Volume 5, Issue 8 August 2014
b’k bitchin’ kitsch
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. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.
Stevens Point readers, sit down and read The Bitchin’ Kitsch at our community locations: zest, the coffee studio, tech lounge, and noel fine arts center.
The Bitchin’ Kitsch is offering crazy low rates. Order ads on our Shop The B’K page (www.talbot-heindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).
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 (www.talbotheindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).
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 (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/resources).
table of contents.
8 – Ashore, Sreyash Sarkar
24 – Seventeen, Marc Carver
9 – How do I tell the world…?, Alexis Hope Ronsmans
24 – Rook fresh meat from white bone, Tim Parkin
10 – Anderson Cooper Tugs on Heartstrings, Chris Talbot-Heindl
25 – Aleppo (The Death of a City), Jens Jebsen
11 – I moved like a moon, Allison Grayhurst
26 – Gord-A-Dan, Tatjana Debeljacki
12 – One Thirty, Joanne Rosenthal
27 – Knowing, Toby Penney
13 – Who Am I, Wlkn_Fire
28 – Cock-A-Doodle-Doo, Changming Yuan 28 – A new world, Josh Marshall 29 – Symphony, Trevor Metz
Stephanie Jones - pg. 4
29 – Untitled, Bekah Steimel
On the Cover
30 – Donors and Index
Blue Eyed Girl Toby Penney Photo collage www.tobypenney.com
On the Back Cover Vincent’s Admirer Stephanie Jones Painting on wood
In This Issue 4 – Strong Bouquet, Stephanie Jones 5 – For the sake of heavens, for heaven’s sake, Arif Ahmad 6 – Once Upon a Time In, Jan Haskell 7 – Promises, Promises, David Sermersheim
Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 10 14-17 - Brooklyn to Prescott, AZ to Texas: Travel Plans for Cupcakes, Jack Veenum 18-21 – The Day That Scott Walker Invaded My Workspace, Chris Talbot-Heindl 22 – What We Know, Laura Stamp 23 – Banyan, Beach and Trash Can, Louis Marvin
Wlkn_Fire - pg. 13
Strong Bouquet Stephanie Jones Paint on wood
arif ahmad. For the sake of heavens, for heaven’s sake The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict
By: Arif Ahmad
The world bleeds around this most chronic ill The mother of all conflicts For such little space, a tiny area on the map The history of hatred is mind-boggling The central issue, the bottom line, is NOT ENOUGH LAND, LAND which the World can help create over the sea Or little some the expansive neighbors can graciously add If Abraham was to come alive today Would he not gather his entire family and probably say “Do it over, do it better, step it up.” “Come on people, get your act together, enough is enough.” Albeit Would his say in this day still carry any weight? Moses, Jesus, Muhammad How do I feel they are faring up there? How do you think they are holding out? Content, ecstatic, full of joy? Or disappointed, dejected, thoroughly annoyed? You are so wrong, I am so right And together we create For the sake of heavens, for heaven’s sake Unending bloodshed, this never ending plight Never pausing, never thinking That at the end of the day It is the same genes, the same blood on both sides of the aisle One Big Unhappy Family Where misery is shared and so is the destiny
jan haskell. Once Upon a Time In
(Part two, continued from July 2012)
By: Jan Haskell
When I wrote the first part two years ago, my intent was to draw the eye to conflicts of defeated groups (primarily basing it on sins in America). These sins are easily found when we see the conquest of land and the people living there, or when genocide is practiced. The justification of action toward resistance, from those who should know they are defeated, is always the same. The action is always too extreme, including the attempt of genocide. In the Americas, we see this over and over again, but my primary focus is the United States. Ever since Europeans (primarily) crossed the ocean, their claim to the land has been rooted in Divine Right, Manifest Destiny, or God-Blessed. The whole concept of The City On The Hill said America was to be the new Jerusalem, and they (the Pilgrims) were there to prepare America for the second coming of Jesus. For nearly 400 years, the lesson to the native and minority populations is “You are not part of the plan.” Today, there is a war waging in a land far away from me. In Israel, there is an on-going conflict between the native population (the Palestinians) and the Israeli government. This situation is reminiscent of the conflict between the native
population of America and the United States government. In both cases, the governments act extreme under the guise of protecting itself and the majority population from acts of violence from a militant wing of the minority. This is not to say governments don’t have the right to protect their population from violence or war. It is the extreme meant to keep a defeated people defeated. In America, the rhetoric of justification was Manifest Destiny, and the tribes were moved on to reservation lands to etch out survival. The natives were restricted to the boundaries of the reservation, and leaving meant taking one’s life into one’s own hands. Trade, commerce, industry, supplies, even protection of the reservation were all controlled by the federal government via the military. In the occupied territories of Israel, we see much of the same. The native population is denied having an identity; the territories are fenced and walled off from the rest of the world; the population are not allowed to travel freely within some of their territories. All their supplies must be checked by the Israeli government which prevents the ability of trade and industry. In other words, they must see that they are defeated, that they will have no home or state they can call theirs. (to be continued)
david sermersheim. Promises, Promises
By: David Sermersheim Do you suppose that when you die God will know the flag you fly — Methodist Catholic Baptist Presbyterian Evangelical Buddhist Jew Muslim too just to name a few? Do you suppose all of those will have their separate, distinct and unique Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, with space reserved especially for you? Some places will be better endowed with comfort and eternal bliss — fewer rooms of fiery doom, pain and everlasting suffering —
And what of the 72 vestal virgins promised the righteous bearded ones, nestled in the bosoms of nubile concubines lounging about in the heavenly gardens of Babylon? Others are not promised these... Where will these chambers be found by the curious wayfarer wandering about the Celestial Realm, set adrift in a sea of eternal bliss, heretofore only imagined by ambitious prophets, preaching gospels of promise to craven apostles, driven mad by ambition, dedication and uncommon zeal? How will all of these souls find each other, secure their place ahead of their brother? Don’t tarry, don’t delay, be on your way, this very day, to your place, — a special space — or a room in eternal doom.
sreyash sarkar. Ashore
By: Sreyash Sarkar The qualms of setting sail The embraceable sea And You. Each and every distressed toy Was predestined to be recherchĂŠ Each and every petal of a parijat Was predestined to be gifted To You. While you hear the approaching fragrance While you wash away burnt stars to enter An enraptured world, A part of you, stilled A part of you, fountaining A part of you, a holiday Maybe, another bit of you, Set afloat in the sky... Their identity was diaphanous â€” As the verse enfeebled itself, And you entered An Isosceles kashba Time laughed, And a few jealous cranes. A part of you, destroyed A part of you, quarreled with the void Maybe another bit of you Listening to words, ticking... Because the waves lashed on the shores of profundity The sea meditated, And the river became a poet...
alexis hope ronsmans. How do I tell the world...?
July 6th, 2014 for Chris
By: Alexis Hope Ronsmans How do I tell the world that I am not sick, that this is my beauty pouring out of me. This is the wisdom of my body expressing itself but this world does not teach its language.
looked upon at last by me.
How do I tell the world that I am not broken. Bicycles asked to fly will break and birds asked to swim will drown, but the stubbornness in my bones has saved me, but that is not what the world sees.
How do I tell the world that I am glory built for fire, that love brought the storm and that pain tempts the buyer, when some see a window and others a mirror.
How do I tell the world that this saltwater is my strength. Some lamps burn low to better know the dawn and some of us choose the long path because we know it is long.
How do I tell the world the story of my fears with their tongues, put the glory of my bones in their songs.
How do I forgive the world when forgiveness is unwanted. When merry ways must merry stay and doorways left unhaunted. When will the world want what it made in me, the sickly hearted? But, when at last, I know Iâ€™m wanted, will the goodness left by silver spoons departed change back to gorgeous villains looking back from looking glasses
Will all proof, unwanted and not looked upon, dissolve in salty rivers and be worthless?
And when at last I choose my words, a story long and yet unheard, will the world always daunting and so daunted forgive that I, in pursuit of the perfection I have so wanted, disavowed the language and so did change the meaning of the words therein. For, where once there was ugliness and sin there is a now a slow grace that, at its own pace, reaches for glory within.
Anderson Cooper Tugs on Heartstrings Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink on paper
allison grayhurst. I moved like a moon By: Allison Grayhurst
in predictable orbit, smashed by meteors, space pebbles meeting my surface with deep impact, when there were dark oceans under my skin, unseen single forms, coupled forms, and beds of colourless weeds, but I steadied myself on the cold shell of repetitive expectations dead valleys here, dead heights there. Going through the hard crust, under, into a thicker atmosphere, currents of heaviness, breaking barriers better off broken. Haunted by shapes that come close and rarely touch, in this weighted environment, by-passing predator tentacles and jaws by instinct alone, no journey-map, stars or horizon to act as goal or inspiration, but rolling through cross-waves with creatures captured by a dark density like myself, shaded, loose at the extremities, compact at the core, thriving on plateaus of deep pressure, salty flavours all around - so far gone from walking that legs leave, replaced by fins, and language is not sound, but a full-body resonance - no delay between appetite and attainment.
joanne rosenthal. One Thirty
By: Joanne Rosenthal Sometimes, when I brushed my teeth before I left for elementary school, my mom came and stood behind me in the bathroom. She turned sideways, gathered her shirt’s extra fabric in her hands, pulled it back tight, then inspected her reflection. She was checking to see how fat she was. It made me think about weight differently. Before, I had noticed if people were fat or skinny. I’d observed it objectively, though, the same way I noticed if someone was wearing a red shirt or a blue one. But my mother’s grimace at her body in the mirror told me it was bad to be fat. I weighed one hundred thirty pounds, but I wanted to drop to one twenty five. If I could just lose those five pounds! I thought about sticking my finger down my throat, but I didn’t want my teeth to turn yellow. Instead, I swore off soda, cut out chocolate, and ran laps until my vision went blurry.
It took over my mind. When I ate, I imagined my body converting each bite of food into bubbling globs of fat on my hips. I derided heavy people in my head, told myself I’ll never be fat like them. Now I wonder: what if I were? Wouldn’t it be better than this? Every day for three months, I stood sideways in front of the bathroom mirror and grabbed my stomach. It shrank as the weeks passed, and I weigh one twenty five now. But I know I would really look great if I could just pare it down to one twenty...
wkln _ fire.
Who Am I Wlkn_Fire Watercolor on paper
Brooklyn to Prescott, AZ to Texas: Travel Plans for Cupcakes By: Jack Veenum
The Overcoat and Johnny Sweetâ€™s Nutty/Syrup Creations
She just loved the feel of being nude under the menâ€™s trench coat. She could feel the wisps of air run up her thigh. The coat did not let her nipples poke through the material, but more often than not, she could cut class with her pink diamonds that formed along with the shivers she got in the crisp air of Autumn. In the winter she had to wear lingerie under the coat. Just too cold.
jack veenum (con’t). When she got out of the cab, the pastry guy was talking to a homeless guy that had taken up residence in front of his shop. She saw him and smiled from under her hat. She had the usual dark shades to cover her eyes, always wild with excitement when she came to the shop. The homeless guy was grabbing at the chef’s apron. “I had to kill him. He was going to take my dog and my stuff!” Johnny had given him one of his new creations with the Texas walnuts. He pried the guy’s hands from his apron and told him he had to go. “Please, let me tell you the rest…” “I’m not a priest old man. Enjoy your cupcake, I have to go.” He smoothed his hair and checked his reflection in the shop window. He came into the store and the chimes rang. “I love this.” He had cut up more of the Texas walnut thing he had put together this morning. It was the day’s sample on the counter.
closed, and it locked in front of someone who was about to come in. He mouthed, “Sorry.” Johnny took her to his office and put her on the couch he had. A beat up leather thing, with some scruffy pillows and some blankets piled in a mess. Bakers get up at two and three A.M., so sleeping in your office was run of the mill. He put a blanket down, and then put a pillow at one end. She put her head on the pillow and he covered her with another blanket. He had his desk lamp on low and just left it. He went to the baking area. “Willy, I shut the shop for a few. Someone had to lay down in my office.” Willy shrugged and went back to the oven. Before Johnny had gone outside to feed the vagabond, he was preparing cupcakes for shipments to Texas and Arizona. He used the walnuts from Texas and the syrups from Dandy Wharton’s company in Prescott, Arizona. Southwestern Syrups
“I have to sit down.”
Bahi Wharton was curious as to what this baker from New York had cooked up with their syrups. It must have been expensive to ship, because it is a long haul in refrigeration costs from New York to Arizona. Even the drive from Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport to Prescott at this time of year was going to cost.
He pulled a chair out for her. She sat. He was above her and the coat bunched up and he could see her naked breasts heaving while she breathed rapidly. She took off the hat and sunglasses. Sometimes the sunglass removal is a letdown, but he wanted to swim in her eyes. The NYC beauties that the world knows.
She banished the number crunching thoughts, as it was time to test-drive the treats from Johnny Sweet’s Bakery. Bahi had married a man that was into syrup. Then, as was her name, Bahidaj, the sacred fruit of the Tohono O’Odham became part of Dandy Wharton’s syrup empire. Why not? He married into them, fruit and all.
“I mixed some new syrup from this Arizona syrup company, with these walnuts from Texas.”
“Can I lay down? I’m really sorry.” He walked up to the door, turned the sign to
continues g 15
jack veenum (con’t). The cupcakes smelled wonderful, and they looked so good. He had used walnuts on the top. Some nuts were whole, while some were cut into slices and sprinkled on the icing. She got a little paper plate and took out one of the cupcakes. Dandy Wharton was on the floor of his little syrup plant, going over the last of the ingredients with his lead syrup brewers before brewing up new batches based on the imported fruits from Father Kino. They had used mesquite, saguaro fruit, prickly pear and other from the Sonoran Desert. They had plans to slowly add in two new syrups at a time from the Father Kino imported fruits called Father Kino’s Cultivars. They had experimented, using all natural ingredients. The business model was set up to include working with Prescott and Northern Arizona Native American groups, Southern Arizona groups and of course Bahi’s own Tohono O’Odahm. From the beginning they used profits to give back to the community like Newman’s Own. They started with the first batch of syrups at Peabody Winston and Sons Country Store and Bait Shop in Prescott, Arizona. They worked with students, chefs and professors from Prescott College. Someone said it was like heaven on a stack of flapjacks. Peabody could not keep it on the shelves. The local organic grocery stores in Arizona wanted in. The Back Porch Society for the Betterment of Prescott, which had meetings on the back porch of Peabody’s store that came complete with chew, smokes, Schlitz and JD, made an important decision. They would let Peabody take the contract with Wal-Mart. The mom and pop store killer, and the enemy of Peabody and stores like his everywhere, was the best place to distribute the syrup to the masses. The molasses masses. Fuck Wal-Mart and all that, but by God,
these syrups need to pour on the pancakes. They clinked Schlitz bottles and the back porch boys gave their permission for Dandy to expand this little enterprise. There was a letter that came with the cupcakes from Johnny Sweet. She would get to that later. Bahi opened the box, and out came the intermingled smells of six of the syrups. Whatever the baker had done, it had enhanced the syrups. She shut the blinds of the office and indulged. From Brooklyn with love. T for Texas, T for Truth
Some folks had locked away their secrets so deeply, they had a battle in their brains as the magic of the walnuts from the Ruiz Walnut Tree went at getting to the truth. Johnny Sweet saw both reactions at his store. The vagabond was truth telling, which he had processed as homeless gibberish. The pretty lady who wears men’s overcoats had to battle to get to the truth. She had some secrets hidden deeply in the folds of her mind. The Texican girl reluctantly drove into town where, once she had left the borders of Texas, she would not set foot again. Family, success, and possible trouble with the government saw to it that she was a liar. Her boots would kick up Texas dust again. Her cousin, hearing such interesting gossip by way of the very small size of this Texas dusty plain town, had told her some interesting news concerning the priest she had grown up with at the local church. It was so interesting; her first stop was to see the Padre. This is where she was baptized and went to Bible studies. Something had happened with the priest. She was on a quest back to the place of her birth, and back to that dusty, damned little walnut farm, so she may as well stop in to get a blessing and confirm the rumors. She needed to step
jack veenum (conâ€™t). into the sanctuary of the church, due to the fact that she truly believed daddy had killed off her mother too early with his wicked ways. Between the dust, scratching miracles from that dust to make a bare-essentials living, whiskey and just plain meanness, momma had nails hammered into her heart, soul and life. She just bled out. She hated daddy for this, so she needed to talk to her long, lost priest before she could face him and that damned walnut farm.
The Day That Scott Walker Invaded My Workspace By: Chris Talbot-Heindl
If we were to have a safe space meeting at my workplace, I don’t think I would have thought to include, “I would feel safer in a space were it not to be invaded by a politician who negatively impacted my family, friends, and state.” After today, I guess that will need to be included in future safe space meetings.
chris talbot-heindl (con’t). When I was informed of said invasion (one day prior to its occurrence, mind you), I was infuriated. Why was this smug asshole coming to my workplace? Why was I being asked to wear business casual attire to honor his visit? Why was I asked to attend a press conference? Wouldn’t being in attendance without a protest sign or my Cerberus of Fitzwalkerstan t-shirt indicate some sort of acceptance of the man and the policies he represents? I was informed it was not mandatory, and I have to admit that I spent the better part of the next 24 hours trying to decide if I would attend (inbetween doing my job, of course.) At some point, I decided not to. If I went, I would want to say something unflattering, but it would probably not be a good idea to do that as an employee of my workplace and not an individual on my own. No matter. After I had decided and we were let out early from training, I was informed that although it was not compulsory, I was let out early in order to attend. It was disappointing that I had opted not to. So, I packed my things, and started to walk over to where the press conference was happening. And stopped. And then started. And then stopped. And then climbed over a bush to avoid having to walk around the parking lot because of how far off course I was. Louis Molepske, Jr. was also on his way in. He had a few questions for me about my workplace. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I said. I was only thinking of Scott Walker. Also, I wasn’t sure how much I was supposed to say or refrain from saying. So many confidentiality clauses – but he was asking specific stuff, so it was okay to say, “yes,” right? My stress levels were peaking.
He awkwardly introduced himself, and I awkwardly responded, “I know who you are.” More stress levels rising. We got out of the elevator and walked toward the speech – he had already started. He talked more articulately than I had expected. He said a few things that made my belly do flips because of the last three years of his rule. But nothing to write home about. I was expecting more. I was expecting to go through some seething anger. But he seemed like he genuinely believed all the good things he said he was doing/had done. And he seemed sincere in talking about all the great things “we” had done. Next came the Q and A session. And here’s where the experience I was expecting to happen did. Let’s look at this as a representative from my workplace, in the job that I currently hold. Let’s monitor this: Agent Used Proper Branding: Governor Walker did a great job branding the answers, making sure to use the company name, people’s names if he knew them, the name of the city, and area knowledge. This builds great rapport with the listener, making them feel as if he understands and cares about them as an individual. Agent Took Ownership: Governor Walker did use “I” statements and “we” statements when appropriate. This made the listeners feel a sense of security, as in “we are all in this together.” The issue with some “I” statements used would be in taking credit where credit was not necessarily due. No deductions, just coaching. Agent Utilized Active Listening: While the Governor did listen to most of the questions presented, it is very important to use active listening. This means paraphrasing a question or request to insure that it has been fully
chris talbot-heindl (con’t). understood. This also means that Governor Walker should not talk over the asker. If an interruption does occur, yield to the asker, wait for the asker to finish, and apologize for the interruption. 10-point deduction. Agent Utilized Proper Communication: The Governor did use minimal slang throughout the Q and A session. Watch the “umm,” “uhh,” as they may create doubt in the listener. No deductions, just coaching. Agent Had Product/Service Knowledge: This is where the Governor really struggled. When asked about what he specifically has done to promote job growth, the Governor simply guessed. This would be a good time to refer to resources – such as history. For instance, the Governor stated that he had been dedicated to job growth in the Stevens Point area and around the state since he took office. He indicated that previous Governors had not been and when he took office, the unemployment rate was at an all-time high. While the comment about the unemployment rate was technically true, Wisconsin at that time was near the same rate as the nation. Since that time, Wisconsin has been at the bottom of job growth rate in the Midwest until just recently, when it barely overcame Illinois. In Stevens Point alone, Walker instigated the city almost losing hundreds of good-paying, skilled labor from Skyward. It was because of the efforts of State Representative Katrina Shankland and Senator Julie Lassa that it didn’t happen. The Governor was asked what he was doing for transportation growth, since we do provide travel insurance at our workplace. The Governor indicated he was greatly dedicated. He stated that he put a lot of taxpayer money into insuring that the roads were well kept. He also stated
that he was working on advertising to business people in China to fly to Chicago, drive through Wisconsin to see our Ginseng, and fly out of Minneapolis. Not only did this show a lack of knowledge about the products and services offered at the business (as well as a waste of taxpayer dollars), it also was a bit of a half-truth. The Governor did turn down the $810 million allocated to Wisconsin for the high-speed rail, which would have changed and increased the travel through Wisconsin as well as lead to 2,300 construction jobs and improved some of the deteriorating infrastructure already needing attention. Auto-fail. While this Q and A session would normally have rated 80%, the misunderstanding and miscommunication of the product/service knowledge has resulted in auto-failure. If Governor Walker has questions about the monitor produced here, he should please direct them to his direct supervisor. Perhaps the most insulting porky-pie that Walker stated was that he was integral in assisting the new jobs coming to my workplace by clearing away the red tape and allowing the business to run. This is a very common thing that a lot of Republicans tell themselves – that they believe in small government and they get rid of red tape. This is a lie. Republicans this year have increased the red tape for women trying to get assistance to feed their children, women trying to plan their families responsibly, women trying to get emergency contraception, the poor having access to food, and the poor having access to unemployment benefits, etc. What he meant to say, and likely what most Republicans mean to say is that they take away the red tape for the people who funded their campaigns; for the rest of us, it only gets redder and tapier. What I can say, as far as Governor Walker taking credit for the hundreds of new jobs coming to
chris talbot-heindl (con’t). my workplace, is that he is partially correct. If you take out the variables of my employer and CEO investing in his employees and the dozens of people who have been dedicatedly working on bringing four new programs to the business for the last year or couple of years, then we start to see his involvement. If Governor Walker hadn’t crippled the renewable energy monies by creating excessive red tape for solar and wind to use the grants allocated to them while simultaneously removing the red tape for non-renewable resources to gain more subsidies, my good-paying, career-path job may not have been lost last year. If I hadn’t been laid off, I wouldn’t have been on unemployment. If Governor Walker hadn’t added red tape to the unemployment laws, I would have been able to deny a job offer that paid me less than my unemployment did. If I hadn’t had to take the job offered, I wouldn’t have been one of the eight people that piloted one of the new queues, and therefore, we may not have earned the new jobs. Of course, this is all speculation, as I’m sure out of all of my talented co-workers, they would have picked someone else to pilot the new queue, we still would have earned the new jobs. So, no, I guess, even if you take out everything, Governor Walker is still not responsible for the jobs. In fact, what the hell was he even doing giving any sort of speech at my workplace? I guess it did give me some practice with QA-ing a delivery of information, without the option of pressing rewind…well, at least it’s something.
Second Space Send proposals to Steph Jones at firstname.lastname@example.org.
laura stamp. What We Know
By: Laura Stamp
When my cell phone rings, I’m watering a gaggle of lavender impatiens in the garden on my balcony. Their tiny faces mimic miniature roses. Plump, velvet, thirsty. “My next exhibition opens on Thursday night,” he says. “Would you like to come?” I sandwich the phone between my cheek and shoulder, freeing my hands to harvest spinach, snipping only the largest leaves for a dinner salad of cashews, dates, chia seeds, carrots, cauliflower, and red cabbage drizzled with olive oil and honey. “That sounds like fun,” I say. This I know: he’s Columbia’s most popular abstract artist. I’ve been to his condo at the Adesso. I’ve seen his work. I’ve heard about the splendor of his shows. But nothing prepares me for the visual treat that
greets us when we step through the door of the gallery on opening night. Color explodes from white walls. Bold, primal, fierce brushstrokes twirl across each large wrapped canvas. Layers of color lead the eye through labyrinths of abstraction created with artist brushes, modeling paste, house paint brushes, oil sticks, squiggles of pigment squeezed straight from the tube to the canvas. He uses whatever he needs to conjure these pieces. The gallery fills within minutes. We speak to his brother, Dray. To Dray’s wife, Sara. To my artist friend, Mirabella. To her husband, Reese. To others, many others. But I barely remember. I’m too brain-dazzled by his avalanche of color. When the opening ends, he finds me in front of a floor-length canvas painted in several shades of purple (orchid, violet,
grape). Flecks of gold and red kindle the center like the flash from a lightning bug on torrid summer nights. “I like this one best,” I say and step closer. “I’m glad,” he says. “I painted it just for you.” I trail my fingers over its textured surface, noticing how my metallic lavender nail polish matches the hues of his palette. “What did you name it?” I ask, fascinated by his lively brushstrokes, each revealing a galaxy of detail. “Strawberries, Fire & Musk,” he says. Looks like he hasn’t forgotten the strawberry juice I licked from his cheek last week, the musk of my perfume, the fire of the bathtub candles. Such fire. This he knows about me: I’m a Witch, and my favorite color is purple. Looks like it might be his now, too.
Banyan, Beach and Trash Can By: Louis Marvin
It is quiet under the banyan tree we are between Waikiki Aquarium and The War Memorial birds flutter at the trash cans with after party treats runners, walkers and dog strollers go by on 4s and 2s I can see the grey-blue ocean today, surfers lined up for the mellow south shore waves a perfectly peaceful Pacific breeze blows the palms, it tickles, it makes dance a pigeon hops up onto the table/desk to ask â€œDo you have any food for me?â€? he is waved away yes, it is this quiet under the banyan tree with breeze, bird, ocean and sky if you are still with me, it is for you and I
marc carver, tim parkin.
By: Marc Carver I saw the man who said he had given up the drink for seventeen days I could see the extra strength beer in his plastic bag his legs had gone too I am guessing he never rmade eighteen I am normally right about these things.
Rook fresh meat from white bone By: Tim Parkin
Rook fresh meat from white bone, Pack a dignified cone. Manifest turbulent new born love. Pale the Mandrake sunlight, Inhabit a space of twilight. Finger the runes of your deepest thought’s consequence. Dread-drink down death and ponder the topography of oceans. And wonder, keep wondering ‘Where will it end?’ ‘When will I go out to meet the one that I love?’ On saccharine sad-eyes Tuesday with a pocket full of promise? On misty windswept Wednesday with my hair tied back? On a beer-drenched six-pack Saturday night in a pub? A mystery like a knot of wind, never untangled and hard to contain.
Aleppo (The Death of a City) By: Jens Jebsen
I stood breathless in the face of my own demise Spread out before me in destitute skies Glimpses of hell mingled with Bashar’s delight As anguished shrieks echoed through an obdurate night I walked in solitude through desolate plains Through flame dried cities and charred remains Those who remained told me that the end was near And said “Don’t pray for the dead, because the dead can’t hear.” In the cruel eyes of god I saw the stars nurse the fires That licked martyrs roasting on funeral pyres The Stars and stripes shone brighter, The Star and Crescent burned hotter; Each entity oblivious to its own cosmic slaughter
By: Tatjana Debeljacki THE ROOTS ARE CLAIRVOYANT, GRASPING UNTOUCHABLE WISDOM. THAT IS THE WAY IT STARTS, THE SIGN OF TIMES IS DECEIVING. IT IS THE TIME TO SEE THE DROWNED. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING? YOU ARE BRINGING AS SMALL AMOUNTS AS YOU LIKE TO. YOUR IMAGE IS STILL GROWING AND CRYING. COMING CLOSER AND GOING AWAY, STRONG WEAKNESS. THE WORLD THAT IS SPREADING BUT DOES NOT BELONG TO ANYONE, GIVE SOMETHING FROM YOURSELF THAT COULD BRING SENSE FROM THE THREAD OF WILL. TRY LOOKING WITH DIFFERENT EYES TO THE LIGHT. EVIL IS DANGEROUS, CONTAGEOUS ILLNESS, MOVE OUT OF THAT EVIL, IT MAKES THE CENTURY LONGER.”GORD-A-DAN” THE TEAR RIVERS ARE NOW MURMURING, THE DOG IS WAILING, YOU ARE GONE. BREAK LOOSE I BEG YOU! AND SLENTLY, THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR, COME TO ATTEND THE FEAST OF PRESERVED EMOTIONS, DAYDREAMS, THE HAPPY MOMENTS! DECENT GIFT, HUNGRY CRAVING IN THE BUNK OF FEATHERS, SILK AS PURE AS THE SNOW, WITH THE FORCE OF SILENCE. FLOWERS OF DANDELLIONS LET’S DANCE FROM AFAR WITH OUR LOOKS, WITH OUR BODIES, LET’S TOUCH WITH PALMS ONLY.
Knowing Toby Penney Photo collage www.tobypenney.com
changming yuan, josh marshall.
By: Changming Yuan
Born in a year of the rooster You were fated to crow But not so high in the sky Like any other bird flying fast by Rather, you perch low Low on a broken fence (Still reserved for ghosts and spirits) Crowing as aloud as you can To welcome every sun Looming above the dawn Yes, you are vociferous, both because of Your breed, and your personality
A new world By: Josh Marshall
Open your squid and see all the things youâ€™ve never seen before. Stare into a magical strawberry, and step into a new world using a rainbow colored door.
trevor metz, bekah steimel.
Symphony By: Trevor Metz
Flipper fluttering making waves. A tongue stutters rhythmic delays. A creator hammers a nail in wood, Echoing throughout the neighborhood. Dog paws twitch to the pulse of a dream. Insects click in the moonlight gleam. Patterns in nature emitting their sound, Heard and felt by all those around.
By: Bekah Steimel I will not change my taste to better suit your palate even cheap wine can get you drunk you studied the masters while I lived with the slaves your pricey education versus my free observations seems like an unfair fight I am not firing with the ammunition of academia but Iâ€™m not shooting blanks, either
donors, index. artists Ahmad, Arif
Haskell, Jan Jebsen, Jens Jones, Stephanie Marshall, Josh
6 25 4, 32 28
Ronsmans, Alexis Hope Rosenthal, Joanne Sarkar, Sreyash
9 12 8
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 email@example.com and make your pledge. acquaintences of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1-10) - Colin Bares, Casey Bernardo, Teri Edlebeck, Stephanie Jones, Eric Krszjzaniek, Dana Lawson, Jason Loeffler, Justin Olszewski friends of the bitchin’ kitsch ($11-50) - Charles Richard, Kenneth Spalding, Tallulah West lovers of the bitchin’ kitsch ($51-100) - Scott Cook, Keith Talbot partners of the bitchin’ kitsch ($101-1,000) - Felix Gardner, Jan Haskell parents of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1,001-10,000) - none yet, become a parent! demi-gods of the bitchin’ kitsch ($10,001 & up) - The Talbot-Heindl’s
It Ainâ€™t Gonna Feed Itself... Help us feed that b*tch!
(It eats Donations and sales) www.talbot-heindl.com/support_us
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...
Published on Jul 27, 2014
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...