the
b’k
bitchin’ kitsch
8 Iss. 11 Nov 2017 Vol.
The Talent
Cover: “Untitled” by Chris Talbot-Heindl. Arif Ahmad Tim J. Brennan Holly Day Catherine Fahey Sasheera Gounden Mark Myavec Tehri Parker Douglas Polk Erica Prather Olivier Schopfer Arushi Singh Chris Talbot-Heindl
18-19 8 3 10-11 9, 17 7 12 20 14-15 6, 16, 22 4-5 cover, 13
Holly Day | Perspective | poetry I have spent every day of my life worrying about the oil crises, AIDS, what is and is not on the endangered species list raw sewage in swimming pools, the drinking water having food on the table, getting/not getting pregnant exposure to citywide pesticide sprayings, and I wish it could be just about The Bomb, any one of The Bombs something simple, concrete a great, bloated, careless god confined to a specific locale entirely destructive and fear-worthy but only if actually invoked.
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Arushi Singh | cell 1 | poetry before your sister echoes your name another word will rise on her lips wilt for a second before it grips her she will take it back in because she is your sister and they taught her to swallow her lies and forget that life is a vertical line and not a horizontal one it is vertical yes —she will remember as she takes the word back down her tongue swallow it — just another thing unsaid- trapped between her lungs If she had walked all the way she would arrive here because vertical lines carry children faster If she had smelt the road she would know you had moved on choked between two breaths and if she had bent her knee she would remember that the leg is one till you divide it into two she will walk again. Down that vertical line and remember father said —life is not a landscape just a line- if you look back you will slip off it you swallow your pride and carry through remember the most beautiful color in the world is the one your mother points to If she had walked here you’d download the memories of a different girl cherish another child or two before you realized there was a mix up in the hospital because your sister looks nothing like your father looks nothing like the man who said valiantly — don’t shit where you eat you would remember life is just another song drifting in the rain you would call out your mother’s name and she would return the woman who sold her child for a single bun
we are poverty in tatters till we see remember hear the voice of another dickhole flying by remember life is just a rug eventually too many people will step on it and it’ll be covered with shit but younger rugs will confuse the dirt for decoration father said — don’t mistake bitterness for wisdom and we we always do
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Olivier Schopfer
Olivier schopfer | Patterns | photograph
mark myavec
mark myavec | broken home | photograph
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Tim J Brennan | Fragments of Jean | poetry There are twelve years in a primary school, thirteen hearts in a deck of cards. I played with both. I never saw my father pray, only saw him cry once at his sister’s funeral. Jean went in her garage, shut all the doors, started the car. I often wonder if she prayed before the gas ran out: give me back my childhood, take my hand, squeeze it hard Father watched me climb stairs, learn an eclipse is the moon crossing in front of the sun. He once told me there would be times no church bells would ring, no boy would swing. I was thirteen and I still wonder what happened. Did she have some sort of opening, a breach of sorts? There were hearts her hands couldn’t reach, times that went beyond her own.
Sasheera Gounden
Sasheera Gounden | Scripted | Ink on paper
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Catherine Fahey | The External Soul | poetry I mistrust my memories, the bright ones and the gas-lit ones. I’m waiting for my neurons to fail, my brain to tangle. I’m waiting to forget how to breathe, and the start of this poem. I read a fairy tale, or think I did, about a giant who kept his heart in egg, and could not die. Best practice is to have an on-site and external backup of all data, but I’m leery of accidental custard, so I save my mind in multiple redundancies. My strongest memories are cast in metal. The silver and green earrings I got at the conference, and the gold sun-and-moon ones hold a dream. That bracelet was made on a dare. When I wish to forget, I follow KonMari, and thank the object for its service. I sold my high school ring for scrap because I hated those bitches, and kept my sorority pin, even though I de-sistered: a charm against future bitches. My mother’s class ring sits in my jewelry box, its onyx stone cracked, half-missing. I can’t bring myself to wear it, look at it, destroy it, sell it, toss it into the sea, bury it, burn it. So I hide it away, and keep it close. I never got a college ring, for those years are kept in books. Tangled together, their plots and theses jumbled into an impression of four years. We misname the people we love because our brains store all important names in the same place. When I call you Frodo, it’s not because I’m losing my mind, think you’re a hobbit, or love the dog more.
Everyday memories—ice cream & dances, bike rides & red lights, my nieces’ screams, my sister’s hair—are planted in a field. They grow wild there, among rosemary for remembrance & pansies for thoughts & rue for fuckups, all transformed, passing from bee to bee, becoming honey-sweet and candle-light. The hardest memories, the ones I can’t stop thinking about, the ones I can’t tell my therapist, the ones I can’t trust in my head, or outside it, are forget-me-nots, tattooed on my hands.
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Tehri Parker | Dear Utah | Poetry Dear Utah, For the last few days I have been exploring your back roads, moving through your landscapes, taking in your aromas of cedar, aspen, and alfalfa fields from my vantage on the back of a motorcycle. I have had some time to ponder you, so I hope you’ll hear me out. I can’t speak for all travelers, but I don’t think I am unique. I didn’t come here for your city lights (we have those back home). I didn’t come here for your weak coffee, hidden liquor stores, or overpriced lodging (can we work on that?). I came here for your endless unmarred vistas, For your slick rock hiking, For your desert pools, For your solitude, For rock formations that blow my mind, For your...wildness. Utah, my friend, you did not disappoint. But, don’t blow it. I know that Zinke and his pals want to “open you up,” sell your assets to the highest bidder, reduce the size of your grand monuments. Does that frighten you? It frightens me. Your wildness makes me a better person. It takes me outside of my head, gives me perspective, makes me care. And I’m not the only one - so many writers have said the same, in such soaring words. I can send you books if you want... Dear Utah, Please save yourself. Take action. Protect the vistas, canyons, peaks, washes, hudoos, and wild lands that make you, you. Show us how to take the long view, how to be a part of the earth not outside of it. We’ve got your back. #resist
Chris Talbot-Heindl
Chris Talbot-Heindl | untitled | Ink and Gouache on paper 13
Erica Prather | Objection! | Poetry Objection, objection – I have an objection. Refute, refuse, disapprove, disagree, dispute. Oppose. I object the numbers. 1,720 untouched acres for 6 miles of road and 48 new methane venting pads to reach 17 million tons of coal Over 50,000 comments that want to keep it in the ground 0 methane capture regulations the adjacent West Elk Mine is the #1 polluter in the state of Colorado I object to the mind-numbing sound of extraction in this quiet space. I object to finding a loophole to the Roadless Forest Act for a bankrupt company. I object the USFS neglect of the Endangered Species Act. I object the USFS skirting of the Environmental Protection Act. I object because the USFS did not address climate change. I object because the USFS said this project’s response to – ‘will this harm the Canadian Lynx?’ – was a pithy maybe, probably, we don’t really know. If you don’t know, don’t. Defer. Defer. Defer. “Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell…” I found the way to this place. It holds intrinsic value for me. It does not have a number. Public lands (we found our way there) Public lands (the aspens flirted with the sky that day) Public lands (no motorized vehicles! the signs are in all capital letters you know) Public lands (this means you) Public lands (I didn’t see a keep out sign) Public lands (I was transfixed by the golden grove) Public lands (from California to the new york island) Public lands (metallic waste rock in the stream) Public lands (arsenic in the rivers) Public lands (mercury and lead in our veins) Public lands (where will all the methane go?) Public lands are in the hands of the generation that grinds the hourglass sands
I object on the grounds that the USFS did not address the ESA or utilize NEPA to its fullest capacity. Outdated Biological Assessments dating from 2010 are not an acceptable source of information on which to judge the irreparable damage that will pockmark the landscape – just as the journey to the Sunset Roadless area attests. You can see these drainage pads from a satellite image. This is the message that we send to the rest of the world, to the universe, like an etching in rock – see what we value? It is spelled out in neat little squares. Anything orbiting earth can see. One more number: 10 10 years of coal left in adjacent West Elk Mine. It is more than enough. Will we fill the hourglass with soot? I object.
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Olivier Schopfer
Olivier schopfer | The Way to the sea | photograph
sasheera gounden
Sasheera Gounden | Matryoshka Doll | Ink on paper
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Arif Ahmad | Take a Knee | Essay Rapturous applause following, “Fire that SOB.� This for taking a knee. Seriously? Since when is kneeling considered disrespectful? I would have understood if it was something obnoxious or obscene, but kneeling? I would argue that to take a knee to the Anthem and the Flag and to allow that to happen is one of the most American things to do. Here is why.
Rest of the World
At many places on this planet protest and dissent are not acceptable. People are punished, jailed and killed for doing the same. We as Americans fight such practices ideologically by setting and emphasizing our example of allowing and tolerating peaceful protest. Our Military fights wars to try and protect our way of life so we can do just that. To be able to take a knee is holding on to everything which our Flag stands for and our Military defends.
Our Birth
The United States of America was born out of discontent, dismay, and revolt against, among other things, not having a voice. Taking a knee is a voice which needs to be heard.
Our Constitution
The supreme document of the Land, our Constitution, guarantees these freedoms, expressions, and assembly. The Flag, the Anthem, the Military are all symbols, extensions, and guardians of these rights, these liberties, and our Constitution.
Only In America
We Americans are unique. Doing things differently is ingrained in our DNA. We exercise and express our freedoms unabashedly and boldly. Taking a knee is an unusual way of protesting. We as Americans pride ourselves on being novel. To allow such protest is even more American. To discuss why and bring positive change as a result is the most American thing to do here. It is this last step which for us usually takes the longest. The real discussion here can and should be about justice and equality not just on paper but in reality.
The Right Thing To Do
To disagree with the idea is alright, to disallow it is not. To have a discourse is alright, to abuse and punish is not. Almost always, sooner or later, America comes around to do the right thing. We have to ask our better selves: What is the right thing to do here?
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douglas polk | Untitled | Poetry
believe in government, or the God above, independence, a concept of the past, free thought, comes with a price, responsibility a bitch, so better think twice, believe in government, or the God above, prayers said in either case.
History — The B’K
The Bitchin’ Kitsch (2010-present) or The B’K is a compzine edited and published by The TalbotHeindl Experience, LLC in Denver, Colorado. The Bitchin’ Kitsch was created as a monthly zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who had something to say. It was born out of a necessity to create an avenue for editor, Chris Talbot-Heindl, to remain artistic after school, with her subversive style, while continuing to live in Central Wisconsin. It exists for the purpose of open creativity and seeks to be an outlet for people who may not otherwise have an opportunity to show their work. Although the idea was created as a “what-if” brainstorm between the Talbot-Heindls’ whilst in bed and sort of groggy, it has since blossomed into a legitimate publication that has gone international Through the grace of the Internet, The B’K has had the opportunity to create a juried book and the opportunity to publish four juried chapbooks. Here’s to the past seven years, and hopefully many, many more.
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Olivier Schopfer
Olivier schopfer | Two Bridges | photograph