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the

b’k

bitchin’ kitsch

Volume 5, Issue 7 July 2014 1


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. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.

community copies:

Stevens Point readers, sit down and read The Bitchin’ Kitsch at our community locations: zest, the coffee studio, tech lounge, and noel fine arts center.

advertising:

The Bitchin’ Kitsch is offering crazy low rates. Order ads on our Shop The B’K page (www.talbot-heindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).

donation and acquisition:

Printing costs can be a bitch, which is why we continuously look for donations. Any amount helps and is appreciated. We also sell back copies of The B’K. To do either, visit our Shop The B’K page (www.talbotheindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).

resources

On top of being the best publication ever created by human hands, The B’K would also like to present other opportunities that may be helpful to you as creators. If you have suggestions that could improve our list, please let us know. Resources we are privy to can be found at our Resources page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/resources).

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table of contents.

9 - The Macrame of Carnal Waves, Sreyash Sarkar 10 - The Quiet, Sy Roth 11 - Presidential Hopeful Jeb Bush Orders Deaths (Fetuses and Terri Schiavo Are Exempt), Chris TalbotHeindl 12 - square block of the galaxy, Patrick Longe

McGhee 18 - Chewing the Fat, Sissy Buckles 19 - A Filterless Legalization, Lauren Page 19 - Over, Kenneth Gurney 20 - After twelve, Allison Grayhurst 20 - Untitled, Bekah Steimel 21 - A place called ‘Nowhere’, Arif Ahmad 22 - drag, Louis Cummins

Wlkn_Fire - pg. 4

23 - Megyn Kelly Talks Garbage, Chris Talbot-Heindl

On the Cover

24 - I Can Fly, Tendai R. Mwanaka

Monkey Brunch Stephanie Jones Painting on wood

25 - The Old Pool Hall, Douglas Polk 26 - Donors and Index

On the Back Cover Flashpoint Paula Heindl Acrylic painting

In This Issue

Stephanie Jones and Adam Unger - pg. 8

4 - The Emperor, Wlkn_Fire 5 - The Evangelist in Decline, JD DeHart

13 - Extra-Terrestrial, Anthony Ward

5 - We Had Some Woods, April Salzano

14 - Because Bean, A.J. Huffman

6-7 - Icarus I, Emery A. Duffey 8 - Rapunzel, Stephanie Jones and Adam Unger

14 - Marpole, Vancouver, Changming Yuan 15 - Awaken, Jan Haskell 16-17 - Killing the Dog, Myron

Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 23

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wlkn _ fire.

The Emperor Wlkn_Fire Watercolor on paper

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jd dehart, april salzano. The Evangelist in Decline

By: JD DeHart

At one time, he could wave his fleshy palms and dispel the demons in their thorny hearts, stepping on the brink line of the back of a pew, traveling sometimes, packing his ugliness in the backseat, hiding it under a blanket, an alien face in another town, bee-lining for bed springs instead of the couch, the weight of it too much to bear so that now he is a bloated and saggy mess, attempting to offer up prayer, but not sure he ever learned how in the midst of his secret furtive life.

We Had Some Woods By: April Salzano

everywhere we lived, a place to hide, transcend real interiors dripping with smashed clocks, broken dreams, dishes, fingers. In the woods my sisters and I were different people entirely窶馬ot fairy tale princesses, just the neighbors, whose lives looked glamorous with their mowed lawns, family outings, swingsets. We knew every tree, roots to step over, snaking from trunks like promises, secrets obvious to every stranger. Crooks of branches were places for pacification, pause to gather strength to go back home.

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emery a. duffey. Icarus I

By: Emery A. Duffey The sun’s brilliance called to him from afar Promising power and warmth and all the good things It glittered on the water’s surface It shimmered in the sand Paved the streets with mid-day stars And he longed for that He couldn’t lie He needed an escape from the world And all it’s diamonds of disappointment That graced his body Weighing him down to the dust and decay Of the stale urban surroundings The sun called and promised With whispers on the leaves Gifting him with tastes Samples of gold foil decorating the forgotten ground Or turning the rhinestones of rain and dew into sparkling iridescence The magic made him ache because he could not keep it The sun could touch him but he couldn’t touch the sun So his father made him some wings Because he thought it’d make his son happy He wove feathers of peacocks and parrots and crows and song birds Into a beautiful set of wings Decorated with jewels and stones smoothed by the shimmering waters of the river And he warned his son “The grass isn’t greener on the other side. Distance clouds’ perception. Don’t let it destroy you. You’re all I have and all I want.” “I want to be happy,” said the son. “That’s what I want too.”

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So the son put the wings on his shoulders And flew into the clear blue brilliance. He flew quickly to his prize He wanted to capture it and show his father that he could The wings glimmered The sun became blinding and painful And as he reached out to touch it The sun destroyed him His father watched from the ground Tears welling up like the dew-jewels his son loved so He found a note from him It read: “Father, I love you, but I hate it here And I want the sun, but I know I can’t have it And one day, I won’t have you either And that’s what destroys me So I’ll just die in the air Fighting to grasp what cannot be grasped And at least I won’t die entirely alone At least I’ll die knowing you were there to try to catch me Even though, like the sun, I can’t be caught - Icarus”

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stephanie jones and adam unger.

Rapunzel Stephanie Jones and Adam Unger Mixed Media

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sreyash sarkar. The Macrame of Carnal Waves By: Sreyash Sarkar

‘’Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.’’ - Sylvia Plath Below the highway darkness turns the heath To ancient shapes, to where the wind trots on hooves, The mist a cloak swirling, or further back To that with eyes and claws and scales and beak. She grips the wheel, following dotted lines: No traffic and yet she keeps to the lane. A tick could throw her lighted world out of gear, The earth erupts into all that has been there. As burnt stars fill the night, I remember her like imprints of a swan’s feet left on sand Drenched in lunar ecstasy, That she rushed in like July ebbs, And returned with receding flows While by the riverside rests a shattered boat, its worn-out sails Awaits a dreamer’s touch, like the gush of torrential winds with impending motion to transcend the silence of oars... I anticipate, alone, grasping her morose clay As the norms go before cremating—so dark and detached. While the bond between living fingers and deceased dull eyes Dream of galloping across meadows — March days return with their covert light, and huge fishes swim through the sky, vague earthly vapours progress in secret, things slip to silence one by one. Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies, She reunites the lives of the sea to that of fire, grey lurchings of the ship of winter, to the form that love carved in the guitar. As seen in fantasy and observed in facts We evolve to humanity from mere human beings. As I dispose all of her that remained And witness how waves wash away burnt stars And how the neon beacons on masked sails, distressed...

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sy roth. The Quiet By: Sy Roth

A quiet descends Captures you in a net built for its own intrigue Quiet squirreled behind a pine tree Tail flexing like a lover orgasmic in a spasm of alliteration Dr.Smith, danger, danger… It screams through the silent forest A danger that curls about you as Vesuvius thoughts peek from the darkness, Then twists to hide behind the tree on the other side of your thoughts— Oily brat— Insidious in its desire to break the silence Morse coding the quiet to flee—danger. Quiet, deafening boomlet-silenced in a shroud Rests in the misting clothed in its mourning dress, An unbalanced temporality Painting lines of lunatic meanderings of lightning bugs, Ugly things, coagulating into rusty, musty pools — The quiet eats away Devours interminable seconds in the silence of the forest Heard only by the earless in Gaza, Its dusty boots galumphing to a march of time Gobbling wholesale acres of platitudes and racing-car dreams Rips the quiet into a grief-stricken wringing of hands. In the frozen forests you await the barrage of guns Miles of guns—their tubular eruptions. Drones above consume your heat Invests alive signals in its bosom of a moth readied for the flame. Then the quiet — Tense departure from a surging sea Writes of a circumcised life adrift in pools of silence, Folds into itself In breathless Quiet.

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chris talbot-heindl.

Presidential Hopeful Jeb Bush Orders Deaths (Fetuses and Terri Schiavo Are Exempt) Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink on paper

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patrick longe. square block of the galaxy

By: Patrick Longe

inside a sponge cake as move around it gives a little then slowly rises back to where am kissed by the madman’s benevolence who unknown bestowed upon his reality stepping outside the motel room to the sidewalk pass another tall thin blond woman with bloodshot eyes hurrying with obvious concern think another fallen angel on mission put out another fire look around street signs are festive blue and orange names like saturn, pluto, mars, galaxy turn back notice parking lot full to the brim turn around again cars zooming by seventy miles an hour daylight amazingly bright guy on balcony neon newsticker beyond in sky reads “deer hunter guns has you now” decide to retreat to hotel room since things seem quite schizophrenic in minutes new air conditioner been installed puzzled pick up phone ask for local operator get reply “if you had any more cash you’d be stuck in a ramada” setting phone down all see bag of pretzels, chips and soda focusing my vision as if uniquely formulated sustenance for this planet where arrived after finding myself struggling for miles along the seawall of jagged boulders along the causeway for hours battling the rocks step-by-step imagining myself as muhammed ali in the title fight when arrived clerk says can stay since belong here in this universe and that i’m right on time have kept my appointment in the room strip clothes my left foot is completely orange that must be selenium presume take a shower effect leaving me feeling the fizz of shaken cola sit on the bed feel like pond scum the algae all over physical force of the universe decided to fall asleep later awake everything quite complacent nothing seems garish or outlandish everything is quite desolate like early weekend morning fixate on 7-11 across street thinking of that now find myself here seems absolutely true events must have entered an episode now the time to forget everything focus on what doing, what are my responsibilities, what should i do now that everything seems quite normal it’s obvious nobody around here cares, don’t have to cover my tracks, so for the here and now doesn’t appear world acting strange only myself knows the people were only so glad to arrange an ending where no place to go than back to altered state

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anthony ward.

www . ta lb o t - h ei n d l . c o m

Extra-Terrestrial

(After the closure of the steelworks)

By: Anthony Ward

We’re alienated by a society That no longer wants us, As if from another planet Speaking a different language They cannot comprehend — No longer belonging to their world. I remember a time when they searched for us, Intrigued to find out all about us, Thrilled to know that we existed In order that we could help them — Facilitate them in their development. Whereas now we’re surplus to requirements, Merely thought of as extra-terrestrial.

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a.j. huffman, changming yuan. Because Bean By: A.J. Huffman

bags become imitation snail shells when enough Jack Daniels has been poured, I place them in every corner of the room. The laughing their colorful collage of memories breeds is better than any moment of calming sanity some feng shui voodoo arrangement could ever hope to muster.

Marpole, Vancouver For Liu Yu

By: Changming Yuan It rains a lot in Vancouver Often does this rain remind me of The days when you sojourned here With my family, after Father left all of us While walking in the rain, you would Recall, under my big umbrella How you once waited in a drizzle With me in a broken basket on your back To cross the widening river, not far From our village when I was crying hard For a large spoonful of flour soup (you were too Weak and too hungry to produce any milk) Seeing you do nothing about my hunger The ferry man asked, Where is its mom? I am his mother! You replied, tears rolling down With the raindrops on your childish face How old are you then? – Almost 17. It is raining again in Vancouver, and beyond this rain Your voice echo aloud on the other side of this world

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jan haskell. Awaken

By: Jan Haskell Waking to the sound of wind - might as well be thunder, when you’re on the open water. At first, it’s a pull with a rock, and soon after, waves are brought to life. It won’t be a day to dilly-dally awake; no laying in the bunk to stretch out one more dream. It’s up, up up; move the mind to wake and the body to motion. Below deck, there is nothing but one’s imagination to tell one what’s going on outside. That’s the first thing to do: get on deck. He moves through his cabin, grabbing a shirt and pants off the floor. Dressing as he moves from his cabin to the galley. The boat is already starting to pitch: the bow rising up, and then down. Feel the intervals. Maybe six-foot waves. Count: 1…2…3…4…5…6…The waves are spaced; there is some time to work it out. He reaches the deck, making sure the door is secure. Lifting his head, the vastness (or is it the emptiness?) reminds him of how alone he is. All around him water - moving, choppy - with a good wind coming out of the northwest. His first thought is to get the boat in motion - set a course - but where to? The best made plans of mice and men, right. Set the bow northeast to start, get the jib up, and then check over the deck. This would be the third storm in as many weeks, and the plan, as always, is to get out of its way. As he moves forward, a wave lifts the bow a few feet before crashing onto the deck. He catches himself grabbing hold of the mast. Hi, old friend, giving the mast a solid pat, here we go again. His bare feet felt the chill of the ocean from where the wave had kissed the deck.

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myron mcghee.

Killing the Dog By: Myron McGhee

Perhaps, in the morning, when the sun has shaken me from my comforter I could imagine killing my neighbor’s dog. Damn mongrel howls at the moon as if she were his lover. He keeps the whole neighborhood awake with his constant Love songs. I could imagine snapping his neck as easily as I pour my cereal, or grab my milk from the fridge. Death is a simple matter, As simple as singing love songs To one who does not share your passion. Even now, as I lay on my mattress, (No sheets to caress my skin, Just the stench of stale sweat,) I can imagine his death. A large golden retriever, Found lifeless in a cold garage, Old oil clinging to his fur, Blood seeping from his head A baseball bat thrown across a lawn, Hiding from curious faces.

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Yet it feels no guilt. Love does the same thing. Love is a killer, too blunt For its own good, Too fickle to feel remorse for anything. That damn dog is in love, And his songs paint a story That only the drunk can believe in. Perhaps in the morning, I’ll take that dog to breakfast, Buy him pancakes and bacon, And when night time falls once again, And the moon shows her skin to the lustful, We can serenade her together Just drunk enough to understand.

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sissy buckles.

Chewing the fat By: Sissy Buckles

And now some nosy malcontent wants to know why can’t I just say something once and get it over with instead of tearing into a concept like a bitch dog gnawing on her meaty rawhide bone starting off here then naturally ramble over there oops wrong way better mosey up that pass only to stumble back down

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veer right hard left skidding round the corner at ninety miles an hour obsess on it like my mama over a freshly shucked cob of buttery Iowa corn tossed jubilantly in the air then bury the dang chomped up old thing in disgust just to dig it up again next day or hour now I’m sleepless it’s the middle of the night strung out on a ledge shaking that dusty rug

in the wind all the while baying madly at the moon I’ll wear that thought with a thousand gaudy frocks spitting words out fast as Clyde Barrow’s Browning until bingo bango phew! I leap off that spinning roulette wheel come to a jolting halt irrevocably empty beyond the shadow of a doubt heaving a blithe sigh now released that I can finally shut my big fat mouth.


lauren page, kenneth gurney. A Filterless Legalization

By: Lauren Page

At 6:24 on a Sunday morning I received a call. An emergency room in Harrisonburg, a deal gone wrong. We were there. With nothing left in common, he rolled a marijuana cigarette. Fingers worked meticulously, tools of a one-track mind. When he cupped his hand over the flame, purple and blue sprouted through the darkness from a broken nose. And his knuckles were cut and swollen— “I swear ganja’s the only thing that helps.” I was going to remind him of the poems he wrote. Instead he narrated a story from Jamaica, where he’d licked whipped-cream and vodka off a woman’s breasts. “Here’s a picture.” How he’d paid for his travels through pushing the herb that freed his mind.

Over

By: Kenneth Gurney What time we had slipped through our leaky faucet fingers in a steady twilight blur and earth-obstructed sun. The I love you words Dora so wanted to hear floated over a jagged light and patched the air where a tear formed between this world and an adjacent one which required some stitching. She brushed desire from her bird-sit shoulders at this silent bus stop— our intense ride arrived too late for schedules or midnight kitchens. This night’s cruel last breeze fluttered March into April unable to recognize if the daffodils opened with the last stitch of beauty or crumpled their season concluded. 19


allison grayhurst, bekah steimel. After twelve

By: Allison Grayhurst affirming years, your head is raised toward adulthood. After twelve like the zodiac sphere, they came to snatch your heart into a barren day, where conformity would dry the void in your stomach and the radio would be enough to hang your curiosity upon. But you, like a starfish swam slowly out of childhood - kindness intact, individuality still pressing through your bones. You would not tip the turtle on its side, would cry for the crushed ant, for children in pain you never saw. You kept the truth you had when you were one, kept a depth and wonder that refused to be buried. After twelve affirming years, the night still beats softly for you.

Untitled

By: Bekah Steimel A broken home requires fewer repairs than the haunted dwelling kept intact for the sake of frightened children real monsters do not live do not lie in wait under the bed really real monsters tuck you into that bed before they slip into the shadows of your nightmares

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arif ahmad. A place called ‘Nowhere’ By: Arif Ahmad

Our minds clueless and hearts of stone With eyes wide shut We shoot at each other in the dark Hoping to come close and bridge the gap For every two steps forward We take three back Stuck in this fool’s paradise And still hopeful to arrive At the lofty peaks of love Which cannot sustain life Where there is no air It is right there Here This City of Peace A place called ‘Nowhere’

Second Space Send proposals to Steph Jones at jonesin54481@yahoo.com.

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louis cummins. drag

by: Louis Cummins I drag my heavy self through the darkened streets and well lit whore houses to the unkempt ramblings of Mark E Smith, Whole, I feed my apparent paranoia with the blood of the demons that dog me, Peeling myself one pain stricken foot after the other off the tarmac streams that form this industrial delta, Countless other lost and hopeless souls bleeding punk and indie rock desperately grasping at any chance of an identity, Blair’s forgotten generation cremating their brain cells and trying in a panic to mine their futures from the rock, Smitten with their nation, A welcome distraction.

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chris talbot-heindl.

Megyn Kelly Talks Garbage Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink on paper

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tendai r. mwanaka. I Can Fly

By: Tendai R. Mwanaka I can fly; I can fly, if I had wings. It’s in the air that I come alive. I want to- just like that Lark is, Soaring up, up, free it feels. I can fly; I can fly, like the birds — Flying yonder, flying over those fields. Pup purr- u, these wings, Why do they grow so slowly?

I can’t be happy here, For I don’t belong near.

They grow, now I am covered by feathers. I can fly from one tree onto another. But when do I reach those cornfields? I can fly; I can fly for I want to reach them. Let me be like that big bird, which I saw. It had straight wings, which didn’t swoosh.

Now I can fly, these wings feel so good. Let me be not like that big noise-some bird. I have wanted to fly even beyond, Those small lovely hills, over the fawn. Grazing in the quite little valleys. Till I hear no more, higher and higher —

But the noise hurts, Like the noise surrounding me.

The hurtful voices below me. Weeping children and old man!

I can fly; I can fly, up to the cornfields. Now I can eat all I ever wanted to. That my wings might grow faster. It’s the waiting I can’t take anymore. If I can fly there, where other birds are. I can hear them singing sweetly and happily.

“Oh, how it feels to be a bird of the clouds,” Cooling me for I have been wary and hot. From the wearisome noise, heat and rot. Termites wait for me, so the dust, but — I will keep on flying for flying is all I want. Till I can fly no more, till I have a home — I belong here in the air, Where I can always fly.

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douglas polk. The Old Pool Hall By: Douglas Polk

the old pool hall scheduled to be demolished, sometime next week, closed and abandoned years ago, the door unlocked, opens with a nudge, surprisingly the first thing noticed is the smells that remain, chalk, tobacco smoke, and hamburgers, greasy and good, the old pool tables pushed against the wall, wonder whether they will be salvaged, or destroyed with the hall, a place of passage, boy turned to teen, dust upon the counter, where the burgers once served, the glass display broken by the cash register, cigarettes and cigars, no longer for sale, the church of the teenager, soon to be demolished, lost forever the rites of becoming a man, but not the lessons learned along the way, in the old pool hall.

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donors, index. artists Ahmad, Arif

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Buckles, Sissy

18

Cummins, Louis

22

Heindl, Paula

28

5

Huffman, A.J.

14

DeHart, JD Duffey, Emery A.

6-7

Jones, Stephanie

cover, 8

Roth, Sy

10

Salzano, April

5

16-17

Sarkar, Sreyash

9 20

Grayhurst, Allison

20

Longe, Patrick

Gurney, Kenneth

19

McGhee, Myron

Haskell, Jan

15

Mwanaka, Tendai R.

24

Steimel, Bekah

Page, Lauren

19

Talbot-Heindl, Chris

Polk, Douglas

25

Unger, Adam

12

Ward, Anthony Wlkn_Fire Yuan, Changming

we love our donors!

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We love our donors, and to prove it, we’re going to let you know who they are. Without their generosity, the Bitchin’ Kitsch would probably not make it through the year. If you would like to become a donor and see your name here, email chris@talbot-heindl.com and make your pledge. acquaintences of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1-10) - Colin Bares, Casey Bernardo, Teri Edlebeck, Stephanie Jones, Eric Krszjzaniek, Dana Lawson, Jason Loeffler, Justin Olszewski friends of the bitchin’ kitsch ($11-50) - Charles Richard, Kenneth Spalding, Tallulah West lovers of the bitchin’ kitsch ($51-100) - Scott Cook, Keith Talbot partners of the bitchin’ kitsch ($101-1,000) - Felix Gardner, Jan Haskell parents of the bitchin’ kitsch ($1,001-10,000) - none yet, become a parent! demi-gods of the bitchin’ kitsch ($10,001 & up) - The Talbot-Heindl’s

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Profile for Chris Talbot-Heindl

The Bitchin' Kitsch July 2014 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 July 2014 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...

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