Volume 5, Issue 2 February 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 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.
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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.
9 - Search for Perfection, Mike Cluff
17 - Anthropophagette, Chris Talbot-Heindl
10 - Planned Remodeling, Valentina Cano
18 - An inspired ray bent through several stained glass windows: Dante, Dali, A Young Poet of Cyberspace, and Roo, Roo Bardookie
10 - The Morning After, Jeremiah Walton 11 - amharic flash cards, Jess Provencio 12 - Uncle Ray and the DoubleWide Wiener Dog, Louis Marvin
18 - Aquamarine Rock Wrap, David Scott 19 - You Done It, Ivan Jenson 19 - The Hour, William Cathey
Tallulah West - pg. 4
20 - Chris Critiques: Holiday Inventors, Chris Talbot-Heindl
On the Cover
21 - Star-flanked, Dawnell Harrison
21 - Love, Leslie Philibert
Aged Entertainer Hector Acuna Charcoal on paper
21 - My Wife, Mandal Bijoy Beg 22 - Donors and Index
On the Back Cover Falling III W. Jack Savage Marker on paper
In This Issue 4 - Self-Generated Analog-y, Tallulah West 5 - Afterwards, Myron McGhee 6 - Wave, Kyle Seis 7 - No Hemingway, Sy Roth 8 - Record Store, Brian Anthony Hardie
Kyle Seis - pg. 6 13 - Killer Clowns, Jamie Lee Knight 14 - Grandmaâ€™s Bedspread, Douglas Polk 15 - twitter poetry, Kay Kerimian 15 - Annabel Lee, Michael Ashley 16 - Backward, Turn Backward, Stanley M. Noah
David Scott - pg. 18
Self-Generated Analog-y Tallulah West Photograph
By: Myron McGhee Who had seen Patroclus Free of his shield, No helmet to hide behind, No chest plate to guard against vulnerability. And what exactly was I to do? I, who had seen the recesses of my skin The dark browns of my eyes. The depth of my own shading. Exposed and naked against the starlight. I, who cared for him like Patroclus to Achilles, Buried in his loverâ€™s armor. But that is a story picked from a land That is not my own For I am from the world of spray painted walls And baked sidewalks. I am from the world of ketchup stained shirts And smog filled breath I, who had dreamed of his body against mine His broad shoulders against my black skin, Still growing hairs from puberty.
That school boy fascination Inherent lust that betrayed me Showing who I was before I was ready And yet I loved him I loved him with the fervor of which I feared myself. Fear was all I could cling to. My shading painted me a thug, An outsider to the world of festivals Unwelcomed at the shrine of Iolaus And my dick revealed me too feminine for the world of ebony Too delicate to take a punch. I, who could not distance myself from my skin (the only thing keeping me together) Or my hardened dick (the only thing forcing my heart to pump blood) Or the whispered shame that would only come afterwards. I who loved him like Patroclus to Achilles, I who bore his armor and marched out onto the field, Awaiting a swift ending.
Wave Kyle Seis Inkjet print
sy roth. No Hemingway By: Sy Roth
She gave it to me on the way out. I boxed it with the other stuff that bore some relevance to my life. The ceramic Bahamian and the silver Victorian framed picture Snuggled in the box with other memories. They were to be inspirations The Bahamian crossing guard in his regalia, Red sash crossing the white jacket buttoned austerely to his Adamâ€™s apple, pith helmet red crest, a dot at the top of its crown, brown hand held aloft in greeting, or cautioning me to stop grim face shackled in a chin strap. He stands atop a Nassau liqueur stand Black pants sharply pleated As I stop to contemplate the next frozen lines That struggle like a belch to befoul the world. The Bahamian seems to bid it. The photograph of Papaâ€™s studio that accompanies the Bahamian Notes that he wrote many of his novels in the room depicted. She penned a note in her own hand, May it be an inspiration. I wait for the Muses to conspire to make the words spill from my fingertips In short crisp bursts that would make Papa marvel. But they are elusive and the Bahamian only stares back blandly at me With piercing eyes And in the picture where Papa had put him To better use atop his book case.
brian anthony hardie. Record Store
By: Brian Anthony Hardie Historically, trends tread softly blazed trails tied to my cell bed that are tightened nightly around my wrists and head, blanketing the sandy intersection of morality, ever so noisy are the echoes from fellows pre-cursing populated eyes dilating redialed lost sanctioned cells of her telephone in the middle of a fight. Now, the story musters up to generate musty fractured empty threats from lost friends, the forecast electrically inverting my social trend. Toxins in my vanity pilot the black speeding eyes of every thought served in authentic decorated to-go boxes to be chosen between shallow passive glances exchanged aggressively, filtering universal boundaries during our late night search for upper-class clout determining how experience should enter the picture. Privately publicized research transports every thought zoo back to earth, the moon’s appearance takes a seat on the MAX tracks of the well trained occurring possibilities, need I mention how compelled the tribe’s chief became? Puffing his mind through cleansing clearance classically blaming his previous ass whooping. Circles of the fifth octave bridge together tonight’s last call for self-diminishing large-mouth bass chords as they walk across the bridge’s heavy chugga-chugga stiff riff, ripping and rocking it while busting out a metal windmill with this hair and broken neck spinning the performance in aesthetics perfect circle.
w w w . ta lb o t - h ei n d l . c o m
Search For Perfection By: Mike Cluff
Even in his lightest seconds, George would dress in his best suits and sports coats, ties and vests at no less that three hours or dollars of expenditures but there was no one to be impressed by all this. It was just his way to get through a pale lonely afternoon when the ferry had run aground the apples would refuse to be picked and he had too much worry time in his hands. And the argyle socks and brown wingtips still suffered nonetheless.
valentina cano, jeremiah walton. Planned Remodeling
By: Valentina Cano
If my fingernails were sharp enough, I’d peel my skin like old wallpaper. I’d pick out a corner, where it puckers against my graying meat, and yank it away. I can’t imagine blood or pain. I see only the stuccoed veins and muscle, plastered together when all they want is to collapse apart.
Second Space Send proposals to Steph Jones at email@example.com.
The Morning After By: Jeremiah Walton
Electric fault wires, soundgardens of mind Sparks, roots ringlets wired for elec-stacy Now is the only concern. Flowers bud as quickly as they wilt Gardener is rendered temporarily useless Electrician divvies up moaning and dead Into past and present Their inquiries hitting dial tone No coffins, only abysmal hovels of rich soil Fertilized by history of embryonic Self.
jess provencio. amharic flash cards By: Jess Provencio
small round eyes peer over wire frames arthur seems dwarfed behind the bus wheel a highlighter sticking out from his mouth a button on his hat proclaims it’s never too late to learn a family moved in next door to us from Ethiopia us african americans need to know where we’re from so they are teaching me and my wife weaving in and out of orange cones dodging traffic for the rail line expansion construction explicating on a country where he has not yet set foot seemingly oblivious to the yellow lines as we veer dangerously close to oncoming cars most people think of ethiopia as a bunch of starving kids bones sticking out covered in flies we need to know our roots he squints at his smudged flash cards which bear witness to the remnants of his lunch his sweater vest a bit tight passport sticking out of his front pocket an international ticket tucked inside ethiopia was where god put the garden of eden amharic the ethiopian language that’s what the angels sing
louis marvin. Uncle Ray and the Double-Wide Wiener Dog By: Louis Marvin
In the mining town of Globe/Miami, in the blistering sun of Arizona, there lived a copper miner/crusher foreman and his wife. He was Louis, she was Oma. Oma lived just two houses down from her sister. Her sister was married to Uncle Ray. Auntie and Ray had a spectacular wiener dog. Alas, he lived too long ago to be famous on YouTube, but his girth would have made him a celebrity of scorn and pity. In fact, animal lovers everywhere, along with veterinarians, would have been appalled at the sight of the double-wide wiener dog. Trailer? No, double-wide wiener dog. Abandoning any notions of feeding him regular dog food, or trying to have him lose weight, they had him blown up like a balloon. His gas was not helium. He hung so low, the fur from his belly was scraped off from rubbing the floor of the house and the dirt of the grassless yard at Auntie and Ray’s. At this point in time in the history of the Bluebird mine, they were sifting through tons of garbage rock, to come up with a smattering of copper compared to the mine’s former activity and amounts produced. It had been purchased by a Japanese company. The town had ghosted, with many shut windows and boarded up factories. The wiener dog could have been an oddity to bring tourists in. But, it was the type of secluded-in-the-hills place where locals really don’t want tourists. Uncle Ray, along with Louis, had worked the mines long enough to have bodies and grips that could bend steel. As weak as miners’ lungs are, don’t test their strength. They can bend and break you. Let’s get back to that wiener dog. You see, his body grew and grew, but the size of his head never changed. Dachshunds look like little old men, with those bald heads and floppy ears. His head was regular size and felt funny in the palm of my kid hand. A regular size head, with the doublewide body that hung so low. Yet, his backbone didn’t sway as it was propped up by his dog gut. He could motor when he saw kids coming to their house. How could he go from zero to trot with two inch legs and a dragging stomach? I think he was most able to navigate at these speeds, for when he was going slower, his hairless stomach would catch every bump, pebble and ant hill along the way. 12
jamie lee knight.
By: Jamie Lee Knight
If I were a clown, I would eat everything with viscous sweet nothings bounding into my mouth. Honey, maple syrup, liqueur, rose water, Baileyâ€™s, poppy seed dressing. I would want to stick my tongue into the jar. I would drizzle slowly in spirals. I would mouth the word, corkscrew. If I were a clown, I would smell like old paper. Shredded, sliced, pressed wood pulp wafting from my skin. Trade paperback, mass market, hard cover, magazine, receipt, stationary. I would turn pages slowly. I would crumple scrap in my fists. I would read loudly over the air conditioning. If I were a clown, I would listen to the birds. Hoot, screech, whistle, echo, peck, forage. I would take their offerings of bits of string, aluminum foil, twine. I would bow down under the wings of my bird shrine.
I would feed them seeds. I would tell them stories. I would hide their nests in my eaves. If I were a clown, I would wear cuddleduds under my colorful suit. Slip sliding caress, soft glide across my thighs. I would wear silk scarves. I would swallow them whole. I would wonder about friction. If I were a clown, I would watch the parade bellowing loud in my big pants. Steamers, noise makers, flint, shots, crinoline, bellybutton lint. I wouldnâ€™t be stopped from soaking the neon into my eyeballs. I would wander willfully. I would meander dutifully. I would saunter extravagantly. I am a clown.
douglas polk. Grandma’s Bedspread By: Douglas Polk
the bedspread was my Grandmother’s, the color of anti-acid, an unreal pink or orange, depending on the light, a Victorian frilly type of thing, with roses and swirls all over the place, it went on the bed in the upstairs bedroom in which I slept, when a boy, forgotten til the cancer came, when the nights dark and long, and the pain unbearable, the despair black and deep, my wife and kids all asleep, I would get the bedspread off the basement shelf, wrapping it around me as tightly as I could, attempting to embrace the love and security of long ago, finally sleeping for a few hours, awake before the family awoke, I would fold the bedspread, and hide it between the mattress and the springs, of the vacant bed, the bed on which I slept, when the nights especially hard, wrapped in Grandma’s bedspread.
kay kerimian, michael ashley.
what is good poetry versus poetry versus bad poetry, when do you know an avocado is ripe, & other assorted life questions that go unresolved
(After Edgar Allan Poe)
By: Kay Kerimian
4 am drafts of 1 line symphonies; sleep will come when the draft is done. this shit won’t write itself, you know. madness had better arrive. the trouble is: i find writing in the middle of the night and in the morning, i can’t tell if it’s decent or if i am just fucking delirious.
By: Michael Ashley
she was a beauty, but I don’t need words like sepulchre or seraphs to frame the image of her standing naked, dark hair tumbling goosebumps risings toward a perfect skull top, the line of her breast garnished in moonlight, obscured only by the blue clouds of cigarette fumes.
it is impossible to be original with only so many combinations of words out there. like typing monkeys of the internet, click-clacking away. twitter poetry is the only poetry left still able to whet my instant noodle appetite. i’m starved, but i’m lazy & settle for a temporary fix tell me i can not make change with one hundred and forty characters as my weapon of choice and, sheepishly, i might have to admit: fuck you.
stanley m. noah. Backward, Turn Backward By: Stanley M. Noah
Quiet in this square, stained wall-paper room, haunting low-toned mirror and slow moving music dancing out the short ban radio. My mind seem easily to walk backwards the steps of years. Then profoundly reality is repeating my personal history with so many persons. I lived through their faces, voices, events like a movie. I do not need to meet them as they are today. Some memories are sacred like fresh linen folded and put away like rivers to the sea like beach bone-dried sea shells waiting for generations to be collected. Remembered for what they were, and went like stamps on letters, traveled. Just to be put away in glass jars like red sweet jam held to sun light. You wonder beyond yourself and with those who knew you as they are constantly on edges, disappearing, again and againâ€”taking a little of you with them as if until now you had never been here, hardly lived, even known by others today. Then fate like gravity soon has its way of placing you alone in this room somewhere in this hour. And the mirror you look into is like an abstract image you cannot fix. Becoming more invisible each time you take a peek. You hate to cut the lights off. Fearing next morning the mirror can no longer hold you. Its the quietness, isnâ€™t it, that makes you think of these types of thoughts.
Anthropophagette Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink and gouache on paper
roo bardookie, david scott. An inspired ray bent through several stained glass windows: Dante, Dali, A Young Poet of Cyberspace and Roo.
By: Roo Bardookie
Twist the Comedy into Maniac Laughter
Salvador Dali took inspiration from Dante’s Divine Comedy, and a modern man of poetry challenges his poets to write about these pictures that Dali painted. I am Roo Bardookie, a writer of horror, a practitioner of the world’s oldest trade, a genuine Gypsy from Spain, and a black widow that would gladly sting Louis Marvin in the eye. These are my takes on what Dali painted: The Delightful Mount
I stood in my blood red robe, looking up at the crucified on this hill, wondering, “Where did their souls go, were they actually guilty, and, did some ascend to heaven like Jesus?” Some blood from their hands and feet was dry, some still poured in thin rivulets down their arms and feet, onto the wood and into the dirt of the hill. The sun was setting, making the scene horrific and beautiful at the same time. I approach them, with no guards or fences to keep me away. I am close enough to smell the stench of their dead corpses. I see bugs and beetles at their eyes and ants at the dried blood, carrying it away like a bizarre picnic invasion. The mandatory birds are picking at the sockets and soft bloated faces. Some birds are circling overhead, in leisurely circles, as even they know the spiked men on these strange trees are going nowhere. They can pick the flesh at their leisure. I sit down with the sun to my back, warming me as the horror unfolds all around me in the guise of insects and birds. I sit there until the sun sets.
Aquamarine Rock Wrap David Scott Aquamarine and copper
ivan jenson, william cathey. The Hour
By: William Cathey Donâ€™t let my eyes fade into the darkness of night. Donâ€™t let my heart fail without a purpose in life. Never let a sun rise over my head without a drive. Never let a sun set before Iâ€™ve made the best of time. Full moon or no moon, appreciate the phase. Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn bottled into one.
You Done It
By: Ivan Jenson
Falling leaves with fallen dreams; admire the stark, naked beauty. Budding flowers with blooming desires, take hold of the hour.
that aha moment when you realize that you have neither fallen behind nor moved ahead because this is not a pageant or a competition with a fee see those around you not as candidates for the position you are jockeying for but as innocent bystanders in a police lineup where the witness behind the one way mirror sooner or later will point at you who will be fingerprinted, booked and charged with the mortal crime of killing time 19
chris talbot-heindl. Chris Critiques: Holiday Inventors By: Chris Talbot-Heindl
Some awesome lady I’ve never met who works at my workplace sends out a daily email to all the little minions who work there. This email contains a nugget of absolute joy: a list of crazy holidays associated with that day.
Once you have their attention – maybe by dangling bribes or pant suits in front of them – you create a proposal and hopefully it will eventually get onto the congressional agenda some day before you die of old age.
Thursday, January 2, was National Mew Year for Cats Day AND National Science Fiction Day, so I did promise all of my coworkers a masterful piece to commemorate the Day (which I have unofficially dubbed Chris Talbot-Heindl Day in light of both holidays being totally me); hence the illustration. (50 dork points for whoever can name the two ships and Internetfamous cats depicted).
Some holiday inventors have learned to circumvent all this hoopla and go directly to the people who make or break holidays – the greeting card makers. If you can capture those who would make a buttload of money on your idea, they can use their big money, corporate interest, lobbying abilities to make that shit just happen.
But this critique goes out as a ginormous salute to those who invent and follow through on these wonderful holidays. As I have discovered, this process is no easy feat. A national holiday is literally an act of Congress, and as we’ve seen this year, it is quite difficult to get Congress to do much of anything – including balancing a check book and passing a budget that they will spend the next year completely disregarding. The first step if you want to make your own holiday is to contact your local congressperson.
This, to me, makes it all the more amazing that National Mew Year for Cats and National Science Fiction Day exists. I salute you, oh maker of such holidays for either having the patience and fortitude of a saint or for convincing a greeting card company that they could make money selling Star Trek themed National Science Fiction Day cards. Either way, you are a genius and have made my day.
leslie philibert, dawnell harrison, mandal bijoy beg.
By: Leslie Philibert Let me be a casement that you open when you look out of a window or a sill full of warm moss to rest your hands upon.
By: Dawnell Harrison The star-flanked sky shoulders a cloudless night. Violet waves of fog pour in like sheets of rain igniting the streets with a colorful tenderness.
By: Mandal Bijoy Beg I am a soul Not body. And hence, Youâ€™re not my wife Kali is my wife. You are the wife To this body Which is not I.
donors, index. artists Acuna, Hector
Beg, Mandal Bijoy
Knight, Jamie Lee
Hardie, Brian Anthony
Noah, Stanley M.
Savage, W. Jack
Seis, Kyle Talbot-Heindl, Chris Walton, Jeremiah West, Tallulah
6 17, 20 10 4
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The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creat...
Published on Jan 27, 2014
The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creat...