Stevens Point (and neighbors) Calendar of Events Art
Through September 9 Places from a New Perspective. Riverfront Arts Center.
Music
Mondays Sing That Tune Karaoke. 9:30 p.m. Partners Pub.
Through September 15 Member and Commission Artists. Gallery Q.
Tuesdays Tuesday Night Karaoke. 8:00 - 11:00 p.m. Players Lounge.
Through September 17 Dual Lives: Chinese Opera in New York City. Reception: September 17, 4:00 - 6:00 p.m. Carlsten Gallery, Noel Fine Arts Center.
Wednesdays Acoustic Open Mic with the Sloppy Joe Band. 8:00 - 11:00 p.m. Northland Sports Bar and Grill.
Through October 4 Ryan Weisenfeld. Scarabocchio Art Museum. September 10-October 8, Mondays Digital SLR Photography 101. 6:00 - 8:00 p.m. UWSP Continuing Education. September 12 Buzz Around Town. 5:30 p.m. Theater @ 1800. September 15 43rd Art in the Park. 10:00 a.m. 4:00 p.m. Pfiffner Park. September 18-November 3 John Hartman. Reception: September 21. Gallery Q. September 21-October 28 Time Transcending Iron - Wroughtiron forgings and sculpture design by Boleslaw Kochanowski. Riverfront Arts Center. September 24-October 28 Benjamin D. Rinehart: Recent Work. Reception: September 24, 4:00 6:00 p.m. Carlsten Gallery, Noel Fine Arts Center.
Saturdays DJ/Karaoke Night. 9:00 p.m. Rookies Sports Pub. September 1-2 Riverfront Jazz Festival. 3:00 - 9:00 p.m. Pfiffner Park Bandshell. September 1, 7, 8, 14, 15, 21 Joanna Squire (piano). 6:00 9:00 p.m. Bernard’s Country Inn Restaurant.
September 15 Jazz Artist David Story. 7:00 p.m. Rising Star Mill, Nelsonville. September 15 Minor Distraction, Mr. Deagun Jones. 8:00 p.m. The Cruise Inn, Wausau. September 21 Bill Lockwood. 7:00 p.m. One Way Cafe, Wisconsin Rapids. September 21 Meantooth Grin, Spiral Trance, Dead Modern Villians, The Mad Mad Ones. 9:00 p.m. The Cruise Inn, Wausau. September 22 Fat Brass, Jamie Lynn Fletcher. 4:00 p.m. Stevens Point Brewery.
September 1 Two Dollar Grey, Beyond Fate. 8:00 p.m. The Cruise Inn, Wausau.
September 22 Joe.e. 6:00 p.m. Grand Theater, Wausau.
September 2 Orpheus. 3:00 p.m. Harbor Bar, Waupaca.
September 22 Joe.e. 9:00 p.m. 400 Block, Wausau.
September 4 Joe Moorhead. 11:00 a.m. Northcentral Technical College, Wausau. September 7 Mojo Perry. 9:00 p.m. The Cruise Inn, Wausau. September 8 Art Stevenson and High Water. UWSP. September 8 James Stanley Howen, The Mighty Rivers Band. 9:00 p.m. Kim’s Barrell Inn.
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September 11 Tonic Sol-fa. 7:30 p.m. Grand Theater, Wausau.
September 22 Meantooth Grin, Clovis Mann, The Form, Cougar Bait!. 9:00 p.m. The Cruise Inn, Wausau. September 27 Rusted Root. 7:30 p.m. @1800. September 28 Josh Turner. Grand Theater, Wausau. September 29 The Blue Olives. 1:00 p.m. Wheel House, Waupaca.
Stevens Point (and neighbors) Calendar of Events September 29 Alex Wilson, Shaker and the Egg. 3:00 p.m. Indian Crossing Casino, Waupaca.
September 29 Bike Fun: Maple Ride. 12:45 p.m. Iverson Park near slide set.
September 29 Dead Modern Villians. 8:00 p.m. The Cruise Inn, Wausau.
Other
September 29 The Rotation. 9:00 p.m. Hereford and Hops Restaurant, Wausau. September 29 Toy Guns. 9:30 p.m. Congress Club. Outdoors
Mondays Heartland Bike Club Sport Training Session and Ride. 5:30 p.m. Chase Bank. Mondays Moonlight Bike Ride. 9:00 p.m. UWSP sundial. September 7-8 2012 Walk for Hope and Run for Awareness. Ministry Medical Center. www.healthypeopleportagecounty. org. September 8 Celebrate Amherst River Fest. 10:00 a.m. - 10:00 p.m. Main Street, Amherst. September 14-15 Dozynki Harvest Fest. Fri 4:00 - 8:00 p.m., Sat 12:00 - 8:00 p.m. Main Street Square. September 22 Ciclovia Wisconsin. 10:00 a.m. 3:00 p.m. UWSP Adventure Tours. September 22 Father Dan Farley Walk to Fight ALS. 7:00 a.m. registration. St. Maximilian Kolbe Catholic Church, Almond.
Through September 3 Portage County Fair. 8:00 a.m. - 10:00 p.m. Rosholt Fair Park, Rosholt. September 7-9 Living Local Fall Expo 2012. Amherst Fairgrounds, Amherst. Fri 4:00 10:00 p.m., Sat 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m., Sun 9:00 - 11:00 a.m. September 7-9 Pacelli High School Panacea. Pacelli High School. 10:00 a.m. - 10:00 p.m. September 8 Basic Photovoltaics (Solar Electricity). Custer. www. midwestrenew.org/workshops.
September 16 Nami Moon Farm Tour. Custer. Contact Farmshed 715-544-6154. September 22 Whitefeather Organics Harvest Party. Custer. Contact Tony Whitefeather 715-252-2051. September 22 Trivia-Unplugged 2012. 1:00 - 10:00 p.m. Stevens Point Municipal Airport. September 22 Pointoberfest. 4:00 - 8:00 p.m. Stevens Point Brewery. September 29 Chef on the Square: Cafe Espresso. 11:00 a.m. Main Street Square.
September 8 Pickling and Fermentation of Vegetables. Amherst. www. midwestrenew.org/workshops. September 9 Working with Electricity. Custer. www.midwestrenew.org/ workshops. September 9 Introduction to Wind Systems. Custer. www.midwestrenew.org/ workshops. September 10 PV Site Assessor Training. Custer. www.midwestrenew.org/ workshops. September 11 Farmshed Community Potluck: Mexican Fiesta. 6:30 - 8:00 p.m. The Greenhouse Project.
If you would like to see your event in The Bitchin’ Kitsch next month, please email the details to chris@talbot-heindl.com.
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content sept 2012 current currentisms - doug somers
cover
Calendar of Events
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Underneath: Dana and Chris Chris Talbot-Heindl
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Fifty Shades of Rage: a book review of Fifty Shades of Grey - Maxwell Skyles Pirate Pig, Diamond Fox and Z-Bear - RB and XY
monthly mission submission - pg. 8
Jacob Zurawski - pg. 16
on the front cover: current currentisms doug somers Printmaking
on the inside back cover: Braised Bunny
Alexander Landerman Letterpress and charcoal alexander-landerman.com
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Monthly Mission Submission
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Linger with Age - Patrick Attaway
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summer of 2012 - Maria Muscatello
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The Good, the Bad and the Ugly Marc Carver
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Of Age - Jan Haskell
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John Clare in the Madhouse Robert Lavett Smith
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Annoyed Artist - Brian Hardie
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Christ Knows Best - Dana TalbotHeindl Family Matters - Doug Spottiswood
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In the Quarter Galleries of Our Zeitgeist - Dan Hedges
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Ode to Beauty - David E. Patton
Check out this month’s “issue” link of video and music at www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch.html or www.youtube.comTheBitchinKitsch
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Trappings - Afzal Moolla
Dual Man - LM & XY
the bitchin’ kitsch video and music issue:
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12-15
Decatet Remolded - Mike Cluff
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Ochre Clad - Dan Hedges
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A Walk Toward Byzantium - Sy Roth
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Untitled - Jacob Zurawski
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Donors and Index
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Braised Bunny - Alexander Landerman
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chris talbot-heindl.
Underneath: Chris and Dana Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink and gouache on paper www.talbot-heindl.com
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.
ideas:
advertising:
community copies:
donation:
have a seriously bitchin’ idea that could make the bitchin’ kitsch that much better? we want to hear from you. email chris@talbot-heindl.com with your ideas. sit down and read the bitchin’ kitsch at our community locations: zest, the smith scarabocchio art museum, monkeywrench tattoos, and noel fine arts center. want to house a community copy? email chris@talbot-heindl.com.
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. book yours today by emailing chris@talbot-heindl.com. we love our donors. If you would like to become a donor, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge.
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maxwell skyles, rb and xy. Fifty Shades of Rage: a book review of Fifty Shades of Grey
By: Maxwell Skyles
Well, in short it was the worst thing I’ve ever read. I really can’t find any redeeming qualities to mention in this review. I mean seriously, why are people reading this? The sex? Graphic sure, but that doesn’t help the incredibly low quality of the writing itself. The people who enjoy this are the most confused bunch of perverts I can even imagine. The media has taken to calling it mommy porn, mommy porn indeed, mommies who lack the ability to read at a level matching their age. I find it hard not to cuss up a storm when I think back on reading it. The Story: F
Miss Anastasia Steele, young college student whose dumb luck finds her in the office of the mysterious and enigmatic Christian Grey. Immediately the sexual tension in the room is tactile. Apparently. Who knows what the hell the author was trying to say. I certainly don’t. Anyways, they talk, he stalks her, and they have dirty kinky sex. That’s the whole story. Nothing else matters. Really, I’m not kidding, nothing else remotely important happens. Of course it gets and F for story, but only because there isn’t a grade lower. The Characters: F
I’m hoping most of you haven’t read the books or seen the movies for Twilight and its sequels. But I trust you’ve at least seen the previews. Those characters? Those are the main characters in Fifty Shades. Seriously, carbon freakin’ copies. Give Edward a billion gazillion dollars and lose the vampire abilities and you have Christian Grey. The same goes for Bella and Anastasia, Christian’s parents, and the only non-white person named in the whole damn book, Jose the carbon copy for the werewolf Jacob in Twilight. Originality is not our author’s strong point apparently. Big surprise. Setting: NA
Why even review the setting? It takes place in Seattle. Not a bad town if you’ve been, I haven’t but it doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure E.L. James hasn’t either. Whatever, moving on. The Writing: F
Believe it or not, one of the most popular books right now is based off a Twilight fan fiction. I’m not joking.
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That’s why the characters are the same, the setting is the same, hell I’m surprised it’s not called Fifty Shades of Twilight. The prose is almost nonexistent. The vocabulary looks like it was written with heavy use of the thesaurus to find the longest possible words to use in mundane situations. The first few chapters became a drinking game for me; every time I read something I found awkward or half assed I would drink. Needless to say I was unconscious by the end of the 6th chapter. I think I’ve read better stories written by sixth graders. Maybe Fifty Shades was written by a sixth grader? A sixth grader with a rather rough home life based on the subject matter. Geez. Overall: F
I don’t get it. What is wrong with you people? There are literally thousands of good books to read, and millions that are the least possible bit better than this. I read a dozen before finally sitting down to write this review. All of them were cheaper, had more realistic sex scenes, and had some semblance of a plot. Read one of them. If you remove the kinky sex, you are left with a boring plot with wooden characters. If you remove the boring plot with wooden characters, you are left with a low budget porno with ridiculously fake orgasms. I hated this so much I may have to drink myself stupid tonight in order to forget even writing this review. If someone in the world can point out a redeeming quality to Fifty Shades of Grey that I somehow missed, I will buy them a drink. And a few for myself to wash down my disappointment.
Pirate Pig, Diamond Fox and Z-Bear By: RB and XY
The sheriff knew that pirate pig had hijacked some goods recently and was on his way to town to sell them Foxy Diamond was so enamored with the sheriff, that she would do anything for him They hatched a plan to have her pose as a buyer for her antique store The sheriff had a list from folks who had been robbed on hog highway, so it would be easy to spot their wares in pirate pig’s wagon They executed the plan perfectly, and the sheriff has brought home the bacon (to the jail) All the while Z-Bear slept because it is winter
afzal moolla. Trappings.
By: Afzal Moolla Flitting in, and out, of malls, Scouring the aisles, for more,
Yet, emptiness prevails, as quaint notions, of professed humility, silently creep, scurrying, out the back,
always for more,
while unquenchable need, mutates, grows, pines,
walking, undead, through glittering halls.
it’s insatiable hunger, no longer able to feed.
Seeking out, Luscious fabrics, softest silk, satin velvet, crushed denim, faux-fur, trinkets and biscuits, sleek gadgets, that perfect shoe, a must-have accessory, cars, curtains, silver-ware, gold time-pieces, that stunning set of pearls, as empty desire, gleefully unfurls. Piling onto, heaving trolleys, food, and, more food,
The saga continues, smiling faces, lobotomised, in the intoxicated haze, with eyes shimmering, through a toxic, consumption-fueled, trance-like glaze. Trapped, within the trappings, of excess, the undead, waltz on, oblivious, to the torn consciences, that have, been so neatly, so brutally, shred.
and yet more food, to lighten the spirit, to elevate the mood, as countless starve, a prime pot-roast, of dead flesh, we must carve.
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monthly mission submission, patrick attaway. monthly mission submission
New to The Bitchin’ Kitsch, “monthly mission submission.” Every month, artists indicate that they would like to submit to The Bitchin’ Kitsch but don’t know what to draw. Now, you don’t have to! Every month, there will be proposed phrase to play around with. This month’s phrases included “watermelon with sunglasses and boots/shorts,” “a cat riding a ground squirrel,” “half-man, half-machine,” and “a goth kid and his/her bike.” Next month’s phrases will be “half-man, half-machine,” and “a goth kid and his/her bike.” If you would like to suggest a phrase for the month of November, simply submit it on Facebook. The suggestions that receive the most likes will be the phrases for November.
Dana Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper
Chris Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper
Chris Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper
Linger With Age By: Patrick Attaway
Liberal thought ceased by conservative moral. When does open-minded become closed, and what sets it off? Is it more society and friends, or actual beliefs? Do not attempt to linger or fight off thoughts; it’s either all the way or turn away. What society deems disturbed, what friends define as wrong, could be the path the something pure. Those feelings can only be ignored for so long. Act on the moment, or act on the moment. It’s either all the way or turn away.
Dana Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper
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Take interest, but turn away in defeat. Take interest, but go all the way in defeat. Either way, you win and lose or lose and win. Slowly or quickly, it doesn’t matter. Walking away or going all the way has not set tempo, unlike what morals, society, and friends set.
maria muscatello, marc carver, jan haskell. summer of 2012
By: Maria Muscatello
mocha kisses and strolls in the city you smile at me an tell me i’m pretty trapped in a pink dungeon all day waiting for my love to take me away “love can prevail death,” you said that night you called me your love, your rose, your light the sound of your cries through the phone made me feel like i’m not alone we fell in love at only sixteen violet hearts on a plastic screen june third was the night you told me it would be alright dancing in your room to born to die making love on the fourth of july laughing about nothing all night long times like that made me strong trying to live the american dream suburban ohio is not what it seems small town kids trying to get out wondering what life is really about
conversations about music, art, and fashion discovering ourselves and our true passion new york city is where we’re meant to be in a small apartment drinking our morning coffee cuddling on the couch while watching our favorite shows spending all of our money on clothes walks to the library to write poetry together lying in the grass enjoying the august weather flowers in my hair, lavender on my lips five years shared attached at the hip we were the lucky ones from the start our love will always be a work of art part time lover, full time friend i know this will never end spending years by your side the virgin and the ram collide you promised me this summer you’d show me true love and that life is beautiful and a gift from above drowning in doubt, fighting to stay alive three months under the sun with you taught me how to survive
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
Of Age
I made it to my fifteenth bar of the day or maybe more. There were two woman at the bar and another woman looked at me as i went in. I sat by the two young women at the bar. The bar had two bartenders. One had a silly hat on and looked funny. The other had a nasty look. I looked at both of them the same. Everybody left me in the bar even the bartenders. So there i was all by myself. I finished my drink and walked out. The next day i saw both the men again but in different places. The one with the funny hat said hello the other did not.
I miss sometimes waking before the sun crests the horizon, When I was 19, I took a job in a small river town in Southern Illinois. Each morning I would wake in darkness, and climb the large bluff behind the house I was staying in. As the sun woke and stretched above the horizon, I would look out across the whole river valley. The mist would slowly burn off in the light, and the colors of summer would come alive.
By: Marc Carver
By: Jan Haskell
I would make my way back down the bluff and head into town. The whole town consisted of about 5 streets, and by the time I reach the outskirts, I would hear the signal that the river ferry would be making its first run. With a quickening to my step I grab a cup of coffee and make the ferry for the first cross. I stood on the deck with a smoke in one hand and my coffee in the other and watched the world awake. I was finding my self. 9
robert lavett smith, brian hardie. John Clare in the Madhouse By: Robert Lavett Smith
“I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host...” —John Clare, 1793-1864; “I Am” I am less than a shadow, less than a glimmer of starlight. I wonder in Whose name distant galaxies throb like blisters. I hear weak winter sunlight stumbling earthward. I see the festering air: nearly opaque, grown heavy as blown glass. I want these troubled longings—O my lost Mary!—to cease. I am less than a shadow, less than a glimmer of starlight. I pretend these damaged verses will not die unspoken. I feel nothing, bury the burdensome beat of my heart. I touch a memory, and it falls instantly to dust. I worry the bones of my hands, worn smooth as dice. I cry for verdant fields, the beauty of a dead crow swarming with flies. I am less than a shadow, less than a glimmer of starlight. I understand less and less with every haunted sunrise. I parrot shards of a dead tongue that wound my lips like prayers. I dream in terrible colors never imagined before. I try nothing at which I haven’t already failed. I hope only rarely, for trifles, and never for long. I am less than a shadow, less than a glimmer of starlight.
Annoyed Artist
By: Brian Hardie brianhardie.wordpress.com sick of the spit bottom wine bottle, sick of the snipe hunt antiquating the ash tray habits, screens on billowing ripples crash, the siege under surf swells, the hostility being with sound in stitches, singing the fall on the tiresome daily brute lying anywhere without reporting you, constant usually as long as the drink holds the quench, believing the accusation that I fought when the trials fed a cause to you. Shouts so dirty the neighbors radio-in the rapid raids. Committed affect of mistaken perceptions holding sacred a homosexuality. Rage having nothing to be about it. Have it held in this hand that bitterness has acquired me to punish. Support only present holding amongst the addicted circle. My sleeping bag was pissed in by love letters written to not a one. Dropping the investment directly in dead center, in the spread out silent wound. Sick of not remaining adequate in fuck-ups, chunks of amasment, sick of the jive of healthy heart beating to conflict in the meeting of. A spider leg ability to hold in mind the bigger picture. I would prefer to violate you running away, for my ego will hammer the bruises in. From something in this I take the pleasure. Self-effaced.
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dana talbot-heindl, doug spottiswood, dan hedges. Family Matters By: Doug Spottiswood
Doing my part for my family Traveling the world to places I’d never think or pay to see My reward was in helping others Protecting others Making sure these others made it home OK The pay would make you laugh I kept up my part though the years In the gym every day hearing from others: Do you ever work? Yes I do, as a flyer so “That others may live” Then “To protect and serve” on the ground Work hard, party hard with whoever was there My brothers and sisters, we lived like Romans Eat Drink and Be Merry for tomorrow we may die! Some I knew did just that
Christ Knows Best Dana Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper www.talbot-heindl.com
Below the equator I got ill, nothing bad, still did my part Returning home it was nothing some pills couldn’t fix “Too little too late” the saying goes Eventually the chest was opened, pieces of me replaced and Pills needed for the rest of my life Tall Towers and the Headquarters I saw burn from the parking lot I was needed; “all hands on deck” was the call despite my condition Years went by since that day in September, I now abruptly deemed broken, I was told to leave by my family I couldn’t help but bitterly feel the hypocrisy Given my walking papers all I could say was Sir, with all due respect Go fuck yourself
In the Quarter Galleries of our Zeitgeist By: Dan Hedges
In the quarter galleries of our zeitgeist, shamanic gurus roost, in chromed ornithological conceit.
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lm & xy, david e. patton. Ode to Beauty
Dual Man By: LM & XY
By: David E. Patton
Theater
PESTULANCE AGRIEVANCE Oh life, bored to drinking, to tears They seem to reject my true self so I adorn my person with costume and manner I am an actor for each patron a different role Shakespeare sir, our world a stage players all are we In each sunrise another stage is set In our bathrooms across the land We get make-up and costume for the act Stars and bit players in the same soul Movies and plays and one-man acts Music and dance and poetry Concert explosions and acoustic sets Why must we wear these masks? Masks
Born, naked
no mask no concept of deception And we find that the only thing we have to battle this merciless onslaught is Our masks And these, only ever come off, just before that last breath 12
O beauty, beauty the great boundaries of your cutting blaze is the throat t hat preach the holy way known to the souls lost in the armpit of a shriveled city where what remain of the overgrown growth hoping to gain a foothold is the resistance of the concrete to mother the motion of grass. Beauty you are my Venus of ashes, my cold sealing wax of new graves dug in the palm of my hand. Beauty you are the seawater breathing hundreds of gills full of tears that rush upon the breach of my thighs. You are a mountain of heavenly lies ancient as finding yourself struggling encased in a plastic drop. You empty the sky. You are the sleepless skeleton that we pray by, lay by, and in vain wait by, and you are the tongues that speak of the proslavery of children born with a gun in their hands when only they can defend the beauty of the sun. O beauty, beauty shall I kiss your hair that hides the summer birds, your cheeks flush with worm’s blood grounded in a gorge grinning its grain gorgeously by the geese’s cries? Shall I keep you safe in my breast pocket of tenderness taught to the young who keep their youth tight between the shoreline of their fingernails? My pockets are filled with gravity, Yours with the rose’s thorn fit for making torn love’s fluency bleed with the blood of angels who worship at the chemist’s shoulders. O beauty, beauty forever defying the whispering motion of who you shall call to task,
david e. patton (con’t). you are my hands I take them from you, you are my legs mad with your strength, you are my eyes eating the quite, low mourning of an exquisite cry you are my melancholy telegram issued by the governor of cold fishes, none is your equal for everything is caught in the tail wind of your pulverized breath. O beauty, O moon the same, O sun that drain away beauty’s face from the terrify cover of everything caught within your middle age grace where the rivers runs like deserted streets sweep by a wind lost in the corroders of the landscape of the city. You bite once you have bitten the body. You build after buying time by the barrels full of the yearning of the soul shown by the complexities of poetry; your show of words that woo words. O beauty, beauty when will you be washed away, when will you cub your waves, when will you taste the equilibrium of gunpowder used as your shade against the musical muscles of the brave who like machines dif your grave? When will you remember the wreckage of eyeglasses and the millions of pigeons that people the accommodating sky? When will you free us from the machines delirious by your perfume, fragile by a blue perspective that sleeps in a circumcision? When will you sing the signs of the cross when the newly created Mr. Charlie Ross sees your beauty but still doubt that you are but an illusion an ill fit fixed to beauty that claims itself by the homeless man that eats pizza crust from the dumpster found just around the corner from Beauty and Time, both fade fair.
The beauty found in the black man’s hair and the beauty that loves a man in a uniform alongside the beauty that uniform a nation. Beauty you are the hard half behind my hidden horror hiding haunch and huddled within your marrow. O beauty, beauty you are the tambourine with the tongue and I hold none as your equal; none can match your make free for the world to see, you, yes you are all that matter my mother, my bride, my lover. My male mate made more beautiful by the moment that moves across the moans of the moon. I salute you. of my memory, you are the bare back black boy that builds industry nursing at the breast of the Mississippi ignorant of St. Louis. Few are your column of comrades, few who will weep at the gasoline of your feet, you are the first fire fruit eaten, and you are the nudity of a Sycamore leaf falling at the crack of dust dawning at the split opening in night hiding under cars. No one will avoid you. Many seek to repeat your delight, yes many; the given boy and they gave to girl that plays at prostitution, even your enemies with the sleeplessness of their hurtful poison are sons and daughters of your bitter beauty born in the belly of a burned beast roasting its nude pillow beside the bride of breeze in branches O beauty, beauty, solitary in the public squares where classical pagan pigeon outwit man with their inscription writ in feather. O beauty you are the museum of mirrors where-in is seen the unforgettable statues 13
david e. patton (con’t). of intimate tree trunks and your timeless blushing beauty that burse the brute who buried you in the muzzle of a gun. Awake O beauty with your genuine antiquity of tongues, awake my dark haired lover of the enormous weight of water. Awake you furiously abandoned science of ignorant. Awake you rusty secret held in the blood Of poets that cry your suggestive wisdom, your voice is caught in the equilibrium that probes the motion of a child on the run O beauty, beauty you are to me as the common water that runs in my veins, a blessed thing. You are to me as the as the light of my design to praise thee O beauty may you ware Out your shoes on the tongues of the poets, give them the time to tell tall tales told timidly in defiance to your beauty born in the belly of a baby building it body bold by the bodache breath of a newborn’s grip. Beauty, my baby my body my bones my budded you got my back with it bold black just tight in beauty it tugs tight when the sun is tall to tell the time tired to a whisper. O worn wise willing beauty of the world when will you woo the woman wearing the woody wind. Beauty you are kin to a kind of kindling used to break the beauty of a mistress that calls poets to ball the bouncy and bully the bulk of their beautiful words woven with winds willing to wild the beauties that are bruises on my skin. You are the everything of my memories that cannot master your beauty. You are the hard work of the flesh; the quick hand of a raccoon that commits seduced suicide 14
behind the wheel where the lust of greed that guard the grin reaper’s beauty is telling time till the beauty of a tongue taught to teach the young that knows less beauty know less of the beauty of themselves the beauty of being born black O beauty, beauty the blind roses are in bloom, the mute noon is in bloom, the loose noose blooms in the desert. Beauty cut me loose with your terrifying news of how the shirt drinks the blood of a fatal blow, of trayvon dying out into the dead of thousands brothers gone by America’s harried hands. There is no beauty there, in the grave yard where the wind steals its way across the goodness of a given grave and the crows calls out beauty and the robins catches it worm where the dead ones lays beauty gives no judgments in its play. O beauty when will you slash me open and peel back my skin to let beauty in? When will you cut a tear in two to have me love you? When will you prim the trees that grows from my fingernails when the beauty of the Gods has forgotten to pray their praises. With cut-throat precision you feed me, flee me, keep me hard, headedly you teach me. Beauty you are. O beauty, beauty we cry out to you as a wounded leaf to the wind, you are the murmuring landscape of our target, you who were murdered by the astonishment of nocturnal desires held in the knife hand of a fluid compliant against the Gods who have abandon all the little animals within your arms.
david e. patton (con’t), mike cluff, dan hedges, sy roth. You are the evident of your epidemic. You are the ecstatic insistency that hesitate and tremble your strangle suffering of the heart that harvest a profusion of miracles held in a pleasing face, the non-evasive face utterly beautiful as to ensnare the criminal from his extraordinary deeds done down by the disheveled docks doped by trash O beauty, beauty stripped of the anger of forgotten things, beauty delicious as atmosphere and flamboyant as the free odor of the triumphant sexual desires, cavernous and corrosive that commands thee. O beauty, beauty born in the baby’s breath bathed by the boisterous bounty of their growing body, I boast of you born bare bathed by the eyes. I I post am your frantic fan who worships with the tongue and I hold none as your equal; none can match your make free for the world to see, you, yes you are all that matter my mother, my bride, my lover. My male mate made more beautiful by the moment that moves across the moans of the moon. I salute you.
Decatet Remolded By: Mike Cluff
The amber and the umber are colliding in unusual ways the boundaries are reducing to ever increasing shortened lines posting a negative sort of return in rote outer optics become inner sad stained blockages the pismires are fried in repression voltage and amps shock desperate columns and conundrums collapse the healthy delta transmuted tautologies endposulate.
Ochre Clad
By: Dan Hedges
Out to the spinney, we smoke our memories without filter, inhale urgently the harsh tinder of the haunting tense; in this mentation we are ochre clad and appear from behind red pines.
A Walk Toward Byzantium By: Sy Roth
A door peeps from above a plywood wall. A look-at-me stifled wail winks from its crowned travertine marble pediments, curtsies its lanky Ionic columns, and bows its sculpted brackets in a faded gavotte-grand illusion now a shambling cripple drowning in a sea of wafting paper, discarded Styrofoam coffee cups, and a passel of spent cement bags shaping its urban garden. A Lexington Avenue psychic red-loudly sees the future. A street-psychic sniffs the air as he drags his crotchety Gristedes’ cart, his Cadillac Escalade, brimful of bulging bags, neatly folded blankets of every hue a bristling forest of brooms and mop handles and rattling tchotchkes dangling like rag dolls over the sides to the wall to pay homage to the door. A comma marks his approach. A period emphasizes his need to park the squealing beast to uncover a dream. Foot-pounding street rhythms thump past him. In a silent nod to propriety, he turns away from the crowd hums his solitary tune and wets the wall with his signature prescient spray, inscribing his vision on it twin forks of pee a tumid crystal ball pooling between his feet. He shakes, zips and moves on to reinvent himself. The once proud door behind the wall a passing thought.
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jacob zurawski, donors, index. advertisers Bitchin’ Kitsch mcfishenburger Second Space www.talbot-heindl.com
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artists Patrick Attaway
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Marc Carver
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Michael Cluff
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Brian Hardie
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Jan Haskell Dan Hedges
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LM & XY
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Afzal Moolla
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Maria Muscatello
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RB and XY Sy Roth Maxwell Skyles Robert Lavett Smith douglas somers
we love our donors!
We love our donors, and to prove it, we’re going to let you know who they are. Without their generosity, the Bitchin’ Kitsch would probably not make it through the year. If you would like to become a donor and see your name here, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge. acquaintences of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1-10) Colin Bares, Casey Bernardo, Eric Krszjzaniek, Dana Lawson, Jason Loeffler, Justin Olszewski friends of the bitchin’ kitsch ($11-50) Charles Kelly, Kenneth Spalding lovers of the bitchin’ kitsch ($51-100) Scott Cook, Jan Haskell, Keith Talbot partners of the bitchin’ kitsch ($101 & up) The Talbot-Heindl’s, Felix Gardner
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Alexander Landerman
David E. Patton Untitled Jacob Zurawski Micron and Prism colors on paper
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12-15 6 15 6 10 cover
Doug Spottiswood
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Chris Talbot-Heindl
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Dana Talbot-Heindl
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Jacob Zurawski
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a talbot-heindl project 1600 reserve st, stevens point, wi 54481 www.talbot-heindl.com