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Stevens Point (and neighbors) Calendar of Events. Art

January 8-17, Tuesdays Stitchin’ Time...Button Down Shirts. 9:00 a.m. - 12:00 p.m. Call 346-3838 for availability.

January 18 Point Dance Ensemble Choreography Showcase. 7:00 p.m. Jensen Community Center, Amherst.

Through January 27 Juried Student Art Show. Edna Carlsten Gallery, UWSP.

January 12 Sheep to Shawl. 9:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. Cutler County Comfort, Miladore.


Through January 5 A Gift of Art. Opening Reception: November 9. Gallery Q.

Through January 31 Sara Studinski: The Nameless. Reception: Jan 18, 6:00-8:00 p.m. Scarabocchio Art Museum. January 8-February 28 Jeff Morin: Recent Work. Reception: Jan 18, 5:30 - 7:30 p.m. Gallery Q. January 18-February 17 Winter’s Garden Exhibit. Riverfront Arts Center. Community/Fundraising

January 1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 10, 12, 13, 15, 17, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 26, 29, 31 Public Skating. KB Willet Arena. January 5 Tomorrow River Community Variety Show. 7:00 p.m. Jensen Community Center, Amherst. January 8 Community Potluck Series: Root Cellars and Pantries. 6:30 p.m. The Greenhouse Project. January 19 Annual Passport to Paradise: fundraiser for the Boys and Girls Club and YMCA. 6:30 - 10:30 p.m. Holiday Inn Convention Center.


Anytime, Online Introduction to Renewable Energy Online. Midwest Renewable Energy Association. Call 592-6595 or visit to register. 2

January 14-February 24 Basic Photovoltaics (Solar Electricity) Online. Midwest Renewable Energy Association. Call 592-6595 or visit www. to register. January 14-February 24 Introduction to Wind Systems Online. Midwest Renewable Energy Association. Call 592-6595 or visit to register. January 19 Glass Pendants and More! 9:0011:00 a.m. Call 346-3838 for availability. January 26 Painting Through the Eyes of Van Gogh. 10:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. UWSP Continuing Education. Call 346-3838 for availability. January 28-March 24 Solar Thermal System Conceptual Design Online. Midwest Renewable Energy Association. Call 592-6595 or visit workshops to register.


January 5 Central Wisconsin Spirit Showcase. 9:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m. PJ Jacobs Junior High School.

January 25 Tomorrow River Chautauqua presents: Louder than a Bomb (Documentary). 7:30 p.m. Jensen Community Center, Amherst.


Mondays Sing That Tune Karaoke. 9:30 p.m. Partners Pub. Wednesdays Acoustic Open Mic with the Sloppy Joe Band. 8:00 - 11:00 p.m. Northland Sports Bar and Grill. January 19 Peter Mulvey Concert. 7:30 p.m. Jensen Community Center, Amherst. January 26 Art Stevenson and High Water. Central Waters Brewery, Amherst.


January 1 Polar Bear Plunge. 12:00-1:00 p.m. Rusty’s Backwater Saloon. January 4, 5, 13, 26 Pointer Hockey. 7:00 p.m. KB Willett Arena. January 4-6 Portage County Ice Wars. Portage County Fairgrounds, Amherst. January 11-12 Sentry Classic High School Hockey Tournament. 5:00 p.m. KB Willett Arena.

Calendar of Events (con’t), freedom heindl. January 17, 24 SPASH Hockey. 7:00 p.m. KB Willett Arena. January 18, 19, 20, 25, 26, 27 Saints Hockey. 7:00 p.m. KB Willett Arena.

If you would like to see your event in The Bitchin’ Kitsch next month, please email the details to

Untitled Freedom Heindl Colored pencil on paper, glass, and Perler beads


content jan 2013 Factory - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE


Calendar of Events


Untitled - Freedom Heindl


renegades of point - douglas somers


My Journey to Self Discovery The Road to Happiness - John Lee


Monthly Mission Submission


Hypnotized - To Love Sophia


Tampa - Holly Day


Bon appetite - Marc Carver


Silent Castanets - Sy Roth


Spring in the City - Kate Winter


Untitled - Freedom Heindl


#31 - Dan Hedges


Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Ink on paper

#80 - Dan Hedges


#92 - Dan Hedges


on the inside back cover:

Magic Mess - Colin Dodds


A Sanctuary for Wounded Birds Robert Lavette Smith Deaf Ex - Paul Hostovsky


The Wild Goose Chase - Mike Cluff


monthly mission submission - pg. 14

Louie Crew - pg. 20

on the front cover: Factory


Jacob Zurawski Graphite on paper

the bitchin’ kitsch video and music issue:

Check out this month’s “issue” link of video and music at or

Nerudian Slip - Jameson Stewart


A Seed - Jacob Cardarelli


Tom - Kenneth Abraham


Birther Remover Off Coast of Hawaii - Louie Crew


Where Angels Sing - Jason Ford


Rain Bucket - Zachary Frisch


I let my head fall - Dawnell Harrison


Palabras para un concierto Cinzia Tomassini




Snow - LM & XY


Eyelets - Wlkn_Fire


pigment - douglas somers


Donors and Index


Untitled - Jacob Zurawski


douglas somers. 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 are you a video or music artist? submit your youtube link or original file to all submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue.


have a seriously bitchin’ idea that could make the bitchin’ kitsch that much better? we want to hear from you. email with your ideas.

community copies:

sit down and read the bitchin’ kitsch at our community locations: zest, the smith scarabocchio art museum, epic studios tattooing and piercing, the coffee studio, and noel fine arts center. want to house a community copy? email chris@


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renegades of point douglas somers Painting

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john lee. My Journey of Self Discovery - The Road to Happiness By: John Lee

I left Wisconsin on a freezing and snowy morning in February 2011. God, how I was miserable that day. I put on a brave face and smiled as much as I could, or at least I think I did. After having exhausted every legal avenue that was available for me to stay in America, only to leave as a last resort the country I so desperately wanted to call home, I was deeply miserable. After I arrived in Korea, I spent the next four months being completely unproductive and wallowing in selfpity. In June, after receiving a letter from the Military Manpower Adminstration, which stated that I was to report for duty to begin my compulsory military service, I joined (was conscripted) the Republic of Korea Army. It has been eighteen months since I was conscripted and now, the end is nearly in sight as I will be formally discharged in March 2013.

The average brain of any active military serviceman. Subsequently, Military Intelligence, the field I’m in, is quite the oxymoron. Photo credit:

As a result of the peculiar situation that I have found myself in for the past eighteen months, I’ve had plenty of time to ponder, question, and philosophize. And one of the many questions that I’ve asked myself is “Why am I so unhappy all the time?”

Twenty-one months is not long at all when compared to the length of time that an American soldier has to serve after he/she enlists but my short time here hasn’t exactly been a picnic. No, it isn’t the Marine Corps but it is still the Army and the ROK Army is one of the most combat ready armies in the world - it is on par with the Israeli Defense Forces as far as being prepared for combat goes. As much as the ROK Army wishes to modernize and train soldiers who can think critically, it is still the Army and like any other army in the world, one of the things that it takes most seriously is the chain of command. What that means is that High Command isn’t going to micromanage every little thing; it’s only going to try to micromanage as much as humanly possible. So, as peons, our job is to the do the job that we’ve been ordered to do the best way we can and only start to think critically when the chain of command has been broken, aka when High Command has been obliterated by North Korean artillery and/or rockets. Seeing how we’re only preparing for war and we’re not actually at war, High Command is always there, and God, how it loves to remind us of that fact every waking moment of our lives. So, we don’t ever really think on the job all that much. We just do.


My reaction to the sound of babies cooing. Photo credit:

For those of you who’ve known me since I was in Wisconsin, you will no doubt know that I wasn’t ever exactly a barrel of cheers. In fact, my favorite euphemism for my constant low morale was what my friend, Kevin, coined for me - “dour.” For those of you who’ve known me since I was in Brunei, you will no doubt know that I’ve been this way my whole life. To find the answer, I had to reexamine my most deeply held convictions and had to be honest with myself, no matter how much I hated what I was going to find. And my God, how I hated what I found. The first step that Alcoholics Anonymous requires of its patients is that they admit to themselves that they have a problem. The next step about accepting that they’re helpless and needing to accept a higher power

john lee (con’t). to drag them out of their hell hole, which allows them to avoid personal responsibility for their own actions, is a whimsical irony but the first step, I agree, is important. And I had a problem. My problem was that I was a resentful person. Who and what was I resentful of? I think the better question to ask is who and what was I not resentful of. This might or might not come as a surprise to many of you but despite my ardent adherence to capitalism and the free market, I resented the rich; especially those whom I considered to be my intellectual inferiors. For example, let’s take everyone’s favorite punching bag - Donald Trump. The man is easy to hate, isn’t he? He has the aesthetic tastes of a boorish philistine, the petulance of a spoilt child, the vanity of a prima donna, the intelligence of a slug, and the convictions of a whore. And his hairpiece looks pretty stupid, too. On the other hand, my tastes are somewhat refined, my diction and cadence are polished, I have the ability to hide my ego, I am well-read and well-educated, and though, at times, I find it bothersome I do have a conscience. The fact that such a man as Donald Trump is a billionaire whereas I don’t have a penny to my name seems to be a gross mockery of Karmic justice. Only if society recognized my real self worth, well, I still probably wouldn’t be a billionaire but I’d easily be able to count myself as part of the upper-middle class.

believed, more importantly, whether I could empirically prove that Donald Trump’s wealth somehow caused my poverty. The only logical answer that I could come up with was “No.” I also had to admit to myself that I have no idea how to run a business successfully. In fact, not many people do. That is why most businesses fail within the first year of opening. The reason that Donald Trump is a billionaire while so many people in the world can’t even run a hot dog stand, despite all his flaws, is that Donald Trump has that something that many people lack - business acumen. Now I had to ask myself, “Is that gift of his something I ought to resent or something I ought to emulate?” The answer is obvious. The same goes for the children of the wealthy. Yes, it goes without saying that those who inherit their parents’ fortunes will have a greater headstart in their lives than I ever had. But does the fact that they started out rich mean that they are guaranteed to stay rich? No. Even if someone inherits great wealth, the only way to maintain or even increase that wealth is via intelligent and profitable investments. If they squander it, or if they invest it poorly, they will end up losing everything. For proof, one only needs to read up on the litany of woes that befell those who won the lottery. Conversely, does the fact that I started out poor mean that I am destined to stay poor? No. With hard work, perseverance, rational thought, and a little luck, anything is possible. In the midst of my resentment of the rich, I tended to forget that.

Asshole! Photo credit:

At least that was what I thought. Actually, that wasn’t what I thought; it was what I felt. Thought requires logic and reason; emotion requires neither. And my resentment of Donald Trump and all those other rich people who attained their “unearned income” through inheritance was nothing more than an irrational tantrum. I had to ask myself whether I genuinely

This is NOT how you stay rich. Photo credit: www. 7

john lee (con’t). So instead of resenting the rich, wouldn’t it be more prudent of me to invest my finite time and energy to improve my own economic condition instead?

those men steals a woman’s attention, whom I’ve been talking up all evening, by saying “Hey, what’s up? You want to check out my biceps?”

The second batch of people whom I resented were those men who were successful in love; particularly those men whom we all love to call ‘douchebags.’ You know which ones I’m talking about. Those boys who have that Chinese character that says “retard” tattooed on their arm; the good looking guy who knows that he’s good looking and because he knows that there is a line of women whose collective biological instinct is telling them to mate with this male right the hell now, he can treat them like dirt with impunity. The guys who smell like as though they’ve just bathed in a vat full of Axe body spray. And the amount of gel they’ve applied to their hair makes them look like they’ve just ripped off the scalp of one of those ridiculous looking mannequins from ‘Hot Topic’ and glued them onto their own heads. And they’re incredibly shallow. All they want is tits and ass whereas men like me want something so much deeper, like, I don’t know, the spleen? I meant love. Tits, ass, and love. Not spleen. And my God, their intelligence, or the lack thereof. Some of these guys make Donald Trump sound like Albert Einstein. All those guys seem to have is good genes and an unlimited stash of Axe body spray. On the other hand, I can be kind, generous, sweet, I can quote Shakespeare and Keats, and I really genuinely want love and romance. The fact that these douchebags practically throw women away whereas I have difficulties competing against a dead man for a woman’s affections is just ridiculous. Life is just one giant cosmic gag reel, isn’t it?

All right, those men aren’t actually that moronic but in my hate-addled mind, that’s what they sounded like. Honestly, however, that’s blame-shifting. The real blame never lied with them. It lied with me. Being kind, generous, and sweet are indeed virtues. However, no one in the world holds a monopoly on kindness, generosity, or sweetness. Especially when it comes to getting a woman’s attention, everyone is kind, generous, and sweet. There’s just so much sweetness in the world that I’m constantly shocked that the entire world hasn’t gotten itself into a diabetic coma. What did those men have that I didn’t? Plenty, as it turned out. They lived in nice apartments; I lived in an attic that rained whenever it leaked. They had jobs that paid well, or at least consistently; I depended on tips working in a bar that catered to money-pinching college students. They could play the guitar; I can’t sing without making every song sound like a somber rendition of “Danny Boy.”

Photo credit: crypticbullshit. com.

But is it really? Some may think so (or at least Douglas Adams seems to have thought so) but upon closer inspection of myself, I am inclined to think that it’s not. Just like I had to ask myself whether or not I could empirically prove that Donald Trump’s wealth caused my poverty, I also had to ask whether I could prove that good looking men caused my being single. Well, technically, yes, I can prove it; especially after one of 8

This is the crowd’s reaction after I sing the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” Photo credit: SirBenniMilesGB.

They played football and ice hockey; I’m not even good at frisbee golf - a game so lame that even those who are good at it can’t get laid. They drove convertible Ford Mustangs. On the other hand, when I had a car, briefly, it was a beat up 1989 Dodge Shadow, which I bought

john lee (con’t). for, I kid you not, $150 from the one and only, Pat Rothfuss. He must be doing pretty well for himself these days. I saw stacks of “The Name of the Wind” and “The Wise Man’s Fear” being sold at a large retail book store in Seoul back in July. Man, did that guy sell me a lemon. I mean, yes, I only paid $150. What else could I have possibly expected, I know, but this car really redefined lemon. But I digress. And no, it’s not just that they had more money and toys than I did. They were also better looking than me. Way better looking than me. And I hated them for it, which made just about as much sense as hating the rich for being rich. Just as Donald Trump’s wealth didn’t cause my poverty, their good looks didn’t cause me to look like a fat slob. That was all my doing. Pig out on Marvin’s crack-sprinkled Deluxe Garlic Chicken Cheeseburger with an order of Franks Fries almost every other day? Check. Don’t ever exercise and limit my movement to the area between the microwave oven, refrigerator, and the couch? Check. Expecting any other result would have been a show of supreme idiocy.

to blame everything but themselves for being obese. Secondly, it gives them an excuse to stay obese. The honest answer that fat people, and I, didn’t want to accept was that I became a ball of lard because I was lazy and I didn’t respect myself enough to take care better care of myself. There is no other answer. Everything else is merely one excuse stacked on top of another. So let’s see. I was broke, drove a car that could be barely called one, lived in an attic that leaked whenever it rained, terrible at sports, almost always drunk, an obese slob, miserable, hated myself, and the whole time I couldn’t understand what women saw in those good looking Neanderthals and why they couldn’t recognize me for my real worth. Dear reader, if you have a friend who fits that description or anything similar along those lines and you really consider yourself their friend, stop being afraid of hurting their feelings. If they have any intelligence to speak of, they’ll get over being “hurt,” get a grip on reality, and start taking responsibility for their own lives. If they refuse to speak to you and stubbornly cling on to their pathetic lifestyles, forget them. No one can be made happy against their own will. People have to choose to be happy. Trust me, if you truly consider yourself their friend, tell them the truth in all of its gory detail. You’ll be doing them a favor. They might or might not thank you for it but if you really value them as friends, even if they don’t end up thanking you, you’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that you helped turn their lives around for the better. As for me, as I said earlier, I’ve been in one of the most combat ready armies in the world for the past year and a half. When I left Wisconsin, I weighed 230 lbs. I now weigh 185 lbs. Sure, I could definitely afford to shed a few more pounds but the point is that I’m in the best shape that I’ve been in years.

And that was just the appetizer. Photo credit: cavemancircus. com.

Fat people are always looking for excuses to feel better about themselves. “I have glandular problems, I am a stress eater, depression causes me to eat, society’s standard of beauty is unrealistic.” Etc. etc. It’s all a lie. And this lie serves two purposes. Firstly, it allows them

It wasn’t those Neanderthals’ fault that I couldn’t get a woman to like me. It wasn’t the women’s fault for not being able to see pass the drunk lard to find the “real me” either. There was no one to blame besides me. Were there other people I resented? Yes, there were lots but if we go through everyone I ever resented, this will never end. Now we have to get to the heart of the matter. Realizing that resenting others for reasons that 9

john lee (con’t). defied logic was asinine was, indeed, a positive step. But that was merely a symptom and as any doctor will tell you, treating a disease’s symptom is not going to cure the patient; that will require treating the cause. What was the cause of all this irrational resentment? The reason was that like so many people in the world, I had confused cause and effect, and more importantly, my core philosophy was inconsistent. How often do people really ask themselves whether they actually like themselves? Every once in a while, during those rare of moments of honesty and clarity, I asked myself whether if I were not me but a separate individual and knew me, really knew me as I knew myself and not merely the image of me that I portrayed to others, would I like me? Would I want to befriend me? The answer was always “No.“ I hated the answer and it always made me feel miserable. I am sure that I am not the only one who feels that way.

not appear out of thin air in order to favor some while cursing others. It has to be created and earned. A wealthy man earns his wealth by providing goods and services that the masses want or need. And he retains his wealth by doing that cheaper than his competitors. Money, to be sure, is a poor barometer to judge one’s morals or integrity. Just because a man is wealthy doesn’t mean that he is good as poverty doesn’t make a man evil. That being said, money is a very good barometer to gauge one’s social worth, ie., to be considered as a source of good for society. The late Steve Jobs may have had his flaws but he supplied society with goods and services that the masses, directly or indirectly, want or need. Resenting him is a poor use of one’s finite time and energy. It would be far more profitable for people to want to emulate him instead.

If you see this in the mirror, you should either try to figure out what’s bothering you or check into rehab ASAP. Photo credit:

The Joker might be more liked and richer if he learned a few lessons from Ronald McDonald. Photo credit: www.taringa. net.

I despised myself and in order to compensate for that, I tried to gain self-esteem from others. I wanted my friends to like me; to think highly of me. I wanted women to find me charming. And for the most part, I was successful. My friends did like me and some even thought highly of me and some women found me to be quite the charmer. However, none of it gave me the self-esteem I craved. I realize now that that was because friendship, love, and respect are not the cause, but an effect and an expression of a person’s sense of his own value, his own self-worth.

Whether we like to admit it or not, the wealthy possess what many of us merely pretend to have - a rational mind. And wealth concentrates only around rational minds. If we look at an iPhone, many of us just see the iPhone. We take its existence for granted. What many of us neglect to recognize is that the iPhone we’re looking at is the end result of a rational mind. Someone had to first imagine a small handheld device that could act as a telephone, computer, camera, television, radio, navigation device, dictionary, journal, calculator, calendar. etc. all at once, and then, using that same rational mind and knowledge, had to work to make what was a mere imagination into a reality. That is what the iPhone and every other device or commodity that we all use and take for granted are - the end result of a

The same can be said of wealth. Wealth does not, in fact, come from mere material resources nor is it without intellectual root or meaning. Wealth does


john lee (con’t). rational mind. Before the advent of the iPhone, the vast majority of humanity could not even imagine such a device, much less create it.

Photo credit:

Of course, not every rich person attains his wealth from possessing a rational mind. There are criminals who steal and launder money, politicians who raid the public treasury, businessmen who ‘earn’ their wealth through political influence. However, people tend to forget that wealth has to be created before it can be looted by parasites. People also tend to forget that money has an intellectual root - the rational mind. Money will not serve the mind that cannot match it. For evidence, look at all those major corporations that have needed one bailout after another. They do not have the ability to create and sell goods or services that people want they lack the rational mind that translates to business acumen. That’s why they’re always out of money no matter how much of the public treasury is handed over to them on a silver platter.

Turns out that the “giant sucking sound” was not the sound of American jobs going to Mexico, as Ross Perot predicted, but the sound of bailing out Bank of America. Photo credit:

Money, that is, the fruits of the rational mind, is so honest a medium that it will never allow itself to be cheated. For those men whose minds cannot match their wealth, money, the very thing that they think is the cause of their self-worth rather than their effect, becomes a scourge. Money will not purchase selfesteem nor happiness nor admiration nor respect for the man who never had any of it within himself to begin with. All the money they have looted may give them a momentary satisfaction but on some gray morning, in one of those rare moments of honesty and clarity, when they ask themselves whether they like themselves, when they ask themselves whether they truly think that they deserve their wealth, then that momentary satisfaction that they felt will be all but forgotten as they realize that their money is not a tribute to their greatness but rather a reminder of their shame, imcompetence, and lack of self-worth. And they will live out the rest of their days loathing themselves and their money that had failed to buy them the self-esteem that they so desperately crave but cannot have. The same can be said for love. I have often heard people say to their friends, “There is nothing wrong with you. You don’t have to change a single thing about yourself. You’ll meet the right person soon enough.” I have also heard people say to themselves, myself included, “I just want to be loved for myself.” This is utter rubbish. Just as money is the fruit of a rational mind, the effect, rather than its cause, love is not the cause of one’s self-worth; it is the effect. Even the Dalai Lama fails to understand what love really is when he utters nonsensical bromides such as “Love is the absence of judgment.” Love is neither universal nor blind. Just as money must be earned, love must be also.

Seeing how those monks think that this is an effective way of protesting, is it any wonder that once you see past their uber nice sounding soundbites, they’re really bereft of any 11

john lee (con’t). rationality? Photo credit:

When people tell their friends that they don’t have to change a thing about themselves, I wonder if they ever truly valued their friendship at all. People are not loved in spite of things, but for things. People are loved for their courage, ambition, ability, intelligence the virtues that they possess. People often claim that love is universal but no one practices it. No one can practice it. It is an impossible ideal. If a man is cowardly, slothful, foolish, and evil, what rational person could possibly love him? Of course, no one is perfect. Earthly perfection is impossible. Everyone has virtues and vices. People are loved in spite of their vices only if their vices are outweighed by their virtues. True love is not blind. Blind love is not love, but childish infatuation. True love judges and just as wealth can only be kept if it is earned daily anew, love, too, must be earned daily anew.

people are wont to do. They can pretend that they are happy with their own integrity and values. But all the self-deception one may come up with will never fool one’s own subconscience. A man who lies to himself will be living a contradiction and it will cause his soul, for the lack of a better word, to be halved in two. All the money he loots will not buy him the self-worth he wants and he will begin to hate money and will accuse it of being the root of all evil when in reality, what he will really hate is not money but rather himself. The woman that he professes to love will not arouse within him any passion and he will instead seek any whore he can find because he will, mistakenly, believe that those sexual conquests will give him self-worth.

Photo credit:

Unless you’re Anne Hathaway. This woman can do no wrong whatsoever. Photo credit:

And to desire to be loved for no other reason than “for being myself” is absurd. It is the desire to be loved merely for existing, an unearned love. To demand to be loved when one hasn’t earned it is to demand of others to surrender their values, their reason. And anyone who voluntarily abdicates his values or reason is no longer a rational being. He is no different from a zombie. Such a being is not capable of love. And anyone who makes such a demand is one who wants to be loved without the necessity of possessing the qualities that are needed to be loved. Such a love is not merely an abomination, it is also an impossibility.

So where does all this philosophizing leave me? The circumstances that surround me have not changed. I still haven’t a penny to my name; my employment prospects after I’m discharged from the Army is, at best, uncertain; and I still haven’t found a woman I can love who will reciprocate my feelings. As for the state of the world and humanity in general, well, as the song goes, the wheels of the bus go round and round. However, there is one thing that has certainly changed. I reexamined my core values, confronted them, found them wanting, and have begun the process of becoming a man of selfworth that I can be proud of. For the first time in my life since I can remember, I am not racked with miserable self-loathing. I am beginning to love myself. Armed with this knowledge, I am no longer afraid to live.

It seems to me, therefore, that the root of all unhappiness is not so much poverty or being unlucky in love, but, rather, one’s own lack of self-worth. And selfworth cannot be faked. People can lie to themselves, as 12

john lee (con’t).

Photo credit:

And I leave you now with a quote from Goethe’s Faust who recognizes at the “highest moment” that “the last word of wisdom” is: No man deserves his freedom or his life Who does not daily win them anew.


monthly mission submission. 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 phrase is “hot dog jungle gym” submitted by mcfishenburger. Next month’s phrases will be “Hollywood hot pink firecracker love” submitted by Jameson Stewart. If you would like to suggest a phrase for the month of March, simply submit it on Facebook. The suggestions that receive the most likes will be the phrases for March. Chris Talbot-Heindl Animation still

Dana Talbot-Heindl Marker on paper 14

to love sophia, holly day, marc carver. Hypnotized


Overcome by the hypnotic power of a Psychopath Not even fully aware Think it is now normal to bypass the urge to care

I miss the birds, mostly it’s the most amazing thing in the world to see egret families splashing in runoff ditches sandpipers with ridiculous, lopsided feet strutting like machines of worldwide destruction searching for insects by the side of the road

By: To Love Sophia

My ego agrees Even though I’ve been conquered as long as I get my micro moment of fame I’ll never acknowledge I’ve been tamed I’ll blindly follow my bully Because she says so Can’t tell that she is a covert aggressor I just pretend she is a natural leader Proudly exercising her feminist role The reality of the situation is I’m weak Lost all sense of self I’ve resigned by putting my soul on the shelf The illusion is the perfect dream My mental gymnastics to no self esteem Blindly following the psychopath To the edge or more She pulls the strings to my hollow core If I awake from this dream I’m sure I’ll scream Finding out how gullible I have become Drugs and booze help me snooze And keep me comfortably numb I’ve lost my will by the hypnotic power of a Psychopath I’m no longer aware To me it’s now normal to bypass the urge to care

By: Holly Day

I miss the animals almost as much raccoons and possums and wild alley cats coexisting peacefully beneath the museums mausoleums dolphins wandering, lost, at the shallow end of the bay but I don’t miss the people squat, toothless things tobacco-chewing alcoholics wearing end-of-the-world placards if all the people disappeared I might just move back.

Bon appetite By: Marc Carver

The young woman came out with a couple of tea cakes. I was tempted to call her over and ate the cakes quick and then shoot off. ‘Hey where the hell are my teacakes?’ ‘I gave them to that hungry looking guy with long hair he said they were for him.’ It reminded me of the time I was in France when I ate a big steak and drunk a fabulous bottle of wine then got up after taking a good look around and walked off. He is still looking for me now.


sy roth, kate winter. Silent Castanets

By Sy Roth

It simply is that way sometimes, like squeezing toothpaste from an empty tube, the inclination to slam the pen against the wall when the scribbler’s itches are lost and words do not cram the page with dances— Tarantellas, boisterous Flamenco explosions, and castanets clicking a word volcano spewing words that zing across the lines songs of jubilation, of unwrapped ideas, Christmas presents piled eye high. Unwrapping visions, exposing them to the light of day, stroking their soft hairs titillating them to arousal only ends like vampires exposed to light turning them into sand a hollow vacuity behind. Only naked lines, hopeless meanderings stretch endlessly across the page accompanied by a chorus aaarghs and growlings devoid of passionate murmurs, the susurrations of like-minded words. No thoughts-only dolorous scribbling. This way (?) forever.


Spring in the City By: Kate Winter

Raspberry Coffee on the first day of spring Walking tall down Holbrook Four Horns conversing against the bruised concrete Men in light jackets crowd on corners & at Gas station curbs Comparing stories Hands and feet flying - dancing as they speak Veiled women push carriages their midnight eyes avert as they float past The shade takes away and cools the skin Goose bumps along sweater lines No one wants to be inside Where walls soak up heat and light where the winter air still lingers unclean stagnent. We will drive until sundown holding the day against our chests.

freedom heindl, dan hedges.

Untitled Freedom Heindl Graphite on paper




{the day is abuzz with constant elegy, a wic of delusion, wic of conscious unbelieving; from end to end the day is constant requiem; the day is abuzz}

{assorted plots dispersed irregularly across generalized narrative suspense lead to uncanny sensations that humans are a fixed point}

{in the believed woods archetypal red foxes spin braided light into pre-visionary matter}

By: Dan Hedges

By: Dan Hedges

By: Dan Hedges


colin dodds, robert lavette smith. Magic Mess

By: Colin Dodds

She says she needs to stop dating drug dealers while her drug-dealer boyfriend drives her car around town. The people want to know what form your suffering took, whether it was on the horns of the barbed wire fence or on the pretty woman’s tits. Me? I was flat out hungry. My Gethsemane was a succession of bad habits. Not everybody’s time is precious, you learn. And nobody wants a lesson. They want magic, because nothing works. And we all know by now the only ones ever cured were just pretending to be sick. The drug dealer has feelings too. He never says exactly where business ends or where it picks up again. There’s the cocaine cut with shards of the True Cross. There’s my night, strewn across the highway.

A Sanctuary for Wounded Birds By: Robert Lavette Smith

Fort Collins, Colorado

An eagle with an amputated wing Regards us keenly from a wire cage, Her flightless dignity a terrible thing– Pale eyes unsteady, sharp with speechless rage. The great horned owl, now crippled, seems to manage Despite torn talons dangling stiff and wooden; Primps his dark feathers, plays the patient sage, But seems distracted here, too long downtrodden. A newly-maimed snow goose, bright plumage sodden With recent rain, has lingered rather late; No longer can she soar, but merely plod on, Bearing the burden of her earthbound fate. Above the pens stretch skies grown rough and wild From which these broken angels all are exiled.


paul hostovsky, mike cluff, jameson stewart, jacob cardarelli. Deaf Ex

The Wild Goose Chase

Nerudian Slip

His ex was deaf. Deaf and ex. Like a radio station, DEAFNX, playing all day and especially at night, the X in sex stuck in his head like a song about two sticks rubbing. She had the most beautiful fingerspelling. And her behind was practically intelligible the way it had sung to him when she first turned around to write her name on the blackboard in sign language class. It took him months to learn enough signs to ask her out, and years to comprehend her reply. On their first date she turned on the car radio just for him, then she turned her shoulders just so. When they made love she made such sweet vowels just for him. Now he would never be able to excise them from his hearing.

Trying to find a copy of The Graduate novel, pre-movie, Toby spent three months traveling from Tulsa to Taos to Tacoma to Tuscaloosa to Taunton, Massachusetts before it came into his quavering possession.

You remind me of A glass of wine The way the light distorts When it touches your hair Your hips the curve of the glass Your skin soft like ruffled velvet Waves of merlot swirled Before the first taste How not one glass, one bottle, One cork, one man could Contain you And I write not only of the love that Propagates from your stem But the wine of youth In your Chardonnay eyes And the wine of life That spills through your cabernet heart

By: Paul Hostovsky

By: Mike Cluff

Driving between Baltimore and Blair he discovered pages 69 to 77 were jaggedly ripped out, a desecration and to him, he then knew they were the parts he would have enjoyed the most.

By: Jameson Stewart

A Seed

By: Jacob Cardarelli It all began with a seed Threw the beauty of sunlight, and the serenity of rain The seed will reach tremendous heights, its colors will change Represented by truth, represented by green presented by insignificant proof, this seed is a dream Once the seed is planted, it may evolve into a marvelous tree Once the tree forms branches, it may contain the most marvelous leaves Those closest to the sun, will be among the strongest Those who produce the largest sum of young, will live the longest When a holy heart, is suffocated by darkness Not a sign of a spark, over a beloved carcass Cry my child Cry till thous eyes are dry Cry till no more lies lie behind thous eyes Cry my child For each drop will water your seed 19

kenneth abraham, louie crew, jason ford. Tom

By: Kenneth Abraham Tom is a heck of a guy, but he’s got a problem, rather large, You see, with him, sometimes the alcohol is in charge, I hate to see it, I really do, for it diminishes the guy I know, When he’s drinking that poison, his great qualities do not show, He’s a terrific guy, full of knowledge and joy, But that poison is the real McCoy, It will do him in if he doesn’t lick it; it’s killed many a good man, I sure hope Tom comes around before alcohol gets the upper hand, I’ve known him fourteen years, since our Army days, He was dealt a painful blow- divorce- which changed his ways, I’m praying hard that Tom will see the answer is not in the juice, He needs to escape it, leave it behind, before it chokes him like a noose, His kids see the changes, as do I, and it’s so sad because he’s a wonderful guy, Please, please, please, let him see the light, give this recovery stuff a try, Life deals us some tragedy, I know, for I too lost my friend and lover, But we must go on, bounce back and be ourselves, ask God to help us recover.

Birther Remover Off Coast of Hawaii Louie Crew Photograph

Where Angels Sing By: Jason Ford

My mind is striving to comprehend A form of uniqueness which must ascend Among beings who control the air. Although my intellect has failed to know A certain trail of melodies which flow Into the breeze, I never fall into despair. A bridge between the darkness and the light Is shown to me as I perceive the height Of truth in comparison to a set of lies. Upon the bridge, I see a sign declaring How angelic songs are now repairing Weary hearts desiring to be wise. My intellect perceives a message clear To zealous ears who decide to hear Songs upon a bridge which they select. My ears are yearning to hear the singing Of angelic voices which are bringing Wisdom to the hearts of God’s elect.


zachary frisch, dawnell harrison. Rain Bucket

I let my head fall

The child shurked the clothed claws, chin up. Her eyes blown up, broken eggs, her hands high kites - and they soar, swaying and crashing into power-lines. Her smile broad, her Mother thunder-scared.

I let my head fall As you wiped

The world is melting into wire frames, changing seasons in color photo moments, but Mother fears for that shaking sickness; tells the girl to drop her gaze, fly her feet, and make her way inside.

You knew how To make me

By: Zachary Frisch

Tiny steps turn melodies and wet windows write glass harmony, the monster halo flipped it’s wire - called the wind within it’s arms, broke out her finger prison and flew miles and miles and miles; to the lightning tip, to sky teeth, to that open mouth to a white, waxing eye. Now she shakes like mountain ash; like aged, arthritic bone awaiting storm-worn gardenias on coffin tops, nearly breaking blood bonds every time the sky cries out in seizing, pulse-work rhythm and births chaotic, cerulean webs and ruptured cloud arachnids that break through emptiness and bleed torrents into veins. The girl stuck like a summer thorn; keeping her heavy heels above ground, her Mother tenting weathered fingers and whispering soliloquies in a corner. In time, she bettered in thick blanket hives and paled in painted sunset rooms; doctors drawing down shades and letting real seasons discretely disappear behind an ugly curtain; until she could shuffle her feet on corkwood and survive being brought back home.

By: Dawnell Harrison

Away my dignity. It was dark and

Turn and burn Past the dusk hours. My hands set fire To the purple horizon That was now soaked In a vermilion red. Why did you always Bring a pocket Full of flames Wherever you went. It’s over now and All you have are Burnt hands.

(A week later) She found that monster devouring dead grass, metal-bent, an electric, woeful grin carved upon it’s face. It had lost it’s arms - been burned half to hell and from it’s mangled jaw, taught the girl a lesson. Not to fly too high, too fast, too far and to listen to worried voices from the window.


cinzia tomassini. Palabras para un concierto By: Cinzia Tomassini

Amata della vita mia, tu che con me ammiri il nascere del giorno mentre le nuvole vanno verso oceani lontani fermiamoci pure qui I tuoi pensieri crescono come spighe al sole e indorano i percorsi fino ad aprire le porte del tuo cuore generoso Quando socchiudi gli occhi la musica coglie attimi fuggiti altrove Nel dolore sospeso supero un valico e vado oltre il muro abbracciando le solitudini rapite dalle notti Frammenti di respiri incedono sulle strade figli di accennati desideri a fatica riprendono gli antichi discorsi Amato mio, toglimi l’abito celeste ed i fiori fra i capelli lasciali cadere dalle tue mani come cristalli feriti luci respinte dal sole Voci lontane volano oltre i rami che si alzano come aquile in cerca di un vento atteso E continuano i pensieri naviganti senza porto su battelli lungo fiumi lasciando trasparire sogni ormai aridi


zolle della tua terra friabili e soffici Polvere ormai avvezza alla veglia Gocce di infinito assaporo dalle antiche parole e l’impazienza prepara il suo banchetto Amata mia, sono ancora giovani i desideri non conoscono scadenze così avvinghiati al tempo insonne Mi lascio alle spalle i campi di papaveri e girasoli mentre il suono della campane a festa richiama il tuo nome Abbandono la penna sui fogli sparsi della vita e riempio i silenzi con i ricordi a me cari Lascio poche impronte al mio passaggio Un soffio di maree attraversano altri lidi ruotano nel torchio del vino succoso le parole tue Amato mio, non è potente la morte soccombe al suono melodioso di un adagio e non ho più paura Io sono amica del silenzio ben mi conosce allunga la sua mano e appoggia le dita sulla mia bocca perché non sgorghino le acque innamorate ma solo rivelino piccole cascatelle quando ormai la notte giace signora raccogliendo le luci abbandonate

di qualche timida fiammella Ascolto le tue parole sono unguento del dire atteso oasi bramata in questo deserto Danziamo a piedi nudi e accostiamo i nostri sguardi verso l’oltre... Amata mia, dietro le onde del mare ci sono ombre solitarie custodi di incredibili segreti Si offrono al tuo sguardo attento porgendoti i profondi abissi il canto sussurrato a lungo trattenuto dai singhiozzi delle ultime sirene Posa qui il tuo capo sul mio cuore abbandona ogni affanno e afferra le mie mani fino al petto porta le mie dita e lascia che percorra le stagioni trascorse assaporando i frutti maturi e generosi dell’amore perché niente può separarci nemmeno gli ospiti sconsolati né i nemici della vita Niente e nessuno può contro l’amore che mi annuncia la tua voce Amato mio, non ti fermare dietro gli steccati scendi giù per le colline al favor del giorno Del tuo peregrinare il sole si commuove con infinita ed insolita tenerezza perché credeva di riuscire a colpire l’argento immacolato dei tuoi capelli

cinzia tomassini (con’t). Non ho perso l’orizzonte ancora la nave dei miei sogni tormenta le rotte impreparate e sfioriscono le ortensie che avevo piantato nell’estate andata Assaporo il carico nelle ore del raccolto e nei campi cerco la frescura sotto un salice ci attende la speranza Mi affretto ormai sulle note che s’abbracciano e si annunciano trepidanti poi scorgo nuove pause Amata mia, il planare quieto del gabbiano richiama in grido ogni assenza sfiora il dubbio e l’incertezza affiancando un altro volo E dal liuto melodioso un canto noto mi sovviene nel giorno generoso che si lascia creare Sorseggiamo la coppa come sposi e come amanti scoprendo nuove distanze che possono essere colmate Amato mio, rimangono sospese frasi che al crepuscolo si sentono straniere e consolano solo uniche voci ignorando le ansie e i profondi abissi Mi dicono che accorrono come fanciulle eleganti e camminano con noi mentre cadono lunghi veli dai loro volti Ci lasciano sorpresi col sapore del distacco

e trattengono solo i respiri profumati dal mare Cerco un assenso scrutando il silenzio apparente del tuo sguardo mentre vedo fuggire qualche ricordo che non necessita un’altra spiegazione Amata mia, ricordo ancora le mattine racchiuse sul sonno non appagato nostalgiche di immagini dimoranti oltre il niente E cercavo trattenendo qualche fuggevole pensiero un legame che non fosse familiare Si svelavano lentamente volti inesistenti andati via per sempre quasi trasparenti nella mente sforzandomi nell’avvolgere i contorni nella celata certezza accrescevo dentro me un crocifisso sentimento E il vento si insinuava in tutta quella possente quiete perché l’amore chiamava di nascosto recando leggende e storie con la voce di chi vuol davvero parlare Amato mio, isole di spazi si aprono come primavere e lente defluiscono lungo le radure argillose Piccole comete nascono e muoiono lasciando torrenti di solitudini al nostro sguardo Alberelli d’acqua regalano impronte sulla riva fili azzurri e d’oro

scendono dalle rocce oscure Narrami ancora di quando eri bambino cosa pensavi nel perderti a contar le stelle nei canti dei numeri e in quelli poderosi sotto il vento dei tigli Generose foglie di pioggia cadevano lente dopo che il mormorìo s’acquetava E così non ti difendevi ai fioriti pensieri che t’innamoravano Amata mia, nella tenerezza della sera abbiamo conosciuto dolori impensati meditando così sui mille volti cangianti del nostro essere Abbiamo sanguinato e gioito nell’estasi dell’abbraccio lodando ogni istante il nostro creatore Abbiamo abbattuto le distanze volando oltre noi stessi nell’unico desiderio dell’incontro e ci siamo meravigliati ritrovandoci insieme dopo lunghe eterne attese Sul tetto del silenzio la felicità nidifica fra le braccia di un dolore scruta pallida la bocca E le foglie si rannicchiano al richiamo dell’inverno per un istante s’illumina il volto tremante al vento che riaffiora Amato mio, si risveglia l’amore perché celato non rimane e la morte si alza al mattino senza sogni né fratelli


cinzia tomassini (con’t). Invade il pensiero terre a me ancora sconosciute Non ripudio il conflitto anche quando il percorso lascia fiorire lungo i margini fiori di inquietudine Eccomi ancora con poesie e disegni lungo le contrade della vita t’incontro e desidero solo ascoltare la tua voce canto di lode e rintocco di ogni istante Amata mia, respiriamo ogni bellezza quando l’anima anela a Dio E nell’amore i boschi cantano con noi Palpitiamo all’unisono meditando nello splendore Anche le pietre contemplano la festa fra le armonie e le differenze Immaginiamo le nubi che nel grigiore dell’incomprensione raggiungono il cuore della terra e rimangono come steli in piedi senza dimora Non lascio andare la mia amata nella gioventù attesa e conosciuta sfioro il dolore in quel nascondersi oltre il tramonto... Amato mio, sotto l’arco di case colme di fiori volano lente le asprezze e pesa ogni silenzio intatto seguito dai canti notturni Le ombre della luna sciamano verso i cancelli chiusi oltre il domani Il tiglio nella valle accenna i primi sospiri


sull’immacolate pratoline invade un sollievo di ritorno e di pace

graffia e fugge senza paura ed un soffio pellegrino fra i tuoi capelli trova riposo

Nel gioco di noi stessi la gioia si fa forza e imprime il suo sorriso sugli occhi tuoi smarriti

Amata mia, nell’odore del vento assaporo un sogno andato e raggiungo il pensiero mite sulle onde del mantello

Amata mia, non separiamo quell’andare e quel tornare come viandanti nella foresta di seta il cuore impone i suoi ritmi le fiamme colorano la notte Anche la fenice si risveglia e riposa la ragione Amara la tenerezza nell’abbraccio incompiuto attende sulla soglia della porta il rumore dei tuoi passi Si dischiude una parola fior di loto che inebria l’aria dall’oriente sino a noi un annuncio di speranza in visioni di conoscenze ancor celate Amato mio, le maree colmano le distanze nei contrasti delle selve Danzano le stelle ad occhi chiusi e la luna porge il flauto alla bocca del cielo Ormai le parole arano i campi incolti e rinascono le inclinate offese mentre ombreggia una pretesa Non è sempre giusta l’eco che rincorre oltre il muro una voce fievole... Poi si impone il silenzio capriccioso Ora il vento tigre nel deserto

Ripara il timore fra le mani tue sicure e si specchia sulla fronte la prima stella del mattino Risplende il sole nascente e il nettare dei baci conforta la sete del dubbio Volgo al chiaro ruscello una meraviglia che riaffiora Le fatiche vertiginose del nostro tempo giacciono inermi e malate su giacigli di paglia e rimpianti si arresta l’ansia Amato mio, sono d’argilla questi miei pensieri convogli vuoti per raccoglier timori nelle stagioni che alle ore emigrano Terra e irrealtà in questo paese piccolo del mio cuore tornano i desideri come mendicanti implacabili noi siamo naufraghi e ci affiatiamo alle intemperie Avvizziscono tanti discorsi sulle panchine antiche Ma si trovano qua e là altri ricordi sparpagliati fioriti nei giardini d’Aranjuez Tempeste e fatiche si incamminano lentamente si immergono misteriose nell’aria di una giornata di festa Non si aspetta che compaia il nuovo giorno

cinzia tomassini (con’t). provvisto di tenere provvidenze a contrastare l’incredulità irrisolta di chi non sa accogliere l’inaspettato

si allontanano pian piano e penetrano come macine i sussulti palpitanti

I miei cappelli sono ormai colmi di fiori adolescenti che si vestono e si spogliano spargendo ovunque giovinezze e profumi Si ornano le ombre fanciulle pronte alle danze le lucerne si accendono con le rose abbracciate al vento I silenzi del mare li conosciamo immensi compaiono e si dileguano all’orizzonte

Spezzeremo ancora il pane fragrante e profumato sull’altare del nostro giorno per la mensa eterna

Amata mia, sabbie ed onde circondate dal vento mescolano preghiere alle nostre e smarriscono il discorso iniziato sulle gocce rosse appena accese

Amata mia, a volte la vita ci azzanna con i suoi artigli di aquila madre e il veleno che scende dagli occhi ignora il pianto vero

Densi silenzi si inoltrano nei deserti che ognuno ha dentro e così sembra tanto difficile... Io sono qui senza porpora sono ormai le parole e aspetto che il tuo aroma a sera colmi il vuoto delle ombre Questo tempo trascorre e cresce sai sembra sempre fecondo come l’albero bluastro delle nostre preoccupazioni Giungono spume leggere con i petali delle rose e le rughe sul nostro volto maturano al sole insieme al grano

Noi siamo benedetti e consacrati legati alla terra quanto al cielo Incoroniamo i nostri capi d’amore e di bellezza e risvegliamoci dalle stanchezze che non permettono di stupirci

Le febbri delle impavide crudeltà ci sembrano impossibili eppure dormono in apparenza mentre le bocche dentate sono sempre in agguato Ali azzurre ci regala il tempo negli inverni più avversi perché al sole possiamo accarezzare almeno le ciglia Sbagliamo se rifiutiamo il dolore avvolto come è nella terra

Fitte radici circondano i voli delle stelle e i grappoli delle paure Una selva sconosciuta copre anche i nostri sguardi

È tutto un rischio o forse un dono Di cenere si veste anche l’abete quando arde in un sogno oppure quando lascia cadere solo qualche lacrima di rubino per il suo piccolo che muore

Amato mio, le luci della notte

Amato mio la lingua dei merli è affettuosa

basta solo ascoltarla Interminabili discorsi si intrecciano sulle dita e li perdo quando gocciolano sulla seta del fango umano Fiumi di aurore ci attendono anelli intorno al cielo balenano sull’orlo dei dubbi e poi riaffiorano aspri e pungenti come ortiche Riflessi appassionati posano il capo sul seno del giorno scivolano le tue mani sulla coltre azzurra dell’acqua Amata mia, scalo questo giorno come fosse di morte e mi invade un brivido che non sa di splendore Seppellisco il pianto nelle viscere di un accordo e sembro una statua distesa sulla mia stessa ombra Certe volte le parole sono solo pietre che assalgono come cicloni inattesi E le nebbie sembrano ancor più fitte come se il sole fosse scomparso davvero Quarzi di dolore affondano in ogni pianura e risalire diventa faticoso quando i rami trafiggono il passaggio per orgoglio o per ignoranza Amato mio, avevo preparato delle coppe di sorrisi e suonavano già i cembali per la festa Soffiavano i venti teneramente e le spine si dileguavano ormai pallide 25

cinzia tomassini (con’t). senza simmetria in quell’andare Sembrava che albegiasse qualche germoglio di primavera scorto sui monti ed il grido della notte diventava un ricordo Sussurrava l’aria fresca una canzoncina fanciulla mentre il salice pettinava i suoi capelli in riva al fiume Passi silenziosi non avvertivo solo nenie di un giorno nuovo così mi trovasti seduta sotto i miei stessi pensieri Amata mia, strade affettuose si aprivano spargendo tutt’intorno foglie gialle d’autunno e la luna teneva in mano le spighe perché sappiamo cosa rappresentano Non c’erano intemperie né turbolenze così quei gelsomini apparivano lieti fra le foglie dei giorni trascorsi Accorri tu che mi ami raccogli tutte le luci perle del Mediterraneo Non si consuma la rugiada del mattino resta nascosta per non straziare il fiore perché tutto ha cuore anche il cristallo che s’accocola sulla mano fredda Spaurite polveri di versi si arrestano vaganti Lungo i sobborghi qualche rondine cerca il nido per accogliere i piccoli o cercarli ancora


La morte si fa strada quando meno l’aspettiamo e pervade con le onde ogni moto o quiete Invisibile la morte sopraggiunge angusta e non sa che vasta sofferenza una macchia sparge Non negarmi il tuo aiuto quando non saprò comprendere ed io ti sarò accanto come sposo di agosto Siamo uccelli senza nido forse e le nostre piume sono di mare quando si feriscono bagnano il dolore nell’abisso poi tornano a brillare sull’arcobaleno Amato mio, le ore volano invisibili e si offrono alle bufere di una stagione buona Alcune periscono senza amore e perdono le elegie di un chiarore notturno Sostano le angosce sui sapori celati e sussurrano le brughiere dietro la pace delle ginestre Poche preghiere dilettano l’animo perché si rinasce se si vuole dal tormento e dal non senso trepidano le lacrime nel letto del fiume Tappeti di ricordi vengono distesi dappertutto tanto che sembra deserto qui dove il silenzio diventa un prato quando il crepuscolo volge le spalle Raffiche di pensieri odorano di felci e si vestono le nebbie di amore giovanile

Incedono le zagare lungo i pendii e toccano piano il nostro viso Amata mia, baciami quando il mondo si ritira senza voler più narrare Lascia che il polline di una storia suggelli qualche respiro così che il cieco contempli la neve senza pensare alla fame Graniti di venti sembrano ribelli nelle briciole di terra precipitati e chiari mattini s’apprestano lì dove la vita appare strappata Alle coste del cielo ormeggiamo ascoltiamo il tempo che parla sottovoce Siediti sotto le sfilacciate sembianze di poesie abbandonate nell’ora del riposo Manti di onde e arie aprono il giorno qui accorrono i gelsomini con le chiome segrete e m’interrogano le strade quando appaio indifferente mostrandomi la bocca del mare Amato mio, torri scalze dimenticano le isole mentre i meriggi intonano le prime strofe le rocce crude dimenticano i voli del gabbiano in cerca del suo amore Tacite parole sembrano qui disperse quasi agonizzanti sulla schiena della notte e spazzano i passi dei secoli abbandonati Fili di ambra e catene di stelle giungono senza screzio se mi allontano dalle mie stesse parole

cinzia tomassini (con’t), lm & xy, wlkn _ fire. con i cesti grandi e vuoti Tende deserte ho preparato per questa sera e già la luna apre la bocca spasima al vento uno sguardo un lontano ricordo fra allegre danze Amata mia, sistemiamo qui le nostre parole fra le gemme perdute di palme e porpore braccia in esilio lasciamo riposare sotto le cantilene di stelle d’oro Sulle piazze sfinite del non poter far niente non perdiamoci inventiamo una musica con i colori delle distanze con la bellezza delle differenze


By: LM & XY We saw snow on the road to Mt. Lemmon We slipped and slid in it in Madera Canyon We dreamed of it on the big island We dream of snow on Christmas Day in Prescott. It makes one want to skip class in Flagstaff If it is so cold, why does it warm my heart?

Sembrano piume le luci sefardite intorno al collo della mia sposa E laggiù il giorno non ha fretta si apre l’anima su una goccia d’acqua sulle note di un adagio di un salmodiare lode per un amore palabras... per questo nostro concerto

Eyelets Wlkn_Fire Watercolor on paper


douglas somers, donors, index. advertisers Bitchin’ Kitsch mcfishenburger

30 13, 21

Second Space



artists Abraham, Ken


Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE cover Cardarelli, Jacob


Carver, Marc


Cluff, Mike


Crew, Louie


Day, Holly


Dodds, Colin


Ford, Jason


Frisch, Zachary


Harrison, Dawnell


Hedges, Dan


Heindl, Freedom

3, 17

pigment douglas somers Painting

Hostovsky, Paul LM & XY


we love our donors!

Roth, Sy


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 and make your pledge.

Smith, Robert Lavett


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 ($101-1,000) - Felix Gardner parents of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1,001 & up) - The Talbot-Heindl’s


Lee, John

somers, douglas

19 6-13

5, 28

Stewart, Jameson


Talbot-Heindl, Chris


Talbot-Heindl, Dana


To Love Sophia


Tomassini, Cinzia


Winter, Kate




Jacob Zurawski


a talbot-heindl project 1600 reserve st, stevens point, wi 54481

Profile for Chris Talbot-Heindl

The Bitchin' Kitsch January 2013 issue  

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...

The Bitchin' Kitsch January 2013 issue  

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...