The Bitchin' Kitsch July 2013 Issue

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artist opportunities calendar. Awards/Competitions

Deadline: July 1 The Derwent Art Prize. www. Deadline: July 4 The Threadneedle Prize for Painting and Sculpture. www. Deadline: July 5 British Ceramics Biennial. www. Deadline: July 5 Royal Ulster Academy of Art 132nd Annual Exhibition 2013. www. Deadline: July 10 National Geographic 12th Anniversary Design Challenge. Deadline: July 15 2013 Robert and Adele Schiff awards in Poetry and Prose. www. Deadline: July 26 Henry Rothschild Bursary for Ceramic Artists. www.twmuseums. Deadline: July 26 Griffin Art Prize 2013. griffinartprize. Deadline: July 31 Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2013. Deadline: July 31 The Cartazini Bienniel Award 2013. Deadline: July 31 National Open Art Competition 2013. www. thenationalopenartcompetition. com



Various, New York The Art Studio NY. www. classartschedule.html

July 1-26, New York New York State Summer Writers Institute. summer July 1-27, Colorado Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics Summer Writing Program. July 8-15, California Squaw Valley Community of Writers: Writers Workshops. www. July 13, New Jersey Shore Thing Writing Getaway. www. July 14-20, New Hampshire The Frost Place Poetry Conference. July 14-21, New Mexico Taos Summer Writers’ Conference. July 14-21, Oregon Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop. writers-workshop July 17-28 and July 30-Aug 10, Assissi, Italy Art Workshop International. www. July 23-Aug 6, Germany Black Forest Writing Seminars. www.blackforestwritingseminars. org July 24-28, Tennessee Figurative Anatomy Workshop.

July 25-27, California Mendocino Coast Writers Conference. July 28-Aug 2, California Napa Valley Writers’ Conference. Events

July 6, Stevens Point, Wisconsin Poetry Slam at Riverfront Rendezvous. www. July 17, Plover, Wisconsin Buzz Around Town. Sweet Temptations Cupcakerie. Featured Speaker: Christine Harris.www. Open Calls/Proposals

Deadline: July 1 14th Annual Will’s Creek Survey. Deadline: July 1 Beers.Lambert Contemporary. Deadline: July 5 Beauty and Purpose in the Art of the Book. Deadline: July 6 Blanche Ames National Juried Art Exhibition. www. Deadline: July 8 5th Annual Nude. www. html Deadline: July 9 Me, Myself and I. www.raykophoto. com Deadline: July 14 Altrincham Arts Festival 2013. www.

artist opportunities calendar (con’t). Deadline: July 20 Paperworks 2013. www. Deadline: July 22 UnHinged: Juried Art Show. www. Deadline: July 22 Art in Clay: Juried Art Show. www. Deadline: July 24 Women Painting Women. www. Deadline: July 31 Appalachian Artist Guild National Juried Show. Deadline: July 31 IWA 30th Annual Exhibit. www. Residencies

Deadline: July 1 The Wassaic Residency Program. (Lit, Music, Sound, Printmaking, Woodcraft). New York. Deadline: July 1 Campos de Gutierrez. (All). Columbia. www.camposdegutierrez. org Deadline: July 1 International Writers’ and Artists’ Residency. (All). Canada. www. Deadline: July 1 Atlantic Center for the Arts. (All). Florida. www.

Deadline: July 1 EuropeanArtists. (Drawing, Painting, Film, Media, Lit, Multi Media, Photo, Sculpture, Woodcraft. Sweden. Deadline: July 5 Santa Fe Art Institute. (Drawing, Painting, Film, Media, Lit, Multi Media, Photo, Sculpture). New Mexico. Deadline: July 12 Spike Island. (Drawing, Painting, Media, Multi Media, Photo, Sculpture). UK. Deadline: July 13 Claire Trevor School of the Arts. (Drawing, Painting, Film, Media Art, Photo, Sculpture). California. Deadline: July 15 Medea Electronique Koumaria Residency. (Dance, Drawing, Painting, Film, Media, Multi Media, Music, Sound). Greece. www. Deadline: July 15 Kala Art Institute. (Film, Media, Multi Media, Photo, Printmaking, Visual). California. Deadline: July 15 Tiny Circus. (Animation). Iowa. Deadline: July 19 Site Gallery. (Drawing, Painting, Film, Media, Multi Media, Photo, Sculpture, Visual). UK. www. Deadline: July 21 Jiwar Creation & Society. (All). Spain.

Deadline: July 26 Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Center. (Lit). Australia. kspf. Deadline: July 31 Bundanon Trust. (Dance, Media, Lit, Multi Media, Music, Sound, Performing Arts, Visual). Australia. Submissions

Anytime 491 Magazine. (Art, poetry). submission-guidelines/ Anytime Anobium. (Writing). anobiumlit. com/submit/ Anytime The Bad Version. (Writing). Anytime Barrelhouse: The Comedy Issue. (Writing). www.barrelhousemag. com/submissions/the-comedyissue/ Anytime Diabolique Magazine. (Writing). submissions/ Anytime Élan Magazine. (Art, Writing). Anytime Filling Station. (Art, Writing). www. Anytime Fjords Review. (Art, writing). www.


artist opportunities calendar (con’t), about the b’k. Anytime FRiGG. (Writing). www. editors39.htm Anytime Jiggered. (Art, writing). www. Anytime litbomb. (Writing). www.litbomb. Anytime Literati Magazine. (Art, writing). Anytime Moonshot. (Art, writing). submissions/ Anytime Nostrovia! www.nostroviatowriting. com/publishing-opportunities.html Anytime OVS. (Art, writing). Anytime Passages North. (Writing). Anytime Pithead Chapel. (Writing).

Anytime Silent Things. (Art, Writing). Anytime Slings and Arrows. (Writing). Anytime smoking glue gun. (Art, writing). Anytime The Speculative Edge (Sci fi, horror, fantasy). thespeculativeedge/submissions Anytime Spilt Magazine. (Writing, video). Anytime Sword and Saga Press. (Writing). Submissions.php Anytime The View From Here. (Fiction). Anytime Word Riot. (Writing). www.

Anytime Roadside Fiction. (Writing).


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.


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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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the bitchin’ kitsch content july 2013 on the front cover: Untitled

Bleu Heindl Graphite, ink, and Prisma color on paper

on the inside back cover: Pink Panther

Laine Jewell Ink and color on paper douglas somers - pg. 20 Untitled - Bleu Heindl


Artist Opportunities Calendar


In an Instant, Everything Changed - John M. Becker


My suggestion for anyone 8-10 freaking out about the whole NSA thing - John Lee Counting the Stars - Tendai R. Mwanaka


Eastern Standard Time - Eloisa Amezcua Chronology Theory - Craig Kurtz


Untitled - Joshua Marshall


The Irish Sea - Wayne Burke

21 21


A Poet & Gigolo Tour Guide Robert Allen Beckvall


Demuth Saw the Number 5 George Freek


Monster #2, 6/5/13 - Chris Talbot-Heindl


Love - Jan Haskell


The Vow - Keith Fuchs


The Fateful Summer A Young Poetry Editory Became George M. Cohan Singing “Yankee Doodle” - Doug Draime


Preparing My Lizards - Louis Marvin and XY



That Morning - Robert Pino

Rosary Beads - Danielle Dragona

A note entitled “The Good Truth” (found with our divorce papers) - Michael Ashley The subtlety of Patterns III - Mike Cluff

16 20





26 Monsters, 6/3/13 - Chris TalbotHeindl Going Nowhere - Clyde L. Borg 27-28 Untitled - Laine Jewell

Georgia Bellas - pg. 31


Did Women Have a Renaissance - 22-26 Tyler Furo the rap - Christopher Mulrooney



sincerely, a vexed sub girl- Linda M. Crate self portrait as a heroine douglas somers

And/or - Howie Good

A Thin Story - Sy Roth

Spenard - Josh Medsker


Untitled - Christopher Gretkus


Your Ecru Pashmina - kaleeM rajA

The Sound of Distant Ankle Bells Afzal Moolla

Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 26

Kenneth Abraham


blipblipbleep - Georgia Bellas


Windy Girl - Kyle Hemmings


Donors and Index


Pink Panther - Laine Jewell


Noshing in Sequins - Cindy Small 29-30 New Next Day - Kyle Kaczmarick


Climate - Anthony Ward


The sun rise burned - Dawnell Harrison


Four Lions - Mandal Bijoy Beg A Laser Guided Hellfire Missile -

31 31


john m becker. In an Instant, Everything Changed By: John M. Becker

Wow. That’s all I can say about today’s historic Supreme Court decisions striking down the so-called “Defense of Marriage Act” and ending Proposition 8, California’s marriage discrimination amendment. I’m still absorbing the shock of it all. As my friend and fellow marriage equality advocate Jeremy Hooper said, in an instant, our marriages went from “skim milk” to whole. In the blink of an eye, thousands of married gay and lesbian couples like Michael and me went from legal strangers in the eyes of the United States of America to legal spouses. There are quite simply no words for what that feels like. It’s something that only hearts can know. Of course, LGBT people are still a long way from being equal. In 38 37 states, same-sex couples cannot legally marry. In 29 states, putting a photo of one’s spouse on the desk at work can get gays and lesbians fired from their jobs. And it’s legal in 33 states to fire a person for being trans. (And those are just some of the issues we face!) But make no mistake: today’s decisions are incredible milestones on the road to equality. We’re not there yet, but we’re a giant leap closer than we were when we woke up this morning. The work continues tomorrow -- and we won’t rest until all are equal -- but tonight we celebrate. And this victory is sweet indeed. P.S. What words cannot express, music sometimes can. So I’ll leave you with this video from the Washington National Cathedral, where bells pealed at noon today to celebrate the end of DOMA and the defeat of Prop 8 ( This is what my heart felt like this morning when, with my husband by my side, I heard the news. Heck, it’s how my heart feels now.


John and Michael celebrate. Source: Random stranger.


john lee. My suggestion for anyone freaking out about the whole NSA thing.

By: John Lee

Knowing that I’m a libertarian who has never held President Obama in high esteem, you’re probably expecting me to gloat. I could but I’m not going to. Gloating is not funny. Besides, saying “I told you so” may bring some level of satisfaction to the one saying it but as much as schadenfreude is something that I have a deep appreciation for, I also recognize that it is never ever productive. Or you’re probably predicting what I’m going to say next. Government spying is immoral; it is unconstitutional; we are losing our liberty, etc. You’d be wrong. While those things are not untrue, that’s not what I want to say. What I do want to say is this:

Source: don__t_panic_wallpaper_by_vantaj-d4fgo87.jpg

If you’re wondering if your token libertarian friend has abandoned his views and become a State-loving democratic socialist, well, no, that hasn’t happened. But, and let it be known that even libertarians can sometimes learn to remove their tinfoil hats once in a while, I think this is a good time that we take a deep breath, drink a cup of tea, have a piece of toast with marmalade, read some Keats, and relax.

How could this NOT make anyone feel relaxed? Source: mb4vqvLzN31rc7t2io1_1280.jpg

George Orwell was a brilliant writer. Though I personally preferred ‘Animal Farm,’ ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ was also a spectacular piece of literature that ought to be read by everyone. That being said, and I say this with all the reverence that I can muster for Mr. Orwell, his dystopian, or rather, Orwellian future that he predicted in ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ was not entirely accurate. And that’s because in his book, Big Brother is seen to use all kinds of modern-day technology to spy on most everyone and deeply care about the innermost convictions of every single person who lives in Oceania. This is why in real life, Orwell’s Big Brother has not actually materialized (except for maybe in North Korea). In real life, Big Brother doesn’t actually care about every little thing that we do or about our innermost thoughts. To explain this, let’s take a look at the Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act of 2001, aka the Patriot Act, a law, which, as you remember, was passed by the overwhelming majority of both houses of Congress despite the fact that, at the time, virtually no one had actually read the damned thing. (I’m going to digress for a moment and ask something that has been plaguing me for a bit. Is there actually a job where someone has to come up with acronyms for Congressional bills? It seems to me that someone thought that ‘Patriot Act’ sounded like a nice, strong


john lee (con’t). name for a law but then someone said, “But we need to make it sound serious. Someone, please, make ‘Patriot’ an acronym for something. I don’t care what. Just make it sound official.” I’d like to know because I’ve never seen an ad for that kind of job in the classified section.)


This is the law that made warrantless wiretapping, email snooping, Skype intercepting, missile-dropping drones, extraordinary renditioning, military tribuning – all of it – perfectly legal. Somewhere beyond the grave, I think Richard Nixon might be throwing the mother of all hissy fits. Real life bureaucracy. Source: b880931f0.jpg

Source: richard_nixon_mad.jpg

Now the Patriot Act really does sound scary. When you read excerpts from the law, it certainly sounds like we’re living in the kind of dystopian future that Orwell warned us about. However, we’re forgetting one tiny little fact. The people who are overseeing the Patriot Act are bureaucrats and unlike the bureaucrats who work for Orwell’s Big Brother, real life bureaucrats, or at least most of the ones I’ve met, are less Nazi-esque and more Vogon-esque. To quote Douglas Adams: “They (Vogons) are one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy - not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without an order, signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters.” Now if that doesn’t sound like your typical pencil-pushing bureaucrat at the Department of Veterans Affairs, then I don’t know what

The incompetence and/or the apathy of most bureaucrats aside, there is also one thing that we should try to think about with this PRISM story – and that’s the sheer volume of data and information that the NSA has to sift through. Every day, there are billions upon billions of phone calls between adolescent couples whose conversations revolve around the phrase “No, you hang up first;” people liking their friends’ posts of their babies on Facebook; banal comments about comic books and video games that people leave behind on obscure discussion boards on the far edges of the internet; P2P downloads of movies and television shows and books; angry rants about Team Republican, angry rants about Team Democrat, angry rants about libertarians, angry rants about socialists, angry rants about theists, angry rants about atheists, pictures of quesadillas on Instagram, funny looking kittens and puppies, memes, and of course, porn. Lots and lots and lots and lots of porn. Out of all this cacophony of senseless noise and banalities and inanities, those dullards at the NSA (I’m willing to bet that not everyone who works at the NSA is a freakishly smart MIT graduate) are supposed to find delusional wannabe terrorists? Is it any wonder that despite all of this technology, the government wasn’t able to prevent a couple of second-rate morons from exploding a homemade bomb in Boston? Whenever I find myself with way too much work to do, I usually find myself not knowing where to start. The NSA has to deal with EVERY single email and phone call and internet post. There’s a very good chance that 9

john lee (con’t). those guys at the NSA will most likely store all of it away somewhere - an electronic version of sweeping things under a rug, and then promptly forget about it until someone tells them to look for something very specific in that festering turd of a mess. And even then there’s a good chance that they won’t find what they’re looking for.

feel concerned. But if your first thought was that Big Brother is watching our every move and that, at best, they’re judging our taste in porn, or, at worst, it’s only a matter of time before men with guns are going to storm through our doors to spirit us away to some derelict torture chamber in Afghanistan, well, would you like some fries with your tinfoil?

Source: images/film/signs/w448/signs.jpg?1335090292

So... where do we start? Source: uploads/2011_11/1320921198_dont_know_where_to_start_ gag.jpg

As a libertarian, I admire Ron Paul and, his son, Rand Paul (ooh, shocker!). I don’t agree with everything that they believe but for a couple of Republicans, they’re all right. That being said, when they claim that government doesn’t know how to spend other people’s money or that government is an inefficient institution in general and then, in the same breath, claim that government is very efficient at spying on us and is just one step away from establishing the perfect Big Brother society, I really wonder whether they truly don’t see the disconnect in their logic or if they’re honestly just being typical alarmist politicians. Yes, under the current legal framework, the government spying on people is not illegal. But what is legal is not always necessarily moral. So yes, the government spying on everyone is something that should make us 10

tendai r. mwanaka, afzal moolla, howie good. Counting the Stars

The Sound of Distant Ankle Bells.

As I lay by my back at night Stars scattered in the eastern hem Do they know each other? I start counting them That they might know each other Only that after a few counts I get mixed up, and get lost

Memories of those delicate tinkling bells, casually fastened around calloused feet,

Then I start counting again That this time I might succeed I have left another one, there So I start again from the south There seems a few from there From that end it seems easier

I barely saw her, a construction labourer perhaps, hauling bricks, cement, anything, on a scorching Delhi day, while in the semi-shade of a Gulmohar tree, her infant silently lay.

By: Tendai R. Mwanaka

There is that one shinning bright Promising to be an everlasting light Just like Connie, that bright flower But one day Connie was no more A mistaken identity, a dark patch stayed So also stayed, brown-beaten faith But we grope again, don’t we? We grope again, counting There is that one dull but countable Why doesn’t it shines brightly and clearly Is it sad and weary of life’s never clearing Tragedies, tribulations and trials Don’t they say, “once beaten, shy twice” O, where would I begin again Maybe to the west or to the north Or stop everything, forget everything Whichever way I have left another But how many times do we get mixed up So many times there is something we forget So many times we loose our way Haven’t we over-looked something Isn’t life made up of? Both losses and wins, counting We get down to the table Can we look back and say The going has been easy No stops, no stags, no regrets That we have triumphed Over everything?

By: Afzal Moolla

take hold of my waking moments, and fling my thoughts back to a distant time, where folk-songs were heartily sung, joyful, yet hopelessly out of rhyme.

A cacophony of thoughts such as these swirl around, yanking me away from the now, to my cow-dung littered childhood playground. Now, a lifetime of displacement has hushed the jangling chorus of the past, to a faint trickle of sounds, as distant as an ocean heard inside tiny sea-shells, and, I know, that the orchestral nostalgic crescendo, rises, dips, and swells, as tantalisingly near, yet a world of time away, as were the tinkling of her ankle-bells.


By: Howie Good The darkness bruised easily. I began over the next few hours to wonder why. Lincoln’s stovepipe hat? The spiritual efficacy of suffering? Around the corner, I saw, faintly, the occasional Cupid. I felt like someone else’s heart was crumbling in my chest. The man with a cane just shrugged when I asked, “This the line?” I filled my pockets from a box while waiting to enter. It was either very late or very early. The flash of falling water was the only answer I ever got.


danielle dragona. Rosary Beads By: Danielle Dragona

Maybe its better if he doesn’t call, discovering a type of sanctuary in isolation, a strange sort of solitary safety, a salvation for those terrified to expose themselves. I feel like a square peg attempting to squash itself into a circular hole. I was so disjointed the day I left you, alone and adrift in your drowning thoughts that dragged you effortlessly into their raging undertow, down, spinning and swirling like a maelstrom. You never had a chance. You gave me a fleeting kiss at the corner, then turned your back so gracefully to me, spiraling like a top as you sped down the street toward your apartment to assemble yourself for your gig that night. Your tuxedo awaits you, tucked away in a dim closet, yearning to feel your essence. Earlier, you disclosed to me that you’ve been, dressed in your tuxedo every night this week, when you’re sitting behind the piano, gracing its keys with passion. Your tuxedo knows the smell of your skin and the taste of your body maybe even better than I do. You struggled relentlessly to camouflage your emotions like a brilliant disguise, wanting me to believe your brain was as bare as the evening sun as you sipped your coffee with wistful hesitation in the sidewalk café. Without warning, I transformed into a spy watching your private crusade to arrange your thoughts, spill them out through your eyes and into the world like a tidal wave. How fathers can wreck lives. I can relate. How readily you forget that I’ve been there, and still am. Over the smooth tone of your warm voice and under the tranquil words you spoke to me, I perceived your anxious movements, the swiftness of your eyes, the agitation of your strong body. I heard your heart beat on my hand. I saw your pain in my own eyes. I touched your heart with my mouth. To the indifferent spectator, it appeared as if we were having an effortless exchange, but all the while, the evidence of interior combat was deafening, words exploding like landmines, falling, crashing down like asteroids of boundless emotion surrounding us like dying leaves. I saw you morph from a man into a frightened child. The features in your face


grew smaller, pure and more naïve. I saw it mostly in your eyes, shadowy passageway to what lies within, a life history trying to conceal itself behind faltering laughs and casual smiles. So, we ended up here, in this sidewalk café, with you sipping coffee as I unfurl my unyielding fingers like budding flowers, allowing your unspoken mysteries crash down like rosary beads that glow like a mutinous inferno, fragments that scream for liberation from their prison, relics of you, long forgotten, that you allowed me to unearth today. Your mysteries scorch my waiting hands with their secrets. But you told me you weren’t religious even though you were born that way. Are you secretly praying in your darkest hour, beseeching a God you have long denied, hoping he exists somewhere in this cosmic universe, bestowing some sign that there is reason to have faith in something? You wear your mysteries around your neck buried beneath firmly buttoned shirts. You leave your mysteries where your feet have graced these streets, perpetually preserved in the passing of time. Walking through these streets with you today on a Sunday afternoon, you guided me through the labyrinth of your internal mystery, taking me to places where I’d be certain to uncover pieces of you so I can add to the puzzle of who you really are, not just what you present to the waiting world.

robert allen beckvall, christopher gretkus. A Poet & Gigolo Tour Guide


The van said Oahu Poetic Tours on the side. He had the phone and web site there too. Plus, the tree he parked under rained bird shit on the van. Sometimes he felt like his life had been reduced to washing bird droppings, writing his poetry that only make sense to him, and banging the occasional old lady for a fee.

Come with’ve never felt it this way. You’ve never been happy yet. You’ve never been loved for Who you are. We lay on the hot snow, wind-blown by wafts of the desert breath. We open the gates of a new natural philosophy. We change our forms. We breath without breathing. We’re filled with oomph. Come with me de Plata... We’re gonna reach for unprecedented knowledge, the gossamer of harmony, heights of the flourish, the soul of omnipotence. In a place where we are heading, no words are necessary - just coming... Come with create a world one more time, to save the living. Everything. You and Me. Creation and destruction. Unrequited love. Longing for non-existence. Laughed down will. Need of cruelty. Everything... Fields of Time. Abyss of enormity. Stench of rotting flesh. Guiltlessness of apple of the eye. Clearness of mountain air. Passion of sweat drops. Slightest dab of eyelids. Homelessness of hurricane. Victory over self. Harvest of thoughts. Matchstick of war. Goddesses of novelty. Civilised crimson crime. Everything... All of everything made who You are ...a human

By: Robert Allen Beckvall

He wrote things for the tourists, took them around the island, then wined and dined the women who wanted that. He constantly reminded himself that he was living on a tropical island, writing poems and banging away on their asses like bongo drums. He was living the life 999 other guys would die for, he being the 1000th guy. Then, something unexpected happened. Somebody liked a couple of his poems. Not only that, they actually read them out loud to people. They read them out loud to people from around the world. One of his friends at the Diamond Head Tennis Center told him he had heard his name mentioned on some news show. Then, the place where he got coffee was talking about him when he came in. They had the local paper. He got interviewed over the phone for that article and they told him to take his own photo and send it in to them attached to an e-mail. He got two e-mails that interested him. One was from his old friend and mentor, Jack Veenum. Jack said something about doing some venom hunting in Prescott and that he would get back to him when he got done with that. The second e-mail was from a guy that was wanting to interview him for an electronic magazine he called Modern Philosophies and Histories. His name was Hug Honor. He figured that was a made up name. Hug said he could interview him when he came to Hawaii to interview this Dr. Wang. She was the one that read his poems. He was excited, and except for some beer buddies at the tennis courts and Dr. Jack, there was no one in the world to be excited with. He talked to the women he wined and dined, but this was always on auto-pilot. He wanted to share this. So he e-mailed her. His lost love of his life. His Spanish gypsy and his devil with the red dress. This was a dangerous piece of writing. After all these years, he still loved her.

By: Christopher Gretkus


sy roth, michael ashley, mike cluff, jan haskell, keith fuchs. A Thin Story By: Sy Roth

Pursued-sea-crossed, viscous mud, a slog in the red sun. heads down see only mud. deafly stare at it— Pursuers-thunder behind. pursuit congeals in a whoosh, chase sucked from the air. horses neigh, men huff mud eats them silence punctuated-Griots-will add clauses, and fill blanks with metaphors.

A note entitled ‘The Good Truth’ (found with our divorce papers)

By: Michael Ashley

It turns the trees against the sky, a giant hamster wheel in our home, dainty fingers come away from the mechanism, It turns a meal in the light of a microwave oven, a dead pig on a spit, oars in the row lock, It turns the milk in my fridge, the bread in my metal tin, that knot in the pit of my empty stomach, It turns over time good, bad, ugly, beautiful, eventually It all turns

The Subtlety of Patterns-III By: Mike Cluff

Bow-ties are too snotty I have been informed by those in the fashion-know still I will wear them because they encircle my neck a tracking collar for society to keep me under control and restraint or just because.... I wear gartered socks and suspenders for the same reasons but flag lapels on my suit or sports coat jacket never just because...


By: Jan Haskell I feel dumb sometimes because I express how my heart feels. I write poems and stories with that expression for you. The muse that set me free, set my heart free. Homer had his Helen; Shakespeare, Juliette; my expression is found in the gifts you have given and shared with me. Now I know I have overstepped, been too bold. For I dream you feel the same, and a dream may just be a dream. If it is just that, a dream, then you should wake me, but I beg you not to. for the dream will hold its own truth, a truth sometimes far better then reality. 14

The Vow

By Keith Fuchs This is not a preference Tis a priority To maintain the sanctity and protect her Incessantly; A code of chivalry An oath of valor To sooth her humanity With vacant pallor To adore with fervor With zest in manner Upholding the mantra Chiseled upon the banner

To softly clutch her fingers Defending her against all that linger Any resistance and danger Shall be met with a blistering flanger. This is not an option Tis your duty To honor thy damsel And relish her beauty.

copyright 2013, Keith Fuchs all rights reserved.

doug draime, louis marvin and xy, eloisa amezcua. The Fateful Summer A Young Poetry Editor Became George M. Cohan Singing “Yankee Doodle”

By: Doug Draime

he said he was singing about war up and down the streets of the college town singing about war on his bicycle weaving through summer traffic past bottled suntans and palm trees singing about war pretending to talk on his cell phone hustling an old poet out of a greasy lunch singing about war simply because war could be sung any ordinary numb nuts knows the melody but only a few singing about war know the lyrics

Preparing My Lizards By: Louis Marvin and XY

Going from Arizona to Hawaii was tough enough. Going to Mars could be catastrophic on me and my snakes. This was going to be unprecedented research on the affects of low density atmosphere on reptiles. Plus, the pressure of the ocean was at the complete opposite spectrum. And, I needed breeders that were good in captivity. This project with the zoos and natural settings, was very good for my affiliations with the Arizona universities I worked for and with. It was all win/win. My first foray into both the deep ocean and space, and I would be putting the creatures I love at risk. I have misgivings about that. Dr. Jack Veenum, University of Arizona, with side projects ongoing with Arizona State University, Prescott College, and Northern Arizona University. Flying with his menagerie in a spaceship, and going down, down, down in a submarine. I had to do initial research on the atmospheric pressures of the space travel and where we would eventually end up. The thing was that no matter how you blocked it, the pressures or lack of atmospheres would be acting on our bones and deep within us. These types of new atmospheres could even be affecting spiritual make-ups of both humans and reptiles.

Eastern Standard Time By: Eloisa Amezcua

She sees your car— no, one like yours— parked across from her apartment and a wandering cat. She wonders if her liver has broken down the coffee she tasted on you this morning, filtered you out completely. Thinks how the color of the ocean is only the sky’s reflection, tries to guess what you ordered to drink from the flight attendant. Tonight, as nights before you came and went, she’ll read the same lines of Asphodel, which you called a sad excuse for an apology, said he was egocentric. But she knows all apologies are selfish as well as she knows you only dream during the day to keep from nightmares, and still she pictures a garden filled with pressed flowers and bees that don’t sting while drinking in the joy of your approach, perhaps for the last time. She knows there are flowers also in hell, that she has Helen in her heart, and the perfect shade of blue depends on which coast you’re standing. 15

craig kurtz, kaleem raja. Chronology theory

Your Ecru Pashmina

is the advanced unknowing. The beginning remains undetermined.

Your ebony hair was braided tight, Black ears of corn pleached and taut Against the horizon of your scalp. You wore an ecru pashmina Peppered with vermillion flowers and flecks Around your regal neck. And as the dust billowed And buses snorted fumes and disturbed the sleeping dirt, The Kenyan cavalcade of unsung heroes Moved like cells through the heart of this land. In this city of manifold sad tales to tell, No one is there to listen, Even less to help or learn. Under your natty hand washed blouse, In your heart you were homespun, You were a haimish soul. The briefcase you carried to work everyday was always empty But you carried it out of pride and self preservation. You carried it not to carry papers and pens But to carry yourself. The suits Are all empty In this city of shanty towns, Make shift hopes and ramshackle homes, But in their muted dignity and gently stoked hearth, There is an abundance of wealth not of this earth.

By: Craig Kurtz

Schematized estimation is still unsubstantiated reluctant. Are you so sure there didn’t used to be seven seasons a year? I calculated time signatures and got color wheels. I thought of you. Numerical adventure is evanescent velocity. I’ve the other half here. Do fractions remit contradictions? I question isochronal traversal. There are installments. What if predicated duration suggested you? Vaticination accuracy disequilibrates. If aliquots could talk they’d aggregate. Answers are old, questions are new. Spectrum thesis cannot ascertain you. Chronology theory is incidental guessing. Love the you you’ve yet to know.


By: kaleeM rajA

josh medsker. Spenard

By: Josh Medsker Tammy

Hey you (smiles big), can I get a tall iced white chocolate mocha? (walks upstage to a chair, sits.) So, yeah, like I was saying before, I’ve also been putting money aside for myself. I want to get this awesome guitar I found at the pawn shop there on the corner of Benson and Spenard. The one that used to be the Java Joint? God, I remember when you and I used to get drunk behind the dumpster during punk shows there. We were pretty raw for a couple of twelve-year olds. Anyways, I want to get this guitar. It’s green in the middle and then turns yellow-ish towards the edges. I think they call it a sunburst or something like that. Anyways, I want to start playing music. I have a couple of friends, not dancers, because none of us are friends— we’re too competitive. I have a couple of friends who are going to be in the band with me. Oh, I guess there’s Casey, she’s a dancer. She’s new. She’s a kick-ass guitar player who just moved up here from Seattle, I think. Maybe it was Portland. Anyway, one of those places. She’s kind of a bitch, but she’s cool. She’s dancing at P.J.’s. Yikes, huh? The guys are gross and also don’t give you anything. Although I’m sure if you let them touch you, they’d give you something. Ha ha. At least I’m at Sands North where the guys aren’t allowed to drink. But she’s a great guitarist, and I’ll play rhythm guitar, our other friend Davida is going to be on drums, and her friend Tonya on bass. You’d like Davida. She’s pretty raw. She is always the one who’s busting up fights between me and Tonya. She breaks them up by beating the crap out of whoever started the fight. Usually it’s me, cause I don’t get along with Tonya. She’s too moralistic, and is always getting on me to stop dancing. Feminist dyke. She keeps badgering me, just like my Mom. Which is totally hypocritical, because my Mom and Dad both told me they smoked weed in high school and did coke and stuff. Now they’re trying to act all high and mighty like their shit doesn’t stink. They just can’t deal with me. But yeah, this girl kind of bugs me. She just expects me to drop everything and quit—but it’s not that easy. I have stuff I have to pay for too, like groceries and my part of the rent and stuff, and besides I like it. I like watching those guys’ faces, turning them on and taking their money.

(long beat) Yeah, I’ve been living in Spenard for a long time. A couple years anyway, since I left my parents house. I told you I ran away right? Yeah, it was getting to be too much, living with them. My Dad came by my boyfriend’s house one time to drop off some of my stuff, but we didn’t really talk. He’s a cocksucker anyway. I don’t need that kind of shit. Ever since I turned 15, it’s like he became a different person. He started giving me a curfew, but I’d sneak out anyway. Go drink at Steve’s or whatever. I saw my Mom at the Carrs Aurora Village a week or so ago when I was lifting some cheese and bread. She acted like I was a total stranger, and didn’t even say anything when I walked by. What a bitch. It’s better at Steve’s though. And now that I’ve been dancing for a few weeks, it doesn’t gross me out as much as I thought it would. And the money’s okay. I pull in a couple hundred in a week, but half of it goes to Steve for bills. I’ve also done a couple of VIP shows to earn some extra cash, which is cool. I didn’t want to at first, but I wanted to help Steve pay for his new iPod and stuff, so it’s no big deal. The guys weren’t gross or anything. They were Steve’s friends, which made me feel a little better. Dave

Hey, give me a coffee? (walks upstage to the chair, sits). Oh my god, so—dude, this tweaker broke into my house last night. No, well, I think he was a friend of James’s. Fucking James, man. No, I mean, he didn’t take anything. He was watching TV when I woke up in the morning. I got up and there he was, sitting on the couch like nothing was wrong. I thought maybe he’d been at the party, but I didn’t recognize him. He said he knew James, that he was a friend of his. He kept saying he was looking for him. I told him I didn’t know where he was, that he didn’t live with me anymore. Man, that’s why I drink beer. I don’t need that. You know? You drink, you pass out, you wake up, maybe you throw up, you drink some more. Ahhh. So, dude, you won’t believe it, Lightning Bolt is playing at Chilkoots next week. I never thought I’d see the day. They will clear that fucking place out! I heard that no one is opening for them either, that they are playing a long set. Pretty sweet. Get this; Ted Nugent is playing the next day. I got tickets. What, are you kidding? It’s the Nuge, man. Only in Alaska would you have those two back to back like that. My god. So, when are we going to practice? My fingers are itching! 17

josh medsker (con’t). That guitar has been collecting dust in my closet for a month. Let’s do this. It’s a good thing you’re a drummer. They are very hard to come by in this town. As you know, I’m sure. Between the two of us, we don’t really need anyone else in this band. Look at The Flat Duo Jets, or The White Stripes. Rock duos, man. Where it’s at. Bang that shit out, raw. If we can’t play it well, we can fake it, right? (long beat) Anyway so, dude! Mammoth Music on Spenard and Benson closed down! Yeah, I went by there the other day. I haven’t bought any CD’s in forever, and I went by to say hey to Mike Holtz and boom, it was turned into a pawn shop. Yeah, a fucking pawn shop. Just like the Firehouse Café, across the street. Two pawn shops right across the street from each other, you believe that shit? God… I used to go there all the time. I bought Throbbing Gristle and The The tapes there in high school. Man (beat). It’s the end of an era, my man. It seems like good stuff always leaves this place. Good people, too. Let’s be the ones to stick around. Let’s create something people remember. Nah, I understand. I am going to graduate too, dude. But, god damn. I just feel like things suck now. Suck more than usual. What I’m saying is we need to be the ones who make stuff happen, and school or no school, that’s what we should do. This is just as important, in a way. We owe it to this place—to future kids of Anchorage, so they realize that… real culture can happen here. Enough soapbox. Dude, where’s that coffee, man? Josh

Dude, um, can I get a glass of water? And a ah… iced chai with extra syrup? Just like, nnnnnhhhh, load it up. I love that shhhitttt. (takes cups, goes upstage, sits). Ah, what was I saying? Oh yeah, old friends. I do still see this girl Julie at the Middle Way, up there by Charlie’s corner, on Northern Lights. She makes me free coffee usually. Oh wait, I forgot where I was. That’s this place here, right? God damn. Does Julie work here anymore? Oh. (beat) She’s awesome. We worked together back at the Fred Meyer coffee stand in, god, 1993? We got tattooed together! Nothing like getting inked your first time. Fucking a, man. Those were some good days. I was writing my stories then, poems, songs (beat). I had some great ideas, but I don’t know what happened to that stuff. Maybe I should start writing again, and try


and find all that stuff. (long beat) That’s where it began, man, Maggie’s Trailer Court—I mean, where I was born. Near Tudor and Arctic. Actually, it isn’t there anymore. They razed the whole trailer park in like 1985 and put up a bunch of houses. What? Oh wow. Oh, I thought you said something? Fuck, man. I ‘m hearing stuff now. Ha ha ha! What’s this we’re listening to? Ah, man, I love Spenard. Fuck, man, it’s so real, you know? When I was about seven, we’d drive by The Chateau and I asked my parents about it… So, yeah, I asked my parents what it was. It’s a whorehouse. My grandma used to get upset because she can see it from her front window. There’s another place called The Magic Carpet Ride, over by Gwennie’s on the other side of Minnesota, and I asked my Dad once if I could go for a carpet ride. Ha ha ha! Yeah, exactly. Kids just have no idea. Yeah, but no, Spenard is great. I used to write a lot about it. I don’t know why I stopped. I guess I just got sidetracked or whatever. It happens. I used to have a lot of friends who lived here, but they just got old, going on and on about me needing to be responsible. I have parents, thanks. Jesus. Self-righteous fuckheads they turned out to be, never wanted to party. No fun at all. Who? Ah, no one we’d know. Um, hey man, do you have a bathroom? (sniffs, grinds teeth). Lucky

You got some of the real deal back there? I got a long ride coming. (takes cup, goes upstage to sit in chair, stretches out). But, yeah man, I used to go all over hell and back. Me and my old lady, Kathy been down to Sturgis nearly every year since, god…72? All us Angels go. Take our fucking bikes on the Alcan, too. Down the rough part, none of that pussy shit. Heh heh heh. You should see their hippie faces when we pull into Seattle. Priceless, man. We’re all abreast like that, in our leathers. Damn. Nothing like it. Man, those were some good times. Hair flyin, back when I had hair. Bugs in my teeth. Ha ha ha! Can I bug you for a refill? Ah, thanks, man. The coffee back at my place tastes like shit. I swear Kathy cleans the pot with Windex. Nah, but one year we went all the way down to South Dakota, from Washington to South Dakota in a day. No shit. Don’t know how we did it. Heh heh. (long beat)

josh medsker (con’t). About 5 or 6 of us made that one. We’d race each other from town to town. We knew all the speed traps. No way I could do that now. I can still ride, mind you. Don’t you doubt that. But my leg is fucked. Shattered. I can’t ride for long distances. No, it’s okay. It happened on one of our escapes from Alaska. I hit a patch of ice up by Fairbanks on our way out of town, up by Tok. I got trapped under the bike. Pinned my leg and crushed it. They said they had to amputate my leg, but I got up into the doctor’s face and I says don’t you fucking dare cut off my leg. They weren’t able to save it though. I don’t know if you knew, but I have a prosthetic one. I still ride. God damn right I do. Hey, you got any more leaded back there? You know, you’re the best damn barista in this town, I gotta tell you. Not as pretty as them girls, though. Ha ha ha! See you tomorrow, buddy. Charlie

Can I get a refill on this coffee? Please? It looks dirty, but I bought it this morning. You know me, brother. (gets cup, goes upstage to chair, sits). No, I don’t party no more, not really. I like to have fun, though. I don’t know if my parents would be proud of how I turned out (beat). But it doesn’t matter now. I did a fucking good job. I don’t give a shit what anybody says. I was a damn fine soldier. It was a different time back then, it was tough to take the stuff they threw at you, and we always got the shit end of the stick. I ended up taking a bullet in my hip. Friendly fire, they said (beat). Did I look like fucking Vietcong? I don’t deserve pity. Don’t want it. If anyone deserves pity, it’s my kids. They have to put up with my shit. But, they don’t live with me anymore. I get some money from my military check every month. People see me and they see a scruffy native, and they think I’m a fucking bum or that I’m on welfare. I’m earning my god damn money. I say “Hey, you want a wash, buddy?” I say “Hi there, my name is Charlie Agnook. I’m not going to do nothing to you, buddy. All I asked was if you wanted me to wash your windows.” (to himself) Yeah, fuck you! Drive away. I’m a Vietnam veteran, you son-of-a-bitch. Motherfucker. It didn’t used to be like this. People here used to show me respect. So what if I drink a little bit? They didn’t have to go through the shit I went through. (pours from flask into cup, drinks.)

I’ve lived in this neighborhood my whole life. I grew up right over there, on 26th avenue. Went to West High School. Fucking graduated, too. My mom and dad grew up here. They said—Charlie, you don’t need to be some fancy doctor or lawyer or nothing, just make us proud. So, after I graduated, I joined the army. Make me some money to go to college. I was only sitting around here smoking dope before. It was wild here back then. People getting into knock-out fights at Koots. Getting their faces smashed into bar tables, teeth knocked out. There was always pools of blood in the sawdust, on the floor. People got rowdy, for sure. I got into more than a few of those. Heh heh. Nancy

Hi sweetie, can I get a mocha cappuccino with vanilla? A small? Thanks a lot. (goes upstage to chair, sits). I don’t know how many more winters I can take up here. It really is tough doing this by myself. It’s gotten better now that Michelle is older and can help take care of Michael a little bit, but it was absolute torture there when they were babies. I’d have to take them with me when I cleaned houses, and you can imagine how well that went! Not many million-dollar Hillside houses are childproofed. If they had found out I’d done it, I’d have been out on my can. We would have. But what could I do, you know? (walks downstage, gets coffee. Goes back to chair, sits). Thankfully, when Barb decided to quit cleaning houses and become a beautician, oh sorry, “Hair Stylist”, she was able to babysit the wee ones a little bit. Well, after her training and all that. Yeah, I’ve thought about it. I’d make more money, definitely. I wouldn’t have to put up with as much crap from people, either. Jesus. I just wouldn’t know who to turn to. I mean, my sister Tammy lives here in town, in the neighborhood, actually, but she’s always been into her own thing. But… now would be the time to do it, to make the leap, now that the kids are older. (beat) “Oh, totally, you’d look great with blonde highlights, hon.” (flips hair) Maybe!

(long beat)


linda m. crate, douglas somers, robert pino. sincerely, a vexed sub girl

By: Linda M. Crate

don’t pay any attention to me just the shy little sub girl waxing and waning further into her closed butterfly wings i’ll cocoon myself soon so that i’m out of your view; heaven only knows that i’m the reason of your rage so go ahead and scream at me because we’re out of thirty two ounce cups or because i ran out of banana peppers it’s entirely my fault that there weren’t enough ordered since it’s part of my job description and all, and while you’re at it treat me like crap looking down at me through smashed rose tinted glasses i’m no human being there’s no reason to give me any of your hard earned respect — well, hate to break it to you, fellows and ladies but i have a life outside of work in which i flower beautifully and shimmer in the sun a gasp upon the lake; your lack of tact and insensitive comments summons my rage until one day i might snap the last branch of my last nerves tree and might just scream right back at you.

self portrait as a heroine douglas somers Print

That Morning By: Robert Pino

Fill your empty stomach with guarine and acid and burn Burn away from the inside until there is water in your eyes and slush in your gut There will always be another beautiful but broken girl


joshua marshall, wayne burke, george freek, chris talbot-heindl. Untitled

The Irish Sea

Look me in the eyes, and go ahead and make me feel dead with your stupid lies, telling me I’m never gonna make it, and making up shit about how it’s stupid for me to dream, trying to make me give up when my faith in myself is enough to give me the strength to do it and live through it, and be everything I wanna be. Don’t you see, that this is me, this is my destiny, to be alone, writing these poems all on my own? No matter what you say or do, I’m not gonna let you stand in my way and slow me down. I’ll blow a hole in the ground that you’re standing on, and watch as you fall through the floor.

The elevator goes up and down as the ferry boat bobs like a bar of soap in a bathtub and ocean waves rise to walls and fall in avalanches-smoke from my cigar is whipped away like ghostly wraiths to the stern a football field away from where I stand at the rail of this steel toy vessel, play thing of the sea, and try to see into the future which is all green-gray water rising to a hillside cascading to a plain up-see-doosy and down again it’s no time for a swim my knees go weak with the thought: I sink like the Titanic into the briny salt sea of myself.

By: Joshua Marshall

Demuth Saw The Number 5

By: Wayne Burke

By: George Freek

When insects lie in the grass, waiting for a wind to blow, do they hear some language only God knows? The moon grinds through a universe of bric-a-brac, leaving behind a detritus of discarded facts. The clouds are harps, or perhaps they’re monkeys playing harps. And leaves fall like eyes from the trees. Time falls like dust from the stars. I feel must go somewhere, but I’m not sure where. And no matter where, it’s too late to start.

Monster #2, 6/5/13

Chris Talbot-Heindl Sumi ink and gouache on paper 21

tyler furo. Did Women Have a Renaissance By: Tyler Furo

Reacting to the Black Death and a medieval epoch perceived as the “Dark Ages,” the European male elite, guided by humanism, redetermined the potential of their earthly lives, revisited the intellectual property of Greek and Roman antiquity and revalued gender and its social sphere. This movement of the early modern era, the so-called Renaissance, inexplicably bloomed and spread from Florentine Italy. It inspired talented men and women to yet reverberating feats of political, scientific and artistic triumph. But while contemporaneously celebrated Renaissance women certainly existed, examples are the exception. In general, plebeians remained the marginalized majority, the bourgeoisie moved indoors, and nobility’s distribution of exercisable power narrowed as state supplanted feudalism. During the Middle Ages, knights and troubadours honored their ladies as they honored their lord.1 In the Renaissance, dialog on women shifted away from the adulterous mutuality of courtly love to Neoplatonic ideals of chastity and beauty. That dialogical shift compounded by virilocal refocus, agnatic changes to inheritance and male anxiety about female power led to demonstrable regressions of negative consequence for women.2,3 While humanists proclaimed mankind was endowed with sublime status on earth, “free will” and “confined by no limits,”4 women’s worlds drew smaller. Male heir production, chastity and beauty encapsulated the quality of woman’s character. Education of women decreased overall, with public education of girls ceasing in the cinquecento.5 The mathematics training women employed in mercantile families was replaced by lessons in charm and silence.6 Teachers, even at home, flipped from same-sex elders to male adherents of antiquarian bias.7 For these reasons, I concur with Joan Kelly that women did not have a renaissance. By examining literature, spalliere and portraiture, I will demonstrate that women were marginalized subjects of Renaissance culture. Authors Dante Alighieri and Baldassare Castiglione reshaped the love ideal around women’s inferior status. Dante incorporated themes of courtly love into his writing, but ultimately rejected the sexual and romantic parity it represented. Castiglione’s Book of the Courtier reinforced connection of women with the domestic 22

sphere.8 Other humanist writers of the era followed suit. Giovanni Boccaccio’s On Famous Women conceptualized women’s biographies, yet his pronouncements were production of a misogynistic outlook.9 Of 106 women highlighted by Boccaccio, only three were artists, and he takes care to note “art is very alien to the mind of woman.”10 More typical of Boccaccio’s inclusions are allegories of virtue such as Lucretia, paradigm of chastity who inspired Brutus to found the Roman Republic. She committed suicide rather than bear the “shame” of being raped.11 For Boccaccio, beauty and virtuous character reign supreme, and women who wielded public or political power, such as Semiramis, queen of Assyria, could do so only if tangentially to men.12 Other literary works, intended for male audience, prescribed appropriate uxorial behavior. One, On the Family (1435) by Leon Battista Alberti, reiterated rigid structuring of women’s lives around children and domesticity.13 In a similar vein was Francesco Barbaro’s treatise On Marriage (1416). Its second book, titled “On Wifely Duties,” advises on optimal marital and familial relations, with a particular emphasis against feminine hubris and superficiality. Its first chapter considers obedience, which Barbaro describes as women’s “master and companion.”14 A fourth chapter, “On Speech and Silence,” stipulates that “[l]oquacity cannot be sufficiently reproached in women...nor can silence be sufficiently applauded.”15 During the Renaissance women’s education coalesced around muted obsequence. To the detriment of Renaissance women, influential literary works such as those by Dante, Castiglione, Boccaccio, Alberti and Barbaro perpetuated this trend. On Famous Women was not Boccaccio’s only literary work to popularize during the early Renaissance. His The Decameron (1350s), a collection of one hundred vignettes connected by a larger frame story, gained such traction that its tales became subject matter for the marital art of spalliere, or wall murals. Although instructive for both husband and wife, and visible within a shared space (the conjugal bedroom doubled as guest reception area),16 the moral exempla of these spalliere is too overtly misogynistic and concerned with female obedience to conclude its directives were of equitable intention.17 In particular, two stories of The Decameron were retold via painted spalliere. One concerns Griselda, subject of The Decameron’s last tale,

tyler furo (con’t). a peasant girl who demonstrates steadfast devotion despite her husband’s extreme cruelty.18 This vignette is depicted on a three panel spalliere from 1500 known as The Story of Griselda [Fig. 1]. Of moral issue in the Griselda fable is not her husband’s cruelty but rather it is her noble, obedient suffering in face of it. If any message is imparted to would-be husbands through The Story of Griselda, it is to abuse your wife lest she fail to prove her chastity. The real moral responsibility lies with Griselda, the bride. The workshop of Sandro Botticelli also painted misogynistic spalliere. Subjects included the tale of Nastagio degli Onesti, also taken from The Decameron, wherein the threat of murder and supernatural chaos induce a Traversari daughter to assent to marriage despite her adamant disinterest.19 The first three panels of The Story of Nastagio degli Onesti [Fig. 2], dated 1483, feature in their center foreground a women being mutilated. The last panel, however, is joyous in its celebration of marriage—a marriage facilitated by the graphic violence that precedes it. Additionally, the workshop of Botticelli produced two further spalliere panels on themes of chastity and virtue as filtered [Fig. 1] Master of the Story of Griselda, The Story of Griselda, Part I-III, c. 1500. Joan Kelly, “Did Women Have a Renaissance?” in Women, History & Theory: the Essays of Joan Kelly. (Chicago: Univeristy of Chicago Press, 1984), 22-23. 2 Kelly, “Did Women Have a Renaissance?” 20. 3 Ann Rosalind Jones and Margaret F. Rosenthal, introduction to Poems and Selected Letters, by Veronica Franco (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), ix-xxvi. 4 Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, “The Dignity of Man” in The Portable Renaissance Reader, ed. James Bruce Ross and Mary Martin McLaughlin (NY: Penguin Books, 1981), 478. 5 Whitney Chadwick, “The Renaissance Ideal,” in Women, Art and Society (London: Thames & Hudson), 72. 6 Chadwick, “The Renaissance Ideal,” 68. 7 Kelly, “Did Women Have a Renaissance?” 35. 8 Kelly, “Did Women Have a Renaissance?” 36-39. 9 Jones and Rosenthal, introduction, xviii. 10 Chadwick, “The Renaissance Ideal,” 35. 11 Giovanni Boccaccio, On Famous Women, trans. Guido A. Guarino (NY: Italica Press, 2011), 103. 12 Boccaccio, On Famous Women, 4-7. 13 Jones and Rosenthal, introduction, xx. 14 Francesco Barbaro, “On Wifely Duties,” in The Earthly Republic: Italian Humanists on Government and Society, ed. Benjamin G. Kohl and Ronald G. Witt with Elizabeth B. Welles (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press, 1978), 193. 15 Barbaro, “On Wifely Duties,” 204. 16 Paola Tingali, Women in Italian Renaissance Art: Gender, Representation, Identity (Manchester: Manchester University Press), 21, 37-42. 17 Author’s opinion. 18 Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron, trans. Frances Winwar (NY: Modern Library), 648-661. 19 Boccaccio, The Decameron, 332-337. 1


tyler furo (con’t). through violence against women. These are The Story of Lucretia [Fig. 3] and The Story of Virginia [Fig. 4] (both 1496-1504). Lucretia and Virginia, Roman historical figures that were also profiled in On Famous Women, both died violently as the result of external, uninvited male lust. Their deaths are allegories of triumphal feminine virtue that relay social value systems centered on women’s sexuality and the belief that female chastity reinforces state strength.

[Fig. 3] Workshop of Botticelli, The Story of Lucretia, 14961504.

[Fig. 2] Workshop of Botticelli, The Story of Nastagio degli Onesti, Part I-IV, c. 1483. 24

A final measure of Renaissance cultural dialog and women’s place therein is found in portraiture. Even in taking woman as primary subject, portraitists of the Renaissance obscured women’s humanity and silenced their reality through pictorial emphasis on costume, dynasty, beauty and demeanor. Women of early Renaissance portraiture are reductive, symbolic objects on display.20 Evolving from medals, the earliest portraits were exclusively painted in profile. In other words, the women portrayed were physically positioned in such a way that they were not able to confront the viewer’s gaze, nor did they present any discernible personality. They were “presented as surfaces.”21 While this

tyler furo (con’t). convention was true of early male portraiture as well, male portraiture evolved into a three-quarters view by mid-quattrocento, while profiled women remained the norm until the 1470s.22

[Fig. 4] Workshop of Botticelli, The Story of Virginia, 14961504.

Exigencies of female portraiture are exemplified in Portrait of Giovanna degli Albizzi [Fig. 5], a posthumous depiction of Lorenzo Tornabuoni’s wife, painted by Domenico Girlandaio. By 1488, the year of Portrait’s completion, the profile pose’s popularity had waned. It was utilized here as convention of entrenched significance, in a resolute immortalization of Giovanna’s “piety and propriety” and contribution to the Tornabuoni family (her, but more importantly the son she died giving birth to).23 To that end, Giovanna’s standardized beauty is sign of her impeccable morals, while her sartorial riches, including an interwoven el for Lorenzo and Tornabuoni family emblem, mark her economic and matronal statuses.24 The iconography of Giovanna’s portrait ensconces her as imitable model of womanhood for future Tornabuonis, but her personhood and women’s issues such as childbirth mortality are ignored. Everyone has heard the term “Renaissance Man.” He does everything: philosophy, science, art. On the other hand, women of the early modern period were shut up in houses, silenced in conversation and subject to male hegemony. Three examples from popular arts—literature, spalliere, portraiture—embody the overall misogynistic attitude of the Renaissance. These

examples evoke extremes which obscure women’s personhood and autonomous value and service male dominance. Boccaccio’s fables, Botticelli’s workshop’s spalliere and Giovanna Tornabuoni’s portrait stem from a male hand configuring the feminine norm. These arts reflect a greater trend of the Renaissance wherein women’s public roles were curbed, changes to government and commerce diminished legal and inheritance rights, and myriad roadblocks proliferated against genuine cultural participation. Of course women broke the mold, many indirectly due to tenets of humanism and Renaissance thought, but the overall conversation of the era excluded women while impinging their rights and imagery conception. [Fig. 5] Domenico Ghirlandaio, Portrait of Giovanna degli Albizii, c. 1488.

Works Cited Barbaro, Francesco. 1978. “On Wifely Duties.” In The Earthly Republic: Italian Humanists on Government and Society, ed. Benjamin G. Kohl and Ronald G. Witt with Elizabeth B. Welles. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 189-228. Boccaccio, Giovanni. 1955. The Decameron. Translated by Frances Winwar. New York: Modern Library. Boccaccio, Giovanni. 2011. On Famous Women. Translated by Guido A. Guarino. New York: Italica Press. Chadwick, Whitney. 2007. “The Renaissance Ideal.” In Women, Art and Society, 66-86. London: Thames & Hudson.

Chadwick, “The Renaissance Ideal,” 75-76. Chadwick, “The Renaissance Ideal,” 76. 22 Patricia Simons, “The Gaze, the Eye, the Profile in Renaissance Portraiture,” History Workshop 25 (1988): 13. 23 Simons, “The Gaze,” 8. 24 Simons, “The Gaze,” 13-14. 20 21


tyler furo (con’t), christopher mulrooney, chris talbot-heindl. Jones, Ann Rosalind and Margaret F. Rosenthal. 1998. Introduction to Poems and Selected Letters by Veronica Franco, ix-xxvi. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

the rap

Kelly, Joan. 1984. “Did Women Have a Renaissnace?” In Women, History & Theory: the Essays of Joan Kelly, 19-50. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

I’ll plead the defend the honor the rest my case on this here set of facts it can’t be true that this Hyperia is that satyress no no someone does her shopping for her that’s it

Pico della Mirandola, Giovanni, “The Dignity of Man,” 1486 in The Portable Renaissance Reader, ed. James Bruce Ross and Mary Martin McLaughlin (NY: Peguin Books, 1981), 476-479. Simons, Patricia. 1988. “The Gaze, the Eye, the Profile in Renaissance Portraiture.” History Workshop 25: 4-30. Tingali, Paola. 1997. Women in Italian Renaissance Art: Gender, Representation, Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

Monsters, 6/3/13

Chris Talbot-Heindl Sumi ink and gouache on paper 26

By: Christopher Mulrooney

clyde l. borg. Going Nowhere By: Clyde L. Borg

Friends had often told me about their wonderful experiences on ocean cruises. They often mentioned how fascinating it was to dance, dine in a fancy restaurant, gamble, shop, and partake of many other amenities provided by the passenger ship while wafting along in the middle of the ocean, or sailing along a picturesque coastline. I decided to take a cruise to Alaska. There I was, on a large white imposing ocean liner plying its way effortlessly through the gray waters of the Pacific toward Alaska. To the east, snow crested mountain ranges loomed on monotonously. Later, upon entering the inner passage, the same white unvarying ranges could be seen in the west. The calm waters only added to the tediousness of the journey. There are cruises to nowhere, but this ship was going somewhere, and it turned out to be nowhere. The ocean-going vessel maintained its course for seven long days with stops at three uneventful and uninteresting locations. Juneau, the state capital, was extremely disappointing. It is a city of nothingness reflecting its dismal surroundings of snow-covered mountains. This is the capital city of Alaska? The second stop was Skagway. Ah Skagway:

Skagway, white, Always damp with Pervasive nothingness, Only a dubious past Of gold seeking, With little reward. That’s Skagway, Always.

That was Skagway, but it was better than Juneau. At least this small, former mining town was quaint, and I learned about one of its early inhabitants during the gold rush, an interesting character named Soapy Smith. The last stop was Victoria, Canada. It certainly had more to offer than Skagway or Juneau, but it was not a place anyone would want to visit more than once. It is situated on an island and if you wanted to reach it from mainland United States you have to take a long journey on a ferry from the state of Washington or from

Vancouver. It is not worth the effort; there has to be better places in Canada to visit. O Canada! Tours were available in each of the three locations, but they were all drastically over-priced and not worth the money or time. Snow does not look any different wherever it is located. Perhaps if you were a hunter or fisherman you might like the area, but there was not enough time for people so inclined to really enjoy those activities. However, most of the time was spent aboard ship. I always thought cruises were supposed to be fun, not depressing voyages. Most of the passengers were quite elderly; some even appeared to be on near life support. There were some younger people, and most of them were heavyweights. They could be found any time of day on the buffet line. Drinks could be had, but they were not included in the cost of the trip. Prices were high and a 15% service charge was added. Everywhere you went you could be sure there would be someone coming around offering drinks. It was unfortunate that the alcohol was so expensive because getting drunk would have helped ease the boredom and monotony of the cruise to the great white nowhere. Dancing, shows, and movies were available but not much of a distraction. The dancing floor was cluttered with unsteady old people while those seated in the audience were making conversation interspersed with old man jokes about sexual impotence. One of the most popular shows was a senior version of The Newlywed Game. People were gleaned from the audience to assist in carrying out the ridiculous gambit. An art show proved somewhat interesting because of the free champagne. Another big diversion for people was daily bingo. It was a big hit with the cruise ship oldsters. For those who wanted to really gamble, there was a casino aboard the ship. It was only open to the public at times the vessel was in waters where gambling was permitted. The casino was not much of an establishment, but it helped me pass some time away. The meals were pretty good, and the seating was open which meant that you were not forced to sit with the same people or with any people for that matter during the trip. I chose the latter. An extra fee was charged for 27

clyde l. borg (con’t), laine jewell. the better restaurants. There was a ship store that offered over-priced souvenirs from Alaska and a duty-free liquor store. Alcohol could be purchased here, but it was given to you on the last day of your journey. If you wanted to get drunk it was going to be at the exorbitant prices imposed aboard ship. It was too cold and windy to venture outside, so the only escape on board was to retire to your assigned cabin. A small window was located there where you could watch the murky water and the monotonous white covered mountains. Occasionally a whale could be seen frolicking in the ocean; a big event for some of the passengers. There was a television, but it was only operable when we were close to communication signals. Of course one could always view repetitive in-house videos of the old Newlywed Game that was produced by the passengers during the journey. So much money and so little in return, yet I overheard


passengers saying that they had gone on the cruise more than once. I am in my seventies, but I still like to have fun, and the cruise definitely was not fun. When the ship was docked at Skagway, a group of passengers were expelled from the vessel. I immediately surmised that those people were probably having a lot of fun, and they were forced to leave. I understand that the cruise line also makes trips south along what is known as the Mexican Riviera, a much warmer clime. Perhaps I could have some real fun there.


By: Laine Jewell I can’t tell if I hear birdsong or just your breath whistling through your nose

cindy small. Noshing in Sequins By: Cindy Small

During 1959, each Monday and Wednesday night at 6:00 p.m. sharp, grandmother’s pornographic lingerie shop was the meeting place for all family members. We locked the glass-and-chrome door and shuffled a few blocks down the street to Morrison’s Cafeteria. Looking like the Amish in drag, we wore furs, sparkly dresses, wigs and gloves. My mother held my grandmother’s elbow and my grandmother held my father’s arm. I walked alone. Thank God. This cafeteria dining site was not just an ordinary large room with lots of uncomfortable round tables and upright hard chairs, but a room that appeared surreal, almost like a theater backdrop. My family was like a Rockwell painting, only glamorous, neurotic and insane. Inside the dining room, things not real were real. The room was all about trompe l’oeil as part of its charm. An eighteen-foot ceiling studded with dim stars suspended over walls simulated a castle. Spanish shawls draped over fake balconies and lighted enclaves made us feel we were walking into a palace in Spain. Foliage and murals were hand-painted everywhere and salsa melodies played in the background. My aristocratic Viennese family wasn’t exactly excited about not having table service; they hated walking in a line and placing food on their trays. It made them feel so proletariat and cheap. “Hurry up, you people. Get in line fast…see those people…they’ll get all the hot food,” Mother commanded. “Nu, how slow can you be?” barked my grandmother rushing toward the front of the line. My family walked down the serving aisle as though it were an Edith Head runway performance. “Don’t be so damn slow. No food will be left…hurry… fast,” Mother yelled. “Nu, my shoes are killing me, already. Cannot go faster!” Grandma yelled back. My Viennese family loved the cafeteria’s policy of free second servings allowed to guests plus our own private waiter, Eugene. He was our fabulously elegant, gay black

busboy. Our own private gay. Tall and thin with penciledin eyeliner and matching moustache, he attended to our every whim. I wanted to take him home to live with us. I fantasized about Eugene being our private houseboy, wrapped in a red toga, handing me huge, steamy white towels after a bath and maybe a Pimm’s Cup. Grandmother Joan, always wearing her mink stole over a sequin-studded dress and huge hat, ordered dumplings with a gummy yellow sauce. Since she gave all the serving girls at Christmas her famous “Joan’s crotch-less panties,” her portions were colossal. Dumplings hung like wide yellow ribbons over her plate. My mother, with gold-sprayed wavy hair, was always good for the beef in burgundy with gnocchi, peach Waldorf salad and cherry pie. The wait staff was bewitched by my mother’s acrylic stiletto heels. They stared in awe as my mother would say “Sweetie, I vant my food hot, hot, hot! And don’t be so stingy. I’ll take care of you later.” The wait staff knew copious amounts of X-rated lingerie was in their future. Grandpa, the suited with suspenders, bushy whitehaired shop owner who sold purses made of dead animals, was all about the chicken a la king, white rice and peas (called “risi bisi” in Vienna), apple pie with a huge chunk of warm, melted gooey yellow cheese on top. Eugene knew the precise moment to serve him his steaming hot coffee and pie. His timing was as exact as an astronaut soaring into space. I swear Eugene was like liquid Valium for me. Portions, longshoremansized, were due to the Cuban cigars and Evening in Paris perfume my grandfather gave all the servers at Christmas. I’m telling you, this family of mine worked the room at Morrison’s Cafeteria. My very quiet, bald father, so well-dressed that he had a habit of always vacuuming our home in his business suit, ordered chicken livers, stuffed mushrooms, hot cheese biscuits and Jell-O. Always Jell-O. Again, Eugene knew when to place the coffee and squiggly red Jell-O in front of my very quiet, bald father. I began ordering sirloin tips en brochette, carrots in mustard glaze, and jewel cookies. Those were the kind of round, soft sugar cookies that have a lipstick red velvety dot in the middle. I imagined the dot was a red sequin. What could possibly be better than eating and sharing my space with fake flowers, black railings and street lamps? Watching my family smacking their lips and attacking desserts with such passion, I realized something was 29

cindy small, kyle kaczmarick. continually missing for me at the table. Morrison’s Cafeteria didn’t serve Coke! And they sure as hell didn’t have Shirley Temples with floating paper umbrellas. During one of our visits, I decided to summon the manager in front of a fake painted window and meticulously explained how important Coke was to my meal and how much money my family spent at his eatery. My family puffed long drags on Viceroys, watching me debate with the manager. “What does she think she’s doing? She has no idea what she wants. The manager will think she’s an idiot,” said my mother. Gee, my mother had so much confidence in me. A few months after meeting with the cafeteria manager, while making our weekly pilgrimage to the cafeteria one evening, Eugene continued mesmerizing us with his efficiency. A card stuck on a pick in the middle of the table read “Now Serving Coke.” You would think I was proud of myself, but no, not really. I was way too embarrassed about what I had done. Many thanks to Mother. The servers were exhilarated with the fizzing beverage now being offered. I was treated like queen every time we ate there and known as “The Coke Lady.” “Babydoll, you be done worked the crowd and nows we be gots us soda. Lord have mercy, you did it, dahlin!” boasted Eugene. “Thanks, it wasn’t anything, really.” “Girl, don’t you be sayin’ dat. I get to drink me free soda all day long cuz of you, hear me now, girl?” “You’re the best, Eugene!” “Girrrrl, just tell yo’ momma to save dose red lingerie sets for me!” Eugene smiled. Thirsty customers would come up to me, shake my hand and thank me. For the first time in New Orleans history, a Morrison’s cafeteria was serving Coke. My family sedated themselves with even larger portions after my Coke battle was won. It now became my turn to bring presents to the cafeteria staff. I made sure Eugene received an exotic oriental baby doll gown and panty set. With Mandarin collar and side slits trimmed in imported French gold braid, he would look totally fabulous. “Girl, I am so on this outfit. Lord, wait till I parade in dis tonight. Leon is gonna chase my ass ‘round da room like a hound dawg in heat. Lord have mercy, I is stunning.” During my childhood, black gay men always 30

became my friends and realized the family dysfunction that was my world. They were my little angels treating me with dignity and care. Eugene thought I was so special! Plus, he owned a closet full of the most stunning lingerie in New Orleans!

New Next Day By: Kyle Kaczmarick

This night, I have seen it before. That is no new darkness out there and there is none either in here and though it is deep and near endless I leave the lights off, sitting in it, thinking of when I could not sleep because of how crushing a bed feels, when I slept on couch and floor, in my car outside in the parking lot, in nowhere at all sometimes, leaving in the mornings to ride the bus zombified with unyielding wakefulness. And there, rattling in the window seat of the back bench of the bus as it turns the turns I’ve mapped without thinking I opened my notebooks and wrote into blank pages while out beyond the passing buildings and streets there rose anew in the yetlight of this new next day a surging wave of morning that pierced even the gray orbiting craftlike clouds and made of them thin scrims that dissipated with the onslaught of light and I pressed my face against the bus window, looking up, watching with no shortness of relief that skyfront of darkness peeling back to the west where the low hills beyond town were still blue and miasmatic under shade of failing night, where along the county roads vehicles still rode with their headlights on, glimmering ribbons of light funneling in from the outlying prairieland toward here. This is how morning greeted me then.

anthony ward, kenneth abraham, dawnell harrison, georgia bellas. Climate

A Laser Guided Hellfire Missile

Do refrigerated parents Cause their children to turn out cold?

Silent, swift, and deadly, from the “empty� sky five miles above, One could say that the Predator drone is the antithesis of a peace dove, It is the cost effective, near zero risk solution, To a pernicious kind of human pollution, Al Qaida. Do we really need religious extremists with intolerance like stone? Or is it better to eliminate them, flesh, blood and bone? Who is to say whether our policy is wise or is folly, But I bet we soon will have Predator drones in Mali.

By: Anthony Ward

Do catering parents Turn them out hot and bothered? Do tempestuous parents Leave them feeling temperate? Do balmy parents Give them reason to be mad?

By: Kenneth Abraham

The sunrise burned By: Dawnell Harrison Deep in your soul The sunrise burned As the orange leaves Of autumn twirled In your heart. The sweet smell Of roses bent over My soul as the sight Of a white dove Glimmered in my heart. The fires of twilight Tussled in your eyes As the rain fell Into the vast horizon Of your soul.

Four Lions

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