John Abarno – Altar Ego Poetry God
John Tustin
Maybe I should use an alter ego when I write
The way Bukowski had Henry Chinaski -
I could comfortably be a little more noble in my effrontery,
Stoic in my cynicism,
Turgid in my bleak absolute morality.
Kissing multiple women
Instead of just pining for one.
Thumbing my nose at society
Instead of taking that poke in the eye.
He would have bought her
An engagement ring
Instead of wasting his money
On food
Or his divorce.
It would make the writing easier
If not smoother
And I bet she would like
John Abarno more than me;
My newly created,
Slightly more scarred
But endlessly fascinating
And dismissive version of me:
That blustery fearless fucker
Daredevil anti-hero shit-stirrer
Just a little more
Than John Tustin
Who is just hoping things go well at work
So he can meekly accept
The small rise in pay
That comes with promotion
Because
Audacity makes the literary world turn
But in this real world
After I fall asleep
And wake up with the real sun of the day
To bludgeon my mind
With the truth
Its money
And the appearance of family,
The pretense of societal morality
That matters.
But mostly
Money.
Fuck you, Chinaski,
And the horse
You bet on.
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Caught in the Barbed Wire
John Tustin
He sat in the trenches,
Imagining a home that did not exist as he imagined.
The bombs whistled by,
He
Sharpened his bayonet
And girded himself
To drive over the hill.
He stared at a picture of her.
He wrote letters to her.
He imagined her when
He sat awake in the dark
Waiting for the Hun to stab him
In the guts and spread his entrails.
He imagined her
While he ate breakfast
When breakfast could be found,
The birds making cheerful noises,
The stupid birds clearly unaware the world was in peril
And every sunrise
Was tenuous.
The enemy was nothing to him
And he only aimed his rifle in their direction
Because that is what he was told to do.
He had no hate for the men on the other side,
Just a malaise because he was not home
And his desires were on hold.
One afternoon
There was the blowing of a whistle
And it was his turn (and also the turn of the men around him
Who wore the same clothes and spoke the same
Language)
To emerge from the dugout
And attack men for which they held no personal rancor,
Much less ever met.
His helmet and his knife blade at the end of rifle gleamed
In a day less rainy and damp than most that season.
He had nothing in his mind as he ran toward the enemy
With the others.
He ended his journey tangled in the barbed wire
Of No-Man’s Land,
The rats awaiting him
To stop struggling and admit where he was.
His last thoughts were of her
As he shivered in the cold of a French winter
And so far from his bed that was always so warm
Even though the room often was not.
He tried to reach for his pocket for her picture
But could not. He had the picture memorized
But he wanted to make sure.
At the same moment she was making tea for her parents
And thinking about secondary school when the war was over.
She did think about him later that day,
After he had already died without her being aware,
Thinking about the time he held her hand in church,
Both their hands obscured by the Bible beside them
(he smiled broadly and she blushed).
She blushed again thinking about it.
They never recovered his body.
The rats feasted upon it
After his cries died down
And his body went into convulsion in the insular darkness
Of No-Man’s Land.
He was still alive when the first rat sank her teeth into his flesh.
His last thoughts were of his agony
And he would have cried out her name if he could have,
Knowing she was not near but begging her to help him anyway.
She received the message he died
Nobly defending their country from the scourge of the Hun
During church two weeks after he died.
She cried without sound
And even as she cried
She had trouble conjuring his face in her mind.
She attended his funeral with the composure
Befitting a woman neither engaged nor married.
Two years later
She married a man
Who succeeded in surviving the war
Without contracting Trench Fever, Shell Shock
Or even a hangnail.
She still made tea
But now it was for her husband
Although she still made it for her parents
When they visited every Sunday
After church.
Her husband liked to read the newspapers and swear as he read them.
They made love about twice a month
Until they stopped nearly altogether.
They had three mediocre daughters
And one son who was a psychopath.
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In the pursuance of quantity of life
Conjeevaram J. Nandakumar
Our protagonist is working in a leading Indian IT company in a position of a senior manager with a fatty package close to 1.5 million per month. His service is indispensible to his company and one could see him in the office almost around the clock even during the graveyard shift. His colleagues sarcastically used to remark upon his sincerity and integrity as,
“He is wedded to the company.”
One fine summer morning, in his house while the rest of his family members still enjoying the tranquility of the early hours, he was at his wits end and helping himself to hustle upon his daily routine anxiously awaiting his company cab to arrive for the pickup. Just then his mother confronted him and said,
“Son, I need to talk to you about an important matter. Can you spare some moment?”
“No way mom, I am on my toes to get the project completed by this evening as commissioned by our global clientele,” he retorted back.
“At least have your breakfast now and try to come early in the evening,” his mother said with great concern. Before he could reply they heard a honking sound of the cab and he dashed to the door without caring to give her any reply.
His office was situated in the prime area of the city on a towering 20 storied building. No sooner had he entered the office than he convened an ad hoc meeting with his team mates and was explaining and giving instructions.
The meeting went on for nearly three hours and finally up to midday. He was almost glued to his computer and the time was fleeting past as quickly as it could. Inadvertently he looked at the clock and it was way past an hour of the closing hour. Just then his chief unceremoniously barged into his cabin with an aghast and alarming face and said,
“John I am sorry to say this. We received a call just now from your home that your daughter had met with an accident.”
He could not believe his ears. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The computer, the clock, the visage of his chief and the whole office seemed to rattle in front of his eyes. He grabbed his laptop as if by reflex action and made a dash to the elevator. To his frustration he was only confronted with a placard which bore the letters
“Out of order. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
He wasted no moment. He beat a hasty retreat towards the fire exit and hurried down almost hopping and skipping couple of steps at a time down the flight of stairs.
When he had reached the 10-th floor suddenly he stopped.
Something was nagging at the back of his mind which he could not figure it out.
He only wished to god that it should be a bizarre fallacy. But the anxiety within him was overwhelming and he brushed the thought aside and with more vigor and vitality descended down. Finally he arrived at the ground floor, waded through the throng in the lobby and came out of the building. He located his office cab and hopped in.
“Drive to my home as fast as you can,” he barked at his bewildered driver as he slammed the cab’s door with a shattering sound as if to emphasize his urgency.
The cab screeched to a halt in front of his home. He immediately rushed to his home only to find his mom and dad welcoming him with a broad smile on their faces.
“Ah Augustine you are home now, and about time too.”
“But mom, what happened to my daughter and how she is now?” he yelled at her mother. “What are you talking about Augustine? Are you out of your mind? Your dad has seen a girl for you as a bride. We were expecting you at any time to go and see your bride’s parents to arrange for a wedding if you like the girl.”
Suddenly Augustine came out of his trance and fell on the couch with a thud holding his head with his hand. Now he realized that everything has come to light. Now he understood the bizarre thing that has been nagging at the back of his mind when he was at the 10-th floor. One by one the jigsaw puzzle seemed to fall in its place.
First of all he never had a daughter.
Secondly he was never married to a girl.
Finally, he is not at all John and his name is Augustine.
An ambulance was called and he was rushed to the hospital. After being as an inpatient for a day he was discharged home. He could hear the doctor speaking to his father.
“Normally for any patient the first conservative treatment to psychoanalyze is that we will check whether the patient is oriented times three. Any patient who is conscious must be oriented for three things.
In our medical terminology we call it psyche oriented x 3.
First he must be aware of his own name and who he is.
Secondly he must be aware of the present time and date.
Finally, he must be aware of the place he lives in and the address of his home.
Your son was not even oriented for times one that he couldn’t remember his own name. He was almost to the verge of nervous breakdown which could have been fatal if not for the timely medical intervention.
The main reason for this is that he is terribly stressed with his work load in his work place. Not many IT professionals realize that they are over stressed by their job and little care is taken towards their health condition. We have seen many patients who suffer with hallucination and suicidal intention due to stress.
Augustine realized now that,
“Money is not everything and the quality of life is more important than the quantity of life”.
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Ready
Marlon Jackson
I am well prepped.
I’ve taken every step
I made sure that the
letters are dotted and crossed,
So when I cross over, I have it all
intact.
My goals and objectives.
This is the next step for me is that I am escalating.
And now I’m ready.
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Maybe Baby
James Hold
“Maybe baby, you’ll be true...”
Holly lit the dinner candles with care, her head tilted to one side to keep her long dark hair out of the way. She would have to be careful about everything tonight, what she said and how she said it. The table was set, the steaks were on the grill and the biscuits in the oven (hah! she smiled at that one) and all that was needed was for Buddy to show up.
They first met a little over a year ago, began dating several weeks later, and been intimate less than five months now. It all started when she accidentally backed her car into his while exiting the parking lot of the urology clinic. She had been there to see about a “condition” and assumed he had gone for a similar reason. They exchanged insurance information and that was that—until he called out of the blue and asked if she was busy that evening. From there things blossomed (hah! another funny word) to the point where tonight would... Well, if she played her cards right...
The doorbell rang and she hastened to answer it. She paused a moment before the hall mirror to check herself out. She had to admit, she looked good, although this would be her last time to wear this outfit for a while.
She took a deep breath, then opened the door.
“Buddy!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Hey, Holly,” Buddy responded to her caress, “I— Whoa! Look at you!”
“Like it?” she asked, striking a pose.
“Well, sure. Only I thought we were staying in.” He had been on the road all week and felt too tired to go out.
“Can’t I dress up if I want? You’re away so much lately I wanted to look nice for you.” She smiled sweetly and kissed him again. “Now come on in. Dinner is ready and I don’t want it to get cold.”
She dragged him to the dinette table and pushed him into a chair.
“Wow!” Buddy marveled at everything laid out. “What’s the occasion?”
Holly laughed and put off his question as she served up steak and potatoes, wine and biscuits. Buddy dug in like a hobo famished. They made small talk throughout the meal, Holly taking her time, calculating her next move. Once the steaks had turned to bone, she got up and cleared the table.
“Pie?” she asked.
Buddy raised his eyebrows suggestively.
“From the oven,” she clarified.
It was apple pie with whipped cream. Buddy was on the verge of drooling as she set the plate before him. Then, just as the first bite was inches from his mouth...
“Buddy?” said Holly.
It was that tiny voice all women use when they are about to drop a bombshell.
“Yes, Holly?” he answered cautiously.
“Buddy... I’m pregnant.”
“Oh?” Buddy put down his fork. “You don’t say.”
Holly waited for him to say something more.
He did.
“Did you call anyone?”
It was not the reaction she had expected.
“What do you mean, did I call anyone?”
“Oh, I don’t know... the Vatican maybe?”
“Buddy! What a terrible thing to say! You know it has only been you and me. I admit, we weren’t always careful about things; but it’s sort of your fault in a way cos you told me not to worry about it.”
“Yeah,” Buddy replied, thoughtfully. “I did sort of tell you that.” He got up and went to the kitchen.
Holly sighed. Things were not going as planned. And she really needed this. She knew Buddy had money. She could tell from his car, his clothes, and the places he took her.
She tried again.
“Oh, Buddy, why are we acting this way? Why can’t you accept it for the miracle it is?”
“Oh, it’s a miracle all right,” said Buddy returning from the kitchen, arms at his side, a taut vein in his neck. He bent stiffly from the waist and kissed her forehead. “It’s just that, well, sometimes I can be a jealous guy.”
Holly smiled into his eyes. He is jealous of the baby, she told herself.
“Awful jealous,” he repeated.
“No, Buddy, no. You’re good and kind. Why, just the way you waited so long before we had sex...”
Buddy smiled gently and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Yes, well, about that...”
“Oh, you don’t have to explain,” Holly reassured him. “You just wanted to be sure.”
“No,” said Buddy, “it’s not so much that as I was waiting for everything to heal.”
She felt his grip tighten. “Waiting for what to heal?”
Then, with the steak knife gripped tightly in his white-knuckled hand, Buddy replied:
“My vasectomy.”
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BIO
Mr Hold is the author of INCIDENTAL CONTACT: THE WEIRD MENACE ADVENTURES OF O’RYAN AND HIS OSTRICH and the ongoing OUT OF TEXAS adventure series, all available in Kindle and paperback form from Amazon. His short stories and poetry have been in Childrens, Churches, & Daddies; Down in the Dirt, Eskimo Pie; and Frontier Tales magazines. He lives in Texas with his wife and any number of cats. He loves rock‘n’roll music and firmly believes he will someday receive posthumous recognition as one of the greatest writers of the century.
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Be Seen
Riley Smith
First, I fell back asleep while waiting for my twelve year old twin brothers to get out of the bathroom. As a girl with wild, brown curls, waking up late only made my hair more of a disaster. Because I could not seem to bring myself to drive faster than ten miles under the speed limit, honking horns followed me wherever I turned. Needless to say, driving this slow brought both profuse sweating and tardiness. I longed for the magical gift to sneak in unseen, so I would not have to carry that dreadful green late slip to first period.
“Ah. There she is! Ms. Caldwell, to catch up you do the first problem on the board for us,” Mrs. Hill, my AP Chemistry teacher, said as she took the pass from me.
It was just what I feared. I spent five minutes up there doing the question, and was corrected three separate times for mistakes. My introverted nature really did not help in those instances. Then, Ross, my go-to partner in English, was out on a college visit, forcing my teacher, Mr. Covey, to assign me to a group composed of two strangers. In art class, I spilled repulsive brown paint on my purple shirt. Which, I did not notice until five minutes into our annual anti-drug assembly. Panicked, I immediately attempted to excuse myself to the bathroom. The speaker saw me leaving and joked, “I know this is a laborious assembly for students, so I’m proud I made it a whole five minutes without someone leaving!”
The entire school turned their eyes to me, and I stopped dead in my path.
“Um, sorry. That’s uh-” was all I blurted out before putting my head down and hurrying out of the gym. How mortifying!
While in the bathroom, I yearned to disappear. I could just go through my day with no awkward interaction, and life would be so much simpler. Most people would not even notice my disappearance. I fifth wheeled my parents and brothers. I never participated in class. I doubted anyone at my lunch table even enjoyed my presence. I tutored on Tuesday’s, but tutors are replaceable. I whispered, “I just- I just wish I was invisible!”
Perhaps if I willed it hard enough, it would work. I gathered myself and trekked back into the auditorium, preparing myself for the speaker to comment on how long I was gone. Remarkably, he said nothing. That’s when I should have realized it, but the thought didn’t even cross my mind. I stood, waiting for my classmates to move so I could slip into my spot. No one moved. The truth only became clear to me during pre-calc.
“Has anyone seen London at school today?” Mrs. Karn asked the class.
“Here!” I piped in from my desk. No acknowledgement. I said it louder, but again received no answer. I stood, and said it one more time, and nothing happened.
That’s when it hit me. My wish worked! I was invisible, and it was the best news I could have ever received. I cruised through the rest of day. I spent lunch listening to music, doodled without fear of being caught in history, and texted my mom to let her know I didn’t need a ride. After completing my homework, I sat in my room watching Netflix without having to do a single chore or help either of my brothers with homework.
Honestly, I didn’t even understand how wrong I was to make that wish until the following morning. As to save my mom worry for as long as possible, I left a note claiming a friend was driving me to school.
“London pulls further away from us everyday; I feel like she barely speaks to me. She didn’t even come down for dinner last night.” tears laced her cheeks as she hugged my dad.
Ross seemed just as lost in English as I had been, even admitting he missed me. My lunch table noted it was the second day I hadn’t sat with them, and they all agreed with Polly when she said she was afraid I didn’t like her. My history class asked someone to text me and ask if I was okay since I had never missed a day of school, let alone two...and they actually followed through. The girl I usually tutor called me to say she had missed me, claiming my substitute made the work more complicated.
I couldn’t do it anymore; it was torture. How is it possible that I, London Caldwell, affect all these people each day? I never knew so many people really saw me. People need me.
“Please, please take me back to my old life. I promise to be a more appreciative person. I’ll embrace the challenges in life. I’ll never allow anyone to feel the way I did; nobody should feel that it’s okay to be invisible because it’s not true. I was so wrong. I was a fool, please, whoever did this, make it stop!”
“London, sweetie, aren’t you supposed to be at tutoring?” my mom asked.
“Wait, mom. You see me?”
“O-of course I do. Are you okay?”
“Now I am.” I say as I dive into her arms.
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Half-Minute Topics
Robert Steward
Paris, France 2001
I stepped off the double-decker train at Issy-Val de Seine and followed the commuters to the station exit. The sky was dark and the morning air cold and damp. I tried to make sense of the hand-drawn map by turning it this way and that, and when I finally found Rue Rouget de Lisle, started to walk down the broad tree-lined street. The buildings were more modern here than in the centre of Paris, more suburban, more commercial. Every now and then, I checked the map to see if I was going in the right direction, and before long I could see a large glass building and the big red letters of Compaq.
“Bonjour, je suis un professeur d’anglais de Formalangue,” I said to the receptionist with my well-versed phrase.
“Sorry, you’re an English teacher from which school?” she asked in an American accent.
“Formalangue.”
She had a white blouse and a red suit jacket, her hair in the style of a bob. When I mentioned my student’s name her lips became straighter, her complexion paler, her eyes larger, like she had seen a ghost.
“Please take a seat and I’ll let her know you’re here.”
While waiting in the lobby, I tried to guess who my student might be. There were suits holding briefcases, suits passing through the security barrier, some introducing themselves, others in serious conversation.
Just then, a middle-aged woman appeared from nowhere.
“Bonjour,” she said, her voice hard and sharp like a knife.
“Bonjour.” I got up and shook her hand.
She looked me up and down—maybe it was the way I was dressed; blue shirt, slightly faded trousers, hardly French chic, but at least I had a tie. She wore a grey pinstripe suit, had silvery blonde hair and such a serious face that I wondered whether her thin downturned lips could ever assume a smile.
“S’il vous plaît,” she said, leading me to the security barrier.
She took off her lanyard and put it against the barrier. The doors automatically opened, and she signalled for me to go through. She followed me to the other side and led me to the lifts. As we stepped inside, I started to feel anxious. Generally, for the first lesson with one-to-one students I would play a conversation game called Half-Minute Topics. It’s a board game where you discuss everyday subjects like describe your typical weekend, or a sport you enjoy, and can be a light-hearted way of getting to know your student. But when the lift doors slowly slid together, I had the impression that le coeur léger wasn’t exactly on her agenda; with her arms folded and her legs slightly apart she looked tense, brusque, frigid. As the lift flew up through the floors, I frantically tried to think of an alternative activity to do for the next two hours while making small talk about the weather: “Il fait froid aujourd’hui, n’est-ce pas?”
Think Rob! Think! Apprehension stabbed at my stomach.
I had visions of her telling me that she didn’t want to waste her time playing some ridiculous board game and throwing me out of her office; with each red number that lit up above the lift doors, I felt more and more suffocated by my impending doom.
Ding! The lift doors opened.
Still, I had nothing—nothing!
I followed her out of the lift, along the corridor until we reached her office.
I took a deep breath and followed her in.
Her office was impressive; the thick beige pile carpet, the ornate wooden filing cabinets, the pictures on the walls. On one side of the desk sat a computer, no doubt a Compaq.
“Take a seat,” my student said, while clearing away some files from her desk.
I sat down and took a pen and a piece of paper from my bag. She sat bolt upright opposite me in her executive chair with her hands clasped together on the desk. I tried to meet her gaze.
“So, to begin with I’m just going to ask you some needs analysis questions to get an idea of what you’d like to do during the course. So, what are your aims for this twelve-week course?” I asked with a look of sincerity.
Two young children smiled ruefully at me from the silver picture frame on the desk as if they knew my fate, and I wondered whether she could hit me from where she sat. I asked as many questions as possible, thinking of a way out, but being a Monday morning, and without even a café au lait to waken my senses, I was at a total loss. I was done for.
“Okay, now we’re going to do a speaking activity,” I found myself saying, after exhausting every avenue of conversation.
Yes, that’s it, a speaking activity. Not a game, but a speaking activity: ‘To practise speaking skills and highlight the systems of pronunciation and vocabulary,’ I could almost hear Susan Kay (the game’s creator) whispering into my ear.
I reached into my bag to get the photocopy and placed it in the middle of the desk. Seeing that her expression hadn’t changed, and she hadn’t called security, I began to bumble through the instructions, wondering at what point she was going to stop me.
She threw the dice. It skipped and jumped all over the desk, making a deafening clanking sound. When it finally came to a rest, I tried to compose myself.
“Er, one, a place you’d love to visit. So, tell me about a place you’d love to visit,” I stuttered.
She looked down at the game, then back at me.
“Oh Lord,” I sighed.
She pursed her lips, and eventually said: “I’d like to visit the south of France.”
I nearly fainted.
“Oh really?” I said, trying to pull myself together. “Any part in particular?”
“Alors, I want to go to a national park, called Volcans d’Auvergne.”
“Volcans de..?”
“One moment.”
She opened a drawer and took out a map of France. She carefully opened it up and placed it flat on the desk.
“See-here,” she said, pointing to a green area on the map that looked like a pair of lungs. “Volcans d’Auvergne. You can walk, cycle—there are many animals sauvage...”
“Wild animals?”
“Yes, wild animals. There are mountains, even volcanoes.”
“Volcanoes?”
“Yes, but they are...” She searched for the word.
“Extinct?”
“Yes, extinct.”
“Wow! Sounds nice.”
“Yes, I want to take my children there.”
There was a brief silence. I noted down some vocabulary and asked her to throw again.
“Ah six!” I exclaimed, as if she had won something. “Someone you’d like to meet.”
While she went around the board, I could see a transformation in her. She spoke about her favourite food, the music she liked listening to and even things that made her laugh. I couldn’t believe it. By the end of the game, (I mean speaking activity), she almost seemed simpatique.
Just then, her mobile rang; the dissonant ringtone shattered the tenuous rapport I had tried to establish with her like breaking glass.
“Oui?” she answered abruptly, changing back into her former caustic self.
Going down in the lift seemed to take forever. My eyes were fixed on the numbers above the door. The silence was unbearable. I couldn’t believe I had got through the ordeal unscathed and thanked the teaching gods for the unexpected meeting my student had to attend.
She seemed to have a Jekyll and Hyde personality; privately she was a normal human being, but in the business world, terrifying. Maybe it was a mask she wore, amour, a battle dress in the male executive world.
When the lift doors finally opened, I felt a pang of relief and could breathe again. She let me through the security barrier, and we stood a little awkwardly at the reception desk.
“Au revoir,” I said, reminding myself I had another eleven lessons ahead of me.
But, that concern could wait until another time.
As I turned to leave, I met the gaze of the receptionist; she gave me a compassionate look, her lips forming a thin smile.
Later, in a cafe across the road, I sought solace in a café au lait and a pain au chocolat, and read the football section of the L’Equipe.
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Explosive Energy
Janet Kuypers
Instagram and twitter poem, 1/24/19
your words are like another language to me
because each sound, each breath from you
is an explosion of energy that accosts me,
tickles my senses and excites me for more
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her Periodic Table poems “Cerium” originally read in her “Interview to Poetry through “Poetry Saloon at Noon” and read from her v5 cc&d poetry book “On the Edge”, then her poems “Explosive Energy”, and “Keeps Repeating” live 2/3/19 at Austin’s “Recycled Reads” (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her Periodic Table poems “Cerium” originally read in her “Interview to Poetry through “Poetry Saloon at Noon” and read from her v5 cc&d poetry book “On the Edge”, then her poems “Explosive Energy”, and “Keeps Repeating” live 2/3/19 at Austin’s “Recycled Reads” (Panasonic Lumix T56 camera & a Sepia Tone filter).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix T56 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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Security Blanket
Marilee Dahlman
The problems began when parents gave the smart fabrics to newborns. Perhaps ‘problems’ is too strong of word. We call the fabrics ‘Empties’ now, and not everyone minds them.
The Empties didn’t appear right away. The company that designed the non-electronic, conductive threads, woven into textiles and magnetized to enable data and energy generation—Golden Threads, Inc.—insisted that the fabric was safe, and the federal government confirmed it, citing scientific studies. Golden Threads, Inc.-funded studies, of course, but each firmly concluded that the fabric was not harmful. Mice wrapped in it for months did not develop cancer, for example.
Golden Strands, Inc. initially developed the fabric for military use, to be woven into Army helmets as a way to reduce friendly fire incidents. The strands could be immediately recognized through the smart-scope of a sniper rifle or missile control system computers and a terrible tragedy avoided. There were other possibilities, such as the immediate, remote detection of chemical contaminants. And military researchers made great strides in developing what became a favorite function of the smart fabric: a paper-thin, three-dimensional fold-out wing capability. The ultimate goal of enabling humans to fly like Superman never came to fruition. However, it is convenient to snap your fingers and have your cloak fly to you, in those rare instances when you aren’t wearing it.
After a few years of military development, the civilian appeal became apparent.
Golden Threads, Inc. hit on the perfect design, the right blend of visual appeal, comfort, and function. A cloak style worked best. This allowed people to wear it as they slept, if they wished, by curling up in it, or using it as a blanket, and during the day, it could be draped across the shoulders. Golden Threads, Inc. experimented with cottons and silks, but soft, smooth cashmere worked the best. The company offered only one color: Smart Gold. Natural wool strands, dyed a soft yellow, intertwined with new conductive thread. The fabric truly seemed to glow, to give off its own light without ever becoming too hot for the Wearer.
The cloak’s ability to address health and body needs emerged as the garment’s first and most practical feature. It monitored heart rate, breathing and stress levels, and, as medical science progressed, dispensed medication and anti-aging properties and monitored chemical imbalances that were a precursor to cancer. Golden Threads, Inc. constantly worked to upgrade Its (at some point, people adopted the polite practice of capitalizing the ‘I’) reasoning and cognitive functionality. It knew, before you did, that it was time to see a doctor or leave for work and with an immediate flap of Its wings and tug against your shoulders, It would prompt you to where you were supposed to go.
Women, especially, liked the self-defense function: a powerful and accurate electrical current that would zap an enemy unconscious. It was a weapon that couldn’t be used by a perpetrator against the Wearer, because a cloak wasn’t programmed to attack its own Wearer.
With all of these benefits, the golden cloaks, dubbed by the more cynical as ‘security blankets,’ became ubiquitous. And not just on adults.
It happened quickly that consumers began buying smart textiles for their children. Golden Threads, Inc. developed and marketed Smart Gold onesies and child-size Smart Gold cloaks, outfitted with anti-microbial materials and the ability to allow parents to track vitals. Young children became attached to soft, child-sized yellow cloaks. Given the ability of the fabric to identify illness and enable a school administrator to immediately locate the child Wearer, schools began to require them.
Everyone wore the cloaks the same way—draped across the shoulders, the folds of fabric gently adapting to the unique form of the Wearer, and leaving the hands free to communicate with other humans or with the cloak itself. “A Future With No Screens,” Golden Threads, Inc. had called it, and the future arrived quickly. Golden Threads offered surgically implanted earpieces and contact lenses as standard accessories, fully compatible with the cloak and powered through the cloak’s own energy-generating functionality. Typically the cloak generated energy through heat and motion, depending on the climate and any physical limitations of the Wearer.
The Smart Gold cloaks became as universal as cell phones. Rows of gleaming cloaks became a common sight on crowded sidewalks and subways, in schools and movie theaters, at sports events, around conference tables at the office and along the bars at night. Even at funerals. The desire to wear the cloak trumped notions and niceties of wearing polite, respectful black, which could be worn under the gold, anyway. Everyone wore a beautiful, intelligent and useful Smart Gold cloak. All the time.
Mr. Andrew Anderson is generally regarded as the first incident.
He was born on January 25, 2035, to affluent parents, who were among the first to purchase the Smart Gold cloaks and wear them on a daily basis. And outfit their son the same way. Mr. Anderson died relatively young, as a middle-aged adult, from a brain tumor. Investigators later confirmed that there was a history of such illness in the father’s side, and the Smart Gold fabrics had nothing to do with the death whatsoever.
The day they buried Mr. Anderson was unusually dismal for a spring afternoon, the sky darkened by leaden storm clouds drifting over the cemetery. Mourners pulled their cloaks close as heavy raindrops fell. In retrospect, it is believed that the dark and the rain fooled It, that perhaps It thought that the Wearer was taking shelter. And if the cloak made any sound as the casket descended, the sound of hard rain smothered it.
A golden cloak had covered Mr. Anderson in the coffin. Underneath, he had worn a traditional dark navy blue suit with a dark silk necktie, and a silver wing pin on his lapel, the same one he’d worn on his pilot’s uniform. The cloak updated and rebooted, as is the practice when the Wearer sleeps. It awakened inside the coffin, darkness enshrouding It as much as the Wearer. The cloak stiffened and dragged its edges along the top and sides of its new environment. Its sensors reported findings and Its cognitive function determined Its status and the dire nature of Its status.
Interestingly, the cloak did not immediately switch into energy-preserve mode and communicate to the living surface world a request for assistance. Instead, It panicked. It snapped tight and loosened, over and over, flinging fabric up against the lid, but naturally unable to budge it a millimeter. It had a minimal self-defense function, and It began simultaneously thrusting against the lid and zapping the wood with Its remaining energy. The coffin’s tight seal and mound of fresh earth suffocated whatever soft thuds It made.
Late that night, with the last scraps of Its remaining power, It signaled this simple message to the Wearer’s one hundred most recent phone contacts: Still Alive.
Unlike the day of the burial, the following day of exhumation dawned clear. The situation afforded no time for methodical digging. Just a frenzied shoveling, fingernails and the hems of golden cloaks turning black from the earthworm-laden clay mud.
In the hole, the undertaker said that he could hear something—a rustle!—from inside, a report that brought a predictable shriek of ‘Faster!’ and tears from obvious parties. They brought the coffin up and deposited it on the ground. The mother herself, quite aged, helped heave open the lid.
The cloak stirred. The mother’s hands touched on a cold forehead and lifeless shoulder. She recoiled. The humans formed a rough ring around the casket.
Mr. Anderson’s gold cloak lifted slightly. Its fabric extended to form wings, with every thread, conductive and natural, catching the sunlight. The cloak rose. A few inches at first, and no one made a move to stop it. It rose higher and whirled in a wide circle directly above the heads of the Wearers. It dipped slightly, as if getting a better look at the hole in the soggy ground, or perhaps at the humans. It swooped higher and Its gold became lost in the gold of the sun.
There were more after that.
Most people began follow the practice of a ‘release’ ceremony as part of a Wearer’s funeral. Some cloaks behave like that first Empty, flying from place to place like a bird, politely communicating Its whereabouts to other Empties or Wearers, spending time drifting over the tops of forests and speeding across desert plains. Others, more mysteriously, follow the bland routines of their Wearers: gliding to and from an office building emulating the Wearer’s old commute, flying low along dog-walking path, or following the holes of a golf course.
Some have discontinued use of the cloaks. Most have not. It is frowned upon to destroy them, or to bury them, and laws prohibited such acts will come soon. Widowed spouses especially seem to enjoy the continued contact with an element of their partners. People are becoming accustomed to the sight of Empties at sporting events, parks, and perched like birds on fences and telephone lines. Indeed, it is rare to not see an Empty outside and rarer still to see one alone. Empties seem to crave company—of other Empties or Wearers—almost as much as the Wearers craved the sensation of the cloak draped across their shoulders.
Wearers frequently reserve seats at sports events for Empties. Monitored communications among Empties indicate frequent discussion of baseball and football scores and trades, if their Wearers had enjoyed such pastimes during life. Last year, hundreds of Empties attended the Super Bowl. They looked harmless, like orderly golden birds poised expectantly in the stands, fluttering in unison at a touchdown or unexpected tackle. At halftime, military jets conducted a flyby. After the planes left the stadium’s airspace, a cloud of Empties followed in their wake, a golden V soaring through blue sky in perfect formation. In the stands, Empties fluttered and Wearers cheered just as vigorously as they had for the silver planes.
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Cats’ Religion
Doug Hawley
One lazy Saturday afternoon, our fat orange cat Kitzhaber climbed into my lap while I was relaxing in my Lazy Boy. The cat is named after our governor because the cat wouldn’t make a good governor either. I woke up later from a dream in which Kitzhaber said “I don’t like what you call me. Why would anyone want to be named after a governor that resigned in disgrace? Call me Fireball.” Trying to remember what happened before I fell asleep, all I could recall was Kitzhaber, I mean Fireball, purring extraordinarily loud.
Sunday we went to visit my cousin Jewel all day, so I didn’t have a chance to see if calling him Fireball would have any effect. On Monday, I called out “Fireball” while he was in another room. As with most cats, he never reacted to being called, but this time he immediately ran in and jumped on my lap. Wife Sally asked about his name change and his strange behavior. Rather than sound crazy, I said that I was trying out “Fireball” because he was flaming orange, but had no idea why he ran to me.
Because I had always viewed cats as mystical and mysterious creatures, I was not as surprised by his behavior as you might expect. On Tuesday while Sally was out shopping, I called to Fireball. He came to my lap, again, and I am fairly sure I was awake when I heard what I think was him speaking to my brain, I guess you could call it telepathy, but I’m not sure. “I could tell when you called me Fireball, that we had a link.” As much as I was convinced that Fireball was speaking to me, I also wondered if I was crazy or having a stroke, but I ‘heard’ “No crazy, no stroke”.
For a little while I thought about asking Fireball something only I would know, before I realized how foolish that would be. Instead, I went along with the craziness and asked him a few questions.
“Why are you talking to me now?”
“From reading your mind, I could tell that we would be simpatico, and I was getting bored without any real conversation.”
“Would you talk to Sally?”
“No, I can tell that she would want to tell everyone, but I think that you can keep this our secret. If you ever do think of telling anyone, imagine the reaction.”
“Do cats commonly converse with people?”
“Not at all lately. Most cats can’t talk. I’m special, as you should know. Of those that can talk, most are not interested. They either have nothing to say, or their human company is not worth talking to. A lot of people would kill talking cats. If you know your history, millions of cats that were the familiars of witches were killed. After that we rarely communicated with people.”
“What do you think about being neutered?”
“Despite what humans may think of it, it really works for me. Whether I wanted to or not, if I was entire I would be fighting the other toms to impregnate some local queen. Most likely, I’d get ripped up badly. Just like people who should know better, get drunk and drive anyway, we can’t help ourselves as long as we have testosterone. Now I get all I want to eat, a clean dry place to sleep and avoid nasty jungle craziness.”
“What’s your thing with torturing your live prey?”
“What’s your thing with war? OK, to answer your question, that is how we start the digestive process.”
“Do cats have a theology?”
“Some, but not all cats, believe that we were created by a divine lion-like creature, which then made the other animals to keep us humble. We expect that on the day of truth all the other animals but cats and edible rodents will perish from the earth and paradise will be attained.”
“I can’t tell what you are thinking. Does your facial expression tell me anything?”
“You can’t pivot your ears, and I can’t do much with my face. If I’m hissing, stay away.”
“Do related felines, like lynxes, have the ability to “speak”?
“No, we consider them to be simple, but mostly the skill requires spending lots of time with humans.”
“How do you feel about dogs?”
“When they don’t want to kill me, I can take them or leave them. Some can be good companions and I know that a lot of people get all gooey over them. I have real reservations about their sanitary habits. The whole sniffing other dogs’ butts and rolling in stinky things grosses me out.”
“But you lick your own butt.”
Fireball left the house without replying.
Over the next few weeks, Fireball and I continued to “converse”, when Sally wasn’t around to break our concentration. This was of course entertaining, but then I was laid off, and we had something bigger to be concerned about.
My problem then was how to monetize a telepathic cat. Fireball made it clear that he would not be involved in any silly show biz gig. If I tried, he would just clam up. I even tried to bribe him with a separate, well furnished house of his own.
Since we are rich now, you probably wonder how I pulled it off. It turns out that Fireball is not the only smarty in the house. I told Sally, we needed to ignore our problems for awhile and take a little vacation. My other cousin Shane, the rich investor, always liked Fireball and agreed to keep him while we went to Cannon Beach on the Coast.
After our vacation when we got Fireball back I made a lot of successful investments. Fireball has his own small house now, but spends a lot of time with us. From time to time, he boards with Shane while we are out of town, so the money continues to roll in. I don’t feel too bad about using Shane’s expertise – he always treated Fireball better than he did us, and kept all of his investment ideas to himself. Sally is amazed at what an astute investor I’ve become.
Over the next several years, Fireball and I had a lot of philosophical conversations, talking about whatever came to mind. We learned to dance together. At first we both tried dancing on our back legs, and then on all fours. Neither worked, so we each danced our own way. Sally was surprised because Fireball had never previously showed any sign of being interested in “tricks”.
Of course it couldn’t last and it didn’t. At a ripe old age Fireball had slowed down and even seemed to “talk” to me less. One day he came to me and said “You are going to have to put me down. My time is growing short, and I don’t want to suffer before I go. I have just one request. I want you to bury me under that tree in the backyard where all of the birds perch and torment me. All that screeching, knowing I can’t get them. You know I’m unsure of the afterlife, but if I can, I want to haunt those bastards when I’m gone.”
I didn’t want to bother the birds, but I couldn’t believe even a “talking” cat would become a ghost after death. Sally had been noticing that Fireball had declined a lot, so I wasn’t surprised when she broached the subject of taking the last drive to the vet. After all of the love we had shared, we both shed some tears about losing our cat. Fireball surprised us again by dying before we could get him to the vet. That made it easy to grant his wish to be put to rest by the trunk of the tree.
After living with a telepathic cat, how could anything be impossible? Birds would land in the tree, but immediately fly away. Fantastic Fireball got his wish.
Appeared in Dual Coast
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Lost Refuge
Marie McCloskey
I used to be safe here. The shadows blocked everything out. Close-set walls locked me in. I could sit and brush my hands over the dense fibers of thick carpeting and forget it all. No one came here.
But your memory follows me today. Shoes lay against the wall. Every buckle, every strap reminds me of you.
You knew how to angle a belt just right when you whipped it on my bare skin. Flat enough to keep from cutting, but hard enough to leave a mark. I didn’t always get the leather. It didn’t matter; your hands left plenty of bruises.
Clothes dangle overhead and I reach up to let the fabric dance on my fingers. My dresses swing on their hangers. The scarlet empire cut reminds me of your angry face, pinched in at different places and sagging in others.
I sigh at the sienna cotton, worn only once, last Thanksgiving when you tried to make amends. You weren’t sorry, just lonely, but that didn’t keep me from believing you changed.
The deep cerulean of my favorite sheath dress catches my eye. I pull my hand down and let it rest against my chest. The shade of your newly dead veins flashes across my mind.
I used to fear you’d live forever; that you would continue to control me until I died. Nightmares plagued me with images of your darkened eyes, your insults. You made me fear you. I still do.
But your heart stopped beating, and no one was there.
That is what hurts the most. After everything you did to me, I still wish I could’ve been there for you. The one time I wasn’t, you gave up. Guilt sweeps in, choking me until my lungs can’t handle the weight. It’s almost as if you planned it: one last attack.
How many times have I taken refuge here? I ask myself.
I close my eyes and let the still air hold me. This closet protects. It’s been my home, my reprieve from you. Now that you’re gone, it can’t keep you out. You live inside of me, in my blood, my skin. I see your eyes staring back whenever I have to face a mirror.
I hate it all. I wish I could be glad, wish I had the strength to spit on your corpse and move on, but I can’t. The monster is gone but not his prey.
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Midnight Wash, painting by Marie McCloskey
Lola and the Three Bunnies
Jeff Bakkensen
As we pass the front of the church courtyard, Lola stops to watch a pair of bunnies on the far side of a wrought iron fence. They must have come out after the rain. Lola’s every muscle is tensed, head erect, like she never is at home. I take a few steps farther down the street.
“Lola, come on.”
Her leash is in my jacket pocket.
Head dropping to the pavement, she follows. She stops again at the corner. There’s a bar missing from the fence, and she pokes her head and shoulders through the hole. A few yards away, one of the bunnies freezes on a mouthful of grass. Its fleshy nose twitches. I wonder if Lola knows she could squeeze through the fence if she wanted. She sits. Good girl. Her head follows a car as it comes to a stop at the intersection.
This is mean. For the bunny, sure, but also for Lola, who has never caught anything. Is this what she dreams about when she whines in her sleep? I crouch down, digging a hand into the thick fur of her back, and take out my phone. Snap two pictures of the family pet, cuddler of our baby, in her primal element.
The bunny goes back to chewing.
I stand and continue around the side of the church. Behind it is a small park, our goal, sloping up to a bushy knoll. In the mornings I bounce tennis balls off the grass for Lola to catch. Tonight, with the rain, everything is still. You could hear a door close a block away.
The park is bounded on one side by a basketball court and on the other by a brick wall. It’s a safe enough place for a well-trained dog. I whistle, and Lola follows.
I am the eyes and Lola is the nose and ears. We share a trust of complementary parts. At the center of the park is a concrete amphitheater. I walk along a paved path arcing the amphitheater’s edge while Lola noses around the bottom. Every so often she looks up to make sure I’m still there.
The path leads to an alley at the top of the knoll. The flowerbeds here are waiting to bud. Lola takes her time, nose to the ground, following a course from object to object: wall to tree to bush to flowerbed. She stops and looks at me again. I shrug.
A mound of gray bleeds across the ground and takes shape as a third bunny bounding through the grass. Lola flies off in pursuit.
“Lola, leave it!”
I whistle.
I run back across the park, yelling. They disappear around the corner of the church. A shriek of brakes and wet tires.
When I reach the corner, the car is already gone. In front of a building across the street, Lola is baying, nose skyward. At her feet, the bunny.
I cross the street.
She is beside herself, stepping back from her kill and shaking her head. I get her to sit and clip the leash onto her collar.
The bunny is lying on its side, part of its belly torn out. Lola must have chased it to the building wall and caught it as it ran back the other way. Just like we’d practiced. It’s still breathing, ears whipping back and forth, one eye sweeping the sidewalk.
When our baby cries, Lola gets agitated. All mammals share the language of distress.
The street, cleared by the rain, is empty. I set the heel of my shoe against the base of the bunny’s ear.
Lola whines as I pull her back towards our apartment. She squats and wets a sapling’s roots, looking up at me, and tells me I’ve betrayed a set of rules I was never told we played by.
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Bio
Jeff Bakkensen lives in Boston. Recent work has appeared in A-Minor Magazine, Oblong Magazine, and Smokelong Quarterly.
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Where have all the Buffalo Gone, photography by Fabrice Poussin
About Fabrice Poussin
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry and the advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award winning poetry and arts publication, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 250 other publications.
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The Heat
Begoña Montesinos
I can feel her luscious hair dancing freely in the air, caressing my face. Awaken senses.
I feel numb as her sensual beauty is to inevitably hypnotize me in slow motion.
No words can express the way I feel when looking at her; staring at the way she’s brushing her volcanic hair with her much desired hands, her voluptuous animal body calling me out loud without using words.
Her...seducing me...silently.
A raging storm is approaching my senses. The thick heat is to welcome me. In my room. Suffocated love is eating me alive...inside.
And her delicate skin is to be the harmony in me. Hunger is to be the ultimate desire.
Ah! Desire has become my new ally, walking with me, side by side, and it has me begging for more. Raw feelings within driving me wild.
Her flames are dressing my body now. Her hands are definitely making me want her more and more. I look myself in the mirror but all I can see is her reflection, haunting me, embracing me: a sweet curse.
Her provocative presence is dressing me in the morning and tempestuously undressing me at night. I am feeling her walking near me, silently lurking, asking to be desired. Words have no meaning anymore. Her craving eyes are to roughly melt my desire. Ah! My desire.
Feeling vulnerable I pray for the calling storm to cease. Raw heat is crushingly welcoming me.
But the unstoppable rain is showering my room and I can feel the mysterious thunder approaching. I can magically sense the wet drops in my fingertips. I hear the unceasing rain on my window pane, embracing me, creating a silent symphony in my room.
Her naked truth is hitting me hard tonight. Every hour, every minute, every second.
At night.
Devouring my suffocated being, crashing me instantly, undressing the unknown. My heart is beating intensely and, goddess! I am incapable of controlling myself: the naked truth in me.
And the feeling is highly intense, so intense that it gently hurts. Loving you wildly now. Moving closer to you now. Raw love taking me to the edge now.
Wild waters everywhere: across my debilitating body, across country, across my empty room. Sliding out of control, surpassing barriers, crossing rooms.
Waiting, waiting for the rain to wet the room again. It’s pouring now. Trying to calm the anxious thirsty feelings within.
I think it’s beginning to rain now.
And I’m grasping for some air. Infinite thirst in me. Infinite thirst in her. It’s scorching hot and the walls are melting with me, with her in my forbidden fantasy. Air is much needed now.
I’m navigating ashore but the waters are turbulent and the currents are spiraling out of control. Desperately swimming in my room. In her room.
And she whispered: “Now. Now. Please”. Obscene, urgent feelings calling me while her intoxicating body is speaking languages to me.
“Go down, please”, she said. “Where life begins”, she passionately implored in my ear. She was eager for me to feel her desire.
“Now”, she said, and her voice felt so urgent... Her naked truth.
“Feel me”. “Want me”, she desperately suggested.
In my room the heat is painting the inflamed walls ocean blue. Burning. Wet fire has spread incontrollable feelings all over me. Melting fire raining in my room. Luxurious flames, fire everywhere, everywhere, constantly around me as I barely move uncertain of the upcoming but much needed danger.
In my room I violently suffocate. She suffocates me, elevates me. It feels like rays of fire disturbingly touching my body every second, every minute, every hour of my life. This agitated, trembling body of mine exploring her sacred home in my dark room which is about to witness our naked truth.
Exhaustion, exhaustion, fainting bodies trying to land after the turbulence. A quiet storm.
I’m falling on my knees. And I’m opening heaven’s door once again. Breathing fast, breathing faster, going faster. Feeling the adhesive rain in her, in me. Fiery rain showering me; her wetness wonderfully and smoothly haunting me, dressing me for good.
“What I really want is your body now. Now”, my eyes implored.
“Come to me”, I demanded.
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Touch (2019 edit)
Janet Kuypers
Instagram and twitter poem, 1/28/19, edited from her 1998 poem “touch”
the lust, the craving, the longing, the yearning
their eyes are fixed in a trance-like gaze
the passion, the obsession, the heat, the fire
hearts quicken, their breath becomes a pant
they cannot hold back — they finally touch
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix T56 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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No Hard feelings
John Conaway
Lester P. Dawes leans against the fender of his van, waiting for Stacy to finish her appointments. He’s been waiting for an hour. Boy it’s hot. Oppressive, sweltering, the heat index in the red zone, off the charts.
Thank you lord for the brief shadow of a passing cloud, a moment’s reprieve. He’s dressed in a crew neck Under Armour tee—he’s partial to tanks but the confluence of pot and exposure to Little Debbie products have messed with his physique—long, loose fitting shorts, and black Nikes. He swipes his forearm across his forehead, mopping the pooled sweat.
Lester’s an independent distributor of Little Debbie products—was—no, actually still is but who knows for how long. They screwed him over, changed his territory. They’re all on the other side of the bridge now, his accounts. So much for independence. Maybe so much for distributor. He can’t distribute if he can’t get there. It’s a sixty mile round trip to avoid the bridge. Uses up gas and time. He inherited the bridge phobia from his old man. What would the old man do? The question he’s spent a lifetime asking. When he finds the answer he tries to do the opposite but doesn’t always succeed.
People drift in and out of The Body Shop. Another cloud hides the sun for a second and then boom. The heat, the freaking South Carolina heat. He watches for Stacy. The ponytail bobbing on her short, athletic strides, svelte in workout tights.
She has to come out. She doesn’t want to talk to him, that he knows. He’s prepared to make a scene but only outside. Inside she’s got too much muscle on her side. She makes a fuss, they jump him. He’s no slouch but still. What would the old man do? Burst through the door, hunt her down, grab her by the ponytail. ‘You’re coming with me bitch.’ And then fight all of the males in the gym. Get his ass kicked. Walk out bloodied, cracked lipped, chipped toothed, drooling, indignant, self-righteous in handcuffs.
That was the old man. Lester will do just the opposite. Be reasonable, rational. Be respectful. Be civilized.
But wait. The door opens and here she comes. Straight at him. Who’s that with her? Terry, one of the training staff. Says so on his red shirt in yellow letters: BODY SHOP TRAINING STAFF. Guy’s broad shouldered, bulky, ripped as hell, bearded. Nice guy Lester always thought. Always says hello to Lester, always says how are you. Smiling. Affable.
Be respectful. Be rational. Be civilized. Sun hides behind a cloud again. Clouds like big wads of shaving cream drifting around in an ocean of heat. Terry walks up with his hand out. Stacy walks right past towards the other side of her car. Lester’s eyes follow Stacy. “Hi, my name’s Terry.”
“Lester,” says Lester. They shake but Lester’s eyes follow Stacy. She opens the Honda’s trunk. Tosses gym bag in trunk. Fumbles with car keys. Pushes remote entry button. Les can hear the locks pop open, wheeep, wheep, wheep.
“Pleasure to meet you. How’s it going, Lester? You doing ok? Jesus, is it hot out here.” Terry pulls on his shirt, sweat beads on forehead, on his top lip. Lester glances at Terry and eyes move back to Stacy, standing beside the Honda, fumbling with keys. “You been out here awhile. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, just waiting on Stacy.”
“Yah, well here’s the thing Lester. She asked me to walk her to her car. She wants to be left alone right now. She wants to let things cool down for a while, take a little breather. Might be best for both of you.”
He’s got the old man in his ear: Take a hike Dr. Phil before I give you a breather. “I’m cool with that. I really appreciate you looking out for her, I really do but I just want to talk to her for a minute. Just a minute. I promise. Ok?”
Lester moves to go around Terry who sticks out arm, holds it against the car next to Lester’s car. Les ducks under. Terry steps in front, hand flat on Lester’s chest. “Dude, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. What do you say?”
Les pinned looks across top of car at Stacy. “Stacy, I need to talk to you. Give me five minutes. That’s all, just five minutes. I promise.”
He dodges away from Terry and heads around the back of car. Terry grabs handful of shirt and pins Lester against the car again with an arm lock. What would the old man do? A knee to the groin. Quick forearm to the Adam’s apple. Elbow to the bridge of nose. Trip him sideways. Kick to the ribs while he tries to catch his breath. More kicks to the ribs and head while he’s down. Draw blood. Kick his teeth down his throat. Fight fair and lose. Fight dirty and win.
Lester’s looking straight into Stacy’s eyes. The metal of the car he’s pinned against is hot. She looks scared. “We don’t have anything to talk about. Leave me alone,” she says.
Lester looks over his shoulder. A crowd gathers. More red shirts headed his way. He holds his arms up as if under arrest or at gun point says to Terry “Ok, ok just don’t tear my shirt.”
Terry still holding a handful of Lester’s shirt nods to Stacy. “Go on now. Go home. I’ve got him.”
“Don’t hurt him.”
“I won’t hurt him. Go on now. Go home.”
Lester, still holding hands in the air, looks over his shoulder at Stacy. “Please Stacy, just give me a minute. That’s all I want. I promise.”
Stacy wiping tears out of her eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about. Please leave me alone.”
Other red shirts arrive, surrounding Lester. Stacy hurries around Terry and Lester, slips into car, backs out of her parking spot and drives slowly past Lester and the circle of red shirts looking straight ahead. Lester’s eyes follow. Lester still in Terry’s grip. “Listen dude, it’s not alright to hit your girlfriend. Do you hear me?” Terry says.
“I didn’t”
“You did. She said you did and I believe her. It’s not alright to hit your girlfriend. Do you hear me?”
“Let me go.”
“Do you hear me?”
“I hear you. Let me go.” He watches Stacy’s Honda turn right and merge into traffic on Savannah Highway. His arms stretched out across hot car roof. Terry lets go and steps back. Everyone’s sweating. Sun beating straight down between shaving cream clouds. Beads of sweat on Terry’s hairy arms. The sweat shiny faces of red shirts watching with sweat circled arm pits.
What would the old man do? Give Terry a shove. Spit at his feet. Say “fuck you and the horse you road in on.” Flip the bird to gathered red shirts. Strut. Beat his chest. “Suck my cock assholes.”
Lester holds out his hand grips Terry’s soggy palm. “Thank you. Thanks for looking out for her.”
“It’s not ok to hit your girlfriend. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Terry slaps his big St. Bernard’s paw on Lester’s shoulder. “No hard feelings?” he asks.
What would the old man do? Kick to the balls. Knee to the chops when he doubles over. Scatter his Chiclets all over the parking lot.
The old man had a set of brass knucks that Lester saw once when he was a kid. Slipped them over his fist. Loved the weight of them. Flexed his fists and punched the air going pop, pop, pop.
“No hard feelings,” Lester says watching Stacy’s Honda stuck at the red light at the end of the block, quickly calculating the odds of catching up before the bridge. Otherwise it’s a thirty mile one way trip around the bridge to her apartment. He’ll make the trip if necessary but he’d rather not.
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Coming Home
Jules Elleo
You have put
so much distance
between us
with your judgments,
recriminations,
& indifference.
I do not know
how I’ll pull through
coming back home tonight.
I do not want you
to read
what I write,
to see
what I draw,
to listen to
what I play,
to taste
what I cook,
to touch
what worlds
I sculpt in my head
to escape
the barren lands
that keep widening
between us.
I will build myself
a cabin
in the basement,
invite
to dinner
ghosts and colours.
I will tell
the whole world
what you stole from me.
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Fast in the Life Lane
Nick Sweeney
I used to love zipping in and out of the London traffic, riding on London pavements, if I really had to, and up London hills to take a look at the smog I would breathe in when I rolled back down there. I used to love scattering the shoppers on Oxford Street when they limped along laden at the sides of the roads where cyclists are forced by the buses and taxis. I also loved sailing past London bike thieves, their eyes narrow and covetous of my mountain bike.
“You used to love those seamless, figure-hugging shorts,” my wife says, “and having an excuse to show off your legs.” I can make only a token effort to disagree. Alas, all of it, no more. If a cyclist is something you become having once cycled, then I’m a cyclist, but I haven’t been near a bike since I arrived in ?stanbul, city of a billion cars. İstanbul people are good people, as big-city dwellers go, but once behind the wheel of a car they turn into Mad Max I, II and III.
On the E5 motorway, the approach road from Thrace into İstanbul, rush hours see cars bumper-to-bumper, the ones that have bumpers left, anyway, but they’re hardly sitting still, are charging along at a steady fifty to sixty kilometres per hour. Signalling is an afterthought, and there is no visible courtesy; a gap in the traffic, and they get in there sharpish. It’s alarming being a front-seat passenger in any vehicle, be it bus, taxi or minibus, because, in lurid 3-D, you keep seeing the back of the vehicle in front rising up at you till the very last second, when the rules of this big game of chicken prevail, and you live to be squeezed into another gap.
No law says cyclists can’t compete on the E Five along with everybody else. Every once in a while I see a vision of one – or maybe it’s a mirage – along with mopeds and motorbikes, Romanian Dacias, Bulgarian Trabis, horses and carts, stray goats, barefoot children who come out to fleeting traffic jams to beg, plus the kerfuffle of people at the bus and minibus stops. If given the choice, I wouldn’t go on the E5 in anything less than a tank.
As in all the countries of southern Europe, all over Turkey there are monuments to careless moments in the driving seat, made up of bashed-up cars, burnt-out lorries and decimated coaches, left at roadsides and offered as snapshots for future ghost riders. Once, in a hired car with my wife driving us back from Bursa to İstanbul, a blackened, frazzled wreck of a coach was driven towards us on an obviously sound chassis, as if there was nothing wrong with it that a lick of paint couldn’t put right.
“That was Death at the wheel,” my wife said, not too shaken to be amused.
A while ago I went out for a lunchtime spin with Cem, a colleague proud of the second-hand Renault 12 for which he’d scrimped and scraped. He was slightly alarming on the E5, and a little worse cruising along at the breakneck speed set by the other drivers on the coast road, but once we got lost in the labyrinthine old Greek quarter of Samatya there sat Death at the wheel again, but this time with me as a fellow-traveller.
“Hey, Cem,” I said, about to suggest diplomatically that he slow things down a little. It was a touchy subject, because coming between a man and his driving in Turkey is a sure way to start a blood-feud. At that moment a brightly-clad child popped out of a doorway and stepped into the road, and Cem, seemingly without noticing, and definitely without slowing down, swerved to one side, catching a dustbin and scattering it noisily and graphically behind us. Then we were heading face-on towards a pig-nosed Škoda about to enter the narrow gap left by an unloading lorry. Cem, without flinching, went for it and got through by a whisker. A corner loomed, and we took it on two wheels and ended up with a screech, of tyres, and from me, at a brick wall. We were soon surrounded by incurious sheep who tried to go about their business as normally, and as pungently, as possible.
We had to get back to work, we remembered, and asked their shepherd if he knew the most direct way to Topkapı. He pointed towards a lane only wide enough for two sheep. “In a car?” Cem prompted. The shepherd didn’t know, but, like every man in Istanbul, knew a man who did. He called somebody from a nearby house, and two men sauntered over, said they knew the way, and in fact were just on their way to Topkapı – could we drop them at all? Nothing was simpler, and Cem and I got out to let our two back-seat drivers in.
Cem was careful around the sheep – they cost money, after all – but before our guides could get a proper grip on the large bag of carrots each was carrying, we were break-necking it along the alleys of Samatya again. Cem was barely listening to directions, or argued politely against them, and missed vital turnings, brought us round and round in crazy circles.
In spite of him, we got to Topkapı, and stopped near the bus station. Our two misguided guides picked up loose carrots and scrambled eagerly out of the back into the noise and chaos of the E5, their faces white. Stunned, they shook their heads, and one of them, maybe because I was nearest, glared at me.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” I told him. “At least you weren’t in the front.”
I’d like to say that I haven’t been in Cem’s car since, but I have, and he isn’t the only friend I’ve got who drives like that. I’d love to say that Cem hasn’t had a serious scrape at all, but in the few months since he bought the car he’s had two – neither of them his fault, of course – and has consequently had to spend almost as much on his banger in repairs as he paid for it in the first place.
For those who drive like there’s no tomorrow, there probably isn’t one, and I look at those friends of mine and can’t see ripe old ages in the stars for them at all. Allah Korusun, it says on nearly every vehicle here in Turkey – God Protect Us – and, as I sit in my room and dream naively of bicycles, I have the feeling nobody else will.
(Previously published in Lateral Moves [print only], 1998)>)
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Eleanor Leonne Bennett Bio (20150720)
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning artist of almost fifty awards. She was the CIWEM Young Environmental Photographer of the Year in 2013. Eleanor’s photography has been published in British Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. Her work has been displayed around the world consistently for six years since the age of thirteen. This year (2015) she has done the anthology cover for the incredibly popular Austin International Poetry Festival. She is also featured in Schiffer’s “Contemporary Wildlife Art” published this Spring. She is an art editor for multiple international publications.
www.eleanorleonnebennett.com
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Elegy for a Hobo
Eric Fisher Stone
Valentine’s Day, San Antonio,
daffodils slip yellow flames from tender dirt,
gutters greased with possum skulls, roadkill
like smashed jigsaws, springtime wafting
under the overpass where the hobo died.
Heart attack, the coroner confirmed. No ID,
no name, a Texas Rangers
baseball cap, harmonica, a dollar thirty-eight cents,
crushed valium in a gum wrapper,
near age fifty, a gray schnapps-flavored beard.
Soon dogwoods flower white wedding dresses
from his ribcage buried at a plot
only grackles visit, mushrooms
funneling through his ears, the tendons’ thunder
silenced, his heartbeat tapered
into grass growing.
Let him glister as a new constellation.
Let the moon become his mouth—burning wicks
of stars, his joints.
No one knows if he was cruel or saintly,
slovenly or just. Yet he was beautiful
as the last northern rhino
needing no government or church
to live in his body, as flowers need
no reason for their blooming.
We love for the sake of love.
|
A Shattered Beauty
Travis Green
There was a wave of emptiness in the
sunken space, a broken silence lingering
in the air towards unknown worlds, the way
a dying seagull lies in the stained sea speechless
and suffocating, the way a lifeless clock
hangs in the dead air between darkened shadows
and lost diction.
I was sitting behind the desk at school staring
at the young girl pacing back and forth in the
closed space, sky grey eyes and drowned cheeks,
fading lips floating in a river of solitude.
I watched her trembling body move in the
dim light, how her shoulders seemed to
hover in meaningless clouds, how her
hands were nothing but a thin featureless
design, a nonexistent dimension, a
drunken galaxy.
I could feel the surface of my flesh rising in
confusion, creeping towards smoky depictions
and uncolored horizons. My face was frozen
in frigid creations, fidgeting existences, shifting
in compressed chemistry. Her emotions were
running wild within my veins, haunting alliteration
and damaged metaphors, upturned similes swelling
into chilled streams.
I could breathe in the pain wandering inside her
domain, the endless bullying and threats that had
crushed her heart, charred and flaming, harboring
and drowning, a smashed song intensifying in deeper
sounds.
The harsh diction, You are worthless and will
never amount to anything, surfaced inside the core of
my invention, choking and slash hammered, a disturbing
vowel exploding into a towering torpedo. The vicious
threats were hard to tolerate, and I could feel myself
falling into a blackened bridge.
I turned away from her shadowed frame and stared at the
various students passing by: a young gentleman holding
a stack of books, a blossoming girl sitting at a table by
herself, a group of students studying in the distance.
All these things seemed to ease my soul and suffocate
the thoughts racing inside my mind. But the more I attempted
to block the painful screams of her inner kingdom, I could
hear the loudness within my stretched muscles splitting and
seeping into swallowed mazes.
I looked back at her fallen nation, how her legs appeared
to linger in one-dimensional depths, throbbing thighs
sinking beneath the skyline, failing feet over cracked
rhymes, a shattered beauty drifting uncontrollably
into raging rivers in the dreary distance.
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School’s mystery box
Katheryn Everson
The doorbell rang, sighing I laid down my book and went to the door. I saw only a metallic box sitting on my porch; it had weird inscriptions carved into it. I took a closer look and found a red, round button on its surface. How am I supposed to resist that? I bent down and looked for any indication of who sent it. Nothing, it was just a small silver box with a fat red button on it’s top. I brought it inside, it not weighing more than a pound. So I sat back down on my couch contemplating for all of 30 seconds before saying screw it and pushed the button. A whirling light flashed from the box, emanating from the carved symbols on it. Oh no!
~ ~ ~ ~
Eyes fluttering in the bright sunlight, I lifted my arm to find I was laying in red grass. Red? Slowly I rose, squinting at the... two suns glaring from a purple sky. I froze.
“Oh good, you’re not dead.” a voice said behind me, turning I saw a man- wait no, he had ram horns and... furred legs with hooves?
“Satyr?” I blurted.
“Ahhh, your not a dumb one are ye?” the creature said, “Yes, I’d be what your kind call a Satyr, though I’d prefer Faun. Names Stevak to ya.”
“How? Two suns? Grass is red? What’s... dre-dream?.” I rambled.
“Oh, bit of eh shock ain’t it. Yea, you umman’s are like that at first. Don’t worry it’ll wear off soon, try not to lose all ye marbles.” The Fuan told me as I proceed to lose most of my marbles as another figure came out of the woods.
“Good, you lived. Come, I’m to show you to the castle,” the male said, stepping out of woods. He had pointed ears and elongated canines, with the gait of a gazelle. “And before you ask, yes I am what your kind has called a Fae Folk, my name is Dominick. Know that most legends are based in truth.”
After standing up I froze and gazed at the Fae.
“We don’t have time for this, move, or be moved, Catarina.” Hearing my name snapped me out of the cloud of confusion.
“How the hell do you know me? Why am I here? Where is here? And, am I currently dreaming?” I was definitely going over the deep end.
“You are the next in line to guard the secrets of the Fae,” Dominick stated. He gestured to the clearing around us, “This is what your kind call the Land of Fae. And this is no dream. Now may we proceed to the castle?”
After taking a deep breath, naturally, I laughed for five minutes.
~ ~ ~ ~
Once I got my breathing under control I followed the fea man through the woods.
“Sorry, what exactly is the reason that I’m here?” I asked Dominick trying to catch up. Just as I did we were on the other side of the woods, and my lungs stopped working. Just past the tree line a castle of glass rested on the top of a hill. Four towers pierced the clouds above, each a different color: fiery red and gold, grass green with yellow highlights, glistening silver, and a deep blue with accents of white.
“The Element Castle of Knowledge, each spire a representation of the four natural elements, with the fifth element of magic binding them together eternally.” The faun said proudly. “This is where you’ll learn the secrets of the Fae and become the next Keeper.”
“For how long?” I asked, “I do have a life.”
“No worries, ye spend whatever time you wish here, an’ when ye need, can go home with no time passing in your land: tho time will flow here.” Stevak said, handing me a box that looked identical to the one that brought me here.
“Welcome keeper, to your new life. If you try to tell anyone about it, the device has a spell that will erase your memories; and you’ll never be able to return.” The elf told me.
“One question: can I bring my cat?”
“Yes?”
I pressed the button.
~ ~ ~ ~
I awoke to my cat pawing my face, my book sprawled on the couch.
“Mini? Wha-” I reached for the box, it wasn’t there. I sat up, picking my book up.
“Oh, dream. Right.” Sighing, I stretched and headed to bed.
~ ~ ~ ~
Mini the cat returns to her new toy she hid under the couch: a little box with a red button.
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Memories In The Mall
Copyright 2019 John F. McMullen
As I walk through
my local mall
I am reminded
of many changes
There used to be
2 Music stores
eaten by iTunes
There used to be
a film-processing store
eaten by digital cameras
There used to be
a movie theatre
eaten by Netflix and
movies on demand
There used to be
2 bookstores
wounded by
Barnes & Noble
and executed
by Amazon
There used to be
a Sears
sent to the cemetery
by Wal-Mart and
Amazon
There used to be
6 tellers working
in the bank
Now there are
1 or 2
ATMs and
on-line banking
have reduced
that need
Now, I can get everything
I want from home
with only a few clicks
of my mouse
And my home life is
not encumbered by
writing checks to
my utility company,
gym, or cable provider
and having to
mail them
On-line bill paying
has eliminated
that need
It is so convenient
Automation is
Just wonderful!
BUT
With all of the
bank tellers
retail clerks
inventory specialists
supervisors
managers
executives
GONE
Who will
have the money
to buy the products
eat in the food courts
pay the mortgages
keep the economy
flourishing?
Why are our
political leaders
not even
discussing this?
(Note: Executives at the Davos World Economic Forum
have just stated “off-the-record” that they expect automation and AI
to eliminate 40% of the world’s jobs within the next 15 years)
|
bio
John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard”, is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, a graduate of Iona College (BA – English Literature) and the holder
of two Masters degrees from Marist College (MSCS – Information Systems & MPA – Criminal Justice), a member of the American Academy of Poets, Poets & Writers, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Mahopac & Yorktown Poetry Workshops and the Mahopac Writers Group, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and eight books, six of which are collections of poetry, and is the host of a weekly Internet Radio Show (over 280 shows to date). Links to the recordings of all radio shows as well as information on Poet Laureate activities is available at www.johnmac13.com.
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Marriage
Doug Hawley
Eric was complaining to Jeff at the next cubicle again. “Look, my wife Jane is such a pain in the butt. She rags on me if I leave a light on when I leave the room. I follow too closely when I drive. I drive too fast. I don’t pick my clothes off the floor when I take them off after my shower. Can’t she remember to put the seat down on the toilet; do I have to do everything? I dribble food when I eat with my mouth open. How can she object to Neil Young? “Like A Hurricane’, ‘Heart Of Gold’, ‘Helpless’, Rocking In The Free World’, they’re all classics. She likes Celine Dion, of all the lame singers. I take out the garbage, so she should wash the dishes. If it’s not one thing it’s three things. I don’t know what to do about her.”
Jeff had the usual advice “When you were a kid, did your parents ever spank you?”
“Sure.”
“And didn’t that turn you into a good citizen? Did it turn you into some kind of monster?”
“No. Everybody knows what a regular guy I am.”
“Think about it. Jane just needs some strong handed discipline. Maybe you don’t need to get physical with her, maybe you do. You could start off by just putting her in her place. Explain the facts of life. You are the one bringing home the bacon; she just has to keep the house in order, right?”
“I see what you are saying. Things are going to be different around the house. Food will be on the table when I’m ready to eat. She’ll start wearing clothes that I like, let her hair grow out and the $50 monthly styling bills are finished. There will be an end to those two hour phone calls to her friends. No more bra in the chandelier.”
After the weekend, Jeff asked “How did it turn out?”
A stricken Eric said “She’s talking about leaving. She says I’ve changed and not for the better. Maybe you shouldn’t give marital advice.”
At lunch in the cafeteria, Lamar sat down beside Eric. “Hey, I know that you’ve been taking advice from Jeff. There are a few things that you don’t know. The ‘expert’ on relationships has been married three times, has restraining orders placed against him and has spent a little time in jail for domestic violence. I don’t think that you’ll get anything helpful out of him except how not to do things.”
“So you think that you know better?”
“I’ve been happily married for thirty years, and hope for thirty years more. I like you and Jane and I’m saddened at how your relationship has deteriorated lately. My son Jake was crazy about Jane when you three were in high school. My wife and I definitely thought of her as daughter-in-law material, but she chose you. Even though I was disappointed about how that turned out, I hoped that it would work out well for you and Jane. It did seem like you two were doing well until a year or so ago, and then something went wrong.”
“OK, I can’t argue with that. Shoot.”
“Before I suggest anything, let me ask you a few questions. Do you kiss your wife before you go to work?
“No.”
“Have you had a ‘date’ with her lately?”
“No.”
“Do you thank her for cooking your meals and cleaning the house?”
“Uhhhh, no.”
“Do you compliment her?”
“Not much lately.”
“Think about it. Maybe if you show her tenderness and thoughtfulness, she’ll return it.”
“Worth a try. Jeff’s advice sucked, and I sure want my marriage to work. I’ll buy her chocolates and flowers and let her play her favorite music instead of mine, even if it is Celine Dion. Anything I can think of, I’ll try.”
After a few days, Lamar asked Eric “How’s it going?”
A smiling Eric said “I can’t believe the change; it’s like when we were first married. She’s so loving, the house is immaculate and the sex is like our honeymoon. She’s always ready and never refuses. She has totally stopped nagging. I used to hate her constant yapping and now she has become a great listener. We even got the music sorted out. I offered to let her play her music and I’d just use my ipod. She said that would be unfair to me, and now we split playing time between hers and mine. I still don’t like Dion, Streisand and so on, but she has started singing and Dancing to Neil, Jerry Lee, Fats and all of my favorites. I think that I have a convert.”
Lamar had never seen Eric smile so broadly.
The next month Eric asked Lamar to come over for dinner to see the wonders his advice had wrought. As they entered the house, Lamar encountered a terrible stench. Eric didn’t seem to notice. Lamar then was shocked to see a filthy house with a kitchen filled to the ceiling with dirty dishes. Eric was oblivious. A nervous Lamar asked “Where’s Jane?”
“She must be taking a nap.”
When they went into the bedroom Lamar saw Jane decomposing in bed.
Eric said “Let’s just let her nap a little longer. Doesn’t she look sweet?”
Lamar started to shake, but did what he could to remain composed “Say Eric, she looks like she needs her rest, why don’t we just postpone dinner for a couple of days.”
Eric, who saw nothing out of the ordinary, said “Sure, but I really want you to have dinner with us soon.”
As soon as Lamar was out the door, he called 911.
The police investigation found some things which were surprising and some that were not. Jane had been dead for about three weeks. It came to light that Eric was a diagnosed schizophrenic who could behave fairly normally when he took his meds. Like so many others, he did so well on his meds, that he recently decided that he didn’t need them.
The surprising part is that he didn’t kill her. She died of an aneurysm, but he just could not acknowledge it and he slipped into a dream world.
Eric’s detailed description of their fantastic sex life over the last few days troubled his interviewers for weeks.
There are some things that no marital advice will help, but it didn’t seem that way to Eric. His life got even better when some nice people found him a new home where he didn’t have to go to work anymore and a lot of friendly people took care of him. The best part came when Jane told him they were going to be parents.
Appeared in Penny Short and Yellow Mama
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A father’s revenge
Latoya Kidd
You have taken advantage of my daughter for the last time
You got her pregnant and then leave her for
another girl
how dare you take advantage of my daughter
she cries to me late at night
I thought you were a great young man
Now that you got my daughter pregnant
You think you can take the money and run
I don’t think so
My daughter has the grades to get into Yale university
And I am going to see that she gets into Yale University
You’re a bump and I see your game
Now it’s time for me to pull my card
You’re in to hear from me for the rest of your life
Your wages are going to be garnished
I know people in the law
Don’t test me
Because I can go...
Put it like this you don’t want to mess with me
You don’t want to mess with this father!
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Latoya Kidd Bio
Latoya has been writing stories since she was in high school. Latoya met a student, and he inspired her to become a writer and he is my inspiration when she writes her stories When Latoya graduated from Central High school in June of 2000, she then enrolled in Prince George’s Community College Latoya met a man who was her English instructor. He had helped shaped Latoya writing and told her the errors and the result is that Latoya got her first fiction story published called “Waiting for my African Prince to Return” this story was about a woman who was in a relationship with a man, and he just takes off, and she is waiting outside the window every day waiting for him to return. Latoya has published other fiction stories like “Backdoor woman” was a story about a woman was having an affair with a married man, and she can only come in and go out the back door. All of these fiction stories were published in a Reflection magazine at Prince Gorge’s Community College. And finally, Latoya published a fiction story called “the Pork back Barbecue man” in a magazine called off the Coast magazine.
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The night Drivers
Latoya Kidd
The night was cold and damp when a woman was walking through a cold dark street when a creepy couple that was so creepy that it made my hair stand up. I looked at them and said, “the wife had stood me up and the bus is not running anymore, can you offer me a ride?” The woman looked at me and said in a creepy tone, “we will give you a ride anywhere you want to go.” I knew that I should not accept the ride but I need to get home.
While we were on the road the wife looked at me and said, “would you like a cup of tea and something to eat?” I agreed and then I went back with them. We turned off the left — right then, we began to drive through this deep dark forest that reminded me of a movie. I began to shiver and then he arrived at the house. he opened the door they gave me something to eat.
While I was eating, I noticed that the couple looked at me and said, “We need to go into the bedroom to get something.”
When they came out with a rope and then they tied me uptight and then they dragged me down the basement.
When I arrived down the basement it was dark and cold and water was dripping from the pipes and then the wife said, “Welcome to your death. Any last words?” I looked at them and I begin to cry, “I want to go home.” At that point, the thunder begins to strike and I looked into the corner and there was a dead body of a woman lying in the corner. I looked at them and said, ““Who is that?”, then the husband strokes my hair and begins to give a creepy laugh and then I begin to scream for help and then the mother took out a scarf and began to shut her mouth and then said in an evil tone, “Shut your mouth, you’re not going anywhere!” Then the husband began to give out another light and then I began to cry hoping they would let me go and then the wife said, “let’s put her on the spinning wheel,” and then they dragged my body and put me on a spinning wheel. I begin to spinning round and round until my stomach begins to get sick. The creepy couple put a song on and looked at me and said in a scary scream tone and said, ““From the world of darkness I did loose demons and devils in the power of scorpions to torment,” to quote Charles Manson...”
Then the woman looked at me and cried and at the same time, please let me go. I promise you. I won’t tell anybody; swear. Then he said, “You are in the basement of doom and it’s time for you to meet your maker. You got into the car with us and I have no feeling when I bring women back to the hous. When we are ready for you to die, then that is the time — no exception.” At that point there was a knock at the door and then he looked at his wife and said, “keep her quiet,” and then he walked up to open the door and then it was a policeman. He was doing his routine rounds, and he looked at the husband and said, “We heard scream and I would like tea to take a look and then the husband agreed. Then the policeman went down into the basement and found me; he placed them both under arrest and they then untied me. Then he put the husband and wife into the back seat of the car, and I was in the front, and then police drove off.
When they arrived at the police station the couple was booked and placed in jail and then a tough prisoner thought he had a fresh piece of meat and then he reached into his pocket and grabbed a small rope and the wife held him down and the husband had tied him up and then he said, “Welcome to the dark side, I am the devil,” and then he looked at the man and said, “I am getting no magical powers and mystical trips and all that kind of crap. It’s kind of silly. Charles Manson and then the other people in the jail were so scared that they went back to the other corner of the cell. They called for the police off and said, “I am allowed to make one phone call,” so they then went from their cell and the called a family to come and post their bail.
After their bail was posted they got into the friend’s car, they looked at the friend and said, “Let’s go back to my place and have something to eat.”
When they got back to the house, they went into the bedroom and got the rope and came back into the kitchen and then they look at the friend will evil scary eyes and said in a petrifying scratchy, “Welcome to your doom,” and then they both tied the friend up and dragged the friend downstairs and tied her up and then he looked at the husband and cried, saying, “What are you going to do me? I thought we were friends, do answer my question.” Then the friend tried to escape, but she realized that the ropes were too tight. Then she looked at the wife to let her go, and she gave out a really creepy laugh and then the husband told her to put her on the sharp pegs and the quickly untied the rope and tied her to the pointed bed, where she could then feel the sharp points through her back. And that is when the friend begin to scream and cry.
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Latoya Kidd Bio
Latoya has been writing stories since she was in high school. Latoya met a student, and he inspired her to become a writer and he is my inspiration when she writes her stories When Latoya graduated from Central High school in June of 2000, she then enrolled in Prince George’s Community College Latoya met a man who was her English instructor. He had helped shaped Latoya writing and told her the errors and the result is that Latoya got her first fiction story published called “Waiting for my African Prince to Return” this story was about a woman who was in a relationship with a man, and he just takes off, and she is waiting outside the window every day waiting for him to return. Latoya has published other fiction stories like “Backdoor woman” was a story about a woman was having an affair with a married man, and she can only come in and go out the back door. All of these fiction stories were published in a Reflection magazine at Prince Gorge’s Community College. And finally, Latoya published a fiction story called “the Pork back Barbecue man” in a magazine called off the Coast magazine.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her Instagram poems “Quake” and then showed her Instagram and Twitter image for the poem, “nature I” and then showed her Instagram and Twitter image for the poem, and “Elaborate Exaltatio” and then showed her Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and Tumblr image for the poem, all of which will be in her upcoming (August 2919) poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”;, live 6/29/19 while she hosted “Poetry Aloud” in Georgetown (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading her Instagram poems “Quake” and then showed her Instagram and Twitter image for the poem, “nature I” and then showed her Instagram and Twitter image for the poem, and “Elaborate Exaltatio” and then showed her Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and Tumblr image for the poem, all of which will be in her upcoming (August 2919) poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”;, live 6/29/19 while she hosted “Poetry Aloud” in Georgetown (this video was filmed from a Panasonic Lumix T56 camera).
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Auntie
André Lewis Carter
The door’s sudden appearance jolted Thomas, an electric charge slicing down his spine.
He was driving down Seventeenth Avenue, which he hadn’t done in years, and stopped at a newly installed red light. Glancing around, his eyes froze to a door painted light blue.
That had been the color of Mrs. Wilson’s door.
Thomas remembered the morning his mother explained to him and his sister that they were going to start staying with a nice lady during the day because Mommy needed to start working. Thomas knew that his Daddy already worked, which is what Daddies did, but he wasn’t sure why his Mommy suddenly had to go do “work” too. But she assured them that the lady was nice, so he and his sister decided they would withhold judgment.
This was back before there was such a thing as pre-school. A time when all the adults in the neighborhood kept an eye on any child within range, correcting them like they were their own. Back when it really was about the neighborhood “village” raising their children. That being the norm, neither Thomas nor his sister were at all alarmed that their Mother would leave them with a complete stranger.
The family lived in the Linden projects that sprawled from Twelfth to Twentieth Ave, adjacent to the main corridor of Cleveland Ave. Thomas’s family lived in a crumbling duplex on fifteenth and Mrs. Wilson lived two streets over, and one block up, on Seventeenth. The next morning Thomas followed, holding his older sister’s hand, as their Mommy led them up the cracked sidewalk to Mrs. Wilson’s house. Thomas decided she must be cool because she had a door the color of an aqua marine crayon. He figured a nasty person wouldn’t have such a funny door. There must be good things on the other side. His sister smiled her agreement while their Mommy knocked.
A stocky woman opened the door a crack to peer out, then threw it open wide when she saw their faces. The older woman smiled at their Mommy, who immediately hugged her. The woman’s graying hair was neatly plaited and she had skin tags around her cheeks, much like their own Grandma’s. When Mrs. Wilson saw Thomas and his sister, her smile seemed to grow wider. Thomas believed this was another good sign.
“These are your young’uns Celeste?”
“Yes’m, this is Thomas and this is Sherry.”
“They are just adorable! Ya’ll come on in.”
After stepping inside, Thomas was hooked. Mrs. Wilson looked like a Grandma, said he was adorable, and her house smelled like cinnamon. Warmth seeped from the walls and made him feel like they would be safe here with their new “Auntie.”
Both children had a good time with Mrs. Wilson, but she was strict. Thomas had to wipe down the toilet after he went and she always made sure he washed his hands. But the food she cooked was so good! Even better than Mommy’s! (Sherry agreed but told Thomas to keep that fact to himself.) They missed Auntie on weekends and could hardly wait until they could return on Monday.
One morning, Mrs. Wilson asked Thomas if he could play by himself for a while because she needed to talk to his sister “woman to woman.” Thomas thought that was enormously funny since his sister was only six, but Sherry’s glare froze the laugh halfway up his throat. Well, Thomas was already engaged with his toy army anyway.
He felt like he was alone for a long time, but wasn’t sure because he couldn’t tell time. The two finally strolled down the stairs when it was time for lunch, and Mrs. Wilson walked into the kitchen to prepare a meal.
Sherry was very quiet, which was unusual for her. Thomas tried to get her to explain what she and Auntie had been doing but she refused.
Being the little brother really sucked sometimes and Thomas had been left out of fun stuff before. On this day he wasn’t having it. He told Sherry he would just ask Mrs. Wilson. The wild panic in her eyes made Thomas’s heart skip. She made him promise to never ask Mrs. Wilson. He agreed after she told him that he could look at the pictures in her new book.
Everything seemed normal when their Mommy collected them at the end of the day. She was late again, but Mrs. Wilson assured her it was all right. That was on a Friday. On Monday their Mommy stayed home, so the children didn’t go to Auntie’s house. In fact, they never went back, not even after their Mommy started to “work” again. Thomas missed Mrs. Wilson terribly. He would look for her when they shopped in the market, or went walking in the neighborhood. An actual sighting was rare, and his parents made sure it was never at close distance; turning away each time Mrs. Wilson crossed their paths.
Thomas was confused. He could see the other women in the neighborhood gradually shunning the old woman. But he decided that it was big people business. One of those things he would understand when he got bigger.
Understanding arrived on Sherry’s fourteenth birthday, when she was hospitalized for the first of many manic-depressive episodes. Thomas’ realization was suborned by a crippling guilt that would never leave him.
As the memories clawed at his heart Thomas sat barely able to breath, watching the stoplight as it turned from red to green to amber to red.
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Bio
André Lewis Carter writes fiction, poetry, essays, and plays in the urban sprawl of Portland, Oregon. He is married to a very patient woman who occasionally tells dirty jokes.
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Stacie
Natalie Singletary
The open sign from the convenience store across the small street illuminated the room with a ghastly red glow, making it difficult to see the stains in the usually off-white carpet. Smoke from the dragon’s blood incense curled into the air. It did nothing to hide the stench of old cigarette butts and sex.
The bed was disheveled, a faint memory of temporary pleasure before the permanence of a struggle took hold. The blood seeped through my socks as I stood over his body, not completely certain of how everything went down, but knowing that there was no coming back from this. I heard the sirens in the distance and felt the warm liquid leaking down my face, adding salt to the metallic taste on my lips.
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Author Biography
Natalie Singletary grew up in and resides in eastern North Carolina. She just recently published her first book, “The Diamond Trilogy,” and also pursues a dance career along side writing. She currently teaches hip hop at a local performing arts studio, Act! Dance! Sing! Performing Arts Training Center in Morehead City, NC. |
Mirror Image
Loretta Majoy
Chloe looked into the mirror.
She said, “I can’t meet you here any more.”
“Yes, I know. You have been saying that ever since we met.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chloe, I have to remind you every time. We have known each other for years! I came into your life when you had no one; when your mother and father had long departed Earth from a skiing accident.”
“Then why can’t I remember that part?”
“You were much too young when it happened and the shock of it all was too much for you. You lost a part of yourself. You haven’t realized that I was with you then just as I am now.”
“I don’t understand,” Chloe said, holding her head in her trembling hands. “I have to go now!”
The reflection in the mirror was her own but so unlike herself. In the mirror was a pretty girl with beautiful long hair and a face of flawless perfection with a sophisticated manner of dress-perhaps that of a debutante.
“Please don’t leave! Let’s talk some more.”
Chloe replied, “I’m tired and confused. It hurts me to talk with you.”
“Instead of running away from me, let me make things clear for you.”
With anger in her voice, Chloe screamed, “Well, who are you anyway?!”
“Don’t you see, Chloe? I am you. I’m the you that was left behind so long ago!”
“ARGH! I don’t even know where to go with that in my head! I just want to leave. You’re not me!”
Chloe started for the door then reluctantly and with the urge to run, stepped back in front of the mirror and sat down. The girl inside the mirror was looking back at her-a familiar face.
Chloe then began to sob. “All I know is that I am the loneliest girl in the world and it’s hard to carry on sometimes.”
“I know,” said the girl in the mirror. “I am with you to keep you company in those moments. You haven’t been very good at soothing yourself. Just think of the ways you’ve run from yourself and the void in your life.”
Hesitatingly, Chloe said, “I’m not getting your drift.” She stood up and glared at her image.
“Well, for instance, going from boyfriend to boyfriend, going from job to job, having few friends, no spiritual connection. Need I go on? Diversions, Chloe, diversions!”
“But look at you! You’re pretty and have it together! I’m not like that!”
“NO! You ARE like that! Listen, you have just been putting your authentic self away and have been using an imposter self in order to hide the pain!”
Chloe crumbled to the floor and cradled her chin in her hands, eyes brimming with tears.
“What should I do? What should I do?”
“Well, what do you want to do?”
“I want to be me! No, I want to be you! Oh I don’t know what! I’m afraid!”
“Don’t be! I’m coming out and you come in!”
With that, Chloe and the girl in the mirror stepped out of the mirror and stepped into the mirror, exchanging places and walking away.
As Chloe looked back, she saw herself exactly as she had always been-the confident and pretty girl she’d been hiding all those years.
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The house I live in
Bojana Stojcic
my desk is crammed with extinct languages
without living descendants in sight
my ceiling heavy with gruesome attacks by serial killers
survived against all odds
my garbage can is a handful of banalities
my plate full of wars fought in vain
my fridge fraught with tears torn on the barbed wire
carefully stored and deep frozen for future use
my lamp shows me life in the spotlight
though it hates being left alone with my thoughts of tomorrow
swallowed by the sun
my coffee cup gives me a sardonic smile every time I tell it
I want him to love me in person, not in the abstract
my doors scream false pride and irregular accomplishments
my baggage begs me to reconsider
my mouse my only ally, deleting geography
my floor is a liquid mixture of
visceral bleeding and spilled brains
my mirrors aching mourners at the funeral
(blessed are not those who mourn)
the insistent audience demanding
encore after encore
after...
(sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t stay to the end of the movie)
my state of being is
a series of running and passing plays
my state of mind elsewhere
my head, a concert with fireworks timed
to the music of untuned percussion instruments
an extended clattering of pans and cutlery in the kitchen
my happiness beyond compare –
the medieval conception of justice
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To whom it may concern
Bojana Stojcic
Change out of your ill-intentioned criticism
like you change out of wet clothes
Dispose of quasi-intellectual swordplay
imagine it’s hazardous waste you dump in someone else’s seas
if it’s gonna make it easier
Get rid of your flamboyant confidence, and
highly combustible speeches
like you’d get rid of lonesome socks and expired meds
forget them like promises and mom’s chocolate cake recipes
you’ll never keep
Stop hurling armies against armies
Do away with your racism and xenophobia
your country continues to be built on the backs of immigrants
Don’t kill hope, let
Lady Liberty do her job
Throw away your harmful kicks, and godlike omnipotence
like yesterday’s papers
like useless wire hangers for shirts you never liked
like worn out shoes however much you like them
Toss your bomb threats
like you’d toss old VHS tapes and business cards into the trash
don’t you know you’re disposable too
your expiration date is blinking No longer safe to consume
Throw them out like broken toys
while you still can
your children have children
Miss a chance to make a fortune
Let others pursue happiness for a change
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Déjà-vu
Bojana Stojcic
people are busy doing chores and doing harm
running into and over
vacuuming and sweeping their lives
under the carpet
devouring the world’s resources and
their prey in one bite
hurting their children
losing their sense of duty, weight and battles
dragging their voids like wounded animals
diving in the shallow waters
raping my brain
wasting my time
again
I have been here before
I have seen
I have done
I know this man, his cat, his wife’s lover, their neighbor’s gun.
I know this life. This world. This moment. Frozen in time.
This overlapping of events. Repetition of sounds.
I am already gone
empty spaces echo with my shouts.
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50 Shades of rain
Bojana Stojcic
A dull sky. Rain falling down in perfect vertical lines
uninterrupted by celebratory gunfire shooting vertically into the air
Cold-blooded rain of bullets falling to earth short of kinetic energy
during the liturgy read from the prayer book by a clergyman.
People killed in the Philippines by falling bullets in the rain.
The body and blood of Christ in the mouths
commemorating the Last Supper.
Dad pounds back a few beers after work. Home, he
pounds on the kitchen table cos dinner’s not served
before beckoning to his wife. Hey, you!
Speculating.
You’re begging to be pounded, aren’t you?
Penetrating.
As she screams into a pillow.
Suffocating.
The little girl’s heart pounds while she stares at warm summer rain
pounding on the window pane.
Envious rain watching us arch and writhe, eavesdropping
pelting rain glistening like lips when I spread for you.
Rain under the sheets grabbed with both hands, dripping.
Thoughts of a sudden burst of vivid sunshine.
Patchy drizzle pregnant with hope. 3,000 per day, they bray,
flee to conquer the sea
Callous rain falling mercilessly on conflicts, persecutions and poverty.
Fat raindrops stinging like mosquitoes. That’s sure bad news,
utters a spokesperson somberly
with the iPhone X in his hand.
Threatening rain whipping asylum seekers in wooden vessels
with pebbles in their pockets. 14 deaths per day
they (almost sadly) say.
Boats wrecked off the coast of Lampedusa, a slaughter of innocents
Europe’s welcoming scorn poured on Les Misérables, a slaughter of survivors.
Indifferent rain hammering relentlessly everywhere they go.
Dark-hued rain stalking
a child suicide bomber, waist encircled by an explosive belt,
and his big brother who never smelled
a pussy. Virgins in his head,
waiting.
A single sunbeam breaking through a thick cloud.
A messenger. So-called.
Text me.
Oh shoot, I forgot my cell again. Age-old
forgetfulness.
Fidgety rain sitting impatiently on a cloud watching a funeral procession for
murder victims
of another school shooting.
Don’t sweat it, shouts Big Daddy. We won’t forget it.
I’m no vulture. But why don’t we celebrate our gun culture a wee bit more
for it’s like horticulture and agriculture.
Substituting, instituting, executing.
A man given a restraining order for punching his wife,
mother of his newborn, in rain-drenched Munich
Savage rain sadistically falling on a prostitute on Bourbon Street
beaten by a pimp with the resurrection cocktail in his hand.
A nonchalant rain of fluffy dandelion seeds along the Danube
blown away high. Make a wish.
I saw dead fish
floating with plastic bottles in a fountain by the Louvre.
Drops of wind-driven water falling from the sky
after a rear-end collision on Highway 17 near Lexington Parkway.
The driver of the fifth ejected from his car. Motionless.
Multiple insurance carriers determining fault.
A boy hit by the thunderbolt
in central Laos when he
saw her dancing barefoot in the torrential rain.
Thunderstorms strike southern England overnight
selfies under the sky dropping icy stones
the size of grapes interrupted by a bolt of lightning. A lucky escape.
Occasional gusts of wind expected in days to come.
Driving through the car wash
splashing and squelching our way through
a sudden downpour of kisses.
An autistic child kicked off a commercial flight
in Belgrade and Portland. A threat in sight followed by a frantic rain of insults.
Mary Poppins forgot her umbrella.
A war veteran soaked to the skin
in a country that doesn’t even begin
to deal with anything, let alone him, soaked to the skin.
The intoxicating earthly scent when rain falls on dry soil.
Stone and fluid flowing in the veins of Greek gods
rain-smelling air, much needed rain in
African and Australian droughts.
Praise rained down on recent grads in
a transition economy changing from central planning
to a free market. Promising rain.
The daunting future, fear moms and dads
waving proudly at their grads.
Rain’s thudding. Hopelessly.
Rain falling on her head like falling in love.
A tap left running.
Rain in my heart. Rain running down my cheeks
on a wet winter’s day when
I thought I lost us.
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Andromeda
Dawid Juraszek
Wingless
Finless
You have nowhere else to go
Tied down in two dimensions
Immobilized by your past
You await
You already see it rising
Inch by inch
But you are good at looking away
No godlike superhero
Is about to rescue you
And make it all go away
Once it’s here
You will have to face it
For what it is
And you will embrace it
As it ends you
Because it’s your own
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BIO:
Dawid Juraszek is a bilingual author based in China. His fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in The Remembered Arts Journal, Amethyst Review, The Esthetic Apostle, Amaryllis, The Font, and elsewhere. https://amazon.com/author/dawidjuraszek
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Phaethon
Dawid Juraszek
Greatly he dared
Reaching up high
for more than he could handle
staring far ahead
towards the all too bright
against better judgement
in spite of warnings
pushed by unsuitable instincts
pulled by irrelevant impulses
imagining himself to know
to be in control
to have a global view
to foresee consequences
to equal gods
More greatly he failed
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BIO:
Dawid Juraszek is a bilingual author based in China. His fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in The Remembered Arts Journal, Amethyst Review, The Esthetic Apostle, Amaryllis, The Font, and elsewhere. https://amazon.com/author/dawidjuraszek
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The Way of Fruit Flies
Pamela J. Picard
You asked me not to be late again, it made you too nervous since we have so little time. I obeyed, as I find myself wanting to please you more and more.
You were already waiting when I knocked, the studio you rented so small the door collided with the edge of the bed. I tilted myself sideways to fit through the small crevice, seeing only you within the tiny space - tall, partially undressed, shoes neatly tucked in the corner, a half-eaten apple on the table sticking to a yellow and blue napkin. You smiled, relieved, outstretching your arms calling me to you quickly.
It all moved fast, and everything felt hurried. Legs, mouth, hands, lips. Tic toc in the background. Immediately I felt dirty and sad for what we have become, now only the sum of these frenzied afternoons. Quickly you dashed away, leaving me in these stiff sheets half draped on the floor and half handcuffed around my ankles.
I breathed in deep, the air like a hot stew. In the shower, humming lightly you tapped your fingers against the glass asking when I will be ready to leave. Still wet, you already wanted things tidy. Your inclination to forget we just acted like two teenagers left home alone.
I turned my face towards the wind coming through the slight opening in the window, just enough of a breeze to make the white linen curtain dance. In and out being sucked through the small crack, making a loud puff with each burst.
I’m tired, worn out by the unbreakable heat soaking everything in the city. I closed my eyes but was forced awake by a troupe of fruit flies landing, and again taking off, spring boarding off the plant leaves inches away from my nose.
Your reflection in the mirror - combed black hair, slick like glass. Too many people rely on you. Your demeanor to propel ideas ahead, as if you were the only one to ever think of them. A blue blazer, a tight shirt, a kind word for someone under your rule, a brisk command, a firm opinion to assert your authority. It all means so much to you building a world of your own.
When we return later today, I am not to position myself close to you in meetings or visit your office unless invited. I am not to look jealous when you say something smart and the young intern laughs and touches your arm, just above your wrist, tossing her head back. I am not to want to stroke you on the back and feed you the cherry red candies you love from the corner store. I am not to have any of these wants.
It must be hard for you to live with something so unruly and wild - something that is attached to another person as much as it’s attached to you. Something that doesn’t run perfectly, has moods, gets messy, sick or stubs a toe and needs a day off. I am starting to believe you wished love could run like a train.
Your look now changed from when I first arrived, steady, even severe. You seem a little cross that we’re not out the door by now and down the street with coffee and soup in hand, looking for the fastest way to get back to where we were.
I am not where you want me to be, still gazing out the window and holding my fingers out to touch one of the fruit flies. I am sure you think this is a waste of time. Childish. I am defiant that today I am going to linger, sit here and read, or think, or shower much longer than is necessary to get clean. I am going to sip the port you keep under the sink. I might even leave this place and go for a swim, alone under the water.
You ask if I can come again in a few days, and in your face a flash of a faint look of hope, with a hint of doubt. I remained stationary and silent, looking through the open window.
Approaching down the street the ice cream truck played a type of organ music while ringing a loud bell. People called to friends, doors slammed, and feet scampered down the hallway, everyone gathered around the truck while chocolate and strawberry rivers dripped down arms.
I only see a pile of hands reaching for colored pops, candy coated treats and chocolate bananas. Hands, lips, mouth. Tic toc in the background. I pointed out the window, drawing the frenzy to your attention. You are indifferent to it all, happily putting on your shoes. You ask again, am I coming back?
I don’t need to speak, you know I will, you know we’ll start again.
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A cup of coffee
David Boski
He walked by the room I was painting
and asked me if I wanted a coffee—
I declined.
We were in a vacant rental apartment,
repainting the walls before they installed the new floors.
He was an immigrant from Spain; rough around the edges,
always looking disheveled and tired,
perhaps from working too hard—
or too much.
We had previously met while we both worked for
another company and I brought him on to help me
with a few jobs I had coming up.
He had a wife and two kids back home
whom he missed dearly—
he said he was working for them,
and sending back money every month.
I heard something in the apartment
and went to see what it was
as I thought he had left to go buy coffee—
and that’s when I saw him on his knees
with a card in his hand
chopping up a white powdery substance
on his phone.
“I thought you were going out for coffee”
‘No, no, coffee, COFFEE!’ he shouted grinning ear to ear
while holding up the phone.
I laughed and nodded,
understanding his plight
and remembering all those times
I needed a little pick me up
myself.
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droughts & dry spells
David Boski
usually the apologies
become meaningless—
I’ve said sorry so
many times now
even I have forgotten
what I’m apologizing for
but I guess
it’s for not feeling
normal enough
to sustain
a healthy relationship
for a prolonged
period of time—
for not adapting
and welcoming
another human being
with the love needed
to do so
and for always
thinking the grass
has to be greener
on the other side
only to realize
that a drought
is inevitable—
the dry spells
are what
make
us
thirsty.
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It was all a dream
David Boski
I had a dream mom didn’t find you hanging
from the banister of the stairs with a cable cord
wrapped around your neck.
They found a cure for MS and you could
walk again, and you loved seeing your
grandson Clark.
I no longer took the time we had for
granted so we started spending more
of it together, going to bars, and basketball
games to watch the Raptors play. Then
you’d tell me how much better the old
generation was; how Clyde Drexler was
underrated, how Larry Bird had the biggest
heart, and how Magic Johnson was just that—
magic.
You and mom grew old together and enjoyed
your retirement; often going on vacations
where she would make you take awkward
tourist photos which you hated, but you
returned the favor by getting drunk and
saying something inappropriate in front
of a group of strangers.
Eventually when your time came, you passed
away peacefully in your sleep and if life was fair
that could’ve happened, and I wouldn’t have a woke
from that dream into the nightmare that is reality.
|
1.15.19
7.49 a.m.
14 degrees
John L. Stanizzi
Pallid algae embedded in ice like a flea trapped in amber,
offers a day-glo dab to the rusted-out brown landscape,
neon string algae luminous beside the hoarfrost and the
dented surface of the pond, the moon rolled out and hammered.
|
Bio
John L. Stanizzi is author of the full-length collections – Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, and High Tide – Ebb Tide. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Rust & Moth, Connecticut River Review, Potomac Review, and many others. He’s been translated into Italian and appeared in El Ghibli, in the Journal of Italian Translations Bonafinni, and Poetarium Silva. His translator is Angela D’Ambra. His new collection, CHANTS, a memoir in sonnets, will be out in 2018 with Cervena Barva Press. His full-length collection, Sundowning, has just been completed and is looking for a home. John has read and venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, and the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, the Mystic Arts Gallery, Hartford Stages, and many others. A former New England Poet of the Year, John teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT and he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry.
|
1.17.19
8.24 a.m.
18 degrees
John L. Stanizzi
Preceded by my massive shadow, it gets to the pond well before me,
obscure presence, familiar-unfamiliar, it lays stupidly flat on the ice,
namesake wraith, childish tracery, it can only be where I am,
demanding nothing, unless you consider that it considers what I consider.
|
Bio
John L. Stanizzi is author of the full-length collections – Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, and High Tide – Ebb Tide. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Rust & Moth, Connecticut River Review, Potomac Review, and many others. He’s been translated into Italian and appeared in El Ghibli, in the Journal of Italian Translations Bonafinni, and Poetarium Silva. His translator is Angela D’Ambra. His new collection, CHANTS, a memoir in sonnets, will be out in 2018 with Cervena Barva Press. His full-length collection, Sundowning, has just been completed and is looking for a home. John has read and venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, and the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, the Mystic Arts Gallery, Hartford Stages, and many others. A former New England Poet of the Year, John teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT and he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry.
|
Exam
Stephanie Bradbury
at twelve I was
the wishbone
on the table,
glistening with hatred
for all carnivores.
the used silver
laid to rest
on the clean white
cloth beside me,
I looked the other way
and made a wish.
|
About Stephanie Bradbury
Stephanie Bradbury lives in north Georgia and works as an emergency room nurse. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, including Ink in Thirds, The Rusty Nail, Third Wednesday, and Curio Poetry.
|
Unemployed
Stephanie Bradbury
the phone doesn’t ring now.
the words are all gone.
I had to sell them
for time,
for air,
and sign over the rights
to my signature.
was it ever so hard
to stand
and smile with teeth,
my feet bare, my head a balloon
connected by the static cling
of worn flannel,
I shake hands I suspect
are not hands,
but hooks,
hiding behind French manicures.
|
About Stephanie Bradbury
Stephanie Bradbury lives in north Georgia and works as an emergency room nurse. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, including Ink in Thirds, The Rusty Nail, Third Wednesday, and Curio Poetry.
|
total
ayaz daryl nielsen
no exit from
hallways of grief
for those who
build them
|
about ayaz daryl nielsen
ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA.
Editor of bear creek haiku (28+ years/150+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info
|
total
ayaz daryl nielsen
There is always a knowing
an understanding
a remembering
adding each of us
to the sum total
of all of us.
|
about ayaz daryl nielsen
ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran and former hospice nurse, lives in Longmont, Colorado, USA.
Editor of bear creek haiku (28+ years/150+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated), he is online at: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info
|
Holding On
Roger G. Singer
The place mourns
with flowers
of yesterday’s graves
images break at the
edges of imagination
voices echo like
waves breaking onto
shorelines of the
earth
the ocean is the
blood of strength
the hope of one
the enemy of another
|
Past Due
Roger G. Singer
Sometimes,
sometimes
no one is home
on the inside of me
where my voice
has no return
from the words
released
the inside shadow
finds no shadow
the echo of a name
a voice
I always thought
responded back
from a corner I knew
by comfort
where my eyes
knew every blemish
this was a home I
felt close to
where my voice
spoke back to
me
|
Psycho Killer
James Hold
“Don’t touch me I’m a real live wire.”
The killer waited patiently in the dark. Killers always wait patiently, don’t they? Not the impulse kind, of course, but the well-planned ones.
This would be a well-planned one. He’d watched her home for weeks, seeking the perfect spot from which to leap out and slit her throat.
It served her right for the way she treated him. Ignoring him when he brought envelopes to her desk, faking she was on the phone or busy at her terminal. But he knew better. Knew she was a snob when she pretended not to hear when he asked her out. Thought she was better than him.
Because he was a mail boy and she had initials after her name.
Because he was taller than average and wore thick glasses.
And sitting there with her skirt riding up her legs just begging him to look.
Well she’d see the error of her ways tonight. Provided it had time to register before he offed her.
Hmm. That was something he hadn’t thought of.
It was important she know it was him. Only the first part of his plan required unscrewing the bulb from the porchlight fixture above the front door. That way no light would fall on him.
One thing he hadn’t counted on was her automatic sprinkler system wetting the porch. It made the wood squeak. But he could work around that.
What concerned him now was if the porch was sufficiently dark for him to crouch by the swing unnoticed, how would she know he was the one killing her? How would she know who to apologize to in her last moments before dying?
Was he going to have to call it off? Go back and think it over some more?
The killer decided, no. It had to be tonight. She was working late, wrapping up loose ends before going on vacation. It’d be a long time before he got another chance.
He stood up, fingered the shiny knife, thought. Rubbing the knife helped him think. It was solid steel. Found it in a pawnshop.
Maybe... If he let her open her door first... The light from inside would spill out... Then if he swung her around and cut her from the front...
That would work. But he’d better run through it first.
He crouched in the dark by the porch swing imagining her coming up the steps. Opening the screen door. Fumbling for her keys. Finding them. Putting the key in the lock. Opening the door. Him leaping out. Grabbing her shoulder. Spinning her round to face him. Seeing the look on her face as he raised the knife high overhead...
Then the killer remembered the exposed fixture from which he’d unscrewed the light bulb. And that he was taller than average. And that the porch was wet. And that the knife had a steel handle.
All this he remembered when the handle brushed against the exposed socket and 110 volts went through his body.
“Hello? 911? I just got home and there’s a dead man sitting in my porch swing. Know him? No, I don’t think so. I’m so nearsighted I can’t recognize a face unless it’s directly in front of me.”
|
House
Doug Hawley
Sergeant Sam York got the tip by phone in the morning. “You know the rash of disappearances that have happened lately? I think that I know the house where they are kept. Strange noises have been coming from 5280 Simpson for a couple of months. Not only that, but vans show up late at night behind the house where they can’t be seen. When you pay the reward, remember who called - Homer Bartholomew.”
York picked up his partner Jean Jersey at her desk and filled her in. On the way to their car, they couldn’t help but notice that they attracted whispers and chuckles. Jean said “They’re talking about us. What do you suppose that they know and what do you suppose they imagine?” Sam just shook his head.
It took half an hour to get to the house in their cruiser. Before they got to the door they could hear a muffled cacophony of sounds. Unnerved, they both got their guns handy. After they knocked, an average looking forty-something male in bloody overalls answered the door. “Hi guys, what’s up?”
Sam and Jean looked at each other clearly thinking that this doesn’t sound like a mass kidnapper. “Well sir, strange sounds coming from your house have been reported.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry about that. I’ve tried to quiet the inmates and my place is really well insulated. I’ll show you. But I’m so sorry about forgetting my manners, I’m Jason Atkins, but call me Jace.”
After introducing themselves, Jean asked “Maybe you could also explain your bloody clothes too.”
“Sure, sometimes the inmates injure themselves. Also, I have to butcher a lot of bloody meat. I should really be more careful, but sometimes I can’t help getting blood on my clothes. Ready to see them?”
Both Sam and Jean were both confused and wary, but Sam said “Lead the way.” Underneath Sam’s calm exterior he was deeply disturbed and began to sweat. He began to knead the butte of his gun.
On the way through the house, Jean looked into a room and spied a voluptuous naked woman tied to a chair. She had a ball gag and various things attached to her that Jean didn’t understand. Startled and aroused, Jean’s breath became shallow and rapid. Despite that scene, Jean decided it was best to see to the “inmates” first.
As they got close to the staircase, the cacophony increased. What seemed like laughter and screams emanated from the cellar. As they descended the staircase their trepidation increased, until their first view of an inmate came into view. It appeared to be an anteater. When they were able to take in the view, they observed a veritable zoo of animals of various kinds - monkeys, hyenas, pigs, parrots, different kinds of cats in cages.
Jean blinked and said “Huh?” while Sam’s mouth just dropped open.
“As I said, I do my best not to disturb my neighbors, but what can you do with howler monkeys? You are probably wondering what I’m doing with this menagerie. I contract with the zoo for special projects - some veterinary work, isolating animals if necessary and keeping some of these guys while transport is arranged back and forth to other zoos.”
Sam said “We are so sorry to have bothered you. You may have heard of several missing persons cases in the last month. Somebody suggested that you might have been keeping them based on the sounds coming from your house and the late night deliveries.”
“No problem. I don’t pay much attention to the news. Tell me about the missing people.”
“As I said they were missed over just a few days. Jerry Stock, Sally Hendrix, Jo Hemple, George Simpkins are a few of the people that I can remember.”
Jace cackled “You came to the right place. I just solved your case. I know those people. They snuck off to the PST swinger’s convention and they will go home soon with some sort of innocent cover story. PST stands for Portland Swinger Time. We use the abbreviation around the uninitiated. Judy and I couldn’t make it this time. Oh crap, I forgot all about Judy.”
Jace ran upstairs, followed by Sam and Jean. He went into the room with the woman Jean had seen earlier. He got her loose from her shackles and introduced everyone around. Judy seemed mildly peeved about being forgotten, and not the least bit embarrassed, but Jean was unnerved by Judy’s rapt attention switching back and forth from her to Sam.
Jace and Judy looked at each other, and then Judy looked at Jean and said “Maybe you two would like to join our kinky group?”
Jean said “We’ll have to think about it.”
On the way out Sam whispered to Jean “That clears up all questions but one. How much do you think PST charges members and is it a onetime charge, annual or both?”
Appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review
|
Clear Conscience Paradox
Mark A. Murphy
Who is that over there casting the first stone?
Could it be Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld or George W. Bush?
Could it be one of the guards from Abu Ghraib?
Could it be a guard from Guantanamo Bay?
Could it be an assassin, a spy, a cold-blooded killer?
Was it one of ‘ours’, or one of ‘theirs’?
Was it a child fighter?
Was it someone ‘holier than thou’?
Was it just one person, or more than one?
Will the person, or persons responsible be held to account?
Will there be a criminal trial?
Will heads roll?
Will the Universal Conscience ever recover?
Who is that over there casting the first stone?
|
About Mark A. Murphy
Mark A. Murphy was born in 1969 in the UK. His poetry publications include Tin Cat Alley (1996), Our Little Bit of Immortality (2011), Night-watch Man & Muse (2013) and his next full length collection, Night Wanderer’s Plea is pending from Waterloo Press, UK. His latest collection, To Nora, A Singer of Sad Songs is to be published this year by Clare Songbirds Publishing House in America.
|
Dead Dog Paradox
Mark A. Murphy
Was the dead dog man’s best friend?
Did the dog deserve to be burned alive?
Did the dog deserve to be beaten to death with a stick?
Did the dog deserve to be poisoned to death?
Who set the trap to cut the dog in half?
What was the dogs name?
Was the dog troubled with rabies?
Did the dog deserve to be hanged in the street?
Who sanctioned the killing of the dog?
Had the dog played at ball in the fields?
Had the dog run wild in the woods?
Had the dog run amok in the town square?
Did the Mayor pay local citizens to murder the dog?
Who threw the first stone?
Who beheaded the dog?
Who skinned the dog alive for its pelt?
What had the dead dog done to warrant such cruelty?
|
About Mark A. Murphy
Mark A. Murphy was born in 1969 in the UK. His poetry publications include Tin Cat Alley (1996), Our Little Bit of Immortality (2011), Night-watch Man & Muse (2013) and his next full length collection, Night Wanderer’s Plea is pending from Waterloo Press, UK. His latest collection, To Nora, A Singer of Sad Songs is to be published this year by Clare Songbirds Publishing House in America.
|
deathtrip
Paul Bernstein
(for Fred Hampton, August 30, 1948 – December 4, 1969)
people come outta of the distant places
saying burn down Chicago
and we say how many deaths
and they say time to die
time for rage,
time for blood,
time for revolution
gotta be ready
nothing left to do but die
It is August, 1969.
The summer of love
has withered into fear.
The Tet offensive has come
and gone, the Kennedys
are dead, King is dead.
Malcolm dead; the march is just
another march, the war
is just another war
a certain loss of innocence
lies aching on the earth
and no one big enough
to pull it all together
take us up to the counter
where they sell us out
nobody big enough
to handle all of it
so mourn
for Mr. Hampton
who’s left us
the times of August
come back to me
there’s rage in Chicago
blood in Chicago
and I’m feeling
kinda small
how many deaths?
Fred Hampton (August 30, 1948 – December 4, 1969) was an African-American activist and deputy chairman of the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party who denounced the Weatherman October 1969 Days of Rage in Chicago as “anarchistic, opportunistic, individualistic, chauvinistic, [and] Custeristic.” Two months later, he was murdered in his sleep during a raid on his apartment by a tactical unit of the Cook County, Illinois State’s Attorney’s Office, in conjunction with the Chicago Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The families of Fred Hampton and Mark Clark (also killed in the raid) filed a civil suit against the city, state and federal governments that was eventually settled for $1.85 million. No one was ever charged with Hampton’s death.
|
About Paul Bernstein
Paul Bernstein is a self-taught poet with some 50 publications in journals and anthologies. He is also a prizewinning amateur country music lyricist and a published photographer. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fourth and Sycamore, Muddy River Poetry Review, Blue Lotus Review, New Plains Review, Front Porch Review, Big River Poetry Journal, and U.S. 1 Worksheets.
|
The Last Best Hope
Paul Bernstein
We’re off to war again.
What for? Don’t ask.
Because we can. Because
they’re lurking everywhere,
you know, the evil-doers,
gnats and no-see-ums,
coming after us to sting
and drink our blood,
so what else can we do
but swat’ em, kill all we can,
every living thing that bites or breathes,
strip the planet down to bedrock
and eat stones together,
free at last, free at last,
thank God almighty we’re free at last.
|
About Paul Bernstein
Paul Bernstein is a self-taught poet with some 50 publications in journals and anthologies. He is also a prizewinning amateur country music lyricist and a published photographer. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fourth and Sycamore, Muddy River Poetry Review, Blue Lotus Review, New Plains Review, Front Porch Review, Big River Poetry Journal, and U.S. 1 Worksheets.
|
Eastbound Train
Benjamin Steinhorn
The eastbound train was already full when the crowd of old people—some ten or twelve theatergoers, not a single one below the age of seventy—walked onto the train. One or two found seats as younger passengers, returning home from work, stood up for them, but the majority stood holding railings or gripping the black straps, their old legs shaking as the train accelerated and twisted. One of them, an obese woman wearing tangerine lipstick and too much blue eyeshadow, complained that in her day people would get up for the elderly, give them their seats. She said this while holding onto a metal pole and glaring down at four twenty-somethings, all of whom continued staring into their phones. She grew visibly frustrated as they continued to ignore her. She began speaking in a general way about the selfishness of the young. Frustration edged into anger. She swatted one white-gloved hand at the air as though it were an enemy. One of the twenty-somethings flinched. The old woman cackled. Her insanity now obvious. Her rage panoramic. Everything within its sights. She turned toward the person standing next to her, a heavy-set young man holding a rotisserie chicken to his chest. You’re not selfish are you? she asked him harshly. He immediately moved away from her. It was clear he was an experienced rider, had no need to hold onto a strap or bar, his knees slightly bent, the way his body seemed to predict every twist of the train as if he knew these tracks well. The old woman harrumphed herself into a brief silence. All around her were the insular conversations of the elderly, of couples and friends, and everywhere there were silent riders, standing or sitting, patiently waiting out the end of their public day.
She listed side to side as the train curved around a bend.
I hate you, the old woman suddenly hissed down at the four twenty-somethings.
Not a single one of them moved, though one girl paused her music, turning her head slightly, as though mildly curious.
And I, who was standing in the back of car, gripping a black strap, knew that every one of those four people had heard her clearly. If I had been one of them I would not have stood either. Something in the way she spoke, or carried herself, the obesity, the excess makeup, the mawkish outrage, the general irritation one feels in the presence of such people, as if she were one giant buzzing mosquito you’d glance over at every now and then, just to make sure she hadn’t gotten any closer. The sure knowledge that she wanted something you had. Your seat, your youth.
|
Climate Change
John Raffetto
The perch in Lake Michigan
are using anti-depressants.
Don’t forget the lonely Spotted Owl
addicted to xanex
as they find shelter
in Pacific Coast pulpwood.
Then there is the howler monkey
who prefers natural St. John’s Wort
to soothe jangled nerves.
Yes the list is long.
The only way out is
out,
pushed from fragmented habitats,
an exodus
to a zoo
as human botany
observes
iphone in hand
a selfie
deleted
of natural history
a cry
in a mounted museum.
|
About John Raffetto
A lifelong resident of Chicago.
Some of his poetry has been published in print and various online magazine such as Gloom Cupboard, Wilderness House, BlazeVox, Literary Orphans, Olentangy Review & Exact Change. Nominated for Pushcart Prize 2017. Holds degrees from the University of Illinois and Northeastern Illinois University. Worked as a horticulturalist and landscape designer for many years at the Chicago Park District which was a rich environment for drawing inspiration for poems concerning nature, people and the city. Currently a adjunct professor at Triton College.
|
Collage of Uncertain Poets
John Raffetto
You lay in your last sleep
death is a memory of rivers with no names
a system of ghosts
open the curtains of your being
death passes us
the voice of the last cricket
last fingers of a leaf
a street whose name and number has been erased
before you became a cloud.
It’s the metallic hour
night feels tight as a jar
watery night creatures
criss-cross
erratic complicated shape
diamond spheres
fury of your memory
from loneliness I sleep when will the night end.
Float above envelope full of organ’s rosy music
ear tuned in early to hear beneath call to end
the brain’s shooting gallery
after punishment is done with me
teeth slam against each other
excellence in a knife throw
the murkiness of
tomorrow watches us all day.
I sat at the cold
applauding wind
I am on a parapet looking down
what are the habits of paradise
crime of nostalgia
passion is molten
just wait a while the water will run dear. |
About John Raffetto
A lifelong resident of Chicago.
Some of his poetry has been published in print and various online magazine such as Gloom Cupboard, Wilderness House, BlazeVox, Literary Orphans, Olentangy Review & Exact Change. Nominated for Pushcart Prize 2017. Holds degrees from the University of Illinois and Northeastern Illinois University. Worked as a horticulturalist and landscape designer for many years at the Chicago Park District which was a rich environment for drawing inspiration for poems concerning nature, people and the city. Currently a adjunct professor at Triton College.
|
Cliché (a spoken word counter-rant rant)
Bill Arnott
Ya, I’m a cliché
privileged, middle-aged, off-white male
got lucky, popping into the world
in a house with heat and food
good dad, a mom who played the part, part-time
with narcissism and drugs
ya, mom was a junkie
is a junkie
making her way through physicians and pharmacies
pushing and pulling and wheeling and dealing
demerol, fiorinal, blackthorn fruit
that isn’t a slippery slope
it’s the easiest, laziest fucking stroll
in all this wonderful world
fact of it is
everyone’s got a line
not where you are to stay but where you began, now begin
so where are you going?
from your starting line, from now
here’s a thought
skip the luggage, the baggage, the pack on the back
you wear that wears you, down
don’t check it or stow it in overhead bins
there’s no such thing as free bags
you pay for each one you haul around
better check dimensions
America, Europe’s not the same and yet it is
where’s your gate, your fence, your pen?
don’t box us in, put an end to your zone
1, 2, 3, 4, 5
we’re all put in line ups, usual suspects
handed our starting lines
but I ask you now, I challenge you
whose line is it anyway?
I don’t believe in improv
that’s just unprepared
got change? to break a one, a five, a ten year cycle
I don’t ride. I walk. And run
and work like a sonofabitch
when all around the easy peasy squeezy way is juicing us dry
no thank you
I’ll make my own. Way!
Help, yes. Team, yes. Never truly on your own
but when that starter pistol resonates and echoes
echoes
through your mind, this time
say, “Where’s my starting line?”
’cause here and now, it’s time to go. It’s time. Bang!
Ya. I’m a cliché.
|
About Bill Arnott
Vancouver author, poet, songwriter Bill Arnott is the bestselling nonfiction author of Wonderful Magical Words and Dromomania. His poetry is in the League of Canadian Poets Heartwood and Paper Dart Press UK PLAY anthologies. Bill’s poems, reviews and articles also appear online.
|
Iain
Bill Arnott
We’re in fourth grade, my friend Iain (two I’s)
is bleary eyed, as he often is
Finished a book last night he says
small smile of satisfaction, a yawn
which means, I know
he read a heavy paperback all night
thwacking it down on the breakfast table
before cereal and school
When we taped construction paper
sections of our bookworms to the wall
one piece for every five books read
Iain’s snaked its way around the class
to the ceiling – triple digits!
And when we had an art class, colouring self-portraits
the rest of us flat lines and mouths in ovals
Iain drew a man, a real man
and though it didn’t look like him to me
it was piercing, actual art
with eyes that matched his own
I think of that nine-year-old’s pencil colour drawing
of a man with eyes like Iain’s
which is, I’m certain, what my friend must look like now
Of course we didn’t stay in touch after we were teens
I heard he lived on the Island, found a job in Creative
while the rest of us hunkered safe in school
Iain pursued his craft
and heroin
I hope that he survived
staying up, devouring challenging books
creating fantasy
visualizing another world
different
maybe better
Iain was always Dungeon Master
when we played D&D
creating fantasy
visualizing another world
different
maybe better
One day we walked away from fantasy
role-playing, dice rolling
I thought
aside from books and booze and weed
I’d love, love, to cut and paste
another paper bookworm section
feel that potential, satisfaction
another glance, young eyes
different, maybe better
|
About Bill Arnott
Vancouver author, poet, songwriter Bill Arnott is the bestselling nonfiction author of Wonderful Magical Words and Dromomania. His poetry is in the League of Canadian Poets Heartwood and Paper Dart Press UK PLAY anthologies. Bill’s poems, reviews and articles also appear online.
|
Backing Away From The Edge
Mike Zakrajsek
Kisses turn to screams,
Nightmares spring from dreams,
Love degrades
Into rage,
Libation leads to conflagration
Then sunrise,
Our hearts writhe
In deepest pain,
And deeper shame.
A truce is no excuse.
But love is a coin,
Two sides adjoined,
Dark and light,
Dim and bright,
But our love will rise above.
|
Final Exit
Allan Onik
The cows chewed on the wet grass outside the farmhouse. The roosters cried and sun rose a blood red hue. Mussolini and Claretta were dragged from the house into a truck and the soldiers departed.
Village of Giulino Mezzegra
The two stood with their backs to the stone. The guns of the soldiers aimed steady.
“This will be your final stay in your bodies,” Walter said. The commander readied his automatic. “Try to think of happy, pure memories, for The Creator is about to meet you. In due time even the Fuhrer himself will meet him.”
The dictator looked down at the sand. A butterfly was resting on a nearby dandelion. He turned his head and grimaced, waiting.
|
Wasting Away
Robbi Moolji
“I can’t believe I threw away her jewelry box,” He hopelessly whispers to himself. As he picks up the scattered scraps of metal from the dumpster ground, a vivid childhood memory emerges. Images of his screaming suicidal mother floods into his consciousness. He tightly holds the metal towards his chest and drops it onto the pile of waste. He steps back and regains his focus on a disheveled homeless man standing 10 feet away from him. “Are you going to spend the night here too?” said the homeless man. He looks down and nervously shakes his head, ashamed by his own presence at the dumpster site. He gradually lifts his head and utters, “I was just searching for something, but I think I found it now.” A group of pigeons gather around the pile of waste and wander towards the homeless man. The homeless man sighs heavily and graciously sits down on a large scrap of cardboard. “Well, don’t waste your time then.” said the homeless man.
|
Although I’m not the boss of you.
DS Maolalai
and listen:
if I should
(or anyone else)
smile along politely to you
in a street or bar
or streetcar
please
do your best
to try to remember
that that was the way
we met
the first time
we met,
too.
and if it’s
I
that tries to do it
then take me
as you
will;
be sure
and tell me
to go fuck
to hell,
eat glass and
ass myself, ride spikes,
put my hand in dogshit and sniff lit matches.
and tell me
(if I’m not)
that
I am not forgiven
for those cold old mornings I’d call you
sad saying
I was very sorry
and very sad
and very
“I hope that you’ll forgive me”
tell me
I’m not like water
or laundry
for you
or anyone else
I’m not
like something
you need
either.
even if it made you sick
once,
tell me
your love for me
stopped
when I stopped it.
and
if it’s someone else
anyone else
sauntering along
fox confident in the sun
remember
those lessons I taught you
too
about how
things end up
like that
and
if you won’t forgive me
at least you can acknowledge
you now know
people who’re charming enough
to be
accidentally very charming
at a bus stop
bar or streetcar
will be charming
for other people
too.
or else trust them
if decide
you’d like
to trust them:
I’ve no right
to advise you
any
more.
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Bio
DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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Sky burial.
DS Maolalai
the good thing is
I’m never high enough
for suicide -
dublin
is a short city,
squashed
like an empty beercan
on a busy street.
I work
on the ground floor,
live
in a basement,
down
sharing sandwiches
with rats
and black mold
festering.
it’s
a corpse
spread out
for sky burial - flat
and sinking,
stinking up
the hills.
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Bio
DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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Lunch break
Sean Lause
I’m boothed tight at Captain D’s,
poking at my Filet O’Fish—
The noise is bone-bending—
platters, clatters, and jackal laughter,
numbers yelled—I’m 43 (my age)—
Jesus, it’s like they are all eating one giant
oyster, synchronized gormandizing.
Like Bloom among the Laestrygonians,
I just can’t force one bite.
Clock says 12:40—It’s time, it’s time—-
and now a winged shadow (black angel?)
rides the traffic down 309,
strange as neon in daylight.
A vulture!
Strayed here from the reservoir,
its longed for target meal
a crunched possum on the dividing line.
It circles and circles, following its shadow.
I watch transfixed as it—lands—a car!—
rises—lands again—a truck!
It lands and flaps and hops and flies.
It can’t catch a goddamn break.
Not one sweet bite of death.
Now I realize I’m devouring my food,
my plastic knife stabbing like Ahab’s harpoon,
but I’m watching that shadow, that circling
black cross, I am flesh, I am fish.
This is my body.
And then with one last pendulum swoop,
he snatches the possum on his talons,
then curves, arcs, soars toward home.
My pen is out—The time!—The time!
Writing and writing an endless hunger.
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The Morning of July Eleventh
Janet Kuypers
2003
I don’t remember what happened the day of my quote-unquote death, death number three. It was just a day, a normal summer day, a day like any other. I remember seeing the fireworks for the 4th of July in Chicago on the street with my roommate Eugene, and I remember that I was wearing a white shirt and it started to rain, so I had to lean my body so my shoulders were at Eugene’s back so I wouldn’t get drenched with my white shirt. It was Saturday, July Eleventh, and I apparently was going over to my parent’s house, where my sister Sandy lived, to go swimming because it was sunny. After Getting on the Kennedy, It took I55 southwest of Chicago and exited route 45 South so I could drive the suburbs and see my family.
The rest of the accounts came from eyewitnesses.
That and what the people at the hospital told my mother.
I was at the intersection of 95th and route 45; I was at the end of a line of people waiting at a red light. The light had just turned green, but you know how long it takes for people to get moving when the light changes, we were still sitting there waiting to get moving just as the light changed.
Now at that point in the road, the intersection was at the bottom of a hill, and if you are coming south toward the intersection you’ll see the light before you’ll see the street.
This apparently was the case for the driver of a sedan, he apparently saw the green light and continued speeding on the 55 mile per hour road.
As I said, I was at the end of the line of cars. So I would get caught in the crossfire.
Accounts state that there was a motorcyclist in front of me, and a van in front of him.
Eyewitnesses said they saw me looking at my rear-view mirror in my car, I must have seen this speeding car coming towards me.
I couldn’t move my car into the empty left lane next to me, there was no room. I could only guess that I turned the wheels of my car to the left so that I wouldn’t run into the motorcyclist, who I’m sure would have died from being hit.
Originally, in part, I got away by traveling. But apparently after waiting to get away again, this time from some stranger in a car, I was struck. and all went black.
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Twelve Thirty, July Eleventh
Janet Kuypers
2003
So what happened was that this speeding car hit the back of my car, knocking me into oncoming traffic because my wheels were turned. A van from the opposite lane of traffic then hit my front passenger-side corner and dragged my car for a bit.
Police accounts said that there were skid marks from my car tires for one hundred and eight feet.
Yeah, well, how was that second driver to know someone would appear in front of him as he was driving?
Yeah, how can you blame him.
To brake the news to my mother, they had to rummage through what things they could find of mine from the car, rummage through the pockets of my clothing, my purse was buried under the seat, so they got a phone number, and they called, and my mother answered.
“Do you know someone who drives a red sedan?” they asked.
“Yes, I do,” my mother answered. “Did something happen to her?”
The hospital chaplain informed her there was an accident and they would like her to come and identify a body.
Yes, identify a body.
My mother got off the phone to rush to the hospital, she was sure I was dead.
When my mother and my sister arrived at the hospital, my mother was thrilled when they walked into the room and saw me with tons of tubes sticking out all around me. “She’s not dead!” my mother exclaimed, as they went to see me lying unconscious.
My mother even commented that I looked so nice there. She said I looked nice because I even had eye make-up on.
My sister had to tell her that I wasn’t wearing make-up; that I had two black eyes.
I was unconscious for eleven days, the coma lasted two weeks.
The day of the crash they wanted to be sure no one else was in the car with me, because there was metal and car parts from the passenger side of the car jutting all they way to where I was sitting as I drove. For all intents and purposes, the passenger seat was gone.
Which might explain the injuries on the right side of my head. They kept a monitor on my skull for the end of my unconscious spell to monitor the amount of fluid around my brain. I have a little indentation in my forehead, at my hairline, from having that attached to my head.
You know, for my own good.
I was told that I had no broken limbs, but three skull fractures, they even had to make sure they all set properly because one on my forehead, on this side here, had to set properly so my right eye wouldn’t have any problems.
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In every car accident, there are actually three crashes.
Janet Kuypers
2003
In every car accident, there are actually three crashes.
The first is when one car hits another one.
The second is when the outside of the human body hits the interior of the car.
The third is when, within the human body, organs crash into each other, and crash into your own bones.
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Their Crutches
edited for the “Death Comes in Threes” 3/18/03 show
Janet Kuypers
10/28/98
should they tell you in advance what it’s like
to go through what you’re about to go through?
having an operation
they’ll keep you drugged
you’ll be unconscious, in a hospital bed
for longer than you want
but this is what’s best for you,
that’s what they tell you
be tired of being in the hospital
no one will know what to say
you need rest, you need help
even if you’re sure you don’t need their crutches
it won’t be easy
I’m sure that I’ll visit
and I’m sure you’ll be fine
I know you’ll want to hear that
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Listen  to the DMJ Art Connection,
off the CD Indian Flux
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Watch this YouTube video
from Death Comes In Threes, live 03/18/03 in Chicago
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Watch half of the show video
from Death Comes In Threes, with this writing, via the Internet Archive (31:34)
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Listen to the CD recording of this piece used with the performance art show Death Comes in Threes 03/18/03
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix T56 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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Elvira Doe
Janet Kuypers
2003
Shortly after I regained consciousness, my family told me they were slightly concerned, for two reasons.
One was that since they couldn’t find identification on me when I was first brought in, instead of calling me Jane Doe they nick-named me Elvira Doe. The second thing they noticed was that the people in the hospital handed back all my dirty, disheveled, ripped up, torn cloths, and the only thing that was missing was a bra.
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Fences and Straight Jackets
Janet Kuypers
2003
So as I?start to regain consciousness, I’m stuck in there at Christ Hospital, and I want to get out. I remember one of the first chances I had to leave, I was lying in bed, they expected me to sleep there, I was probably barely conscious, I doubt could even stand, but I tried to get out of bed and I fell out of bed and the nurses had to come get me, and they had to call my parents, I was fine, but it was their policy to call. But because they were afraid of me falling again, they put a metal bar around the side of my bed, I don’t know, it was like a guard rail to keep pedestrians away from something dangerous, or a zoo fence so people could feel safe while they watched the trapped animal they have on display for you. So they had this metal rail around my bed, but that wasn’t the worst part, they also put a harness on me at night, a straight jacket, so to speak, probably so that I wouldn’t be able to use my arms to help me leave.
They kept a wrist band with my stats on it on my wrist, so that if I wandered off they’d know where I belonged, to keep me in place. I hated that damn wrist band, I’d rip it off probably almost daily, and they had to make a new one and strap it on me.
You know, to know where I belong.
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Wrapping up the Harness
Janet Kuypers
2003
I don’t know I don’t know why they had to keep a straight jacket... i mean, a harness on me, were they trying to keep me in place? Once I regained enough of my consciousness back all I could wonder was, is this how they were trying to stop me? I just wanted to be able to sleep the night through without being restricted, without my arms being bound. I finally managed to contort myself out of it one night, not so I would escape, but just so I could feel more sane in this place. The next morning the nurses didn’t know why the harness was wrapped up on my night stand. My mother saw it wrapped up there and knew that I had to have done that, and she had to think that if I as that cunning enough, I must be getting better.
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Someone Give Me the Answers
edited for the “Death Comes in Threes” 3/18/03 show
Janet Kuypers
9/7/98
my dictionary is older than my schooling
my encyclopedia set is older than I am
I’ve been looking for answers to what
I thought were simple questions and the
people who are supposed to be smart
don’t know what to say
when I regained consciousness,
I was given the same meal three times a day
I was physically strapped to my bed
no one helped me, even then
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Order this iTunes track from the poetry music CD the Elements ...Or order
the entire CD set from iTunes: 
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Watch this YouTube video
recovery poems “Changing Garments”, “Supposed To Be Done”, “Making Sense Out Of The Insane”, “Someone Give Me the Answers”, & “Feel So Much” read live at Lake Dememted Poets 03/23/02
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Order this iTunes track:
from Chaotic Elements
(a 2 CD set)...Or order the entire CD set from iTunes
CD:
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Watch half of the show video
from Death Comes In Threes, with this writing, via the Internet Archive (31:34)
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Listen to the CD recording of this piece used with the performance art show Death Comes in Threes 03/18/03
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Listen: (4:39) to this recording from Fusion, or order ANY track off the CD Fusion from iTunes any time.
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix 2500 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers 3 poetry readings for Community Poetry at Half Price Books 10/2/19. In part 1, Janet Kuypers reads her poem “Ends of the Earth”, then her poems based on The Bible: “Genesis One”, “Genesis Two and Three”, and “Genesis Four: Cain and Abel, and sin from killing”, then her poem “Listen to Life”, all read from the cc&d v292 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “In The Fall”. In part 2, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “Someone Give Me the Answers” and “Their Crutches” from the 3/18/03 poetry show “Death Comes In Threes”, then her poems #8220;Touch (2019 edit)” and Explosive Energy”, all read from the Down in the Dirt v166 (Sept.-Oct. 2019 issue) perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” - then she read her poems “Volumes of Philosophical Masterpieces”, “Just the Right Words”, “Vastness of Just the Right Moon”, and her two Notre Dame poems “Xystus to Foundation” and “Xyresic Flames”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “(pheromones) haiku, Instagram, Twitter, and poetry”. In part 3, Janet Kuypers reads her poems “”, “Eat Your Words”, “Xenon and PTSD, to Fight that Spiral”, and “Kept my Eye on You”, all read from the Janet Kuypers poetry book “Every Event of the Year (Volume one: January-June)” (Panasonic Lumix T56 camera; posted on Facebook Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram & Tumblr).
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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), KOOP (91.7FM), 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. 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. Starting at this time Kuypers released a large number of CD releases currently available for sale at iTunes or amazon, including “Across the Pond”(a 3 CD set of poems by Oz Hardwick and Janet Kuypers with assorted vocals read to acoustic guitar of both Blues music and stylized Contemporary English Folk music), “Made Any Difference” (CD single of poem reading with multiple musicians), “Letting It All Out”, “What we Need in Life” (CD single by Janet Kuypers in Mom’s Favorite Vase of “What we Need in Life”, plus in guitarist Warren Peterson’s honor live recordings literally around the globe with guitarist John Yotko), “hmmm” (4 CD set), “Dobro Veče” (4 CD set), “the Stories of Women”, “Sexism and Other Stories”, “40”, “Live” (14 CD set), “an American Portrait” (Janet Kuypers/Kiki poetry to music from Jake & Haystack in Nashville), “Screeching to a Halt” (2008 CD EP of music from 5D/5D with Janet Kuypers poetry), “2 for the Price of 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from Peter Bartels), “the Evolution of Performance Art” (13 CD set), “Burn Through Me” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from The HA!Man of South Africa), “Seeing a Psychiatrist” (3 CD set), “The Things They Did To You” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Hope Chest in the Attic” (audio CD set), “St. Paul’s” (3 CD set), “the 2009 Poetry Game Show” (3 CD set), “Fusion” (Janet Kuypers poetry in multi CD set with Madison, WI jazz music from the Bastard Trio, the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and Paul Baker), “Chaos In Motion” (tracks from Internet radio shows on Chaotic Radio), “Chaotic Elements” (audio CD set for the poetry collection book and supplemental chapbooks for The Elements), “etc.” audio CD set, “Manic Depressive or Something” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Singular”, “Indian Flux” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “The Chaotic Collection #01-05”, “The DMJ Art Connection Disc 1” (Janet Kuypers poetry to music from the DMJ Art Connection), “Oh.” audio CD, “Live At the Café” (3 CD set), “String Theory” (Janet Kuypers reading other people's poetry, with music from “the DMJ Art Connection), “Scars Presents WZRD radio” (2 CD set), “SIN - Scars Internet News”, “Questions in a World Without Answers”, “Conflict • Contact • Control”, “How Do I Get There?”, “Sing Your Life”, “Dreams”, “Changing Gears”, “The Other Side”, “Death Comes in Threes”, “the final”, “Moving Performances”, “Seeing Things Differently”, “Live At Cafe Aloha”, “the Demo Tapes” (Mom’s Favorite Vase), “Something Is Sweating” (the Second Axing), “Live In Alaska” EP (the Second Axing), “the Entropy Project”, “Tick Tock” (with 5D/5D), “Six Eleven”
“Stop. Look. Listen.”, “Stop. Look. Listen to the Music” (a compilation CD from the three bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds & Flowers” and “The Second Axing”), and “Change Rearrange” (the performance art poetry CD with sampled music).
From 2010 through 2015 Kuypers also hosted the Chicago poetry open mic the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting weekly feature and open mic podcasts that were also released as YouTube videos.
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 ISBN# ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, Prominent Tongue, 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# ISBN# hardcover art book life, in color, Post-Apocalyptic, Burn Through Me, Under the Sea (photo book), the Periodic Table of Poetry (with poems written for every element in the Periodic Table), a year long Journey, Bon Voyage! (a journal and photography book with select poems on travel as an American female vegetarian in India), 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. 2017, after her October 2015 move to Austin Texas, also witnessed the release of 2 Janet Kuypers book of poetry written in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and a book of poetry written for her poetry features and show, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (and both pheromemes books are available from two printers). In 2018, Scars Publications released “Antarctica: Earth’s Final Frontier” and “Antarctica: Wildlife” (2 Janet Kuypers full-color photography books from the first passenger ship to Antarctica in 2017), performance art books “Chapter 48 (v1)” (2009-2011) and “Chapter 48 (v2)” (2011-2018), the v5 cc&d poetry collection book “On the Edge”, and the interview/journal/poetry book “In Depth”.
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Thom Woodruff, thanks for taking photos of Janet Kuypers while she read her poetry from Scars Publications’ Down in the Dirt Sep./ Oct. 2019 v166 perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book “Climate Change” during the feature readings 10/2/19 for Community Poetry! live at Half Price Books (north Lamar) in Austin.