting into a wicked laugh. “Hurry!”
    The children started sprinting to their tasks. Junior scooped up the knitted hat and threw it at the snowman’s face. The snowman watched hatless as the children ran inside and started scrubbing the plates. “You kids hurry up, your dad can’t hold on for too long,” he shouted. The children’s performance began to speed up rapidly as they hastily rinsed, dried, and stacked the dishes onto the counter.
    The snowman relaxed his stiff neck and admired the house, its luxury reflecting off the light streaming through the high snow clouds made the vinyl siding sparkle. He thought about his wife for a brief moment.
    Suddenly the children reappeared breathing heavily. “Okay Mr. Snowman we did what you said now bring our father back,” Junior said dropping onto both knees in severe exhaustion.
    “Uh, I don’t think so,” he responded. The kids stared into his swollen, red eyes in complete shock. “I have another request for you kids.”
    “What!” Junior shouted in fear of his father perishing for all eternity.
    “It will be too late Mr. Snowman, by time we get the other chores finished our father would have made it to Santa’s workshop,” Rebecca added.
    “Hush,” the snowman said shushing them. “You kids better hurry then and get your homework done. I can’t bring your father back to a clean house and your homework still incomplete, right?”
    “Yea, we guess so,” the children responded shallowly.
    “And boy this time place the hat onto my head,” the snowman said. His bottom lip started to quiver within the frosty cold. “Hurry!”
    Immediately they rushed off. Junior hurled the hat again into the snowman’s face inattentive to it hitting the ground. They ran back inside, snatched their papers off the refrigerator, and snuggled into the crevices of the warm living room.
     The snowman watched the sky aloft and all the changing colorations of the clouds that passed overhead. He couldn’t believe what a dad had to do to get some respect in this world. He thought about his new role as a stay at home father and how that made him feel. He felt lost and out of place, he wanted to be the provider like the all-American dad which his father was.
    He thought, If only I would have taken that pay cut, I would have still been working, and wouldn’t have to stress over this strict occupation. But, Helen was stressing also. She had to take in a job once the news broke free amongst the gossiping bunch. They would have lost their home, the children would have had to attend public schools, and the cursed thought of change drove her mad. So, she embraced the new role and approached every new day with caution, but still the small transition (as Dad would call it) made the unsettling waters roar in rage.
    “Okay Mr. Snowman,” Junior yelped, “We got all our homework done.”
    “What, already?”
    “Yea, it’s just yesterday’s stuff,” Rebecca remarked arrogantly wiping her hands, “Piece of cake.”
    “Oh really, that’s good. No wonder you kids get excellent grades, you’re too smart to be taken lightly,” the snowman said. The children blushed and turned their heads into their jackets bashfully. “Okay kids but you have to promise that you will always do as your parents say or else I will be back,” he said in a more normal pitched tone and coughing.
    “Hey what happened to your evil voice Mr. Snowman,” Junior asked.
    “Um, I must be coming down with a cold or something,” the snowman responded. He tried to clear the phlegm caught in his throat and speak, but instead he let out a loud squeak with every word. “Anyway, you kids come closer so we can sing the magical song.”
    The children stepped closer and closer until they were face to face with the odd looking snowman. “Now, repeat after me. We want our father back, we promise to pick up our slack, and if we shall fail at our daily chores again, the evil snowman will turn us into Christmas ornaments.”
    Suddenly the father jumped out of the snowman, sending the children running and screaming loudly. He fell to the ground laughing and nearly into tears as Junior jumped on top of him covering his face with handfuls of snow.
    “I knew it was you all along dad,” he said as Rebecca plopped down onto them both.
    “Yea right, come here you puny humans and let me turn you into Santa’s little ornaments,” Dad said getting to his feet. Chasing and laughter fulfilled the rest of the day, and this change brought much merriment to their home. They lived on knowing that their cursed neighborhood was safe from anymore visits from the evil snowman.

The Quiet Rebel

    I leaned back in my office chair at Northern Arizona University, and listened intently as two of my students, Alejandro Islas and Maria Bustamante, told me that their group had elected me their faculty advisor. The group called themselves Chicanos Por La Raza. I had heard rumblings of such a student organization, but nothing specific. I was acquainted with three professors, two that were in the Spanish department and one in anthropology, that seemed more logical to be the group’s faculty advisor than myself.
    “Why are you electing me to be your advisor when you could elect the Mexicanos?” I asked.
    “Because you are more Mexican than any of them,” they said in unison.
    I guessed that they had already decided how they would answer my questions.
    “But I am from New York,” I said.
    “We know that. We have listened to a lot of your stories in class about how you lived along the Arizona/Sonora border for many years and had a ranch in Sonora. You even spent a year teaching at La Universidad de Sonora in Hermosillo. Sure the others speak Spanish, but you speak our Spanish. You even sound like a Mexican.”
    I could not argue with these two. I had noticed that the three Spanish-speaking professors did their best to conform to the many unwritten rules at the university, one of which was to refrain from any protests and discourage the students from protesting anything. One result of this aura of faculty control was when the United States bombed Cambodia; Northern Arizona University had a “pantie raid”. Most other campuses witnessed prolonged protest that often led to open revolt.
    “We are holding a meeting tomorrow afternoon after lunch at the student center,” Alejandro said. “We hope that you can be there because we need your help getting our group approved as a campus organization.”
    “Thank you for the invitation,” I said. “I will be there at one, tomorrow afternoon.”
    “That will be perfect, and thank you for being our advisor.”
    “I hope it will be my pleasure,” I said, and smiled.
    The twenty students greeted me warmly when I arrived to attend their meeting. Alejandro and Maria seemed to be in charge of the meeting. I shortly learned that the others had elected them to be dual presidents. I liked that idea. They explained that having two presidents diminished the politics.
    They showed me the paperwork that they had found necessary to complete in order to be recognized as an official campus organization. I read the forms and noticed at the top of the first page #1 called for the organizations name. Someone had written “Chicanos Por La Raza” in pencil in the space. I raised my hand to speak. Alejandro looked over to where I sat.
    “Yessir?” he asked.
    “I suggest that the name, “Chicanos Por La Raza” will send a red flag flying when the administrators see that on your application.”
    “Do you have a suggestion for another name?” Alejandro asked.
    “Since this university was once a teacher’s college and the president started as an instructor then and just about every time I hear him speak to any group he always say “education” multiple times. And, he pronounces education “edgejoocayshun” with his Missouri accent.”
    The students laughed at my imitation. They had probably heard the president say that many times.
    “My suggestion for a name is “Chicanos For Education”. Notice I have used only one Spanish word because I think that the less Spanish you use in your name, the better. This is because I have the distinct feeling that they are leery and afraid of anything Mexican. I am sure you have noticed that all the administrators are Gringos. This will always be an advantage for you as a group and as individuals because those people running this place are afraid of Mexicans and will try to make you afraid of them. They use the “Fear Factor” in an attempt to control people that they are charged with administrating.”
    “How will we know they are using ‘The Fear Factor?’ Maria asked.
    “That is easy,” I said. “They don’t know about any other method because they were raised by ‘The Fear Factor’. I am sure you have realized that they always talk down to you, and try to put expressions of superiority on the faces as they talk. When I sat in the president’s office as he gave me his patronizing talk to start me off as a law-abiding professor, he said, ‘If you keep your nose clean and do a good job of teaching, I will give you tenure in three years.’
    “My reply shook him up somewhat. ‘I really don’t want tenure, yours or anyone else’s because I think tenure attracts insecure people into the teaching profession.’ He looked over at a wall and stared at it for a few moments before dismissing me. From that instant until today, the president of this university has been afraid of me; not only because he can’t figure me out, but also he is not used to being told that a faculty member does not want tenure.”
    “Why don’t you want tenure?” Maria asked.
    “As I told the president, tenure attracts insecure people to the teaching profession. My other reason for not accepting tenure is that administrators use it as a dangling gift so that new faculty members will conform to the way the administration desires. Accept tenure and you surrender some serious freedom.”
    “I have never thought about these things before,” Alejandro said.
    “That is what administrators hope. They don’t want you to think,” I said. “Have you completed the application?” I asked.
    “Yes,” one of the students said. “Would you like to look it over?”
    I took the official looking paper and saw that they had completed everything that was called for. I was happy to see their name, “Chicanos For Education” at the top.
    “I think this will be perfect. I will take this to the administration building and walk it through so they can’t delay approval. I would like Alejandro and Maria to accompany me.”
    The three of us walked to the administration building where I asked the receptionist where I needed to go to get a campus group approved. She knew exactly where I needed to go and gave me directions. Following those directions we found the office of one of the vice presidents. The secretary asked the purpose of our business. After my explanation she picked up a telephone and, I assumed, called the vice president for instructions. She stood up and beckoned us to follow her. She opened a door that had the vice president’s name in gold lettering painted on a polished wooden plaque. She introduced us and left. The vice president invited us to come into his office and sit down.
    The process was even easier than I had anticipated. It was the name, “Chicanos For Education” that cinched his prompt signature of approval on the application. I asked him for a copy of the application with his approval signature. A slight scowl appeared on his face as he picked up his telephone and asked his secretary to come in. He gave her the approved application and asked that she make a copy for me.
    “Do you have any current plans?” He asked.
    “We are just getting organized, Sir,” Alejandro said. “We are hoping to have some speakers to tell us about bilingual education.”
    “That sounds like an excellent idea,” the vice president said. “If I can be of assistance, please let me know.”
    “Thank you, Sir,” Alejandro said.
    As we left the vice president’s office, I picked up the copy of the application that the secretary had made foe me, and we walked back to the meeting.
    “You said the right thing, Alejandro,” I said. “Now that vice president is breathing easier after hearing ‘education’ mentioned. Those people up there are comfortable with ‘education’ because that word does not pose a threat to their idea of a peaceful campus.”
    Alejandro and Maria told the waiting students about the easy success we had had because the name “Chicanos For Education” did not make the vice president think or more importantly, fear, our purpose.
    I excused myself from the meeting and told the group that I was happy with the results of their approval. I could not see any further need from my advisory position, so I returned to my office. I had a good feeling about “Chicanos For Education”. I had learned that they were hoping to bring changes in the attitudes of the universities and secondary schools toward Mexican youth so that they would have equal chances to be admitted and have courses of instruction that would meet their needs. Some had expressed their frustration with American history courses that concentrated on the United States being victorious in the war between Mexico and the United states. Others expressed their desire for more study about the cultural differences between the two countries. I wondered what they would do to accomplish their goals.
    I had not heard from the group for a month after the day the group was approved by the vice president. Alejandro came to my office with a question.
    “We have invited “Chicanos Por La Causa” to speak here. Do we have to get approval for that?” Alejandro asked.
    I had heard about that organization and knew that it was an Hispanic group that leaned toward being radical. I knew that the administration would never approve their presence on campus, much less to speak to the students. I also had no idea if our group needed any sort of approval to invite them.
    “I think that the best thing for you to do is write up a short proposal about the invitation and bring it to me. As your faculty advisor I will sign the proposal and then you proceed with the event. Should any of the bigwigs ask you if you have approval, just say ‘Yes’. Probably, they will not ask to see proof. Should they insist on seeing proof, just show them the paper with my signature.”
    “Thanks,” Alejandro said. “Chicanos Por La Causa” will be here to speak three weeks from now. I will have the student newspaper announce the event.”
    “I will definitely be there,” I said.
    The visit by “Chicanos Por La Causa” was on a Saturday morning in the auditorium of the Student Union Building. I arrived early because I wanted to get a good seat for the event. I watched Alejandro and Maria talking to two strangers down by the stage. One man, with graying hair and a black mustache made all kinds of gesticulations with his hands and arms as he conversed with the two students. I could see them smile and laugh together so I got the idea that there would be some humor mixed in with the serious parts of the speeches.
    Just before the beginning of the program I glanced around the room to see if any of the Spanish-speaking professors had come to hear what the visitors had to say and how they said it so that they, the faculty faithful to the president, could report what they had heard to their patronizing president. My prediction came true. The two Mexican faculty members sat together and the other Spanish-speaking professor of anthropology sat four rows above them. The spies had arrived. I was happy to see them so that they could hopefully give an accurate report to the president.
    Alejandro and Maria made an excellent presentation with their introductions and then sat down to listen.
    The first speaker, the graying man with the black mustache, started off with what I might describe as an explosion. He spoke with what sounded like a trained voice, clearly and loud enough for anyone in the back row to hear what he said. His Spanish was Mexican, not Castillian, so all of us Mexican-Spanish speakers could understand him perfectly. He used a lot of off color language using words that would fit in conversations in bars or in street gatherings. I had to wonder how his speech would go over with the spies. At least they would have something to report to the president. When the man described the current standing of people of Mexican decent in United States society, he didn’t pull any punches. He gave what sounded like accurate statistics on the numbers of students applying to colleges and the number of student acceptances according to race and ethnic background. He was adamant about the need to improve the numbers of youth of Mexican blood accepted by colleges and universities. Then he called on “Chicanos For Education” to visit high schools and help Mexican students with their preparations to apply and enter colleges and universities.
    The other man differed little from the first in the way he spoke, except that he told his own story about how he had been born of Mexican parents that had come to the United States as farm workers crossing the border through the barbed wire fence and walking mile after mile to find work on the farms in the Imperial Valley of California. He told about how he had been able to go to school and even graduate from high school. He ended his talk with his graduation from a junior college in California and the difficult search for work in something others than farm labor. The latter topic gave him a lot of material to speak about how Mexican migrant workers are exploited by American farmers.
    I walked over to the two as they stood below the stage and told them that I had enjoyed listening to them and thanked them for their time and effort on behalf of the students at the university. As I turned to leave, I noticed that the three spies had left to auditorium.
    It didn’t take long for one of the spies to pay me a visit. The following Tuesday after the visit by “Chicanos Por Las Causa” the chairman of the Spanish department arrived at my office at mid-afternoon. He must have checked my schedule to see that I had no scheduled classes that afternoon. As usual my door was open because I didn’t believe in restricting student visits to “office hours”. The chairman rapped on the open door. I looked up from the book I was reading and invited him to come in and sit down. I could see that he was nervous. I put a bookmark in the book and placed it on one side of my desk.
    “What can I do for you?” I asked. “I am sure you are here as the president’s emissary to chew me out about “Chicanos Por La Causa” so get to your point.”
    “The President is concerned that you allowed such a radical group to speak on campus,” he said. ‘You should have gotten permission from Vice President Gillenriver before inviting them. Their language was not appropriate and their radical views were not the kind of thinking the President wants the students here exposed to.”
    “Well, now. I find this interesting. In fact I find this very interesting. In the first place I must ask you and if the president was here I would include him in this question. Do you believe that a university is a place for the free exchange of ideas? If you don’t believe that, I have my doubts that you should be occupying a position in any university. If the president does not believe this, then he should definitely resign his position of president.”
    I paused for a moment for what I had said to sink into the man’s brain, giving him credit for having brains enough to understand what I had said.
    “The next part of my question is are you aware of the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States that speaks about our right as citizens to free speech?”
    I paused again to give the man a chance to think about the question. He said nothing so I continued.
    “I saw you at the event, along with your colleague and the man from anthropology who also speaks and understands Spanish. I recognized all three of you as spies for the president. I hope you made points with the president because you lost my respect. I am also aware that you do not care if you have my respect or not because I am not responsible for giving you a renewed contract or raise in salary. Now, I am going to let you in on a secret; I do not respect spies of any type or purpose. But, what I do have is my self-respect along with the respect of my students. You have neither. I suggest that you go tell your amigo president what I have just told you and if he has any questions as to the meanings of what I have said, tell him to please come to my office or send for me, because I do not appreciate talking to crawling vermin who spy on their colleagues.”
    The chairman of the Spanish Department got up from his chair like a scared rabbit, and left my office without a word. I heard no more about the Chicanos Por La Causa from anyone in the administration or the faculty.
    The student members of Chicanos For Education went to the local high schools and offered their services to the Mexican high school students who wanted to apply to the university. They spent considerable time with this effort and I heard that the enrollment of Mexican students at the university had increased the following year.

Rave

    This place is reigned by eternal night. The daylight once tried to pierce through but the feeble rays were cast out by the mimicked windows painted over with black. There are no shadows here, just
    Patterns
    Of darkness thrust onto the wall – shapes that blend into the mass of souls we attempt to push through, accompanied by all the pleasurable moans that are lost to the whispers that
    Penetrate my skull.
    Any pretty face here is worth killing for but I raise no blade. She leads me through the sea of faces and I hold onto her hand
    Like a little boy lost.
    Multicolored lights – green, purple, blue, and yellow – play across her skin and she glows, escorting me through this rainbow hell, but I would follow her
    Anywhere. Like sacrificial suicide.
    She is the beacon – a star brighter than the visages of otherworldly creatures we pass by quickly, like comets. Her movements lift the moonbeamed cascade of hair from her face, pale and serene. She was named well.
    Christened by beautiful chaos.
    As she stops, listening to the music that thunders from the walls and shakes my bones, I am mesmerized by her mere presence.
    My decadent charade sings out and
    Her eyes, a vibrant hue of green, are neon with excitement like a kaleidoscope. She moved her limbs to and
    With every sound.
    All I want is to embrace her. And as she leans up to kiss me, I feel like I am selling my soul to this hell, my animated form signed off to this charming devil. Everything is primal now – an animal instinct. A carnivorous urge that burns like fire.
    Inside I am transformed.
    Burned. Blackened. Around me the wolf pack howls, enticed and enraged. I was cut off once. Sensitivity and substance. She is my energy now. I am marked. High on pheromones.
    Left for pleasure alone.

The Secret Guide to Learning Courage from Ice Cream

    It was Jesus who died for our sins. It was he who bore the cross of shame and graciously accepted the scorn of so many that had only days before praised him. It was Jesus that died a horrible death so we might all be saved and live eternally in a kingdom made of hard gold and sticky candy cane and all the wonderful things that we can enjoy in this life. But only sometimes. But Heaven – oh Heaven – that’s the place where the fun really begins.
    Jesus will be there, standing at the gate, waiting for all us Christians as we walk into his warm embrace, as he wipes away our tears for all the suffering we endured in this fucked up world. I can almost feel Jesus’ hands on me now, lifting my chin to look into his beautiful face. “What a brave little girl you are,” I can imagine he’ll say as he ushers me into his kingdom, a kingdom where I can eat whatever I want and stay skinny as a rail like all the boys want. Isn’t that Heaven?
    I’ve watched myself grow bigger and bigger over the years. When I was 9, I was skinny. My dad loved me like that, and he touched me, touched me in ways I didn’t like. But it was attention all the same, and he rewarded me. He told me what a brave girl I was and handed me scoopfuls of ice cream whenever he recovered from the slime coming out. Now, at the age of 14, dad doesn’t like touching me that way anymore. He doesn’t tell me how brave I am either. I miss that – how he told me I was brave. I don’t miss the touching.
    So this is how I’ve spent my childhood and how I’m slowly but surely entering adulthood – praising Jesus, making the slime come out of my dad, gaining weight, eating ice cream. It’s not much, but it’s my life. What more should I want? Well, maybe nothing, but that’s pretty depressing.
    I’ve tried talking to my mom about how unhappy I am. I never told her about the touching or the slime, but I’ve told her that it was hard being fat in a family full of skinny people. “Life is hard, honey. What were you expecting?” she always said. I don’t know what I was expecting. I didn’t ask to be born. Or fat. Or for the boys to pick on me. I just showed up for no reason in particular, and I’m living out this unhappy existence until someday I die and go to Heaven. Hopefully Jesus lets fat girls in.
    It really does make things harder that mom and dad are skinny and everyone talks about what a hot couple they are. And Danielle, my older sister by two years, is just as skinny and beautiful. I never told her about dad either, but I always wondered if he touched her that way, if he gave her ice cream too. I never told Danielle I was unhappy either, but I don’t think she’d understand. She’s still my best friend though – that is, if you can call her a friend. She’s more like a fierce competitor that you go to lunch with sometimes, someone you can skip school with when you’re having a shitty day, someone that will smile without judgment and watch you eat ice cream as she sips her water. But regardless, I can’t talk to her about that. She’s so perfect, so popular. Everyone loves her. Hell, I love her too. I hope she loves me. If she doesn’t, then probably nobody does.
    Other than Danielle, ice cream is my only companion. The teachers at the Baptist high school I go to are always giving it to us when we’re good – like when we recite a few verses from the King James Bible without missing a word. Miss a word, and you don’t get any ice cream. “The courageous are Christians!” the teachers proclaim. “God will reward the righteous with gold and a place in Heaven!” And ice cream, I suppose. “Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice. He died on the cross so that you may spend eternity with him! Learn his Word so you can go to Heaven too!” So I try to be brave and righteous and then eat ice cream whenever they give it to me. Whenever I’ve been good. Whenever I’ve been brave. But dammit, courage is hard.
    So basically life is bullshit. Here’s an example. A few weeks ago Danielle and I walked into the house, and she was beaming, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat I can only imagine annoyed Alice like hell.
    “You’re awfully happy,” I said, standing in front of her. I looked into her eyes and saw the sparkle in her that I knew I would never have.
    “I am happy, Karen,” she said. Grabbing my shoulders and practically shaking the life out of me, she squealed, “I’m trying out for cheerleading. I hope I make it. I know I’ll make it. Oh Karen, aren’t you happy for me?”
    “You haven’t made the team yet,” I said rolling my eyes and walking to the freezer. I turned and saw her slumped over, looking at me with a pouty frown. “But I’m sure you will,” I added, watching her perk up immediately. “Just pray about it.”
    “I am praying about it,” she said running to me and slamming the freezer door just after I opened it, wearing that same stupid grin on her face. “What are you looking for?”
    “I don’t know. A snack?”
    “Karen, this is serious. All the boys go after cheerleaders. It’s a non-stop ticket to popularity!”
    “You’re not popular enough?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, making no effort to hide the envy and irritation in my voice.
    “That’s not the point, silly,” she said.
    “Excuse me,” I said, opening the freezer back up, breathing in the blast of cold air as I looked for my favorite food.
    “What’s all this about?” my dad asked, walking into the kitchen. I stopped, closed the freezer door, and turned to face him. Taking a deep breath, I waited.
    “Dad, I’m going to be a cheerleader!” Danielle squealed in a high pitched voice I thought would shatter my ear drums, if not the windows of the neighbors’ new French doors.
    “Honey, that’s awesome,” he said with a warm smile. Putting his arm around her shoulder, he led her out of the room, but I could still hear them. I didn’t care though. I just wanted ice cream. “You know, it takes a lot of guts to try out for something like cheerleading,” he said. “It’s not easy being popular, learning those dances. I know you can do it.” Then he lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “You know, not everyone in this family has what it takes to do a kind of team sport like that, if you know what I mean.”
    Oh, I knew exactly what he meant. And a team sport? Since when is fucking cheerleading a team sport? It’s a bunch of girls that go out and make fools of themselves. What’s so gutsy about that? I slammed the freezer door after putting the ice cream back and grabbed the bowl and spoon as I walked into the next room.
    “So you think I could do it?” I asked shoveling a spoonful of vanilla sweetness into my mouth.
    Danielle and dad stood gawking at the floor in an awkward silence like it was painted with the most fascinating piece of porn they had ever seen. I knew what they were thinking. Yeah, I’m fat. I know I’m fat. Fat girls aren’t cheerleaders, right?
    “Why not try the newspaper staff, honey? Or maybe you could take piano lessons.”
    I smiled. You know, the kind of ironic smile that tells everyone how bitter and miserable you are. But at least I was honest. Dad wasn’t. I felt the cold sweetness melting in my mouth and sliding down my throat, comforting me, loving me like no human being ever did. Nodding as I put another big spoonful in my mouth, I said with my mouth full, “I’m trying out.” Then I turned and skipped off, as much as a fat girl can anyway.
    Shit, what had I done? Now I was going to make a fool of myself in front of everyone. But I was mad, and nothing fuels my stupidity – or my desire for ice cream – like anger.
    Danielle came running after me. “You okay? I thought you’d be happy.”
    “Yeah, why aren’t you happy for me then?” I asked through gritted teeth.
    Danielle closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You know how it is, Karen. Everybody’s different. Everybody has different talents.” Dammit her perfect, squeaky voice was like Freddy Krueger’s nails on a chalkboard. I needed to be learning new Bible verses instead of arguing with her.
    “Guts huh?” I said, the sarcasm dripping from my voice like blood from a vampire’s fangs. “Dad thinks you’ve got guts for trying out for that shit!”
    “It’s hard,” Danielle said, a single, pathetic tear forming in her eye, rolling down the perfect skin on her cheek.
    “Well, I hope you make it,” I said, storming off in mid-sentence. It’s amazing what a lifetime of unhappiness will do. Danielle was right though. Everybody is different. Some people respond to their misery by curling up in a ball and trying to wait this life out until they see Jesus. Then others of us – well – we don’t play by the rules. We can say bless you and fuck you without uttering a word, just throwing a quick glance, a great big smile planted on our faces. Actually, isn’t that what Christianity has always been? I would show them guts!
    The days passed slowly. After everyone got word that I was trying out, they started making their comments. “The fat ass is trying out for cheerleading,” they said. I didn’t care. Well, I tried not to. Well, I tried to make people think I didn’t care. Well, I tried to make people think I didn’t care without letting on that I was really trying to make them think I didn’t. Courage really is hard, and as the day of tryouts got closer, the fear hit home. I hate to admit it, but I was terrified. Standing over a pit full of vipers would have been more palatable.
    So there we all sat in the gym, and I watched all those skinny bitches do their perfect dance routines, getting the ooohs and ahhs from all those fucking little champions for Christ. Then it was my turn, and the crowd was silent. I stood and walked to the middle of the gym, and then I wondered if maybe I had died and gone to hell in that moment. It really did seem like an eternity of hell as I stood there in front of those students. I felt the sweat on my face. Courage. I needed courage. But I didn’t have any.
    I was afraid.
    “Pig!” someone shouted from the bleachers, which set off the uproar of cruel comments I would not have expected even from the most devout Baptists. Soon everyone was laughing and cackling and shouting horrible names.
    But I’m strong. I’m a bitch too, dammit. This shit isn’t supposed to bother me. I felt a lump in my throat. Then a tear rolling down my cheek. Everything was a blur. The noise got louder. All the kids were shouting, laughing, throwing whatever they had in their hands. Here I was. The ugly duckling in front of the crowd of swans. Gone was the strong willed, bitchy girl. Here was the scared girl that had been there all along, the terrified kid whose father took advantage of her, the trembling child waiting for Jesus to come and save her.
    But he didn’t come. Then I remembered all the tales my instructors told. “Jesus stood before a crowd that mocked him!” they had told me. “The Roman soldiers whipped him and laughed as he screamed, laughed as they made hamburger meat out of his flesh.”
    The noise was louder. The shouts were deafening. Did Jesus feel this way as he stood among a crowd of people ready to crucify him? Was there no one to offer him comfort either? Not one? In that moment of realization that I was so weak, so very not-who-I-thought-I-was, I wondered if Jesus had felt the same way.
    By then I was sobbing full force, but the kids didn’t stop laughing. I felt the cups filled with coke and the pencils and pens flying through the air and landing on my face, paper wads in my hair. I wondered if this was how Jesus felt when he asked out loud why God had forsaken him. And I, too, wondered if God had forsaken me in that one moment that reeked of eternal hell.
    And then by some miracle, amid the cacophony of jeering, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was a gentle touch, a touch unlike the one I had felt so many times when dad wanted his way with me. I turned and stood staring into the kind, loving face of my sister.
    “Let’s go,” she said, and as she took my hand to lead me out, the crowd fell silent, just as it had been before the chaos. This is the power of popularity, the power of worldliness. My sister commanded respect that I never would. Not in this world anyway. But it was respect and a moment of peace that I welcomed in that hellish moment.
    When we got outside she held me, and I sobbed into her shoulders. Now, even worse than the public humiliation that would take years to subside, I had to deal with my loss of identity. If I wasn’t a strong willed bitch, who was I? The reality dawned on me that I would have to redefine myself. I did not sign up for this.
    My sister took her hand and lifted my chin to look into her beautiful face. “Now that took guts,” she said with a warm smile. And for the first time since I could remember, I smiled back. A real smile. A smile of warmth and gratitude – and love.
    “Let’s forget school today,” she said. “It’s been a long time since we played hooky. How about some ice cream?”
    Sniffling but still radiating with my own sincere smile, my own sense of inner beauty shining perhaps for the first time ever, I said, “Yeah, let’s go. But I think I’ll pass on the ice cream.”
    I watched as my sister smiled without speaking. I think she really understood, or maybe for the first time I really understood her. Who needs ice cream?

Andy Heath Bio

    Andy Heath loves writing and reading. Some of his favorite, recently read books are The Road by Cormac McCarthy, Songs for the New Depression by Kergan Edwards-Stout, and Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult. Andy enjoys working at his insane day job as an office worker at a fingerprinting company, spending time with friends, running, journal writing, and watching depressing movies with his friends that can tolerate them. He is currently working on his third novel, and he frequently writes short stories. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee, a city he loves and enjoys so much now that he would probably never leave. You can contact him at heathandrewjohn at yahoo dot com.

A Little Off the Top

    God the Father and Sunny Jesus, what the fuck was she doing?
    She walked into the restaurant just before 7:30 in the evening—an older place, soft lighting, polished wooden floors, and air redolent with the fragrance of fresh baked bread. It wasn’t crowded. A few leather-backed booths had groups of two or three diners each, but there were only two men sitting alone. One was older, with unruly white hair and an owlish face. The other was perhaps forty years old, had a strong jawline, and was reading a book. That part seemed out of character, she thought, but then again what did she know?
    She hung her coat on a rack near the door and stepped over to the bartender. “I’m meeting a Mr. Gray,” she said. The bartender pointed to the rear of the dining room, and for a moment, she thought he was directing her to the owlish-looking gentleman. Then he said, “The guy with the book.”
    “Thanks.” She headed for the table, and as she approached, the man stood and said, “I’m Seth Gray. You must be Carrie Hartley.” They shook hands, and he waited for her to sit before he eased back into his own chair. A brief silence ensued, and she felt awkward, not knowing how to start. She glanced down at the drink in front of him where three olives, impaled on a tiny plastic sword, lay suspended in clear liquid. A bead of condensation hung precariously from the stemmed glass rim.
    He followed her gaze. “They make an excellent martini here. Would you like one?”
    “I hear they’re back in fashion these days.”
    He lifted the sword from the glass, extracted an olive from its slender blade, and popped it into his mouth. “They never went out of fashion as far as I’m concerned.”
    “Maybe I will have one,” she said.
    He signaled the bartender, pointed to his glass, and held up two fingers. Then he looked over her shoulder toward the restaurant’s front windows. “I hope you didn’t drive in all this mess. It’s really nasty out there tonight.”
    She shook her head, grateful for something to talk about other than the real reason she was there. “I took MARTA. They have a stop just down the block.”
    “That’s one nice thing about Atlanta; you can use the transit system to go just about anywhere —even the hinterlands like this.”
    Carrie shrugged. “I wouldn’t call Lawrenceville the hinterlands, but I was sort of surprised you wanted to meet here.”
    The waitress delivered their drinks, and the man waited until they were alone before responding. “What, you thought we’d be meeting in some dingy backstreet bar in the city? Christ, what did Clancy tell you about me? Actually, I own half a dozen car washes between here and Decatur. The clientele’s nicer here and the taxes are lower.”
    She took a sip from her martini. The clear, crisp taste was exactly what she needed and she told him so.
    “They have a great rib-eye, too,” he said. “We could order a couple if you like.”
    “No, I hadn’t really planned to stay that long.” Why was it so hard to get to the point? They both knew why she was there, in that restaurant, at his table. She turned and glanced back to the window. The rain had picked up, pelting the glass with big drops and painting fuzzy haloes on the lights of passing cars.
    “I would’ve had to take MARTA even if the weather were nice,” she said.
    “You don’t own a car? I thought everybody in Atlanta had a car.”
    “It was his car.”
    “His car,” he said. Then a knowing look passed over his face. “Oh, you mean his car.”
    Might as well get down to it, she thought. “His car, his house, everything was his. But I paid my own way. I did all the shopping, paid the utilities and cleaning bills. I even bought new curtains.”
    “But now you’ve parted ways,” he said.
    “I rented a small apartment close to downtown.” She sighed and looked away. “The first couple of years were okay, you know, good even. But the last few months were hell.” She took a moment to dig around in her purse, finally producing a folded sheet of white paper and handing it to him. “And now, we have this. It’s a copy. He has the original.”
    The man studied the paper closely. In the dim glow from the table’s centerpiece candle, his face was all angles and shadows. He wasn’t handsome; there was a hardness about him, but his eyes—she couldn’t tell if they were green or blue; she thought probably blue—softened it a bit.
    He refolded the paper and returned it to her. “This says you borrowed ten thousand dollars from him and promised to repay it.”
    “It was for a trip we took to Europe. It was all his idea, his treat, he said. The note was so he could have some kind of tax write-off or something.” She could feel the tears starting to well up in her eyes and blinked them back. “I didn’t know. We were happy together at the time. I had no idea he’d turn around and pull something like this.”
    Gray toyed with the bottom of his martini glass. “Well, I suppose that brings us to the business at hand.”
    She leaned forward, clenching her hands to keep them from trembling. “Ten thousand dollars is all I have in the world! I’ve got to buy a car. I had to pay two month’s rent up front plus a cleaning deposit. I need that money; it’s my safety net.”
    “I can send a couple of guys around,” Gray said, “get him to back off. It would cost five hundred dollars.”
    “That sounds reasonable. I can afford that much to scare him a little if you’re sure it would work.”
    “Oh, it would work all right, done correctly. You just need to understand a few things first.”
    A couple came into the restaurant carrying shopping bags. As they passed Carrie’s table, she could smell the rain on their clothes. They were young and laughing and, for a few seconds, Carrie’s mind wandered back to happier times.
    When the couple had settled into one of the far booths, Gray continued. “You need to ask yourself how far you want this to go. Let me explain. If a couple of my guys push him up against a wall and tell him to back off, he’ll probably be frightened and agree to anything. But if they don’t get physical with him, he might go home and start to think about it and get angry.”
    “I can see how that might happen.”
    “But if they get physical with him, work his ribcage a little, make him feel it for a few days afterward, he’ll be too scared to get angry.”
    “I guess I can see that, too.”
    Gray plucked another olive from the sword and chewed it slowly. “My guys are very professional. It’s just a job with them, but they’re also human, and sometimes things happen.”
    “What do you mean?” Carrie asked.
    “Well, say you go into a barbershop—not you specifically, of course, because you’d go to a hairdresser, not a barber—and if you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you go to a really good one. I like the way your hair frames your face.”
    For a moment, he looked almost boyish. Carrie wondered if he might be blushing.
    “Anyway,” he said, “you ask the barber to take a little off the top, and while he’s cutting, you flinch or move a certain way, and he messes up. So now he’s got to take a little more off the top to even things out, and before you know it, you’re practically bald.”
    She smiled. “Could you be a tad less metaphorical?”
    Now he was grinning. “I’m sorry. I guess I read too much. I’ll try again, but first let me ask you a couple of questions.”
    “Okay.”
    “How big a guy is he?”
    “Big, I guess, but not as big as you.”
    “Does he work out—go to a gym or like that?”
    “He’s got a membership. He went a lot at first, but now maybe once a month or so.”
    “Yeah,” Gray said, “it usually turns out that way.”
    “Do you work out?” Carrie asked. She’d noticed the way the fabric of his jacket pulled tight around his upper arms.
    “I do,” he said. “I started when I was on a two-year ... uh, let’s call it a sabbatical, and it got to be a habit. I have a workout room at home.”
    “I thought so.”
    “What about martial arts? Has he had any training of that kind?”
    “Not that I know of,” she said. “I think he’d of bragged about it if he had.”
    “All right, last question. Does he carry?”
    “Carry?”
    “Does he carry a gun? Lots of people have concealed carry permits these days. Don’t go out unless they’re packing.”
    She shook her head. “I’ve never known him to even own a gun, much less carry one.”
    “Are you sure?” Gray asked.
    “I’m not absolutely sure. It’s easier to know a person has a gun, rather than if they don’t.”
    “I see what you mean,” Gray said. “Well, we’ll have to be prepared for him to have one anyway. We need to address all contingencies.” He drained the last of his martini. “Now, what I was saying earlier, in an obtuse way, was that you have to be prepared for contingencies, too. We can’t always know in advance exactly how far these things will go.”
    Carrie nodded, still uncertain.
    “For example, if he fights back, gets in a lucky punch and hurts one of my guys, things may escalate a bit. Or, say he keeps coming back for more; my guys have to keep dishing it out. Who knows, in a case like that, he might wind up in the hospital, or even worse.”
    “Worse?”
    Gray leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I once heard of a guy who died just from taking a hard punch in the gut. I’m not saying that’s going to happen in this case. Ninety-five times out of a hundred, it doesn’t. It’s just something you need to be prepared for.”
    “Jesus,” Carrie said. “I hate the bastard, but I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life with his death on my conscience.”
    “Look,” Gray said. “I’m going to the restroom for a minute, and then I’m going to get another martini. Think about what I said, about how far it could go. When I get back, let me know if you still want to proceed.”
    Carrie watched him walk down a long hallway off the main dining room. She couldn’t help but notice that, for a large man, he moved with an almost alethic grace. When he was gone, she used a finger to turn around the book he’d been reading when she’d entered the restaurant. It was titled Contact and was authored by Carl Sagan, whom she’d heard of, but couldn’t remember where. When he returned a few minutes later, he had not one but two martinis.
    “I brought you another one,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
    She took the glass from his hand, aware of a slight tremor in her fingers.
    He sat down. “So, what do you think?”
    “I think you just talked yourself out of five hundred dollars.”
    “It’s okay,” he said, smiling. “You seem like a nice lady. I wouldn’t want you second-guessing yourself later.”
    “I mean I want this to be finished, and I’d like to hurt him a little, but that’s because I’m angry.”
    “Anybody would be,” Gray said.
    “But when I get past the anger, I sure don’t want him dead, or even in the hospital. I just don’t want to give him all my money.”
    “Maybe you don’t have to,” he said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “See, it’s probably not a business thing with him. From what I gather, he’s got plenty of money already. He just wants to stick it to you for dumping him. So what you need to do is reach a settlement.”
    “A settlement?” she asked.
    “Sure. What would you be willing to part with, moneywise, to make this all go away—a couple of thousand, maybe?”
    “Sure, I could do two thousand if I had to; it’s a lot better than ten.”
    “Suppose I went and talked to him, advised him he should take the two thousand and cut his losses. I can be pretty persuasive when I need to be.”
    “How much would that cost me, for you to do that?”
    “Oh, I’d do it free of charge. It’s no biggie, just me having a conversation with a guy. It’s not like I’m a lawyer or anything. I’m just a guy who washes cars for a living.”
    “Among other things,” she added. “And you’re a reader, too. I never figured you for a reader.”
    “That was something else I started doing while on my sabbatical. It’s odd, you know. You’d think prison would be the ideal place to read, but it’s not. It’s too noisy, something going on all the time.”
    “Gee,” Carrie said, “Here I thought I’d have a chance to read all the classics when I went to prison, but if it’s noisy, screw it. I’m not going.”
    “You’re funny,” Gray said.
    “And you’re not at all what I expected,” Carrie replied.
    “Is that bad or good?”
    Carrie leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and looked into Gray’s eyes. She decided they were green, after all. “It’s good, I think.”
    The corners of his mouth curled up just the slightest bit. “Is there something going on here?”
    Carrie nodded. “I think something’s going on.”
    Gray checked his watch. “It’s still early. How about we order a couple of those rib-eyes I mentioned earlier? I could run you back into the city afterward.”
    Carrie shrugged. “Sure, why not? A person’s got to eat, right?” She turned and glanced back at the restaurant’s big front window. “I think the rain has stopped.”

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 2010 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.