Table of Contents

poetry

(the passionate stuff)

the boss lady’s editorial

prose

(the meat & potatoes stuff)

lunchtime poll topic

(commentaries on relevant topics)

Suggested Torture

Excerpt from Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations:
Twenty-First Century Edition

IX. 29

“how worthless are all those poor people
who are engaged in matters political”
“All drivelers”

blood

left with you there, I
watched us become blood-
thirsty animals

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.

Miscellaneous Change in Umpiring #3

As more and more decisions
were made by automation,
the human umpires,
though
initially not required to do so,
added a new wrinkle
to the way they made their calls:
one- or two-step dance movements
to accompany the hand signals
And
since these moves proved to be
a huge hit with the fans,
eventually
the rules required a signature move,
and
the quality of such moves would be a part
of one’s annual evaluation

How We Loved Baseball

    How we loved baseball, Casey At The Bat. Ruth’s point lifted our hearts, Gehrig’s goodbye broke them.
    Battered like the balls we threw, our pastime, its name a vision gone, a fuzzy memory be.
    Trinkets, ribbons, a path to heroism penciled in, replaced our gloves and cleats. The luckiest Lou, many covered not meant to be, made it anyway.

    Booted blouses cracking cadence. Popcorn, crackerjacks, killing the umpire, a thought gone by.
    Nine men, the crack of the bat, faded to a ping, two fire teams in a squad, freeze dried in the gut.
    How we loved baseball, no Arlington to warm our memories, baseball could never die, but a play, it hides beyond.

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

entire town’s baseball team

I never played baseball
when I grew up,

didn’t watch it on tv
when I was little.

But when my dad was young,
while his aunt had fifteen kids,

he and his cousins
were the entire town’s baseball team.

Now dad is older,
he sits in his chair

and watches the Cubs
or the White Sox on tv.

And even though
I never saw him play

thinking of him and his cousins
being the entire town’s baseball team

even give me
fond memories.

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.

5:00 A.M. and the Rain

break my consciousness, my concentration
on the dream-drama-mind-movie currently
wreaking havoc in my head. Thankful
for the thirty-plus-second commercial
break, I try to sell myself
to the makeshift sheep that never quite learned
to count. They refuse my offer, return
to stutter-step staccato. Their dancing rewinds
my eyelids, forces me to begin, again at the end
of another night. I try to shut
out their laughter. It tends to linger

into morning’s light.

untitled (letter)

You still land belly-down
though the mailbox has no key
--what you yank is an envelope

and your hand already in flames
--why now these patrols
waving the children back

while you gag on the gust
and what’s left from your hand
--why only in the rain

then headlong the way each step
moves closer to the sea
becomes those rocks that expect sacrifice

and where you can be found
terrorized by streets boldly in print
yours and theirs, waiting in the open

--you vomit as if its stench
could clog the wound all these years
between one letter and another.

jobless

people ask for change
but you’re jobless, have no money

what do you do then?

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.

the million-dollar inauguration,
      blocks from n street village

the revolution will not consist of:
pulling plastic bags out of trash cans and licking them;
withdrawing your business account;
stealing books from the Little Library to try to sell at Crown Pawnbrokers;
losing half a gram of Tina at The Diner; or,
sucking an old man’s tiny dick in the bathroom of Larry’s Lounge,
even if for pleasure rather than business.

Jeanette Brune bio

    Jeanette Brune is a legal resident of the margins of American civilization. Her poetry has appeared on Brooks Lampe’s poetry blog, Uut Poetry, and she likes to read at open mic nights in Washington, DC whenever possible, trying never to perform the same thing twice.

operation diligence

someone was coming to attack
and I had no way to stop them
so I thought someone could help me

I called my nearest government agency
to see if they could save me
and they said

that any troops that could assist me
are in a training mission right now,
called “operation diligence”

which, I’ve learned, is their training
to stop terrible things like this
from happening to people like me

so... they’re detained,
in a practice drill meant to save me,
while I am left here to fend for myself

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.

Epiphany #1 from the
Minimum Wage Shopping Plaza

The neon of the storefront
church crucifix is just as bland
as the American flag in the
window of the U.S. Army
recruiting center

serve your country
serve your Jesus

but the girl who dances around a
pole beneath a strobe light
does it for soldiers and preachers
to stuff 1 or 5-dollar bills
into her bikini

Propaganda    Propaganda
from the Bible to the latest
Hollywood tell-all memoir

but whether Moses heard
God or the sound of his own
mind breaking down just like
the film star who came back
from several bad movies and
a heroin addiction
--the masses continue to follow
those who at worst
might be banal
and at best
might be crazy

Somewhere Between
My Morning Commute and
My Next Nervous Breakdown

When did the key
to my car become
a trigger and when
did my job in a cubicle
become a bomb?

And because it is
my supervisor’s birthday
do I have to inflate
the company target goals
like they were a body county
for a war we will never win?

But because Marjorie
is 57 today but spent
half of her over-inflated
salary sculpting away
her identity we will pretend
that she is forty just like
we’ll ignore how Jim’s son
is not an honor student
despite the private school
for which he re-mortgaged
his house while LaTonya
will never be Jim or Marjorie’s
neighbor despite the way they
voted for Barack Obama whose
car turned out to be
a weapon

--but like all of our Chevys
or Fords

eventually turned to rust

If the computer at the University of Illinois
computing Pi, ever stops

When human reality, gloss coat
Vision ideal, imagined symbiote
“New!! From MATTEL!!”
Children’s tea party as sincere oh-this-is-eversonice...
When fog lifts and again the Scottish town of myth is hid,
When the Love Boat backwaters
Into the Bermuda Triangle
The experience allowed to stand
As a fairyland
From a sad sack’s first dream
From the first nap he ever took,
When cult leader or work of art
Doesn’t have Other chance
To stink of
Smelly feet, BO, cigarette smoke, farts
Or start mouthing like Hitler meets
The Jerry Springer Show
There will never come perspective
On why there will never be such a time
Accessing...
Accessing...

Suggested Torture For Gitmo

Properly lighted
Properly blocked
Sesame Street's “The Count”
Sings “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”
With thunder and lightning and
Ya know,
The Free World as perceived
Would never lose another wink

defenses

I’m the predator
with no blade, no defenses
I am blindfolded

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.

Pedestrian Rage

You’ve heard of road rage, of course,
when the frustration of sharing the road
with inconsiderate putzes and assholes
gets to those drivers who
just can’t take it anymore and
they start shooting their fellow
road-hogs. Those are the most
extreme cases. Milder cases of
road rage are happening all the time
in the form of flipping people off,
swearing, throwing things, and
driving even more aggressively, etc..

Well, I have pedestrian rage.
You may think I actually mean sidewalk rage,
because that would be the analogous construction,
and I do have rage on the sidewalk,
but also when I’m crossing the street,
or in the shopping mall or grocery store.
I avoid going to the grocery store
or mall on busy Saturdays because I just know
I’m going to kill someone. And my rage is not just for my fellow pedestrians,
but also cars, bicycles, roller skaters,
baby strollers, wheelchairs, walkers, etc..
And dogs! If I didn’t find them too repulsive
to be near I would certainly kill them
and bake them into doggy pies
and feed them to their obnoxious,
oblivious owners who let their dogs shit
everywhere so it gets in people’s shoe treads
and keeps getting spread around, stinking up the place.
And dog shit definitely smells worse than people shit.

Why am I so mad? Well, I’ll tell you.

The main reason is that people are slow
and won’t get out of my way.
How can they not understand
that when you’re on the sidewalk and
there are people behind you, you can’t just stop in the middle of the sidewalk or
walk at a snail’s pace and block anyone
from getting around you and passing you?
Don’t they understand that some of us
have places to go?! Or people who come
to the end of the escalator and just stand
there so that everyone behind them ends
up smashing into them if they can’t
squeeze around them. But there’s more.
There are the drivers who come
speeding around the corner so fast
I think they’re going to run me down
when I have the light. So when that happens
I scream at the top of my lungs
“I HAVE THE LIGHT, ASSHOLE!”
while giving them the finger and crossing the street,
and those motherfuckers just have to wait
BECAUSE IT’S MY FUCKING TURN.
But the people who cross against the light
on a busy street have earned my wrath as well.
They mess everyone up. The cars can’t obey
their light without running them over,
so the cars end up in the middle of the street,
trying to turn, when pedestrians who do follow the lights finally get the green.
Is it any wonder that things in
this country are so fucked up
when people can’t even figure out
how to follow traffic lights?
What could be simpler than red and green?
Even porn stars get what red and green mean.
Maybe porn stars should be running the country.
Maybe to be allowed to vote, or even just drive,
people should have to submit a porn movie
of themselves doing a S & M scene
where red means stop and green means go.
If knowing what they meant was the only way to have any control over how much pain
you were feeling in your pussy, or
how tight your ball stretcher was,
you’d figure it out or be sorry.

And why are those bicycles on the sidewalks
when the sign clearly says
“No Bicycles on the Sidewalk”
in pictorial form, so not being able to read
isn’t even an excuse. What do they think
that big line across the picture of the bicycle means?
And if you can’t maneuver
one of those big double or quadruple strollers,
maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids
or maybe you shouldn’t take them out of the house
all at once until they can walk.
And if you can’t work your wheelchair or walker,
hire a damn healthcare worker to push you. I’m sure there are lots of people who would like the job.
Or just don’t leave home, because
I sure as hell am not going to pick you up
off the sidewalk when you tip over.
I’m more likely to kick you all over and
stomp on your face and
wipe the dog shit from my shoes on you.

The Destruction of our Political System

    Over the years I have enjoyed making commentary on the political leadership here in the . In the first eight years of this century, it was easy to write about the problems with the “W” Bush presidency (and I think my readers appreciated stories about anything from health care to the liberal media to the infamous “wars,” I mean conflicts, in the Middle East). And it was a little disturbing when I wrote editorials when the Obama administration started. Readers would email complaints to me about my stories. I’d later discuss with them why I said what I said and they came to understand there are usually at least two sides to any issue. But it’s funny to see how the masses get upset with a story pointing out problems with their President, their “savior”.
    But —
    You see, I don’t even know where to start here. Because it appears that the morass of people running on both sides of the political spectrum are almost too shockingly frightening to make fun of.
    I am writing this now after the caucus (but before the caucus). And although I have never voted for a Republican for President, I do find the giant mass of people trying to win us commoners over insanely entertaining. But as these men started getting together, it was stunning who came to the foreground. (Oh, sorry, there is a woman in there, I shouldn’t be so sexist to exclude her.) Although Carly Fiorina was sent to the “kids table” for the first debate including the 13th through 16^th Republican candidates... you know, the ones with maybe 1% of the polls (plus or minus 5%), she shone so strongly that she was invited to the main debate once or twice, before then being sent back to the “they don’t really count but we have to give them some space” debate.
    Because people like Carly Fiorina, people from the business world (and not the slowly churning giant political machine) were what people wanted to hear from. And when the first debates passed, people wanted to hear more from her, the one-time head of Hewlett Packard — and more from neurosurgeon and businessman Ben Carson, and more from the “well I tried this last time and it didn’t work, but I have enough money to try it again” Entertainer in Chief Donald Trump. And that was the really frightening thing, that a man so outside of the political system (and so wealthy he uses only his own money for all of his political campaigning) could, for a while, lead the other 14 candidates by often more than 20 percent.
    And that scared the Inside the Beltway Republican Elite — that outsiders had so much appeal to the masses and their heir to the throne — another Bush prodigy — had next to no appeal (even when he tried to be “fun” and “relatable” by calling himself Jeb exclamation point).
    And as the Iowa caucus approached, Donald Trump continued to spew out blatantly sexist and racist comments (like having a daughter that he thinks is so hot that if he wasn’t her father he’d have sex with her, or building a wall that Mexico will pay for, especially when all the Mexicans who come over illegally are rapists and murderers, or here’s the perfect one, banning all Muslims from entering the United States until we get a “handle” on how to fight radical Islamic terrorists).
    And the scary thing, is that there are people out there who supported these over-the-top remarks. (I think I even heard him in a speech once, where he said he told “x” group that “they could go F*©k themselves”, yes, there was a bleep there, but we all know what he said in a public speech.)
    Donald Trump has even been insultingly ripping on candidates like Rand Paul (people more libertarian, who is the only person on stage you could believe was always telling the truth). And even though this group of hens was trying to manage the pecking order in their favor, Trump felt so confident the he didn’t even bother to appear in the debate right before the caucus. I’m sure he had other plans for another speech where the place was packed beyond capacity (which is the way all of his appearances have turned out). But one candidate that Trump had jokingly complained about, Ted Cruz, merely said that he would just give Donald Trump a big bear hug, because tossing insults at each other is not how to keep the party together.
    Good point, and maybe that — coupled with Donald Trump not attending the debate right before the caucus and with the huge Evangelical vote that may be necessary for carrying more people and more delegates, maybe that would be why Cruz squeaked through to the win in . Which makes more sense, since Ted Cruz is the man who wears his fervor for religious devotion like the badge of honor that will protect him from all the heathens out there...
    And really, I think getting the religious vote may not work for Trump — I think the public has seen him hold a Bible once, and when he quoted the Bible once he even referred to the book and verse incorrectly.

At this point I may as well just talk about the front-runners. Sorry that I’m not going to discuss all who withdrew before the primaries, like Lindsay Graham, oh joy, another overtly religious man, or Rick Perry, the man who failed so miserably last time he thought that maybe putting on the appropriately-framed eye glasses would make him look intelligent enough the 2nd time around. Sorry to those who withdrew during the primaries, like Mike Huckabee, a religious man running again with a disposition charming enough to pull off a job with FOX cable, or Rand Paul, the previously mentioned only honest-sounding Republican running for office, or Pennsylvania Senator Rick Santorum — It didn’t work before Rick, and I still want to defer to Dan Savage’s efforts to rename the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the product of anal sex “Santorum”, http://spreadingsantorum.com/. And sorry to those with maybe 1% of the vote, like Chris Christie, who reverts to talking about 9/11 (see how that worked for Mayor Giuliani last time?), and sorry, I couldn’t even tell you anything about Jim Gilmore or John Kasich... The average human can only retain memories of 3 to 4 things, so there are only so many names I can keep track of.

    We were out once talking about the fiasco of the plethora of Republican candidates and I blurted out that of the pair of contenders (Donald Trump and Ted Cruz), I thought I would prefer the Entertainer in Chief Donald Trump to win the nomination, because I believe anyone who uses their religion as part of the basis for their decision making is incapable of keeping the interests of the United States as their first priority.
    But the country was founded by people with religious beliefs, they just didn’t want a government forcing one religion down their throats, they wanted to believe however they wanted to believe. Our Pledge of Allegiance had “Under God” added to it (1954) and “In God We Trust” was added to our currency (1957) — these things were added not as symbols of devotion to a God, but in opposition to Communism.
    Think about it — if people can create a religion based on the fictions of L. Ron Hubbard, one that people are to pay to be a part of, well, maybe we are demented enough in the United States to give such a crap about something of which there is no proof. But I’m sorry, I just don’t want our political leaders making crucial decisions and using their religion as their justification, rationale or explanation. (As I said, I’m sorry, but I prefer logic and proof and using reason to make decisions in my life. I can’t help it.)

    And that is when I hear the counterpoint to actually preferring Trump to Cruz: look, Trump is not a politician. In the debates, in his public appearances, his responses to his opponents and journalists is better fitted to a middle-school boys locker room than the leader of a nation. And how do you know he’ll not make rash decisions that is ultimately bad for our country?
    Well, it’s reasonable to think that if he’s so rash he may make rash decisions, but I can’t help but think that the President also has staff to assist on pretty much every subject that comes across that Oval Office desk, and I would hope the President might listen to the staff at times to gain more knowledge before making decisions.
    I might be crazy for thinking that, but it’s not like the President sits alone in Washington D.C. and researches everything on every subject entirely alone. For some reason, I get the feeling that’s not the way it goes in government.
    But then I hear that a C.E.O. of million dollar companies is a man who has never learned to work from any position other than one of too much power, since Trump was born into a lot of money (granted, he made that large sum larger, but he didn’t start with nothing, he didn’t work with people to work his way up). And for someone who only works from this angle, they may make those “rash” decisions by not working with staffers but through one executive order after another.
    When I heard this I thought, using excessive executive orders, like Obama?
    Then again, I was told Obama doesn’t read his daily security briefings.
    Lovely.
    That makes me think of when Obama was a first term Illinois Senator and he would take his BlackBerry onto the L train to answer emails and texts, because this way he wouldn’t be in the office to field questions face to face from actual people.
    Hmmm.
    Lovely.
    And the thing is, Obama got a lot of votes from young, uneducated voters to get him into office by calling on young people who do not know how the market works, which caused drastic changes to the political system. We’ve seen happen it in this century already — and I’m afraid we’re about to see it again, because right now, Donald Trump currently gets a very large portion of his support from young people who are not even high school graduates.

    And the exact same thing can be said for Bernie Sanders.

    Speaking of, you may wonder why I’ve talked so much about Republican debates and not the Democrat debates. Part of the reason might be that it seems the DNC has chosen to schedule their debates at times like, say, 8:00 PM on a Saturday nights, or right after an important football game. (And when I would try to find these debates to re-watch, even the cable companies wouldn’t show the debates as an option.)
    I’ve heard Republican talking heads on cable “news” shows saying the DNC is not hyping the debates because they want their chosen one, Hillary Clinton, to be a shoe-in. But Hillary may have forgotten that even if hubby Bill Clinton got on the stump to support his wife for Presidency, older people will remember Monica Lewinsky, and younger people will not remember (or understand) the appeal of Bill in the first place.
    Hillary Clinton tried to run for President once before, but like history, a black man got there before a woman. But at this point in the game she started making the rounds for her inevitable nomination for the Democratic candidate — what she didn’t expect was that the oldest man ever running for President could give her a run for her money.
    And to make things worse, Bernie Sanders is so liberal that although he is a Democrat Senator, he is very clearly a socialist.
    And yeah, Socialism may be the more frightening thing that an Entertainer in Chief running the country.
    When I was asked why I think the founding fathers decided that the only people who had the right to vote were white land owning men, I thought for a second and answered that it was probably because those people would be intelligent, rational and reasonable enough to know what is necessary to run a country (because an uneducated woman couldn’t be smart enough to own land, and you wouldn’t let the slaves vote). And it may sound irrational to not allow everyone to vote (especially when the phrase “Old enough to fight, old enough to vote” came up from World War II and Viet Nam), but the argument that could be made is that if you are still in school (as most going through college have not truly spent years in the work force before age 21), you do not know how the government runs, and you may not understand the economic consequences of blanket statements about “changing the system.”
    Remember how I said that a lot of the people supporting Sanders are people without high school educations? In the past day news reporters have commented that it seems like more than only Millennials stand around Bernie Sanders when he speaks... But the more Bernie Sanders makes (completely economically impossible) assertions that college and healthcare can be completely free for everyone by “making Wall Street speculators pay higher taxes for their practices” he wins over the hearts of young people who have not been in the system long enough to know that these claims are completely false and will never happen.
    (Note my preemptive caveat: if I can say Jeb exclamation point Bush, or Entertainer in Chief Donald Trump, I can use our President’s full name. I’m just warning you in advance; if you find it offensive, then you’re the one with the issue. I mean, it is his name.)

South London “the Three Stags” pub in Lambeth holds a “Republican Urinal Challenge”. Photo courtesy “the poke. time well wested”.

    So when potential leaders make claims without substance to back them up, people fall in line with the idea and want to tag along without understanding the details. In the past 8 years, people had this same love-affair with Barrack Hussein Obama, he was given a Nobel Peace Prize before attempting to do anything, then proceeded to use drones to drop bombs on people (but that’s another conversation for another time). And in an effort to achieve the “noble” cause of providing health care for everyone, he found that people would rather pay the fines than join his system, and if more people have healthcare now than they did before, they’re paying more for it now than they were.
    When I hear people talk about how nice it is to have free healthcare in countries like Sweden, or they might have free college, it flashes in my head for less than a second that these people are all paying over half of their income in taxes, and wait a minute, why is it when I hear a leader from a Socialist or Communist country getting ill and needing surgery they come to the United States to do it? But I mean, it’s free where they lead, why do they come to the States?
    Probably because when you make everyone get the same thing, the quality is reduced to the lowest common denominator — and that’s not worth paying for.

    I’m sorry, I’ve been ranting about Socialism (which is perilously close to Communism, and from what I remember the Cold War almost obliterated the earth until the United States and Capitalism prevailed). I haven’t had a chance to rant like this in a while, and with these Presidential elections coming up, my strong desire to rant has really come to a head.
    But this does relate to the Democrats running for the Democratic Presidential nomination. Bernie Sanders has made these points after a nation of educated youth is bogged down in 6 figures of college debt and they can’t get a job. If someone comes along and tells them what they want to hear, and they don’t have the experience to know these gestures aren’t feasible to a nation still economically in recovery, then they’ll blindly support the one who tells them what they want to hear. (This happened with Hitler too, by the way. He too was a Socialist founding member of the NSDAP which we know of as the NAZI party).
    So okay, okay, you might like Bernie Sanders (and since Rand Paul is out, Sanders might be other only other reasonably honest person out there, because a part of Bernie probably believes this can happen somehow), but the scary thing that happened when he starting showing his political might is that Hillary Clinton started trying to “out-Socialist” Bernie Sanders.
    And that might not surprise some of you, but if she is the woman she claims herself to be (reaching across the aisle to get things accomplished for the country, and yes, Bernie Sanders says the same thing) you would hope she wouldn’t desperately so flip-flop to “out-progressive” Bernie Sanders into trying to get a hold of this nomination again.
    That, and after her 4 year run under Obama as Secretary of State, she was questioned about what she knew when after the Benghazi attack, and now, because she had a private email account with a private email server (one with her husband, a past President, so I can’t help but think it was private and secure) conservatives with the FOX cable networks have been pushing for justice because in her role as Madame Secretary this is illegal. If she leaked classified information in public emails, these would be even more violations of the law.
    I think seeing fewer and fewer groups behind Hillary Clinton also has something to do with it — because she may have had the women’s vote 8 years ago when she first ran for the Presidential nomination, but it seems that the growing age gap between her and young women is going to hurt her chances in this election season.
    My point? Well, back when Obama was first running, a conservative-voting Africa-American friend of ours said he planned to vote for Obama — even if he didn’t agree with his stance on issues. That sway for Hillary Clinton may not exist on the same levels it did before.
    Which might be why a very old socialist is winning over the hearts of young voters more than potentially the first woman as President of the United States.

    I started writing this Monday 20150207, and now it is Fat Tuesday — but it’s not just Fat Tuesday, it’s also the day of the New Hampshire Primary (and a Google search for results for some reason still shows all 15 Republican candidates, even though 6 of them are no longer running and there’s only nine of them to choose from). But on the Democrat side, everyone assumed Bernie Sanders would do swimmingly well because he was a Senator from a neighboring state, Vermont.
    I don’t know, maybe because they’re such tiny states over in New England, versus my Midwestern home state of Illinois (or even now Texas), maybe they watch neighboring states that much more closely. (When I said that to someone, that I didn’t really care when living in Illinois about who was a Senator or Governor of Indiana or Wisconsin, that’s when I was told, ‘maybe you should be, since all of the jobs are leaving your state because of Illinois taxes.’ Good point, I got regular phone calls about moving my Scars Publications business (which isn’t a business) to a nearby state with lower taxes.)
    But with this upcoming primary in New Hampshire, I have heard that Hillary Clinton was still going to try to work to get people interested in her (because she won this state over Obama in 2008). Either I’ll be celebrating Mardi Gras (not by driving 6 hours to New Orleans, I’ll save that for another year) or I’ll by studying the poll results and wondering if it makes any difference. Because I don’t know if I have the stomach for whoever either party chooses for their Presidential nominee, because the only time I voted for I major party for President was when I just started voting, and I didn’t have the knowledge to know that either party may invariably do more harm than good.
    Do more harm to whom?, you ask. With every President elected, the harm could most definitely be to everyone. Either way, we just keep voting for either a Democrat or a Republican, and when something goes wrong they can blame it in the policies of the opposing previous President.
    Because, per usual, it seems we voting Americans, however percentage-wise few there are of us, we don’t think about what will happen because of our vote until after the chips fall.
    And even when they do, we don’t know who to blame.

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

Janet Kuypers Editor in Chief

    As time wears on I hear Trump arguing with Pope Francis about whether or not he is “Christian” (yes, you heard me right, he argued with the Pope), and I watch polls comparing Hillary Clinton and Sanders... Polls say that 90% of people believe Hillary Clinton is “untrustworthy”, and 70% of people polled say that Hillary Clinton is more “electable”.
    And you wonder why I talk about how the political system is failing in and for the United States. We say we know what’s good for us, but we know what’s good for us won’t get elected. So maybe this is exactly what we deserve.

April Fools

    It was a long time coming. Samantha and I had been together for a year and a half. She had been stuck in a failed marriage with a childhood sweetheart who had discovered his gayness. They were from Utah, and, at the time, gayness in Utah didn’t happen.
    There were so many elements to the impending divorce, as there always are, but that’s the simplistic version of events. At any rate, despite the all but official divorce, they were stuck with their home of twelve years, as the housing market had fallen off in the suburbs. Perhaps not so oddly, if they had bought a condo in Queen Anne, as Samantha had wanted, selling would not have been a problem.
    Yet, there they were, in Shoreline, also known as “Snoreline,” fixing up a nightmare. He had decided on a real estate agent who failed to sell. I thought it was on purpose. Samantha disagreed. After six months, they went with her choice of agent. The house sold in three weeks.
    I had mixed emotions. I had been the transition guy before. The signs were there. Samantha would be soon divorced, and free to go for whoever. I feared for the end of what had been an amazing, although rocky, relationship. The possible loss of love would be devastating.
    At the same time, she would finally be free. Free of a ruined marriage, fourteen years of hurt and lack of support. Fourteen years of varying struggles. Samantha and her sister Faye (who moved in with them after her failed relationship) could begin a new life at last. I was happy for them. Fearful for me.

    Samantha and I found it; the perfect apartment. It was huge! We automatically dubbed it “The Palace.” It was a fitting name. Everything anyone could want; huge, beautiful living spaces, two bedrooms, a large wraparound patio. It was perfect, and priced perfectly.
    I was looking for a new apartment at the time. Samantha joined me in the search. We barely missed out on one with a fireplace. We found one that I didn’t care for, near a park, not far from where she would be living. I had been accepted.
    It was then that she came up with the idea. I would move in with her and her sister for a month or so, while we looked for an apartment that we both liked. That way, Samantha and I would have two homes; mine and hers, plus plenty of space. I readily agreed.

    I moved into the palace first. It was the last week of March. Samantha and Faye would move in roughly a week later. The huge Palace echoed my footsteps perfectly as I would walk down the long hallway back from taking a piss, only to start sipping wine and writing again. The Palace seemed almost haunted of great times ahead.
    I walked out to smoke one night. The apartment above had a party going. I lit a smoke and exhaled from deep, unsure of what was to come. I could tell Faye was not happy with my being around. I wondered how long it would be before Samantha would drift toward being totally free. It seemed inevitable somehow. Forces were pulling her toward a whole new chapter in life, with all of the past totally left behind. I had been there too often.

    Drops landed on my head first, then a stream. It was beer. I jumped forward and looked up to laughter from prissy fucks.
    “What the FUCK?!”
    A beer bottle hit my shoulder. I caught it with my right hand and threw it back with force. It hit some frat boy twit on the cheek just as another bottle landed near me. It too was returned with force, shattering against the pillar.
    “Fuckers.”
    They went inside, laughing and smoking. I poured more wine and wondered.

    The day came. Samantha and Faye were moving in. it was a huge event. Everyone would be there. I took a very rare day off work, and rightfully so.
    The Palace was just right, totally scrubbed even better than it was before I had moved in. All that was left was to run the dishwasher and get booze for everyone. Dishwasher loaded and running, I went to the state store and bought everyone’s favorites.
    I returned to a nightmare. The dishwasher had flooded the kitchen! There wasn’t much time! I raced with towels, sopping up the water and suds, slipping and sliding in panic. They were all due any minute! ALL of them!
    Cusses flew as I raced against time, falling six or seven times. Finally, at long, long last, I cleaned all signs of disaster, and put the dishes away. Soon thereafter came the text from Samantha. I had two minutes.

    There were all of Samantha’s friends, lined up near the back of the Uhaul. Samantha’s soon to be ex, Seth Roger, was in the back of the truck carefully handing down prized possessions to eager, yet mournful friends. I joined the line. When my turn came, Seth sat down the table he was going to hand to me and offered a handshake.
    Seth had long held back resentment, refusing to acknowledge my being in Samantha’s life. He refused to leave their house for fear she would have me over for dinner. He fought furiously against my being involved with her, or anyone knowing I was a part of her life. Now, suddenly, he was offering a handshake. I, of course, accepted and smiled.
    As mentioned, Seth had run their house in “Snoreline,” despite Samantha paying fully half the mortgage. I laughingly referred to the area as “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.” Samantha laughed until tears appeared.
    Anyway, they we all were, unloading a lifetime into a new chapter. Samantha’s friends eyed me, not exactly in the friendliest of ways. I understood it to a point. I was getting a steal. Samantha was amazing, and fresh off an impending divorce. They still saw Samantha and Seth as a couple. And yet, there I was, her new man. An outsider. A total outsider. A writer, of all things. A drunken writer.
    Everyone piled into the kitchen when all was unloaded. Seth sat there glowing in some sort of memory. Samantha sat too, seemingly torn between memories and eagerness for a new life. Booze was poured and downed. Memories flooded. I stayed quiet. Let the past reign while the future waited.
    Faces glowed as friends slowly left the new. There was to be a gathering later, at one of their early haunts. We were all going.
    Soon it was the four of us. Samantha and Faye took to organizing some of the things that needed to be unpacked. Seth and I ended up putting Samantha’s giant bed back together.
    Yes, you read that right. Seth, the guy who refused to acknowledge that I was any part of Samantha’s life, was in charge of putting together the giant bed that Samantha and I would be sharing, and I was helping.
    Oddly, he sat there glowing, as his carefully labeled pieces came together. The giant wooden pillars were held together by giant bolts. Slowly it began to take shape. Not fully trusting Seth, I stayed on the other side.
    Samantha and Faye came in to help. Samantha knew to stay away from the giant pillars that went on top, holding the top together. She knew too. Faye came bounding in. Within seconds, a giant pillar came down within an inch of her head. Samantha and I both gasped, and asked, “Are you ok?!” Seth just laughed, as if he had planned it.

     Everything was put together as much as could be. Seth and everyone else had gone. Samantha and I caught buses to get to the goodbye party. We held hands, held each other. It was such an emotional time. One for the ages. From old to new, sweet, sentimental, bittersweet.
    Seth was the only one there when we arrived. His eyes shot wide when he saw Samantha, then sad when he saw me. It was tough to deal with. His expression hardened. Samantha’s weakened. I just sat there. He smiled weakly. I went to smoke. They needed to talk.
    I paced outside, Manhattan in one hand, smoke in the other. It was all hard to take. The end. The beginning. Probably the beginning of the end. Not only had he lost Samantha, I might well be on my way to losing her too.
    Back inside, friends of theirs were there. Seth was the one going away, really. He was moving out of state. Gone for good. Memories were relived. Laughs were shared. I was silent, sitting there beside Samantha, her hand gripping mine to fight back tears.
    Slowly, with friends coming and going, both Seth and Samantha gained strength through distractions, and so I floated off to allow nature, only glancing to see how she was doing. She didn’t need me for those moments.
     Soon Linda was sitting across from me. She had been Seth’s best friend, and clearly did not like me. I ordered another manhattan and said hello. She looked away, and so I did too. I got my drink and went for a smoke.
    Linda was still there when I got back. She was snarling my way. I looked away, hoping for someone to talk to.
    “I have to say, I’m not a big fan.”
    “Of what?” I asked.
    “Of you. Actually...”
    I braced for it, already knowing it.
    “Actually I don’t like you. No, really, I hate you.”
    I just looked at her.
    “but you somehow keep her, and she is amazing. So there’s that.”
    I raised my glass.
    “Now there is something we can agree on. Samantha IS amazing.”
    Linda refused to drink the cheer. She got up and left.

    Eventually, the party ended. There were no tears. Faye and her boyfriend had already left. Samantha and I walked the three miles back to the Palace, mostly in silence.
    We poured drinks in the kitchen. All was totally silent around us.
    “Welcome home, Beautiful.”
    “Welcome home to you too. We finally have one.”
    We glowed as we kissed.

    That was April first, two thousand eleven.

    A year later, I paced my tiny shitty apartment with no heat, in wait. Workers’ comp had not been kind to say the least. My income had gone from $3500/month to $900/month, and that was after a long fight. I was ruined, and nearly on the streets. Such is life for those who work for a living.
    Samantha had had enough. She had been stuck between me and those who hated my being in her life. She had tried everything exhaustively, only to meet impossible everywhere. Enemies were winning, and I had become negative after too many attacks, making things much more impossible.
    Priorities were priorities, so I had scraped together money for roses, and had four poems written and rehearsed. If she could last it all out with me, things would be better than ever. We had been there for each through so much for so long. She was the most loyal I had ever known.
    I prepared and prepared. We had taken a week’s break from each other. I was ready. I had been through worse times, and always came back stronger. I would this time too.
    It was the Her of poetry. It was the Her that has my heart. It was the her. I was prepared to do anything....

    A text came. It was the Her.
    “It’s no use. The week without you has been great without you to be concerned about. I’ll be back to get my things around noon.”

    My heart dropped. I couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be real.

    The rehearsal crashed. Roses, already bought, wouldn’t do any good. My suit wouldn’t matter. Love would be no match for hatred after all. There was nothing I could do.
    Soon they were there, bringing stuff I had left at the Palace. Faye looked at me with a mix of sorrow and satisfaction. I brought Samantha’s stuff out, all boxed up. Even with a bad back from very recent spinal surgeries, I brought heavy stuff, glancing at Samantha’s amazing ass for the last time.
    It was all done, except for things that remained lost. Done in a hurry, there was no way to fully divide it all. We stood in the Palace awkwardly. Faye glared at Samantha.
    “Where’s the key?”
    “At my place. I thought there was more to bring.”
    Faye glared harshly.
    “OK, I’ll go bring it up. Give me two minutes.”
    “We’ll go get it.”
    As we went to leave the Palace, Samantha stopped.
    “Want to share a bottle of wine?”
    “Sure.”
    She grabbed a bottle of Trader Joes, and we were on our way.

    We settled into my dumpy apartment and poured two glasses. Our talk was abrupt. Her complaints were met by cautious objections. She teared up.
    “You were never given a chance!”
    Still in total shock, I didn’t comfort her. She withdrew.

    As we slowly began reconnecting, the text came. Faye. Samantha dried up immediately. Within moments, she was ready to leave. Forever.
    I handed her the roses. She frowned.
    “You can’t afford to eat, but....”
    “They’re for you, Samantha. At least this.”

    I watched as she walked away, roses in hand, around the bushes that she always appeared from when she was coming for an amazing night.

    Samantha was gone.

    I grabbed my wine and chugged. Some dripped onto my suit. I chugged more. The sun shined brightly, and I cussed at it. The second magnum emptied in no time. The third hit harder, and was never finished. I woke up around three am, passed out against my own wall, mumbling about what a fucking genius I must be.

    It had been April first, two thousand twelve.

    What fools allow such love to die in such ways.

a Midwestrn Eulogy

    We were in the same homeroom in high school because we both had last names that started with the letter P.

    Your dad died when you were a kid, maybe ten or twelve years old, and you started buying weed from a sketchy man who hung around the streets of your neighborhood. He had a nickname, like Big Mike or Smoky or Villain — something that would look right on the cover of a hip-hop album — and he didn’t care about how young you were.

    Teachers made you sit out in the hallway at least once a week. I remember you answered a question correctly once in U.S. History, and Mr. Sidenbender was so shocked. He said that you were smart and had a good memory and you could do well in school if you just wanted to.

    I don’t distinctly remember you dropping out of high school, but you must have.

    I keep thinking that you never had a chance. I keep thinking that the system failed you, and I think “the system” because that hurts less than admitting that I failed you and all of our friends did too.

    I feel like I was just a tourist in the type of lifestyle we lived in high school, and then I got to grow up and move on and leave town forever, and I was the only one who ever had a chance.

    The last time I spoke to you was August of last year, and you told me you were homeless and looking for a place to stay in almost the same breath that you told me I had grown up into quite the amazing woman.

    It hurts now to consider the juxtaposition.

    We kind of dated briefly when you lived in a house with Alex Lindzy, whom I hated because he used to grope me in the high school cafeteria and had prank called me on my house phone once.

    You lived in the basement of that house, where the walls were covered in murals depicting the mythology of Insane Clown Posse.

    I was thinking the other day that the only people in my life who truly know me are the ones who remind me - when I try to deny or discount it - that I actually had an ICP phase once.

    I feel like no one I have met in a very long time has any idea who I am.

    Bob was the one who called to tell me you had died. He told me through sobs that he felt guilty for introducing you to heroin, and I told him I had introduced you to meth.

    It seems inconsequential which drug you specifically died from; it could have just as easily been any of them.

    Someone wrote on your Facebook wall that you went out the way you wanted to, and that is both accurate and simultaneously the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

    You will be the reason I buy waterproof mascara, and I wish you had been more than that.

    Kalee is the one who is planning your funeral, because your mom stopped caring about you years ago.

    My mom said that everyone deals with grief in their own way, and that I shouldn’t judge your mom, because her worst fear has just come true.

    I thought, I don’t think your mom was that afraid.

    I saw you at a party once sometime after high school, maybe the first Christmas break of college, and I remember thinking, “These people aren’t good for me. I only want to see them once a year and know that they’re still alive.”

    I feel like I abandoned you. We all did.

    I am thinking how flimsy my characterizations of people from high school become when I remember that they are entire people.

    I think “redneck” a lot. I think “never left town.” I think about how grateful I am to have distanced myself from all these people, and then I get thrown off when I remember how much I used to care.

    I remember bus rides to school when I’d look out the window at miles and miles of cornfields, and I would think, “Someday I will be as far away from here as possible.”

    You and people like you are the reasons why sometimes I feel like I understand growing up sad and poor and disenfranchised, but when I’m honest with myself I know I really only know what it feels like to grow up sad.

    When Bob told me what had happened, I told him, “We have to be the ones who survive now.”

    I meant it, but the words rang false, because I don’t think anyone except me ever questioned whether I would make it.

    If someone had polled our graduating class in high school about who we thought would be the first to die, most people would have said you, I think.

    I don’t know which is sadder — the deaths that happen suddenly, and unexpectedly, or the deaths that you kind of expected all along but still couldn’t stop from happening.

    No one will tell the story at your funeral about the time that Bob almost died because he shot heroin for the first time and you and some guy dumped him in his front yard and left him face down drowning in a puddle in his driveway.

    When Bob told me that story, I blamed the other guy, because I didn’t know him, and I had always liked you — but it feels important to cling to your flaws now until things feel better. The more I can remember the bad things about you, the more I will feel the presence of justice in the world.

    I saw a picture of your ex-girlfriend who had dropped out of school in eighth grade and had a reputation of being the most insane girl in our entire town, and in the picture she was wearing a fancy dress, and she looked beautiful, and she looked normal.

    She has an eight-year-old daughter now.

    It made me wonder, when did she grow up, when did we all, and why’d we have to leave you behind, and why — when you died at 25 — will we only ever remember you the way you were in high school.

Rice Paddles

    Squatting on a rice paddy dike behind our bamboo shack, with a hot sun overhead, I wonder at the quiet here among the green rice shoots waving in the gentle breeze like little green fingers. The difference now compared to that long ago war when paddies such as these were for sitting ducks can’t help but make me realize how things can change with place and time. Now I am unafraid, relaxed and content. I milk this feeling and tell myself that it must all be in my head.
    Remembering back to those days when I was young and passing through the other paddies of that war torn place, I try to give some air to that shut-away part of my mind. But before I can indulge this opportunity I hear my young girlfriend call from the back window of our shack, “Chuckie, we eat now. We have good rice, very tasty.”
    Her voice peaks and dives upon the wind like that of a barn swallow approaching its nest. It lifts me in a way that only an old man who is undeserving can know. It’s like those miracles that come to those who have passed so far and still have not been beaten down. But it is something that can not be shared, something that is rooted in those other paddies of long ago.
    “OK,” I yell, “I am hungry and it is good when we eat. Just wait a little bit and I will be there.”
    With a last sweeping intake of the paddies and the coconut palms that border their far reaches I tell myself that this is the best of all possible worlds. For now that seems certain, but the years that are spread before me do not vanish at a far point like those spread behind. And I must consider this. What will happen when it must end. But I know that ten million zips couldn’t kill me back then, now all I have to do is to calculate the odds of this situation and play it cool. My ex-wives thought that such and such an action would put them on a steady and known kind of course. Then when things went bad it would be easy for them to know the proper moves.....they thought. But I played it cool then as well and here I am in the high cotton once again.
    The girl’s name is Mila, a Filipina, and the bamboo shack we live in belongs to her father who lives in another area of Cebu with the rest of her family. They think I am going to take her back to the United States when I go. I try to think so too, because that is the best way to stay cool. But I know it is a lie, that a beauty such as hers can not be held by an old man like me in a land where there is more opportunity and life is not so cheap. Her family thinks that surely I will try to keep these undeserved fruits for that seems to be the way of many of the people that live where I come from. And likely Mila and her people have heard this. There are many old war dogs that come to this country for young wives. So for now Mila and I live together here in the Philippine Visayas as if a new life is but around the corner for us all. But there are really no more new lives for this old man crouching on a muddy dike among the mosquitoes. Only in my thoughts can I capture those times when such was true. Times when many better than me were denied that possibility... for ever. I will not tell Mila or any of her family this. That would not be cool. Yes, here it is beautiful, fresh and new for now, but not the best of all possible worlds. Only the vision with my clever cover can be that. And if that is what it takes, I know how to do it just fine. My teachers were all so clever as well.
    I struggle from my haunches and yell towards the little shack, “I am coming sweet thing, kaon, lets eat.”
    As I follow the cross work of dikes back toward our shack the noise of the nearby highway grows louder as passenger jeepneys, motor scooters, and other vehicles pass by. Then comes the rhythmic clip clop of a horse pulling a passenger cart or tartanilla. When it draws closer I recognize the driver, a young man who lives with his girl and a couple of kids on the ground under another stilted shack just down the road. Not long ago when I was passing by there with my bottle of rum he invited me into his shade. We sat on old bottle crates and for a while shared my rum. Then he gave me a crab that he had caught at the tidal flats just beyond the marshes that border the sea there. Dressed in rags, his girl and a couple of kids stood off at a far corner post and silently watched us. It isn’t every day that a rum swilling white man drops by, and they were probably wary. Or maybe they were just poor. I have seen the same hollow eyes and blank faces on some Appalachians where I grew up. The girl and kids remained there until I left, gathered around that corner post as if it were a living totem. Later I threw away the gift crab I knew to come from where a sewer empties into the sea.
    As I am coming over the small concrete wall that separates our place from the rice paddies the tartanilla draws even and the young driver throws his hand up. I return his gesture and pause to watch his skinny horse pull him and his passenger on down the road at the steady clip clop pace that keeps the reins lightly resting in his hands and not snapping at the horse’s rump. I can smell the freshly cooked rice and yell my arrival as I top the steps to the front door.
    “That smells good, I think that you are an expert rice cooker.”
    Mila replies with a knowing smile, “Chuckie, I like to do for you, and I do good, yes?”
    She is framed by the back window and the rice paddies beyond as I cross the bamboo slatted floor and take her in my arms. Lifting her to the sill of the window, I nuzzle my body between her legs. “Oh baby, like no body I have ever known, you are good to me.”
    She looks dead on me with her sparkling brown eyes. “Is that why you will take me to America, Chuckie? Are the girls there not as good to their men?”
    “Many of them are not,” I say, “and it seems that those are always the ones that I end up with.”
    “Maybe you do things that make them mad, and that is why they are not good to you,” she says.
    “Could be. You know we can’t always make others happy. Sometimes things just seem to get out of control and we are not prepared for it, and we do and say things that are wrong.”
    Mila seems to consider this for a moment then slides from the window and starts placing the food on the napa mat that is spread on the floor. The aroma of hot steaming rice and fish soup drifts up to the thatched ceiling and the far corners of our little shack as we settle down to eat. Nearby, our neighbors along the road send up their sounds of clinking spoons and bowls to mix with our own. I must try to keep it this simple.

    That night as we lie on our sleeping mat in the dark, except for the burning glow of lion tiger mosquito coils, I reach for Mila and for the first time ever she hesitates.
    “Chuckie, can I ask you a question?”
    “Sure, I guess so. I just hope it’s not about where we are going to live when we get to America.”
    “No it’s not that. It’s just some of the people that my family knows say you will not take me to America. That you’re only using me to take care of you while you’re here. Then you’ll leave and forget all about us. They say unless we are married I have no protection from such a thing.”
    “Whoa, wait a minute, do you feel like you need protection from me? Haven’t I always treated you good?”
    “Yes, but I have a cousin it happened to and she told my father that she’s not the only one that it’s happened to. Do you think we could get married, Chuckie? You know, just so everybody would quit talking about it.”
    Knowing that this is something that I am not prepared for, and that I will have to do some figuring about this I put an end to this conversation.
    “I think maybe we can, but it will take some time and planning. There’s nothing we can do right now about it so why don’t you bring that beautiful little body a little closer my way.”
    Mila slips her hand over my stomach, “accidentally” rubbing her forearm along my erection.
    “Ok, Chuckie. We will have fun and I will continue to be good to you but we have plans to make someday soon.”

    After that night things take on a different light when it comes to me and Mila. Mila doesn’t mention it that much more but her father and the rest of her family seem to take it as a commitment. They make a show of giving little gifts that are intended for our later life together in America.
    I pretend that our travel to the United States is just a matter of time. Time to get married, get the visa for a spouse and the other paperwork that is necessary for such a trip. I act as if there is no hurry while I avoid the wedding announcement and start planning my departure from the Philippines. I know it is time to ditch this whole scene and head out when one day Mila’s father stops by for a visit, bringing plans for our wedding.

    Jose Albelgas is a retired seaman, having worked the boiler rooms of many different inter-island ferries during his career. A straight forward and kind man, Jose is going to help things along and make an honest woman of his daughter by ushering us as quickly as possible to the altar. It seems the only reason he has allowed, and even helped along, our living together is because he has great respect for Americans and their history. When he was a boy during the second world war and the occupation by the Japanese he witnessed the return of the Americans to liberate the Islands. Ever since then he has felt anger toward the Japanese and imbued in his family the same attitude along with an abiding respect and affection for Americans. Having recognized this in him and his family pretty quickly, I was not one to pass up opportunities to live higher up on the war reputation of the generation that preceded me. I pretty much had my pick of his two beautiful daughters and although we haven’t really won a war since then, back in the states where I am from, we are now somehow considered heroes. It was easy to take this fairly current event and spread it over my existence to certify my right to the pickings from these people who come from a lesser God. In this respect Mila is my trophy, however brief such an award might be. And when Jose arrives that day at the little shack between the highway and the rice paddies it is my cue to cut them loose.

    Sitting in the back window that overlooks the patchwork of paddies, smoking some of the weakest weed in Asia while Mila cleans up after the morning meal, I here the jeepney stop in front of our place.
    “Maayo” sounds the voice of Jose as he approaches the front door.
    Mila quickly dumps the tray of bowls into the pump basket and breathlessly says, “Put some clothes on and throw that marijuana out the window, Papa’s here.”
    While quickly pulling on some shorts I say, “Cool it Mila, Jose knows I smoke. As long as I take good care of you he doesn’t care, even pretends to smoke sometimes with me. But he never inhales, just being sociable I guess.”
    “That’s right, but there is a side to Papa that you don‘t know. Don’t be too confident.”
    Mila crosses the room and opens the door to the bright tropical light and the figure of Jose, a dark form against the sunlight. He is tall for a Filipino, with short cropped hair and dressed in his favorite peasant shirt and trousers, while shod in ordinary sandals made from the same material as the millions of others seen throughout the Islands. Jose, once he left his maritime uniform behind, was never inclined to dress any other way. Before either Mila or I can say anything Jose zips into the house, lowers himself to the floor mat and says, “I have wonderful news. My younger brother, Mila’s uncle, a priest in Negros Occidental, will be traveling to Cebu next week and he said that he would be honored to join you together in Holy Matrimony. How lucky can we get? Pretty good huh?”
    I feel my stomach knot up to the extent that I almost double over before I catch myself and slowly sink to the floor facing Jose.
    Jose, while observing my reaction, not missing a thing, smiles a little and says, “You I will help during this important time Chuck. The family will take care of everything. Nothing for you to worry about.”
    “That’s very kind of you”, I say, “but I am thinking, not so soon. I haven’t even transferred any money from the US to my bank account here to pay for the wedding.”
    I have no US bank account but it is all I can think of to say to try and delay what is happening. I see Mila frown and wonder if she knows I am lying. I can’t remember if we have talked about my money or not. I am starting to think that I might have to make a hasty retreat from this situation before it gets completely out of hand.
    The sunlight slants through the window of our shack and strikes the side of Jose’s face in such a way that, with half of it cast in shadow and the other half in light, it morphs into a likeness of the face of a dead Viet Cong I had carried out of the bush long ago in those other rice paddies. Suddenly confused and no longer able to control what is happening before me I say nothing and let whatever will happen, happen. Jose carries on about how I have nothing to worry about and how it is all going to be taken care of while I just silently sit there and Mila smiles. After all the talk we have some coffee and a peanut butter sandwich. Then Jose leaves with a final flourish of, “Never mind, I will take care of it.”
    That night while Mila sleeps I gather some things that I have previously stowed away, along with my remaining money, and sneak out the door, around back past the toilet, and over the cement wall into the rice paddies. Under a large moon with my mind full of the shapes reflecting off the paddies, sometimes paired with shapes from those other paddies, I cross the fields to the main highway that lies beyond.

    As I leave the doctor’s office I am dazed, what some people no doubt would call shock. I can remember feeling like this only a few times in my life, usually after the loss of a loved one. But it has been so long since those days that it practically feels new. Maybe this is just the way a body protects one from those things that it is too weak to experience at the moment. It gives time to come around to those inevitable thoughts that are bound to follow.
    Ever since I returned to Seattle from the Philippines a little more than a year ago I have been feeling unwell. At first I thought it was just because of the way that I had left that country and that it was actually just a mind-body thing where the specks of guilt that I sometimes feel cause some sort of general malaise and that I will get over it soon enough. But the symptoms of fatigue, joint pain, and most recently, a slew of infections that I had never had before force me to see the doctor to try to get rid of this downright depressing situation. And now after several visits I have a finding of what is wrong with me. As my daze seems to clear some I run over in my mind the conversations with my doctor and the doctor that he had referred me to.

    Doctor Neal is an elderly man, a little older than me I suspect and he is a bit brisk and to the point when it comes to his demeanor and interpersonal interactions. In other words, he is not what many would call a doctor with a great bedside manner. I recall sitting there in the small examining room when he quickly entered carrying what I assumed was my file.
    “Not feeling too bad today I take it,” he says, “your labs are not all that bad and after some consultation with a doctor I want you to follow-up with I think I can tell you what is most likely bothering you. But I want you to see the specialist immediately to confirm what we both suspect is the problem. Then we can be more sure and start a regimen of treatment.”
    I can feel the tightness in my throat as it seems to increase to the point that I have to clear my throat before I can speak.
    “What kind of specialist, what’s wrong with me?”
    Doctor Neal immediately looks uncomfortable, something that he seldom allows himself to be and this further increases my apprehension.
    “Well I am not certain, you understand, but I think that you may have leukemia.”
    “You mean cancer, I have cancer, something to do with my blood?”
    “Yes, but don’t panic. Doctor Smithers, that’s the oncologist I want you to see, is a very good doctor and he has had some remarkable results treating patients like you. Presently he has a clinical trial that I think you might qualify for but you really need to discuss this all with him.”
    By this time I am entering that unworldly limbo, numb feeling, yet the fear and anxiety are as real as the air I am breathing.
    “When can I see this Doctor Smithers,” I say.
    “As a matter of fact, you can see him right now. He’s not doing office visits right now but he is in and I called him. Since you are a potential candidate for his trials he can see you now. Here is his card, he’s on the next floor and he’s waiting for you now.”

    As I enter the office Dr. Smithers is sitting behind his desk with several files scattered out before him. It is a regular office with a large desk and a few chairs no different than most run of the mill offices. There is nothing to indicate that it is part of a medical practice and he is dressed only in casual clothes. There is no white jacket.
    “Please have a seat, Chuck,” he says and indicates a padded chair in front of and a little to the side of his desk.
    After I am seated he picks up and opens one of the files in front of him.
    “Well Chuck, I know that Dr. Neal was a little vague with you. That’s because he has only my recommendations to go by. But I have done the full work up of your blood as well as the confirming tests and there is no doubt that you have leukemia.......but there is also no doubt that you can fit into my clinical trial and may benefit from it.”
    Then he fixes his eyes on mine and in their reflection I can’t help but feel Bob Dylan’s lyric, ‘now you don’t talk so loud, now you don’t seem so proud.’
    Fully overwhelmed by all that is taking place I manage to say, “I have no idea of what you are talking about. Am I going to die? Can you cure me? What do I have to do, what do you have to do? Medicare is all I have to get by with.”
    Dr. Smithers explains that the patients in his clinical trial only have to pay a small appointment fee and that the bulk of the expenses are covered by the drug company whose drug is used with the experimental therapy. He explains that by volunteering for the trial and allowing the data from my treatment to be used as a measure of the therapy’s success I can gain access to the treatment at minimal expense. It seems that the trial is based upon three basic groups of patients. One group is the experimental group which will receive the new drug and a bone marrow transplant from an immediate member of their family, preferably from one of their children since this group has so far had significantly better outcomes. It is this group and the use of their children that has instigated the study. The second group receives the new drug but no bone marrow transplant or chemotherapy. This group has a slightly improved rate of response but it is not high enough to be significant. And the third group receives only the standard chemotherapy and it’s rate of response so far has been comparable to the second group. Then at the completion of the 24 week trial all patients are evaluated and their treatment from then on will follow according to their prognosis. Those showing no signs of improvement are discontinued from the study and put on a maintenance schedule with the hope for some sort of spontaneous recovery. Just another way of saying that a miracle is needed for their survival.
    “It sounds like the only ones that have a chance are the ones with children who can donate bone marrow,” I say.
    Dr. Smithers folds his hands into a tepee under his chin and looks to the ceiling.
    “Yes, but some surprising things can occur during these trials so we encourage all our subjects to have a positive attitude.”
    “Which group would I be in?”
    “Well since it seems that you have no children or immediate family it could not be group one. Actually that is the group where our need for subjects is greatest. While our results with that group are very encouraging, our sample size is still lacking. I think you would best fit into the second group where you would receive the new drug but no other therapy. I might add that if we could achieve remission in your case and, since the drug does not kill off sperm, if you were to have a child, we could switch you to group one with a running start. Group three has no such possibility but some of the subjects have attained remission.”
    Dr. Smithers gets up from his desk and walks to the window overlooking one of the city parks below. He seems to search the grounds for some known element as he says, “I would like to see you back in this office in one week if you would like to proceed. Think about it carefully. I have prepared a packet of material to help you with your decision. If you decide to join this study there is an appointment schedule and instructions in the packet.”

    Now outside on the street I sink down onto the bench at the bus stop with a heaviness that I rarely have felt. Of course I will take the trial. There is no decision here. No option. Only the placing of one foot in front of the other as I move through the fog that has suddenly and overwhelmingly enveloped my world.
    The loud blast of an air horn brings me out of my trance to see the number sixty bus stopped in front of me with it’s door open. As I get on and tag my card the driver says, “I thought you might be deaf. I ask you twice before I hit the horn.”
    “Deaf would be a blessing,” I mumble as I pass him toward the empty back of the bus.

    Depression sets in pretty fast and for the next couple of days it’s about all I can do to make and eat a couple of sandwiches and trudge the short distance to the post office and back. Thoughts of where I scattered my mother’s ashes, far away in West Virginia, beset me. All those things we tell ourselves that we will think about later seem to be sitting in my lap. Could it be that I will have to hire someone to put me away when the time comes. Maybe one of the veterans groups would do it. But I do have a little saved and no one to leave it too. The thought of the American military and its culture, bedecked in military garb, chanting verses of a Greater God with greater firepower, doing me in provides no relief for me this time around. There’s got to be a better way. A better way that, ultimately, I will never have to conclude was a success anyway. One foot in front of the other.

    I notice the Philippine stamps on the letter immediately upon opening my post office box and, although there is no return name, I recognize Mila’s writing. I had completely forgotten about that part of my life but now it seems to blaze up in front of me. I did what I thought I had to do then, but now there is a big tug of remorse about it all. When I open the envelope I find that it only contains a photograph. I pull the picture from the envelope and notice first the writing on the back. Written in large block English letters, it says, “Eat your heart out.” Turning it over I can see that it is a picture of Mila holding a baby. The child is white.

    At it’s zenith, the sun is hot and the rice stalks are high in the paddies behind Jose’s native shack. Inside, where there is some semblance of shade under the grass roof, Mila’s cousin and her Australian husband are seated on one side of the floor mat while she and Jose are seated across from them on the other side. There is a large bowl of steaming rice accompanied by a hot pot of fish soup and slices of steamed bitter melon in the center of the mat. Sweating freely, they eat the rice and bitter melon from the communal bowl with their fingers and occasionally dip portions of soup from the pot with small cups. The smiles on sweaty faces might seem incongruent in any other place but here they brighten the shadowed interior of the bamboo shack. And their conversation between bites of food and sips of soup is light and happy. The coos and little noises and gibberish of a baby child can be heard coming from the small napa basket in the corner. The child is a boy, the son of Mila’s cousin and her Aussie mate. It is easy to tell that the kid is a Filipino mestizo for his skin is so light that he could almost pass for white. The Aussie, who is almost the same age as Jose, suddenly leans forward, extends his arm across the food, and puts his hand on Jose’s shoulder.
    “Say mate, did you find the proper place to honor the picture of my son and your daughter, Mila?”
    Mila and Jose exchange a long look and when they finally both break into a wide smile the Aussie must ask again.
    “Well man, come on mate, is there a secret going on here, did you............ or did you stick it in a book somewhere and forget about it?”
    Jose chews and swallows the last of his bitter melon and says, “No doubt amigo, no doubt. It is in the perfect place and will never be forgotten.”
    His voice is laced with an irony that creates a silence among them. Then slowly he takes his cup and in turn fills everyone else’s cup with more soup as they watch, somewhat amused. Lastly, with his cup raised, Jose makes a toast.
    “To all those foreigners, like you my amigo, who help the Filipino people and love their Filipina wives, God’s speed and prosperity.......and to all those foreigners who use us while pretending to help, may they get their account called before them by God’s speed as well.”
    Later as they all sit out back and watch the rice being winnowed on the paddy dikes by small brown men, the sun sinks behind the coconut trees. And pakikisama, or the ability to get along and respect each other, rules the approaching darkness.

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.

El Dorado

    This is where they found the gold. Today it is a dying town few stop to look at. The California gold rush began here in Oroville. City d’Or. Now California’s largest interstate runs through a town stripped. They came and dug it all up 150 years ago. For me, being in the breadbasket, which feeds most of the United States, means almonds, oranges, palm trees, and stultifying sunshine. There is that kind of gold. No ceiling/no limit. Imagine it is like this for people who move to Florida for the weather and wind up living indoors comparing their air conditioners. For me, gold is the color of the sky and whiskey.

    Marilyn is serenading me with 1940’s ballads from the living room. Her piano transports me to an innocence I never knew, a melancholy I know and appreciate.

    Whisky.

    Air conditioners.

    Margaritas.

    Hemorrhoids.

    We are again and always and we do not admit it with ONE CELL of our existence. How old are you?

    TWELVE! We are all twelve, whether we are trying to sell our Legos on e-bay or whether we are launching toxic chemicals on our own civilians. TWELVE! Spewing semen and blood when touched . . .

    One of Marilyn’s uncles in the Civil War was a deserter. Army deserter. Iowa. Neal Jonathon Perkins 1864 cavalry. Grey eyes, fair complexion, brown hair. Deserted July 27, 1865. This was two months after the war had ended and Lincoln had been assassinated, so you cannot blame him. He was apprehended after his two-day adventure to Alabama. There was a $60 bounty on his head and apparently nobody thought he was worth the trouble. I do not think a man needs to be executed for going to Alabama, especially since the war was finished. He was apprehended in Tuscumbia and was tried in Montgomery, Alabama and found guilty. He was returned to command and served and went home just before the war on Indians. The blood had cured him of all wars, beaten some sense into him, but his transgression cost him one mule, one saddle, one saber, belt, and plate. He was going to have to ride bareback without chivalry and eat off the ground. They let him keep his horse and blue hat. I suspect I would have also deserted the civil and Indian wars, no appetite for killing my brother here or brothers abroad, but especially my cousin Dan whose mother once baked us the best blueberry pie south of Virginia. I also have no interest in raising a good blueberry pie to ashes. Like all wars, the civil war settled little. We are left with red states and blue states. North and South and East and West. Democrats and Republicans who despise each other excel at doing nothing – except both sides cash checks written by the same people, and corporations, which they have decided are a single person. Democracy has fallen to the dollar, which is getting worth less and less. Tourism ties the states together, in other words more money. Lincoln freed the blacks into prolonged poverty. He said it was his greatest accomplishment. He has not been here to see the fruits of freedom for minorities, but he did predict to black leaders they were in for a nearly impossible battle against racism. Lincoln first offered blacks a new home in Guyana because, being a genius, Lincoln knew how the whites would treat American blacks, free blacks. Black leader Frederick Douglass refused and argued that blacks should remain in America. This was their land too. Lincoln saw the future but deferred to Douglass. After all, Douglass was black and had freedom of speech. Today it would be a lie to say that blacks have found any form of equal access. There are occasional exceptions, ones who know the plight. Our greatest President conducted a slaughter of Americans and left a legacy of food stamps and welfare. I have seen too many black men in America who are dying of despair and self-destruction. So we raise the flag and monuments to Lincoln, a great man who with great flaw presided over the sickest modern nation in the world. We revere Lincoln simply because he was the captain in the storm. That we now have a black President? He promised CHANGE to a country mired in corruption and conflict and then he took more contributions from bankers than any President in United States history. CHANGE, CHANGE, CHANGE, but he did not say he was just going to change his life. Change is all he said to be elected because our country was mired in so much Republican blood lust that citizens were sick of the stench. Our black President is responsible for and beholden to the top wealthiest 1%. In his term he has done nothing but pass a health insurance plan that is too costly for low income Americans to even contemplate and which republicans have pledged to destroy after he leaves office. Obama presided over the lowest increase in social security for the elderly and disabled. He presided over a procrastinated and meaningless increase in minimum wage, but pays a high school “friend” of mine $230,000 to test fly Lockheed Martin prototype jets that will NEVER be used. Baudelaire claimed that every Presidency is tied to the one before it. He inherits a legacy he must try to remedy. Clinton is the one who freed banks to get into the mortgage business, a move that bankrupted millions and brought the banks to their knees. Bush inherited Clinton’s stupidity. Being stupid himself, Bush and then Obama loaned the banks China’s money to keep them afloat. They say now we are out of our recession. Jobs and wages state otherwise. Graduating college students who sleep and eat with mom and dad say otherwise. The guts of the peppers’ say otherwise. Now let us get the hell out of stupid politics and move on to the human predicament, which is how much to drink on any given day until THE day arrives. I want you to pack your C-130 with yellow daisies and drop them over the city of Detroit.

    Prehistoric man moved far on his feet. They became the first natives of North America without ever claiming they owned it. White men came along with yardsticks and in response to questions from the Indians murdered them.

    Civilians sweat while soldiers make civilians bleed.

    Marilyn is looking through a family photo album that dates back beyond the 1800s. Wish my family could have hung together that long, but then again, it has been said by Baudelaire that great men succeed despite their families, not because of them. I am the man I am said to be and know to be because my family was a rabid package of indecisive neurotics and localized psychopaths. Believe me, I know the apple does not fall far from the tree and it frightens me. Therefore I have had no children.

    He supports the death penalty. I support free choice and the death penalty. My life was treated so cheaply for 15 years that homicidal thugs need to be gassed before they cost us any more money. As the years pass, Reagan looks more insane and paranoid than Stalin. Remember kids, ketchup is a vegetable because I need 15,000 nuclear multiple reentry warheads and the money to pay these Californian corporations owned by my friends has to come from somewhere just in case Bermuda attacks and then there are the Contras. Duck and cover, kids. Here comes lunch!

    Two air conditioners blasting away against this Monday afternoon heat. I wonder where “conditioner” came from? It is such a gentle word for altering the world’s temperature. We are drinking tequila and scotch on the rocks with mountains of rocks. We are heated and cooled. I do not buy scotch much anymore because there are whiskies which can best them for one-third the price. Marilyn bought this scotch, black label. In my 20’s I drank black, Glenlivet, and Bowmore. Maybe I have lowered my tastes as my life slips down my throat. I think its adaptation. I enjoyed the finer things before and enjoy the basic things now because I do not enjoy any of it.

    I suspect I have a hemorrhoid popping out my ass. So far as I can recall, it is my first. I suppose this is not bad considering I am 47. But then, I suspect I have had hemorrhoids flare up in the past and it was just an easy thing to forget. We all want to forget about our hemorrhoids. They are out of sight and need to be out of mind.

    June 19, 1896: PAYABLE IN GOLD COIN.

    Old Ritz crackers staunching the unmedicated near bliss. Almost time again to shoot up and fill my veins with the medication. The vein on the penis is good once your entire circulatory system has collapsed. After she shot me up she would give me head. How do you turn down such a sweet moment of degeneration and generosity in the face of avarice and hatred at every turn? If life sucks and then you die, blame yourself, not the junkies. They are dead already.

    Smashing Pumpkins on the TV. Billy Corgan. Does he bleed or sweat? He acts as if he has things together a little too much.

    I am going to make a film from one of my novels. One of the stars will be suicidal. He owns a Smith-Corona and a Smith and Wesson .45, but will not touch the pistol. Once in awhile he will open the drawer and look at it and it will change his mind because he knows what a .45 will do to his face. He is caught between despair and vanity. Vanity saves his life, the unwanted life. A girl saves his life, actually.

    I suspect I left my car keys in Arkansas in one of those X-Rayed TSA bins. They have not been helpful so far – or even reachable. Since the TSA specializes in taking things away from folks I do not have high hopes for looking into a lost and found box. This happened at 4 a.m. on one cup of coffee and a shot of 40 Creek Canadian whiskey. I can blame it on myself or TSA procedures. I think the United States of America and Homeland Security have lifted the keys to my 1995 Chevy Suburban. They are going to use it against us when the economy collapses and people really start to bear arms. I have to get it back so I can run down the right people.

    Discussing editing my film with Marilyn. She says, “You’re going to force me to do it?”
    “Yes.”
    “I should force you to become a nurse.”
    “you don’t have to do it.”
    “It sounds like fun.”

    “Easy Cheese,” made with real cheese under pressure – fromage squirts out of a can. This is the reason half the world laughs at us. We do not know how to make bread, but we have the DOD and NASA working on the cheese thing.

    Intestinal terrorists/pain-filled distraction. Unbutton pants and loosen belt to second loop. There was a time not too long ago when I was on the seventh loop. I had to cut loops four-through-seven myself as I vanished. I cannot figure out what happened, except for the scurvy and eight teeth falling out. I suppose fat is a common occurrence and consequence of a normal diet at this age, but I had always been immune while living on ramen noodles and water for 15 years. Now if I eat a Popsicle my dick shrinks.

    He said “never enough beer” after I said there have been too many news stories on microbreweries. He agreed and killed my enemy’s beer story. He was on my turf. The editor of The Boston Globe was on my side. I have shot up in port-a-johns and interviewed Presidential candidates. I try to mix things up so my boredom prevents me from running for Senate in a green military jacket and a Che Guevara beret.

    Seniorpeoplemeet. An email. I NEED A GIRLFRIEND. Got to admire the guy’s bluntness. I need a girlfriend. Guy looks sixty with a white beard. He needs a girlfriend. I will bet he has a dog.

    We need a dog. Our German Shepherd is in a small wood box with his name, Sascha, etched into a brass plate. Most of his 100 pounds is not in the box. We are going to release his ashes at one of his favorite beaches. Then we will truly need a dog.

    Sascha made a footprint in cement in Arkansas. I carved his name into the cement and spelled it wrong I was so drunk. SASCA. That happens to me after 30 shots of whiskey. Never trust my spelling after 4 p.m. when I am spilling . . . and tomorrow I will wake up with a hangover and you’ll still be insane (WC Fields).

    Would you prefer to have an intravenous tube inserted with or without a topical anesthetic? Imagine you are a child. There are hospitals out there which do not practice this. Arkansas is an example, whereas it has been protocol in California for 20 years. The south still knows how to lose.

    Keys still missing. TSA called and says they don’t have them. “Sorry, “she said. It’s possible I left them at home because I don’t need them. As it stands, I have no house key on the ring because I gave it to the handy man. The other keys include the keys to my truck, handgun, a lock to another gun which I refuse to use (the lock), and a lock I have forgotten about (possibly to my trumpet case.)

    Marilyn is in another room. The coffee, finished and burned, the pot beeps. A nearby dove was talking to a distant dove. I contacted them. I cupped my hands and blew; I learned the dove call a long time ago but I can’t remember who taught me.

    He met X-face at a bar after his wife divorced him for sexually abusing their youngest daughter, Jess. Jess’ mother awoke all three children in the middle of the night and stole them away. He never claimed custody. X’s make-up was horrific, but it lasted 20 years. She had money, a whole factory, but he broke it off. He had enough money, I guess. But he never gave any to his family. Some fathers feel obligated to pay off the daughters they raped. This dad remained mesmerized as she grew up and saw her on rare visits and holidays as the woman of his dreams. He caressed her hair and looked into her eyes. She was the best fuck he’d ever had and would have and he couldn’t forget. Sick then, sick now, sick always. Broken glass, that girl kept me on my toes.

    Next morning and the apples are out for the mother and her two tiny fawns who are still trying to suckle. We are at the cabin in the sierra foothills. We got here yesterday. Marilyn just asked me what time it is. Mountain time is Thursday, June 25, 2015. California time I can’t guess. The fans are blowing And the Scotch Marilyn bought is flowing. We found some Champagne here so we will appropriate it for the house in the valley.

    This cabin is decorated with ducks, moose, and snowshoes. There’s a stuffed golden eagle in one of the bedrooms. I am not keen on killing eagles. Maybe it was legal back then or maybe Marilyn’s grandfather found it injured or maybe dead. My friend’s uncle shot a bald eagle. In my experience with them, bald eagles are avid hunters and are not afraid of men or cars. They are bald eagles and Benjamin Franklin preferred turkeys. Renaissance men delight in hassling people with turkeys. But would you prefer a turkey on your money? I mean if you had any money.

    No air conditioning here. The fans are blowing. Our hair flies across our scalps. I am bare-chested and Marilyn is in a sundress. Yesterday afternoon I was nude. It felt like the low nineties. I suspect that some of my parents’ friends were swingers, but my folks never ventured into that, as far as I know. I mean. Looking at them in retrospect. sexuality was a cloistered and unapproachable topic in our family, but I know my folks fucked a lot because my room was across the hall. This is why our bedtimes were carved into granite by a diamond dickhead.

    Every horizontal surface of this house is jammed with ornaments and knick-knacks, as if by stacking the shelves and tables Marilyn’s mother will know if anything disappears or has been moved or destroyed. This house is a shrine to her father and if she notices a disturbance of a flake of dust we will hear about it for two weeks. Every fucking inch of this cabin is calculated like a trap.     . Even the Great White Beer (two bottles) were hidden amidst other bottles, one on the top shelf, one on the bottom. They know how I am, they think. (I drank them and replaced them with a six of the same beer placed right up front. FU.) Because I burned off the surface of the linoleum one time they know I will destroy something else. It is uncanny how full of shit this house is, from snowshoes to pottery ducks, nuts, moose, trout and bass, deer antlers, coasters (I once made an offense which appeared in a texted photograph to Marilyn’s mother; it showed a glass of scotch on the table, without a coaster. Marilyn heard about it for three weeks. There was no stain left by the glass, just all over Marilyn’s heart.)

    Marilyn’s grandfather built this house with a little help from her. It is a custom home designed by her grandma and grandpa, specifically for her. He worked with a missing thumb and one eye. A hunting accident in New Mexico when he was young: he was left for dead under a barbed wire fence, but went on to build the Golden Gate Bridge by lying about his age to the WPA. Angela was generous enough to put her mother on the deed, just because her father had built it. Now her mother is trying to prevent me from inheriting it by placing her grandson on the deed. He is twelve.

    Winters in Berry Creek are brutal for the one who must cut and split wood, and feed it into the stove. Just finding wood dry enough to burn will drive a man insane. It’s never-ending. And strange too because when the stove is burning it is too hot in here and when the fire has burned out the toilet will freeze within an hour. Here now in the summer I don’t touch firewood, just endure nature’s heat with only fans to prevent flight and summer insanity.

    Duck. Duck. Moose.

    Bears and geese. Roadrunners, which I must admit to never seeing them despite two cross-country road trips through the desert.

    “I don’t look after your hooks!”

    Rigged rod. Waiting for toast. The heel fell on the floor. Normally I would eat bread from the floor but it was the heel and I had choices.

    Drove to the cabin in the Sierra foothills. Green conifers up there, trees and eagles. The sun had burned the ground to dust. Then we drove nine winding miles into the valley where the Feather River ran and we jumped into it and cooled off. The cabin did not have air conditioning so we lasted a day there. We saw deer, a mother with two small fawns still trying to suckle in June.

    Scandal.

    Nude man walks by the window, the air conditioner shrinking his cock.

    Island High Sierra fawning fans of a bear wearing elk horns.

    Remember the man in Australia who bought a metal detector. He took it home to his trailer and tried it out in his front yard. He found one of largest pieces of gold in history outside the door of his trailer. Now I do not think this was coincidence. Somehow he knew the gold was there. Maybe the energy and magnetic field of the gold affected his brain and suggested itself to his subconscious. Had there been no gold to find, he never would have bought the detector. I wonder if he still lives in that lucky trailer?

    Anticipation of falling off my ride this morning.

    Bottle caps and eyeglasses.

    We close our eyes and block out everything in order to relax. Call us meditative. In other words, fuck Buddhism. It’s an exclusionary daytrip taken by useless men.

    We close our eyes and the ceiling screams them open. The center of the mind engages in unlimited dreams and warfare. Without five prescription drugs I take at night, I would never sleep. I like sleep. I’m not one of those highbred artists who claim he never sleeps. Call me an eight-hour retreatest, but what show is worth staying up for? Everything I have imbibed and put into my veins was my choice to tune in, turn on, and drop out. You may be a millionaire senator who pays for sex, but I cement relationships with the escorts, who are smarter than you. A newspaper editor introduced me to one idiot lawyer in an upscale restaurant I didn’t belong in. “This is Pat. He’s a poor writer wrecked by manic-depression.” I cannot tell you how many times he said to me: YOU ARE LIVING MY LIFE!

    Our eyes gaze upon the flames and we hear the choir in the sky. We tear a painting off the wall and jerk off on it to imaginings of our brunette girlfriend’s blonde girlfriend. So it goes. We are never where we are.

    The choir reaches a pitch, a crescendo which draws you to the window. You look out and the night is silent.

    My grampa loved guns and hunting. My dad enjoyed killing. He would kill woodchucks just for the fun of seeing intestines fly into the sky. After such a challenge he would throw away the bodies. Grampa ate everything he killed, including squirrels. My mother said she never knew what she was eating for dinner. Every partridge, turkey, and deer I shot was eaten and contentedly so by people in need.

    Three more hours till bedtime. Marilyn and I will sleep in the same bed, we will be asleep in the same bed, this is love. Fucking is fucking and sleeping side by side is love. I carved notches into my spear and only three I loved. This averages about one per decade. I have stayed with each of them for periods ranging from 10 months to five years. I am grateful for having these loves and learned that love dies, but three? Two more decades for true love to assail before I sink into the ground. Never married, no kids, but having known love. The only footprint I’ve got are the stories the publishers are blocking from my readers. It is not censorship or propaganda in the sense of the Nazis. It is far more subtle than a movie about rats. It’s about an agent’s’ assistant, usually female. She went to Wellesley or Bates and plays the role of decency when she recommends a book to her boss. Her father works high up in the military or a related field and helps her make ends meet in New York City. The book should be proper and preferably written by a soft-shoed smiling woman with a master in fine art. MFA – MORE FUCKING ARTISTS. There can be no explicit sex scenes, despite the billions of explicit sex that takes place in the world every day, including the assistants. She will suck cock and revolt against a passage describing it. This pre-agent editor saved her virginity until college and she is completely conservative and ignorant about the difference between The Bridges of Madison County and Tropic of Cancer, which she will admit to the right crowd she has never read. She got her job through connections and the “right” college. I have been rejected by 300 agents, 98% of them who fuck like rabbits but would never confess to alcoholism or owning genitals.

    The desert sky
    No ceiling.
    No limit.
    A marriage with the sun.
    Then: air conditioners and
    Swamp coolers.
    Children in the pool
    Cold drinks
    Ice, ice, ice.

    Marilyn and I spent the day hanging with different people. I was going through four shots of black velvet an hour and I did not see Marilyn drinking those margaritas spiked with vodka. She did not know that the bar tender, a politician who lost a California senate race, was spiking the margaritas. I did see her walking around holding that champagne bottle that would do her in. Then she sat next to me and her eyes rolled back into her crimson sockets and she asked for help in front of eight people. A girl helped me carry her to the bedroom. She threw up into a large pasta pot provided by the host, she vomited for 12 hours. I made sure that she was lying on her side. I’d fetch the pot, but sometimes there was not enough time and she messed the bed and covered herself in soup. All through the night she said, “I am so humiliated.”
    “There’s always one,” laughed Fiona, Marilyn’s best friend. “Usually it’s Steve, but he didn’t come this year.”
    I-5 home. Dick stuck to my leg. California is about sweat and jock itch, not Hollywood and surfers. Look, there are so many surfers now that there is nowhere to surf. One wave, 100 surfers scramble for it. The ASP pros catch them. ninety-nine percent of all guys who call themselves surfers, never ride waves. They are professional floaters, pissing through their wetsuits. I have seen the best ideas destroyed by the ones who are unable to share.

    So Fiona’s husband Brad and Jim and I got jamming in the house where the in-laws once lived. Brad builds his own guitars, acoustic and electric. He has an interview with Guitar Magazine after they discovered him and his guitars at a convention. His axes remind me of the playability of Rickenbackers, but they have wider necks, which is what I prefer. $2,500 is a fair price.

    Dove. Who Who WhoHoo . . .

    Why do doves arrive everywhere? Why such a successful species? Is it because they are mates for life? They say very little? Cooperation, shared purpose triumphing.

    The birds which sing the fewest number of notes, possess the greatest vocabulary. For instance, ravens and crows. It sounds like they know one word: CAW! But spend some time with one and you will hear a soft symphony.

    We awoke with dreams of submarines. Water is considered sexual. Submarines must be more so. Is it sick or healthy to be attracted to women and men younger than half my age? Marilyn called me a pedophile and kicked me out of the house. As I was heading out to sleep in my truck, she called me back. Suddenly my past did not matter so long as I was with her.

    Fan.
    Need to piss.
    Marilyn doing her summer homework at the other end of this long coffee table. We are both sitting on the couch. I am writing this story naked. El Dorado is in flames. Don’t come too close.
    She is listening to a nursing lecture on “sources of evidence,” also known as RESEARCH in our language.
    Fewer professorships around these days. In the 70’s you could pass with a C average and find yourself making $100,000 in a soft science at a state university. Buy waterfront property, accumulate a comfortable level of wealth, and raise your family with tenured superiority and stupidity. Today a C does not exist. For Marilyn, a B+ average means you pass. It’s either an A, B+, or an F in hard science. And these days you can expect to earn $70,000 at a state university that does not offer tenure. Times have changed, and the children of the retiring professors come and go like accessory snobs.

    I teach psychology and I am rich. I teach medical school and I am middle class. Do you see where our priorities are going? Down the toilet. Except the engineers are doing well in this age of technology. Marilyn’s brother, a civil engineer for the state of California, makes $15,000 per month dealing with pipes and irrigation. I never knew states would pay so much, not even to the governor. So he makes what? $350,000 a year digging holes? And he cries poor and asks family members for cars for his daughters. Marilyn gave him a heck of a Ford Thunderbird V-8. She didn’t want to give it to me because it would have looked bad to her mother.

    Sweet wonderful you. Christine MacVie told me that one. It must have been hard for her when Stevie Nicks came along. With the shredder Lindsey Buckingham came the mysterious poet with the voice. In a twist of irony, we would never have heard of Fleetwood Mac if it wasn’t for Buckingham/Nicks. We were all honored to see the original line-up perform to a sold-out crowd in Little Rock. It was also a make-up show after they had cancelled due to illness. Eighteen-thousand jammed into that arena and Stevie said our night was the last concert in the United States. They were off on the clouds and overseas to finish this world tour that began a year ago. It could be the last time they perform together. Buckingham seems to be the one having the most fun with this and he’s maintained his chops, yet he was the last one to sign on to the idea of a reunion tour. Sins 40 years past still simmer. Lindsey and Nicks will forever be an unresolved affair. Christine had trepidations as well and this was the first time she toured with the group in 15 years.

    You make me happy/with the things that you

    El Dorado is an American Horror Story. It exists and is easy to find. Just bring ice. Please.

installment 2 of
The Shappe Manipulation

    Lovey wiped her face and neck. A stretch released stress, but a good scream did it best. She couldn’t bring herself to shatter the sounds of nature’s music. She walked up a small compacted hill of wood chips, rocks and broken tree branches and looked at the paths she could take. Several lead back toward the mirrored buildings of the specialty research facilities. Her favorite took her to an old tree stump. The way the old oak had fallen left large jagged segments that acted as a seat back. Over time so many people sat on it the seat became smooth. Lovey kicked back crossed her legs and adjusted her socks. She saw a tree next to her that bore the carvings of couples in love. She spent a lot of time carving, Lovey & Anselmo, in the bark. She dug deep, those words will last forever. She looked at the pea green water of the Sal-Sag Channel. Would she ever see him again? Her heart sank the closer she got to the wooden behemoth. She brushed and blew away mold that accumulated in their names. “Well this is it, our last time together.” It had been two years since she’d seen Anselmo. Two long years since that accidental meeting. A one in a million coincidence; she ran by and looked across the water and there he stood, like he knew she’d be there. They hollered at each other, but their voices weren’t heard. They ran to the shore, but the passing barges drowned out the I love yous. She wobbled on the rocks when she walked to the shoreline. This was silly, Lovey. You know you won’t see him. She picked up a flat stone, threw it and watched it skip across the water.
    What happened to you, Anselmo? That day you were in the restricted zone; you had to go, but you could have come back another day. She came everyday; no Anselmo. Her sorrow came in waves like the barges that cruised down the Channel. Are you in jail, dead or did you stop caring? It didn’t hurt as bad, but still. In those two years a ten foot fence with razor wire was erected, offset four hundred feet from the channel shore. Fear of infiltration from 3S residents increased since she came to Per-Ed-Med. The floaters and sentries were overwhelmed, not because people wanted out of 3S, but to harass the hell out of the status quo. If he wanted to see her that fence was one helluva deterrent; with the width of the channel, that put eight hundred feet between them.
    Don’t dream, Lovey. You won’t see him again, keep going. She ran at a brisk pace down the shoreline until she reached a path back into the forest. A flashing glimmer in the trees caught her eye. She focused on clusters of thick foliage that swayed in the wind. It gave the silvery flying CCTV platform a momentary cover. What was that thing doing? She started to flip it the bird, but the last time she did that, she got a fifty credit ticket. Maybe it’s not paying you any attention? That’s right. The old crosswalk over the channel was ahead. It was closed, but they still watched it. The infamous ‘crossover’, where the people expelled from or the undesirables were sent back to 3S. The rusted steel chain canopy covered a concrete walkway that curved like a snake and dropped on both shores into a spiral staircase. The concrete had years of graffiti etched on it. All the rejected had written obscenities; ‘fuck you and good-bye’ were the most popular. Now expulsions were less often, the stringent application process assured Dr. Wei that.
    She came to the end of the shoreline. On both sides a fifteen foot concrete barrier continued along the channel embankment to the main bridge and a quarter mile behind. On top, triple rows of razor wire protected the machinery of the draw bridge. Security and maintenance of that vital link between have and have-nots was the full responsibility of Per-Ed-Med. A wide limestone stairway was connected to the embankment. The cracks were filled with weeds and debris. What used to be a beautiful historic muriel of the area had been vandalized and ignored. The smell of years of joggers relieving themselves assaulted Lovey’s nostril when she ran up the steps. She followed the sentry’s guideways for a few hundred yards to several benches and sat.
    Lovey found a spot to stretch at the tip of a bench that hadn’t been bombarded by bird droppings. She finished her routine and sat. She couldn’t help but study the guard complexes on both sides of the main bridge. A habit she couldn’t break. Many a day she sat there and tried to figure a way to climb under the bridge back into 3S to find Anselmo. She tried to access plans for the Sal-Sag channel, but it was encrypted; she left it alone.
    The guard house’s mirrored with bullet proof glass; they were off limits to students. Inside were an array of 3D screens, audio and heat sensors, micro-wave ovens, refrigerator, tables and a washroom. Douglas might be at work. She waved for somebody to come out. She looked for sentries and spotted one of the huge robots four hundred yards south. Good. She walked up to the reflective box, shaded her eyes from the sun and knocked. “Hello, is Sergeant Douglas working today?”
    “No, he isn’t.” A female voice shouted through the speaker.
    “Sorry to disturb you, but a few of the sentry tracks are severely buckled. I thought someone should know,” Lovey lied.
    “I’ll make a note of it.”
    I know you will, bitch. She sounded out of breath. Now Lovey knew she and Douglas weren’t the only ones rocking the guard house. Lovey first saw Douglas around the ER. Tall and thin he didn’t have a cop demeanor. He looked like a model, beautiful smooth skin. A slight muscular build and timid eyes. She introduced herself. On her next Saturday run, she saw him outside the guard house. She ran over and told him she had a female emergency. His eyes undressed her; he checked her elitist ID and showed her the bathroom. When they stepped in the shack Lovey bolted the door, smiled and grabbed him.
    The next twenty minutes were good.
    Lust had its advantages. When she learned Douglas had access to “The Deep Dark Web” she made it her business to stop by every Saturday morning. The residents of ethnic enclaves like 3S had filtered search engines. Google and the like were a joke. They lost the privacy battle during the Walker Administration from 2020-2028. If filtering failed the feds jammed the entire system including Wi-Fi. The time Lovey spent in their love shack varied. She enjoyed his lovemaking, but she mastered what made him come the quickest. Traffic was minimal and in between time she got him to access the DDW where she got the latest news concerning the huge engineering project in the central mountains of Central Ethiopia. She wanted hard copies of info, but that was illegal. They said if you wanted to hide anything from the poor put it in writing. That garbage didn’t apply to Lovey. She read everything she could especially when she got to Per-Ed-Med. Only a few Americans were allowed to work on the Ethiopian endeavor. Black people were discouraged from inquiring about positions with firms affiliated with countries in the Eastern Bloc. You had to be endorsed by the African-Americans for further info. And, from what she heard those snobs didn’t know much either.
    To work on the pride of the African Continent. What an honor.
    One day she would get there. Be smart...be patient.
    Her gut told her, her genius, skills and theories will be appreciated.
    That was two years ago. No Douglas today. Oh well maybe next time. She turned to go back when the lights started flashing. She jogged in the opposite direction down the sidewalk, stopped under a tree and saw a lengthy convoy. Each driver of the multi-colored military 8x8’s stopped and pulled documents dispensed by the guard complex. They proceeded slowly through the sensor lanes until given the green light. The first two massive vehicles were supply trucks, the next two carried police personnel. The last ones were school bus size; one was an EMT and the other a yellow school bus. After the electronic inspection they re-grouped. The antiquated diesel engine vehicles rumbled pass Lovey and spewed black smoky fumes skyward. She darted between the 8x8’s to get to the path. Horns honked, she smiled and waved at the flirting law enforcement personnel. The bus slowed and kept pace with her. They banged on the sealed tinted windows. She blew kisses at the silhouettes of the police recruits. She couldn’t make out a face, but one guy banged on the window in a familiar pattern. She thought of Anselmo.
    Strange; it couldn’t be or could it?
    She shook that thought and ran toward the Central Complex.
    The Central Complex (The CC) wasn’t located in the middle like the name suggests, but offset a mile north of the executive director and dormitory buildings. That made it closer to the city limits. Three thirty story pyramid shaped buildings housed the main regional hospital, educational research and a large shopping mall. Each buildings electricity and communication arrays were enclosed in cone shaped reflective segments that occupied the top ten floors. The next ten levels had an immense atrium that stretched from top to bottom. The lack of elevators in the shopping mall encouraged the use of ramps and wide spiral staircases. The tri-level expressway and mono-rail systems branched off to different parts of the primary floors where most of the emergency facilities were located. All entrances and exits were on the north side of each building. An inefficient design specified by the politicians of Bigge City.
    Lovey’s curiousity got the best of her. She went to the emergency room entrance and, as expected, the bus carrying the recruits parked by the authorized only personnel station. Several people stood in a line from the bus to a single door. She couldn’t see inside, but there had to be scanners inside. She stood next to a set of revolving doors and watched each recruit disembark. All of them stood at least six four, muscular builds with the needed flexibility and hairless including the females. All were Whites and one Latino.
    It couldn’t be!
    Anselmo got off last. She did a double take.
    Jesus! Anselmo, a police recruit. Anselmo, the self proclaimed, fifteen years only then I’ll quit being a professional criminal. How and why? He hated cops, like everyone else from 3S. She held her chest and took a deep breath. Relax, Lovey.
    They all stood at attention, heads forward as the stocky sergeant shouted in each of their ears. She went to the emergency admitting desk, flashed her ID at the security kiosk. A young man with an olive complexion with long black hair down his back asked. “Can I help you?”
    “Where are the recruits going?”
    “Um...they look good, don’t they?”
    Lovey nodded. “I want to put my bid in before they go to basic.”
    He grinned and licked his lips. “Me too; after the physical they’ll be in the waiting area.”
    “Thanks.” A double set of doors retracted and admitted her to the chaotic atmosphere of the ER and she headed for the waiting room.
    The ER waiting room consisted of three segments. An open area with plenty of seats spread out around large artificial plants, closed-captioned 3D’s indoor water displays, privacy cubicles for consultations and sealed offices for bereavement counseling. An entire wall contained nothing but vending machines and a soundproof playroom. Several recruits congregated around a doorway and congratulated everyone who exited. They were dressed in one-piece jumpsuits, each the color of their race. All Lovey saw were white, one yellow, two browns and one black. Anselmo stepped into the crowd and received smiles, muffled cheers and pats on the back. Lovey walked toward him and their eyes met. Anselmo eased away and excused himself. It took everything she had not to run to him, and he couldn’t break protocol by touching civilians, especially the elite, unless they touched him first. Lovey’s silver bars were visible on all her clothing.
    Lovey extended her hand. “Hello and congrats, it’s not often we see Black recruits.” She suppressed bursting into laughter. She squeezed his hand and hoped he’d pay attention and observed protocol. “I’m Lovey Shappe.”
    He smiled and mumbled. “You certainly are.” He looked confused. “It’s a pleasure, I’m Anselmo Obo. How should I address you?”
    “Forget the formalities, Lovey is fine.” She released his hand not wanting to hold it too long. Anselmo’s fellow recruits started to pay attention. She turned, waved and welcomed them. It didn’t hurt to be friendly. Mingle a little, pull him to the side and tell him where to meet you. The PA system blared doctors and staff members names. Then the waiting room erupted into chaos when several people broke out of the ER fighting, hollering and screaming. Lovey grabbed Anselmo’s arm. “Go back that way,” she pointed to a set of double doors. “I’ll meet you by the elevator.” He headed for the exit.
    Lovey looked at the fight; they’d be a minute and the recruits gathered around the confusion. Good, that would give them a few extra minutes, maybe ten. She pushed open the swinging doors and rushed toward her lover. He looked great. God, she wanted him. She grabbed him by the arms. “What happened to you; you want to be a cop? How and why?”
    “Relax, Naomi.” Anselmo said.
    “Shhh...you know that’s not my name anymore. What’s wrong with you?”
    “You didn’t tell me that.”
    “I did.” Lovey said. “We don’t have much time.”
    “I know it’s a long story. I got sick of crime and the damn Calypso’s. They want the respect of organized criminals. They will never be anything but a gang. Fuck that, I took the out.”
    “And what was that?”
    Anselmo sighed and stared at Lovey. “Don’t hate me or whatever. Detective Nocee needed info.”
    “Nocee!” She looked around and hoped nobody heard her outburst. “Not that bitch, Anselmo.” She looked away. What was he doing? Jesus, he wanted out that bad. Detective Nocee tried to flip her against Anselmo and the fake ID operation. She didn’t trust her. She was corrupt; a liar that double crosses anybody.
    “Look at me, Lovey.” He said.
    She smiled and rubbed his smooth hairless face not caring who saw her. “I love you, you know that.”
    “Don’t bullshit me, if something’s on your mind, say it.”
    “Seriously, I’m glad you’re here.” She looked around. “Times running out, we’ll talk.”
    “Listen, look out for Nocee. She’s one of the training instructors. OK?”
    “Fuck Nocee, she can’t do anything with me.” She pointed at the bars on her suit. “We got a lot to talk about, baby.”
    Attention all academy recruits report back to the ER staging area.
    “That’s Nocee, stay here I’ll find you after I graduate.” Anselmo blew her a kiss and went back to the waiting room.

    Dr. Wei leaned back and eased his boots on the edge of the desk. Meditation before presentation; worked every time. A calm spirit helped when he dealt with Hiroshi Ding. He’d stalled him long enough. Now, he had results, concrete results of his research that would please him. He finalized his inward chants, took a deep and exhaled. Ding will be here soon.
    He got to his feet and looked up at the bank of 3D’s. Most of the bedrooms were empty. The test subjects were in the bathroom or not home yet. Eavesdropping, he hated, but the last phases of the experiment were crucial to its success. He slid a small door on the side of the bleached oak desk and pressed a button. The 3D’s switched to diagnostic mode for the MRI wands. He needed all the test subjects not to stir in their sleep when examined. Once the diagnostic mode finished he would install the new software. That should solve the problem it still meant he was in complete control. This technology wasn’t connected to the AI’s, the way he wanted.
    Dr. Wei, Mr. Hiroshi has arrived.
    The smoked glass doors to Wei’s office parted. Ding smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, Wei. Is it good to see you or what?” The short CEO wore a gray pin striped suit, diamond cuff links the color of his unbuttoned silk shirt. He walked to the black leather seat closest to Wei’s desk. “I love good news, but like I said, I got footprints in my ass. So let’s hear it.” Ding’s hand dropped to the chair’s side and felt for the recline button. “What’s wrong with the chair? Here it is.” He eased back and folded his fingers together. “Well?”
    “Don’t I get to be polite? Would you like a drink or some food? How about a BJ, Ding? I got nurses who will make you climb up the wall.” Wei laughed and tried to ignore Ding’s stone face expression. He sighed, “I guess not.” They must have crawled in pretty deep. The little SOB didn’t even want a drink. Well that’s him. Wei dropped ice cubes in his favorite celebratory glass. He swore when a few cubes slipped from the tongs. He reached under the bar and produced a liter of hundred year old scotch. “You sure you won’t join me, Ding?”
    Ding looked disgusted. “If you insist.”
    “Listen ding, relax, unwind and enjoy. Damn man, you are too rich and powerful to be stressed.” Wei handed him a drink and stirred his. “Cheers.” They toasted and took big gulps.
    Ding licked his lips. “That’s the smoothest scotch I have ever tasted.” He finished and signaled for a refill.
    Wei smiled. “Now we can get down to business.” He sat and swiped at the panel on his desk. “Monitor One.”
    “Yes, Dr. Wei.”
    “Privacy mode.”
    “Yes, Dr. Wei.”
    Wei crossed his legs and smiled. “How long have we known each other?”
    Ding sighed. “Since childhood.” He moved in his chair. Wei sensed nervousness and kept smiling. “Get to the point, Wei.”
    Wei laughed. “You can trust me, relax, again. Should I call a head nurse?” Ding suppressed a grin. “Ah, sounds good doesn’t it?”
    “Yeah, maybe later, that last nurse made me miss an important meeting, but it was worth it.” He giggled and shook his head.
    Wei observed the scotch sneak up on his friend. That made the atmosphere less formal for an important revelation. Wei reclined his seat and sipped his drink. “Did you ever think we’d be in America with this much power?”
    Ding laughed and shouted. “No, but I love it.” They laughed and Ding jumped to his feet and tried to dance.
    Wei pointed. “You never could dance.”
    “I asked my executive secretary to teach me a few moves. Those Blacks really move, especially the women. I try, but it’s fun anyway.”
    Wei’s smile disappeared. “Now two descendants of Hong Kong’s cage dwellers will soon have the answer to Asia’s miscarriage problems.”
    Ding put down his scotch. “I’m listening...please don’t take too long, Osama.”
    Wei nodded. “When we were born in Shanxi Province in 2004 the rates of birth defects were the highest in the world. The coal and chemical industry couldn’t care less.” Wei rubbed the growth on his side. “I’m not going to mention the water; it’s a miracle we have lungs. You know about that with your respiratory problems. Over the past sixty years things looked better in cities like Linfen, but looks are deceiving. The fertility rate deceased. They thought that was good. Less people, more money for the greedy capitalist minded communist.” Ding nodded. “Those idiots didn’t count on or ignored how fast infertility spread. And what the hell is a Capitalist Communist?” They pondered that question, laughed and toasted. Wei held the bottle in the light. “It’s half empty, Hiroshi, I...we better slow down. Are we drunk or what?”
    “Yeah, but I’m still listening.” Ding took off his tie and fanned. “I sweat when you have good news.”
    “OK, this won’t take long.”
    “Every thirty seconds a baby is born with some sort of physical defect in China,” Wei said. “And experts say the same exist in India and Indonesia. This is what the National Population and Family Planning Commission (NPFPC) says. I know those 2006 stats have changed, but there is an increase in some areas. The coal rich Shanxi is notorious for pollution and over exposure to nitrogen dioxide and carbon monoxide. Women in that region didn’t have children, now they can’t.” His wiggled his glass and drank. “Since 2020 the number of defects decreased, but so has the number of births. Congenital heart disease and neurological defects cost the government a fortune. At first the slow rate was considered a blessing. Now we have time to work on the population problem and pollution. Two million people a year die from pollution related diseases in China. Sixteen of the world’s twenty most polluted cities are in China. Greed’s a bitch; capitalist communist caused a lot of problems.” Wei rubbed the mass on his abdomen. “I try not to wonder what it would be like without this.”
    “You’re right don’t think about it.” Ding said. “Our mother’s exposure to toxins in Linfen gave us plenty to be bitter about.” He moved his short arm to reach for his drink. “No telling what we’d look like if they lived in the Jiangsu Province. I can see the government now; bring your chemical plants to China. Do what you want to the environment, we want money; we will clean it up later. Now look at us. Sorry to interrupt, Osama, go ahead and finish.”
    “The environment’s what motivated us to pursue our professions; life, not profits. China isn’t a water rich land, but that wasn’t taken into consideration. Five million tons of sewage waste water is produced daily and with a shortage of treatment plants it was a matter of time before the affect would screw up the birth rate. This problem gave birth to Epitor-devaux, inc. and others that care; but Devaux is the best.” Wei gestured with his glass at Ding. Hiroshi expressed deep thought like he went back to the early days. He held his chin like ‘The Thinker.’ “Devaux is unparalleled in the areas of fertility and thanks to your support I got something.” Wei put his glass on the table. “I want to show you.” He stood, straightened his suit and walked over to the floor to ceiling book case. “Come on Hiroshi.” Ding grabbed the bottle. “Leave that we won’t be long.” Wei waved his hand; it receded, swung open and revealed a pathway. The CEO of Devaux followed him into the secret passageway. It was a person and a half wide. Every step they took a band of overhead lights illuminated the stainless steel walls. “For a secret passageway it doesn’t smell like one. No dampness, not musty and it’s the right temperature.” Ding said.
    “We’re going to my lab; not the dungeon. There’s no sub-basement.” They reached a set of steel doors.
    “Open says-a-me.” Ding said, waved his hands and laughed. The doors didn’t budge. “I guess that’s not the code.”
    “No, its not. Open.” That triggered a full body scanner that descended and stopped at each one’s eye level. The metal ring’s pink light pulsed. Hiroshi Ding Temporary. The ring’s ray read Ding’s internal organs and returned into the ceiling.
    “What’s that mean?”
    “You don’t need to know.”
    The pressure sealed doors opened to a second set that parted a second later. The lights in the room brightened in stages. The lab’s ceiling and walls were mirrored and divided every ten feet by two foot wide wooden panels. The cushioned hardwood floors tiles gave with every step. On the right an L-shaped mezzanine connected to the back wall fifty feet from the entrance. On that half level a row of stainless steel refrigerator/freezer units hummed. Attached below each unit a six by two foot cylinder labeled hazardous material. The left side of the room contained two rows of clear plastic chamber that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Suspended in a clear liquid were organisms of some kind. Ding walked over for a closer look. “What is that, Wei?” He ran his fingers over it.
    “Look closer at the label.”
    Ding nodded. “OK, Caucasian uterus with fallopian tubes.” He moved to the next one. “Black, Indian, Asian, Eskimo and they’re all alike. There’s no difference in females worldwide. These look real; are they?”
    “Yes, not grown, not a projection. And, most important they weren’t killed to get them or anything like that. I’m a doctor not a butcher in case that ran through your mind, Ding.”
    He sighed. “I don’t think like that.”
    “Ding, I saw the look, but that’s OK.” Wei stopped between tubes. “Look closely and you’ll notice the size of the specimens when you go down the line.”
    Ding touched the tube that magnified its contents. He moved to the next. “Well, what I see so far is that the cervix of the specimens are thicker. Are all of them like that?” Wei nodded. “I don’t see any lesions or anything so what am I looking at, exactly?”
    Wei grinned. “The key to a successful pregnancy is the cervix. It should be at least 3cm thick and in over sixty percent of Asian women it’s too damn thin. They cannot hold kids. I’m not telling anything you don’t already know. But, I perfected a drug that thickens the cervix without side effects.”
    Ding sighed. “That’s been tried with implants—“
    “That didn’t work, causes problem and irritates the vagina during intercourse.” Wei interrupted. “They hated them. I got a pill that will do the trick.” He beamed with pride. “I injected these specimens and got good results, but these were the early stages. I kept these for the demonstration. Let’s go to my office.” They walked to a large cubicle adjacent to the mezzanine staircase. Wei pulled out a chair for Ding. “I know your board is impatient, but I still need more time to complete the trails. And anyway this is one of many Devaux’s backed experiments. Why do they insist about this project? And, I thought it’s supposed to be secret?”
    “That’s why, because of the secrecy. New budget proposals and assholes want to make a name for themselves. Greed and ambition is a pain. I know that’s hypocrisy, but what can I say.” Ding crossed his legs, sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “You haven’t shown me too much, Osama. Show this to anybody else, they wouldn’t believe you. I need more man, soon.”
    “I got it, Hiroshi.” Wei took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. Ding looked disgusted but curious, his lips parted. “Before you say it.”
    “Say what?”
    “I read minds, you know that.” Wei giggled and opened the paper. “This is a list of four females in Beijing who have taken the drug.”
    Ding read and looked surprised. “Some of these names are familiar,” Ding said. “Do I know them?”
    “Only one, the rest aren’t politically connected. They’re all seven months and their cervixes are secure. Check them out discreetly. The miracle about this drug; it doesn’t lead to cancer like the competition’s and the subjects don’t know what they were given. I tried to minimize the stress levels.”
    “That might be illegal, Wei.”
    “If so it’s worth it. Look in a woman’s eye who’s been trying to give birth over and over again and it ends in miscarriage...fuck the law.
    Ding’s eyebrow arched. “Considering what’s at stake, agreed.”
    “Remember, if and when you check this out, don’t screw it up. Don’t try and duplicate anything, keep it simple. Devaux will have it; let the trail proceed and it will be successful. I’m also working on the fertility problem, but we’ll discuss that later.”
    “OK with me.” Wei extended his hand and they shook.
    “Now that’s finished, let’s finish the scotch.” Ding said. It didn’t take long for that to happen. Every shot brought back memories. They had a ball celebrating prematurely and they didn’t care. And after that Wei and Ding’s chauffeur helped the CEO into his limo. Wei laughed out loud. What would Ding do to ease his hangover? Maybe he should share his secret remedy? Ah, let him suffer. What’s a good drunk without the hangover? That was cheating keep him honest.
    Wei plunged his face into the glass bathroom bowl’s ice cold water. He dabbed his face dry, pleased with the presentation Ding won’t bother him for a couple of months. His friend would investigate and follow his advice. He wrapped the towel around his neck and rubbed vigorously. All students were asleep in their quarters and the monitors checked in with Monitor One. He sighed, hummed a tune and prepared for tomorrow. Wei loved Sundays, his only day off; he set the monitors to ‘emergency only.’

    Ever since Lovey crossed the channel to Per-Ed-Med Sundays have been the best day of the week. Today wasn’t an exception. She stared at the ceiling fan and did a mental rearrangement of the patterns of light on the textured finish. Dust and grease over the years changed the off white color. Maintenance promised to redecorate, that was four years ago. They’ll lie to somebody else for four years. She will miss this place for a while. She solved many a problem staring at the ceiling.
    Her dreams of love making to Anselmo faded with every moment she laid there. That was a good dream. She turned and rubbed the satin like sheets that covered the empty pillow next to her. Did Anselmo make the right decision? You don’t leave those criminals, but if you did he chose the best way; join the police force. Smart, but still risky. They will be pissed and the other cops won’t trust you. However, Anselmo never got busted. He was well liked by the leaders, but he was a low level smuggler not a threat to the upper echelon of the ‘Calysos.’ They were teens with grown up experience 3S taught them. Anselmo’s intuition and her analytical skills kept them a step ahead of the cops, especially Nocee. What did he give Det. Nocee for a recommendation? Whatever, she was overjoyed and scared.
    Lovey sat up, stretched and touched her painted toenails. She held that position to relieve the tightness in her lower back. “Monitor Two, put in a request to speak to Dr. Wei asap.”
    OK, girl, but on a Sunday?
    “Yes, Monitor Two, on a Sunday.” She smacked the snooze button and reset the alarm. A hundred sit-ups, a shower and a bowl of cereal and then she’d tune in the church’s previous Sunday broadcast. She had doubts about religion, but a few messages were uplifting. She emptied the last of the Wheaties in a bowl and took a whiff of the week old carton of milk. Still, good.
    “Monitor Two, 3D and medium surround.”
    OK, girl sounds like we are going to get the Holy Ghost in here today.
    Lovey laughed, “You need to stop that Monitor Two.” The 3D panned the crowd at the Pentecostal Assembly Church, the largest, richest and most contemporary house of worship in the metropolitan area. Ironically located in 3S, the poorest area. The pride and joy of the people who had been surgically removed from the city limits over several decades. It sat on the edge of the Sal-Sag Channel halfway north of Per-Med-Ed. A special bridge was built to accommodate the heavy traffic and a small army stationed around the perimeter. They kept a low profile in the spirit of peace and tolerance between the haves and the have not’s. Bullshit, as far as she was concerned. The choir won countless Emmy’s. The camera panned near Shelley and Tiesha. “3D freeze and isolate that frame.” Lovey couldn’t wait to tease them about shouting and screaming praises. “You should try they’d say.” She could get a pass to 3S easily, but they didn’t know her past. Crossing that bridge was flirting with arrest. When Wei’s driver told her “If that Chinaman says don’t worry about warrants, believe it.” She did, but don’t go back. She didn’t like the fact Det. Nocee was one of Anselmo’s training instructors. When Lovey hit the leader of ‘The Blondes’ street gang in the head he fell like a rock flat on his face. He had to be dead. Did Nocee know about it? She had to. She led the manhunt to cut Lovey off before she got to the assessment center to apply for an upgrade to enter Per-Ed-Med.
    Shake the curiosity, Lovey ask Wei.
    What would she do if she bumped into her? Kick her ass! That wouldn’t be easy. She was a boxy built blonde with a face like the boxer she used to be. Her unattractiveness amplified her anger at the world and she played a vital role in the corruption in the 3S townships.
    Lovey, girl you got company.
    She hurried and opened the door.
    “Hey Lovey, how are you?” Shelley and Tiesha smiled she stepped aside and gave them the once over. “You two look great. You’re going to church?”
    “Yes, join us.” Both of them wore black sleeveless dresses. Shelley’s clung to her waist and hips with a wide white belt. Tiesha’s had splits on each side, no belt.
    “I love those heels ladies...no, I’m not going to join, but have a seat.”
    They tipped to the sofa, turned and started to laugh. “You’re wrong, Lovey.” Tiesha said. “My mouth is wide open and look at you Shelley your eyes are rolled back in your head.” Shelley covered her face and turned red.
    “I thought you’d like that. 3D return to the program.” Lovey pulled open the drapes. “Delete the frames.” They disappeared and she kept laughing. They followed her back to the breakfast nook. “I’m out of Wheaties.” She pulled out several boxes of off brand cereal and oatmeal. “You want Fruit Loops? They’ve been in here a long time.”
    “No.” Teisha said. “We came by to drag you out of bed in time for church.”
    “You know I’m not big on faith. I just don’t get it. Now I get the blank looks. Well, maybe next to time.”
    They looked disappointed and pushed their chairs up to the table. “OK, we’ll pray for you.” Shelley said.
    Lovey shut the door. Prayer wouldn’t hurt, but from those two? God might get mad. How does a person pray and shout on Sunday and continue to mess over people Monday thru Saturday? She tightened her robe and flopped on the sofa. Shelley needed serious pray as vindictive as she was, Tiesha knew the size of half the guys on campus.
    How do you pray anyway? Do it how the minister on the 3D does or what? Just ask lovey it won’t hurt. “Lord, help my plan.” She laughed. “I must be crazy.”
    Lovey, girl, Dr. Wei wants to see you first thing in the morning.
    Lovey smiled while the elaborately clothes minister paced back and forth. He read scriptures and shouted praises. Maybe God heard her.
    She went to the churches website to view sermons from the archives for the past several Sundays. No need to ask the monitor this was none of the AI systems business. Every sermon seemed directed at her and her previous behavior. She felt bad about several things she’d done. Why listen to this mess? It’s done, but she couldn’t stop. She opened a window to a reference bible and read aloud with the congregation. What had gotten into her? Whatever it was it felt good, inspiring and relieving. It got to the point she jumped up, clapping and shouting praises. For several hours Lovey listened, learned and accepted the call to serve the Lord. But how and where? She dropped to her knees and asked for guidance. Why would God answer her? She wasn’t a church goer. Who could she talk too? It was late, past six, she could call her girlfriends, but something said no. She had enough problems sharing her desire for salvation could complicate things. Call the church, a counselor might still be there. “Pentecostal Assembly Church, how may I direct your call?”
    Great! Somebody’s there. “I’d like to speak to a minister, if anybody’s around.”
    “Hold please, I think the pastor’s available.” The soft female voice said.
    The pastor? Surprise Lovey this is your lucky day. “This is Bishop Lyle Stebbins, how can I help you?”
    Lovey choked up and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Bishop, I...I want to be baptized this evening.” She couldn’t believe how fast the words shot out her mouth.
    “OK, are you close or are you in distress?”
    “No, no distress, but I’m across the channel at Per-Ed-Med. I’m a member of the elite class, I don’t know if I can get a pass this late.” She said.
    “That’s cool, meet me at the check point I can get a visitors pass to the church only with no problem. What’s your name?”
    “Lovey Shappe.” She was scared and excited.
    “I’ll be at the gate, Ms. Shappe.”
    “Thank you so much.” His strong compassionate voice calmed her. When she got to the guard house the Bishop looked basically the same as the 3D image, but taller.
    The interior of the church was magnificent and twenty minutes later Lovey Shappe was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Overwhelmed with joy her inner ear told her to keep her salvation to herself for the time being.

    Monitor Two wished Lovey luck and acknowledged the miracle of an early response to her request. Amazing the things AI’s say. The front glass doors swung open. Soft music and a pleasant fragrance greeted Lovey before the receptionist swiveled in her chair. A low redwood desk revealed her pregnancy. She glanced at Lovey, turned up her nose and pointed to the leather chairs against the wall. The floor patterns alternated from carpet to leather a nightmare to clean. The snotty receptionist area stretched twenty feet across with ten foot double doors in the corner. The ceiling was opaque glass with several silver domes embedded in an erratic pattern. Below those globes the same pattern in the floor. Holograms. No artwork other than the usual optical illusion of endless hall of doors between mirrored panels. A beam of pink light shot out the floor expanded and outlined a form seven feet tall.
    Lovey Shappe?
    “Yes, Monitor One.” She never saw the head AI, nobody did, and that was the rumor anyway. She stood at attention. Good she wore her dress whites, not necessary, but she had the option if she chose. The holographic image sharpened. It resembled Dr. Wei, but thinner with the same baritone Mandarin accent.
    What is your business with Dr. Wei?
    Here we go, Lovey. “With all due respect Monitor One my business is with the doctor.”
    As you wish, Ms. Shappe. He’ll see you now.
    The double doors parted. She tried to push them lightly. These were real oak. She leaned and it gave way. Lovey fell in love with the panoramic view of the campus and skyline. A dense layer of fog engulfed the area. Points of light pushed through the mist like a pin through paper. Monitor One appeared at her side when Dr. Wei walked from behind his desk.
    “Good morning, Ms. Shappe...you look well.” Wei studied her uniform. “Mendez designed those uniforms right?”
    Lovey’s back straightened. “Yes sir, Dr. Wei.”
    “Um...tapered waist.” Wei stood a couple of feet from her and circled, slowly. “White tams, cool but durable and broad shoulders, stylish but not provocative. I approve, but I did that long time ago, right?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Why are you wearing it the graduation is not until next week?”
    Lovey sighed and gave Wei a hard stare. “May I speak frankly, sir?”
    “Go ahead, Ms. Shappe.” He sat and opened a folder. “Sorry I have to multi task.”
    Wei didn’t look up he kept shuffling papers. “Are you a doctor, Ms. Shappe?”
    “No, but I feel fine. I checked me from head to toe.” Lovey raised her voice. Now he looks up. “Do you know something I don’t? Is there something I should know, Dr. Wei?”
    “Uh...uh, no Ms. Shappe there isn’t. Don’t let it go to your head, but I’ve treated you with favor, right?” Wei shot her an icy look.
    “Yes, Dr. Wei. But there’s something else, sir.”
    Wei’s eyebrows arched. “Yes?”
    She had to word her next statement right. “All kinds of people from the business community to the politicians will be there. What if somebody recognizes me? I was nobody, but still.”
    Wei cleared his throat. “Remember when you stepped out of the assessment center and met Mr. Wielinski?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And, knowing him the way I do he probably said ‘If that Chinaman said it’s taken care of, believe it.’” Wei chuckled. “But, no matter how he said it, it’s true, Ms. Shappe. I told you that too, when you looked in that screen when he drove across the bridge. Naomi Obo is dead and safe, do you under...stand.”
    “Yes sir, Dr. Wei.”
    “At ease, Shappe. Relax.” He continued to ruffle papers. “You should try my schedule.” He sighed. I got the IRS coming in for an audit and surgery at 11:00 am. Are you satisfied now?”
    “Yes sir.”

    Lovey gazed at her fellow graduates; a hundred strong. The majority came from 3S and the surrounding townships further south. They all strived to be the super elite like Lovey, Tiesha, Shelley and Mendez. They nicknamed them ‘The Generals’ and Lovey was the ‘Supreme.’ Per-Ed-Med wasn’t a military academy, but military discipline made all the students the best in their fields. Everybody stood at attention during the dignitaries boring speeches. The class crowned Dr. Wei as the best educator and doctor in the Illiana Province. The American Medical Association hated him, but didn’t have the money to stop him. The foreigners had all the money. In the guest balcony she felt a set of eyes she hadn’t seen in years. She focused; that damn boxy built Detective Nocee had a smirk on that train wreck she called her face. Several trainees flanked her, but no Anselmo. Don’t do anything stupid Anselmo make it through the academy. We’ll hook back up in the city.
    Everybody went to the cruise ship anchored in the lake to celebrate, get drunk or whatever. She didn’t feel like it. The city awaited and so did the African-Americans. A peaceful evening in front of the 3D with a good pizza beat noise and a hangover.
    Girl what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be partying.
    “I slipped out the back. I’m tired; it’s me and you, Monitor Two.” She snatched off her clothes, tossed them and flopped on the bed. It didn’t make sense to get drunk and they had final appointments to see their OB-GYN’s in the morning. The exam was simple, a head to toe scan beam, urine and blood sample with instant results and if all’s well, good bye Per-Ed-Med. The best perk of being a graduate, free medical care for life.

Check previous and future issues of cc&d magazine for other parts to The Shappe Manipulation

Blood of the Lamb

    I’m sitting on the couch, kicking back a brewsky while watching an old rerun of The Wire when Doogie calls.
    “Hey, wanna come with me to the political rally downtown tonight? You know, it’s that Harry Turple dude who’s running for president.”
    “I know who Turple is, dumbass.”
    Everybody knows who Turple is. Doogie must think I live in a vacuum. Or that I don’t own a TV. I tell him “sure” because I got nothing better to do tonight and besides, it’ll be fun to hear what that ass wipe will say and what he’ll do. He’s been calling women “breeders”, Hispanics “Spics” and taking potshots at just about every other ethnic minority. Turple wants to abolish foreign aid, jail homosexuals, increase military spending, and give free loans to churches.

    We take the subway and arrive at the capital building about a half hour before the rally is about to begin. There’s standing room only, and it’s already a circus—I mean, a literal circus! I see a fellow in blackface, wearing a dog collar and being “walked” around by another big, ugly dude wearing a White Power tee shirt. Hell, I’m no “Libtard” but even I can see this guy is one scary sombitch! Doogie turns to me; we glance at each other with raised eyebrows. Blackface Guy bumps roughly into me on his way by. White Power Dude glares at me in turn.
    A little further into the crowd, I see jugglers, a fire-breather, along with a scam artist who is playing the suckers with a shell game trick.
    “Keep your eye on the cup. Here! The ball is here, right? It should be right . . . here!” The scammer picks up the cup. There’s no ball.
    “Oh, MY! It’s got to be under this one, right?” He picks up the middle cup. Still, no ball.
    “That means . . .” Scam man picks up the third cup. Underneath is a marble.
    “. . . you lose! Sorry. Hey, try again? Double or nothin’ this time.”
    Off to the right, I see a commotion. There’s a guy floppin’ on the ground. He’s clutching something to his chest. I figure the dude is having an epileptic seizure, but no one is making any effort to come to his aid. I draw closer. That’s when I see it. He’s clutching a bible. And he’s spouting all sorts of gibberish. A woman next to me puts her hand in the air and shouts, “Praise Jeeeeeee-Zus! Our brother has been touched by the Holy spirit!” The crowd murmurs approvingly, “Amen.”
    I have a few Holy Rollers in my immediate family, so I have to chuckle. A couple of the crowd shoots me dirty looks.
    Doogie says to me, “Wasn’t this a great idea, man? I mean, the ‘main attraction’ hasn’t appeared on stage yet, and already we’ve gotten our entertainment for the evening.”
    Doogie’s right.

    “. . . Friends, they say we got a ‘global warming’ problem. I submit we have a bigger problem. We have a Canuk problem! Those foreigners to our North tell us we’re best friends and allies. But from where I’m sitting, they’re not actin’ very friendly. They have an AWFUL lot of water and they’re not sharing it. Those bastards want to continue a North American Free Trade Agreement? Let’em put their water where they mouths are! You know what I’m talking about, right? California is bone-dry! Now, what kind of ally is that, huh? HUH?” Turple pauses long enough to wipe back his stringy greased hair. “That’s BULLSHIT!”
    The crowd applauds loudly. Then, one of his onstage assistants hands him a small Canadian flag. Turple pulls out a cigarette lighter and proceeds to set it on fire. He waves the flag over his head, fanning the flames. The crowd goes wild.
    Damn! I think to myself. I ain’t never heard Turple pick on Canadians before. I guess he’s worn out the Spicks, Darkies, and Feminist-panties-in-a-wad cards, and now he’s reaching for another. It seems to be working, too.
    Turple spends the next few minutes castigating our incumbent President, Nguyễn Dũng, the liberal Democrat and former Governor from Connecticut. I have to smile; I know what his favorite joke is about our Vietnamese-American Commander-in-Chief.
    “Now, what the fuck?!—Pardon my French, folks—what ‘the heck’ kind of name is Dũng, anyway?” Turple pauses for the laughter to subside.
    “I know they say he was born in Hartford ’n all, but . . . man-oh-man! Wouldn’t a true, red-blooded American be ashamed of a name like that? I know I’d change it to ‘Bill. Or George. Or ANYTHING but Sue’!” The crowd erupts at the Johnny Cash reference. Without waiting for the noise to subside, Turple shouts over the multitude, “HEY! MISTER PRESIDENT! GET A NAME THAT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE SHIT!”
    Turple then proceeds to do a Mea culpa on the stage for his rough language. It’s his standard disclaimer during appearances, where the networks always have to run a seven-second delay in order to bleep him.
    “You know, I’m a wealthy son-of-a-bitch, but I’m also a God-fearin’ man so I’m gonna get down on one knee in a minute and ask our Heavenly Father to forgive me for my foul language. I just . . . well, I just get a little carried away sometimes, because I care so DEEPLY for the fate of this nation, OUR nation. One Nation, Under God.” He pauses for a second. “Come on, now. You KNOW this one. Everyone! Please join in.”
    The crowd begins to recite with Turple: “I pledge allegiance to the flag, of the United States of America, and to the Republic, for which it stands . . .”
    There’s not a dry eye in the crowd. Even I feel a little teary-eyed by the end of it.
    Turple gets down on one knee, and begs forgiveness for his foul mouth and all of his other rude and inappropriate behavior and sins, including a vague reference to his crowd-pleasing, yet-to-come, closing act.
    I wink at Doogie. He knows what’s coming next. In fact, everyone knows what’s coming. Unless they’ve been living in a vacuum. Or, they don’t own a television.
    A dude jumps up on stage with a small cage covered with cloth as Turple announces, “Folks, if you elect me as your next President and Commander-in-Chief, I promise you, this is what I will do to all of those terrorists, Commies, and other enemies of the U. S. of A.”
    The dude removes the cloth. Inside is a live chicken.
    Turple jerks open the cage door and grabs the chicken by the neck. The bird is startled. It begins to wildly flap its wings. Feathers fly everywhere into the crowd.
    “Hold still, you damn vermin! YOU ISIS COCKSUCKER!” Turple shouts at the terrorist bird. “You and your kind wanna behead Americans, huh? Well, I’ll show you not to mess with Uncle Sam!”
    Turple is enraged, like a man possessed. He screams guttural sounds at the bird as he flings it to and fro by the neck. The crowd noise begins to crescendo. For a brief moment, I’m thinking he’ll just swing the bird back and forth and break its neck. After all, I’ve never seen this play out live and in-person.
    Oh! There he goes!
    Doogie grabs my arm and points excitedly ahead at the spectacle, as though I will miss it. Even though his viselike grip is painful, I don’t yell at Doogie. In fact, I reach over and touch Doogie’s shoulder. It’s a “bo”-bonding moment.
    Then, in the blink of an eye, he does it.
    Turple does it!
    He bites it. Clean Off. The Head. Clean off that fucking chicken! It’s a good thing that dude is rich: blood splatters onto everyone and everything on that stage.
    Turple spits the head out of his mouth and wipes his face off onto his thousand-dollar suit sleeve, as he mutters something about “the cleansing blood of the lamb.” And then, before we know it, it’s over. He leads everyone in a final prayer, and then he hangs around to sign autographs.
    Dude! Dũng ain’t got a chance!

Phil Temples brief bio

    Phil Temples brief bioPhil Temples lives in Watertown, Massachusetts, and works as a computer systems administrator at a university. He has published over eighty works of short fiction in print and online journals. Blue Mustang Press recently published Phil’s full-length murder-mystery novel, “The Winship Affair” And his new paranormal-horror novel, “Helltown Chronicles,” has just been accepted by Eternal Press.

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Exit from Logic

    She appeared in the evening, without warning. It was almost fifteen years to the day, since I last saw her.
    The lady had a Masters Degree, in English literature. This woman had acted in the British and Dutch theater. You never knew what went on behind her smile. She sat on tears, with a face that can bring peace to warring nations, or destroy them, when her body, was added to the equation. Change a life, with a glance. Rearrange your DNA and melt it, with a touch.
    I was no longer enticed by exotic, neurotics. That was yesterday’s love. After the initial shock had passed, I let her in. The eye of the storm entered my small apartment, carrying her battered essence, and one suitcase.
    A few days later, after settling in, she endowed me with several details of her past. Some of her stories conflicted, with what I had heard from a mutual friend, who had passed away, two years ago.
    An inner sense, guided by unknown radar, sent her here. This unique, force of nature, zeroed in on me, when I was at my worst, and most vulnerable.
    The silence crying within her was relentless. The years had stolen her generous soul. They left her with a shattered kindness, a stone cold gaze, and a heart to match. She was her own planet, dissolving, in a lonely, orbit. The woman was long forgotten by her horizons. This female, was a brilliant, but brooding, beauty.
    Fifteen years ago, the kinks in the armor were undetectable. Today, an open wound, for all to see. A genius I.Q. could not protect her from those haunting, inner demons. I was mesmerized by her British accent. She told tales of growing up, in swinging London town, during the nineteen sixties and seventies. I sat at her feet, for hours on end, enthralled.
    Her home in The Hague, was immaculate, her mind was not. We were in love. I had to go home, to New York. I would be returning in several months. We made plans for a lifetime, together.
    My love returned to England, with her former boyfriend. Those six months, meant nothing.
    She shot herself at me like a flamethrower from hell. Rapidly seducing and reducing me into dependency and a devious, lustful, enslavement. Seduction was her stock in trade, seduction was her strategy. She was more adept at it, then Delilah or Cleopatra.
    Her mother’s womb, housed a savage cargo. Both of us were now two aging students, interpreting the same piece of music, with polar opposite, comprehension. We played out our roles in a freewheeling, yet predictable, unauthorized, production, of this castrated opera.
    We paraded in a shut-ins jamboree, within our wounded refuge. Stranded, on the love, suspension bridge, with scruples and morals, massacred. In the fusion, union, we flew past the oblivion borderline, forgotten fugitives, from existence. I devoured her yarns and ironic, kisses. In lieu of love, we were the results of our evasions, beyond, damage control.
    Those useful, youthful, naïve fuels, from mutual trysts, were no longer a relevant memory. Our false love was random noise, under the trees of pity. We were mad to oblige, in our flight from fright. Engaging in unfinished pleasures, like nostalgia maniacs. We were adrift, in the wilderness of the oceans, sinking like stones, to the lowest depths.
    We would probe each others morally superior stance, stalking an unobtainable, blind justice. Two souls, committed themselves, to accusations, and recriminations, while riding high, on our lover’s lies. As a couple, we were no longer domesticated, simply jaded. This was not innocent, decadence. We owned the pride of deprived bodies and depraved minds.
    I am a burnt-out man, wrestling with the femme fatale. Shrill partisans, commanding and demanding immediate gratification. The two of us were at each other’s beck and call, for these nasty joys.
    We looked at photos, from fifteen years gone. They had been buried, along with her letters, but not her memory, at the bottom of my closet. I remembered, when both of us, were lighter than air, soaring, through the universe, young and indestructible.
    This was not a simple, laissez-faire, love affair. Now, we drank desperate wine, knowing a damned Eden, awaited us. Sin tax was the cover charge, in this lust garden. The snakes here, don’t wear orthopedic sneakers, while performing.
    She always fell asleep before I did. I would stare at her, as the deadening night, attacked me, like a coffin lid, slamming shut. We were condemned, to a life without parole.
    One morning, when I opened the blinds, to let in some light, this fallen angel, pleaded with me, to close them. My first, and most passionate, love, told me the reason.
    Before leaving Holland and returning to London, she awoke one morning to find her brother, Ed, had died in his sleep. A victim of an accidental overdose, on bourbon and sleeping pills. Ed also had a genius I.Q. He was a gentle man, immersed, in the drug culture.
    I knew she was telling the truth for once. Her pain of the loss, seared through me, embalming me, it seemed, with Ed. She had a reputation, was fond of, sabotaging, herself and others. She seemed to live between desire and disappointment, always on the verge, of some future happiness.
    Hope had long fallen by the wayside, as we went about our way. Who wants to be a slave, to those youthful, idealistic, days? Especially, as you experience, the ravages of age.
    We understood, the price paid, for relieving the weight, of our faithless dreams. We are silence in motion, amidst this modern, madness. Wrinkled prudes, of pedestrian, rage.
    I know why she’s here. To feed my addictions and fuel my fears; they can’t be avoided or ignored. She had always told me, when it came to sex, she thought like a man. A quick, hard one, before bed. Opposites distract.
    “En garde! Penetrate my armor.” One of many phrases, she liked to use, when wanting to make love, not war. I honored her, with a healthy dose, of Hebrew honey. That jumping and jiving, Jewish jism, on a jaunt, through her infertile, tubes.
    The once benevolent creature, had told me, not to take too much time before returning. European winters, in the Netherlands were, bitter, long and lonely. She would do what she did best, find another man.
    After three months had gone by, she would hang up on me, every time I called. Letters went unanswered. It was taking longer than I had planned. Complications had set in.
    I was the one making all the sacrifices.
    One afternoon, while she was out grocery shopping, I opened, and rummaged through a sealed box, in my closet. I located a poem I wrote, after being told by our mutual friend, she had returned to London, with Reggie, her former lover.

Labor of Lust
In our labor of lust
You never made a sound
You stated you feared
The neighbors would hear
And you would get thrown out
You said you were satisfied
No moans or heavy breathing
I wondered what you were thinking
She couldn’t have children
She missed that boat
She lived her life to the fullest
A life without hope
The weight of her fears
Fell onto my shoulders
Her agony, distorted me
I overwhelmed you with passion
That’s what you told me
A woman of the world
Ten years my senior

    I fought back tears, as I tore it up. I went into the hallway, and threw it down the trash compactor. When I returned to the living room, a strange calm, renewed me. I packed all of her things into that battered, suitcase, along with her sultry, soul. Not all souls, are salvageable.
    Upon her return from the store, I told my once, better half, to leave.
    The creature inhaled deeply, nodded and smiled. She withdrew into a fine mist, and floated through the closed window.
    I was now, of sound mind and body. My lost will and testicles had returned. It was the end of ignorant nightmares, ambivalence and scattered, ambiguities.

Something in Between

    In a sports bra worn thin by use and sweats that once tight hung were now loose, Jennifer ran five miles before her morning class. It was her second favorite part of the day.
    Her bare feet hit the unyielding pavement, shock waves assaulting her feet, ankles, knees, and back. Though the hurt felt good, she vowed that, when she hit 25, she’d stop this. By that time, she’d be totally grown, married, have children, and spending hours in front of an ironing board. She’d be too worried about how the table linens looked to indulge in a hobby as consuming as this.
    In the meantime, it was pure bliss: running and running and running. Arms and legs churning. Body floating. Like a waterfall, like Niagara, pouring herself through the sunrise. When she got back to Powelton Street, she launched into one last burst of speed as she crossed the finish line, the entrance to her dorm.
    Her suite mates were either at breakfast eating those horrible pancakes with disgusting syrup or they were asleep, lazing away the best part of the day.
    Jennifer paused before keying into her room when she saw the following message scrawled on her magnetic message board: Call your father. Security Badge #24.
    Jennifer’s chest constricted. She turned and ran back down to the lobby. There, she saw one of them in navy slacks, gray shirt, and navy suit coat.
    “Are you #24?” she asked.
    She noticed the guard eying her up. She was about his height, but only a quarter of his size. He didn’t run, he was too wide backed, too flat footed, too easily winded. Security guards didn’t have to pass a physical. They just had to show up on time and try not to doze off during the long lulls of inaction. “I’m badge #24. You college students read very well.”
    “What’s the matter with my father?” she asked.
    “Call him.”
    “What’s the matter with him?”
    “Call your father,” the uniformed man told her. ”Why are you making problems? Just call your father.”
    “I just—” Jennifer began.
    “Call your father.” The man spoke over her, then opened up his logbook and made a notation.

    Jennifer turned and walked back to the elevator, frowning. As difficult as this fat security guard was, he was like sweet potato pie compared to her father. Talking to her father was like crossing a mined bridge.
    So she didn’t call him.
    She took a shower and got dressed for her first class, Nutrition. There she got her assignment back, her three day diary of food intake. Her professor wrote back a simple question: Not eating much? A checkmark. During class, the prof touched on the Metropolitan Life Insurance weigh charts. According to it, a healthy female between the ages of eighteen to twenty-two and her height should weigh between 120 and 130 pounds. And that was just for those who were considered to have a small frame. Those charts were wrong, she thought. She weighed a good 112 and she was looking to shave off another 5 or 10, just for good measure.
    At 11:00am to 11:50am, she sat in Calculus class.
    At noon, she had Intro to Lit.
    Her father didn’t like her attending college. He’d always said it was a waste of time, and she wasn’t smart enough. He thought she ought to stay home with him and keep him company.
    “A family should be close,” he would say.
    Jennifer’s skin was brown. The perfect in between of her mother’s lightness and her father’s deep skin tone. Her father felt she should have been nearer to her mother’s hue. He brought this up to her over and over again as if his criticism could make her different.
    As a child, she was a fussy eater and very thin boned. By the time she reached adolescence, she had put on weight due to a combination of puberty and adjusting to the loss of her mother.
    “Come here, let me weigh you,” her father teased her.
    “You’re going to be really big later on,” he warned. “You’re drinking milk?!” he had exclaimed. “You’re eating potatoes and bread. No wonder your butt is so big.” He father was a visionary, into the Atkins Diet without even reading any of that doctor’s book.
    Her father was a thin, stingy man who always wore long sleeves even in the swelter of August. He was simultaneously, proud and ashamed of his slim physique. Jennifer used to wish her father was more generous with his praise or his affection. Over the years, she had been so worn down she simply wished that he’d leave her alone.
    A few weeks ago, she’d spent winter break with him, and he badgered her daily. She was glad to escape to school. It wasn’t due to her vast number of friends. She wanted to be a history major but she knew her father wouldn’t approve of that. So she was undeclared, as an UND, she took foundation classes.
    One more run in the low sun, the fading sun. She needed it to give here the strength to call. To punch the numbers.
    “Hi, Daddy,” she said.
    “How come you never call?” he asked. She could imagine his jawbone jutting out in anger.
    “I just called you Monday.”
    “You never call. I don’t know what you’re doing to keep you so busy.”
    “I’m calling you now.”
    “Well, it’s about time.”
    “You didn’t have to call security.”
    “You are supposed to call me everyday. That’s why I called security. You were going to let this whole week pass weren’t you?”
    Jennifer didn’t answer. She just felt the sweat in her palm make the phone hard to grip.
    “I got your report card, Jennifer.”
    “They sent it home?”
    “You shouldn’t even be at the school.”
    “Daddy –“
    “You’re getting Cs. Cs.”
    “What?” she asked.
    “That’s all you got was Cs. Is that all you can do?!” he asked her.
    Jennifer wondered whether he was holding the report in his hand or had he committed it to memory. She want to ask specifically what did she get in Freshman Comp, she thought she’d done well in that class. She’d gotten a B+ on her midterm.
    His anger showed no signs of lifting. He was like a hot, flat iron moving back and forth over her.
    Jennifer looked out through the window. Night wove its darkness even deeper. He yelled at her for a good five minutes before he let her go.
    Her ears were ringing; her heart was pounding, thundering in her chest, yet she shed no tears. Her face was impassive. She had learned that much.
     She wasn’t really smart at all. What was she doing in college anyway? Maybe she should kill herself, she thought, but then recovered.

    Jennifer’s suitemates, Connie and Sara, where from Massapequa and Albany, respectively, they were used to tree lined streets and manicured lawns. So was Jennifer. She was from Binghamton.
    That night they went to a party. There was nothing to eat, but plenty to drink. Kegs of icy beer.
    He noticed her — a small, slender, brown, young woman biting her lower lip. Jennifer always had to be doing something. Moving somehow.
    She wasn’t the prettiest, but that night she did look among the most desirable to him. Despite their racial differences, he picked up on her availability. Though she wore a frozen smile she wore that never reached her eyes, she was at least smiling.
     “Hey, Jane,” he said to her.
    “It’s Jennifer.”
    “Sorry.”
    “You don’t have to be sorry, you were close.”
    “I’m Trent. I’m in your Lit. class. I missed it today.”
    “How come?”
    “I overslept. Did Professor Hass collect the journals?”
    She nodded.
    “I don’t like short stories. I can’t get into them,” Trent said.
    “The one that we did today wasn’t bad,” Jennifer said.
    “What was it about?” he asked, stepping a little closer to her.
    “I don’t remember.”
    They laughed.
    He drank his fourth can of the night.
    She was still on her first. She didn’t like consuming too many carbs.
    “I see you running a lot,” he said.
    “I like to run,” she said, “Do you run?”
    “I hate it.”
    He was lean of body – fit, wiry muscles. Short like her father. “You must do something, Trent. You look fit.”
    “Me? I can’t keep weight on.”
    “Lucky you,” she said.
    “What are you taking about? You have a beautiful body.”
    “I’m all right.”

    During sex with Trent in his dorm room, she wished she was running as the rain shone on the pavement. Why was she thinking of all of this when he was on top of her, giving her what he had in jolts, faster and faster?
    The blood rushed swiftly to his face making it red as though he were angry. Veins in his forehead stood out thick and swollen, as if angry at her.
    There’s no dating in college. There is just coupling on bedrolls surrounded by unfolded laundry and milk crates.
    After he climaxed, he pulled out and gave her a single kiss on the lips. Then he rolled over and fell asleep. The condom was still on him, loose and filled with juice. He’d be out cold till about noon or maybe even 2pm. She got her things together and slipped out. She walked with the path highlighted by red security call boxes thinking how first semester had been a dream, a kaleidoscope, a mesh of possibility. This second semester was shaping up to be reality.

    The next morning, she was the only one up in her suite. She went into the bathroom. Connie’s hot pink shag rug gave it a homey appeal. The other girls left their caddies filled with mascara, shadow, eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. The digital scale, wedged in between the sink and the toilet, was Jennifer’s donation to this space.
    Jennifer stood on it. She was down a half a pound from the previous day. She felt proud. This was the happiest part of her day.

A Walk With Norm

    Norm had come a long way before he realized that he was lost. The further he walked, the more lost he became. It had gotten to a point where he normally would have panicked. He did not feel any tension at all, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the fact that everyone else was being so nice to him. There were so many other people where he was and they were all being so very, very nice to him. Everyone said hello with such a warm and inviting tone. Norma was casually offered fine foods and warm hugs.
    Of course, the forced familiarity of everything felt a bit strange, but it wasn’t at all unpleasant and Norm could not detect the slightest hint of malice in anyone around him. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to see him even if they were complete strangers. Of course, if they weren’t complete strangers, he might not have known as the rush of events that had found him walking made it so very, very difficult to remember much of anything other than where he was at that precise moment. With no past and only a vague understanding of the present, there was really no reason for Norm to worry at all about the future.
    As nice as everyone was being to Norm, he couldn’t help but notice that other people weren’t being quite so nice to each other. For the most part, passing strangers were as nice to everyone else as they were to him, but there were a few who were being held behind chainlink fences who seemed to be treated with something less than warmth. It was a bit chilling to see everyone else smiling and carrying on while Norm continued to be offered such pleasant hospitality. He was handed a rather shiny piece of delicious fruit and moved on from the chain link fence as he went about his way on a sunny day.
    Norm had only noticed the disquiet at first out of the corner of his perception, but before long, those behind the fences all that he could seem to see. He saw them and their lack of happiness reflected in the smiles of passing strangers. He saw their tattered clothes as shattered phantoms of the clean, fresh new apparel being worn by himself and those around him. Norman new that his face was not quite as sunny as those he had been passing but they didn’t seem to notice. The discrepancy between happiness and sadness between himself and those around him had become a major issue somewhere in the back of his mind as morning had become noon had become afternoon.
    He resolved to ask the first person who handed him a snack after lunch about those people behind those chain-link fences that popped up every once in a while. It was, however, exceedingly difficult to open his mouth to speak when something was being shoved into it. It had grown to be something that was actively upsetting to him. He may have been slightly relieved when he looked around and noticed that no one else is really attempting to have any kind of a meaningful connection with anyone else. They were all just really happy. They were all just really happy walking along. And they’re all just really happy doing their jobs and handing things and consuming things and being so relentlessly cheerful.
    It took a great deal of effort and passion and frustration to finally move a Norm a few steps over towards the chain-link fence. The next time it popped up. As he continued to walk. Every time you try to get close to the chain-link fence to gaze into the faces of those who seemed less than happy, he got pushed away by others. Finally he managed to secure himself to one of those chain-link fences for just long enough to get a solid grip on it. Any case into the faces of so much sorrow which became ever more intense the more he gazed on it.
    Somewhere in the horror of it all, Norm began to feel the presence of something casting a shadow upon the faces of those he gazed into. It was a face that towered over everything else in uniform with a badge. The face was smiling just the same as all the other faces on Norm’s side of the chainlink fences. The face that rested atop the body with the badge told Norm that it might be nice to move along and so he did, trying not to look upon the faces of those he was now walking away from. He tried not to hear anything that might have been uttered as he was ushered away from the chain link of despair.
    Norm felt a wave of dizziness overcome him as he was ushered away from the chain link. The face with the badge walked away having bid Norm good day, but he couldn’t help noticing that it was late afternoon and the sun was setting, so there wasn’t really any day left to be good. Norm sighed and stumbled a bit as day turned to night. He tried to shake the memory of the faces beyond the chain link, but the more he tried the more prominent they became in the back of his mind.
    Stumbles became limps became crawls and staggers as he lurched in from one place to another trying to wash away the memories with bitter liquid that gradually receded until darkness overcame Norm entirely.
    Things flitted through Norm in the night.
    Somewhere in the light of dawn, Norm brushed off the clothes that had become tattered the previous night and began to stagger around amongst others who were similarly afflicted. It wasn’t a pleasant place where he had awoken, but at least others seemed to be sympathetic. They all seemed to have seen the horrors of those on the other side of the chainlink and they all seemed to have an unspoken understanding about it. Occasionally as Norm went about his overcast day, he would see people crowding around chainlink fences looking out to see sunlight they were blocking out. On the other side of those fences people smiled with irrepressible happiness. Occasionally one would glance over and notice them standing there trying to feel the sunlight coming through the chain link.

Across the Water and in the Shade of the Trees

    “We’re going to have to put Hermes down,” Samuel Polk told his son one July evening at the family’s supper table. The hordes of cicadas outside sung their song of seven-year sleep and newfound hunger. Their buzz neither waxed nor waned, but was a constant proclamation that that which lay sleeping sometimes rose.
    Brandon Polk blinked. He was seventeen-years-old and baby-faced and had owned Hermes since he was a six-year-old boy. He had few memories of a time when the Border Collie was not a part of the family.
    “I knew he was bad,” Brandon said, “but I didn’t think—”
    “His hips are going out,” Samuel said. “When he takes a squat he’s falling down in his own mess.”
    Brandon winced. “I can hose him off.”
    “I found maggots in his fur,” Samuel said, his voice all patience and certainty. His face was wind worn and his nose latticed with gin blossoms. “The flies must have laid eggs in the shit matted to his fur. He’s in pain,” Samuel added.
    Brandon nodded. The boy had been chubby most of his life, but had shed twenty-five pounds over the course of his senior year. He was now lanky and tan. His recent weight loss had given him an easy going confidence that reminded Samuel of the boy’s mother at that age. He knew his son’s weight loss was partly due to the fact Brandon was smoking half-a-pack of Marlboro’s a day, though he had yet to confront his son about it. He found the remains of a pack in the boy’s car. Samuel recognized the red banner and the golden chargers on their hind-legs immediately—it had been his own brand back when he smoked, after all. Samuel quit when Brandon was four-years-old. He wasn’t sure his son even remembered that he had once smoked. But he found it hard to believe their shared taste was a coincidence and a subtle sense of guilt stilled his tongue.
    “I don’t want a stranger doing it,” Brandon said of putting down the dog. “It wouldn’t be right.”
    Samuel closed his eyes, proud and fearful. He felt the same way.
    The pair drove Hermes to the family farm the next morning. The mid-summer heat was on and the air was humid and boggy. Hermes sat in the bed of the truck, his brown eyes staring upward, his snout to the wind. Gone were the days the dog leapt from one end of the truck to the other, snapping his yellow teeth in excitement. Hermes sat motionless, save from the wind ruffling his sun-bleached fur. Samuel watched him in the mirror, remembering how they got the dog on account of a newspaper ad eleven years before. His wife still kept a photo of that day, of the puppy running through the green grass of the front yard, and Brandon chasing after.
    Samuel drove off road, forded a shallow creek, and parked under a hickory tree. The forest was alive with cicadas and the occasional bark of a fox squirrel. He got out a pint of half-melted chocolate ice cream they brought along in a plastic cooler. He scooped it into a metal bowl and did his best to grind up a handful of Percocets with the safety blade from his tool box.
    “Where did you even get these?” he asked his son.
    “They were left over from when I dislocated my shoulder.”
    Samuel gritted his teeth and worked a way at a pill. “I’m surprised you didn’t keep more of these for slow nights at college,” he said, satisfied he could still get a look of shock out of his seventeen-year-old.
    They took turns digging in the shade of the hickory, while Hermes worked at his bowl of ice cream, which looked more and more like a runny milkshake. The top layer of red clay was easy enough to clear off the ground, but they soon ran into a layer of hardpan dotted with chunks of limestone. Samuel handed off the shovel and wiped at his brow with a handkerchief.
     “I got an email from my dorm roommate the other day,” Brandon said. “I guess Campbellsville gave him my info so we could get to know one another.”
    “He seem nice?”
    “I guess.” Brandon drove his heel down on the edge of the shovel blade. “Kind of hard to tell from one email.”
    “You should put those gloves on,” Samuel told his son. “You’ll get blisters.”
    Brandon ignored him. Samuel watched his son for a while and then walked over and scratched the dog’s ears. Hermes panted in the heat of the day, his spotted tongue lolling out of his mouth. It took the father and son less than an hour to dig the grave. They rested on the ground afterword. The dog sat next to Brandon, stoned and happy.
    “Remember when Hermes used to run off to the ballpark?” Brandon asked.
    Samuel nodded. “He followed the sound of people cheering.”
    “I was watching Tommy Davis pitch a game one time,” Brandon said. “Out of nowhere Hermes runs out onto the field. He must have recognized Tommy from sleepovers, because he ran straight up to the mound. People in the crowd were yelling. The third-base coach had to chase him off.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I ran. Past the field, past the concession stand. I didn’t want anyone to know it was my dog, but Tommy yelled my name and Hermes came chasing after me.”
    Samuel smiled at his son’s cowardice. He studied the husk of a cicada, shrugged off like rags and left clinging to the bark of an ash tree. In his youth he would have flicked the flimsy shell off or crushed it up between his fingers, simply for the blind pleasure of destroying something. But he was content now in his adulthood to meditate on its translucent lines, which induced in him an inexplicable feeling of anxiety. He thought about his son running with Hermes in headlong pursuit.
    “You can smoke if you need to,” Samuel said.
    Brandon stiffened. He looked off into the forest, his jawline tense. Samuel half expected him to ask how long he had known, but the boy said he was good and left it at that.
    “You know we’re going to have to talk about it sometime,” Samuel said.
    “Not today.”
    “You remember that line from The Outlaw Josey Wales? Dying ain’t much of living.”
    “Not today, dad.”
    Samuel relented. “This ain’t ever going to get any easier,” he said and walked over to the truck. He got out his Smith & Wesson, with its blued barrel and heavy wooden grips. Brandon came over, holding out a dirt stained hand.
    “I want to do it,” the son said.
    “I would never let you.” Samuel hated the boy a little for even assuming he would.
    “He’s my dog.”
    “He’s the family’s dog,” Samuel corrected him, “and I’m your father.” He walked past his son to Hermes, who panted obliviously in the shade.
    “I won’t look away,” the boy said.
    Samuel studied his son’s face—the brash eagerness, the sulking courage. In a month the boy would go to college and nothing would be the same. No, Samuel corrected himself, that wasn’t true. Everything had already changed, it was only still playing itself out. Time was the unfolding of forces set in motion long ago, and they had come too far to turn back now.
    “I wish you would,” Samuel said. He lifted the pistol and sighted it on the old dog’s black skull. A spasm of dread gripped his throat and he had to fight with his fingers to keep from dropping the gun. He squeezed his eyes shut. He put his finger to the trigger. Hermes blinked and led the way to where all must eventually follow.

Rod Dixon Bio (2015)

    Rod Dixon lives in Kentucky with his wife and two children. His short-stories have appeared in many different journals, most recently Revolution John, Red Rock Review, and Euphony. He is the former non-fiction editor of the now defunct Ontologica: A Journal of Art and Thought. He researches and develops manufacturing procedures for a non-profit serving the blind and visually impaired. He can be visited online at www.rodldixon.com.

Saddam’s Killing

    “He died standing there, saying a prayer, and looked like he was just waiting for a train.”
    That’s what my friend said after the world watched us hang Saddam Hussein. Oh, I know, we pretended that it was an Iraqi killing but it was in fact no more than a kangaroo court led by us to avenge a personal grudge. Of course it was well disguised and all the right journalists were brought on board to make sure the right word got out. Even Saddam, when addressed by this court had to ask, “Who are you?”
    One of the most interesting parts of this absurd theater was the oft talking point of “killing one’s own people”. While we were in our shock and awe of killing someone else’s people we were trying a man for killing people as well. He simply had the misfortune of owning the people that had been killed and not enough clout to buck the absurdity of this distinction. Even today this little ditty is a favorite American phrase. That is not to say that fear of the boogie man didn’t play a part as well. But, come on, boogie men are usually reserved for children’s stories. And if 9-11 is to be brought into the picture, Saddam was not any part of our boogie men to begin with. Our boogie men were people that had been run over by our trains before and had developed a lethal hatred for us. Their leader well knew that we would fire up the boilers on our train like never before as a result of 9-11 and, no different then Atta and the others, he would die as a result. And we did, he did.......and it continues, as we scream BOOGIE MAN every time it seems that rational and ethical behavior has a chance to prevail. But now, since the boogie man has become so ingrained into our political culture, it is even more difficult to see it for what it is. I mean it is how we elect people and since children and criminals can not vote we sort of paint this cultural trick whatever color we want. And it reinforces the hate that is spreading throughout the world and takes another notch out of our standing. I simply call it the death wish like the Viennese philosophers of old labeled similar insanities. It is the great raison d’etre of American culture, born of men who wanted a monopoly on truth.
    Many years ago when I stood at the foot of the big black slab with my buddy’s name on it I was overcome ......to say the least. Wet blurry visions of the past jerked about and the caretakers looked at me like I had two heads, concerned though they were. Not far to my left was the beginning of that polished black granite wall and the beginning names of those many thousands who were inscribed along its reach. There were just a few for each year back at the beginning of the wall. They were all advisors killed trying to prevent the boogie man and his domino effect. The wall stretched a long way from them to its end. All because of a hate born from our refusal to just listen to a man named Ho Chi Minh before we gave back his country to the French after World War Two. Letter after letter from him to Truman went unanswered and most likely unread before this man brought about Dien Bien Phu and the ouster of the French. But this hardly kept us from chasing the boogie man anyway, and you know, to some extent, the result.
    We continue to send more decedents of those green beret names on the first panels of that granite wall to Iraq. And it is for the same reason as Vietnam...ALMOST. What is different now and what was different when those men honchoed the truth and started perpetual war, however, is that we can not pretend that we don’t know that this is just the wanton and stupid spilling of blood. And we can not pretend that we are not doing it for the oil and the pedigree of those born of those truth honchos. And we can not pretend that this will not be another notch that we will fall. And we can not pretend that there will not be an increase in the hatred that our death wish requires.
    Not too long ago, when we stayed out of Syria, I mentioned that the fictional Dr. Pangloss had said not to worry for many adventures lay ahead, that it was still the best of all possible worlds. Today he confirmed that that time is at hand.

John L. Sullivan vs. Dialog (1 vs. 2)

    Permitted by The Boss Lady to again heave stone tablets at your head, I’m wanting to pick up on her rejoinder to my words last August, re: the seeming imbalance within Man—the ‘why’ of so much id, ego, emotion and The Donald breakin’ balls, versus so very little Mr. Spock and his ears. It’s worse news than you’d think, as from my vantage, this binary condition is in its display, not ‘Trek, but H.G. Wells...
    “Facts”, here, receive quotation marks, as one can shove, bad animal trainer, another’s face into the monitor, and, “well, no, I just don’t b’lieve that”. Why this matters, stumps me, but the culprit, per non-acceptance of anything or anyone, lies in the very year. Many of us, still date it, beginning with a “1”. Life in the 21st Century in These United States, the ramping up of the senses, has spilt socially, those who welcome this New, and those who hate it. The Q many of you struggle with, that of “Why can’t there even be dialog on, like, anything?”, is grounded in the coaxial of an analog world still present...one mostly schooled by and stuffed with role models from a still earlier America.
    Those who love Before, who live Then, who worship Was, venerate it, present it offering and whole burnt offering, quite often will not listen. Not budge. Some, not a nano. I know. I’m one. But I’m leaving, soon, and either way, this world’s a hellhole. So, let me tell ya, what you’re up against:
    The Sopranos, was compelling television, unless one believes that an oxymoron. Compelling, yea, buddy, right down to the end, which was an attempt at higher artistry viewers rejected like they rejected Fritz Mondale or New Coke. I rejected it, too, but I reject most endings, including Catcher in the Rye, St. Elmo’s Fire and the gold medal roundball final at Munich. Or that Charles will never be king. Most, wanted some crescendo, the 80’s on steroids, and got existentialism. And they raged. And the creator/producer, whom I won’t dignify, fucked the peasants with his disdain. They were, to a man, trogs, and who gave a shit what they wanted? They didn’t know anything. This disconnect between Cloud City and the masses, is why there’s never a national referendum on any issue. Only Macbeth’s witches, cubed, stirring the shit-brew, preparing judicial slumgullion for intravenous, as on any issue, half of us—48% either way, with crawlspace wiggle room—well, we who lose what we do not decide upon...we gotta learn.
    And that’s where so many, turn into my Dad.
    Pop, was a decorated NCO in the Pacific Theater of Operations, during the fight between humanistic Heaven and Hell. He was the Middle American selfmade man, blue collar to minor league Thurston Howell, III in 50 postwar years. Total “do”, didn’t give much of a shit about “be”. My father approached the world with a tunnel vision, blind to all but his own, single-minded purpose. He died at age 82, spotless of police record, having lived his life upon a different sphere than you and I. Dad, representative of his era, wasn’t one for forgiving or forgetting. Or walking away. Or “being told”. Anyone interfering the slightest degree, in matters he valued or saw as personal, spiritual or dear (money), received his pet phrase, declared John L. Sullivan, “Ain’t no son of a bitch gonna tell ME ____________!!” (cue Phil Hartman in Newsradio, “...good times...”). You weren’t going to give Dad your new, improved spin with specially selected key points from often un-vetted sources, without a roar into your face that would misshape it like G Force. And you weren’t going to do the half-head sneer with serial villain “hehHEHH...!”, or you were going to meet shore leave in the 1943 Philippines, faster than my flying DeLorean at 88 mph.
    I use this illustration from which most of you recoil, to remind you of the many, intense people out there, concerned only with “living”. “Do”, is all that matters in their world, Life truly Is Ant Community, and so it is, and leave me alone, shut your yap, that’s stupid, try workin’ a real job, yer really full a’ shit, ya know? There are Americans today, numbering in (I feel safe in saying) the tens of millions, who Do Not want to hear a peep, re: opposing viewpoints, who Do Not value self awareness, or learning beyond the narrow scope of Point A to Point B. Who mistrust, distrust, and frankly HATE anyone trying to inform, much less alter or “correct”. To “correct” them means they are “wrong”, nonfriend, no matter you redefine all terminology. And “wrong”, they cannot be, as that makes them beneath you, making this in effect, you issuing challenge. Not smart, as those baseline, those of “do”and where-do-you-get-all-that-shit?, morph quickly into the gang down at Satriale’s or Bada Bing!, if you push The Immovable Object a handsbreadth. If you cluck-cluck at them? OMG. Are you that far gone on “we have evolved”? Uh! That’s neat! Let’s us sit, dangle feet, and talk about puppy doggies and kitty cats and snakes and birds!
    Study Aide: ‘flix/’tube Of Mice and Men, or the Bonanza episode, “The Ape”. Object Lesson: Even gentle primitive, is dangerous. He knows what he knows. Your words, if he even comprehend, are nothing, as you presenting them would not be doing so, if you were just getting on with living your life. Like you should be.
    The reason conceptual, abstract thinking plows Zero ground, is because it literally plows no ground. It does not toil, neither does it spin. A Marxian collective true to principle, wouldn’t give a shit for idea men, let alone singers of songs, if they played no role in digging the taters. As for America, it may well no longer be an agrarian society, but trying to “correct the thinking” of anyone not fed greens of ivy in airtight halls shutting out all cooties, is asking for a Texas dustup cum Texas biker spree. Dr. Phil, is not indicative of the stereotype his voice evokes, but said stereotype, should you press your petition or social point, turns “step outside”, DSL, nonfriend. The cave, is deep within us; there’s a reason I call Man, “The Brute”. One can’t do much more, now, than share views in the first place, if that. And, you’re likely to get a sneer, as via primal processing, you’re the idiot. Certainly, your toy prize at Golden Ticket-best, are the words, “Well, I just don’t b’lieve that.” I don’t recommend giving the hate-chuckle you learned from your most hurtful friend or angriest professor, no, not even to save face. It’s many years into the millennium, but creatures of the earth and the field, of shelter, food and warmth, are Here. Among you. Walking your hometown’s concrete. Or perhaps, by your reading, the newly minted Republic of Texas.
    This is no caution to shrink or shirk or fear. I’m all for getting in faces (excepting mine). Here’s an appropriate extreme, to reassure you: the case of the American Nazis and the 1977 fight over the proposed Skokie march. Why legislate, was forever my Q. Why mince over what is “hate”? Why cry to “authority”? Why even be fearful? By all means, fight! Like Rocky Balboa or Audie Murphy or as if the last crust of bread, was at issue. The community solution on a united level was the correct one, in Skokie; it’s said storm troopers feared for their lives. It’s certain that, had Chicago not appeased the ANP’s original grievance, the resulting riot and mass casualties would, and according to political scientists, have set back the issue of free speech in America, by decades...but, it was a necessary response. The Immovable Object, is just that. You cannot best The Brute by yelling “cop”. A gavel banging its condemnation is unreal, until it happens. The Brute won’t be told and he won’t go away, he won’t learn what you desire, and Today, he will neither compromise nor cooperate. At All. The only thing that works in face of “the line drawn”, ironically is what George Lincoln Rockwell himself, wrote, “Somebody has got to go, ugly as that may be.”
    IOW, it’s as I’ve told you, Yankees-Red Sox. Lincoln’s assertion, re: “a house divided”. Hell, The Weavers themselves, in in popularizing “Which Side Are You On?”, admonished, “...there are no neutrals, there...you’ll either be a union man, or a thug for J.H. Blair”...effectively, you think it takes a village as Mrs. Clinton does, or like my Mom did, when she smacked the most insolent neighbor kid, right on the mouth. Another mother, one block over, later clocked the same kid. There is solidarity, in any gens, even those of mere social roots. Mind that.
    Police, are limited in their manpower...and sensitivity training only works until they pass that exam and hit the local tavern. Their Plan B as, very normal, they themselves flip off being “corrected”, is to stand there. Chill. Take five. And let it all burn down. So far, this has not impacted me, personally, as when Bob Earsay stole his Colts out of Baltimore, I stopped caring about that particular village...but, minus public servants, even confused ones, the social contract becomes bird cage liner...primarily because the social contract, is bird cage liner. And oh so absorbent!
    The Water Flume spits us out, Huey, at Everyone a Narcissist, as attempts at changing or altering or curtailing or reversing or editing or “improving” your life, only flies across the board, if you are quintessentially a follower. A bump in a parking lot of a person. A deadminded zombie. Windup citizen. Robo-activist. Weeping tears down a face of slate, whenever your own, ideological Maharaj Ji appears on a screen. Now, he’s cool, your lil” Master-guy! And, why? He (or she or spectrum) was your personal choice. Nothing satisfies so well, as anything beyond the eyes giving Self what Self wanted in the first place. The cockroach on this wedding cake of one, being the current, polarized society. Aided by media bombardment, the 31 flavors of America have been riceballed so expertly, so Iron Chef, there exists nothing to consume of The Big Picture. Only the personal, and down the Tootsie Roll center. And the game afoot is no hot dog snarfing contest, but Rollerball Murder.
    The point I’m laboring toward, is that intellectia lose utter touch with life beyond brie and crackers, in that, when encountering my Dad in any form in 2016, they think he’s kidding. Or being infantile. Or just doesn’t get it, and must be shredded with more shit he thinks is shit. “Educated” in antithesis to Self, like that’s possible past cap and gown day, without imprisonment. But, by God, Helen’s going to understand “water”, by way of Learning Through You’re A Dumbass! It’s foolproof, R. Lee Ermey meets taunting little shits from childhood, and that carries no risk whatever! After all, inertia won’t turn bestial and leg up to a headline, that’s silly, do grow up! No one’s going to go Woody or Juliette in Natural Born Killers, hey, drop the drama and hold the solipsism, now, back on point, o Lesser Peon...
    And this is the weakest limb of the human tree, as “live and let live”, has been reduced to a paranoid, shrieking, “Mind your own fuckin’ business!”, to which those who disagree with those who are shrieking, frown the “Really?” with the hate smile of a Gorgon and address the animal backed into a corner as if the Borg Queen and an encyclopedia salesman had a kid. My father would have, I assure you, chosen the headlines. He is, fortunately for him, long gone. But he is in fact all over the place, as the old Father Guido Sarducci-bit, re: “The Five Minute University”, applies, and in all directions. Daily reality, is its own primer fuse. It’ll take but one, minor archduke getting whacked, or several inflammatory copycat incidents immediately on top of a biggie, then the Hell with Texas, it’s Fort Apache, the Bronx, spattered Pollack-at-work, all over the map.
    Please understand. Narcissism as an actual disorder, has been stricken from the new DSM. The reasoning, is that it is exists too pervasive within society, to assert it as standing outside the norm. My likes, it never did. But when entitlement meets entitlement, or indeed unaware Hatred of entitlement, “come let us reason together”, has vanished. A miasma. Leaving in its wake, Michael Buffer booming ringside introductions. The Brute knows his math. Someone loses and someone wins. Life as understood remains or is taken away. One cannot mix an acid with a base. There can be only one, Highlander. Ein volk, ein paradigm, etc. And gosh, we’re back to those legendary battles, aren’t we? Only this time, no one has common purpose. Just a membership in what club they joined. Which is not decided by facts or logic or reason, but by The Other, whomever they be, leading you by the nose. Me, I won’t be led by anyone. It’s literal in my case, and in the genes, “Ain’t no son of a bitch...”. That would be neither gender, and no thought group but as Self-selected. Life is a buffet—a sorry one, but there you are. People Make Choices. And they do not wish Other-based input. You reach a fork into my plate, you’re in big, big trouble, Bart. And I’m one who at least gets why the crappy food is offered. Millions more, think it’s crowding out extra catsup choices.
    Thus, will answer my editor and publisher, and all you who wish “Maria” of Fritz Lang’s silent, silver genius to heal rift between Head and Hands, that such a coming together, by hook, crook, or a tenth-rate Christ, is not a human process. Not on the national level. Too many are hardcores, default No Go. The monster in a maze arcade, who never approaches but is difficult to kill, and fucks up your game just by blocking your way. There’s no effective weapon to use, not argumentation, not the courts—these now, loaded dice, dare the ante to Hulk hating puny canvasser, and thence to August, 1914. There is no grand table of arbitration set by St. Marvin of Miller, and no blasting past resistance unless you systematically round up every enemy, and...you see?
    Post-analog, you can’t talk to anyone, beyond Polly Prissypants of social media. I therefore talk to no one. I just write things down, and let the Internet scream. Perhaps, to answer my own chapbook on mental illness, that’s the one word, which defines Man: “Scream”. Survival mode, in all aspects. Screams, hear no Other. And they have teeth in them. Man, is hot breath in darkness, by me. Some of them, just think they’re David Letterman.

CEE