Volume 5, Issue 3 March 2014
The Bitchin’ Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creativity. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.
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table of contents.
6 - Computer Pencil Poor Prophet (Fast Quick Short Fierce Punk Song), Brian Anthony Hardie
11 - Rummage Sale, Russ Cope
6 - Attracted to Imperfection, RAB
13 - Day-Night, Mandal Bijoy Beg
7 - Where are the Mandelas, the Gandhis of This Century, Arif Ahmad 8 - The Weebles Wobbled and They All Fell Down, Sy Roth
12 - The Dichotomy of It All, Mike Cluff 13 - Untitled, Aura Rockman 14 - Conscience. That stuff can drive you nuts., Sissy Buckles 14 - Oregon Sunstone Rock Wrap, David Scott 15 Hot Enough for Me, John Grey 15 - In the Circles of Progress, George K. Karos
Stephanie Jones - pg. 4
15 - But/If, David Sermersheim 16-17 - Chris Critiques: Turn Away the Gay, Chris Talbot-Heindl
On the Cover
Untitled Aura Rockman Ink and color pencil on paper
18 - Donors and Index
On the Back Cover Anthropophagettes Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink and gouache on paper
In This Issue 4 - Untitled, Stephanie Jones 5 - Hewn, Tim J Brennan 5 - Lord of the Dance, Andrew J. Ringlund
Aura Rockman - pg. 13 9 - Blessed Rifles, Jeremiah Walton 10 - Clinic - Leslie Philibert 10 - jessa, jan. 7, 2014, robert pino 11 - Civil War, Michael Ashley 11 - Ego, Anthony Ward
David Scott - pg. 14
Untitled Stephanie Jones Public sculpture
tim j. brennan, andrew j. ringlund.
By: Tim J Brennan Reprinted with writerâ€™s permission from: The Talking Stick You no longer know me; when you speak to me I do not know what to say I wonder if you remember the birch trees from the Beach Road house They walked at night, moving to different locations, trying to warn us about the future The one at the corner looked like you look now: white leafed hair, black spots on slender branches I cut it down in 1972; it was diseased, and you said it was the right thing to do We moved the smaller pieces, stacking them like body parts against the cellar door
Lord of the Dance By: Andrew J. Ringlund
When through the eye of the simmering sun display waving motion of the waist. That in another context or unusual circumstance would always beat the heart of the ocean. Though unsung, building from the quake of immense carnivorous instinct. That, which propelled man through time and space. Endless volumes of blackened codices, punishable deeds harkened to darkness, riches abound in quick temples of gold, pale and lay pointless beneath the feet. The feet of the auspicious dancer, trance-ing and untrance-ing.
brian anthony hardie, rab.
Computer Pencil Poor Prophet (Fast Quick Short Fierce Punk Song) By: Brian Anthony Hardie
computer pencil poor profit corporate non-profit authorized prohibition direct metaphor hippie politician love hate post-modern fossil enemy-friend trusting lies lonely support from at when standing seat sober fiend republican prostitute patriotic terrorist passive aggressive mood on your sleeve Manson strolling down Sesame Street Jewish Nazi front lawn apartment stealing donation I start finished sobriety with a shot angel witch hunt stabbing comfort content with madness cleaning the cleaner
Attracted to the Imperfection Ray of love/lust
He noticed, even as she was trying to hide her smile, her face and her eyes, that she was beautiful. He could feel her tension at being out, at showing her face that was going through the acne, which is the right of passage for the adolescent. It was a war of sorts against nature, dirt and oil. She was a casualty. Boys are in a battle of their own, with being cool and maybe worrying about the size of their penis if they ever got a girl into bed or the back of the car. So some did not go after the beauty queen, to the detriment of the beauty queen. They settled for the pretty, athletic one. They settle for one with acne scars too. The middle class was not so much a war of money as it was a war of the masses settling for ones that make us feel comfortable enough in our own skins.
arif ahmad. Where are the Mandelas, the Gandhis of this Century By: Arif Ahmad
The pandora box of terrorism and a world spinning on its head For our choice of dying which is a better death From terrorism or as collateral damage Either way if you notice The dead invariably stay dead Watching, waiting Gods, please look away Show some patience, hold Your say Wait till Your judgement day Unless We the chosen ones You are confusing with angels Lest You forget We are not done killing our own Not just yet Whatever happened to kindness The good old goodness Thoughtfulness Why is bitter the new norm Where are the Mandelas, the Gandhis of this century Fourteen years in, we are waiting, and so is history Can you step forward and make yourself known Before we ruin it all, before it’s all gone These crazy proxy modern wars With people dying on all sides Some not knowing why or for what cause If killing would make the world safer somehow Wouldn’t this be a very safe planet by now If wars were the solution Where is the “lived happily ever after” conclusion
sy roth. The Weebles Wobbled and They All Fell Down By: Sy Roth
All he saw of them were the bottoms of their wobbly combat boots All that was left of men a Wobbling metaphor of cord wood etched in his mind. No faces, no names, no mankind Only wobbling boots drunken sailors on shore leave Weaving down cobblestoned streets Past ruined houses Wobbling with them to the beat of the rolling truck . Alive for a twinkling, A fading memory in a few minds who may Struggle to recapture images. Cord-wood indignity of the pro patria damned as they pass, Stacked evenly, one atop the other. Bottoms of their boots their tapestry, Wobbly feet waving together like dead fish on a mordant sea. They waddle homeward to the earth past him Surrounded by shattered boulevards now peaceful and calm Except for the rolling truck filled with the refuse of war. Shuttered windows on all sides plug up the image for The others who choose to hide behind their scrim, Shadowed figures breathless with their own memories.
w w w . ta lb o t - h ei n d l . c o m
Blessed Rifles By: Jeremiah Walton
Rifles blessed by a priest aim at the weak and hungry and fire. Rifles loaded through art of forgetting the sweeping of shame under the rug They fire. Contemporary politics are disgusting Its rifles are hideous. The 8th wonder of the world is your body Your blood is the only flag you should shoulder, the only flesh to be patriotic of. You owe no loyalty to your birthplace You owe no loyalty to repression.
leslie philibert, robert pino. Clinic
By: Leslie Philibert Fogs of ghosts carry souls in buckets. With steps in dance and many hands they polish your armour and hammer you back together. They throw you out of glass rooms, back to your old door, you fruit cake, you mad hatter, you looney, back to the grey street, you have long enough babbled at an empty ring of chairs. You spin too slowly not to tip over, your cranium scrubbed, your bones trepanned, your new smile is fixed with wire.
Second Space Send proposals to Steph Jones at email@example.com.
jessa, jan. 7, 2014 By: robert pino
today you fell and as i am already falling our combined velocity was dizzying the fear of loss is my ophthalmologist your seizure is my phoropter
michael ashley, anthony ward, russ cope. Civil War
By: Michael Ashley the term makes me smile, for what is civil about the burning houses, craters and dust, bullets whistling through suburbs, smoke rising like nameless cenotaphs, neighbours, who just two weeks ago chatted over the fence, now scrambling for the knife in a rush for blood, where did the fractures start? the warnings were there-the mosque razed to the ground, the young Indian guy murdered with a claw hammer, riots triggered by a single death, everything civil hanging so precariously.
By: Anthony Ward He ponce’s about his self importance Buoyant upon his feet In a life he has fashioned — Unaware of the boxes returned on a daily basis. The only thing keeping him on his toes Is the hot air inflating his head Until he’s left gloating up in the clouds — Soaring above the conflict.
Rummage Sale By: Russ Cope
a Saul Bellow novel in the same box as an old backpack and, best of all, a dead baby shark in a tube Who knew that such a odd arrangement could be found Down the street?
mike cluff. The Dichotomy of It All
By: Mike Cluff
You sit there so supreme and superior while I toil below on the cracked dusty asphalt carrying the carrion students have made of paper and language from once living structures now dead and desiccated as the cliches and soft thinking they are now caused and forced to bring forth a halted birth thought gone on vacation forever. But you articulate so directly no metaphors straightforward calls crowraven cawings accompanied by head bobs that display contempt for my two-footed kin and kind.
I stumble oddly from car to classroom two classesâ€™ essays graded in late night sleep-deprived jolts of harsh water and jagged chips nevermore--dress shirt a bit tight pants a bit too long shoelaces ready to break temper frayed like the inner edge of the tie now slipping its knot under a collar asphyxiating in intent. You glance into my window still unmoved from your perch in the dogwood tree caw-laugh turn your tail to me and spiritedly fly away. And I flip you off sending the over-processed newly-poured gourmet coffee over allpapers, pants front shoes, soul trapped now in heat while you glide your way in the still cool August mist of a near coastal seven a.m. Tuesday.
mandal bijoy beg, aura rockman.
Day - Night
By: Mandal Bijoy Beg During day I forget And commit Countless blunders. And in the darkness Of night I recall And repent And whisper to myself: â€œI should not have done.â€?
Untitled Aura Rockman Ink on paper
david scott, sissy buckles. Conscience. That stuff can drive you nuts. By: Sissy Buckles
here I am on my twenty minute work break eating two GMO-laden Keebler cheese peanut-butter crackers and a juicy sag-skinned Satsuma tangerine with sweet Matcha tea, listening to Johnny Burnette Trio on YouTube “Train kept a rollin’ all night long” while pondering grandly savage color schemes for classic Oldsmobile Toronados at eBay motors and why so little mention in social media that “Hey Baby” slam poet Maggie Estep died from heart attack complications just fifty and maybe I’ll watch On the Waterfront DVD tonight at the same time as some weird Ralph Nader-ish voiced civic scolding pops in my head b-b-b-but I stammer his metaphorical finger disappointedly wagging on how trivial my life is right this very second; and reading it out loud in my cube indeed sounds like a one-way ticket to Palookaville
Oregon Sunstone Rock Wrap David Scott Oregon Sunstone and copper
john grey, david sermersheim, george k. karos. Hot Enough For Me
By: John Grey
I’m scorched on a park bench, reading a newspaper, starved for information, a steamy day with gnats swimming in my nostrils and the sun like a great nuclear arsenal bombing my skin. Heat blots out inspiration, grabs me by the throat, wind can’t even breathe, illuminations all in the eyes, nothing in the mind. How does clear air ever get so thick? Like pecking starlings up to their ears in dandelions. A snail is crossing a path at a pace I’m thinking. His life becomes transparent. Just get me to the other side. That’s all I ask of my brain for now. Get me to the other side. My newspaper turns like the wits of statues. A war in the Sudan. I scour a paragraph or two. Rub a photograph until it bleeds black and white. The winner, sweaty understanding. The loser, a stranger’s dry and stone-cold pain.
By: David Sermersheim so much hinges on “if” and/or “but” perhaps “maybe” mention “no” and the proposition collapses into a heap of best intentions denied “here” is not “there” “where” cannot be ”when” “then” is not “now” and never could be “ever” “maybe” is where I’ll be found after the proud get their round
In the Circles of Progress By: George K. Karos
In the circles of progress there exist communities of weakness silent enough to vanquish collective blood and namesakes of markets too beastly for a human price-tag and too serpentine for demonic reparations as disparate acts of hope and salvation continuously promise to repair what has never been broken.
nothing more is due but if you have to ask to get a clue you’ll never know “why”
chris talbot-heindl. Chris Critiques: Turn Away the Gay By: Chris Talbot-Heindl
In an appalling vote recently, Arizona State Legislators voted to “Turn Away the Gay.” The Bill itself, HB 2153 and SB 1062, allows for businesses to refuse to provide service to LGBTIQ people based on an individual’s “sincerely held religious belief.” That would mean that if you were a gay couple (or a couple perceived to be gay) traveling in Arizona and you went to a hotel and the person behind the counter believed that your union (or perceived union) was a sin; they could refuse to house you. The bill is not unlike the Jim Crow laws of the south – you know, the horrific discrimination laws of racial segregation that we now chide when we learn about the ignorance that spawned it in our history classes. Our country has already been through this debacle once before, and I believe at that time it was “Because Jesus” too. And yet, Kansas and Arizona recently took up this legislation without batting an eye. It seems that the “religious” folks who wrote the bill forgot the main tenant of any religion is “don’t be an asshole to each other.” The impetus behind the Arizona bill seems to be that some Christians believe they are being persecuted in some way because they are being “forced” to be decent human beings through
anti-discrimination laws and they believe Christmas is under attack, presumably because Fox News told them so. What these Christians have failed to realize is that they are in no way being bullied; they are the persecutors. They have long held a position of power and favor in this country. New laws have ensured that they can’t exert that power and oppression over protected members of the population (ie – those members who they have historically victimized). That does not equate to being oppressed. In order to be persecuted, they would need to be disenfranchised from every facet of society, institutionalized for believing in Jesus, and in some severe cases – beaten, jailed, raped, and killed for being Christian. You know, what LGBTIQ people have had to face at the hands of so-called Christians. Every single person has the right to practice his or her own religion. They are just not allowed to infringe upon the rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness of others to do so. If you want to be a bigot – do it in your own space. The backlash to this bill has been great, which for me is a silver lining – as more people are paying attention and reacting to the discrimination that LGBTIQ people face on the daily. Thanks in no small way to George Takei, who has used his notoriety to spread the word, and has amassed a
chris talbot-heindl (con’t).
huge following on social media. His reaction to this has been swift and amazing. He says, in an open letter to Arizona, “You’re willing to ostracize and marginalize LGBT people to score political points with the extreme right of the Republican Party. You say this bill protects ‘religious freedom,’ but no one is fooled. When I was younger, people used ‘God’s Will’ as a reason to keep the races separate, too. Make no mistake, this is the new segregation, yours is a Jim Crow law, and you are about to make yourself ground zero… The law is breathtaking in its scope. It gives bigotry against us gays and lesbians a powerful and unprecedented weapon. But your mean-spirited representatives and senators know this. They also know that it is going to be struck down eventually by the courts. But they passed it anyway, just to make their hateful opinion of us crystal clear.” On his blog, he goes on to suggest that if Jan Brewer does sign the law into effect, “we will urge everyone we know – from large corporations to small families on vacation – to boycott. Because you don’t deserve our dollars.”
what this will mean for them already. In a letter to Brewer on Friday, they urged for a veto saying that the effects will mean bad business for years to come. So, who even wants this bill? Well, it was pushed by the Center for Arizona Policy, a “non-profit” that opposes abortion and marriage equality. On their website, they make ludicrous statements that they “witness hostility towards people of faith grow like never before, we must take this opportunity to speak up for religious liberty.” But guess what, Center for Arizona Policy? The hostility isn’t toward people of faith – it is toward assholes, and no law will change that. In an ironic turn of events, the Center’s President surname is Herrod. So, while the Republicans in the House and Senate may be reenacting the days of Jim Crow, it seems Cathi Herrod may be staging homage to her namesake in ordering the crucifixion of Jesus’ message. And so, I guess now we wait to see if common sense will prevail or if there will be a boycott of Arizona in my future.
The Greater Phoenix Economic Council knows
donors, index. artists Ahmad, Arif
Beg, Mandal Bijoy
Hardie, Brian Anthony
Brennan, Tim J
Karos, George K.
Ringlund, Andrew J
Rockman, Aura Roth, Sy
cover, 13 8
Talbot-Heindl, Chris Walton, Jeremiah Ward, Anthony
16-17, 20 9 11
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The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to day. It exists for the purpose of open...
Published on Feb 27, 2014
The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to day. It exists for the purpose of open...