down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)
Janet K., Editor
http://scars.tv.dirt.htm
http://scars.tv - click on down in the dirt
Note that any artwork that appears in Down in the Dirt will appear in black and white in the print edition of Down in the Dirt magazine.
Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book: |
Not This TimeEric Burbridge
She crept toward the fluttering wings of the huge horse fly. The web she spun between some fallen tree branches, even after the brief shower, made it impossible not to trap flying insects. She looked down into the multiple lenses of her prey’s eyes. Her fangs dripped venom on the fly’s quivering body and shot into the victim. The venom and digestive juices worked fast.
She sprang to attention when she felt the gentle, loving thumping of her prince on her web. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the courting serenade that ran through her bulbous shiny black body. “Hello, my princess,” he said.
“My princess, what are you doing here?”
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Toenails & ZombiesEric Burbridge
“Get up! Put your hands and legs by the slots, convict.” Dillard Wamchukie shouted those words through the barred opening in my cell.
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Yet i’m foundMarlon Jackson
Twas the night
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Life Goes OnMarlon Jackson
What goes on is residual
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DrowningTravis Green
I thought I could bury their bodies into the healing water,
I thought the blood would ease away from their tombs,
Everything has slowly tumbled from their drooping frames, |
GloryTravis Green
The crimson sun rests in the horizon
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The Estate SaleAllen M Weber
Bargain hunters and the merely curious are expected soon to arrive,
winters are harsh, and for seven springs, the fields have lain unturned.
And everyone knows that it was the indivisible Fred and Freddie
with equal skill. In the space of a year, Freddie followed Fred
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Allen M Weber Bio
Allen lives in Hampton, Virginia with his wife and their three sons.
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RespiteJanet Doggett
One foot in the grave
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I wake up all a twitterFritz Hamilton
I wake up all a twitter. I try to rise but cannot move. A rat is crawling on my face. He gnaws my right eyeball until its fluid & my blood squirts. My nose itches, but I cannot reach to scratch it.
dead DEAD dead ... !
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My friend Lisa balls 3 different men a dayFritz Hamilton
My friend Lisaa balls 3 different men a day
course most sexaholics are also alkies to
age has directed my sexual shenanigans to
dead/ my fantasies having killed me &
all my teeth are gone having been knocked out by
Job on his pile of ashes in my eyes & covered with my sores/
when the day is done & Lucifer has ignited the moon, He
blood spurt when she cuts !
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YouKerry Lown Whalen Not interested. Definitely not my type. At fourteen, handsome turned me on. Give me outgoing guys with olive skin and white teeth. I didn’t appreciate your potential. Your charm. Saw only light hair, blue eyes. Your blandness. No one told me you played rugby. Captained the schoolboy team. Represented Australia. Later I read the newspaper headline: SCHOOLBOY STAR, A GIFT TO THE GAME. You stared across the room. Didn’t speak. Piqued my interest. I smiled. You didn’t. Intrigued, I approached. Your eyes smouldered. I studied your lips. Your face. I shook my head. You reached for my hand. Walked me home. Held me close. Inclined your head. I felt your lips. Soft. Moist. Gentle. Barely moving. My head whirled. Heart soared. Legs shook. My world tilted. Who taught you how to kiss? Someone must have shown you. Half a lifetime later, I think of those kisses. And you.
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The Real Bambi (Gloom Cookie # 2)CEE
The little boy loved the dog
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The Non-Goth Who Married a GothCEE
Too long, too long
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Lillian Hellman (Gloom Cookie # 1)CEE
It used to mean something different
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Just Don’t Argue, AnymoreCEE“Are you that compassionless?”
Uhm Uhb
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Terror by MansonitCEE
It’s a terrible thing to be a wannabe
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The Heath Bar (Not-a-goth #2)CEE
Your pearlies are milky, right now
Remember the time you did community service?
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Westerly, a Prose PoemTom Sheehan
It is brittle now, the remembering, how we drove you east with your backpack like a totem in the rear seat, so that you could walk westerly across the continent’s spine, across the sum of all the provinces, through places you had been before, and we had been, and the Cree and the Owlcreek bear and wolves envisioned when night screams upwind the way stars lose their valid phantoms.
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Third Time’s a CharmDavid Elliott
From the top of the hill, he could see for miles ...
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David Elliot BioDavid Elliott is a writer and musician, living in Cheshire UK. His short fiction has been published by a wide variety of magazines, including The Rusty Nail, Danse Macabre, The Horror Zine, Linguistic Erosion, Twisted Tongue, and Delivered.
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VSLiam Spencer
Scientists that have access to all levels of research
Yet, on tv and radio
The tv and radio shows treat them as equals
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John reads the Liam Spencer poem VS from Down in the Dirt magazine |
See YouTube video of John reading the Liam Spencer poem VS in v118 of Down in the Dirt magazine live 9/4/13 in Chicago at her the Café Gallery poetry open mic |
anotherLiam Spencer
The wine pours into my glass
Drinking to remember or to forget
We all have our reasons |
John reads the Liam Spencer poem Another from v118 of Down in the Dirt magazine |
See YouTube video of John reading the Liam Spencer poem Another in v118 of Down in the Dirt magazine live 9/4/13 in Chicago at her the Café Gallery poetry open mic |
A Resourceful ManBob Strother
The pen light beam played slowly across the bedroom walls and furniture. Once it steadied, Adrian Randall crept to the darkened doorway and placed his finger on the light switch. The burglar was apparently so intent on rifling the jewelry cabinet, he didn’t notice a thing until the overhead light flicked on. Then he spun around and dropped to a crouch, eyes wide and jittery. Adrian leaned casually against the doorjamb, a gleaming blue-black .380 automatic in his hand. “Surprise.”
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The Politics of PainSteven Wineman
Several years before my son was born, I was in brief relationship with a woman who liked to sing lullabies at night. The tunes were pleasant, and in the glow of getting to know her I cheerfully sang along.
Several years ago, during a period when I needed to be on the computer almost all the time at work, I started having pain in my wrists and then my forearms. It was persistent and got worse, and I ended up going to several doctors and getting several diagnoses, trying acupuncture, doing physical therapy and occupational therapy, using a lot of ice, taking a lot of ibuprofen, and then Neurontin, wearing braces on both wrists, using voice activated software, trying several different kinds of mice, and learning to use a mouse with either hand. Eventually I had an MRI of my upper spine, which I was told showed progressive disc degeneration, and surgery was recommended. Before going ahead with surgery, I thought I should get a second opinion.
Pain and painkillers are, of course, big business. USA Today reports that nationwide in 2010, pharmacies sold the staggering equivalent of 111 tons of pure oxycodone and hydrocodone, “enough to give forty 5-mg Percocets and twenty-four 5-mg Vicodins to every person in the United States.” (http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/money/industries/health/drugs/ story/2012-04-05/painkiller- sales-spike/54022528/1) Synthetic painkillers account for 70% of total pharmaceutical sales. (http://www.ucadia.com/me/m05/m053000.htm) We spend more than $1 billion annually on acetaminophen (http://www.uptodate.com/contents/acetaminophen-paracetamol-poisoning-in-adults-pathophysiology-presentation-and-diagnosis/abstract/8-12); $11 billion a year on antidepressants (http://survivingantidepressants.org/index.php?/topic/1025-us-antidepressant-sales-rise-to-11b-due-to-primary-care-docs/). And even those figures pale compared to alcohol sales, a very substantial portion of which surely serves to numb pain. Beer alone brought in almost $99 billion in 2011. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/02/14/us-beer-sales_n_1276300.html) Total alcohol revenue, despite a drop in 2009, has predictably increased since the start of the Great Recession. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/06/09/
Last year I read Jon Kabat-Zinn’s wonderful Full Catastrophe Living, which describes the use of meditation to manage pain and stress. The core practice is to breathe from the diaphragm and to focus your awareness on your breathing. I had read Thich Nhat Hahn a number of years earlier and tried mindful breathing for a while at that point; but it didn’t take hold.
Conventional wisdom says pain is a signal that something is wrong, and this seems obviously to be true. But on the ground, we so easily slide into viewing pain itself as the thing that is wrong. From there it is an easy step to try to deal with pain by wiping it out.
I want to make a confession: I don’t dance. I took a dance class in seventh grade, and through my early adolescence I did make an effort at parties where I tried to convince myself I was having a good time. But dancing became increasingly free form (this was the sixties), I was a socially awkward intellectual type, and I checked out.
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Steven Wineman BioSteven Wineman is a writer, parent, mental health worker, and longtime social change activist. He is the author of The Politics of Human Services (South End Press) and Power-Under: Trauma and Nonviolent Social Change (www.TraumaAndNonviolence.com). His nonfiction has appeared in The Round Table, Voice Male, Out of Line, and Nonviolent Change Journal. His play Jay, or The Seduction was produced at Columbia University, and his fiction has appeared in Conium Review and Blue Lake Review.
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WesternsJonathan Beale
A silent geometry found at night.
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about Jonathan BealeJonathan Beale’s work has appeared in Decanto, Voices of Israel in English, Penwood Review, MiracleEzine, The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Poetic Diversity and Ink Sweat & Tears. His work has been commended in Decanto and Cafe Writers competitions 2012. He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London, and is from Middlesex England.
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To Fear a FearHannah Haas
No matter how hard one tries, one cannot explain fear, nor can they understand it. Everyone has a fear, whether it’s hidden, strange, or normal. So many people try to run from their fears, but that only makes us “fears” lonelier. I am what one might call a “fear,” but no one ever thinks of me that way as they assume I don’t have feelings just as they do. Everyone fears my kind for one main reason; they all think we will attack them and deprive them of their dignity or reputation. Fearing a fear is exactly why fears existed, exactly why I was one, too. There was one particular day where I thought all of that might have changed.
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Hello, my name is Dave.E. Branden Hart
“Hello, my name is Dave, and I’m an alcoholic.”
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Online Dating ProfilesStanley M Noah
Must like travel. Must like fine dining.
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calling down mountainsKaitlin Allen
“Appalachians,” I say. Hard “c.”
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PaperRoland Stoecker
Discarded
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Janet Kuypers reads the Roland Stoecker poem Paper from Down in the Dirt mag, v118 |
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading this Roland Stoecker poem Paper in Down in the Dirt mag, v118 live 8/14/13 at the open mic the Café Gallery in Chicago |
Welcome To My SeaworldJoshua Sidley
Jacob Medina was one for keeping an ear to the ground, and within ten minutes of leaving the 110th Street subway station he had a clear understanding of what kids in the neighborhood—his neighborhood, once upon a time—thought about his clothing and his hair and his walk. He disagreed with most of what he picked up, though he believed one of the floating voices—maybe a boy, more likely a broody girl—had grasped the genius of his stylelessness, she (or he) just got it.
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SandcastleJacquelyne Kibler
The wind was strong and the sand was fine and all exposed flesh and every fabric fold carried the sparkling pieces like a pastry glaze. The day, with its high sun and salty smell, was perfect but for this small, constant thing. The Hanalei Bay beach was a long stripe of tan against Jurassic jungle as many Kauai beaches were. The fine sand and spacious coasts represented the age and tradition of this place, of gusts and currents and shifts that knew climate and storms—some experienced, some only surmised by human minds.
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ClayJanet Kuypersso I was at this bar, on the coast of florida -- the west coast, the gulf side, you know. it was this place called lana kai, and my friend gave me a ride all the way from naples, which is a good forty-five minutes south of the place. and so we were sitting there at the bar, which is half indoors and half on the beach, and all these old men kept staring at my friend’s chest. a couple guys bought us beer and one guy asked me to dance. I was surprised he asked me to dance, and not my friend -- men were usually more attracted to her. but the guys were jerks anyway -- one looked like a marine with that haircut and must have been high on something, one looked like he decided to forgo hygiene, another was twice my age. it’s not as if I try to pick up men in bars anyway. so after a while I couldn’t stand being at the bar, next to the reggae band that was playing (I never really liked reggae music anyway, I mean, it’s too slow to dance to), so I begged my friend to come walk with me on the beach. christ, I felt like a ten-year-old with a bucket and shovel when I kicked off my black suede shoes and ran into the water. I always loved the feel of sand when it’s drenched in water. it feels like clay as it seeps around my toes, pulling me into the ground. so there I was, splashing in the water, wearing a black sequin dress, throwing my purse to the shore, taking a swig from my can of miller lite. this was life, I thought. pure and simple. an army couldn’t have dragged me out of the water. so my friend found some guy to hit on, as she usually does, and she wanted me to hit on his friend. I found him ugly as all sin, and impossible to talk to. I told him that one of the rafts on the shore was mine, and instead of driving to the bar I sailed. and he believed me. I told my friend flat out that I wouldn’t go with him. she was pissed that I didn’t find him good-looking. so then He strolled up from the bar to the beach, an intriguing stranger, and He walked up right next to me in the water, still wearing his shoes, seeming to know that I needed to be saved. as most knights in shining armor would. and He said hello to me, and He started talking to me, and He cracked a few jokes, and He made me laugh. and okay, I’ll admit it -- he was good-looking, really good looking. I remember at one point, looking at him made me think of a greek statue, He had this curly hair, this sharp chin, these strong cheek bones. but those greek statues could never talk to me, they have no color, they don’t come alive. they’re made of stone. His name was Clay. and when we talked He crept into my pores, the way the sand made it’s way between my toes. His voice tunneled into me, boring me hollow, making me anxiously wait to be filled with more and more of His words. my friend disappeared with her new-found monosyllabic lover, for hours, until long after the bar closed, leaving me stranded. there I was, forty-five miles north of my home at 2:20 in the morning with no means of transportation. it could have been worse, I could have been somewhere other than on the beach, I could have been sober, and I might not have had a knight in shining armor named Clay to save me. and as He drove me home (an hour and a half out of his way), I couldn’t help but run my fingers through his hair, it was an uncontrollable impulse, like the urge to drag your fingers deep into the wet sand. I told Him I was just trying to keep Him awake for the drive. it’s almost better if I never see Him again. then I can always think of Him this way.
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Clay |
See YouTube video (3:10) Live at Beach Poets 08/14/05 |
See YouTube video (4:36) recorded on the Pacific Ocean 12/07 near the Galapagos Islands |
done this beforeJanet KuypersI keep looking back at your picture. I’ll flip it over to stop from staring at it while I read a page from my book, but a minute won’t pass before I’ll have to turn the photo over again to see your face. It’s as if I can’t get away from it.
My flight was delayed, I’m at O’Hare Airport, the airport that departs three planes every second, or is it one plane every three seconds, oh shit, I don’t remember. I have to wait at least three hours for my next flight, hey, if so many planes take off here, then why can’t I get on one of them? Oh well, so I decided to waste my time in one of the airport cocktail bars, by gate L 4. I thought I’d start with a white zinfandel and work my way to mixed drinks, but this wine tastes so good that I think I might just have to have another. It really isn’t bad here in the cocktail bar by gate L 4, the chairs aren’t that uncomfortable, even though they’re a pretty ugly shade of green that doesn’t match anything in the room. It really isn’t that bad, in a foreign city, in a foreign airport. Not when I’ve got my Sutter Home White Zinfandel. And my picture of you.
You know, there’s a blonde girl dressed well with a bad perm across the bar, and she’s smoking a cigarette. I know I don’t smoke, but I’m almost tempted to ask her for one just so I can hold the cigarette the way you do.
They’re playing a song in the cocktail bar, a song that reminds me of an ex. I wanted to marry that man. He had a knack of being able to envelope me, to take my troubles away.
Sitting in this L 4 cocktail bar reminds me of my brother. When I was young he’d always pick us up at the airport, but if he wasn’t waiting at the gate we knew to look for him at the seafood cocktail bar. a part of me expects him to come walking through the doorway now, flannel shirt, ski jacket, wind-blown greasy hair, coke-bottle glasses. You know, when I’d look at his eyes through those glasses, his eyes looked twice as big as they actually were. God, I want to see my brother walking in to this bar at L 4, ordering a shrimp cocktail. I want to see you, babbling on about a movie you reviewed or a gig your band had. I want something that isn’t so foreign, like this bar. Or maybe I want something that isn’t so familiar. I took your picture out of my wallet, the wallet that has so many pictures of men who have come and gone in my life, men who have hurt me, men who I have gone through like... like dish washing liquid, or like something I use all the time and replace all the time and don’t think twice about.
I’ll just sit here, in this airport, trying to care just the right amount, not too much, but not too little.
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Done This Before |
Watch this YouTube video or listen from iTunes: live 10/21/03 in her show the Other Side at theCafé in Chicago |
Or watch the complete video of The Other Side live, including this poem in Chicago 10/21/03 (3:01) |
Dreams Turned Into NightmaresJanet Kuypers
Analyze this. Get yourself on track. All men are scum anyway, Christ, this was just your reaffirmation of it. None of these people really matter. Just get back to your work, get yourself focused again. That’s how to demonstrate your worth.
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Dreams Turned Into Nightmares |
Watch the YouTube video Published in her book Close Cover Before Striking, read (for future audio CD release) live at Striking with Nature and Humanity at Trunk Fest , in an outdoor Evanston IL feature 06/25/11 |
See the full YouTube video of Striking with Nature and Humanity at Trunk Fest, live 06/25/11, with this writing |
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. |
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans dont consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CRESTs three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CRESTs SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does on the road presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061