cover art by John Yotko
down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)
Janet K., Editor
http://scars.tv.dirt.htm
http://scars.tv - click on down in the dirt
Note that any artwork that appears in Down in the Dirt will appear in black and white in the print edition of Down in the Dirt magazine.
Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book: |
DemonEric Burbridge
Dr. Stephanie Nagle, Anesthesiologist, double checked the ID implant to verify the inmate’s credit rating. 786! A cop killer with a high credit score. Insurance reform targeted surgery to save money. Good credit ratings meant good medical care, in prison or out. The constitutionality of health care based on credit rating stalled in the courts. Low rating low anesthesia, quick surgery, less money, but don’t wake up. A low rating increased those chances.
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BeautifulMarlon Jackson
Beauty lies deeper than the blood in our flesh |
Water Never SleepsMrlon Jackson
Nature is at hand with the waves constantly moving
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Acquired TastesAllen M Weber
If he’s perturbed at all by the drowning
of their ficus—its leaves shriveled and
His was a talent for beginning; but once
even a single malt Scotch. He’d deny
together, didn’t upset him, that they were
And he’s been too busy to repaint,
to suffer through her favorite Coltrane,
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Allen M Weber Bio
Allen lives in Hampton, Virginia with his wife and their three sons.
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Love ShapesD.S. Maolalai
She wanted this guy
She wanted to be with him,
There are a few things better than
It was all she wanted to talk about
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Across the GrasslandTravis Green
The ocean whooshes beyond the sunset,
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ShroudedBen Macnair
To keep Parrots silent,
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Janet Kuypers reads the Ben Macnair poem Shrouded from Down in the Dirt magazine |
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading the Ben Macnair poem Shrouded in Down in the Dirt magazine live 6/5/13 in Chicago at her the Café Gallery poetry open mic (S) |
I open my skull with a flowerFritz Hamilton
I open my skull with a flower, & a mad butterfly flits in. He brightens the black emptiness as the crow caws & sharpens Jesoo’s claws. Jesoo fornicates with the dirty bird, loving his neighbor as he loves himself (O probably not that much) & carries her off to eat crow. A feather sticks in his yellow molars & withers away from the bad breath, where all God’s creatures meet their death.
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The kaleidoscope darkens its windowFritz Hamilton
The kaleidoscope darkens its windows to
elephants that fall off the path into a gully too
the gator & tit, the hippo that starves, & the drunk half-lit/
in manger danger as Herod draws near, & Jesoo escapes
stench gets outrageous when enters a skunk/ the world is a
tooth/ the wild people arrive & forsooth/ they kill all the
John, & on your Mark & go, round & round the dog track,
bang Eve, & the little pop from her womb like popcorn that
Jimmy cracks porn & Artie’s dead, Jimmy cracks porn & all
Who’s at fault?/ Jesoo’s !
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Penny Arcade InflatedRobert Heath
It‣s awhile since I‣ve been in an arcade
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PunctuationJanet Doggett
I had a friend once tell me
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Janet Kuypers reads the Janet Doggett poem Punctuation from Down in the Dirt magazine |
See YouTube video of Janet Kuypers reading the Janet Doggett poem Punctuation in Down in the Dirt magazine live 6/5/13 in Chicago at her the Café Gallery poetry open mic (S) |
Home Sweet HomeMike Brennan
Asides from his bluish pallor, the hardest thing to deal with was my bottle of pills on my brother’s nightstand. It was my stolen medication that was sitting right next to the bloody syringe he obviously used to inject my now crushed pain medication in a blackened Coke can that lay by his right side.
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Mike Brennan BioMike Brennan was born in San Diego, lived in London for seven years, and then spent most of his formative years in Los Angeles. He was honorably discharged from the U.S Navy in 2009 (which forms the basis of some of his short stories and a novel he is desperately trying to complete), and is currently a Freshman Composition and Narrative and Descriptive writing instructor at Northern Michigan University while completing his MA. After that who knows what the future may hold during these bleak times.
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The Nomad and the DromedaryMichael D. Brown
The camel in his kindest tone
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Michael D. Brown BioAward winning American author/poet of 17 books, including 6 volumes of poetry, Michael D. Brown, PhD currently lecturing and providing literary reviews internationally is teaching Chinese PhD’s English in the former capital city of Nanjing. Brown’s latest book, “Brown’s Simplified English Grammar.” Is available with Mandarin translation. Brown’s new poems have been featured in 22 journals between November 2011 and June 2012. His work appears in: The Tower Journal, Igdrasil, Mad Swirl, and Velvet Illusion.
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The HoleZachary F. Gerberick
The man stroked the lacquered wooden handle; hoping a small piece of eucalyptus would splinter off into his palm. He examined the shovel, about four feet in length with a varnished black steel head curved to a dull point, a spade. He removed it from the garage wall, releasing its D-shaped handgrip from the metal hooks that held the shovel for so many years. He tested the weight of it by carefully lifting it up and down, then, finding the fulcrum point of the shovel, he balanced it on the palm of his right hand. He valued the shovel, how it always got the job done. The man slowly walked to his backyard, broke open the earth and started to dig.
The man grabbed an old shoebox from under his bed. He emptied its contents, which held different color shoe polishes, two shoehorns, and an ivory hand brush. He inherited the brush from his father, who traded a stainless steel lighter for it while in South Africa during the First Great War. There was an African landscape engraved into the brush, with a giraffe eating from an Acacia tree. The man rubbed his hand through the horsehair bristles and remembered when his father taught him how to shine shoes when he was a child. The man carefully went through these steps while realizing that he had never taught his own son how to shine shoes. After the man had finished, he carefully placed the shoes under his bed and walked outside so he could continue with his digging. His fingers began to bleed, staining the eucalyptus handle a dark burgundy. The only time he would stop digging was to pop the blisters on his fingers using a razorblade from his toolkit. But for the most part, the man ignored the pain and went on with his digging, pulling up pile after pile of earth. The dirt was dark brown and moist at first, but it slowly changed into a reddish clay-like soil the deeper he dug. Every once in awhile the man would hit a root and would have to use all his strength to break through it. The man’s sweat blended with the dirt on his face, creating a thin layer of mud. After so much digging, the man’s arms and legs began to numb. The shovel became a part of his body, an extension of his arm. He began to lose control of his movements and the shovel took over.
The sun started to rise when he heard the voice of his neighbor.
After another hour, the boy came back outside and sat down next to the hole. It was getting so deep that the man was having trouble tossing the soil out of it. The boy had brought out a piece a paper and some crayons. He tried to draw a picture of his father digging. He then started to draw a picture of his mother lying down on a bed. He tried his hardest to draw straight lines but was unsuccessful since he didn’t have a flat surface to draw on. He only had three different colors: Asparagus Green, Macaroni and Cheese Yellow, and Wild Blue Yonder. He used the blue for his mother’s dress and the yellow for her hair. Every few minutes he would look up and watch the dirt soar through the air. The father exited the hole to get a drink and saw the boy’s drawing. The man tried to quickly walk away.
After some more digging, the man’s shovel hit something hard. It made a loud, hollow noise that rang throughout the hole. The man struck the object a few more times. The son jumped up to see what it was.
The father woke up an hour later to his son’s face, which caused him to smile for the first time in weeks. They quietly stared at each other. The father watched the boy slowly fall asleep. As the boy started to snore, the man began to talk.
The next morning, after watching the boy sleep, the man grabbed a lawn chair from the back porch and set it next to the hole. He stood up and started to pace back and forth around the ditch. He stared down to the bottom, not able to see anything but darkness. Walking over to the pile of dirt, he grabbed a small handful of soil and let it gradually fall from his hands down into the hole. He then began to slowly push small amounts of dirt back down to the bottom. At first just a few grains, he then started to kick more and more soil down into the hole. He eventually stopped and walked back to his room.
Once the boy woke up, the man presented his son with a cake. It was chocolate with vanilla icing around the edges. The man had put ten red and white striped candles in the center.
After the man put his son to sleep, he walked over to his closet and grabbed his best suit, a silk tweed jacket and a pair of gray trousers. The jacket was the color of the earth, with two wooden buttons underneath the collar. He took his time putting it on, making sure every crease and wrinkle was flattened out. The man then grabbed the polished shoes and slid them onto his feet. He carefully tied his shoelaces and slowly walked toward the window. He stood there for a minute, feeling the icy draft blowing in, eventually pulling down the blinds to cover the broken window.
“Okay, son. I don’t have much time, but the first thing you should know is to always place a towel on the ground so you don’t stain the carpet. This stuff doesn’t come out if you spill. You follow?”
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The Sell-OutRyan Priest
The seats were made out of hard orange plastic. The ground was concrete, like a locker room with cracks and stains all over its otherwise smooth face. Thirty-years old and in a bus station, was this failure? Max ran his hands heavily down his face trying to wake himself up a bit.
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Rebuilt PartsKenneth Schalhoub
My disassembled life happened not suddenly, although it seemed it had. I somehow lost my attention. The time-distended rush of pot and the warm flow of Scotch whiskey distracted my senses. How did this happen? I ask my therapist, the one who will not take money from me. She always answers me the same way: “That’s the way humans are. We are a species of deniers. Don’t criticize yourself; we just need to work on it.”
The personal ad I placed only attracts one response, not by phone call, but rather in person. She rings my doorbell at 8 A.M. on the morning she calls “the only right morning.”
The doorbell rings at eight sharp. Her presentation is new; more casual and interesting. She is wearing noticeable eye makeup, red lipstick and nail polish, jewel studded earrings, and open-toed heals with equally painted toenails. Her top is flowered silk with two buttons open just enough to show she is a woman. Her royal blue skirt is mid-thigh.
Eleanor returns at seven with a bag of food. She is dressed in tight spandex jeans, cut sweatshirt, and pumps. Her hair is in a ponytail and she has very little makeup on. She kisses me on the cheek and says that’s just to make sure I’m relaxed. She has brought steaks, potatoes, pre-made salad, and a bottle of red wine.
When I emerge from my stale sleeping room showered and ready I see her already seated in the living room chair—the one she always uses during meetings. She is not the flamboyant partier from last night, but rather, she is dressed as a professional again; hair back in a bun, gray business suit and medium black heals. I ask her why the change?
Eleanor returns dressed in a simple cotton green and yellow quilted day dress not unlike the type my mother always wore. Her feet are hidden by simple flats and her hair is pulled into a loose French Twist helped with bobby pins. She brings eggs, bacon, and white bread.
Eleanor Durand arrives at the prescribed time, on the prescribed day in jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, ponytail, with two suitcases. I stare at her and she laughs.
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The Big Duck Opines:
CEE |
Better than STAR WARS, but Only for a MinuteCEE
You don’t “get” Christian reality, do you?
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The kite String BrokeHannah Gaden Gilmartin
The beach was huge, wide but empty. That was why we had come here today, rather than yesterday, or tomorrow, or next week. We didn’t need other people to be here; we didn’t need their noise or their smiles or their muttered greetings as they passed us by. My father had always preferred solitude, and so did I.
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Eleanor Leonne Bennett Bio (20120229)Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old iinternationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic,The World Photography Organisation, Nature’s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.
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In The Mind’s EyeRichard LindDeep Blue Ocean waters lapped against the bow of the tiny wooden lifeboat.
Inside lay, a large blond man dressed in a dirty white shirt and tattered black pants, sleeping. A particularly large wave struck hard against his safe haven causing him to waken. He did so with an audible groan.
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Seeking SolaceKerry Lown Whalen
I recall the sounds of childhood. The tick of the mantelpiece clock. My parents’ exchanges. Unremarkable murmurs. Occasional laughter. Then a change, a nuance, making the hair bristle on the back of my neck. Just as still desert air presages a storm, raised voices in my house foreshadowed war.
Wind-whipped waves frothed on a brooding sea as I mooched along the cliff top. Through a rocky opening I slid feet-first, my toes finding the ledge beneath. Waves roared below, scouring away seaweed and snarled fishing line. My foray demanded careful timing. Salt stung my face as I crouched, ready to jump once the water drained to thigh level. When the moment came I leapt into the swirl, fighting the power of the sea. From the fray the cave beckoned, its footholds leading me upwards. Panting, I scrambled inside and looked at the gale teasing the waves, tossing them in foaming plumes onto rocky platforms. I fixed my gaze on the horizon. It seemed as straight as a ruler, but nothing was what it seemed. Adulthood claimed me when I was thirteen.
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The Old Man Who Hid MusicTom Sheehan
One day at the little house where the dowser used to live a kind-looking man with a beard came carrying all he owned on an A-frame on his back. He set the A-frame on the ground and looked at the small house needing much work. Muscles moved under his shirt.
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Consent in OctoberAbir Wood
For years, I have watched her hunched over the old sewing machine, with her lips pressed tight, almost pouting, and her eyes intensely focused, as she grew ancient under layers of time, fate, and circumstance. I have repeatedly been swept by waves of guilt as I watched her, the beauty of Angel Creek, wither behind her silence. I remember Lily the cheerful young woman with the broad smile and the twinkly eyes that lit up her round amiable face. Like the spring creeks dry up in the summer, her gushing smile dried up one day and her long season of hushed existence started.
My eyes widened with curiosity and my heart jumped with joy. They were finally getting married.
In the days that followed, I spent all my spare time in Lily’s shop. She was very pale and silent. Often times she would go to the bathroom and return red around the nose and the eyes. I was sure she made those trips to cry. Mark stopped visiting the shop. I wanted to say something, but I never did. I waited for the subject to come up so I could drop a hint or two, but it never did. I was burning on the inside. I came up with many schemes to save their wonderful love, but the only thing I ever did was ask, “So, Lily, do you think Mark will make another bench?”
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Ugly House
Janet Kuypers |
How You Looked ThenJanet KuypersI take snapshots of these things in my mind. I rifle through them.
I never told you that I loved to watch you in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. It would usually be after you shaved, or even after you dressed, when you were almost ready to go but had to fix your hair. And you’d look in the mirror,and you’d be brushing the sides of your head with your curved fingertips, and you’d be scrutinizing yourself, eyes just slightly squinted. I always thought you looked most handsome when you did that with your eyes, squinted like that, like you were looking for something, searching. Or when we were at that restaurant and you were sitting across from me, wearing the denim button-down shirt I bought you, and you were eating, and you were slouched over your plate, elbows on the table, and you were just eating, not paying attention to much else around you. And you hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the copper-colored stubble was every once in a while catching the light. And in between bites you kept combing your hair back with your fingers, because it kept falling while you ate. While you were eating, I just had to stop, lean back, and stare at you for a while. I don’t know why, but I’ll never forget how you looked then.
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How You Looked Then |
Watch this YouTube video read live 01/18/11 from the ISSN# & ISBN# book Finally, Literature for the Snotty and Elite, live at the Café in Chicago |
Watch this YouTube video of the intro and readings (including this piece), live 01/18/11 at the Chicago open mic at the Café |
A LetterJanet Kuypers
I was looking through some old photographs of mine the other night, and I came across a photo of you. A snapshot, by the pool in Florida. Years ago. Those were the days when you thought you were cool, when another gang broke your ribs, when the cops chased you down the street for trying to steal a car. They caught you because you slipped in your two hundred dollar boots. You had to sell your stereo to pay your lawyer. It’s funny to see that I lasted longer than her, that I still have a hold over you. Did you ever give her an engagement ring? Was it an emerald, too?
I remember once, in the hall, after you took a drag from your cigarette, leaned over the pool table and made your shot, you told me that you would do anything for me. I asked if you’d give me the diamond earring in your ear. You remember the one, the one a married thirty-five year old woman gave you when you were sleeping with her. Yeah, that one. And you told me that if I needed it, you’d sell it and give me the money.
Someone told me last spring that they heard you say, Have you ever decided that you wanted something so much, but you knew you could never have it?”
Yes, it was nice to see a change, it was nice to see you sitting in the mornings with your coffee and your cigarette drawing in your book, creating. You have potential, you’ve got a genius inside you that’s been beaten up by too many gangs, screamed at too many times by your family, hardened by too many pains, hurt by too many insane nights.
You used to always tell me I was the only person that knew you. You wanted someone to talk to, and you wanted it to be me. It’s not love. You should know that by now. It’s two people, from two different countries, from two different worlds, who can read each other’s minds.
Less than a week after you stormed out of the bar, someone came up to me and asked, Why are you still wearing his emerald ring?”.
When you stormed out of the bar a few months ago, I didn’t think you were leaving town. But you were gone. Damn, you’re such a hot head. But I know you. A few months will pass, maybe a year, and you will call again. You will say you want to be friends. But it’s more than that. And when you can’t stand it anymore, when you need that feeling again, you’ll call.
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AgeJanet Kuypers
Sometimes, when I get behind the wheel of a car, I feel like I’m at Six Flags Great America Amusement Park In Gurnee, Illinois again and I’m thirteen years old and I’m able to drive one of the bumper cars. And it’s such a thrill -- because, I mean, I’m thirteen years old and I can’t drive, and I’m now in control of this huge piece of machinery. Granted, there’s this wire sticking up from the car that gets electricity from the ceiling, but for once I feel free, that I can just go, go faster than I ever could by running, or even if I used my roller skates or my bicycle. Sometimes, when I go out on a new date, I feel like I’m sixteen again, and I’ll rifle through my closet, deciding I have absolutely nothing to wear. And he’ll pick me up, and we’ll go to a restaurant with deer heads on the walls, and we’ll have whiskey sours, and we’ll struggle with the lettuce leaves in the salads because they’re too big, and when we’re done with dinner we’ll go to a bar that’s so crowded and so loud that we won’t be able to talk to each other, but we’ll have to stand real close. And then he’ll take me home and I’ll invite him in, he’ll sit on the chair, I’ll sit on the couch, and he’ll ask for a glass of water. When we can’t think of any more small talk, and the clock says 3:12 a.m., I’ll see him to the door, he’ll kiss me good-bye, and I’ll lock the door after he leaves. And when I’m sure he can’t see me through the window, I’ll turn on the stereo and dance in my living room before I go to bed. Sometimes, when I’m having sex with someone, I feel like I’ve done this for years, like I’ve been married to this man for twenty years, and I still don’t know him, but I’m still there, night after night. After the wedding, after the new house, which was a little small, but we’ll get something bigger when we have the money, after the two kids and the fifteen pounds, after I lose my job, after we don’t get that new house and after the kids complain about their curfews, after the dog dies, hell, it was only trouble for us anyway, after the sinus headaches, the back problems, that all-over sore feeling, you know, it’s harder to wake up in the mornings now, after it all he still has the nights, the sex with the woman he knows all too well but not at all, and we do it, as we always do. It becomes memorization. It becomes like a play, that I act out night after night.
Sometimes, when I get home after 10 o’clock from working overtime on the computers, I just want to retire, to quit the work, to stop it all. I see my parents, after a life of working at the construction site and raising five children, now beginning to relax, buying a small home in Southwest Florida, playing tennis in the morning, playing cards in the afternoon, drinking with other retired couples in the evening. Sometimes another couple invites them out for a boat ride off of Marco Island, where they smoke cigarettes, drink a few beers, and drive slow enough to make no wake when they’re by the pier.
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Age |
Watch the YouTube video Live at Beach Poets 08/14/05 |
Order this iTunes track: from the Chaotic Collection ...Or order the entire 5 CD set from iTunes: CD: |
Listen through the DMJ Art Connection, off the CD Indian Flux |
Watch this YouTube video (4:27) recorded of dancing Boobies (birds called Nazca Boobies, Punta Suarez, Espanola Island 12/25/07, Galapagos Islands) |
Watch this YouTube video @ the Pacific Ocean 12/07 @ the Galapagos Islands |
Watch this YouTube video live at the Café in Chicago 02/25/10 |
Watch the YouTube video of this reading with the intro & other writings, live 05/25/10 at the Café |
Leaving for WorkJanet Kuypersyou’re walking down the street, it’s morning, and a man tries to mug you with a knife. it’s a nice street, you’re thinking, there’s no litter here. their garbage day is the same as your sister’s in the suburbs. how strange. you pause, don’t know how to react to this mugger-guy, and another guy walks up behind you, another regular joe, he’s not with the mugger-guy, trying to jump you, he’s just walking down the street, probably on his way to work, like you, so then the mugger-guy tries to mug him too. so the other guy pulls a gun, this regular joe, and then a lady from a house on the street calls 911. and you’re thinking to yourself, why does this regular joe have a gun? and who should you be more scared of now? is any of this real? it almost seems like tv. then the police come in two minutes, you’re safe then, and the mugger-guy is still there and the regular joe with the gun is keeping him there by holding the gun to him, and so then you’re talking to one of the officers. and then the other officer on the scene sees the mugger-guy stab the regular joe, the guy with the gun, and then tries to wrestle for the gun. the mugger-guy then shoots the guy with the gun while in the struggle, then the cop, the other cop, shoots and kills the mugger. and you’re just standing there, on the street, less than ten feet away from all of this. all of this just happened on the street, right in front of you. you didn’t even get to say a word. who is dead? who is alive? what just happened? are you scared? this is america, you think, and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. then you hear a car engine start, and you look and just a few cars away a person is leaving for work.
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Leaving for Work |
Watch this YouTube video Live at One Acts (camera #1, 07/06/09 |
See another YouTube video Live at One Acts (camera #2, 07/06/09 |
Watch the full show of One Acts (camera #1, 07/06/09) from the Internet Archive |
Watch the full show of One Acts (07/06/09, camera #2)... from the Internet Archive |
Watch the YouTube video 05/31/11 at the Café in Chicago (from her book Close Cover Before Striking) |
Watch this YouTube video of the intro to the 05/31/11 open mic at the Café in Chicago, plus her Close Cover Before Striking poems |
See YouTube video (19:36) of Kuypers 05/31/11 at the Café reading her writing:The Carpet Factory the Shoes, Taking Out the Brain, Tell Me, All the Loose Ends, Filled with Such Panic, Leaving for Work, Accounts for the Need of Gun Control, January 1995, Me or Him, Gun Dealers and Gas Stations, and Domestic Violence in America Nashville TN (stick) |
See YouTube video of Kuypers reading the prose leaving for work live 6/5/13 as the intro to the open mic the Café Gallery in Chicago (Sony) |
See YouTube video of Kuypers reading the prose leaving for work live 6/5/13 as the intro to the open mic the Café Gallery in Chicago (Canon) |
See YouTube video of Kuypers hosting the open mic 6/5/13 at Gallery Cabaret’s the Café Gallery in Chicago, which contains this writing |
Janet Kuypers Bio
Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006. |
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans dont consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CRESTs three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CRESTs SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does on the road presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061