Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

lunchtime poll topic

(commentaries on relevant topics)

letter from the editor

(the boss lady’ editorial)

Nighttime City

Forecast

spring is near ’ the weathermen
and Punxsutawney Phil
      tell lies

The Speeding Effect of Aging

We don’t love the old
Strike that
We love the old
Like how we love meeting little people
Or other races
Or doing lunch with the One gay person
We really, Really (think) we know,
We love the old like we love anyone whom
We would never want—
Outside of relative relevant political discussion—
To live out our own lives as,
We love the old with internal subconscious
Gibberish
Playing nonsense techno mixes in our heads
Loving them like we’d coo at a baby
On

the heels of two pots of coffee

Begin

First there was the old box wine
From the one who had
lived there nearly a year ago.
It was still good somehow.
The last remaining smoke
Bellowed to the ceiling.

Then came the bottle being saved
For a special occasion,
Popping open unceremoniously.
It was perfectly aged.
Smoke still rising
Circling around disgustingly.

Then came the last beers
Marking ends of habits
Cracking involuntarily
Glugging into glasses
Smoke somehow still
Spreading its stink.

Then came the very last
Of the wine bottles
Old and skunked
Choked down with some gags
A last pack of smokes
Bought with spare change.
Just like that
The past flings and affairs gone
Outdated and ready
To be forgotten
Smoke no longer rising
Smelling like distant memories.

Yet, standing there before
Another day of work
As the morning chill refreshes
Right before sunrise,
Remembering the life
He’s known,

He saw her again
The most welcome
Sight he ever thought
He could possibly see.
Walking toward him
Glowing more than the sun.

It was then
He realized how much
He loved her
And that she
Was now a memory.
And it was time to begin work.

It Vanished Way Back When

We no longer have Policemen
or Policewomen, nor Beat Cops
or lovely Rita meter maids, all
gone from way back when; Then
they walked us across streets
taking care holding our hands
and while we cried for lost Moms
and Dads, they sat in our doughnut
shops sipping the freshly brewed while
eating a few yummy custard filled
belly busting paczki or glazed
honey crullers,
with eyes ever vigilant upon
the mean street, they were there to serve
and protect, to fight bad guys
who only wished to bring us harm or
take away make believe, they were
our friends, our Fathers and Mothers,
Brothers and Sisters, and some
we never knew we knew

Until one day way back when
it seemed to change, now
what do we got; it’s hard to say
but I don’t feel safe and
I’m a senior citizen white guy,
so something has gone terribly wrong,
I’m sure it’s fear on all accounts
that brought about this Nazi state,
where silence fills the dread
and no one speaks of distasteful
things from Cops and Crooks alike,
I see no difference between the
guns they bear and the death
they leave behind, lets end
this scourge right here and now
bringing out the flowers, exploding
real truth against their Weapons
of Mass Destruction

Night over Lower Manhattan

The paved beige stretched over, beneath
The careless sky, didn’t you see the street
Ran with cheap beer and perennial philosophy?

When that poor sod couldn’t even shuffle his way to work
Amid the signs and sights of this cold city

Nero’s circus wasn’t always round, and when it was there was far more blood.
I knew. I know. A thief in the night—The uncarved Wall stands between me and the street—
He’s pocketing here and there, this and that, beast and birthright

But nobody told you he could climb; everyone at this open-air party
Sulks and skulks and trudges the timid notion that even Heaven plays

In tune with those double-dealers that straddle the sidewalks, selling
Souls and organic salads and plastic-wrapped theodicies.
Ninety-eight ways to go out with a bang in the televised jungle,

But you’ve stuck it to him, haven’t ya?
Our supple bodies stuck to the storm drains

A trillion lives and miles disgraced by everything under Heaven,
And among toils and boiling Heads that roll and rage below the quiet stars,

I’ve cast my vote to the thoughtless wide,
the careless Sky and the barren streets

Ryan V. Stewart Bio (2015)

    Ryan V. Stewart is a writer and undergraduate student attending Western Connecticut State University in Danbury, Connecticut, majoring in professional writing and minoring in philosophy He is originally from Austin Texas, and came to New England around the turn of the millennium. He began writing when he was 16.

Home

    Drummed by rain, my worries to calm, my metal roof does please. Not like the bin where the fall of life is never heard, nor like the Doctor Pepper pills by proffered palms, nor like the shuffled steps to snake a queue.
    Dosed, the rain would shortly come, but in the head alone, no tin patter to dream the dream of dreams, but a nap instead to dream the unannounced.
    Home it could not be, no window perch to watch the rivulets fall, and blur the woods and fields beyond, an unconcerned cow chewing cud, my only space to share. Here I expand at will, no rubbing wrong to chill my day, and bring the coats of better care.
    Fortunes I have not, ambition is another way, sparkling drops of life, surely is enough for me. Dosed at home, no habit learned by rote, nor shaky steps required, my dreams die not, nor unannounced do come.
    Leave for greener grass the ward clerks would tell, and dream a little bigger still. Their ambition haunts me yet, gloved hands holding trays of this and that.
    My roof storm washed clean, the rivulets reach my creek, the sun is on, the cow now a tail must swing. No Doctor Pepper time for me, a drippy wood pile beckons come. With an ax to give the chips a wing, I amble forth and park my dream, at home.

Jesus in a Nighttime City (V3)

Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
barefoot
broken
beer
bottles
glass,
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter-
old parks, metal detectors, quarters, nickels, dimes,
coins in the pockets of thieves, black children
on Merry go rounds, Maywood, IL.
danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates Jesus’ robe.

Don’t bite the hand

How accepting
that darling little dog
standing before its “master,”
licking a hand,
wagging its tail,
hoping some little treat
might be tossed its way.
And so you stand
before your Lord,
one petitioner
on bended knee
praying some small want
will be granted.
But given the world
as it is,
you might just as well
curse unjust fate,
smash your Deity’s graven image,
rail heresies,
and become an apostate
who’ll bite the hand
that never feeds you.

Lot’s Wife: Modern Variations

Could it be
the story of Lot’s Wife
is an allegory
for being too backward looking,
its famous pillar of salt
denoting her interment
in a halite mound
formed from her sea of tears
over biblical Hiroshima’s
impending holocaust?
On an allied note,
does Lot’s wife further exemplify
an emigrant’s heartfelt plight
at upending her entire universe
for a surer if alien future,
craning to see what was lost
as well as what was gained?
Or candidly, was she simply
a doubting Thomas
who couldn’t take anyone at their word,
not even envoys of almighty Yahweh
(Who’d ever think,
 as Master Of The Universe,
 He’d sink
 to taking down
 a little hick town
 like Sodom)?
Then again, is the term “she”
the key
to our biblical yarn?
Was Lot’s wife an intrepid protofeminist
refusing to subserviently follow
her husband’s lead
or take direction
from two angelic henchmen
of a patriarchal, tribal Godfather?

The First Casualty

Waging trial by media,
news anchors
comport like sportscasters
at a Roman coliseum
as, locked
in mock combat,
pundit-gladiators
playing to the throng
thrust at one another
never landing
that mortal blow;
the upshot being,
wounded by all sides,
truth,
their only casualty,
if not by any public ‘thumbs down,’
dies, mutilated,
on the ground.

Clouds Over The Moon

At evening time, the sky is full
a thousand winter stars
sparkle like golden pinecones
filling the winter night.
Clouds cover the moon.
Time is old, the year is new,
a light drifting snow falls
across cold wind,
through brittle air,
across the frozen grass.
Slowly, morning’s mist will rise—
the sun comes again
  but you and I
  are winter ghosts
  lost in the snowy wood

Untitled (moon/sun)

A winter moon
rises on a feather
of red light
left behind
by fiery sun

Untitled (planets)

star-wrapped planets move
farther away into time
over silver clouds

Untitled (wind)

a hollow tree
shakes its branches—
leafless winter wind

Career Alternatives

How can I be
anything other than an R.T.?

I could be shooting hippos
a la Hemingway, a word processor
in my backpack to edit
impressions of the Great Hunt.

My word processor may need an electrical outlet
to recharge. There, there
at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro
I can plug it in. There’s enough
slack on the cord; I can continue
to write while climbing.

Henry the Hippo was popular;
I could be extradited back to Mozambique
to stand trial.

I could be a dentist instead of an R.T..
I have the manual dexterity.

The Gloriousness of Giving Up

When you’ve given up the striving
to be something you’re not.
When you’re too old to change,
and at this point, you don’t even want to.

When you’re content with who you are,
where you are, and you don’t care if you die tomorrow.
Because, hey, you had a pretty good run,
and at least you can still wipe your own ass.

You’ve done enough.
Not as much as some other people.
But hey, you’re not someone else.
You’re you. And you had your part to play.

You had your share of friends and love affairs.
Your share of successes and failures.
And even failures contribute
to the general knowledge and general good.

Who were you trying to be anyway?
You can’t even stand that guy.
With his perfectly stiff hair, perfunctory girlfriend,
and inexplicably stiff and hard and black
American Express Card.

 
give it up let it go
give it up let it go

We bought and sold the world

The world is owned
Coveted by moth born men
Riding the comet of bloodlust
And serving pop culture
Missionary Angels
To the masses
Brainwashed by clean cut
Lullabies and Insurance agents

The world is owned
Resources served up for slavery
Parochial factories drying tears
For a generation lost to themselves
By plane rides taken on a cold September

The world is owned
By the shadows that wrested control
Inspiring fear in their flock
Forcing our future
To Drink bottled water processed
At the source of our Devils.
And they won’t let go

The world is owned
By the ones who don’t deserve it
Take back your heart
And speak new life to your fists

jog hurt

Jog... Hurt.
Jog, hurt.

Got a jar of yogurt
on an airplane
in Frankfort Germany.

It didn’t say yogurt.
It said “joghurt.”

I’ve always hated jogging,
so I guess this ironically titled
“joghurt”
is what I’ll do instead.

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 (2010-2015) (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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), 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, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.

Just Desperation

It’s just desperation
to post a billboard
that says “AVAILABLE” in all caps,
and then list your phone number.

I mean really,
if you’re that desperate,
no one’s gonna call.

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 (2010-2015) (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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), 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, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.

Entering the Lake of Fire

I’ve been taken away.
It’s against my will.
But I’m told it’s for the best,
and I always do what I’m told.

I look out the window, see a smattering of lights,
wonder where this tube is taking me.
On first glance, it looks like every other place.
Every place, except my home.

I’ve had to gently place all of my dreams,
my creations into this pristine box as tall as
the tallest skyscrapers, then bury it deep
in my chest, where all I love becomes a memory.

I don’t know what my destination will look like,
in the dead of night, when I arrive.
Everyone tells me I’ll love it there.
But an acclimated prisoner is still a prisoner.

I look in the mirror, try to gain my bearings.
My hair is starting to curl from the heat
and it makes me wonder if I’m Medusa
with snakes coming out of her head -

and here I am, tying to straighten my hair,
so people might not be so afraid of me,
so I might not turn everyone
who turns my way into stone.

But Medusa here has dreams,
creativity is crushed when I hide my heart,
buried in that box of gems, never to sparkle
again with a lack of light, or, the right light.

I know carrying past traumas
has always been my secret skill,
but Pandora here gave me a ball and chain
that drags at my ankle and stutters my step.

For now I’ve closed the box as tall as the sky
and my only choice is to enter Pandora’s Box,
where all of the evils of the world
will follow me wherever I go.

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 (2010-2015) (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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), 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, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.

One of the things
you had to do

I always did so crappy on the
“Presidential Physical Fitness Test”,
those stupid annual tests at school.
One of the things you had to do
was where you’re supposed to hang
with your chin over a bar,
and I could never do it
to save my life.
That was until one year,
as I was about to take my last one
of those dumb tests,
the teacher looked at how tall I was
and told me to not jump so hard,
because when I jump
I jump higher than other kids,
and my downward force made it harder
for me to stay up at that bar.
It took until the LAST YEAR
I had to do that stupid test
for a teacher to actually look
at what I was doing and try to help me.
I love the school system.

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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), 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, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.

A Passing Ponderance

Two ants were crawling away with my finger.
Luckily, I was dead at the time
which made losing face (or phalange in this case) less
pertinent. Instead, I just stared
at the sunless sky and imagined
I was already consumed
by the continuation of life

bustling about the forest floor.

The Nap

    I knew it was only six hours of work each day, but the shortness was required by medical restriction. It was my ankle. Every quickened step was pain. It was exhausting. It was yet another probationary period at work. This one was to make career employee. It counted the most, and I was especially under fire for my injuries. If I made it, the pay and benefits would set me up nicely for life.
    I was also back to being broke. Worker’s comp messed up, so my income was low. There was little to nothing I could do but try to get through the day.
    There was a friend of mine going through rough times. Her husband had left her after thirteen years. She was high and dry, and all alone. We’d talk for hours. It triggered my own memories, but I couldn’t bear to leave her so alone during such times.
    All in all, it made me very tired. I got home from another day of painful running and crawled onto the couch. Within minutes, I was out like a light.

    It was her. The Her. Of Poetry fame. She had stood me up to go to a party, saying we’d get together some other time. She, again, was having trouble deciding if she wanted to be in a relationship or shop around for other guys. We were getting distant again, it seemed.
    I decided to go to her store around closing to have a talk with her. I showed up to her surprise. We began talking about the issue. I began saying what it would mean if she started going for other guys. That we would have to break up and be totally apart. We couldn’t be a part of each others’ lives. We...we...we...
    I noticed my heart was pounding so heavily. KA BOOM KA BOOM. It flooded my hearing. It was pounding out of my chest. It seemed so damn wrong to be saying such things to her. It was horrifying. The heartbeating continued to escalate ever higher and higher.

    It began to wake me up. I slowly realized that Samantha was long, long gone. There was no confrontation. There was nothing left to lose. There was nothing left. There was nothing. Nothing.

    I got up and grabbed a beer, lit a smoke, and paced my kitchen. What the hell was that? It’s coming up on three years since we knew each other. Surely there was nothing left.
    Back and forth I went, wondering, disputing. I wondered why my heartbeat reacted so severely. Three fucking years and still? What brought this on? How? Why?

    I sat down in front of my laptop and went to Facebook to play my football games. Distraction can bury nearly everything. Gradually I forgot about the whole ordeal. I talked with people, sipped beer, and made dinner. The food put me to sleep pretty quickly.
    And there she was, smiling and laughing as we walked through Seattle Center at night, holding hands, making our way home to make love.

    The evil of the alarm clock took her away yet again. It was time for more hell to pay.

Barangay Super Bowl

    Eyes beneath furrowed brows follow me as I stroll through the Barangay, a white foreigner trying to keep my step light and my heart open. When I utter Visayan greetings of respect, like a wrinkled sail to the wind, faces smooth over and Visayan replies are heard. I can speak the dialect and this matters. Sometimes the replies are in the English of my own. Other times I say nothing and just amble on, telling myself that as long as I keep to the common way it doesn’t matter, I have no need to feel uneasy. It all depends on my mood. Always I try to remember that here respect is more than just a word. And my kind are not overly known for it. But I seldom become anxious for I know that if you just take it easy and don’t try to always have your way the Philippines can be a laid back place. I also know that it can be a hot hassle if your tolerance of the different is low.
    “Hey Joe, where are you going?” a young woman sitting in front of a sari sari store asked. Joe is the common name given to many foreigners, dating back to the GI Joe of the World War Two liberation troops.
    “Just there,” I say, not pointing, but lifting my head and pursing my lips toward my direction of travel. The sweet smell of barbecued chicken wafts over from a little grill she is attending near the bench where she sits. The natural beauty of the women here can leave me a little tongue tied at times but my smile must say this for they seem to sense my appreciation. They are not stupid of their worth and my take usually pleases them.
    “It is too hot for walking, take a rest,” she says as she pats the bench beside her and scoots over.
    I am twice her age but her eyes and smile make that seem like a small matter. I have seen her around the Barangay before and at the local market. I think she is the owner of this store and lives in the added on back part. I am hot and she has invited me, why not? When I take a seat she is happy as she claps her hands, goes in the store, and returns with a coke which she offers to me. When I go into my pocket for money she says, “Oh no, it’s in the house.”
    “You mean, on the house, free?” I say.
    “Yes, on the house, people will see you and come to buy something to see what we are doing. I will make a few more pesos. You are nice to business.”
     “You mean good for business.”
     “Yeah, yeah, good for business.”
    Before we can continue our conversation another customer arrives and the young woman must go back inside. She was right, it isn’t long before there is a small line of curious customers, eyeing me, and waiting to buy laundry soap, candles, or mosquito coils among the everyday things that they use. I thirstily finish the coke and, after the line disappears, return the bottle through the little wire enclosure at the front of the store.
    “I will go now, my name is Paul, what is your name?” I ask as she takes the bottle.
    “I am Mary. Thank you for coming to my store, Paul. Balik-balik, palihug,” she says, mixing English and Cebuano, as she bids me to please return.
    “Salamat,” I thank her and head off again feeling indeed rested and fresh under the tropical sun. Should I return this way, I think that maybe I will be known as OK. It is nice for me here. With just a wee bit of effort, I can get along with people. Back where I come from, after the war, I had such trouble with people that I just quit trying and screened off as much society as possible.
    Living here is not as easy in substance, yet it is easier in style. Even with the various armed insurgencies in many places not far away, there is no patriotic requirement to be scared and drum up enemies that too often resemble the boogiemen outside of children’s bedroom windows. Here they try to find a way to live with mal-contents, there is no money to be made from war....by rich nor poor. Life is already cheaper, why push it more so?
    At the edge of the Barangay I come to a large field bordered by coconut and banana palms with a well worn footpath cutting it in half. Following the path, I pass a young goat herder, sitting on a large rock, smoking, with his goats staked out and grazing on the scrub that grows there. He waves as I pass and as I wave back I can smell the distinct odor of marijuana coming from his smoke. When I do a double take on him he smiles broadly, I guess figuring that I will not tell the authorities. Or not caring if I do. He is right, I will not tell. It is even legal where I come from. One day it will be legal here as well. Reaching the other side of the field, I follow the dirt track that leads to the sea. There are no people along this way except an occasional returning fisherman with his catch. That’s why I come here, to be alone and watch the ships coming in and out of the Cebu Strait to their anchorage in the Mactan Channel at Cebu City. Far across the strait the Island of Bohol can sometimes barely be made out. This spot is a good place to sit and think.
    The dark blue of the sea stretches to the lighter blue of the sky, embedded here and there with patches of high cirrus clouds. This Zen-like tableau brings me to a seat in the sand where I can hurl my thoughts upon the sea and see what comes back. Far out near the horizon there is a small tug towing a large barge across the sea. Probably coming from Mindanao, the Muslim region, where there is much unrest. Yet negotiations and trade continue. Not like where I am from where wars against an idea have confiscated many of the freedoms we used to have—always in the name of the current war du jour. There different generations have different wars to pester their thoughts. Even though my war was long ago parts of it stay present, like the jettisoned flotsam that the currents carry here and there, kept ever swirling by each new war. Turning my thoughts away from that over which I am powerless, I bask in the salty air and hot sun and try to tune all else out. It is easier here..... in spirit.
    After a while I head back the way I came, feeling lighter and more at ease. When I get to the short-cut across the field I see that the goats and their tender are gone. Near the large rock where the tender smoked there are now many men forming a noisy circle. Excitement in their voices as money changes hands is accompanied by laughter or resignation, depending on which way the money is going. Two cocks, each with a razor sharp spur strapped to one of their legs, are leaping, flapping and kicking toward one another in the center of the circle. It’s hard to tell which one is winning except for the occasional flash of a bloodied spur. The fight lasts only a couple of minutes until, like a nesting hen, one cock squats to the earth and hangs its head. When the referee can not restart the fight by manually bringing them face to face the cock left standing is declared the winner. The loser immediately loses its head, gets scalded in a boiling bath set over a large fire, and plucked for the home pot. Then, after bets are paid, a new pair begins another fight. Most of the money I can see is won by an older smiling Chinese-Filipino with a cock under his arm. He is a small thin man dressed better than most and wearing real shoes—one of the minority that is older than me but shown much respect by those he interacts with. While he counts the money his young assistant collects the winning cock and gives it a quick examination to determine if it can fight again. Finding it in fairly good shape, he strokes it a few times, affectionately smoothing its feathers, and returns it to its cage.
    I have seen these fights before and there is not much interest there for me in the betting nor the fight. However I find it curious that the cock, which is the national bird, plays such a role in this culture. A culture of give and take and, for the most part, acceptance. I wonder how it would be in America if we fought bald eagles instead of other people. Turning this over in my mind as I exit the circle of fight fans I must be smiling for my thoughts are interrupted when I hear, “You like the cock fights, yes? You are from the United States?”
    It is the Chinese mestizo. He and his assistant are leashing the cocks before putting them in their cages which are stacked in a nice new Toyota truck at the edge of the field.
    “I think it is hard for the birds,” I tell him, “but I guess it saves a trip to the market for the loser.”
    He laughs and offers his hand as his assistant continues to tend to the small flock, not paying much interest in our conversation but all ears I can be sure.
    “That is most correct. To waste when people are hungry is very bad. You are an American, no?”
    I don’t much like revealing my nationality, some places that can hurt, but this man seems honest enough so I reply, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to win at everything. Your English is very good.”
    “Thank you. Maybe some day I can go to America. Only to visit. I would like to see New York, the place that so many wars come from.”
    “New York is OK,” I tell him, “I’m from the other side, Seattle.”
    When he hears this he eyes widen and he begins to shake my hand again.
    “Yes, yes, Seattle too, I want to see Seattle first.”
    Most of the people are now starting to exit the field, many with a dead bird, plucked bald, hanging from their hand. Others, fondly petting a winning cock under arm. By this time the assistant is standing by the truck and all the cocks are caged. The older man looks over at his waiting truck, then hands me a small card and says, “I go now. Here is my business in Tabunok. Stop by and see my many fine carpets sometime. Maybe you can tell me about Seattle some while I make good deal for you.”
    “Maybe I will,” I say, as he waves and gets in the passenger side of the truck with his assistant now behind the wheel.
    After the truck leaves I examine the card which says only, Sun Chan, Fine Tapestries, Tabunok. Placing the card in my pocket, thinking that Sun Chan seems a bit better off than the average Filipino, I follow the last of the cock fighters out of the field.
    The bench in front of Mary’s sari-sari store is occupied with customers as I pass by. It is past noon and my appetite tells me it is time to eat so I stop at the next eatery along my route, explore the contents of the various pots and pans and order some squid, rice, and sautéed ampalaya or bitter melon. After paying eighty pesos or less than two dollars, I look for a place to sit. All the wooden tables that border the area between the eatery and the walkway are full of customers so I sit on a leftover cinderblock near the corner of the eatery and begin to eat. A melody of clinking spoons and bowls is pleasant to my ears and it is easy to see that the people here enjoy their food. Many of the other customers are school children from the near-by elementary school, having their lunch and curiously stealing glances in my direction, no doubt wondering where I am from. It is something I have gotten used to with children. They are bold but polite in their inquisitiveness and rarely are they any bother. I would never be able to tolerate the whining, loud, shopping mall children of America in the same way as I do these kids.
    The food is lami or delicious and I clear my plate quickly knowing that what I have just eaten is good for me and known by many expects as some of the best there is. These thoughts remind me of how different living here is from life in America and the value of an attitude that can see when less is better. After returning my empty dish and spoon I head back to my little rented place near the center of the Barangay, still thinking about how the obvious is not always so obvious.

    Not far from Gaisano in Tabunok, amid the clutter and pollution of a thousand vehicles coming and going, along with multiple businesses stacked upon and beside one another, sets a large two story cinderblock building directly on the national highway. Attached to the front of the building is a large sign with Chinese characters over an equally large sign in English that reads Chan’s Oriental Carpets. Dropping coins in the hand of the conductor standing on the back stoop of the jeepney, I step down from the passenger compartment and stare up at the sign. A loud musical air horn sounds and I quickly step onto the sidewalk before another jeepney pulls over into the spot that I have just vacated. It is always crowded here during the day and I am semi-relieved when I make it across the stream of pedestrians and inside the building, finding it cooler and calmer in all respects compared to the outside. After my eyes adjust to the less sunny interior I can see that indeed there are many beautiful carpets here, hanging from the walls and crossbeams overhead. A young Filipino approaches me when he sees me just standing there. “You like to buy,” he says.
    “I don’t know,” I reply, “is Sun Chan available?”
    The young man seems at first a little let down, seeing no quick sale at hand, but after a moment smiles and leads me to a back office before asking,
    “Does he know you?”
    “No, just show him this card that he gave to me at the cock fight.”
    He disappears through the office door and in a moment he is back with a smiling Sun Chan. “Come in, come in, my friend,” he says to me and tells the young Filipino, “Antonio, get us some tea and part of the cake that’s in the refrigerator.”
    “A pleasant surprise, amigo,” Sun Chan says, “I don’t even know your name. Please have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”
    “My name is Paul and with your extra winnings from the cock fight I thought that maybe you could give me a good deal on a nice Oriental rug.”
    Sun Chan laughs, “What will you do with it?”
    “I will use it here in the Barangay,” I say, “my little apartment is pretty bare. I think it will brighten it up some.”
    “I see, will you sell it if you take it to America? You could make an easy profit.”
    “If I have to leave I will not take it with me. I will leave it here somewhere safe. It would become my mind beacon, a thing that I care for and look forward to returning to. A purpose to my travel.”
    “A mind beacon. That’s pretty good,” Sun Chan says as he stands up from his desk, “come with me. I think I might have something that can give you plenty of purpose.”
    As we are leaving the office Antonio appears with the tea and cake. “Just leave it on the desk,” Sun Chan tells him.
    I follow Sun Chan up some steps to the second floor and down a long corridor to a large metal door with a big padlock and an electronic apparatus that appears to be some sort of coded lock. It is similar to some vaults that I have seen. Once Sun gains entry he leads me in and switches on the light. I can see right away that this is a very special room with several beautiful rugs displayed on bamboo racks. Sun leads me to the center of the display and a very nice medium sized rug of darkly shaded blues and greens with some bright patches of yellow near its center. When one looks at it in a certain way the colors come together to form an impressive overall appearance of a lush garden in the abstract. It is very nice. We just quietly look at it for a time then Sun turns over a corner edge of the rug for my inspection. Branded into the fabric in Persian Farsi and English are the words: Made In Iran. There is also a price tag that bears a price way beyond my means.
    “You like?” Sun Chan asks.
    “Oh yes, it is very beautiful but way too expensive for me.”
    “Maybe not,” Sun says, “let’s go back to my office and have our tea and snack.”
    Back in the office and comfortably enjoying our snack, I am resigned to not having a Persian rug because of the expense when Sun says, “My friend, you can have your mind beacon, as you call it, for free....if you will help me with a business problem. Also if you have to leave the rug here because of travel I will secure your carpet in my vault until your return. Truly secure places are not easy to find for such large valuables and mine is one of the best——twenty-four hour armed guard, night and day.”
    “What is it that I can do for you?” I asked
    Sun Chan explains that he is in the process of trying to begin a business relationship with another Chinese businessman who owns an import-export business in Seattle. This business has all the required licenses, shipping connections, and many other requirements needed to be successful in a global market. The man’s name is Robert Lee, a big Seattle sports fan, particularly of the football team. Sun goes on to explain that during their communications he has pretended to be a fan also, hopefully to gain Robert’s favor for negotiating a sort of partnership. Trouble is Sun actually knows nothing about Seattle nor football. And if I would tutor him in this, to his advantage, he would present me with the carpet for free.
    This seems like so little to me that I find it hard to believe but Sun Chan assures me that, to him, it is of monumental importance. I know enough about football, even know some of the Seattle players from all their press, which I get on the internet when I read the news. It is easy for me to agree with this trade off and help Sun. So for the next couple of weeks or so I spend a few hours printing out internet stories on the Seattle team and instructing Sun in the basics of football. A quick learner no doubt, he digest all the different stories about the players and their opponents and soon can reasonably pass as an ordinary Seattle supporter. In fact he tells me that his notes and conversations with Robert are going very well, that the prospect of their partnership is in full bloom. Then, as fate would have it, Seattle wins the NFC Championship and the right to play in the biggest sports contest in the world, The Super Bowl.

    As I enter Sun’s store and close the distance to his office I can see him through the office window. Head in his hands, a small TV that he is not even watching planted on his desktop, he does not look good. I peck on the window and he waves me in.
    “I am glad you are here,” he says, “I just finished on the phone with Mr. Lee. He thinks that we can do business together and he wants to begin with a mutual bet on the Super Bowl. Plus he wants me to pick the spread, whatever that means, and the team, Seattle or their opponent New England.”
    “How much is the bet?” I ask.
    “Two thousand dollars, a thousand each. I told him I would do it but I have no idea about this kind of thing. Do you?”
    “Not really, when I do it I lose more than I win. What did he say about the spread?”
    “He said it was Seattle and six points. What does that mean?”
    “That means if you bet on Seattle they must win or not lose by six or more points. If you bet on New England that means that they must win by more than six points.
    “What if its only a six point difference, is it a tie?”
    “No, there are no ties for the bet. The bookie or bet taker wins all ties. You lose.”
    Sun Chan’s face is the most somber that I have ever seen it. “A thousand dollars,” he says, staring straight ahead, seeing God only knows what. After what seems like a long time he looks over at me, seated in the guest chair, and wishing I was anywhere else but here. “So Paul, what would you do. You Americans are educated in such things. What can you say?”
    “Let me go back to my place and study the internet some. All I can say right now is that I think New England has an older and wiser Quarterback. He is very good and I think that is why there is a six point spread to Seattle. New England is expected to win.”
    “OK, OK, you do that. Study hard and meet me here tomorrow morning about 10. We will go out and buy a snack and you can tell me what to do.”

    I am glad to get out of Sun Chan’s business and catch a trisikad back to my place. The slower pace of the small bicycle with side car gives me time to think. The sweating young man pumping us along the crowded roadway, the nearness to the road surface and the other faces coming and going along its stretch, ground me back to where I am and what I am doing. I tell myself to just do the homework and then make my guess. Whatever happens, life and its ebbs and flows will go on. The carpet is a small matter over all. Its Sun Chan’s luck that I hope will be good. I have few friends here. And I have no enemies.

    The next day as we have the small meal between breakfast and lunch, which here is called the morning snack, I look over my notes from the sports websites that I have surfed since our last meeting. We are seated at a small table in a Gaisano fast food shop near Sun’s business. The air-conditioning and relative quiet, compared to the hot dusty hustle and bustle outside, mixed with the sweet and sour smells of seafood prepared in an Asian way, make it easy for me to relax a bit. Not so Sun Chan, he is edgy and worried about not being up to snuff on the Super Bowl, not to mention the money that will be at stake. After looking at my notes I tell him, “Sun you must realize that I don’t have a sure answer for you. Its all pretty much a gamble. And you don’t need to worry about the carpet, I can live without it. It’s not a big deal. I don’t want to be responsible if you lose.”
    “Yes, yes, I mean no, you will not be responsible if we lose the bet. Just tell me who you think will win and by how much. I have to talk to Mr. Lee later today and he wants my pick by then.”
    “OK, my best guess is that New England will win but Seattle is a younger team and I think they will give them a hard time. I don’t think New England can beat them by more than six points. So I would take the six points and bet on Seattle. It is only a guess, Sun. If you have to do it, Seattle is the one to take.”
    “Yes, that is good. I am glad to hear that. Robert says that he hates to bet against Seattle but if I pick New England he will bet against Seattle because it is a business decision. Our first business decision and an omen of what our partnership will be like if we make the deal to work together. Thank you Paul, I must go now and prepare for our phone conversation and the money transfer.”
    Sun Chan quickly gets to his feet, uses a table napkin to wipe his sweaty brow, and hurries out the door leaving most of his snack untouched.

    On the Monday of the Super Bowl, which is Sunday in the United States, I am in Sun Chan’s office where he has a large widescreen TV set up. Somehow he has managed to get a live feed of the game over his cable service. It is early afternoon here, not many customers in the business, and Antonio seems to be able to handle all that is going on in the large area of the building outside the office. In fact it has appeared to me that there is really not that big of a demand for Sun’s carpets. Maybe that is why he has placed such importance on this potential business arrangement with Richard Lee. Maybe Lee has a good market and Sun has a good price. But this is none of my concern and I wonder if I should have gotten involved in all this to begin with.

    Except for a Super Bowl halftime coke, Sun and I have not moved from our chairs in front of the TV. Now late in the game, it is very close between the two teams. New England has just scored with a touchdown and extra point and leads by four points, 30-26. With Seattle plus six points, Sun’s chances look very good since there is only 30 seconds and no timeouts left in the game as New England kicks off. Seattle fields the kick-off in the end zone and runs it out but is immediately tackled by New England on the four yard line. On the next play Seattle tries a surprise draw running play which goes nowhere as the clock ticks down. With a hurry-up offense and snap Seattle attempts to throw a hail Mary, all or nothing, pass for the last play of the game but the quarterback, now throwing from his own end-zone, bobbles and drops the ball. He is able to immediately pick it up but before he can throw it he is swarmed and tackled by two New England linemen, scoring a two point safety as time expires and the game ends. The final score is New England 32, Seattle 26. So happy only moments before, Sun and I sit stunned, knowing that if the point spread ends with a tie, the bookie or bet taker wins all ties. For Sun Chan and his bet the score is 32-32.
    “Oh shit, what am I going to do, I have lost it all,” Sun cries, rocking back and fourth.
    I feel terrible. There is nothing I can do but offer up a feeble, “Maybe since it was a tie Mr. Lee will not drop the whole deal.”
    “No no,” Sun says, “we must win for the deal to go through. It is part of the omen for Chinese prosperity.”
    Except for the after game revelry coming from the TV, moments pass in silence as Sun holds his drooping head in his hands and quietly sobs. I reach over and turn the TV off and try to think of something to do that will make this situation a little better. Then the phone rings.
    Sun’s head jerks up and he looks at me with red eyes the size of saucers. Frozen like that through two more rings he finally quickly says, “My God, that is Mr. Lee with the bad news.”
    When he finally answers the phone I watch his face as he listens and returns the conversation with an occasional, “yes,” and “I see,” and ending with, “of course that would be fine.” The tragic mask of Sun Chan’s face gradually changes to one of shocked surprise. And when he hangs up the phone there is a funny thousand yard stare on his visage that leaves me completely dumbfounded about what has just happened. A moment ago he was sobbing, now he looks as if he is in a trance.
    After waiting for him to say something, I finally ask, “Well what did he say?”
    As if by rote, from that same trance-like state, Sun slowly says, “We won. The money is being transferred to my bank right now—two thousand dollars. And he wants to be my partner. The papers are on the way. He made a fortune on the game, lots and lots of money and he said it’s all because of me and the luck of the Chinese. He said everybody was saying New England would win big but because of my faith in Seattle he went with my opinion.”
    Relieved but utterly confused I say, “That’s great Sun. I am happy for you but I used to bet some and I know that bookies and bet takers are a tough bunch, they never give up a tie. That must be some new kind of gambling system.”
    “No, I don’t think so,” Sun says, “I think that its just part of a formula that Mr. Lee uses in his businesses. He is the bookie.”

    My little apartment seems to glow with deep blues and greens from the Persian rug and my toes like to curl among its soft bristles. Out my window the small noises of life can be heard, a distant barking dog, a girl hawking fresh shrimp from her man’s catch, and the occasional scratch of a palm frond on my window screen. Always there is a sent of the sea in the air and the security of having my Zen perch nearby. At night, even at Christmas, I can look up at the balmy sky and gaze upon that hunter, Orion. He is on stand far above the pretty Christmas decorations of the Barangay and its search for peace on earth.

Charles Hayes bio

    Charles Hayes, a 2015 Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and others

Brian Forrest Bio:

    Born in Canada and bred in the U.S., Brian Forrest works in many mediums: oil painting, computer graphics, theatre, digital music, film, and video. Brian studied acting at Columbia Pictures in Los Angeles, digital media in art and design at Bellevue College (receiving degrees in Web Multimedia Authoring and Digital Video Production.) He works in the Seattle, WA area in design/media/fine art. Influenced by past and current colorist painters, Brian’s raw and expressive works hover between realism and abstraction.

Louise and I

    Rain pounds the tin roof like a blanket of hammers being shock dusted along its metal furrows. The dry is out. And about time too. My plants, kept alive by furtive irrigation, hang on. That’s the nice thing about weeds. They don’t care if you love them or not. Streams of water flow from the roof, out the front yard, and down the old overgrown logging road to the waiting creek bed below. I can almost smell the resin developing on the flower buds as their roots drink up. Hidden among the dried up corn stalks and topped more than once, the bushy plants will be a good stash for Louise and me next winter when the cold bites and busting up firewood is the only way to counter it.....to begin with. Like Thoreau’s wood that warmed when he cut it, and again when he burned it.
    Emerging from sleep, Louise shuffles from the bedroom, thick dark hair amiss, and sleepy eyed.
    “Did you save me some coffee,” she mumbles, “and are there any snakes in the out house?”
    Butt puckering cold in the dead of winter and warm enough to shelter anything in the summer, the outside toilet is part of our way of life. The hand pump in the kitchen provides groundwater enough without the worry of busted pipes in the winter if we are away. Moving from the city to this Southern Appalachian high spot ten years ago involved some learning and adjustment, which we enjoyed doing. But a snake is still a snake. Especially when one is surprised by its presence.
    Pointing to the electric burner in the kitchen area of our rough cut cottage, I nurse Louise’s slow rise. “Fresh coffee that way and clean, snake free toilet the other way. Better take a roll of toilet paper though. The other ones getting thin.”
    Sticking a roll of toilet paper in her night pocket after pouring a cup of coffee, Louise waits for the rain to subside a bit, then bee lines it out the side door toward the outhouse.
    Relaxing to the rhythm of the rain is good medicine. Detecting a methodical beat to it that seems to grow stronger, I suddenly realize that it’s not the rhythm of the rain. It’s the whop-whop sound of an approaching helicopter. A sound that still reminds me of loading the body bag of my friend on a dust off during the war. Doubly shaken with the added knowledge that around here helicopters are only used by the law, I rush to the front porch and watch as the chopper approaches. Flying low between the ridges of the hollow, it slowly banks and rises, passing directly above my withered corn. And the pot plants growing there. Circling our property and almost blowing the tin roof off as Louise, struggling with her panties, runs out of the outhouse in terror, the helicopter rises a bit more. Still low enough that I can see someone leaning out the door and taking pictures, it hovers above the corn.
    Her eyes as big as saucers, Louise, having gotten on a housecoat, comes out the door screaming, “My God Charlie, what the hell’s going on?”
    With my heart in my throat and the adrenaline pumping like it used to when I was doing the dirty work for Uncle Sam, I put my arm around Louise and try not to lose it. “Guess I’m busted, babe. Just stay silent. I’ll take care of you.”
    Her mouth dropping open as it all begins to register, Louise says, “Oh shit Charlie, what are we going to do?”
    “Get me a lawyer,” I say, “and listen to what he tells you. Now go on and put some clothes on. This is just the beginning. The whole crew will be here very soon.”
    Looking at me like our world is the Titanic flotsam and there is only room enough for one, Louise turns and goes inside.

    Judge Reams, like his name implies, loves putting it to those whose misfortune it is to be standing before him. A fat balding man of fifty or so, he has a particular interest in the marijuana growers of his county. Using those that he has sentenced and bargained with over the years, Judge Reams has garnered most of the market share on marijuana. Becoming quite wealthy in the process, he is considered untouchable and well liked by the good ole boys of law enforcement. Only in this lost and forgotten section of the country could such a system still exist. And to our grief, Louise and I are about to find out about it.

    At my sentencing, having pleaded guilty to the whole wrap of “manufacture and sale,” I stand and prepare to get hammered. The two weeks in jail before making bail was enough time for a thorough education in the workings of this justice system. By taking the full charge, although the weed was only for personal use, I am able to exonerate Louise. And I am told that I can get probation and community service if I show the proper attitude. Like growing pot for the Judge. But attitude with a deference is always something I have had a problem with. Ever since I went to “free” the Vietnamese people from communist rule by killing them. So, dressed in none of the proudly hailed rhetoric or star spangled contrition, I stand here naked, my heart breaking for Louise and our boarded up home.
    Judge Reams looks over the courtroom, ending with a stern gaze in my direction. Finally looking back to the papers in front of him and seeming to discover some pertinent information that has been overlooked, he smiles, raises his eyes to the prosecuting attorney and nods before announcing sentence.
    “It is the decision of this court that you be incarcerated in the Morville Penal Institution for the period of one year and one day, not to include time served. I hope this will give you, and any other people coming from the big Northern cities to pollute our fair land, time to think about the consequences if you end up in front of The Law. Bailiff, he’s all yours, out of here.”
    Sobbing loudly and drawing many stares from the inhospitable herd watching the proceedings, Louise, sitting directly behind me and my “court” appointed lawyer, tries to reach me but is blocked by one of the bailiffs. “Charlie, I’ll be there,” she says. “Keep the faith, sweetheart, I’ll be there.”

    Busing the empty table and at the same time slapping the hand of an off duty prison guard trying to feel her up from another table, Louise looks at the clock and sees that her shift is almost done. Living off the money of those paid to incarcerate me is bad enough without the sexual abuse. But it keeps her close to me and her visits go a long way to help carry the load. Three more months and we are out of here. But where will we go? If only there is a way to clean up the place where we loved and lived for so many years. Letter after letter she writes concerning this but so far nothing. Me too, but we both know that mine probably end up in the trash. Looking back at the clock and trying to stay positive, Louise tells herself, just five more minutes. Maybe there is help in the mailbox at her little apartment over the gas station.

    Aiming to avoid any sexual innuendo from the gas station attendant, Louise hurries from her old Volvo and up the steps to her apartment, grabbing a letter from the mailbox by the door before letting herself in. Exhausted from an overtime shift, she literally falls into an overstuffed armchair that came with the place and kicks off her shoes before examining the letter. Oddly enough, there is no return address on the envelope but inside, on State Department of Justice letterhead, there is a letter from the State Attorney General. Informing Louise that he is aware of the crimes of Judge Reams and his minions, the AG also states that he has followed my case and knows about my refusal to become part of the Judge’s operation and the resulting incarceration. Not a very long missive, but direct and to the point, the letter says that appropriate measures are being instituted and it gives Louise a number to call if she would like to assist in this matter. Not thinking twice, Louise gets her shoes on, grabs her bag of tips, mostly quarters, and heads out the door to the phone booth by the highway. Going down the steps at a speedy clip, she sees her afternoon paper, half folded, on the bottom step. “..........Marijuana” is all that is visible of the front page but it is enough to pull her up. Reaching the bottom of the steps, she picks up the paper and unfolds it. On the top of the front page is the headline, “Governor Will Push For Legalized Marijuana.”

    Waiting on the hard wooden bench in the judicially austere hallway, an old porcelain water fountain its only other adornment, Louise clutches her purse close to her body, Trying to keep her mind on the business at hand and off of her fears, she doesn’t notice the nearby door open and a middle aged woman of considerable girth appear until the woman speaks.
    “Judge Reams will see you now. Just go past the desk and through the other door.”
    Noticing how a hasty retreat from this position would be impossible, Louise passes by the woman, steels herself, and enters the Judge’s inner sanctum.
    Behind a mahogany desk, socked feet up, and smoking a smoggy rank cigar, Judge Reams smiles and appraises Louise from her put up dark locks and smart short dress to her nylons and high heeled shoes. After blatantly pausing his gaze, he lets his eyes undress her on their trip back North.
    “Oh my, this is much better than that stuffy outfit you wore to court. No doubt I can see why your boy lets you do his talking. And no doubt about why he wants to regain his freedom......and keep it. Sit down.”
    Sitting down in a facing chair, Louise watches her dress ride up and squashes the urge to smooth it down. “Thank you,” she says, lifting her eyes to find the Judge riveted on her crotch.
    Giggling like a girl, Judge Reams replies, “No no my dear, thank you.”
    Putting on her best being a good sport smile, Louise says, “Will that be all? Can we get down to business now?”
    Puffing up a fresh batch of poison and assuming a very studied look, Judge Reams replies, “Not yet, my dear. Drop your dress to the waist and lets have a good look-see.”
    Hesitating just enough to cause Judge Reams to urge, lest he lose out on the sights, Louise thanks God when she hears him say, “Don’t be so modest dear. I have to see if you are wearing a wire.”
    Obeying his wishes, Louise exposes her upper half and the shear lightweight bra she is wearing.
    Actually licking his lips, the Judge hauls his body out of the chair, slowly walks around Louise and returns to his chair.
    “Nothing hidden in those canyons of delight I can surely see,” he says, pausing long enough to gauge and enjoy the fear in Louise’s face before continuing. “You may cover up now.”
    Trying not to shake as she does the clips to her dress, Louise says, “You don’t really think I would do something that stupid, do you?”
    “One never knows. Now let me lay out what I expect of my people, what they get, what I get, and the code. A code that far outweighs a year in the pen if broken.”
    Louise listens mostly, asking only enough questions to make sure there is a thorough understanding of exactly what is being said. Thirty minutes on, choked with foul smoke and disgust, she accepts the Judge’s hand as he says, “I think that you will find that I am good to my people. And for one such as you, I’ll go a long way out on a limb. Now see yourself out. I’ll be in touch.”
    With the utmost relief and thinking about how this is all going to play out, Louise finds her way out and back to her falling apart Volvo. Getting in and settling behind the wheel, she sets her purse in the passenger seat, opens it and removes the small recorder along with the tiny microphone that is hidden in a rivet hole. Pushing the rewind button she lets it spin for a moment before stopping it. Briefly surveying her parking spot for any dangers, Louise punches the play button and listens as it plays loud and clear, “And for one such as you, I’ll go a long way out on a limb.” Starting the Volvo, jamming it into first, and sprinting off, Louise grimly states to herself, “You already have you son of a bitch, you already have.”

    Hoeing corn is never such a bad job but the ass hole with a rifle over his shoulder standing in the middle of my row, like an armed, anything but jolly green benevolence, adds ten degrees to an already hot sun. One more month and the corn, along with the peas and carrots will have to live without me. And the turn key with the gun will have to find someone else to pretend he is master of. Working the fields after a winter inside is good tonic though. I am not any good with body building or playing basketball on a snow covered court. Nice to be back in the summer sun. Must mean, too, that my record supports the more relaxed security. But the gun is an insult. With a month to go why would I do anything that would require it?
    Noticing the prison pickup coming down the lane, I gauge the sun and see that it’s too early to quit. Anything out of the ordinary around here draws a lot of review. Something being in stir requires—anything to break the monotony of doing time. Also it pays to be aware of little changes. Good for your health, so to speak. Watching the pickup stop and call the guard over, I hoe a little faster, hoping to get closer and maybe hear a bit of the inside stuff. But before that can happen the guard leaves the truck and heads back in my direction, not planting himself off of me like before, but coming up close. Standing there a moment watching me hoe and shaking his head, he finally says, “Somebody must be pissing rainbows for you Chucky Boy. Gather your tools and get in the truck. The warden wants you checked out and ready to bird tomorrow morning. Your time is done, courtesy of the governor.”

    Reflecting an opulence that borders on sham, the platinum capitol dome of the State House dominates the small acreage assigned to it by the city. Beside one of the most polluted rivers in America, its smell from the chemical factories that line the river’s edge make the air hard to stomach. Coal barges linked together ply the river’s waters and keep these grounds and those who walk them greased with the green stuff. And, by-God, tough on crime is more than a slogan around here.
    Legalized marijuana, and a source of revenue other than coal, is the big national story of the day. An Appalachian fluke of even international interest, as evidenced by the many satellite trucks parked by the river waiting for me and Louise to emerge from the Governor’s office.
    Holding hands and walking lightly with my pardon held high, Louise and I come out the capitol doors, down the steps and into the fray. A reporter from New York matches our stride and tags us with his microphone and question. “After what you’ve been through, will you be glad to get back to the Big Apple?”
    Louise and I stop, look at each other and smile. “You tell them, Charlie,” Louise says.
    Dropping the smile, I look to the ground for a moment then look up. “I’m going home, chase the varmints out of our house, and get my allotted six plants going. And Louise is going to make some of the best apple pies anywhere....if the deer have left us our share of the apples.”
    “Does that mean you are going to stay around here?”
    “If you mean this state, the answer is yes.”
    Louise puts her forefinger to my lips and says, “Our home is here. Why would we want to go through this all over again? Marijuana is illegal in New York. Now please excuse us. We have an old Volvo to gas and patch.”
    Making it to the car and off the capitol grounds, I catch the first ramp to the interstate out of the valley and into the fresh air of the mountains.
    Just being, mile after mile in the quiet green humps of Appalachia is a beautiful thing. Lest we become too light for the bounds of earth, however, Louise ponders aloud, “Why would you talk about my apple pies? I can barely cook let alone make apple pies.”
    “Image my dear, image. Hotdogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet. Did you know the Governor did everything he could to stop legalization of weed? But all things must pass and so goes tough on “crime” for big bucks.”
    “I know” replies Louise. “Do you ever think that we can just live life and not have to look it....what a drag.”
    “We got the corner on that babe, we earned it, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do......for ages. Remember our favorite spot on that old fake bear rug by the Buck stove?”
    Stroking my inner thigh and brightening a bit, Louise replies, “Do I ever.”
    “Well all my talk back there about things to get done didn’t include number one.”
    “Really?” Louise says.”
    As shades of quiet green color the day, I let the silence spice the import of my reply.
    “You can bet on it.”

Charles Hayes bio

    Charles is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. Born and raised in the Appalachians, his writing interests centers on the stripped down stories of those recognized as on the fringe of their culture. Asian culture, its unique facets, and its intersection with general American culture is of particular interest. As are the mountain cultures of Appalachia.

different birds

    respect your elder. until you realize he is your saboteur.
    my first hawaiian friend fled the islands as soon as he could buy a plane ticket. when i lived with him, he was in revolt against a world that was resisting his desire and attempts to be a part. the financial trials of his youth in Hawaii fixed his sensibility. he dreamed of getting out, seizing the american dream, stock-piling cash and real estate in the most expensive county in the united states. the bank welcomed him because he was one of their kind and he was a genius, which meant he could throw a frisbee to a vice president’s right hand.
    kona. i hear waves. it’s 4:30 a.m. and i am killing time out on the lanai before first light, when i will grab my surfboard and walk down to the beach. there will be one knee-boarder out. jeff, an islander and talkative guy. Waves six feet.
    we snorkeled the coral reef yesterday. more fish, more color, more variation than i had imagined. the fish were unafraid, accustomed to being looked at and enjoying the attention while they fed off the coral. We swam among them as they showed off. i had never seen coral before and cut my finger. underwater, blood poured, thinned by the pacific.
    4 a.m. angela awoke to find me out here. she returned to bed, expecting me to follow her. reassembling from my nightly drug-induced coma, I cannot concentrate on sex. my motive is dawn, not discharge.
    took derek to the pool and hot tub last night. i watched him without going in myself. eighty-six-degree hot tub sounds like abuse and maybe even unhealthy. derek demands to go into the hot tub twice a day.
    gecko’s cling to the front door, the deck, the trees, eyes regulating. i don’t know much about flowers. i don’t know what i am looking at, except i know the birds of paradise. you walk to your car and it’s like you’re in a flower shop, without the gay guy and cash register. the mongooses prowl under the vegetation. i don’t know if they’ve run out of snakes. i guess that depends on the rats. the feral cats loll about this resort, unafraid and antisocial. we have made friends with one small black cat. we feed him milk and fresh fish. He was shy at first. one of his ears is half missing. he rubs his head against my leg and hand. he stands on his hind legs and gives love nips. we want to take him home. but there’s the quarantine. and at home there is the german shepherd. out here on the lanai, the colors rush in. green, orange, black, red, white, blue, green leaves as big as café tables, coconuts and bananas swim in the azure and drop into my morning, ya?
    in the morning driving for the general store for ice . . . I start by looking for a liquor store, but spot the general store open and wonder if they sell ice. driving, i realize i am the most uptight person on the island. my intensity rolls off Hawaii and comes back at me. i am ashamed, but i can’t mellow out without losing who i am. The silence, the beauty seem static and melancholic. It’s life without friction. Existence turned into an aesthetic inertia. i have humanity in my head. it is not a question of adopting island ways or adaptation of the pre-existing ease in the locals. This is their natural state. You see release in some visitors who are for a moment are not who they are, but they are not aloha. for me, i imagine the island as a dropping and tuning out i am not prepared for, a rewiring i’d never want – even if it was possible. i am thoughtless and brutal to their thoughtful and kind, which in my skepticism I consider a kinder way to get what you want. i am a new york short circuit which no mai tai or hula or smile is going to chill. i believe i am the most honest man in Hawaii.
    dad died at 5:45 p.m. eastern standard time. i was in the air, somewhere between western pacific time and Hawaii time. i know what i was doing when he died and i thought of him. we were about an hour from kona and angela and derek and i were having a brawling tickling fight. we were all laughing. in a calm moment, i thought of him and my decision not to visit him when he was alive and his surprise and depression. i thought that maybe there was still time, even though he would not know who i was, but the thought passed, along with him. i’m landing in Hawaii while he’s landing in hell. people like to echo his claims to spirituality, earned mostly by holding the holy bible under a lamp. my father approached the bible like it was a machine which guaranteed that his skin and hair would not be ablaze for many millions of years. in his actions, he was one of the greatest hypocrites i have ever known. he was never in touch with life or god. he was self-righteous and a sentimentalist, and above all, an abuser when he wasn’t feigning kindness.
    mom and sister shannon have made a point of how they were at his bedside when he died. i was in the heavens, so i must have let him down. they were faithful servants to their persecutor. it is impossible to talk to them without saying nothing. it is distressful for me to know i am related to these idiots who forget and misunderstand aggression and abuse out of sentimentality and favor telling me the beatings and degradation are in my head, most likely the result of my manic depression. dad was big on dismissing me for being bipolar. he didn’t accept the nobility of soul and never had. he marginalized and denied. he attacked. my youth amounts to a battle between a big dunce and a little genius. he was pathetic. i tell myself i shouldn’t take it so seriously now, but he was my father and that word means a lot. i wanted and hoped for more. i gave him a long time before i dismissed him, too long. once dismissed, he feared me. he even threatened to kill me one day when i looked at him like he was a piece of shit. he owned a ruger .45.
    my sister has made his suffering over the last three months a public event on facebook. daily updates on his brain, with effusions of emotions, family photographs, biblical quotes, a public saga that would wear down the sympathy of any friend who believed her dream portrait and exaggerated grief. her poor father, a great man, is dying! somebody console me before i stop and think about how he slapped me in the face and told me i was fat and said all my boyfriends were losers! . . . my sister has never broken free. she is like a slave who sheds tears at her owner’s funeral. my father was so bad to us that the crimes were invisible at the time because they were inconceivable and were ever-present. he resentfully supported us while turning his brilliance toward insulting us. i got it the worst because my conception wrecked his life, but i always fought him and paid the price until i was big enough to protect myself. i conquered him physically before i conquered him emotionally. People in the outside world showed me I was not worthless and I brought it back to him.
    angela and i sent a blue and white standing arrangement for the graveside ceremony. mom said she understood and accepted that i was not there. she didn’t expect me to come. she refers to fights i had with my father. she does not go past the fights to what caused them. she did not see the war he took up when i was born. she says she did not notice that dad never addressed me at the dinner table for 18 years. her memories are lost in her own conversations with him, the sex, the prolonged teenaged love pact. in fact, he rarely spoke to me anywhere at any time. in fact, when i spoke, he talked over my thoughts. mom and shannon did not notice. i grew the habit of speaking fast and urgently in order to be heard. it was not my natural manner. later in life this of course worked against me. i had been trained to be someone nobody listened to. i was not allowed to talk. i couldn’t talk. i didn’t talk. my insights overfilled my skull. Today, I speak in a low voice and don’t say much in quantity. only as a writer was i able to convey ideas without interruption. art raised me from the dead.

    dad had a lot of bad luck. it’s funny, because mom always persisted in telling how lucky he was. He often won $2 on scratch tickets, so she said he was lucky. i suppose she knew she was a part of his bad luck. dad’s life was marked and guided by bad luck, from his birth on april 20, 1945 to his death by brain cancer 65 years later. his mother was pregnant two months into her marriage. she had not wanted any children (but she was a catholic who liked to fuck.) dad came into the world unwanted and precocious. she beat him, whipped him with wire hangers, and locked him in the basement beginning when he was two years old. (dad waited until i was four before he beat me with wire hangers. dad was born to an anti-semetic family and grew up in a rigid, cold household, the least liked by his parents, who also expected the least of him. He was on the outskirts of humanity and was destructive toward the family he created, especially me, the bright-faced jew boy. mom is a jew and my conception in the front seat of a pontiac convertible at the beach locked him into a job and a marriage with a wife who spent every dime he made ($1,000,000) and whom his parents rejected. i was the cause of his fate and he let me know until i punched him in the face. i put the sonofabitch in the hospital and told him: “this is for the last 40 years.” he admitted his guilt, he got it, and he was mostly subordinate, except for the time he said he would kill me when I gave him that look. after knocking up his 17-year-old jew girlfriend, dad was sent to vietnam, where he was shot at every day for 18 months and breathed under a blanket of agent orange, pure dioxin, the most cancerous substance man has ever created. after vietnam, he worked to support us, but he made us pay. he resented all of us, except perhaps when my mother was fucking him. she relates tales of a man who sounds like he was a sex maniac, or sex addict. she traded her pussy for his money. this is a statement i have not kept to just my writings. i have told mom to her face. she didn’t talk to me for nine months after i told her she fucked him and overlooked the child abuse because he insured her financial security. mom stood by silent while dad beat the shit out of me for the most trivial reasons. she let it happen. she did not protect her son. it is something you’d say she has to live with, but her denial and sociopathic chemistry prevent her from even contemplating. this is something which has always interested me. people doing wrong to others without even knowing they are doing it. it’s an abundant phenomenon and in my family it seems to have been the rule. what you’d call consideration and conscience did not exist. so, dad knocked up mom with me, was sent to vietnam, and was forced to give up his sports car and take a job to support the family he had created by his own wanton carelessness. he was sick with resentment. against his country, his parents, his employers, and his family, which included a kid who could out-litigate him at the age of four and was not afraid to do so. what did dad and i fight about? it was very simple. when he said or did something to hurt others, i spoke up. When he said something I did not believe in, I spoke up. i took a lot of abuse defending mom and shannon who now say i was not abused. I do not believe in irony. they have never transcended the violence of our household. They do not know the truth, which means they do not know their true worth. or who they are. dad said: you are fat losers who wrecked my life and so they live on, believing him because to do otherwise would be to dismiss the love they believed they had felt and received. a pathetic man had filled the role and with time, the role meant more than the man. the only way for me to transcend it was to become a monster of a different sort. dad, you did not love me. dad, I was afraid of you. dad did not learn love from his mother. even years later when she was done hitting him with hangers and he was 30 years old, she was unable to show him love. She denied recommending he join the navy to avoid vietnam. She told him he was boring — to his face, as an adult. if we gain our sensibilities from our mothers, he had a poor experience which he never transcended. if there is any doubt, look at the overbearing bitch he chose for a wife.
    i wanted to kill him when i was a kid because i was afraid of his powers to hurt me physically and I knew he was treating us like he didn’t love us. my rage was born mostly of his physical aggression and less by the emotional abuse, which i was too young to fully comprehend. I just knew he made me feel bad. a kick to the ribs for pulling the head off my sister’s barbie doll is much more tangible than the concept that he resented me. i prayed for a divorce and considered running away. in retrospect, i should have moved back to new york city to live with my grandparents. dad and i did respect one another, as worthy enemies do. i was smarter than him and he was bigger than me. that i was his enemy was his choice, not mine. i was an enemy because i resisted his wrongheaded actions and statements. he could not be wrong, and no kid was going to point out that he was wrong, therefore we fought, which mom remembered after his death. i adapted to circumstances and suffered his strength, size, and rage. dad had no temper. he had no buffer. the best i can do is consider that he had post traumatic stress disorder, because there was no lapse between my “no” and his knuckles. add ptsd to his resume of bad luck. more than anything, he was jealous of me. i looked like him, but there was an angel on my shoulder. what i touched became gold. people. school. music. in my life away from him and outside the home i thrived. his disdain grew. he denied me, withheld recognition and encouragement. 3.89 gpa, three scholarships, beautiful girls. he never said good job. mom recognized and encouraged despite his hard silence when she did. if there was an angel on my shoulder, dad tried to kill it. but you can’t kill an angel or the one who it protects. he tried to make his void mine, but couldn’t. in his envy and resentment of my existence, he confirmed my existence. i rose against him; he created his own bad luck. dad carried the holy bible to his breast, but never considered that he might be worthy of an angel. It was as if he knew he was bad and could not change this. it was his choice that i lived under and with. i remember when i was the only freshman to make high school jazz band and when i went out for pizza with the seniors i never had a cent because dad wouldn’t give me a dime and so my friends paid my way and i got looked upon myself as a charity case. dad handed over $1,000,000 to my mother’s cunt, but when i was a freshman, too young to work, he would not give me $5 once a week to go out for pizza with my band buddies – and i did cut the lawn. he never encouraged my success and later on in life put down my success. there was something fundamentally wrong with him that required me to dismiss him as pathetic if i was to have my own healthy existence. In this way he forced me to believe in myself. he didn’t, so i had to or die. should i consider this a gift from the old man? the self-made man! eighteen years under the roof owned by a man who hated me is beyond compensation. (mom tells me now after his death that his coldness was a “fealey thing” and that he loved me though it was not in his nature to say so.) once again, mom avoids the heart of the matter. it was just “fights,” not a personal lack of love. for 18 years i was trapped under the roof of this “impersonal” man who flinched if I walked into the room. mom tells me now that he loved me. what is it when someone has to tell you your father loved you? dad never said a word about my education, except once. from kindergarten to my senior year in college he made one comment: “your major is useless.” nevermind the gpa, national honor society, opening for miles davis at the newport jazz festival, how the u.s. navy recruited me to be a fighter pilot, the scholarships in music and engineering, and the literary accomplishments of the future. “worthless” was his decree, then and when I was 40. my realization that he was wrong and i would never get the approval i sought came late. i had to unwind the ropes. the need, the compulsion to gain a father’s approval is so strong that when it is absent, recovery and reorienting your identity is like moving a mountain. after i gave up on him, he was a bad joke to be navigated superficially. i never had a serious, deep, felt, honest conversation with my father. mom and sister did, they say. he was unavailable to his son.

    the different birds have awakened around me. you’d say it’s dark, but the sky is visible as an overcast with clouds dashing through the darkness. blue is a supposition now. when to head out? after this beer? no smokes in six weeks. i started 13 years ago after a brutal fight with the old man. of course i proved he was wrong, but i left the house shaking. i leaned on camels and that was it for more than a decade. that i quit just before his death is timely. freedom from suicide makes sense.
    dad is dead. smugly underground. no reconciliation is possible now. he departed without ever admitting. the best i saw was as his mind left him he became less aggressive. i will not view this as an admission or even a truce. he just kept his mouth shut because he knew i’d crush him for his lies. the years and time gave me all the power and i did not exploit it. now something is different. that blink of hope is extinguished. toward the end, he said things which a hopeful man might construe as an acknowledgement, but not an apology. toward the end, when he did not make sense most of the time, his thoughts subverted by the cancer in his brain, he said things. “we didn’t always see eye to eye . . . but it was all good . . . wasn’t it?” what could i say to my dying father except “yeah . . .” wasn’t it all good? does he not know or is it another lie? could he have shielded himself from his actions so completely? or is it the dream of a dying man? when family visited him, i did not. i told him i would not be visiting when he asked. mom had told him this too, but he had misinterpreted it. he thought i was coming. Either that or my mother had told him I was coming. after i said i was not, he fell into a depression for days. he was dying and his only son had no compulsion to get on a plane. for me, his meanness was thorough, like a project. i owed him nothing. i am not sentimental. by illness or design, he told shannon that i had yelled at him. she wrote me a nasty e-mail. i called her twice to tell her the truth, left messages, but she did not answer her phone or call me back. i wrote to her and my mother. i had not yelled at my father. my sister finally wrote me a flippant and idiotic message: “sorry dude. i must have misunderstood him. this is another reason why we should not talk to each other.” whaa?? she’d prefer to believe that i had yelled at dad? could she make a weaker and less offensive apology? If dad somehow gets into heaven, maybe he can pull some strings for us, though i believe that “all is forgiven” is a lie. Heaven and hell are on this earth. And if god does give him a kingdom, he will have a mortgage on it.

    it is now time for me to put on my trunks and take my surfboard to the beach. two blocks. i can hear it. the surf is up. dad was always against my surfing. he was jealous and lashed out like a maniac when i bought my first new board. i didn’t understand his rage at the time. how dare i have fun doing something that is healthy for me? that board improved my surfing and surfing has been one of the best things i have ever had in my life. it was good. dad was against it. i have to keep reminding myself that he was a pathetic man and i might say too much about him. the only justification i arrive at is that he was my dad, who was supposed to be a father. i had expectations of the word.

    i walked back from the beach with cut and bruised feet, limping away from the reef nauseated by the salt water i’d swallowed. the waves in Hawaii have more wave than any waves i’ve ever surfed before. a six foot wave here is like a 12 foot wave back east. geography – deep water rolling onto shallow coral – conspires to create the most powerful and sought-after waves in the world. one mile offshore, the water is 3,000 feet deep. back east, one mile offshore it is 100 feet and swells experience drag as they come in across the continental shelf. there is no continental shelf in Hawaii or california. the ocean swell here collides with the shallow reefs, breaking in three feet of water. the swell is hurled into a tube that slams one into the coral and lava. the water temperature was 78 and my surfing was uninspiring, but the knee-boarder had some good rides. he’s surfed this spot for 20 years. just getting out there after so long was nice.
    we drove north out of kona through sharp black lava beds with the sun’s rays boiling off the black earth in search of a beach we could not find. none of the beaches are marked here and i like that because a beach is better without people on it. adventurers like us turn off on the unmarked roads and drive to the end. we did not find the white sand beach we were looking for, but we found the white sand beach that put itself in our path. we hiked across sand which burned our feet under the palms with green coconuts. “beware of falling coconuts.” never seen a sign like that before. we swam with the fish and two green sea turtles arrived and we swam with them. i felt crude beside their underwater ballet. eye to eye, their eyes were black, solid shining obsidian orbs until a shift in the sunlight revealed the pupil looking into my eyes. the honu are safe here and do not fear humans. green mottled and yellow necks, moving along with a shell covered with slippery green algae, underwater dinosaurs – i am communing with an ancient hawaiian god. it is a calm and generous god full of grace and tolerance. i follow it out to sea, caught in those unworried and fearless eyes. the turtles swam on and on and into the depths without ever surfacing for air.
    i wrote, shannon wrote, and mom wrote: our collaboration produced a good obituary for dad. the only part i didn’t like was about how dad is now with “the lord, christ, our savior, jesus” but otherwise it profiled a kind, decent, intelligent, creative, and loved man. mom ran it in the dailies in maine and rhode island at a cost of $1,800. he deserves it, she said, needlessly justifying it as if i disagreed with the expenditure, as if i had not loved him.
    “it was all good . . . (nervous laugh) . . . wasn’t it?”
    “ . . . yeah.”
    a son seeks approval until he is on his knees, but not unto his own dismemberment. I rendered onto him indifference. the man who harmed his son out of envy will die young of brain cancer, for his brain had always been a cancer. he will die shortly after the son totally dismissed him. we left each other at the same time.
    the mongooses run around the perimeter of the lanai. one came in the sliding glass door to have a look at our living room. i scared it off because i didn’t want him stuck in the place behind the couch. i have no idea how mongooses think, but i have seen ferrets and they are crazy and love to hide in small spaces. Hawaii imported the mongoose to eat the snakes whose population bloomed after they were brought in to eat the rats captain cook gave the islands before the hawaiians cut his head off. some say the mongooses were imported to eat the rats, but that doesn’t explain the snakes. captain cook also brought with him mosquitos from the bilges of his ships. today, the mongoose dominate. what to import to control the mongoose? bigger snakes. bigger mosquitoes. Some day a python will eat that salesman from omaha . . .

    mom opted for a sealed steel casing for dad’s coffin because the water table in milo is high and she was disgusted with the idea and image of dad rotting and floating in a waterlogged casket. he has not been embalmed to save money and the casket will be closed for the funeral, with no visiting hours. friend and family will not see dad. i believe mom did not want to see him again. she didn’t have the courage to look death in the face one more time. The wake is always the hardest part and she skipped it. a u.s. flag will be draped across the coffin and a two man honor guard will fold it into a triangle and present it to the widow. a flutist will play patriotic music. when dad was in boot camp, he played taps and he sang and played guitar in vietnam, two things he gave up when he had a family. the funeral is now opened to the public, not private, as mom originally intended.
    “men, as tough as they try to be, are more spiritual and sensitive than women,” i said. “this is why there are so few great women artists.”
    angela walked off, saying: “i think i’ve heard enough of you.”
    dad felt gyped and he was. he drank a bit in the earlier years, and had quit smoking when he was about 20. Lately he drank wine once a week and his family had no history of cancer. all he had was a heavy dose of dioxin –courtesy of henry kissinger.
    with angela not talking to me, i am free to work on this tale of love and death and paradise found, the unfound man found lost.
    when i mentioned to angela that the only child born should be the child the father insisted upon, she lost her cool. the man does not have the exaggerated life instinct. he does not take parenthood as easily as the woman, if he is dedicated to parenting. he owns more conflict and investment in sweat and semen. a child born of a man’s intent has a better chance at life than a child born of a woman’s wiles, deception, or carelessness. A mother loves her child, but the father guides him. my accident was despised by my father. his exaggerated death instinct came to bear on the child. whereas the child demanded by the father, the inheritor of the throne, is the child with the best chance to thrive (and survive.) a mother’s child, a son more affected by its mother, must struggle against his weakness. i have been formed by a father’s hatred that was compensated for by a sentimental and overemotional mother who now denies their plot to send me to live with a friend in sidney.
    angela and i were talking about women novelists. jane eyre: romance writer. jane austen: exquisitely dull. marguerite duras is strong and she was more of a man than tolstoy, who wrote like a navel-gazing hermaphrodite on meth amphetamines. duras’ lover is better than most of hemingway, who was better than most. angela said i was an ungrateful misogynist on a vacation she paid for. i think i need a cigarette . . . women killing men. if i am a misogynist and am as objective as I know I am, then everyone should be a misogynist. it’s another easy label suggesting that i have a presentiment. i have no sentiment and take men and women one at a time. don’t give me your opinion; match my facts. lay it down for me, your true experience. men are pricks and women are cunts and there will be no resolution, thankfully. as for this trip and angela’s capabilities as a woman, i am in complete respect, yet i still believe that most women, not all women, are not sensitive, perceptive, realistic, thoughtless or brutal enough to be prophets, nevermind a picasso.

    (here we are, several weeks out of Hawaii, and mom admits something to me that is criminal – without seeing the crime in it. we were talking about dad and how he told her he loved me on his deathbed. i said this didn’t do me much good when he was beating me in the hall while she sat at the kitchen counter drinking her lipton tea, milk and sugar. “you didn’t try to stop him,” i said. she said, “dad and i aways had a rule to stick together. otherwise, your children will try to come between you.” i said i never did such a thing and that her first job was the protection of her son and daughter, not her husband. his behavior was unacceptable. She should have made him go to counseling, thrown him in jail, and divorced him. to go deeper into this we need to understand the bargain they had made with each other. he gave her money. she gave him pussy. we kids were negatives who went more tolerated by her than by dad. dad had never wanted me and treated me the same insane ways his mother treated him. mom admitted that she saw dad perpetuate his mother’s abuse of him, but she claimed that she was at work and didn’t see the things that i described. it is true that dad preferred no witnesses. this is when i told her about her sitting at the counter drinking her tea while in the hall dad backhanded my head and kicked my ribs over some trivial matter. her admission that she put her husband over her children’s safety shows how much they tried to perpetuate a warped incarnation of the teenaged lovers. kids were an irritation and unfortunate consequence. their response to children was immature. that dad said he loved me is a recent event. after i put him in the hospital and told him to go fuck himself, he expresses love for me for the first time in 41 years. at 40 years he was throwing out my paintings without telling anyone and telling me i was worthless. what a difference imminent death makes. his claims of love fall in a forest that’s too late.)

    back to kona, an island much more pleasant than the one i grew up on: angela is not answering my calls. i can’t even get her voicemail. first i checked the pool and hot tub for them before i noticed the red rental car was missing from the lot. she had taken off without telling me. now i can’t get a hold of her. i am the misogynist. she is the woman. i suppose i’ll have to get my own dinner: cocoa puffs and and potato chips. i called again and got her voicemail. i left a message: “when you’re done flipping out, maybe you can tell me where you are.” she called a little while later, denying that she was upset.
    i’d like to write about the joy of grabbing angela’s breasts, but i don’t think there is enough paper. she says so and i feel so. her breasts make an enormous presence on the island. how can it be that my life has changed so much after I got on a plane two years ago in maine? dad had dropped me off at the airport. all I could summon was “see ya.” he replied, “maybe not on this earth.” i didn’t believe it.
    where the hell is the slotted screwdriver?! you put it in the wrong slot! wrinkled forehead, contorted face, antagonizing lips and pulsing temples. sometimes i hoped that his heart would give out and he’d drop dead at my feet. i was such an idiot and menace to his mental health (and my well-being) it seemed like the death of one of us would solve both our problems. i don’t think he knew that he wanted me dead. he would never admit such a thought into his consciousness. consciously, he worked at keeping me down and away from my mother and grandfather. people now talk about his good traits and it is easy for me to agree with them. it was their experience. mine was different. a nightmare which my family does not understand. you could call it a father and son thing where the father beats his son in his own best interest, but this is more insidious because dad’s war was mostly psychological and he never had my best interest in mind. it’s the kind of war that is easy to hide from others. he never replied to anything i said and in groups this was easily accomplished and unnoticed. most of our talk was him yelling and me making what he called back-talk, which to me was an honest defense against a misguided and malignant person. much of the violence was the result of his inability to beat me in forensics. my good defense was back-talk worthy of being beat in the head. Dad called it back talk. the school said i had an iq of 195.
    dad is dead. his funeral is tomorrow. mom has ordered a tent because rain is forecast for milo, maine. she has received calls from unexpected people. she is enjoying contact with those who remember and cared about dad. none of these friends will show at his funeral. there will be a thin representation of family and no friends for dad. two non-family members will show: my friend joanne, my former landlord; and mom’s hair dresser. later i called joanne and she said she went because she was hoping to see me there. i guess she expected me to fly out for the funeral. she didn’t know anything about dad and me. i made a presence in my absence. it’s a public aspect and statement i never wished to make. it’s between me and my “father.” i did him a favor and did not come to pay my disrespects, even though i might have confirmed he was dead. i treated his death as honestly as i could while hurting the fewest.

    blue sky 87 degree journey through black lava moonscape to the petroglyphs north. we’ll find a new beach at the end of this rough road if our tires don’t go flat. yesterday’s beach was a discovery at the end of a road to nowhere. new fish! sea turtles! i snorkeled out to 25 feet of water. there are more fish in seven feet of water. i got the idea. there are different fish out there and the fish inside don’t like those fish. we saw a tuna jet across the reef, an iridescent cobalt entrance and a three-foot getaway. out there i did not fear the reef sharks because i could see everything. it was too bright and clear and green a world to die in. even if the few fish out here hung by the bottom inches from ledges into which they could vanish in the blink of a tooth. i was mesmerized by the sea world with a feeling of weightlessness, flying and looking down onto inner earth. the pressure hurt my head when i dove for the bottom. i found a cave that went into the side of the reef and opened at the top of the reef a few feet away. a tight fit to consider, stupid bravado.
    my old man allegedly goes to the paradise he studied for while i am in paradise, as removed from his suffering as i can be. i was not there for him and this is better and more truthful than how he was there for me. the eighth wonder of the world is how fathers can either nurture and encourage their sons and others brutalize them. certain fathers nurture systematized destruction. elaborate and consistent repression of what is good. some sons will become stronger and some sons will decline. fathers can wear their sons to dust, can stunt evolution and progress, and even sabotage and unravel greatness. i made it through, damaged. i do wonder if his relentless attacks made me stronger. as if he was doing the right thing. if he prepared me for the world and i owe him some gratitude. does my scrappiness come from him? just as my lack of self-respect? i was on a jet one hour from kona when he died. derek and i were tickling angela. she was about to pee her pants. then angela and i tickled derek. during a lull in the laughter, i suddenly thought of him. it was a moment of doubt. should i have visited him? could i yet visit him? was i on a jet headed in the wrong direction? the idea passed quickly in the present. I lived with my decision. we were landing in Hawaii. i was with two people i loved. they made me feel loved. we were a healthy family. the most frightening part of my childhood was six-feet under, in a steel box sealed from the outside.
    derek is a snorkeler. casual as a turtle, fast as a humu.

    toward the end, dad showed fear-respect. he opened the front door with a .45. “if you hit me again, i’ll fucking kill you.” it was apparent that he did admit to himself that he deserved to be hit after telling me i had done nothing good in my life. i now had respect, but it was the respect for me as someone who could hurt him, not the respect that was 40 years accumulated as a journalist and novelist. he wanted to kill me, but would not get away with it. otherwise would he have shot me? absolutely. since he could not kill me and feared the son he had created, his tone dropped a bit. he showed more humility in my presence. he believed i would kick his ass again if he stepped out of line. he no longer said anything negative toward me, except that he wanted to kill me. we had a truce that did not include any change of hearts. i gave him a brutally absurd story i had written about him in vietnam and he said “it’s great! i love it!” it had taken him 42 years. i believe that with that story he realized i was not full of shit with my writing endeavors, that i actually produced stories. it was a rare approval and i wanted it, but it was tempered by how i had risen up against him and defeated all authority. he had always dismissed me without reading my work. A part of his war, the idea was in part grounded in my lifestyle, which must have looked pretty good to a guy locked into marriage, kids, and a job at 21. my ways were abhorrent, contemptuous. manic-depression was especially abhorrent. They thought of themselves and marginalized me. The first words out of their mouths when I was diagnosed? “it skips generations.” when things got rough, they let me starve to the point of scurvy. they lived ten miles away, just far enough to ignore my menu. their apathy consisted of sirloin and shrimp, lobster and flounder, mai tais, cabernet, sam adams lager, new cars and decks, and $1,500 dogs . . . for my commitment to art, i dined on my own teeth. dad was against giving me one penny. i was sober and off drugs for seven years during this time, so they could not have kicked me in the balls on those. mom tried, illicitly mailed me a $20 every few weeks without telling dad. now and then she hurriedly brought me groceries. she couldn’t be away from the house for too long or she’d have some explaining to do. these problems could be directly connected to manic-depression and its stigma, but it was also a continuation of dad’s sentiment. he was against allowing me to live with them when i got sick. In the beginning, grandma chipped in $300 a month for rent at the rooming house. mom and dad pledged $100 a month assistance. i had $90 in food stamps, which were more consistent than my folks’ $100. it was a paltry sum for a couple making $100,000 a year and they were never prepared to give it to me when i arrived. the check had not been written. nobody offered to write the check. so i had to raise the subject. dad exploded. it was all insult. when he was done, he wrote the check and threw it at me. i left their house feeling like i was asking too much of them, like i was a shit, like i had no support from the very people one should be able to count on. i knew that i would react differently and better. when i had been a musician and journalist, i had been a star to my mother; when i quit the paper due to illness, i was an untouchable. see, this was all about them and their pride and role in producing me. my success was never about me. if it had been, my illness would have engendered compassion. as he always had, but more, dad exploited my weakness. i struck back and his response was fear and homicidal ideation and sentimentality. “we didn’t always see eye to eye, but it was all good, wasn’t it?” i couldn’t kick a man who was falling. he either believed the reality he had constructed or was trying to deflect reality, which is a father who raged an emotional and physical war against his son for 40 years. until that son gave it back to him once and he became terrified. a classic tale of the death of a bully. i had learned through school that some bullies could be beat with a strong attack, especially one that embarrassed them. i should have shot my father when i was 12, but i didn’t know anything about just cause or juvenile hall and exoneration and release at 18. we would have lost his income, but gained the absence of a man who was always worse than absent. but it’s complex. i wrote stories to escape, but dad bought me the typewriter. The house where he beat me with wire hangers is where he taught me to ride a bike. He could divide a person from himself.
    mom wanted to help her children but did not. she did not protect us from his violence and verbal abuse. she did not tell him to leave and she never called the police and she never asked him for a divorce. they had always had an “it’s us against the world mindset” because their parents had given their marriage six months. they never forgot these insults and devoted much energy into proving the naysayers wrong. this included their pact to put themselves above their children. youth, the new generation was not viewed in our house as the future. we were static interruptions to their original 1967 cabal. we navigated school and friends without them. when it came time for college, they resisted every idea i had, including places where i had been offered scholarships. it was fixed in their minds that we would attend the local college. it didn’t matter that one of the best universities in the country had offered me a scholarship, or that another school gave me a scholarship to play trumpet, which mom had encouraged my whole youth. mom would not even look at the paperwork. they had always encouraged good grades and now my gpa and scholarship offers meant nothing. i was thrown into a university where i did not want to be and was not commensurate to my abilities. It was a high school with ash trays. my depression worsened and i drank vigorously. b+ in pre-med. word on the street was that it was not good enough for med-school. turned out to be absolute bullshit, but i had quit to pursue writing, the patience and time and shelter to think and the guts to share inspirations I believed would alleviate suffering and reach and change minds and souls.
    i am no longer imprisoned by reconciliation. i can no longer hope, dream, imagine the day when he admits what he did to all of us and become enlightened. the last thing a parent will admit is that he hurt his child. i have been freed from the potential by death. i relax, forget, and swim in a new ocean. an important man is dead – as he was. i never would have wished for that father, yet i wouldn’t surrender him to anyone else. he was mine to hope or kill.
    sunday. another day in kona. beer #5. tourists jog and eat eggs. i discern a slight nausea. everyone you see at our resort, the elite, is wealthier than 99% of the world’s population. it is an unlikely place for me. the best i can say about living among the thieves and parasites is that it is quiet. we have bought silence. the plants are not quilty of anything and have always been silent, so i identify with the palm trees. ultimately it’s the beer which saves me from my human environment. i know i am not yet free of the life i lived for 15 years. absolute destitution is close by, stealing toilet paper, shoplifting beer, ramen noodles, isolation and the lunatics i lived with and ate with at the soup kitchens. i am in Hawaii thanks to my girlfriend and her generous parents.
    drink because you are afraid of yourself sober. it’s a remedy which limits your powers, but allows you to go on. maybe the friction will be of some use. often, you will suspect you have become the anti-christ.
    1 a.m. making coffee. breezy on the lanai. feel more awake than sleepy. in 10 hours i will be out on a charted fishing boat, trolling for marlin, tuna, dorado, wahoo, a fight. dad used to go on these charters every summer. he never took me.
    today dad will be buried in a khaki steel coffin, in the ground he chose seven years ago. i suppose it would have been better to see him dead instead of dying, but i could not have trusted his corpse. he might sit up and snarl a last insult. or maybe he would lay there so peacefully that regret would creep in on me. he’s got on his blue blazer and funny fish tie. in the end, the corpse would have shown me more respect than he’d ever offered and admitted. considerations of a provider. consideration of an extortionist. i’ll make you cry and bleed for every dollar i bring home. he wished i had never been born, but fucking without protection was a choice. he failed at making me wish i had never been born, as he failed at so many things. i found love elsewhere. the more dad failed, the more he despised me. he grew desperately violent. when my health failed and i was jobless, he marginalized me and allowed me to wrestle $100 a month out of him, but he did soften his attacks – as if he believed my illness meant he had won.

    the plan was for angela to drop me off at the docks and pick me up when the boat came in. this way, she would not spend the morning without a car. on our last vacation to memphis I took the car to visit a friend and she exploded on me when I got back. Hawaii: later at the house, she said, assumingly: “so you’re taking the car in the morning.”
    “no.”
    “i thought you were taking the car in the morning,” she said.
    “we agreed that you will drop me off and pick me up, so you won’t be without a car. i’m not taking the car and i don’t appreciate you assuming things for me. remember our last vacation? we agreed i’d take the car to visit james for a couple hours and when i got home i walked into the fires of hell.”
    angela did not sleep in our bed last night. she slept with derek. tennesee she had made me feel like a true shithead taking the car and she was not going to do it again. i have never had a girlfriend who excels so well at making me feel like a shithead. she suffers an elaborate neuroses, who’s sense is that i must be challenged at every opportunity. she incites disagreement. she seems to seek verbal abuse. i snap and give her what she wants and so am a shithead again, which is also what she seeks. This makes her happy. She admits to self-flagellation. she wants to be hurt/she wants me to feel bad. this is the loop i find myself spinning around inside. the best i can do is keep my mouth shut (without agreeing with her) and defend myself against a woman’s insanity. she intrudes upon my writings, by which I mean she sneaks reads. i will have to take this notebook on the boat. i can’t leave it at home because she considers my thoughts our shared property. “i don’t hide anything from you,” she said. i had never considered i was hiding my notebooks until i met her. i love her, but she goes out of her way to create moments we both dislike.
    probably the most significant and maybe even positive thing dad gave me was contact with a twisted genius. our fights were litigations founded in right and wrong. they were emotionally charged trials of truth versus ignorance and lies. i learned from him how to present and fortify a point of view. i learned insistence in spite of physical harm. i don’t recall dad ever winning one of our fights. but i did not learn my sense of right and wrong from him. if i had believed he was right, i would have become a serial killer. i did not learn my sense of right and wrong from anyone else either. it was always there, i had been born with it like a cosmic child who beamed goodness and was wrathful of evil. dad was brilliant and aggressive, but he was in the dark. he was evil, and therefore weaker, scuttled away in the light like a cockroach throwing fists. his wrongness was contained in condemnations and beatings. the “beats” hitchhiked through america’s great wasted lands and wrote about it, but they didn’t talk about what “beat” really is. the only ones who know what beat is are the ones who resisted it.
    it’s easier to forgive dad now. it’s the one option. last night he told me he would understand if i didn’t. in death, he admits. in death he has lost his elaborate defenses against our life. six feet under in a steel vault in his funny fish tie he starts talking straight. i really don’t want to forgive him, but to assure the new time     gotu kola. memory-enhacing herb. whatever may bring it back is worth a try. my memory is specific and involuntary. i don’t say “remember when . . . ?” i cannot recall, but when memory arrives i say, “there is something in my skull and i can’t talk right now.” Experience of this type of memory is FACT. It is also a verb. ///amnesia acres. the name of grampa’s farm in the catskills, the same grampa who taught me i was worthwhile, and even priceless. amnesia acres, a very thoughtful and poetic name from a guy who dropped out of school at 11 to work and help support his family during the great depression, then went to war, then a construction worker. i think most of the amnesia he hoped for had its foundation in world war ii, which plagued the last 53 years of his life. his life was split into two parts: the great depression and the war. he never recovered from either, but the killing and death were worse than poverty. in both, someone in power is trying to kill you, but war is more immediate, graphic, and overpowers the senses. for him, someone was trying to kill him his entire life. some said he was “paranoid,” but i’d say by the time he was 25 he had all the facts he needed. he bought guns. he threatened the president. the secret service came to our house. he wiggled his way out of federal prison and johnson went on to kill another million. i’m sure johnson had gotten many similar letters and the industrial military complex was drawing his baths slightly too hot.
    i wish i could talk to my sister, but she married this guy. she has made an oath to him. she feeds his obese ass. tolerates his love of money. hears his ignorant judgments. he is my sister’s second husband. throughout her life, my sister rejected the smart, good-looking guys who pursued her. she was quite beautiful and she let you know it, yet she always rejected the good men in favor of the grossly flawed. she fails or refuses to see how this is the result of her father’s constant abuse. you’re not the smartest and most talented and you look a little fat to me. i feel sorry for her because it appears she has no choice. she fears the good man. she does not feel worthy of the good man. she is at an artificially reduced level which forces her to choose men who are many levels beneath her. her fat slob of a dickhead husband must have considered himself a wolf when she said “yes” and “i do.” the failures she chooses tell her how to feel and think. they work as secret police who control who she sees. she adopts the ways of these failures so quickly that it seems automatic, as if she is a void, yet she proclaims: “i think for myself.” myself, i consider how many people i have heard say that in my life. so very few . . . //blind silly cunt arrogant in her self-promotion of identity, compensation for the lie dad gave her and she lives by. mom says my sister will never talk to me again. one more victory for her father and husband. her fat boy from the swamps has a running campaign to separate her from her friends and relatives, to isolate the beauty so she fails to see she has options. divide and conquer, just like dad. but he underestimates the power of blood and how my sister and i shared ourselves for 18 years during the most formative parts of our lives. so, i called my sister a dumb cunt. she will talk to me again. she can call me a fucking asshole and we will laugh.
    interruption: mom just said she would “fucking sue you” if i write about how she did not protect her children from my bastard father. it was a balancing act for her and she leaned more toward his money, jewelry, clothes, cars, boats, vacations, dining out. she said things were different in those days. it was okay to beat four-year-olds with wire hangers and beat a 12-year-old’s head. in the background of all this is that my family does not see my complete relationship with my old man, which was second-to-second degradation. it was easy to go unnoticed, except for the violent outbursts, which half the neighborhood must have heard. (he actually once slapped my sister in the face in front of her next-door-neighbor friend kelly.) (kelly, who is still one of my sister’s best friends, did not attend the funeral. he lacked restraint and context.)
    dad listed me on his tax return as a dependent long after i had moved out and was supporting myself. i was working and being robbed by the irs. i mentioned this to him and he exploded. another stupid fight to stop him from claiming me. he was fucking with my withholdings long after i was out of the house and receiving no support from him. this is how my dad was when it came to money – with me. for himself and mom he spent $1,000,000 on every manner of comfort and recreation. as i lay dying of starvation with my teeth falling out, he had $400,000 and said, “it’s his fault he’s a manic depressive. i’m not giving him a dime.” baudelaire said that great men succeed in spite of their families, not because of them. i have succeeded despite them, so well in fact that they wish to sue me. if my mother knew she could get a piece of my royalties, she would try. which is amusing because i have always imagined supporting her in her later years. the bitch turns a gift into an extraction and robbery. It’s the only way she knows.
    eating a baked potato with salt, pepper, and butter. time for eggs and toast. 3 a.m. 9 a.m. in maine, one hour until dad’s funeral. i’m awake. they are awake, feeling worse than i do. i will miss the dirt and prayers i want to see and hear. i want to look into the hole from which he will never insult me again. i want to see the flowers and the tears of his wife and daughter and sister. here on the big island i am spared the misunderstandings of others, but do not get to see the dirt. I want to see them roll the sod out. on the day of my dad’s funeral, i will be sportfishing in Hawaii. sport fishing, a thrill he engaged in. he took photos of the still boats at a green dawn and the fish on the blue sea and in the boat and showed them to me. i was so jealous.
    i asked allen ginsburg for a glass of water. he was behind the bar. he gave me a beer. probably safer than the water, but not what i needed.
    the motto of mokulele air is “the spirit of Hawaii.” but they wouldn’t let me take my surfboard from the big island to maui. the woman at the gate says my board is too long. it is over 6 feet. my board is 9 feet. angela tells the woman the board was okayed by the airline months ago.
    a copilot comes out of the back office. pressed white shirt, cap, tall and tanned, lanky in his ray ban aviators. a flippant prick with a crew cut flying nine-seaters and imagining himself at top gun.
    “who said you could bring your board?” he snaps at angela.
     “go!” she says.
    ”do you have a specific person’s name?”
    “ . . .”
    “that’s go!”
    (go! owns mokulele . . . )

    the woman at the desk had been reinforced and was now adamant. no surfboard. no aloha at mokulele air. this was after angela had called go! and made the reservation. she had actually measured the board while she was on the phone with the airline and all was clear.
    i said, “instead of saying ‘no’ and forcing me to leave behind a $900 surfboard, why don’t we both try to come up with an answer.”
    the copilot retreated to the back office. he had not looked at me during his exchange with angela and did not look at me when he came back out to board his plane. the point was he didn’t have the space on his plane. the other point was we had been told by go! there was. obviously go! had switched planes on us.
    the woman pointed to a building around the corner and said, “you can try freight.”
    the first freight place was not set up to bill people off the street, so he referred me to another freight company. the board was in maui the next day, unharmed, for $44. back at mokulele, the woman at the desk did not bill us for our luggage. some aloha in the end.

    i had a dream about dad. i felt bad. there was no admission or remorse from him. i tried to beat it out of him and his last words were, “deal with it.” my anger, my sadness. how pathetic he was. forgive me lord for i know not what i do? dad knew exactly what he was doing. “deal with it” is an admission, a nasty, careless, final bite before i pounded the fluid out of his eyeballs. i got nothing out of him before he went to his grave. he was more machine than man. there is no reconciling. “deal with it.” i pounded his face for a confession and he talked about our times together on saturdays.
    saturdays we were both home. it was not a comradery or time spent together. he just had more time for his silent disdain. when we went to the lake to fish, we parted and fished alone. dad did not impart any philosophies about life at the lake and maybe i should be grateful because his ideas were warped. he became enraged when i caught more fish than he did and he had to take the hooks out. he yelled at me for catching fish. he screamed when i tangled my line. i was taking time out of his fishing. when we took the john boat, it was all about preventing me from capsizing us. when he wobbled the boat, it was okay; when i wobbled the boat less, we were about to drown. fishing with dad was all about the things i was doing wrong, which included catching fish. the closest he got to philosophy was when he quoted the bible in order to put us all down. we were the sinners. we were the takers. that he had produced us was irrelevant. here we were and there he was with the whip. “deal with it,” he says from his fresh grave. it is recent that i have realized the extent of his dismantling operation and attempt to divide us and conquer us, which he partially succeeded at.
    i’d say my mother put him in his early grave. willful, spendy, calculating, always demanding, never satisfied, screaming to go on vacation, she stressed him out of existence. she fucked $1,000,000 out of him without ever protecting us from his rage, which began with his own insecurity and sense of worthlessness. he saw how he had been trapped. He attacked her relentlessly. He was trapped by love, but also something carnal. what always amazed me, and was a source of respect and sadness, is that I want to say he took responsibility for us. he could have left us early on, but he stood up and commenced extracting emotional payments. once an asshole, always a dead man? or is it once a dead man always and forever an asshole? i have sympathy for him and the turns of his life, which he never transcended. his mother beat him with wire hangers and he beat me with wire hangers. of course was i the same kind of kid as he was? did we both deserve punishment? the tradition stops with me, for i am not sentimental about him. i always challenged his violence and insane speeches. gramps had put some muscle on my sensitive soul. i was a vulnerable kid who the bullies feasted upon, yet i stood up and took the punishment. it was not until i was 17 that i challenged dad physically. he came at me with clenched fists, ready to dole out his usual love. he should have known what kind of son he was going to create – one that would destroy him, in life and in memory. i was 17 and athletic. i closed my fists and said, “c’mon.” he did not doubt me, he was confused, and finally withdrew. he turned and left the kitchen. one day i would kick his ass so severely he would be hospitalized. i owed this to him. paradox ran through our relationship, and as i have said, he and i knew one another better than anyone in the family.
    an objective presentation of a subjective experience, a subjective inquiry into objective truths.
    the crime may not exist. paranoia and alienation are the crimes, which are not illegal.
    my brother-in-law forced my sister to leave the side of my grieving mother. my sister cried while he dragged her off to the minivan. mom said to me, “it’s okay. i don’t need a babysitter.” next day mom fell into a teary depression. i have been talking to her every day since dad died, about two months. she is doing better than most widows. she has a life ahead of her, which includes suing me. failed me once, failing me again. she and dad had that pact: never let the children come between them, even if it means turning a blind eye to atrocity. And it’s fixed even in death. she’s as guilty as he is and in that one conversation she admitted she was not there for me. the difference between them is that my father wanted to crush my spirit while my mother wanted me to do well. my father was not a father, but rather a built-in instigator of a cold war.
    i viewed the photos of his coffin with relief in the surety that a funeral was held in his name, the near surety that he is gone. only better would have been to see the corpse plowed usunder. we could have had something, but he refused me. in many ways he marked me for challenges in the adult world. he never made me feel worth listening to. there are moments when i wish to be more sure that he is dead, but i suppose never talking to him or seeing him again is decent evidence.
    angela and derek sleep late. it gives me time to be alone and write. by the time they open their eyes, i am ready to jump in the car and scout out beaches. instead, i take part in their waking process, which involves bickering and food. it’s all good when it’s good, but yesterday i asked her to stop (in maui) so i could get a beer. she drove by the liquor outfits and instead said we should all go out for lunch and drinks. i watched as she drove past all the beer stations and eight restaurants onto a main thirsty highway. i let her have it. i told her she was just rushing to get to the condo, like some kind of lemming set loose in paradise. twenty minutes later we saw a plaza and she turned in and parked. when we got out of the car, she said: “i’m stopping for you.” i said, “bullshit! it was your idea to go out. all i wanted was a beer from one of the five gas stations you drove past.” she said she didn’t stop at those places because they were on the right and she was in the left lane. this was a boldface lie. we had been in the right lane the whole time, with me pointing ahead at possible destinations on the right side. angela was acting fucking nuts. the only excuse she could have leaned on is she is a nervous driver, but her pride would never allow that. we finally ended up in a small thai joint, where derek picked up on the tension and asked us why we were so quiet. i said, “sometimes people make mistakes and don’t admit it.” angela said, “sometimes people don’t see that someone is driving in stressful traffic.” stressful traffic on maui? angela had never wanted to stop anywhere as she rushed for the condo. in the thai joint, she made her point by ordering nothing but water. she had said it was her idea to go out for lunch, but now she was going to make us eat lunch at her emotional expense. derek and i ordered and when the food came, she couldn’t resist. her small manipulations and and lies push me toward drawing my knife, the one to sever ties. and i know she enjoys her role as bitch and the wrath it elicits. she has a persecution mania and when the persecution is not forthcoming, she creates it. i have known for 23 years that she suffers from persecution mania, but i had no idea how far she would go to fulfill and indulge her sickness. in this relationship, guarantee means bastard.
    maui? it doesn’t seem like Hawaii as I had imagined it after two weeks on the big island. It reminds me more of southern California. Hawaii you are in a sparsely populated paradise. maui may as well be new jersey, or even manhattan. it exists by condominiums. so many have been built that the island rises into the sky, a white beacon for boats from afar. the maui shoreline is overwhelmed by people who seem more decayed and aggressive. surely, a visitor from minnesota would notice the temperature difference, white beaches, and palm trees. they would also note that the shoreline has been exploited and is dirtier than the big island, which was not dirty at all. there are fewer tropical birds and more rental cars on maui. traffic jams are a daily rite because everyone has moved to maui. the malls on maui are like rodeo drive. the top designers show there, as well as some of the most horrifying artists i’ve ever seen sell paintings. on the big island, a town consists of a surf shop, restaurant, and stop sign. on maui, the guy behind you at the checkout is in such a hurry that his agitation infects the others in line. on the big island, the people are kind and talk to you. they are aware of their separateness from the rest of the state. on maui, there is a high concentration of burnouts who came to Hawaii as failures some years ago and can’t leave. they try to get one up on you and deny generosity even when it be common courtesy. i am expecting edgy locals in the surf. angela’s mom believes that because there are many surfers here it must be a good spot. maui is a good island for surf, but she knows nothing of the politics and aggression in the water. the economy of waves and the certaintly of human nature, especially among the obsessed and immature, say that surfing here will be less spiritual and more contested. on the big island i found more empty point breaks than i could surf. in maui, i love the green: the trees and rivers and flowers and waterfalls. maui is Hawaii, but not the quiet island of my dreams.
    the hawiian islanders warred between themselves. there was no peace in paradise. neighbors always have wars. except when kameakamea was king and united the islands. hawaiians fought epic battles with spears. they were as bloodthirsty as stalin and hitler. it should be remembered that “aloha” originally meant “good wishes so long as you are from my island.”
    in kona, we went for a night swim at a sandy beach near the apartment. while walking atop a stone wall to find the descent to the sand, a hawaiian who was drinking beer, said “aloha” from the heart. he was a man alone with his thoughts by the water and was kind to three white strangers passing by on his island. The kindness and humility in his voice, all the others sounded rote or were selling it.
    agreement means a constant state of alert.
    below me sugar cane blows flat and rises in the wind.
    i wake derek with a cold beer to the stomach.
    “you lazy bum!” i say. (he’s been asleep 14 hours)
    “i’m not a bum! i just like to sleep!”
    “just not at night,” angela says.
    “that was a cold beer,” i say.
    “yeah!”

    dad could have said: “go to your room!” instead he hit me in the head and kicked me in the ribs. nothing was too small to assault me. obviously a presentment was in play. maybe he believed his folks who had said he was trapped and the baby wasn’t his. maybe it was my cold shoulder on his return from vietnam. an analogy: a light bulb pops out. dad goes down to the basement and pounds the circuit board with a hammer. the circuits short out and he throws gasoline on them. the board ignites and the house goes down in flames. our house went down in flames. he forced his destructive, negative, paranoid sensibility on us for decades. as kids, we didn’t know that there were different fathers out there. this was our father and we tried to work around him. you wonder why mom’s grief is tempered? it’s release, freedom from a crazed persecutor who thought he owned us because he paid the bills. he did not support us lovingly or with joy, or pride. he abused and insulted the life out of us. it’s an extraction, blood for money. all accounts had to be paid, in blood, to balance his ledger. his paycheck was permission to violate the laws of humanity and common sense. my sister has minimalized and repressed our suffering because it does not fit with the “he-was-a-good-man” burial she wants to have for the bastard.

    hana
    we’ve rented a cabin by the ocean. it’s owned by the state department of recreation. it’s primitive. no glass, but screen windows, no stove, a pair of single beds we needed to push together. Four bunks in the other room, where Derek will sleep on top. There are several other green cabins in the area. there is a path down to the black lava beaches. last time angela was here she was hospitalized for mosquito bites. the was feverish. the mosquitos here are smaller and faster than their sisters back east or in california. i have been out here since 3:30 a.m. and have seen only two. the rain comes down in tropical torrents. the wind blowing through the palm leaves sounds like a gentle rain accenting the downpour. my shoulders, neck, and back are sore from swimming in the big waves with derek last night. angela has been bitten, but we have not. she is a pale redhead of a very tasty disposition. it is easy for her to become feverish.
    mom has doubts about going to live with shannon, and her husband especially. she loves her grandchildren, but they are obnoxiously self-centered and loud teenagers who rule their liberal parenting mother. steve believes in families helping each other. he is a big family man. it’s one good thing about him. he lost both parents to alcohol and was raised by his grandmother, who shannon took care of in her final days. he and shannon helped me when i was down and out in 2000, after i was kicked out of the seaman’s church for heroin use. it was generous of them, though steve and i did not have one decent conversation, and i created openings. he was closed. he let me sleep on his couch downstairs with no heat, but it was because i was his wife’s brother. essentially, he ignored me. my nephew was about two then and i flushed several grams of heroin before i moved in because i didn’t want that going down in a house where there was an innocent. mom does not want to spend winters alone in northern maine, but she also does not want to be anyone’s babysitter or maid or cook. shannon tried to dump kess on her so she and steve could take their son to a concert in maine. reo speedwagon of all bands. the kid is 11. i saw that band 25 years ago. kess refused to go because it was ryker’s birthday and kess refuses to do anything with her brother and refuses many more things, except food. food in, refusals out. mom said she would not babysit, and, to me, said she felt left out. shannon stopped talking to her. i said, “she doesn’t talk to me either.” as mom had told me, “she isn’t going to talk to you for the rest of your life.” mom prevailed and they bought her a ticket to the concert and forced kess to go and fall asleep. mom’s a little worried about what it would be like to live with them. “i want my own time. i want to see my friends and swim in the uri pool on tuesdays and thurdays. i don’t think i can handle the noise and stress in that household. kess has shannon wrapped around her finger.” kess may be a victim of bovine hormones as well, but that’s too big and uncomfortable a story for me to tell. the girl doesn’t have that special place in her father’s heart. what else is there to do but to control her mother while she eats herself to death. steve gives ryker an inordinant amount of time and “love.” in general, he dislikes women, as he dislikes everyone. women are breeding material. shannon is blind to his misogyny because she had an abusive father, the one she now sentimentalizes in public commemorations. dad is on the altar with “our lord, our savior, jesus christ.”

    recovered my surfboard from aloha air transport intact. the gps was sending us in circles around the airport. the man on the phone had given me directions: “it’s the long building with the green roof. you can’t miss it.” i have never seen so many green roofs. steamed, i ignored the gps and headed straight for my surfboard.
    derek lost his retainer in the surf. a wave knocked it out of his head. after that, back at the car, i noticed he’d left his boogie board back at the beach. angela was upset, but chilled out. derek’s misdeeds are more acceptable than mine. “i bet that is a record for losing a retainer,” she said. “he just got it in april.” (derek would lose the next one in a matter of weeks. we forced him to pay for the third. so far, so good with that one, but he doesn’t wear it. easy come, easy go with derek. he can’t even lift the toilet seat before he pisses. when he takes off his pants, his underwear are brown.
    we have sand everywhere in the house, in our noses and ears, sticking to our scalps and teeth. two weeks back in california i will still be shedding sand.
    they call it a “highway,” the road which runs east from hana back to our home in the isthmus. it is one lane, often dirt and today mud. it rained all night and it was mud all day to ulupalakua. the pacific was laid open below. i had only seen that much ocean from an airplane and the water thousands of feet below was so wide. i popped bikini blondes and drove two feet from the cliffs. “can you grab me another beer? i need to be sharp.” alenuihaha channel and on the right the dried up cattle ranches. the rare car. finally kihei and the west coast beaches.

    dad’s sister mary called mom and said, “i can’t believe he’s dead.” mom said, “believe it. i was there. he is dead.” when someone you know and love dies, there is a lag-time during which death is not recognized. for mary, she was not there and when she was there the casket was closed. he and mary had been close for many years, not as they had been with their two brothers. dad was kind to mary, as he was kinder to mom and shannon, but in our cold hatred of one another, i would say that dad and i were more in tune with one another’s thoughts and actions. the better you know someone, the better you disagree. it was how we disagreed that was tragic.

    36, the road to hana . . . the hana highway . . . call it a country road sided by flowers and waterfalls . . . rain dops rolling down the roof across the windshield . . . namesless green endless green . . . one lane bridges mark the waterfalls . . . white water falls into seven sacred pools . . . you are on your own here in sudden showers . . . water slips off the surfboard and bends the windshield . . . wait! a food court in the middle of the jungle, run by renegade chickens . . . you land in hana . . . it’s quiet . . . fifty-seven percent of the population is native . . . a slow town where everyone has it made, where the dream exists. blessed isolation, graves marked by surfboards, vines draped along the road, lava caves, 225 inches of rain, good for sleeping our one night in the state cabin, a humid morning walk to the black lava beach . . . last night swimming up and over and under giant waves with derek at hamoa beach, angela alert on shore while i showed derek how waves break . . . he catches on fast and will apply his knowledge with the boogie board for the rest of our stay . . . another fight with angela last night, we bring our strife with us . . . i said, “you think it’s a coincidence your son calls you godzilla and i call you a fucking bitch?” she did not contest the labels and did not fight back, but asked me not to call her names in front of derek. she knows she is moody. she is depressed. she won’t do anything about it but make us feel wrong all the time. you can transport yourself to paradise, with the best hopes for harmony, but you take your sicknesses, your biases, your prejudices, your angers and dissatisfactions . . . angela and i have too many fights and we do not make up with great sex. her point of view and the arguing itself repel me.
    the hawaiians have a bumper sticker: if you don’t like hawaiians, why the fuck did you move here?

installment 1 of
The Shappe Manipulation

Chapter 1

    The upgrade from Black to African-American can be a rewarding process for those interested individuals; submit U.S. Form 92 for consideration. Your request will be kept in the strictest confidence. Preliminary applications submitted by E-mail protocols only. Socio-Economic Accords of 2044 grant this upgrade automatically to mixed Blacks.
    “Stop! Monitor Two, I want to know about the people in the city; all the people. I’m not interested in that foolishness.”
    Okay, Ms. Shappe.
    Lovey Shappe waved her hand and the tri-paneled mirror gave her a full front and side view of her six foot frame. Yesterday her gymnastic instructor flattered her: “You are the girl with the sunset eyes.” Right, but he wouldn’t get what he wanted. She stepped closer, relaxed her foot on the warm patch of carpet, spread her toes and balanced herself. Slowly, she raised her bare left leg to a right angle from her body. Then she grabbed underneath her knee and thrust the muscular limb to a hundred eighty degrees below the heat lamp embedded in the ceiling. She repeated the stretch with her other leg. Close inspection of her flawless cinnamon colored flesh didn’t reveal any bruises from Shelley’s blow to her legs and lower body. Good. She took a small mirror, bent over and looked for any abnormalities on her buttock and vaginal area. Normal, as expected. She reached for the ceiling and turned; her waist narrow, stomach flat, hips wide, breast large, firm, standing at attention. She dressed and pulled her belt to the last loop hugging her narrow waistline. The loose fit denim pants annoyed her. Non-provocative clothing rules. What difference did it make if her waist showed? Her shirt covered it. Stupid. Lovey stepped closer to the mirror and looked at the bruise on her left cheek and under her eye. Even her complexion wouldn’t hide the black eye she’d have in a few hours. She dabbed make-up on it. That would hide the damage for now. She didn’t want Shelley to think she’d got in a good lick when they tussled.
    Lovey shook her head. “Monitor Two, have your programmer change you to address me as Lovey and make it so I don’t have to call you Monitor Two before I get an answer.”
    That won’t happen, but your request is noted.
    “Well, I tried.” Lovey walked over to the communication center and adjusted the personality and gender tab to give the computer a sassy female voice to relieve the boredom. She changed the speakers from apartment to personal. That made Monitor Two feel closer.
    “Monitor Two?”
    Hey honey, what you need?
    “That’s better.” Lovey flopped on the white leather sofa, kicked up her heels on the coffee table and looked out the massive picture window. When she first came to Silas Pernell Educational and Medical Facility (Per-Ed-Med) her first apartment had a small balcony, now she had a panoramic view of the city. When the sun set it exposed all the dust, but she loved to polish and re-arrange sculptures, plants and books on the recessed brushed aluminum entertainment center. The reflections from the many reflective glass covered skyscrapers turned the sun’s rays into dancing rainbows of color on the walls. She laid a plastic cloth down to protect the freshly shampooed white carpet to get a bottle of water out of the frig. “Good for the kidneys.” She toasted to the city where she would soon work. “Monitor Two, continue and answer my question.”
    Well sugar, that upgrades policy on paper, was abandoned, but the practice hasn’t been, not in its entirety. Some African-Americans, Latinos were in better economic circumstances during the West’s financial collapse. So they have a class of people who control a lot of resources. However, the Whites and Asians have the most even though they were outnumbered two to one on the American continent—
    “That’s OK, Monitor Two,” Lovey interrupted. “I have to re-word the question.”
    Suddenly the lights flashed and a piercing wail came from the siren on the wall. She grimaced in pain and pressed her palms against her ears.
    Lovey Shappe! You broke the rules.
    It was Monitor One. Every word of the electronic voice penetrated her body.
    Dr. Wei wants to see you, now. Good bye.

    Osama Wei, MD, paced in front of the ceiling to floor tinted picture windows, a worried pace that took its toll on his right hip. He cursed the new hip with the revolutionary alloy that was Beijing Technology’s big selling point. He stopped, looked out at the shanty towns of the south suburban slums, affectionately known as 3S, knowing he’d been given the same faulty equipment as if he were one its residents. The surgeon, his friend, so he thought, paid for it. The medically induced coma Wei provided will keep that dirty SOB out of the way for the rest of his short life.
    Dr. Wei walked to the other side of the suite to a less depressing view of the skyline across the Sal-Sag Channel, a filthy waterway built for waste water and to reverse the flow of the Bigge River.
    Good view, bad view didn’t alleviate the discomfort.
    Wei stood seven feet and weighed only two hundred fifty pounds, but looked at least three hundred. “You have air in your bones,” his mom said. He snapped his broad shoulders back and unbuttoned his jacket with his massive hands. He always wore a size larger to hide the mass of flesh that was a birth mark. It bulged and made it look like he carried a weapon. He picked up his cane, adjusted the tension to support the lateral force of his weight. The reflection in the window would have to do; he didn’t feel like walking to the bedroom mirror. Wei’s thick eye brows and Asian slanted eyes were piercing and intimidating. They said, and many felt, lying to him was a waste of time. Born in China, half Chinese, half White and Arab mix gave him a handsomeness many females couldn’t resist. The problem; there weren’t many Chinese or Asian women to choose from, especially on the south end of the city. “Monitor One.”
    Yes, Dr. Wei, the main AI unit answered.
    “Where is Lovey Shappe?”
    Approaching, Dr. Wei, but a Mr. Harris is waiting to see you.
    “What, Mr. Harris?”
    Yes, Dr. Wei.
    “Ok, show him in.” What does he want? Damn, Beijing is upset about something. The door parted and the infamous Mr. Harris walked in. He was stone faced as he approached Wei. “Hello, Dr. Wei, how are you?” He scanned the space behind Wei while they shook.
    “Had I known you were coming I would’ve made special arrangements...”
    “What kind?” Harris cut him off and walked to the panoramic window. “Never mind, Wei. Beijing has questions, obviously.” He brushed his hair back, careful not to disturb the curls that covered a portion of his earrings. That girlish hairdo didn’t do a damn thing to enhance his flat nose and lips.
    “Questions?” Wei couldn’t read him. He had slits for eyes. He must’ve boxed for years. They said his skills ranged from mixed martial arts to an exceptionally bright financial auditor.
    “That’s right. Be glad I’m talking to you.” Harris laid his brief case on Wei’s massive desk and smiled. “You didn’t offer me a drink, Osama.”
    Osama, we aren’t friend’s asshole. “Oh, sorry.” Wei glanced at the bar. He also heard the son of a bitch didn’t drink. What does he want in the city? “Water, soft drink or alcohol, Mr. Harris?”
    “Water.” Harris chuckled. “I’m not a drinker and relax, but first turn off that damn AI.”
    “Monitor One, privacy mode.”
    “Key in the fail safe, Wei.” Harris snapped.
    Wei stepped behind the desk and did what he was told. “Done.”
    Harris looked at the screen of a small device he pulled out his pocket. “Ok, good.” Beijing required all fail safe codes changed every thirty days on the AI systems. Earlier Wei sent in the new ones. “This won’t take long, but listen carefully.”
    For the next twenty minutes Wei gave Mr. Harris his undivided attention. “Are we clear on what I said, Dr. Wei?”
    “Yes, quite.”
    “Is there another exit from this office?”
    “Yes.” Wei pressed a button underneath his desk. A panel opened in the wall and Harris left. Wei turned on Monitor One.
    Dr. Wei, Lovey Shappe has arrived.

    Lovey emerged from the fortified elevator into a dimly lit tunnel like hallway. A twenty foot arched ceiling with fluorescent track lighting that stretched from one side of the hall to the other loomed overhead. She felt a cool breeze from slots above the wood textured baseboard that ruffled her loose fitting blue uniform pants. Twenty feet from each side of the huge openings, a set of glass paneled doors led to other offices. The walls were finished with the same prickly material that lined the corridors.
    She took a deep breath, exhaled the stress and fear. She tried to make a clear image out of her obscured reflection on the huge doors so she could straighten her jacket.
    Who are you? State your business, a rude metallic voice asked.
    “Lovey Shappe, I’m here to see Dr.Wei as ordered.”
    The door shot open; Dr. Wei, the Chief Medical Officer of the world renowned Silas Pernell Educational and Medical Complex of Illiana, North America stood in front a polished wooden desk with leaf extensions that curved along the lines of the office’s panoramic windows. He beckoned her to come forward and he stepped forward to meet her, favoring his right side leaning on the cane. He had close cut white hair and a perfect short beard and moustache. Dark glasses hid his eyes, but she felt the calculating coldness of an analytical mind. He wore a snow white uniform with a thin black sash draped over his shoulder. His polished black boots sank deep into the thick pile navy blue wall to wall carpet.
    You really messed up this time, Lovey.
    Her head didn’t move when she looked left out the immense window the corner office. The distinct difference between the rich and poor was even more shocking.
    “Ms. Lovey Shappe, I’m disappointed in your actions. Monitor One showed me the video of your altercation with Ms. James,” he said in a calm tone. “Are you stupid or what?” Lovey snapped to attention. “Did you not have surgery few days ago?”
    “Yes, Dr. Wei but—”
    “Did I tell you to speak?” Lovey tightened her lips. “You are not made of metal or plastic. You are flesh and flesh takes time to heal, even at your age. Understood? Some infractions are ignored. Fighting is not one of them. No fighting, Shappe! You and Ms. James reconcile, understood?”
    “Yes, Dr. Wei, it won’t happen again.”
    “You are graduating in six months, don’t blow it.” You’ve come a long way since 3S. I know you remember, but so do I. You were a bag man for criminals. Running here and there, a sixteen year old with a fourth grade education courtesy of the public school system.”
    “Right, Dr. Wei.”
    “We took an interest in you because of your tests. That’s fine. You are gifted; not many achieve a civil engineering apprenticeship in three years. I’m a little envious.” Wei smiled, slightly. “I hoped would go into medicine, but you followed your heart.” Lovey nodded. “Any questions?”
    How long will take for my ass that you just chewed to grow back? “Yes, Dr. Wei, when my appendix was taken out.”
    “Your appendectomy?” He interrupted. Wei went behind his desk and sat. “You’re not having any problems are you?”
    “Well, no, but I’ve spotted a little.” Lovey shrugged. “I guess it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
    “Are you sure?” She nodded. “If it gets worse let me know. Good-bye, Ms. Shappe.”
    Lovey turned and left.

    Dong Yao, the six foot councilman with the round yellow face picked up a fork and pushed the macaroni and cheese that over flowed from the carry-out container. He turned the tray clockwise and did the same for the greens and black-eyed peas. He smiled, with a gracious political smile, when Jeremiah Smith, the chief representative of the African-American Banking Association brought the holiday meal to the ranking member of the Financial Council of Illiana. Smith promised Yao a sample of his wife’s cooking. And now, Yao knew why Smith weighed three hundred ponds.
    Yao loved soul food; the aroma, color and seasoning. Traditional Chinese and American meat and potatoes didn’t have a thing on this. But, his disdain for this group remained. He looked at the banker’s proposal, thanked him for the meal and sent him on his way. They respected each other, but both had previous engagements.
    Yao ate alone and loved it. He could savor the fried chicken with the sounds of delight. If his wife knew he loved their food, he’d be in divorce court. These meals were few and far between. He picked up a drumstick and the steaming vapors filled his narrow nostrils. Alone he didn’t feel awkward and leaned over the plate and grasped the chicken with his left hand since his arm was six inches shorter than the other. But in public and meetings, not maintaining perfect posture was inexcusable for any Chinese official. He struggled for years to master the defective arm and spine. He took a bite, leaned back and dabbed the corners of his mouth. He chewed his food thoroughly, important for good digestion.
    Councilman Yao.
    Yao swallowed, wiped his mouth and threw the napkin on the table. “What is it, AI?”
    Sorry to disturb your lunch, but a priority communication from Dr. Wei just came in.
    “Wei?” What the hell does he want?
    Yes, he requested you return his call at your earliest convenience. The six foot light column hologram disappeared ending the message. Now what? That was code for call on a land line. Only a few still existed. He’d spent a fortune building an undetectable one.
    This better be important!
    Yao pushed his chair back from the desk, stood and brushed crumbs from his one piece jet black uniform. The sunset cast its golden rays on the swirling waves of the low hanging clouds that surrounded the ninety-fifth floor of the building. Beneath all that beauty; a society in chaos.
    Where would those poor bastards be without China?
    He keyed in a code on the desk pad and his bookshelves opened to reveal a well stocked bar. He unscrewed an empty bottle of scotch and turned it up. That triggered a tiny array of lights next to a small refrigerator that sat near a tap for beer and water. He opened it and took two ice cubes, dropped them in a glass and sat in front of the lights. A glass panel in the wall popped open. He pulled out an ancient black rotary phone and dialed 119.
    “Hello.”
    “Is this important?” Yao frowned.
    “No I have nothing better to do,” Wei snapped.
    “You disrupted my lunch,” Yao said, satisfied with the passwords.
    “Sorry sir, but we need to talk.”
    Yao put the receiver down and looked at the concave mirrors that lined the curved walls of his personal bar. He grinned and admired the perfect set of teeth he’d inherited from his father’s side of the family.
    “Sir, you still there?”
    “I’m here, Wei.” He pressed a button under the bar and activated a full room scrambler and placed the receiver on a speaker attachment. He sighed, picked up his meal and put it in the frig. He had the feeling his appetite would be ruined. “Now, what is the matter?”
    “Shappe’s says she’s spotting a little and she gets suspicious easily. I’m thinking additional surveillance might be appropriate.”
    Yao watched the last glimmer of sunlight dissolve into the clouds. He reached under the bar for a bottle of homemade shaojiu he brought back from Tibet. Served heated, Yao preferred one ice cube, a pass under the nose with a few swirls of the glass, before he downed it. He reached in the ice bucket and dropped a cube in the glass.
    “Lovey Shappe? Isn’t that the genius from 3S?”
    “Yes. She needed a routine appendectomy.”
    “What about the procedure?” Yao asked.
    “I took care of it when she was in recovery. No problems.”
    “So the implants are the same?”
    “Yes, sir.” Wei said. “They aren’t due for their regular pap smears until after graduation.”
    “And the other four?”
    “Well the two that graduated, no problems. The remaining one and Shappe shouldn’t be. The same precautions were applied.”
    “Good. She’s an exceptional female specimen. The inferiors are like animals they’ll be fine. Is that it?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Good-bye, Doctor Wei.” Yao poured another drink, dropped in a cube and downed it. His lips puckered from the bitterness. He unzipped his uniform and flopped down on the sofa.

    Wei slammed the receiver on the ancient device. Greed and blind ambition put him in bed with the devil. He disconnected the line from the phone jack. Slammed the door on the hidden wall cavity and placed the phone back in his safe.
    So Council Yao you’re concerned about that technological miracle implants that monitor sexual activities and provide foolproof birth control. The nano-cam embedded next to the cervix that gives a bird’s eye view of sexual intercourse was a pervert’s dream. An opinion he kept to himself, but invested in anyway. The theory was an analysis of the DNA would be provided after a scan of semen during intercourse. Of course, Yao wouldn’t approve that experiment on Asian women. “Just think, Wei, it provides intelligence for future reference and you don’t have to perform abortions and maintain your female genius type students.” Who cares who fucks who? If it got out about this technology every female on Earth will snap. Yes, it had advantages; it couldn’t be dislodged no matter what size pounded the vagina, it couldn’t be felt; it worked with other types of birth control and most importantly the menstrual cycle didn’t bother it.
    Ingenious!
    The demonstration impressed Wei. A prostitute was chosen somewhere in India. She needed a tube ligation because she had four kids already, so Yao said. He turned on the camera and there was a guy slamming away and the implant moved in the same direction. He came and that blocked the lens, but not for long. Two seconds later The DNA info was on the screen. “And, before I forget, and this is important, we can neutralize the device with Beta rays or a UV light and it will dissolve in time.” Wei had a million questions. Who made it and where? All he saw was the video; it could’ve been from a porno flick. He dare not say it. “You offer it as a new IUD that requires replacement once a year. We show them this device.” Yao held up a traditional device. “And implant this one.” Wei picked up the rectangular device; it was rubbery to the touch. He agreed and they shook. He’d made a deal with the devil. He encouraged his best female students to use it for several months with no problems until now or could it be a false alarm?
    Bullshit! When Wei’s gut ached he listened. Yao said, “Invest now and after the trials are over you’ll be super rich with this device minus the cameras tech, of course.”
    He walked over to the recliner, unbuttoned his jacket and rubbed the lumpy birth defect that stretched from his armpit to his hip. He hit the head rest, spun it and sat. Neon dots of light appeared on the skyscrapers in the distant area. Did anyone have problems like his? Maybe. But, would the pay-off be as big? He knew one day, it would be him or Yao. Only one of them would walk away from the gunfight.
    Wei dipped the tip of his manicured nail in his drink and stirred. He reclined the chair and rested his head. He sipped and sighed. Yao was a chess player, one of the best. But, he was a perfectionist and patient that made him a worthy opponent or partner in this endeavor.
    The tightness in his neck eased when the sour mash took effect. Yao had a secure line of communication and so did he out of the prying eyes of Monitor One. A few of Wei’s former students ran their own electrical line for purposes against the rules; charging cell phones and other devices. He told them to dismantle it. They complied, left it behind; now it was his with a few modifications. He would contact Hiroshi Ding, CEO of Devax-Epitor, Inc. on Monday. The plan was still intact.

    Lovey Shappe...wake up, honey. Monitor Two said, in a gentle tone. Lovey Shappe!
    “OK.” Lovey rolled over, rubbed her eyes and yawned. She stared at the brush strokes on the ceiling for the millionth time. She kept her mouth closed when her tongue glided across her gritty teeth.
    Lovey. The AI whispered.
    “I hear you.” She walked to the shower. The sign in the slot above the door handle said locked. Dammit. “Don’t take all day!” She looked out the vertical blinds. The sunlight burned through a lingering blanket of fog and would soon overheat the living room. “Monitor Two?”
    Yes, Lovey.
    “Adjust the blinds, let me know when the shower’s available and lock it out for me. Thank you, Monitor Two.”
    She went to the kitchen and looked in the cabinets. Undecided, she settled for orange juice and headed back to bed. She looked at the two week old linen, time to change it. “Turn the 3D to CNN.” Silence. She forgot her request not to have to say Monitor Two fell on deaf ears. “Monitor Two, 3D on to CNN.” The wall across the room came to life. An Asian correspondent walked next to a soldier on patrol in Mexico. “Monitor Two, the Food Network.” The channel changed and zoomed in on an exotic breakfast dish that looked nasty. “What is that crap?”
    Lovey, the shower’s available.
    She waited a few minutes and opened the door; the stall was dry and fragrant. She flipped the lock and adjusted the water temperature. Somebody shouted through the door, “Don’t take all day.” She smiled and showered.

    Lovey stood in front of the mirror and dabbed the water the dry beam missed from her head and face. She slipped on her workout suit and brushed her close cut hair. The door chimes rang.
    “Who’s that Monitor Two?”
    Take a wild guess, honey.
    She snatched the door open. “I don’t believe this.” Shelley was shorter then Lovey and she wore a tight fitting pajama like suit. She held up the peace sign and stepped back when she saw the frown on Lovey’s face.
    She smiled, “I come in peace.” She had smiling eyes and a glowing white complexion that made it hard not to return a joyful greeting.
    “What is it, Shelley?”
    “You’re trying not to smile, tickle, tickle.” She laughed an extended her hand. “I’m sorry I disrespected you.”
    Lovey held out as long as she could and giggled. “Forget it, come on in.” She moved aside.
    “Wait a minute, I made breakfast. I had to make sure you would accept my apology.” Shelley went back across the hall, opened her door and grabbed a large platter.
    “Girl, that smells good. Biscuits?”
    Shelley nodded. “One of my specialties.” She took the platter to the kitchen island. “We got bacon, eggs and sausage. Let’s eat.”
    They ate in silence, other than the occasional smacks and groans of delight. Lovey loved Shelley’s cooking but, this was the first time she’d eaten her breakfast. “Shelley, who taught you to cook? Girl, you are good, but you know that.”
    “Why thank you, Ms. Shappe.” Shelley got up and took the paper plates and tossed them in the trash.
    “I’ll get that stuff, sit down,” Lovey ordered.
    Shelley shrugged and sat. “My stepmom, she’s been showing me stuff since I was ten. She said the way to anybody’s heart is through their stomach. I learned all I could before coming here.” She took Lovey’s hand. “Listen, my apologies sincere. We been through a lot—”
    “No reminiscing, that’s for old folks.” They laughed, until tears formed in their eyes.
    “We’re going our separate ways and I don’t want to leave on bad terms,” Shelley smiled and wiped a falling tear. “I love you, but I respect your being straight. I won’t hit on you again.”
    “Is it the black eye or your heart talking?” Lovey laughed.
    “Look at yours,” Shelley snapped.
    “I know, I’m messing with you girl,” Lovey reached and hugged her. “We cool girl. Shelley, didn’t you, Tiesha and Mendez have a surgical procedure of some type in the same week?” She got ready for, none of your business or she might walk out. Either way she had to ask.
    Shelley hesitated and dropped her head. “I had Fibrosis or something.”
    “Sorry, don’t be embarrassed.”
    “All of them had something done. I think. Why?” Shelley asked.
    “It doesn’t smell right to me.” Lovey shrugged. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
    “Probably, don’t think so much. I feel good now. When I go to the city, I’m going into a tri-marriage,” Shelley said. Her smile radiated. “Happy for me?” They jumped out of their chairs and hugged.
    “Congrats girl, you’ve been busy. Are they rich or what? And, how does that work; two girls, two guys or what?”
    “Well, it can be three guys or girls or a combination. Straight people prefer the traditional, but Bi’s like the combo. The consolidation of debt and finances is another benefit. You can take that national debt bill down a lot quicker. Of course it takes compromise, but I think I’m with a sensible group.” Shelley said. “Where are the glasses? I’m thirsty.” Lovey pointed to a cabinet in the corner.
    “Get me one. Where did you find time to meet them?”
    Shelley stuck her finger in the water and checked for coldness and filled the glasses. “Remember that week long field trip to the city?” Lovey nodded. “We met at a party and then I bumped into them at a tour of a Bio-engineering firm. These are the right people. I feel it in my gut.”
    “Well, you’ll have one helluva honeymoon.” They laughed. “What about a family?”
    “In time, with the upgrade comes good nutrition. I’ll feed nothing but the best. Keep those balls full of potent swimmers ready to go at a minutes’ notice. Girl, the wonderful thing, he’s mostly straight, but loves to see women make love to each other. I’m so excited.”
    “You look it too.”
    “Lovey, have you ever thought about something like that? You look puzzled. What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t want to sound critical or judgmental but, no. Believe it or not. I like men.”
    “What man?” Shelley focused on Lovey, stoned faced. “All these guys around here drool when you walk by, but you don’t seem to care.”
    Lovey crossed her legs and drank some water trying to hide her uneasiness with the question. Anselmo was her true love even though she hadn’t seen him in years. “I get hot like everybody else, but—maybe I’m a prude. I don’t know but, I ride a few poles here and there. I’m discreet. Old people said, God don’t want man with man and woman with woman.”
    “God? I didn’t know you’re a Christian.” Shelley poured more water.
    Lovey spun her glass. “I’m not, but something tells me gay isn’t for me.”
    “God might be calling you for something. Church isn’t against the rules you should go, you might find some answers. If you have questions.”
    “You know Shelley you might be right.”
    Shelley stood and pushed her chair up to the table. “I gotta go.” They hugged. “I’ll see you later.” She headed for the door and stopped. “Girl, I’m jealous. You keep your place immaculate. That’s what I need to do.”
    “Just stay on top of it. And, don’t be jealous. Before you go, anybody else get sick lately after a procedure?” Lovey inquired.
    “No, I haven’t heard anything unusual. I guess there’s discomfort, but that’s normal. I guess.” She looked puzzled and Lovey wished she hadn’t asked. Shelley waved and closed the door.

    Lovey slipped on a solid powder blue fitted exercise suit and laced her shoes. “Monitor Two.”
    Yes, Lovey.
    “Deduct three hours from recreation time for the gym and a run. Monitor Two.”
    Checking for authorization from medical.
    “What? Damn. The AI protocol was killing her. Monitor Two, what authorization?”
    After any surgery, authorization for any physical activity has to be approved. You are cleared, Lovey. Enjoy your exercise.
    She stepped into the hall. The aroma of bacon made her hungry even though she just ate. She felt lazy and headed for one of the main hallways to catch a mover. Lovey hated the décor of the second floor. Change the lights to full ceiling neon strips and eliminate the ancient fluorescent swirls. Pastel colors would brighten things too. The color of each suite door matched the occupant’s race. Useless divisive tactics implemented by the Chinese financiers of the complex. Music blasted and she walked up to Connie Mendez’s cracked door, pushed it open and slammed it. She’d been told time and time again; keep it down. Lovey waited to be cussed out in Spanish. No response. She must be asleep. She looked across the hall and saw Tiesha Brown’s door cracked with the chain on and heard sounds of ecstasy. She shouted through the opening, “Slow down girl, you know you by yourself.” Lovey laughed when the door slammed. She looked down the main hall. Where was everybody? No sentries or movers. This area buzzed with activity. She forgot, today was Friday, not Saturday. Good, now she wouldn’t have to wait to use the equipment.

    At five foot six, Hiroshi Ding, CEO of Devax-Epitor walked around the conference table. The lightening and silent blowing rain on the outer windows matched his mood. With his cane he rapped the bottom of the chair of any member who wasn’t attentive. He looked each one in the eye. A few blinked at his penetrating stare, others didn’t. Reassurance of the company’s continued dominance of the Bio-engineering market would be an easier sell if Wei would hurry up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have answered all your questions about the delay. Dr. Wei is still the company’s top contributor. Do not let rumor cloud your judgment. Our competitors would love to see us in disarray. Has Wei ever failed in any project? No. Has he always delivered on schedule? Yes.” Ding completed his walk of intimidation, and sat at the head of the table. “So members of the board, remember we are in good shape. And, for you younger members, I have learned a few things in my sixty years. Trust my judgment. Thank you for coming.”
    They shuffled and stacked documents in their attaché cases. The Japanese bowed and grinned, but the Koreans and the Chinese cut their eyes at him when they exited. The transparent plexiglass doors closed with a hiss and sealed the sound proof room. Two glass elevators descended through the thirty open levels of the corporate headquarters and deposited the board members on the main floor. That left Ding alone in the cloud. The main executive offices were suspended on huge metal beams from the ceiling, where they could see the employees. But, when the employees looked up, all they saw was a huge oblong white enclosure. Hence the name, the cloud. “Bye, assholes. Profits have tripled since I brought Wei into the fold. What the fuck have you done?”
    Excuse me, Mr. Ding.
    “Yes, Monitor.” The voice echoed. He never could figure from where.
    Dr. Wei is on your private line.
    “Thank you, Monitor. Wei, what the hell happened?”
    “Hello, Mr. Ding, how are you?” Wei snapped.
    Ding slammed the table. “Listen, I had an emergency meeting with the board. They are nervous—”
    “I don’t see why,” Wei interrupted. “Let me guess; the Japs and Koreans. Hello...hello.”
    “I’m here, Wei! The Chinese birth rate continues to decline. It might take years for drugs and procedures to reverse this manmade problem, but those fools are crawling up my ass.”
    “I’m making good progress. The trials started last year. My expertise in reproductive medicine is world renowned. We will solve the cervical deficiency of Asian women on schedule. Devax-Epitor will remain at the top. Relax.”
    “You better be right.”
    “If you blow your top more often, you might stretch a foot or so, short guy.” Wei laughed.
    “Don’t fuck with me, Wei. Good-bye.” Ding was the company’s shortest employee and the smartest. A closer look at Dr. Wei would be prudent.

    Lovey’s long thin fingers sank into the leather floor mat. She balanced two hundred pounds on each hand, one by one. When she reached the end of the hand stand walk her legs descended to a forty five degree angle before she jumped on her feet. She shook her hands and added circulation to her palms. She did several cart wheels on the mirror like polished hardwood floors to the next series of mats. She fell into a split, bounced and tightened her abdominals. No pain or tension around the incision. Good. She did push-ups, switched to sit-ups and ran in place. The still rings looked good; they dangled waiting for her to do her routine, she got started. She felt fine. Why did she have to heal? What would Wei say if he knew what she was doing? Well too late, Wei. She released the rings and landed on the balls of her feet. Time for a run. Portions of the track were closed for re-surfacing. Good, she could use some fresh air.
    The disinfectant in the locker room made Lovey’s nose wiggle. The closer she got to the washroom the stronger. She ran a towel under a stream of cold water and wrapped it around her neck. It should stay damp for an hour. She stepped into the hall and headed for the main entrance.
    Lovey’s leaned on the brass colored hand rail and adjusted the towel. The humidity and ozone lingered. She took a deep breath, exhaled and trotted down the recreation center’s marble stairs. She had several routes to choose; two paths wound through areas that resembled a golf course. Depressions filled with man-made materials mimicked sand traps. Small hills covered with artificial turf had paths wind around them. Those lead into the forest area and creeks. The best route on a day like this; close to the Sal-sag Channel.

Dawn

    Dawn Cantwell scribbled the answer to the last of her trig problems and stashed the textbook in her backpack before stripping the dirty sheets from her bed. She turned and found a German shepherd with a graying muzzle lying atop the clean sheets.
    “Move, Wilson. Chris will be here in fifteen minutes.” She shooed the dog out of her bedroom and closed the door behind him.
    Once finished with the bed she peeled off her shirt and stood in front of her underwear drawer trying to decide what would look best. She held a peach-colored bra to her chest and looked in the mirror. Was her stomach too big? Why waste time? They only had a little more than an hour before her mom got home from work. Dawn unhooked the blue bra she was wearing, tossed it in the hamper, and put on a loose top that would give her boyfriend easy access.
    Downstairs she sat on the couch with an iced tea in front of her and stroked Wilson behind the ear while waiting for her wrestler to arrive. His skin would be all warm from practice and her fingers would stroke his belly and stray to the mystery between his legs, before he took her to bed. Her friend Sophie teased her about her dumb, jock boyfriend but there’s no such thing as a stupid athlete. Chris just didn’t do well in academics. Dawn didn’t know what would happen when she went off to college but at least they’d have their senior year together. She planned to make the most of it.
    The doorbell rang. Wilson gave a perfunctory woof and struggled to his feet while wagging his tail. Dawn answered the door and planted an open-mouthed kiss on Chris’s mouth before he could even say hello. They went inside and sat on the couch.
    “So how was practice?” Dawn sat close so she could feel the warmth of his leg against hers.
    “Tough. Every time someone took us down, coach made us run laps. He says we’re all going to be running laps if we don’t beat Naperville, Friday.” Chris inched away. “Got any soda?”
    “Sure.” Dawn retrieved a can from the refrigerator and sat with her back against Chris’s side.
    Normally, it would have taken him about thirty seconds to be fondling her breasts but this time he was stiff as a statue.
    “You seem tense.” Dawn worked her fingertips into his shoulders. When she trailed a hand down his chest to his belly, he flinched. “Is something wrong?”
    “Just got my mind on the meet, I guess.”
    “You sure?”
    Chris glanced at the door.
    “Chris, I’m a big girl. If there’s someone else, you can tell me.”
    “It’s just...” He looked away. “It’s just that I don’t think we should be doing this.”
    “Chris, look at me.” She took his hand. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m on the pill and we use condoms just to be sure.”
    “Condoms fail.” Chris reached down to pet the dog. “Maybe we should wait until marriage.”
    “Chris, I’m not sure even want to get married. Anyway I have to wait until I finish veterinary school.”
    “It’s always veterinary school,” he shouted. “You think you’re so much better than me because you’re going to a good college?”
    Dawn stared. Who was this imposter who had taken the place of the boy she loved?
    “I’d better go.” Chris hid his face from her as he dashed for the door.
    She heard the motor start and his car drive away.
    “Oh, Wilson.” Dawn bent down and hugged the dog.

    “The nerve of that jerk!” Sophie’s bracelets jangled against the steering wheel as she turned her Honda into the Southwest High School parking lot. With her tinted hair, pierced eyebrow, and the way she swaggered when she walked, Sophie was as intimidating as any guy but she had a heart of pure kindness. “Are you okay?”
    “I didn’t sleep much,” Dawn said.
    “You’re better off without him.” Sophie reached into her purse and took out a jar. “You ought to put some makeup under your eyes.”
    Dawn sighed and looked out the window at the freshmen getting off the school bus. Sophie was a loyal friend but sometimes she just didn’t get it.
    “What the hell?” Sophie pointed to a pale man in a hooded robe, who was getting out of a limousine. “We’re hiring space aliens now?”
    Hoping to avoid bumping into Chris, Dawn rushed to her locker once inside but it was no good. As she was dialing the combination Chris and Ronnie Evans came down the hall. Both wore silver, heart-shaped pendants. From their banter it was obvious Chris wasn’t suffering. Glad it was so easy for him.
    “Oh look! They’re going steady.” Sophie stuck her tongue out at them after they passed.
    Fortunately for Dawn, her fist class was Biology. Mrs. Harper’s lecture on invertebrates kept her attention despite her lack of sleep. After an hour the bell rang and Principal Douglas’s voice came on the intercom.
    “All students report to the gymnasium for a special assembly.”
    “What’s this about?” Dawn asked Ginny Castro, who sat in front of her.
    “It’s the Silver Heart Club.”
    “The what?”
    “I don’t know. Something started by this minister from Alabama.”
    Dawn followed the others into the gym and took a seat on the bleachers next to Sophie. It was late September and the temperature was still in the upper eighties but the air conditioning had been turned off the previous week. Most of the time it was bearable but with so many bodies crammed into the space it was stifling. Everyone fanned themselves with notebooks and sheets of paper.
    “I’d like to welcome Mr. Kurt Vogel from ASEP who’s going to talk to you about a very important subject.” Principal Douglas shook hands with a man in a Hawaiian shirt and handed him the microphone.
    With his pale skin, glacial eyes, and blonde hair Vogel looked like an albino. While everyone else wilted in the heat, he seemed unaffected. His hair stayed neatly combed and his clothes pressed.
    “Thanks, Principal Douglas.” Vogel moved to within a few feet of the first row. “I’d like to start by asking you all a question. Who here is interested in sex?”
    The crowd grew silent as Vogel paced back and forth.
    “Come on, who’s interested in sex?”
    Jimmy Doyle, a football lineman, raised a tentative hand.
    “Ah, an honest man.” Vogel raised his hand too and motioned for everyone to join him. “Nothing to be ashamed about. We’re all interested in sex. Sex is a beautiful thing just like fire is a beautiful thing when it’s used properly. Ever see a burn victim?”
    A picture of wiry hair and purple pustules appeared on the screen behind him. Dawn stared at it for thirty seconds before realizing about the time Sophie began to giggle it was a diseased penis.
    “Jesus!” Dawn looked at her feet. It was bad enough that her boyfriend had broken up with her but did the school have to make her feel like a dirty whore, too?
    “Genital warts. One in four teenagers has them.” Vogel pointed to the crowd. “Who can tell me some other risks of premarital sex?”
    “Getting knocked up.”
    “AIDS.”
    “You can take precautions,” Sophie said.
    “Let me ask you this, miss,” Vogel said. “Suppose you had a chance to ride a roller coaster, a really great roller coaster, but there was a one in four chance it would go off the rails and leave you in a wheelchair. Would you do it?”
    “I guess not.”
    “Nuff said.”
    Vogel showed videos of “nice girls” turning down horny guys. It seemed like something from the 1940s or the 1890s but Dawn didn’t feel like objecting. She just wanted out. After an hour Vogel wrapped it up.
    “The only way to protect yourself is to remain pure until marriage. For those of you who take the chastity pledge, I have a special gift.” He held up a pendant. “It’s a silver heart that symbolizes that you respect yourself enough not to throw you love away cheaply.”
    More students lined up than Dawn would have expected and Chris was at the table handing the pendants out.

    The very atmosphere at Southwest High seemed to change. The local chapter of the Silver Heart Club met after school; its members frequently getting out of class early. Girls and guys kissing in the halls no longer received smiles and nods. Now they received mockery and dirty looks from the self-appointed guardians of morality. Someone even scrawled “slut” in Sophie’s locker.
    Dawn avoided it by concentrating on her studies and spending her spare time volunteering at the animal shelter but trouble rang her doorbell one Saturday morning. It came in the form of a middle-aged man with blue eyes in a rumpled, khaki sports jacket.
    “Hi, you must be Dawn.” He held up a badge. “I’m Detective Ray Allen from the Culver Police Department. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
    “Mom!” Dawn yelled into the hallway. “The police are here!”
    Judy Cantwell, her short hair still wet from the shower, came down the stairs in her bathrobe.
    “What’s all this about?” Dawn’s mother, an ER nurse, had little patience with double talk.
    “How do you do, ma’am?” The detective showed his badge again. “There was an incident at the high school last night and I’m wondering if your daughter can give me some background information.”
    “She’s not in trouble. Is she?”
    “Not even remotely.”
    Detective Allen entered and took a seat across from Dawn and her mother who sat side by side on the couch.
    “Do you know Chris Mooney?” He scratched Wilson behind the ear.
    “He used to be my boyfriend.” Dawn motioned for the dog to came and sit by her feet.
    “Had he been acting funny lately, as if,” Detective Allen sat forward, “he’d been taking drugs?”
    “We broke up a few...”
    “What’s this about?” Judy interrupted.
    “He collapsed at wrestling practice.” The detective sighed. “The paramedics did all they could but...”
    “You mean Chris is dead?” Dawn’s mouth fell open.
    Judy put an arm around her shoulder.
    “I’m sorry.” The detective offered his handkerchief. “The medical examiner said Chris was suffering from some kind of anemia and that he found punctures marks in his wrist. Could he have been injecting something? Maybe steroids?”
    “No.” Dawn wiped her eyes. “Chris would never have done anything like that.”
    “All right.” The detective stood and placed his card on the coffee table. “If you can think of anything else, please let me know. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

    Silver hearts were prominent at Chris’s funeral as was Kurt Vogel who sat wearing sunglasses in the front row. With so many of Chris’s new friends packing the chapel, Dawn and Sophie had to sit in back. At her age she hadn’t seen a lot of funerals but she assumed the eulogy was pretty standard. When the minister concluded and opened the service for mourners to speak, Vogel was the first at the microphone.
    “Thank you, Pastor Ricks. I didn’t know Chris Mooney as long as some of you but I’d like to think I knew him well.”
    Dawn clenched her fists. Who the hell did he think he was? The funeral was supposed to be about Chris and the people who loved him. Sophie’s restraining arm touched her shoulder.
    “As a man of the cloth myself.” Vogel glanced at the minister. “I can say that you get very close to someone when you’re helping them overcome Satan. I’m happy to tell you that in his short life Chris banished sin from his heart. Who among us can hope for a greater victory?”
    Chris’s friends from the Silver Heart Club got up and talked about what an inspiration he was. The whole spectacle of these pale teenage believers felt so alien to Dawn that she didn’t have the nerve to speak but she couldn’t leave without offering her condolences to Chris’s mother. She asked her Sophie to wait and joined the line to the family. Mrs. Mooney sat in a pew next to her daughter Kim, her stepson Ryan, and their nine-month-old baby. As Dawn was looking at the child, she felt a sick feeling as if something slimy were crawling down her spine. It was Vogel who’d stepped in line behind her.
    Fortunately, the woman in front finished allowing Dawn to step forward and escape Vogel’s presence.
    “Mrs. Mooney, I’m so sorry about Chris.”
    “I know, honey. How are you holding up?” She took Dawn’s hand. “You were a good friend to him.”
    Then something strange happened. When the baby in Kim’s arms cried and reached his tiny hands for her breast, Vogel began sneezing. Holding a handkerchief over his face he practically ran out the door.

    “How did it go?” Sophie asked when Dawn met her outside.
    “Mrs. Mooney was cool. Hope she’ll be okay.”
    They began walking down the steps.
    “Dawn, wait up!”
    Ronnie Evans caught up with them. The wrestler looked out of place in a dark suit and white shirt with a collar that was obviously too tight for his bull neck. His skin seemed clammy and he had dark rings under his eyes.
    “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Chris.” Ronnie struggled to catch his breath even though he’d only run a few paces. “We uh, oh shit. I was the guy wrestling with him when he passed out. I didn’t know, I...” He looked away until he could compose himself. “Look, we’re having a memorial at Monday’s Silver Heart meeting. It’d mean a lot to me if you’d...”
    “We’ll be there,” Sophie said.

     “Let’s all hold hands.” Ronnie seemed more at home in the Silver Heart meeting than he had at the funeral.
    Dawn and Sophie took the hands of the students next to them forming a big circle around the classroom. No adults were present. The only leader was Ronnie who stood head bowed behind the teacher’s desk.
    “Lord, make us strong enough so that we can live lives of cleanliness and virtue. Give us the wisdom to see that the media culture of instant gratification leads to degradation and perversion, to viewing our young women as objects of pleasure, to AIDS, and to the holocaust of abortion. Amen.”
    Dawn remained quiet while the crowd echoed Ronnie’s amen. She then glanced at Sophie and thought, “I’m so going to kill you for roping me into this.” Maybe it wasn’t too late to snatch some orange juice and a donut from the table by the door and slip out.
    “Please welcome Dawn and Sophie,” Ronnie said. “It’s their first Silver Heart Club meeting.”
    Dawn nodded and smiled. She was stuck for the duration.
    “So what usually happens,” Ronnie said, “is that we split up, guys in one room and girls in the other. Then we talk in an honest and open way about our struggles with temptation.”
    The students helped themselves to snacks and the guys left for another room. Megan Johnson took over as the meeting coordinator. She belonged to all the clubs but never quite made it into the group of popular girls. Even though she’d been a cheerleader for two years, Mandy Esposito and friends had never welcomed her into their clique.
    “Does anybody want to go first?” Megan took a magic marker from the white board and tossed it from hand to hand.
    There were no takers.
    “Okay, guess it’ll have to be me.” Megan stepped around the teacher’s desk so nothing separated her from the group. “Last year I had an abortion.”
    There was no response from the crowd.
    “The father was older than me, a college friend of my brother’s. I was so flattered by him asking me out that I didn’t think to say no when he wanted to have sex. I mean, everybody else was doing it. Right?”
    A few girls giggled.
    “I wish I hadn’t. When I told him I was pregnant, he blew me off. Guys like him only want one thing. Anyway, my parents convinced me to get an abortion and after it was done, I thought it was all over. But now...” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “But now I can’t stop thinking about my baby would have looked like, her tiny little fingers and toes.
    “I’m not going to make that mistake again. No sex until I have a wedding ring on my finger. Of course, we all get tempted like when some guys are playing basketball without their shirts and looking fine. That’s when I pray to God to give me strength. Oh Lord, give me strength!”
    The laughter opened up discussion.
    “Is it all right to masturbate my boyfriend?”
    “Honey, he should do the dirty work himself.”
    Dawn’s face felt hot. What did any of this have to do with her boyfriend, the one who died last week?
    A few girls confessed an attraction to other women.
    “I think you need to take that up with Reverend Vogel,” Megan said. “He can channel the Holy Spirit into you so it chases temptation away.”
    A mousy freshman named Jeannie Conrad raised her hand.
    “What if you didn’t have a choice?”
    “What do you mean?” Megan asked.
    “When I was eleven, my uncle molested me.”
    “Me too,” Sophie murmured. “Me too.”

    “Back off, homo!”
    “You’re the homo!” Chuck Dugan pushed Ricky Peters into the lockers.
    Ricky sprang back swinging a big, wild punch that caught Chuck in the jaw. The two went at it until Mr. Ariola broke it up and sent them to the office. There seemed to be more fights lately but that’s not the only thing that was weird. On Friday Dawn went to a dance but there were no guys. Hopping around with a bunch of girlfriends was so fifth-grade that Dawn just went home. The boys got even more juvenile if that was possible. Stuart Davidson put a mouse in Mandy Esposito’s purse and Brian Wilson snapped Marcie Miller’s bra strap. It was like someone had found a circuit breaker labeled puberty in the school’s basement and switched it to OFF. Dawn swore some of her friends got more flat-chested.
    The weirdest thing of all was that Dawn had lost her best friend. With one of those big silver hearts hanging around her neck, Sophie was just too busy attending club meetings and going to Vogel’s house to spend any time with her.
    When Sophie missed a few days of school, Dawn dialed her cell phone. Nothing. She phoned her home and got only the answering machine. Dawn kept trying. At 10:00 PM Sophie’s father answered.
    “I’m sorry to call so late, Mr. Gilbert but I haven’t been able to get in touch with Sophie.”
    “She’s in intensive care.”
    “What? What happened?”
    “It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. Good night.”
    Dawn sorted through the papers on her desk until she found Detective Allen’s business card and dialed his number. A strange man answered.
    “Halloran.”
    “Is Detective Allen there?”
    “He’s had an accident. May I help you?”
    Something about the man’s voice didn’t sound right.
    “Oh, uh, I’m working on a report about meth addiction for social studies and I wanted to ask the detective to come in and give a presentation to the class.”
    “You need to call public relations at 555-2832.”
    Dawn hung up the phone. Whatever Vogel and his group were up to, she wouldn’t be getting any help from the police.

    A week later, Dawn drove to the veterinary clinic after school for her Wednesday volunteer work. It was one of those fall days when dark clouds blot out the sun and the wind carries a cold whiff of winter. She parked in the lot and removed a few textbooks from her backpack before getting out of the car.
    “Hello, Dawn.”
    “Sophie!” Dawn dropped her keys. “Where did you come from?”
    “I’ve been waiting for you.”
    “Are you all right? Your dad said you were in the hospital.”
    “Those doctors are morons.”
    It didn’t look like Sophie had combed her hair in days and her ripped blouse was buttoned crookedly. The silver heart was still there hanging around her neck like a tumor. Her skin had lost its color and there were purple bruises under her eyes.
    “You have no idea what I’ve seen.” Sophie took Dawn’s hand in a grip cold as an autopsy table. “For a few drops of blood I can show it to you.”
    “Sophie!” Dawn puller her wrist away. “You’re scaring me.”
    Just then the clinic door opened and a burly man lugged a pet carrier outside. Sophie’s eyes watered as if she’d been gassed with pepper spray. Wheezing like an asthmatic she ran from the parking lot.
    “Is your friend all right?” The man Dawn now recognized set the pet carrier on the hood of his Ford Explorer.
    “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Mr. Ochoa. How’s Rumbles?”
    “She just had kittens. Want to see?”

     Oxytocin! The veterinarian told her the neurotransmitter was called oxytocin. As Dawn scrolled through the Wikipedia article, it all began to make sense. Oxytocin was associated with female sexual arousal and the bonding between mother and infant. Since Vogel had such an aversion to it, he had to push celibacy in order to prey on the students at Southwest High. Dawn began searching the Internet for images. She only had a few days before Friday’s assembly.

    Dawn sat next to Ginny Castro in the fourth row of the bleachers and gently set her backpack by her feet. The distance seemed about right. Too close and she’d be surrounded by silver-hearters. Too far and she wouldn’t have any effect.
    Once again the principal welcomed Kurt Vogel. Unlike last time Vogel now wore a navy blue blazer and khaki slacks. In a nod to the teen’s informality he went without a tie.
    “Thank you, Principal Douglas. It’s great to be back at Southwest High.” Vogel paused while the kids in front cheered. “You’ve done a great job since my last visit. Why don’t you give yourselves a big round of applause?”
    Dawn nudged Ginny with her elbow, zipped open her backpack, and lifted out a lop-eared rabbit.
    “How cute!” Ginny reached out to pet him. “What’s his name?”
    “Russell.” Dawn placed the rabbit in Ginny’s lap.
    The girls sitting close turned to look.
    “Hey!” Principal Douglas pointed at Ginny. “Pay attention!”
    “As I was saying.” Vogel sniffed and coughed. “Here’s a video about a couple teenagers who learned the hard way.” He pressed a button on the black, handheld controller.
     Vogel cocked his head as the characteristic sound of Burt Bacharach’s horn came from the speakers. When Jackie DeShannon began singing “What the World Needs Now is Love,” he stabbed the off button with his finger to no effect. Images of kittens, puppies, palm-sized baby hedgehogs, and all kinds of cute animals filled the monitor. A text message said, “Look under your seat,” and a hundred young women found Paddington Bears and Hello Kitty dolls. Principal Douglas grew apoplectic when the images changed to Patrick Swayze, Brigitte Bardot, babies, and breastfeeding mothers.
    “Stop it this instant!” He waved his fist.
    Vogel tried to shield his face from the oxytocin-laden air with a handkerchief but it did no good. He began coughing and staggering.
    “Kurt! Kurt! Are you all right?” Principal Douglas ran to his side.
    Vogel leaned back and howled his fangs now visible in his open mouth. He grabbed the principal by the shoulders, sunk his teeth into his throat, and shook the body to break its neck before running from the gymnasium. Students stared at the blood spurting from Principal Douglas’s neck as the feel-good music played. The interval between spurts grew longer and longer until it ceased when the principal’s heart stopped. Sensing an opportunity to exert authority, the Vice Principal, Mrs. Watkins picked up the microphone.
    “All right students, time for third period class.”

    At 3:00 Dawn sat down in the back of the room and took her trig book out of her backpack. Someone had carved, “High school sucks,” in the desk and darkened the letters with blue ink. She’d imagined they’d give her some kind of award for saving the school from the vampire. Even a simple thank you would have been enough but a month of detention just didn’t seem fair especially since the school officials got off without even a rebuke.
    Some parents had been angry with the school board for turning their children over to blood suckers. There had been talk of a recall election until the shock jocks on AM radio came to the board members’ defense. Nothing happened.
    “How you doing?” Jimmy Doyle sat down at the desk next to hers.
    Dawn stole glances at him while pretending interest in sines and cosines. She’d never noticed what soulful eyes he had and the way his hair curled over his ears. Maybe she should get to know him better. With three weeks of detention left, she’d have plenty of time.

Cheering Like a Biker on Speed

    As what I presuppose will be my final “Look! Isn’t this ugly?!”, regarding a monster called Man, it might perhaps serve us better, to discuss the monster’s castle. A haunted house in the Milky Way. Third from Sol. A blue droplet, become a tomb. A crypt, become crap. Or, so it is said, and for quite my lifetime. How our mud home has been made dirty, even beyond its sky. It’s ever ongoing, this bellow, the “Hey, Jude” of shaking a fist. Mainly via tubes we look into.
    Whether pimped by Orson Welles himself in The Late Great Planet Earth, or goggled at us via PBS by Jeff Goldblum during his 15 minutes, I, crass materialist, narcissist, disconnected to the point I’ll pump Michael Jackson’s “Leave Me Alone” to drown out the cries of Others, have watched. And paid attention. Listened, taken in. Absorbed. Scientists, often the same faces growing older, alternately amused and grim. Detailing—in layman’s terms—our depth of ooze into the quicksand. The reports are never precisely the same, and by that I mean, they don’t get better. No...The Portrait of Dorian Gray, tends to not improve. And by way of the good volk at msn.com, the update last year (one year ago, keep repeating that like a mantra), had it as generally held and stated within the Scientific Community, that, if all measures of preserving the planet were put into effect overnight...one YEAR ago...we could no longer escape catastrophic effects to the environment, before Earth as the Delta Queen even began to turn her ass around. That’s well Over a Year, now, as you read this, and I’ll roll the dice Nothing’s changed. I didn’t think it would, which is why I’m still so pissed about French fries being ruined. Newsflash: Health-committed Persons Don’t Eat French Fries.
    Humans are about hating other humans and trying to control them. Save the Planet, has too much healing and accord and community in the mix, and not enough lingering aftertaste from making someone else feel stupid...or making them pay money for some specific they didn’t obey well enough...or even onsite reeducation, which is considered rather plantation overseer, to persons made to kneel, a bad idea in a nation brimming with ordnance. No. The “happy” of making things nicer, is, if you understand this, social vermouth. Very few want much of it, as the gin of “making them _______”, is the good stuff. Though, it’s all been buzz, anyway—stupid, monotone buzz, from when a “drone” was a “low on the totem pole” bee. It’s something I’ve heard forever.
    We had an open landfill a few blocks away from my birthplace, after an interstate was pushed through when I was being born. I loved going there as a small boy and laughing, testing my skills at being the next Sandy Koufax, as my folks let me throw in our trash. TV kid, I never missed the PSA of the crying Indian. I thought it was ultra-cool. I liked the power the litterers wielded; it never occurred to me harming the planet was “bad”, as but for the rare story about or photo op by a posturing hypocrite, or some not-funded-by-anyone-else group of ragtags, I never saw real moves toward changing things...and on the occasion of any accomplishment, it stopped, then added its mass to the growing war of words. The smog index in LA, wasn’t beginning descent, until years after I’d begun stealing peeks at skin mags, and the pride kind of ended there. Like me, when playing a war game, never having a long range strategy. And voices, all along the way, cranking out the obit. Through usage, it lost impact.
    This topic, is today at the point of PPV, missing only the bombast of Don King, and those Green certainly deal the best abuse in debate...but, words, no matters swearing thick, no matter prayers or those of love, do nothing. A crushing statement, coming from a writer, but that’s my argument, per any Good Idea: Words and Only Words, are meaningless.
    Given the increasing “fast approaching deader than shit” agreement in the scientific enclave, the ongoing fight and requisite fingerpointing appears to be an end in itself. The YouTube vid of the old McGlaughlin Group, shouting, overtalking, half-pigs at the trough, half-asylum inmates, until the credits. Great fun. Place your bets. But leave the planet out of it, as Earth’s a nonrunner. Because a world’s worth of vomiting at one another, moves not a stone. Or a hunk of plastic. Or allows better atmosphere. Or freezes Time.
    Science, with varied specifics, more and more is Arthurian Round Table in its unanimity. And Bill Maher makes foolish faces and calls everyone who isn’t Bill Maher, “dumb”, as the panels gobblegobble, “people need to understand”, if-you-didn’t-attend-my-favorite-class-at-Johns Hopkins-you’ll-think-I’m-a-weirdo...and they of the Grass Roots (comprising most all persons I’ve ever known) sneer, spit, get angry, speak of firearms and use terms like “overedu-muh-cated idiot!”...which may give the Mahers and Silvermans and Oswalts a whole lotta spendin’ money, but again, cleans not one square inch. Meanwhile, whichever way, the ozone, urban pollution, the landfill issue, too hot so we fry, too cold so we freeze, waters rising or honey bees dying or unbreathable, plague-ridden air, the reality of devolution, deterioration, goes on. To an estian and existentialist like me, to common sense and pragmatism, to those who can still do math or take in a chalk talk, that’s Game. Nice fighting with you. Red or white, with your cyanide?
    Yet fatalistic logic, seems to not penetrate The True Believer, as I found out in Christian days, following Dr. Falwell’s “7-11 sells porn!” phase. Hardcore reality, is specious, please note. Right is right. (?) The insistence of fighting the good fight, from any corner and versus opposition of choice, is in a burning eye of zealotry, the crux. As a lifelong Prohibitionist, though annoyed, I understand. The trouble with holy wars as related to the devolution of Man and his lil’ spaceship, is that those playing for time, have already won. There exists no [MISSING FRAME] “Oooh, what a daring escape, that was!” for us. Certainly not for those arriving, nor those they lie down with nor those who arrive as a result. There’s no falling across the finish line, going the distance to prove a point, everyone is saved but the hero dies, or a decade to get the best and brightest to Bullshit Name Galaxy, that our legacy might learn, when we did not.
    No, as of even you reading this, we’ve arrived at the level of Kevin Costner movies, in terms of how shitty The Future will be before, in another Future far beyond ours, things can be then better, as Man will “know”. We’ll have arrived, y’see, and that you and I will never know this reality, which still involves the primitive and looks like Luxembourg, is not supposed to be of concern. Nor is the fact of this, given Vegas odds, not what’s coming, either.
    Blame games and assigning culpability, with the default to “yeah, but...!” held over from the playground or dealing with Mom are, as with my being dismissed for suggesting the Church could never stop Not the Church from ogling Miss April, as far as it seems we’re gonna get. And, we have again arrived at Man as murderer. This time, not because of Man as existing, but as bred. The point, is a simplicity rejected, by those who require more. As with anything, what persons “want” as true, is only that. So, let me speak of History:
    The writing of H.P. Lovecraft, the rhetoric leading us to realize none of us Really Knows the story of Earth, prior to the Antiquities...and we don’t, even Louis Leakey had to revise as he went along...for me spells out history books as legend, either the heroic things I read or the rewrites you’re getting, now. More and more, when we retreat backward enough, so no Daguerreotype can hold honest, anything becomes possible. And for my part, I believe humans as I’ve known them, Hate, and they condemn, they slander, and they deride. No one, Back There, ever lauded another with highsounding glory, if the story was untrue. Not in a world harsh with drilled lessons and severe penalties and death by your 30th birthday. In the mist, Back There, you often died, if you did not tell it straight.
    So, I believe Indians and Pilgrims made a timid attempt upon a certain day, a nice try, considering. I believe a middleaged general named Washington, knelt in freezing snow, speaking at The Beyond that a nation be allowed to be born. I even believe 183 crass, gauche, socially unacceptable and(or) uneducated, stubborn men, crossed a line, in sand or in metaphor, because in their conviction, they would not be told.
    I believe all kinds of things like that. The writing of Lovecraft, makes it worth considering. An image I borrowed, from my novella, FUM, of a giant door set into a mountain:
    “A world hinted at, what Earth once was, almost the only trace remaining. A cornerstone of what lay in shards of Troy, or the tortured thoughts of the writer, Robert E. Howard. It was real. It had been everything, and now was only this.”
    I believe that, in the Long Ago, Man was heroic, and legendary in his being. Human as a race, was capable and honorable and righteous and good. And final. Hammurabic. Utterly rigid. No quarter given or asked. A simplicity and a certainty and a way all understood, though language divide them. I believe this world was the World, until a conflict to decide its future, made zillions go away, all the way from “camps” ringed with razor wire filled with starving Others, to a pair of explosive suns making cities vanish in light. These things, were at the end of the fight of the universes. And the victors, themselves knocked Hell out of, came marching home. And married. And begat devils. Devils who, today, talk and overtalk and butt in and accuse, who explain in rambles and do nothing, who growl with menace and do nothing, who call names and pontificate and sneer and do nothing...who slander one another and line pockets, and sit and wait. Who beat breasts with their own “greatness”...while doing not a goddammed thing, then defaulting to Mom, how “they started it!”
    Devils. I don’t care what side of the debate. We’re all going to die, and you sit there, mouthing. ‘Cause, God knows, the play’s the thing, right? Your play. Where you win all the arguments.
    I close all social discourse, with a fast look at my 10-Minute Play, The Sinking of the Cumberland...
    A man and woman, lifelong foes, find themselves trapped in an airtight security room. They spend their last moments as they spent their whole lives, e.g. namecalling, derriding, threatening, assigning guilt. Both are “right”. The Other is a shithole, and that’s The Way Things Are. The play ends in black light, the pair on knees at center room, embracing, terrified as they shriek for want of air. Although not written as a metaphor, I want you, the Reader, to hold that image in your head, but replace the actors with you and your dearest Other. Now add one more image: Me, however you perceive me, raccoon coat, straw boater and a pennant that reads, “Beat State”, cheering, like a biker on speed.

    IMO, if there’s ever a Soylent Green, it won’t be “people”. It’ll be something rather less.
    CEE

Red Robin Remembered

    “What are you going to replace it with?” That is what we are most often ask when we want to be rid of something. It’s like the electron-hole theory of electricity that says current flows two ways. One way to its use, leaving vacated spaces or holes that appear to flow the opposite way to its source. Each electron is replaced by a hole and vice versa. Except that electricity theory openly admits to being only a theory used to promote understanding. But consumerism is not a theory nor the “need” to replace things a benign desire. It is a consumption driven concept used to instill necessity and gain access to capital, or in short, dollars.
    Plain destruction without consideration for what will be missed is not right either as some who seek only an end would have us believe. But the powers that be, footed in a consumption based society, leave little room for negotiating what is needed and what is not. And nihilistic destruction requires not the support necessary to reach a defining standard of living that is reasonable and just. In a sense, consumerism and nihilism are alike, both having no path to moderation.
    It is not nihilism, however, that has the podium in society nor the desire to persuade us to waste and spend for things that we may or may not have, all touted as part of the “good” life. In fact one can throw together any claptrap object and entitle it, “For The Person Who Has Everything.” It will move.
    This missive and its implications will gain little traction in today’s society. Even the threat that the oceans will rise over many of our homes if we do not stop the wasteful use of our planet’s resources changes little. A few snickers, mostly from those in the highest positions of responsibility, will surely be heard. But when they suddenly retire to the higher peaks and the ocean is in the refrigerator and we brace against the surf on the front porch, their amusement will be a thing of the past. And when a book that poo poos global warming washes to our feet, how dare our anger be, to avoid the shame that is.

Look for news that kills us — so turn to the Weather

    Global changes in the weather did not reach us through the newspapers in the past the way the Internet reaches us now, and now that we have our “smart” phones to give us instant access to the world with our fingertips, and with our 24-hour drive-by news media through cable television, we have become inundated with the “bad news” about our weather 24/7.
    All the talk hit us after Al Gore invented the Internet in the 1990s (my college, the University of Illinois UIUC, would like to thank the politician for doing the work we thought we started at the U of I) — in the 1990s Vice President Al Gore then released a “documentary” that talked about how we humans are the cause of global warming (and he then continued to use private jets and fleets with limos whenever he went anywhere, what a great example you set, Mr. Gore)... But at least he could get money out of the problem he has shown the world by creating a company in charge of trading “carbon credits” with countries who continued to pollute.
    Ingenious businessman, isn’t he? He tells the world of a problem he cannot prove, and creates a company to make people feel better about their bad habits he has pointed out. Ingenious.
    But then again, I might be a Republican talking head, wanting to oppose whatever any Democrat says (because I first wrote “Understanding Global Warming”, which was also in cc&d v165.25, but later rebuked it with “A Different Light on the Global Warming Debate”, printed in v177 of cc&d magazine)... But I don’t vote Republican, I just try to get a broad range of facts and opinions before I make my own judgment. So I went to the Internet (because I’m one of those modern-day tech-heads who relies on the Internet for my news) to see if there was any proof of human-kind causing global warming. After skipping the Google ads supporting the theory, I went to a 6/4/14 blog by Graham Wayne, who had a rebuttal argument to “Skeptical Science” article “Empirical evidence that humans are causing global warming)” (https://www.skepticalscience.com/empirical-evidence-for-global-warming.htm), but his rebuttal argument to global warming wasn’t a rebuttal at all.
    (And by the way, yeah I know this all came from a blog, but as most Americans get their news from the Internet now, it often becomes next to impossible to find actual proof or evidence before finding something that supports your own mind set, so you can always think youre right. This was the closest thing I could find on the Internet that seemed like it had statistics and could seem trustworthy, so cut me some slack..)

    But back to the story. What Graham Wayne’s article did point out to me was that most scientists now do look at the data and believe that human activity has actually helped to increase the weather changes that we see now. (The sad thing is that how Americans are less likely to support what scientists are telling them, which makes me feel like I’ve been a heel for a while now, since I always turn to science for my evidence.)
    Then again, the poll doesn’t say why scientists believe that human activity has actually helped to increase the weather changes we witness that seem out of the ordinary (there was no empirical data to support why scientists believe this way, and I keep saying I’m all about the empirical data). We can only infer from this that scientists believe it. (I mean, any scientist who believes in a Christian or Jewish or Muslim faith is not relying on empirical data, so we can only guess how they all arrived to their separate conclusions.)
    Then again, I turn on right-wing talk radio shows, and they still say there is no evidence that changes in the weather are fundamentally caused by man’s actions, and the thing is, I can understand that people who want to support the Obama presidency may fall into line with things about climate change with no physical evidence to support. (Example: they used to fear an upcoming ice age, then they said it was “global warming”, then when they saw temperatures dropping they called it “climate change”, which means any storm in the forecast can be attributed to their cause, which is forcing people to change their habits to “support the environment.”)
    So — where does that leave me, and is there anything I can do? If climate change is impacted by human actions over time, and if America isn’t doing enough, and if countries like China and India are flying in the face of any attempts to not use energies that are less harmful to the environment, does it make a difference if I recycle all paper and plastic and glass, and does it matter that if I drive on expressways, I make a point to not go over the speed limit (and waste a ton more fuel than is necessary for the drive)? Other than my saving money on refueling my car, I’m not sure.
    Maybe saving my own money is enough of a reason for me to do it, and I don’t have to get on a high horse for this cause, if I can clearly state that the primary reason I am doing it is for my own financial benefit. For example, when I have released chapbooks of my writing for poetry features of mine, I have used packing paper (which would have been paper thrown away, when it was in packages I received in the mail), which I guess saves paper — but it’s also cool looking that I have reused one thing and turned it ito something else. And it saved me money to use the back-sides of used letter paper for my grocery lists — why spend the money on more paper if I already have paper I am otherwise throwing away at home anyway, right?
    Some may want to get on that high horse when it comes to literally taking actions to help the environment, and I suppose that is their prerogative. If it makes them feel good to recycle (which I have to admit I get belligerent about doing at home, since our recyclable products are collected separately from our trash), then let hem feel good. It does create additional jobs for sorting and processing the material to recycle, which is good for the local economy... And even if the drop in the bucket one individual does for this planet might actually become more like a microscopic atom (and not something comparatively as big as a water droplet) in that bucket, if it makes people feel good about doing it, then go ahead and do it (and continue feeling good about the choices you make). Whether you do it to help the local economy, do whether you make choices that actually save you money, or if you think you are helping not hurt mother Earth, the reason is yours, even if the end result is the same.
    It’s funny, my husband told me he heard on news radio recently that instead of the idea of a global warming, that, because of cyclical solar patterns, that the northern half of the western hemisphere (yes, that means the top half of the United States, including my Chicago stomping grounds) may, in the next 15 years, fall into the beginning of a light ice age (and that it may snow year ‘round in the Northern half of the continental United Sates within a few decades). So who knows, if I want to continue my rants of everything under the sun (from crime to politics to, why not, even weather), and if I listen to every news report I hear, I may have to look forward to moving somewhere warmer to continue my rants about everything wrong with this word.

This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Janet Kuypers Editor in Chief (written August 2015)

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 (2010-2015) (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 three collection books from 2004: Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art), 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, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry, a year long Journey, Bon Voyage!, and the mini books Part of my Pain, Let me See you Stripped, Say Nothing, Give me the News, when you Dream tonight, Rape, Sexism, Life & Death (with some Slovak poetry translations), Twitterati, and 100 Haikus, that coincided with the June 2014 release of the two poetry collection books Partial Nudity and Revealed.