The Bitchin' Kitsch November 2013 Issue by Chris Talbot-Heindl

the bitchin’ kitsch content november 2013

Brooke Newman - pg. 9

Stephanie Jones - pg. 16

cover

About The B’K and Resources

Tea - Robin E. Lee

A 12-Year Birth Control Method PirateBagel

Bunny - Mitchell Krochmalnik Grabois

She - Marc Carver

Silence - Wayne Burke

Untitled - Laine Jewell

Scroll - Jeremiah Walton

I Am the Flower - Danielle Dragona

Premature bloom - John Roth

Why is it Always Only Fat, Unattractive People Who Think That Nudism is a Good Idea? - kaleeM rajA Lost in Saquaro - Sy Roth

Jesha and Jared - Brooke Newman

To Google Your Love, or, Not To Google Your Love - Louis Marvin and XY Court of Darkness - Mandal Bijoy Beg

Once - Douglas Polk

auntie - Jess Provencio

Author - Valentina Cano

Untitled Sailboat #7 - Jameson Stewart

a dog from hell (let it kill you) Robert Pino Crisp Paper, Dried Ink - Brett Stout

on the front cover: Transparency

W. Jack Savage Color pens on paper

on the inside back cover: Fuck You

Tanya Haller Acrylic painting

the bitchin’ kitsch video and music issue: Check out this month’s issue of video and music at www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch

Chris Critiques: Casual Crusade Against Cancer, Christopher Columbus Day, and Dicks Who Say Rape - Chris Talbot-Heindl

Transparency - W. Jack Savage

Witching Hour - Deborah Seewald 5

The Overdose - Julie Finch

8-11

Odyssey for an Extra - Mike Cluff

12 12

13 14 14

lickerish loves of the supervixens 15-16 - Peter Marra Black Eye - Kenneth P. Gurney 16 The Right Woman - John Grey

A silent shroud - Dawnell Harrison

A Spanish Gypsy & A Ghostly Writer - Robert Allen Beckvall Without You. - Afzal Moolla

congratulations, you did it Robin E. Lee

Untitled - Stephanie Jones

18 18 19

Donors and Index

Fuck You - Tanya Haller

robin e. lee, resources. about b’k:

The Bitchin’ Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creativity. If you have something you want to share, please email it to chris@ talbot-heindl.com. Are you a video or music artist? Submit your YouTube link or original file to dana@talbot-heindl.com. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (http://www.talbot-heindl.com/ bitchin_kitsch/submissions ) before submitting your work.

community copies:

Stevens Point readers, sit down and read The Bitchin’ Kitsch at our community locations: zest, epic studios tattooing and piercing, the coffee studio, tech lounge, and noel fine arts center.

advertising:

The Bitchin’ Kitsch is offering crazy low rates of $5 for a fourth-page ad, $10 for a half-page ad, and $20 for a full page ad. Order ads on our Shop The B’K page (http://www.talbotheindl.com/support-us/shop).

donation and acquisition:

Printing costs can be a bitch, which is why we continuously look for donations. Any amount helps and is appreciated. We also sell back copies of The B’K. To do either, visit our Shop The B’K page (http:// www.talbot-heindl.com/support-us/ shop_thebk).

Tea Robin E. Lee Ink, watercolor, and tea bag on paper http://creativecollectivity.ning.com

resources

On top of being the best publication ever created by human hands, The B’K would also like to present other opportunities that may be helpful to you as creators. If you have suggestions that could improve our list, please let us know. Resources we are privy to can be found at our Resources page (http:// www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/resources).

piratebagel, marc carver, laine jewell. A 12-Year Birth Control Method

by PirateBagel

When I was 16, I lost my virginity to someone. My history with her, between those 12 years, from then to now, was rocky and negative. Today we are on good terms and I hold her in a high regard. She is capable of amazing, wonderful things, and she does so on a daily basis. Ah, virginity. The first time is never what you hoped it would be, but it simply is. No protection was used. We had a pregnancy scare. Fortunately, the universe saw fit to toss us a life raft for our stupidity. As I floated back to safer shores, I returned a scared, broken kid. “I really, really don’t want to be a parent, for a long time,” I told myself. The idea that I could become responsible for another life while barely understanding my own had mortified me to the point where I wouldn’t even consider the act for 7 years afterwards. The threat of a pregnancy before graduation had become the strongest birth control method I’d ever experienced. I told myself often that I’d live my life the way I want to. Indulging in my hobbies, being myself and loving myself. So despite being scarred, I moved onward, loving new people, and expressing myself through hobbies without a smidgen of responsibility to worry myself with. The sex would come later. The responsibility of offspring would come later. And then along came Nora. She’s 11 months old. I’m a lucky jerk to be her godfather. I was approached last-minute by friends who needed a sitter during the day. During a work-day, no less. Thanks to a wonderful work environment, I was able to take a personal day and watch after Nora. I’d never done this before. I’ve never changed a diaper. Or fed a baby. Or put one to sleep. Today I did all that. And it gave me optimism. Hope. As I spoon-fed some applesauce, changed diapers, cuddled and nuzzled and watched My Little Pony and played with a child incapable of remembering who I am at this point in her life, I felt a wave of peace come over me. I lost sleep last night over the excitement, the 4

prosperity, and the soul-crushing fear of caring for a child for 9 hours with no prior experience. And you know what? I handled it just fine. I even enjoyed myself. This doesn’t make me ready to be a parent full-time. It doesn’t give me the itch to become a father in the immediate future. But today gave me the gentle push forward that I’ve long needed. Nora, in her endless babbling and grunting, healed me. I’ve wanted to become a parent some day, not knowing if I could ever handle it. I was given a test run, and I didn’t hit any curbs. I’m not ready, but I am getting started. The ride is certainly comfier than I feared it to be. Thanks to Nora, I’m not afraid, but optimistic.

She

By: Marc Carver It is too painful to sit next to her she is just too beautiful it makes me feel strange like i am alive again. She looks like she has been washed in the eternal fountain of youth. God i need that fountain it might make me look younger may even make me scrub up a bit but one thing is for sure. She will not be walking out with me.

Untitled

By: Laine Jewell Summer, the season of soft, spreadable butter Such a luxury

danielle dragona, kaleeM rajA, sy roth, louis marvin and xy. I Am The Flower

Lost in Saquaro

A flower breathes life into the beauty we cling to deep in our hearts, not perceptible to the naked eye. Embellished perfection that all of our existence we sweat and toil to purge out with vicious hands and laughing eyes that need to seize a transient glimpse of the purity and innocence that still exist in a cynical and weary world. Searching outside instead of seeking within, the quest for truth is then shrouded in silhouettes of deception and deceit that suck the life out of those who dwell in the darkness. The cadence of death.

Feculant man, begrimed, planted at the foot of this cramped fusty space, hall of foggy, labyrinthine mirrors, where time absconds with purpose. Own-mind prisoner, his solitude bits of sand toted bit by crystalline bit in tiny mouths. Heaped, they form a miniscule hillock that blocks memories where seconds tick-tock interminably. No past, only present, sentry to flashbacks, unraveling skeins that lay like roadside kill, squashed, disconnected. He pushes through walls of jello, and brain flutters like a chorus of flapping crows that lightly brush the dust off him. He inhales, releases protracted, zephyrean last breaths, through puffed out lips, a playing-card vibrato tongue wrapped in the blades of whirling fan sings of the bizarre leap into the cleansing desert among the Saguaro.

By: Danielle Dragona

I long to sprint toward the sun, feel the morning dew caress warm and moist on my face. I yearn to bloom like the flower, unfurl my sparkling petals exploding with life as I scrape the sky, burst from the fertile earth and bathe freely in the radiant sunlight. I want my colors to glow and shine in all their brilliance, their essence true to their core. No more shame or guilt, no more blame. I want to be free. I am the flower.

Why is it Always Only Fat, Unattractive People Who Think That Nudism is a Good Idea? By: kaleeM rajA

Naturist enthusiasts resist raiment And insist naked is what nature meant. But it must be pointed out That the truth about Nudist group advocates is That they have the saggiest bits.

By: Sy Roth

To Google Your Love, or, Not To Google Your Love By: Louis Marvin and XY

Dr. Jack Veenum began to write about his love for Dr. Wang over the internet. Google+ to be exact. He tried his clumsy best to hide it, or keep it simple and plain, but it seemed that his heart was exploding and he was mixing work and strife, as you would not call this deep love pleasure. It is more a pining like deer rutting or wolves howling in the night when the females are ready to go. Blood in the snowy white woods.

mandal bijoy beg, douglas polk, jess provencio, valentina cano. Court of Darkness

auntie

O dear friends, I hereby invite and greet you all, From the deepest core of my coppery heart, To have share in my Court of Darkness.

seen dis a public bus kyan see and smell everyone from all ova flip-flops in the rain a windbreaker meant for climates with a drier spring nothing she is wearing is waterproof toes gnarled like tree roots their joints swollen with arthritis announce her advanced years like the trunk of a transplanted tree auntie’s bones miss the island heat

By: Mandal Bijoy Beg

Please come, we’ll discuss the characteristics Of our respective philosophies, I want to be absorb’d in the wine of Religion, I’m that Fire which accepts every straw of Faith. Let me know, I feel thirsty in my mind, About Brahman, Brahma, Brahmana and Brahmin, About Trishoola, Swastika and the AUM, Tell me about the Six Systems of Philosophy, Tell me about the Vedas and the Bhagavad Gita, Tell me about the contents of the Tripitaka And the Jina’s Gospel of Non-violence. Let me know of Judaism, Zoroastrianism, Islam, Sikhism and Christianity too. Please come, I feel restless in inquisition, Let’s seek for the Seed of Perpetual Peace, My Court of Darkness is awaiting you all.

Once

By: Douglas Polk tomorrow I wed, tonight I lay in bed, smoke curling from the end of my cigar, ashes on my chest, little wedding dresses of white, and gray, frilly and lacy, piling neatly upon my shirt, hide the pounds, hide the hurt, love ugly, when finally unwrapped, but the aroma enticing.

By: Jess Provencio

me naw unnastan buy a fruit a market just pic a fruit a tree now a haffi buy in a country with 24 hour electricity auntie’s arthritis doesn’t let her stand on her tiptoes she can barely reach the safety rail when the bus brakes her eyes squint from sun wrinkled leather living in a place with too much smog sore from putting in her years until social security kicked in now she works more than full time faded like the flowers on her blouse taking care of the grandchildren while her children go from job to job she shuttles back and forth between houses braving the elements in her inadequate clothes the trail of her long skirt smudged with mud while she remembers a life on the island as vivid as the print on her headwrap

Author

By: Valentina Cano She counts and picks out beads, pouring them into and out of her hand. Checking the ones that refuse to tumble, the ones that have split from the inside out. The whole ones, the ones with layers of colors spread out into fans, those are the ones she’ll roll into place. Slot by slot by slot.

jameson stewart, robert pino, brett stout. Untitled Sailboat #7

By: Jameson Stewart

Sometimes I can be so selfish I forget that it was your hands That nourished the roots of my body Watering my tangled roses And I, the one not waiting, For your love to blossom I wish for love, For the flicker and dim light Of a candle The dignity of a statue. I wish for all things beautiful To land in your hands Hands who are busy healing the Earth, Cultivating my heart. My darling Mary, I feel like a dying plant That suddenly sings When you are near Because I drink the water That you carry in your voice

a dog from hell (let it kill you) (anastasia – act 2)

By: Robert Pino

i disagree, old man, about the gutters and the suicides and the need to cage our bluebirds. last Saturday after years of darkness i opened my eyes and by sunday they had adjusted to the light a new brightness in your presence, i struggle to remain internal, my secrets and crevices flex out into the sun

Crisp Paper, Dried Ink

By: Brett Stout http://brett-stout.deviantart.com/ pink paper and black ink, I confess you, Bob Dylan acoustic not electric 1965 chromed Cherokee’s scalp linear blacktopped skin of bad local blurry used car promotional television ads, white paper and black ink, I confess you, bent notebooks bind and record soiled by the water’s edge rotting in a living room closet no sanitary air freshener is getting rid of that pungent smell, yellow paper and black ink, I confess you, receipts unreturned and setting ablaze wooden floors of sand and volcanic ash 979 numbers left and right I have no home but I keep pressing 7.

you will be the slow and joyful death of me

chris talbot-heindl. Chris Critiques: Casual Crusade Against Cancer By: Chris Talbot-Heindl October 10, 2013

And beyond that, for the sake of argument, let’s say that breast cancer only afflicts women. Does that mean that women are the only people affected by breast cancer? Don’t even answer that. I don’t want to bring this conversation down to that level. The second slacktivist activity running rampant on my social media pages is the meme about not wearing a bra on October 13. No information, just, “set the tatas free.” Since there’s no information, I’m going to have to assume that this is based on the misinformation that bras cause cancer. I remember hearing that in my early 20’s, which is why I never wore one. Science has since proven that the risk of breast cancer is the same for women who wear bras and those that don’t. That myth has been busted.

As with all awareness months, breast cancer awareness month has attracted all sorts of super-clandestine, super-exclusive, shake-and-bake style social media slacktivism activities that we can all (ahem…I mean all of us with vaginas, according to some of these memes) casually participate in from the comfort of our computer chairs and/or beds. This year, the “I <3 Boobies” campaign has conveniently shrunken into the “<3” campaign, proving that our language is indeed deteriorating at a rapid pace and apparently our ability to type nine extra characters (including spaces) is just too much to do for awareness of cancer. This year’s new hip thing is to post a heart on your Facebook wall, completely out of context. Somehow, magically, this heart raises awareness of breast cancer this month. I don’t know, maybe if I click on it, it will give me a factual lesson on the disease and how to combat it. *click* *click* No such luck. Last month, my sister-inlaw posted one all on her own to indicate that she was happy that day. This month, it’s about breast cancer. While that action is completely useless and inept, oddly enough, it isn’t the part that gets on my tits. What does is the boilerplate message that accompanies this fun activity which says, “It’s for breast cancer week…No men…Peace & Love.” How fucking incompetent is that? It’s 2013, people! We all know that men have breasts too, and that these men with breasts also get breast cancer in their breasts. Albeit, not as often as women, since it has been found that estrogen promotes cancer growth. But men are at risk as well. 8

To compound the fact that these campaigns do little, if anything, to circulate information about breast cancer, it has come to my attention that these activities are quite harmful to survivors of breast cancer. While I was in the final revisions of this article, my smarty friend, Chris, posted an article written by a survivor who emphatically spells out that these actions hurt her personally by belittling the affects of the disease. She says, “I do my best not to judge others or their beliefs and ideals. I have a pretty good sense of humor and am usually the first to poke fun at myself. And I make light of breast cancer and my struggles, treatments and their side effects, lack of breasts, fear of death, etc. fairly frequently. It is how I cope…But if you haven’t been there or taken care of someone who has been there, then you should think twice before you publicize a day that jokes about putting the first body parts we usually lose to this disease ‘out there’ on display even more conspicuously and then labeling it as an activity that helps our ’cause’.” To read more of her article, please visit the CancerInMyThirties blog post. For breast cancer awareness month, instead of casual crusades, encouraging shake-and-bake activism, of hearts and bra-free days, spread information. For instance, disseminate websites about things you can do to reduce your risk of breast cancer (like quitting smoking, starting to exercise, keeping at a healthy weight, eating right, checking for lumps, and getting a yearly physical: www.cancer.org/healthy).

chris talbot-heindl (con’t). Or, if you want some tangible activism, maybe participate in or sponsor a breast cancer walk this year to raise money for research, support for those who have breast cancer, and access to mammograms (makingstrides.acsevents.org). And always be sure to check for lumps, every month. Maybe do it with your partner of either gender. Maybe it’s a fun thing to do with the person you love EVEN if they have a dick and not a vagina, because, as all know, everyone is born with breasts.

Chris Critiques: Christopher Columbus Day By: Chris Talbot-Heindl October 14, 2013

local governments, it is not observed. South Dakota, for instance, celebrates this day as “Native American Day” and since 1992, the city of Berkeley, California celebrates “Indigenous People’s Day.” In Venezuela, Dia de la Resistencia Indigena (Day of Indigenous Resistance) is celebrated and in 2004, a statue of Columbus was knocked down by activists and left down. And why did other cities, states, and countries end the praises of Christopher Columbus by axing the holiday? Because, Columbus was a genocidal, enslaving, rapist bastard. Columbus, working for the Spanish crown, came to the New World in search of things he could bring back to Spain; this we all know. He landed (in what is now the Bahamas) and found gold and generous, peaceful, unassuming natives from the Lucayan tribe. The tribe’s people fed him and his men, and gave them shelter. But, Columbus was more interested in the gold that they wore. He also saw an opportunity to turn the native people into slaves. He captured and took six of the Lucayan tribe on his voyage. He noted in his journal: “These people are very unskilled in arms…I could conquer the whole of them with 50 men, and govern them as I pleased.”

Today is one of the days of the year that I don mourning clothes and think about the completely ludicrous idea that this day is celebrated as a national holiday. Of course, no one would know that I’m wearing mourning clothes, as let’s face it, I look really great in black, and wear it quite often. So, I am publicly stating, my black attire today, is because Christopher Columbus was an asshole and so are people who continue to “celebrate” this asshole. First, a little Columbus Day history. A lot of folks already know that Columbus was an asshole but insist that the Day dedicated to him is historical and shouldn’t be thrown out because some “Indians” are butthurt about it being a national holiday. To them, I say what I always say: open a damned book. The first time the holiday was recognized as such in the United States was in 1906 in Colorado, and it became a federal holiday in 1937. In some states and

Columbus, with the six Lucayan tribe’s people on the Santa Clara and Santa Maria, continued on. The Santa Maria was shipwrecked in Haiti. The Taino tribe there aided Columbus in saving the crew and cargo and allowed Columbus to leave some of his men there in the new settlement of La Navidad. In return, Columbus captured more natives and continued sailing. His next and last stop was in the Dominican Republic, and the first time Columbus found resistance. The Ciguayos refused to trade the amount of weapons that Columbus desired. Columbus’ men killed two of the native people and kidnapped 25 more, and headed back for Spain. By the time he returned to Spain, only seven or eight of the native people were still living. Columbus informed the queen of all the riches and slaves that could be had in the New World. She gave him 17 ships with 1,500 men, and a complete arsenal with which to acquire the riches.

chris talbot-heindl (con’t). He returned to the generous, peaceful, unassuming Lucayan people and demanded gold and to be allowed to rape their women. Of course, the Lucayan people refused.

Chris Critiques: Dicks Who Say Rape

By: Chris Talbot-Heindl October 15, 2013

To make sure he would not meet more resistance, Columbus ordered that those who did refuse have their ears and noses cut off. The natives could no longer be peaceful and generous and rebelled, but were quickly quelled with the queen’s arsenal. Columbus enslaved 500 Lucayan natives and returned to Spain with them so they could be sold as slaves. He provided gifts of female natives to his friends to do as they wished. A friend reported in a letter that Columbus had provided him with a sex slave. He wrote, “While I was in the boat, I captured a very beautiful Carib woman…When I had taken her to my cabin, she was naked – as was their custom. I was filled with desire to take my pleasure with her and attempted to satisfy my desire. She was unwilling…I then took a piece of rope and whipped her soundly…Eventually we came to such terms, I assure you, that you would have thought that she had been brought up in a school for whores.” The horrors that Columbus conducted could go on and on. Suffice it to say, Columbus was indeed an asshole and the holiday is an erroneous honor. So, today is a day that I don black and explain to those around me what a sham the holiday is. But what else can be done? The Oatmeal has a great article about how we can take this sham holiday and instead celebrate Bartolomé de las Casas, who “after witnessing the violent atrocities committed against the Natives…gave up his land, freed his slaves, became a priest, and spent the rest of his life fighting the brutal colonization of the New World.” Read more about Bartolomé de las Casas here. Another action that can be taken is signing the White House petition to end Columbus Day. Of course, you could write legislation for your local government to stop the celebration there and follow the shining examples of Berkeley, California and others. In other words, you can petition your government to stop being an asshole.

Over the weekend, I was having a nice little political conversation in my front yard, when it happened. The dick said “rape” in reference to financial pressure. Guess what, dick, what you are describing isn’t “rape.” Not even remotely. I would like to take this time to critique people who use the word “rape” to signify something other than rape. Rape as a verb means to force another person to have sexual intercourse without their consent and against their will. Know how I know that? Because I opened a fucking dictionary, and because the verb happened to me. People like to use the word “rape” willy nilly to describe anything they don’t like that has happened. This not only belittles the brutality that survivors have experienced, but it also cheapens the power of the word. The act of rape is such a barbarity that the word needs to remain severe. Period. I had a boss once, let’s call him “Dick.” Dick liked to use the verb and the noun “rape” to signify all kinds of things, big and small. He did this often and without consideration. During a staff meeting, employees were encouraged to speak about what their ideal situation in the office was to develop a safe space. I spoke out and stated that as a survivor, I did not feel the office was a safe space when people used the word “rape.” I explained that when I heard the word, my back would stiffen, my heart would palpitate, and I would get cold sweats. That word for me brought back a flood of memories and feelings that I didn’t want to deal with on a daily basis, and especially not in an office that purported to be a “safe space.”

chris talbot-heindl (con’t). Dick’s response was a surprising one. Dick told me that people in the office shouldn’t have to curtail their language to make others feel more comfortable. He explained that if we abstained from the word “rape,” we may have to desist from using other words that made others feel uncomfortable (“you may even be asked not to swear!”), and this could be a slippery slope into not being able to say anything. It was something along those lines, although I can’t recall it exactly, as my shock had kicked in and I was only half hearing the drivel pouring out of his mouth. My reaction: Dick is a dick. I don’t go around advertising to people that I am a survivor (except, obviously to make a point, such as I’m doing right now). I don’t introduce myself, “Hi, my name is Chris, and I’m a survivor.” If I am divulging that I am, it is because, A.) I trust you completely and want to share that part of my history with you, or B.) because you are triggering something and I want you to fucking stop what you are doing before I have a full blown meltdown.

But people like Dick and the man I talked to over the weekend can’t fathom these things. Thankfully, rape has never happened to them. Unfortunately, they feel so strongly about whatever subject they are talking about, they feel it necessary to use an intense word, regardless of what its true meaning is or how it may make others feel. Unfortunately, they apparently also are incapable of opening a fucking Thesaurus. To all of the Dicks in the world, please make a mental note: what you are doing is hurting survivors and you should desist immediately. And to help you in your search for a potent and extreme word, here’s a few you might try: fucked, screwed, cheated, tricked, deceived, swindled, conned, scammed, duped, fooled, ripped off, bamboozled, stiffed, coerced, pressured, browbeat, bulldozed, ruined, destroyed, fouled, twisted, extorted, forced, wrested, hoodwinked, double-crossed, shafted, finagled, put one over, pulled a fast one, suckered, etc.

mitchell krochmalnik grabois, wayne burke. Bunny

Silence

The bunny in the barnyard has been watching the dog herd sheep

Lately I erase every word I write because the words have no bite and I restart, rewrite but end in the same place: the Sisyphus gig, eternal rewind; could be I am lazy want something for nothing the old feeling of entitlement rising which I’ve had to lose to get on with life knowing I am not entitled and that unless I get busy am going to die in the silence of the generations that have left not a peep: my father in the gas station, grandfather in the bar room, both beneath granite weights in the cemetery where the wind makes the only sound other than occasionally a crow squawking it’s idiot screech that can be heard on the mountainside.

By: Mitchell Krochmalnik Grabois

and is convinced that he can do it too Sheep are stupid, he knows and he has teeth that may be little but are sharp Only a nip or two convinces the sheep that this is a new type of dog and they better do what he wants But the Border Collie’s pissed off The fucking rabbit’s invading his turf Pride goeth before before a fall, motherfucker he snarls In a sneak attack (while the farmer is watching his clever video in his musty farmhouse scheming how he’s going to get rich off this unprecedented rabbit) the dog the bona fide and previously unchallenged herder in the family grabs the bunny in his jaws and breaks his neck

By: Wayne Burke

jeremiah walton, john roth, brooke newman, deborah seewald. Scroll

By: Jeremiah Walton http://nostroviawriting.wordpress.com/ I have no understanding of how even with so many stars I can find life so boring. There is only one opportunity to decapitate heaven, & only one to raise hell. Here is your dose of sarcasm for the day, your slap on a cut wrist. Now return to your mundane You’ll find me there boiled, a decapitated chicken head still bawking mad body laying ruffled and still. Starve me of sunlight So I may be moon, a night light refusing to cure any nightmares. I’m no longer a dreamer unconditional belief has been rolled into a scroll and burned. This is not me complaining just observing. This is not me observing, but boiling.

Premature bloom

Jesha and Jared Brooke Newman Painting

By: John Roth

A little girl plays imaginary games all by herself in the garden, holds a buttercup beneath her glass chin, and feels the warm petaled glow of it wash over her face like the gold reflection that drips from a server’s tilted paten. She wears a halo of dead butterflies, but doesn’t seem to notice the dark nectar smeared in her hair or the milky-stemmed daisy chain encircling her wrists like a limp garter snake. As she attempts to prod a stubborn rock from its earthen alcove, with the tip of her laced baby-doll shoe, dust clings onto the white frills of her Sunday dress like a pollinated flower. She brushes herself off, there will be plenty of time for growing her own seed later.

Witching Hour By: Deborah Seewald

Hanging full in the night sky the moon’s sardonic grin taunts her. “Think you I am a moon for lovers? I am ice cold, moon of the dead both sleeping and walking.” His light cloaks the tree branches in ghoulish shadows of black and gray. Writhing in the shrieking wind like frenzied specters, they bow low to the demons of the dark. A primal scream joins with the wind as her bloodless heart splinters and dies, shards of what was, carried away with fallen leaves as they swirl past. 13

julie finch, mike cluff. The Overdose

Odyssey for an Extra

The fevered rock sucked you in Until at last you leaned against the one who does not give back They found you in the fetal position Like a flower you enfolded against the weight of each breath Growing shallower; friend, you must have been terrified And no one there to hold your hand You of the hustle and barter and outright thievery You of the cackle and renegade laugh Oh death, it gets too much press from the likes of us Who know the taste but crave the whole plate The full course from any number of sources Why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you just stop, people will ask How to explain The thing that is killing you is life itself. Rosary in one hand, pipe in the other You timed each hit bead by bead There is no settling down once the medicine has rocked your insides And while it seemed to soar the soul grew dingy As you dug madly for remnants on a berber carpeted floor What is life for, after all, if not discovery This body, this vessel, this makeshift matter of blood and of bone Death gets too much press from the likes of us Who say our most fervent prayers by fire, alone.

The need for money overwhelms the desire for producing a realistic role Pirandello is trumped by low comics throwing pies at peroxided blondes paper lettuce is required to pay for the eaten kind since credit over a hundred dollars is denial here in January 1925.

By: Julie Finch

By: Mike Cluff

In a Biblical flick in decadent Rome he is hired to play a crowd member; allergic to cats, he will endure proximity to the lean lions for that additional tenner. Bad security allows the hungry to be a bit too close to the easy prey of mankind. Skip is just in reach when the camera lingers a spot too long and sees him whisked away and the vegetables are left too many days in the prismatic mediterranean sun.

peter marra. lickerish loves of the supervixens By: Peter Marra http://www.angelferox.com/

an ambience of a deep red craving a salty taste while reminiscing about the legs and tails of a deep outrage it’s so shocking in the torture-vision theaters as the crowd is noisily devoured – lips smack smack obdurate in a pleasure journey ravishing extreme dust dirt grime mildewed theater seats thrash thrash thrash as relentlessly as she craved today hear the decaying films of females washing their hands taste the decaying films of females unsteady from cravings try to stand upright watch the decaying films as females cry in the October night as a storm recedes hearts crushed by fear unable to leave their seats for a performance so chilling

traipsing through the pleasant paths of masochism gnawing on the lean muscles of the vanquished cops she slipped she wriggled her hips she wrapped a scarf around her eyes in the shows it’s always for the shows too often she felt safe in the room opposite the bar: “the footlights have melted me. they have made me discover my action. she soon started part of my punishment, and i go.” “and i go.” “won’t you please spend some time with me, while i stare at your shadow?” the vibrations go up the sides seeking to apply critical

you can stare at her shadows but it’s always no touching the media released the photos as they exploded the temple of love a priestess screams as her reveries are torn out by the roots bye bye bye pinned down by the burlesque execution held prisoner by a mumbo jumbo and suckled by a huge wolf it’s a yen too terrible to delineate we heard a voice throb as it was killing the trio of films a video camera and a clandestine confessor listening as the sins grow strong sing oscillations of these two species of exploitation films fire was burned and kept damp inside them 15

peter marra (con’t), kenneth p. gurney. activities these were based on some time spent with truly fabulous people inside a machine factory “won’t you please spend some time, while i stare at your shadow, please?” you can stare at her shadows no touching tokens only nuclear shadow testimony from rote where is the girl? everyone’s grooving golden thoughts dashed on sidewalks in front of a carousel in flames veils annihilated: the girls saw the true desire as they donned skins of lizards and went out smiling drooling as they listened to the recorded aspects of their crimes films composed of tiny cameos justifying the unrepentant each a ruby in reverse the twisted fuck disease is far out of reach buried among the dancing flesh shimmy shimmy shimmy nerves torn up like it doesn’t matter but she aches but she aches

Black Eye

By: Kenneth P. Gurney We were no longer surprised that our debates about God started about half way into our second beer. The dog I wanted died— hit by a car that sped away as if unaware of any connection between thud and bloody howl. Sometimes I hate you when you throw insults like thunderbolts, even when they are valid and have nothing to do with God or dog. My thought was if I did not hold on to the insult like a ball tossed in a game of catch, we’d still be friends, instead of pickets on opposite side of a poorly defined jihad or crusade. I understand that all you wanted was consistency, honesty and an agreed upon definition of beauty. My proposal that we should buy each other another beer, met with your inaudible reply and the extension of your middle finger above your fist— which, due to inebriation, I took to be the first move on your part to open your hand and extend it in reconciliation.

john grey, dawnell harrison. The Right Woman

By: John Grey

Not knowing exactly when he’ll meet the right one, his bank manager won’t take what he has, won’t lend him what he hasn’t, his lawyer states plainly, “You have no case.” his PR guy says, “Publicize what?” the cop can’t arrest him or set him free, the priest doesn’t know laud from admonish, the mailman sniffs the bills and shakes his head, the fireman can’t tell what’s burning, the teacher won’t give lessons because the semester hasn’t started, the trash collector has no idea what he’s recycling, what is garbage forever. He roams the bars, the clubs, even the sidewalks. The bartender can shut him off but shut off what exactly? Coat check can take his jacket but has no clue what to give in return. The sidewalks all passersby and cracks. The passersby keep on passing by and the cracks aren’t nearly wide enough.

A silent shroud By: Dawnell Harrison

The winter is cast in ice – The cold-hooded mother’s Dregs are in full bloom. The red-hot cauldron

It cannot be shaken down. I watch the flakes descend In a silent shroud – The season is dragging Me down like the pull Of the ocean’s tide. Plenitude has no voice here.

Of the morning sun cannot Melt this snow tundra,

robert allen beckvall, afzal moolla. A Spanish Gypsy & A Ghostly Writer By: Robert Allen Beckvall

She had punched that fucker right in the face.

“Guess what?”

She was going to puke. He fucks me in the ass, then wants to make sweet talk?

throws it at him. He starts to get dressed.

“Go bleed in the snow.” She points to the door.

“Can’t I just. . .”

She picks up her baseball bat and heads towards him. He heads out the door into the snowy Alaska morning.

“I might have forgot something.” “Tough shit. Just disappear.”

“What?”

“I took off the rubber earlier.”

Roo Bardookie, who plies the oldest profession known to man and women, had lots of these kinds of tales to tell. This time she only had to dish out the pain. Not that getting aids from a fat ass lumberjack wasn’t pain enough. She would have this on her mind until she went for a gynecology appointment. Doctor, this fat lumberjack thought it would be high comedy to do me without protection. The doctor would say where is the comedy in that? Exactly.

From mellow to death threat stealth in a millisecond, she heard it, processed it and punched his ugly, fat face as hard as she could. Then she added insult to injury.

“Well guess what you fat fuck?”

He was so stunned he debated getting up and pounding her back, or just listening. The death in her eyes kept him in listening mode. “Give me $1000.00 or I’ll use this scissors and cut your whole package off.” He was at a distinct disadvantage being naked and with tears in his eyes. “You know what, just hold your broke nose and broke dick. I’ll get it.”

“I have to send money home to my wife and folks.”

“How would you like me to Skype the folks back home and talk about aids and ass fucking and just to fuck you up, I’ll do it in Spanish so they’ll be twice as pissed when they translate?” She took his wallet and got $897.00 out of it. She took his fancy watch too. “You were short in more ways than one. So, I’m taking the watch too.”

“My wife bought me that.”

Her computer informed her that she had mail. Probably her sister. When she had got her cup of coffee and a bagel, showered and sat down to read it, she was not prepared mentally at all. The man that had ruined her life, had the balls to e-mail. Others had raped her, but he raped her heart and soul. She just crawled into the covers and drank some schnapps. Fuck you Louis Marvin. AT some low point she had picked up a ghost when she drank and did drugs and wrote her horror stories. He comes out to play at times like these. She looked at him and said, “Fuck you too”. The ghost floated above her bed.

Without you. By: Afzal Moolla

worn down, weary, staggering into tomorrow, dissolving my todays, grim, dreary,

“You smashed it accidently. Which story is it? Smashed watch or aids whore comes a calling.”

I crawl, slipping out of my skin, flinging laughter, joy, contentment, into the gaping abyss of life’s dustbin.

Without you.

She grabs his clothes and the rest of his stuff and 18

robin e lee. congratulations, you did it By: Robin E. Lee http://creativecollectivity.ning.com The government is shut down. I suppose you’re happy now. The government is shut down. Stand up and take a bow. Yes, it’s finally happened. The furloughs are in place. The parks are closed, programs put on hold, so put on your happy face. The heels were dug in deep enough. They screech-squealed things to a halt. And now instead of trying to fix things you can fixate on whose fault. Congratulations you have done it you brought u.s to a stop.

We finally hit the bottom, by letting it flop-drop. So celebrate your great state in your mansion, while the masses can’t appeal. Make democracy hypocrisy. Spit in the face of a new deal. Dip your cigar in your brandy. Tell everyone it’s tea. And be sure to remind time after time that freedom isn’t free. Revel in your stubbornity. Triumph in the defeat; cause the beauty of the battle is it won’t end if you don’t retreat. We won’t put out the fires as the no heats will grow cold. The panda cam will be shut off cause the governments on hold.

The food won’t be inspected. But heck you are what you eat. May it be a bag of shit, or a plate of rancid meat. Good work on not passing a budget who needs to operate. Your “job” will be there tomorrow, the rest of them can wait. The pin-prick’s pierced the economy and prolonged the great deflation, and if they don’t like that feeling just think of debt ceiling defaulting on the nation. So good work you shut down the government. Kudos, congrats well done! And all it’s shattered pieces can be picked up by everyone. 10-3-13 after the shut down.

stephanie jones, donors, index. artists Beckvall, Robert Allen Beg, Mandal Bijoy

Burke, Wayne F.

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Grey, John

Gurney, Kenneth P.

Haller, Tanya

Harrison, Dawnell

Jewell, Laine Untitled Stephanie Jones Mixed media sculpture

Jones, Stephanie

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Marra, Peter

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