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the

b’kbitchin’ kitsch

Volume 5, Issue 7July 2014

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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.talbot-heindl.com/support_us/shop_thebk).

resourcesOn 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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On the CoverMonkey BrunchStephanie JonesPainting on wood

On the Back CoverFlashpointPaula HeindlAcrylic painting

In This Issue4 - The Emperor, Wlkn_Fire

5 - The Evangelist in Decline, JD DeHart

5 - We Had Some Woods, April Salzano

6-7 - Icarus I, Emery A. Duffey

8 - Rapunzel, Stephanie Jones and Adam Unger

Wlkn_Fire - pg. 4

table of contents.

Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 23

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 Talbot-Heindl

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

23 - Megyn Kelly Talks Garbage, Chris Talbot-Heindl

24 - I Can Fly, Tendai R. Mwanaka

25 - The Old Pool Hall, Douglas Polk

26 - Donors and Index

Stephanie Jones and Adam Unger - pg. 8

13 - Extra-Terrestrial, Anthony Ward

14 - Because Bean, A.J. Huffman

14 - Marpole, Vancouver, Changming Yuan

15 - Awaken, Jan Haskell

16-17 - Killing the Dog, Myron

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wlkn _ fire.

The EmperorWlkn_FireWatercolor on paper

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jd dehart, april salzano.

The Evangelist in DeclineBy: JD DeHart

At one time, he could wave his fleshypalms and dispel the demons in theirthorny hearts, stepping on the brink lineof the back of a pew, traveling sometimes,packing his ugliness in the backseat,hiding it under a blanket, an alien facein another town, bee-lining for bed springsinstead of the couch, the weight of it toomuch to bear so that now he is a bloatedand saggy mess, attempting to offer upprayer, but not sure he ever learned howin the midst of his secret furtive life.

We Had Some WoodsBy: April Salzano

everywhere we lived, a place to hide, transcendreal interiors dripping with smashed clocks,broken dreams, dishes, fingers.In the woods my sisters and I were differentpeople entirely—not fairy tale princesses,just the neighbors, whose lives lookedglamorous with their mowed lawns, familyoutings, swingsets. We knew every tree, rootsto step over, snaking from trunks like promises,secrets obvious to every stranger. Crooksof branches were places for pacification, pauseto gather strength to go back home.

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emery a. duffey.

Icarus IBy: Emery A. Duffey

The sun’s brilliance called to him from afarPromising power and warmth and all the good thingsIt glittered on the water’s surfaceIt shimmered in the sandPaved the streets with mid-day stars

And he longed for thatHe couldn’t lieHe needed an escape from the worldAnd all it’s diamonds of disappointmentThat graced his bodyWeighing him down to the dust and decayOf the stale urban surroundings

The sun called and promisedWith whispers on the leaves Gifting him with tastes Samples of gold foil decorating the forgotten groundOr turning the rhinestones of rain and dew into sparkling iridescenceThe magic made him ache because he could not keep itThe sun could touch him but he couldn’t touch the sun

So his father made him some wingsBecause he thought it’d make his son happyHe wove feathers of peacocks and parrots and crows and song birdsInto a beautiful set of wingsDecorated with jewels and stones smoothed by the shimmering waters of the riverAnd 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 shouldersAnd flew into the clear blue brilliance.He flew quickly to his prizeHe wanted to capture it and show his father that he couldThe wings glimmeredThe sun became blinding and painfulAnd as he reached out to touch itThe sun destroyed him

His father watched from the groundTears welling up like the dew-jewels his son loved soHe found a note from himIt read: “Father,I love you, but I hate it hereAnd I want the sun, but I know I can’t have itAnd one day, I won’t have you eitherAnd that’s what destroys meSo I’ll just die in the airFighting to grasp what cannot be graspedAnd at least I won’t die entirely aloneAt least I’ll die knowing you were there to try to catch meEven though, like the sun, I can’t be caught- Icarus”

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stephanie jones and adam unger.

RapunzelStephanie Jones and Adam UngerMixed Media

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sreyash sarkar.

The Macrame of Carnal WavesBy: 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 heathTo ancient shapes, to where the wind trots on hooves,

The mist a cloak swirling, or further backTo 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 clayAs the norms go before cremating—so dark and detached.

While the bond between living fingers and deceased dull eyesDream 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 factsWe evolve to humanity from mere human beings.

As I dispose all of her that remainedAnd witness how waves wash away burnt stars

And how the neon beacons on masked sails, distressed...

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sy roth.

The QuietBy: Sy Roth

A quiet descendsCaptures you in a net built for its own intrigueQuiet squirreled behind a pine treeTail flexing like a lover orgasmic in a spasm of alliterationDr.Smith, danger, danger…It screams through the silent forestA 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 silenceMorse coding the quiet to flee—danger.

Quiet, deafening boomlet-silenced in a shroudRests in the misting clothed in its mourning dress,An unbalanced temporalityPainting lines of lunatic meanderings of lightning bugs,Ugly things, coagulating into rusty, musty pools —

The quiet eats awayDevours interminable seconds in the silence of the forestHeard only by the earless in Gaza,Its dusty boots galumphing to a march of timeGobbling wholesale acres of platitudes and racing-car dreamsRips the quiet into a grief-stricken wringing of hands.

In the frozen forests you await the barrage of gunsMiles of guns—their tubular eruptions.Drones above consume your heatInvests alive signals in its bosom of a moth readied for the flame.

Then the quiet —Tense departure from a surging seaWrites of a circumcised life adrift in pools of silence,Folds into itselfIn breathlessQuiet.

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chris talbot-heindl.

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

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patrick longe.

square block of the galaxyBy: 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 lbot-heind l . com

Extra-Terrestrial(After the closure of the steelworks)By: Anthony Ward

We’re alienated by a societyThat no longer wants us,As if from another planetSpeaking a different languageThey 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 existedIn 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.

Marpole, Vancouver For Liu YuBy: Changming Yuan

It rains a lot in VancouverOften does this rain remind me ofThe days when you sojourned hereWith my family, after Father left all of us

While walking in the rain, you wouldRecall, under my big umbrellaHow you once waited in a drizzleWith me in a broken basket on your backTo cross the widening river, not farFrom our village when I was crying hardFor a large spoonful of flour soup (you were tooWeak and too hungry to produce any milk)

Seeing you do nothing about my hungerThe ferry man asked, Where is its mom?I am his mother! You replied, tears rolling downWith the raindrops on your childish faceHow old are you then? – Almost 17.

It is raining again in Vancouver, and beyond this rainYour voice echo aloud on the other side of this world

Because BeanBy: A.J. Huffman

bags become imitation snail shellswhen enough Jack Daniels has been poured,I place them in every corner of the room.The laughing their colorful collage of memoriesbreeds is better than any moment of calmingsanity some feng shui voodoo arrangementcould ever hope to muster.

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jan haskell.

AwakenBy: 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 DogBy: Myron McGhee

Perhaps, in the morning, when the sun has shaken me from my comforterI 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 constantLove songs.

I could imagine snapping his neck as easily asI pour my cereal, or grab my milk from the fridge.

Death is a simple matter, As simple as singing love songsTo 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 headA 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 bluntFor its own good,Too fickle to feel remorse for anything.

That damn dog is in love,And his songs paint a storyThat 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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Chewing the fatBy: Sissy Buckles

And now some nosymalcontent wants to knowwhy can’t I just saysomething onceand get it over withinstead of tearinginto a concept like a bitchdog gnawing on hermeaty rawhide bonestarting off herethen naturally ramble over there oops wrong waybetter mosey up that passonly to stumble back down

sissy buckles.

veer right hard leftskidding round the cornerat ninety miles an hourobsess on it like my mamaover a freshly shuckedcob of buttery Iowa corntossed jubilantly in the air then bury the dang chompedup old thing in disgustjust to dig it up againnext day or hournow I’m sleepless it’sthe middle of the nightstrung out on a ledgeshaking that dusty rug

in the wind all the whilebaying madly at the moonI’ll wear that thoughtwith a thousand gaudyfrocks spitting words outfast as Clyde Barrow’s Browninguntil bingo bango phew!I leap off that spinningroulette wheelcome to a jolting haltirrevocably emptybeyond the shadow of adoubt heaving a blithe sighnow released that I can finallyshut my big fat mouth.

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lauren page, kenneth gurney.

A Filterless LegalizationBy: Lauren Page

At 6:24 on a Sunday morningI 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 handover the flame,purple and blue sprouted through the darknessfrom 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 poemshe wrote.

Instead he narrated a story from Jamaica, where he’dlicked whipped-cream and vodkaoff a woman’s breasts.“Here’s a picture.”

How he’d paid for his travels throughpushing the herbthat freed hismind.

OverBy: Kenneth Gurney

What time we hadslipped through our leaky faucet fingersin a steady twilight blurand earth-obstructed sun.

The I love you wordsDora so wanted to hearfloated over a jagged lightand patched the airwhere a tear formedbetween this worldand an adjacent onewhich required some stitching.

She brushed desirefrom her bird-sit shouldersat this silent bus stop—our intense ride arrived too late for schedulesor midnight kitchens.

This night’s cruel last breezefluttered March into Aprilunable to recognizeif the daffodils openedwith the last stitch of beautyor crumpled their season concluded.

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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 heartinto a barren day, where conformitywould dry the void in your stomachand the radio would be enough to hang yourcuriosity upon. But you, like a starfishswam 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 childrenin pain you never saw. You kept the truth you had when you were one, kept a depth and wonderthat refused to be buried. After twelve affirming years, the night still beats softly for you.

UntitledBy: Bekah Steimel

A broken homerequires fewer repairsthan the haunted dwellingkept intactfor the sake of frightened childrenreal monstersdo not livedo not lie in waitunder the bedreally real monsterstuck you into that bedbefore they slip into the shadowsof your nightmares

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arif ahmad.

SecondSpaceSend proposals to Steph Jones at jonesin54481@yahoo.com.

A place called ‘Nowhere’By: Arif Ahmad

Our minds clueless and hearts of stoneWith eyes wide shutWe shoot at each other in the darkHoping to come close and bridge the gapFor every two steps forwardWe take three backStuck in this fool’s paradiseAnd still hopeful to arriveAt the lofty peaks of loveWhich cannot sustain lifeWhere there is no airIt is right thereHere This City of PeaceA place called ‘Nowhere’

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louis cummins.

dragby: 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 GarbageChris Talbot-HeindlInk on paper

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tendai r. mwanaka.

I Can FlyBy: 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?

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.

But the noise hurts, Like the noise surrounding me.

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.

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

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 —

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

“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 HallBy: 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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we love our donors!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

artistsAhmad, Arif 21Buckles, Sissy 18Cummins, Louis 22DeHart, JD 5Duffey, Emery A. 6-7Grayhurst, Allison 20Gurney, Kenneth 19Haskell, Jan 15

donors, index.

Heindl, Paula 28Huffman, A.J. 14Jones, Stephanie cover, 8Longe, Patrick 12McGhee, Myron 16-17Mwanaka, Tendai R. 24Page, Lauren 19Polk, Douglas 25

Roth, Sy 10Salzano, April 5Sarkar, Sreyash 9Steimel, Bekah 20Talbot-Heindl, Chris 11, 23Unger, Adam 8Ward, Anthony 13Wlkn_Fire 4Yuan, Changming 14

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