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the

b’kbitchin’ kitsch

Volume 6, Issue 9September 2015

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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.

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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 CoverPacifierAdam AndreasenInk and colored pencil on paper

On the Back CoverMatchbook Movie StaraddisonMarker on matchbook cover

In This Issue4 – Due Process, Woodrow Hightower

4-6 – Ants, Caroline Taylor

7 – All the Good Bits, Thomas Maunakea

8 – Letters to My Brother: The 2nd Grade Slumber Party, Sarah Frances Moran

9 – Madmen, Jessie Szprejda

10 – Democracy by Spear, Maciej Walkowiak

11 – Long John and the Mermaid, Stephanie Jones

12-13 – Large Scale Fraud, Tommy Paley

14-15 – At All the Hollow Words, Sy Roth

table of contents.

Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 17

16 – The ABCs of the Coconut Crab, Mike Andrelczyk

17 – Wherever we are is where we’ll be, Chris Talbot-Heindl

18-20 – Harrison’s Case, Riana Mercado

21 – We use the past, Addison

22 – Transcend Summer, Annette Cashatt

30 – Beware Trolls, Susan Beall Summers

31 – Sit Boo Boo, Sit, Adam Andreasen

32 – The Scripturient, Dr. Mel Waldman

33 – Here There Be Monsters, Christie-Luke Jones

34 – Cathedral Dreams, Scott Sherman

35 – Extinct, JD DeHart

36 – The Broken Record, Kelly Wilmer

37 – /a helpless stoat—/, Clara B. Jones

46 - Donors and Index

48-49 - June Calendar Shot

Stephanie Jones - pg. 11

24-27 – Hug Honor Interviews Dr. Wang on AI, Roo Bardookie

28 – The Longest Road Trip Is The Walk To Your Bedroom From The Kitchen, Colby McAdams

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caroline taylor.

AntsBy: Caroline Taylor

We don’t step on ants. Nobody notices it—nobody, that is, who hasn’t been where we have. And there aren’t too many of us around.

We’ve been told over and over that returning wasn’t shameful, although none of us expected to come back. Hell, we didn’t even know if we’d make it to there. Or—which explains the ant thing—whether we’d manage to regrow.

It’s kind of amazing how long it took before scientists realized that miniaturization was the solution. The probe that went to Pluto back in the twenty-first century started the whole conversation. About the size of a grand piano (a primitive musical instrument measuring about 48,000 cm3), the probe was able to travel at much greater speeds than the snail-paced rockets that carried humans to Mars. To go as far beyond the solar system as we did required much greater speeds, and that meant the vehicle had to be proportionately smaller. It was only logical that the next step would be to devise a way to miniaturize the astronauts.

Well, we shouldn’t be boring you with all this grade school stuff. Of course, back then it was pretty damn exciting. And scary.

They used to call us adrenalin junkies, and that was partly true. Curiosity being the rest of it. You had to know you were taking huge risks, that the odds of ever getting there were enormous. After the spacecraft had landed and one final test of Arcadia’s atmosphere confirmed that it was, indeed, Goldilocks and also breathable, we were all supposed to grow back to normal size. But the thing that scared even the bravest of us was the idea that we might spend what little remained of our lives in a permanent state of miniaturization—about the size of an ant.

What is Arcadia like? To begin with, it’s harder than you imagine to get used to two moons, how everything seems like home but just different enough to never let your forget it’s not Earth. Yellow water is probably the most well-known example. Light refracts differently in the Arcadian atmosphere, so instead of appearing blue, the oceans, lakes, and other water bodies look yellow, verging on green. You can see how closely it resembles what we have on Earth, but it’s not the same. If you grew up, as we all did, thinking of yellow-green water as polluted, it’s hard to adjust your thinking. And, yes, there are lots of jokes, ranging from sailing on lemonade to swimming in piss. Speaking of swimming, all the homes in the Arcadia colony have swimming pools, and many of

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caroline taylor (con’t).

those are full of water that is dyed sky blue. Just a little touch of home. We have a pool going—the betting kind—on how many generations it will take before some little native-born tyke refuses to go in the water because he thinks blue is an icky color.

Don’t get us wrong. There is much to recommend Arcadia: the air, which carries the scent of cinnamon; the song of the coloratura bat on two-moon evenings; the unspoiled land; the fascinating life forms and geological wonders, the innumerable challenges of trying to fashion a life for us that is in harmony with the life already there. In other words, the chance to get it right this time.

In that case, you might ask, why are we here? Why did we risk the journey home, not to mention re-miniaturization, when we’d all signed on to stay there?

Some think we’re here to recruit future colonists. We are not.

Others think we’re chicken, or we got homesick, or some other such nonsense. Homesickness is a given, friend. Even the children of the original colonists feel it. Arcadia is not home. It never will be.

You can forget the idea we are cowards, too. The risk isn’t in living there, although all living involves risk. There are storms and seismic events and eruptions on Arcadia just like there are here, although, as we have already explained, they are slightly different—just enough to remind you where you are.

We came back because we had to. You see, despite the near miracle of engineering that allowed us to cross the vast distances of interstellar space and land on a plant thought (not known, mind you) to be like Earth, survive the journey and entry through the atmosphere, and emerge relatively unscathed, there were imperfections. There were bound to be. We are human, after all.

Three of us did not regrow. This is not widely known, by the way, for obvious reasons. As you undoubtedly learned in school, there is no way to communicate with someone who’s been

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caroline taylor (con’t).

miniaturized. That’s why the computers do all the work and make (with Earthly help) all the decisions until the point where regrowth is deemed feasible.

We tried everything we could, we can assure you. But they remained the size of ants. Of course, we kept them alive. We wanted to help them. But months and then years passed (Arcadian years, which are about fifteen days longer than on Earth), and nothing worked.

No one should have to live like that. And, yes, the subject of euthanasia was raised at one point. But someone had a better idea: Maybe our colleagues would regrow if we brought them home. Maybe there was something as yet unidentified in the Arcadian atmosphere that affected only these folks—two women and a man, in case you’re curious.

It took another ten years before we developed the capacity for a return journey. By then, those of us who are here now were reaching the age where interstellar travel becomes even more risky. We volunteered. And maybe some of us did that because of homesickness. But most of us just wanted to do whatever we could for our comrades. We owed it to them.

As on the way out, so on the way back, we were extremely fortunate to survive the journey and re-entry. But the landing was rough. There was a sudden wind shear at the moment of touchdown. (We, of course, only learned this afterwards.)

The spacecraft splintered apart, and the travel cocoons we’d been wrapped in were scattered across the landing pad and blown into the fields. Obviously, we survived, but the three unfortunates and two others who’d volunteered for the homebound journey were never retrieved. There were crows in the area, we’re told, and they might have swooped down and eaten our unfortunate colleagues.

You note the “might have”?

Apparently, nobody knows (or at least is willing to say) definitively what happened to those five brave astronauts. And this was after an exhaustive search using the latest biosensing bots. The official thinking is that they are dead because, even if they weren’t preyed upon by crows, they couldn’t live without their nutrient lifeline. Or could they? What if they figured out how to survive on an ant’s diet?

We don’t step on ants.

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thomas maunakea.

All the Good BitsBy: Thomas Maunakea

I remember when I first saw youbut can’t remember your facebut tingles permeatedand my pupils flung to quartersdizzy headed like those people in the trailer parks we sawwrapping their lips on aerosol cansbreathing deep

and droolingand gigglingand writhing with glee

I’ve felt this way beforeopening untouched textbooks and hearing the spine break andbreaking crème brûlée caramelization with my spoon after supper andthe last drag of a menthol andlooking at the clock11:59the night before my birthday

I felt this

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sarah frances moran.

Letters To My Brother: The 2nd Grade Slumber PartyBy: Sarah Frances Moran

I wonder what you saw the night I never made it through my first slumber party. It was awkward anyway. All giggles and Barbie dolls. Things I hated.

Mom arrived after we’d all passed out. I wasn’t first so I didn’t get the mustard covered pickle shoved in my mouth, thank God. I just remember being woken up and told we had to go. It’s funny how you learn that ugly heart-sunk-into-your-stomach feeling at such a young age. That’s how I felt being woken up at my first slumber party in the middle of the night. I felt heart sunken.

The Camaro was packed tight. You, Mom, me and our cat Sam. He looked heart sunken too, or scared shitless, I’m not sure. We found that motel where we slept for the night. Sam peed in the corner after walking around the whole room in distress. No litter box. You and me and our frazzled mother with the cat with no litter box.

Whenever I think about this night I just remember Sam. I remember worrying he was scared and worried that he was disgusted by having to pee on the floor. I don’t remember you.

I don’t remember if we watched TV when we arrived or if we slept. I don’t remember if you laid next to me or what you were wearing. I don’t remember if you made any noise at all when flying down the road to Uncle Jr’s house, we saw Dad’s red Chevy coming towards us. I don’t remember if you were as frightened as I was when he turned the truck sideways on the road to keep us from moving further.

I remember I was holding Sam who was howling in that way that scared cats do. I remember Mom getting out of the car to talk to Dad. I remember not wanting her to do that. Mostly I remember being broken but I don’t remember you and this makes me more sad than most things.

I can only imagine what you saw that night to make Mom snap and leave. I can only imagine what you were hearing while I was watching bad Disney movies and discussing what color dress Barbie should wear next. I can only imagine the fear you experienced as I was experiencing my first introduction to catty friends and the forming of cliques.

I never went to another slumber party without wondering. I never have understood how you could make yourself so silent.

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jessie szprejda.

MadmenBy: Jessie Szprejda

So many words impressed and suppressed, hidden away in the dust and pulp that frighten the would-be-wise away.

The few found within the storm of sanction have engulfed their personal expansion.

Interaction

Attraction

Retraction.

The caption reads “To those few who find satisfaction in the imagination between the ticks of the clock.”

We are all madmen. Gleefully we dance with an insanity misunderstood by the scaled over faces of normality. Everyone.

The pump and contraction. Unification with the companion. Their brains sink inward, melting to move against each other. Brain matter sex. Leaking down to provide hot lubrication for the love of exaction. Gone is the old way of mindless proliferation. What pleasure the truly insane have during mind intercourse.

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maciej walkowiak.

Democracy by SpearBy: Maciej Walkowiak

Business of Empire a dirty gameinfinite power putting to shamePreach the gospel, follow noneThe Crusades have just begunStack the bodies to the roofwar economy on the movebody count sores, so do the stocksone gets rich, another life lost.

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stephanie jones.

Long John and the MermaidStephanie JonesPainting

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tommy paley.

Large Scale FraudBy: Tommy Paley

She understood that some things weren’t funny until they hit you, but personally, somewhere around the 5th hit, and even the most hilarious became significantly less funny.

He felt like the walls were closing in on him and that they had ears. A suggestion made to him at multiple times by multiple people in the past all of a sudden became crystal clear: cut back on walls, as you only really need four per room.

She didn’t want to just act rationally, she also wanted to be the human embodiment of rationality thus justifying the new hat she wanted to buy.

He drew series upon series of really dark sketches that were starting to pile up in his basement until he ran out of black coloured pencils and it was then that he entered his blue phase.

She thought seriously for days and days about ending it all, but thankfully found the courage to go on and she emphatically placed yet another comma, her 10th, in the sentence and kept on writing.

He bobbed for apples with the best of them, but was never quite good enough to feel like their equal regardless of how much he needed to floss afterwards.

She raced down the ocean highway with nothing but sweet nothings in her ear and an empty honey jar on the seat beside her, or as she fondly referred to the experience, Wednesday afternoons.

He so badly wanted to avoid the stigma and the harmful stereotyping, but he just couldn’t resist the hot, buttered aroma of the freshly popped popcorn at such reasonable prices.

She knew herself so well and whenever she was so sad, and yet so happy at the same time, the only cure was a nice massage followed by large scale fraud.

He watched the raindrops streaming effortlessly down his window and he imagined that instead it was he himself who was streaming down the window and the drops were inside watching him and then planning to go finish all of his ice cream. He needed to get out more.

She often glamorized a life in the jungle mostly because her parents spent a lot of time and money ensuring their children would have not

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tommy paley (con’t).

only a deep respect for lives and jungles in general, but also specifically a life spent in the jungle.

He had the force and conviction of a younger man who was burning the candle at both ends which he was not only working his way up to, but also planning to surpass with his patent application for a three-ended candle.

She wished for many things: to be serenaded, but only after having recently showered; to have a clean home, but not at the expense of having to expend any time or money; and to have the choir in her dreams either sing on key or take up macrame.

He entered the classroom and greeted his math teacher who started barking at him like a dog, which should have been more out of place, but wasn’t as he had made the conscious decision last month to drop everything and go live among the dogs.

She had an overwhelming desire to train rabbits or to link the rabbits one-by-one thus making a rabbit train for purposes she was yet unaware of.

He was always quite impatient until he got his balm as balms always soothed him until he grew impatient of being soothed and then he danced the tango.

She locked the door to her room and walked towards her bed and then looked around and noticed that she was actually in the backyard, and it was then that she realized she should have hired someone who actually knew how to build roofs.

He wanted to count sheep to help himself fall asleep but the fox he had seen frequently in his dreams ever since he was a child kept scaring the sheep away, and he would have been angry if that fox hadn’t been such a father figure to him which went a long way towards explaining his decision to move permanently to the woods.

She sat against the big oak tree feeling slightly guilty as even though that tree was always supporting, she was secretly planning on chopping it down to teach herself a lesson about valuing those that support us, even trees.

He just didn’t know how to feel anymore. A little help please!

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sy roth.

At All the Hollow WordsBy: Sy Roth

Another sad dawn arisesAs he goes mad, in tatters,With only one truth.Curtains upEars full of their pronouncements.

Took my spot, center row, and played observer.Friday awakens.Unlock my face with cold waterFresh from a dream in a whore’s embrace, andSpent lovers’ dribbled sweat pooled on snowy sheets.

Reality slaps him awake —In the spider web of his coveted daughters.They day dress him in glib garments with their words.He apes happiness.Follows their shadowed feet,A moth-skritching from behind drawn to their light.

Breathless daughters,Black with false wordsVixens who ululate in bent-soulless tones.I thought he knew his place.I didn’t, so I ad-libbed his words,Heard them reverberating hollowly in his head.

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sy roth (con’t).

His desires play out before them.I writhe in an agony of each syllable.He cajoles them into adorational speechesScreams for love in arm-twirling dances.He seeks their praiseOdists of unfamiliar pronouncements.I rail at him,Hiss at his glib acceptance of empty words.

I only imagine returning to my dream bed,Joined in ephemeral coupling,Dancing to their false rumbaLocked in their armless embrace.Nestled in papyral sheetsCovered by the wreck of their silence and disbelief,Jimmy Fallon’s thank yous set adrift on a melodic, tinkling keyboard,He screams out a storm of his own creation.

I squirm and dance with him,Music set to the cannonades of our silence,Stare sadly at the splashed face and saddened eyesAt all the hollow words.

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mike andrelczyk.

The ABCs of the Coconut CrabBy: Mike Andrelczyk

Abel’s and Amelia’sBroken bones buried in theCave of the coconut crabDevoured dead meat disguiseEvaporating into etherFluttering - flying free and featherless Gone, once great giantsHigh above the heavens now asIsolated as ice caps melting inJuniper juice Killed by a kiteLong before landing - low, loveless and aloneMoored among the motor partsNo one but Noonan and he’s nowhereOnly onePrayingQuietly,Restlessly, Souls slide into sea foamTides turning, Undulating Violently very close but notWhere you - e-Xactly, as in “x marks the spot” – exactly whereYou should’ve been – so now you’re Zero - just zzz’s in a zephyr

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chris talbot-heindl.

Wherever we are is where we’ll beChris Talbot-HeindlDigital illustration

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riana mercado.

Harrison’s CaseBy: Riana Mercado

“She’s not searching for her next victim anymore, Tommy, she knows we’re watching her,” I replied, almost with a hiss.

“It fits her profile, Harrison,” he gritted through his teeth. “Mixed race, sixteen to twenty years of age, physically attractive. Just a few houses away and she’ll be at his house beating him unconscious and not soon after driving his body to a grave site.”

“Attractiveness is an inconsistent construct, much like the difference of opinion regarding yours. I might have to say that although most women do find you quite attractive, as you put it, your attitude and failure to see the simplest things regarding our cases leaves nothing to be desired,” I replied, which was followed by an almost instantaneous laugh coming from the back seat. There was a faint reflection of the leaves of a tree on our windshield. As I tightened my hold on the steering wheel of the car, I heard a thud from the back. Ross, Tom’s assistant, probably dropped the binoculars on the empty seat beside him. “Having said that, it’s likely that we’re just wasting our time tailing her, because I can handle this by myself. I suggest you guys go home and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Tom scoffed. “What, so you could take all the credit?”

I paused for a second before leaning into his ear. “Listen, you bumbling idiot. Taking credit for this sort of job is the last thing I want for my reputation. God knows I don’t want to be stuck with you and your kiddie assistant forever.”

“Although, Harrison, you know this credit would be good for people in our line of work,” Ross piped in.

Tom gave me a smug smile; I responded a scowl. “Leave me, and go check if we have any other assignment. I’ll take care of this one, okay?”

The woman we were tailing was Rose Lang, a martial arts master. Many awards won, advocate of a number of women’s rights associations, long-time partner of an actor who was just as saint-like as she was. Rose was, by all means, a model citizen. At least, she looked like it on paper and every other form of record that was deemed public. In nights, she trailed men she found attractive and buried them alive in the nearest gravesite. She was one of my many targets. And by that – well, one could guess exactly what I meant.

The suburbs we were in now was her hunting ground for the night. I

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riana mercado (con’t).

knew that. What I also knew though, was that she had noticed a black SUV following her just a few minutes after entering the area. Her footsteps were more brisk, and she, as subtly as she could, looked over her shoulder more than twice every minute. As she walked past a pole around the corner of the street, I opened the car door and secured the weapon on the gun belt I had around my waist. Tom hopped over to the driver’s seat, and with one final look of contempt directed at me, he drove away.

I counted my steps as I breathed as silently as possible. The air was freezing cold, and every time I breathed out, the air fogged, and the sports jacket I wore barely helped. I put my eyeglasses on my coat pocket; the damn thing just blocked my vision. A few feet away behind the walls of the building situated on the corner of the street, I heard a small twig snap. It was probably inaudible for most people; I was not most people. A smile almost formed on my face, but I stopped myself. Just do your damn job.

In one swift move, I turned to the corner and grabbed the gun from my belt. And there Rose Lang was, standing, pointing a .38 caliber pistol at me.

“Careful, Rosie. From what I’ve learned, you’re a sensei, not a marksman.”

She adjusted her fingers around the trigger. “I have it for people who keep asking questions and snooping around like you’re doing now. What about you, you bastard? You even have a fucking silencer.”

Fine. I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I have it for people like you. You know, sick little fucks whose definition of a pastime is burying men alive. Although, I see you’re not surprised by my presence. I take it you’ve heard of my existence.”

Rose let out a laugh. “Don’t try to distract me with a monologue while you try to think your way out of this. It doesn’t work.”

As I pulled the trigger, Rose swiftly moved to the side, and the bullet I fired struck her gun instead, which she immediately dropped. There was a slight echo in the air as the metal clashed on the cemented road.

“You know, here’s a secret,” Rose said, a smile creeping on herface. “I’m not so scared of guns.”

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riana mercado (con’t).

She lunged toward me and I dropped my weapon on the ground, the same echo earlier ringing in my head again. Shooting her close range wasn’t an option; besides, all her training would give her enough knowledge on how to dodge a bullet. Well, I hoped she’d just let me shoot her. Guess not, then.

I dodged to the side as she threw a punch. I leaned back as she raised her elbow to my jaw. As it hit the left side of my face, I backed away, slightly disoriented. Man, she could punch. She lunged again, probably thinking I was still recovering. I took the chance and kneed her on the stomach; she bowed down slightly, putting her arms over her stomach, howling. I grinned; I jabbed her left cheek and she suppressed a groan. As she tried to recover, I put a hand on her mouth, and the other to the back of her head, and with a few seconds, I talked to her.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I replied, my voice husky from the cold. “I enjoy killing people like you.”

As I finally twisted it and let go, her body jerked backward slightly as it slumped on the concrete sidewalk, her face now adorned with open eyes and a pained expression. I took a few steps forward, not to her, but to the satchel that was lying a few feet away from her, just near some bushes. I pulled out a hardbound notebook that had a few dents on the cover and placed it beside her, opening it on a page I found particularly interesting. I grabbed the satchel and walked away.

Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I dialed Tom’s number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, jackass. I hope you didn’t loot any of her stuff.”

“Just tell me who’s next. Maybe I’ll let you get all the credit this time.”

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addison.

We use the pastBy: addison

We use the past to preparea good and desirable futurewhich means we wanta good and desirable history,much like a bad stage play;utterly predictable, boring,and shallow to the pointof taking note of the exits.

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annette cashatt.

Transcend SummerBy: Annette Cashatt

White foam hiding my feetSand crushed between my toesFurther in I go, the waves want to take me, but he won’t let goIt’s getting cool now, real coolSun’s reflection retreating off the waterThe night sky is brightOrion’s BeltWe can just see it under the casino lightsLobster and moonlightSummer memories are so delicious, so deceitful

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roo bardookie.

Hug Honor Interviews Dr. Wang on AI(Edited on Dark Horse Red Wine)By: Roo Bardookie

It will be my honor and privilege to interview Dr. Wang on her selection to the UN Artificial Intelligence Committee. This is a huge undertaking that Dr. Wang knows will cut into her time in setting up the Yi-Er-San. The problem with any and everything going on in the world and solar system is that if artificial intelligence is not addressed, there are some real concerns about where it could lead, and what the impact will be on human life and civilization. By all accounts, if left unchecked or if it did get into the hands of doomsday groups or terrorists, the capacity of AI, without divine intervention, probably does not need man to survive. It reminds me of women.

H (Hug Honor): Dr. Wang it is always a pleasure to speak to you.

W (Dr. Wang): Thank you Hug. I thought since we are in the building and construction phases of the E-R-*, and since there is no way around AI issues at this point in our technological processes, we should get this out to the masses. Your Modern Philosophies and Histories Magazine forum is always about straight shooting.

H: There have been scenarios dating back to Terminator movies, or the Borg of Star Trek where AI comes into the picture and wreaks havoc on mankind. When you look at all the data, there are some schools of thought where this could take place.

W: My understanding is that once the intelligence capacity starts to expand exponentially, it will go so far behind our understanding of what the AI is thinking, it will be God-like. All knowing, all seeing, and doing things that we won’t possibly be able to understand.

H: Thus, the committee with the best and brightest from around the world that understand the mathematics, the possibilities, and with those like yourself who are working on major projects where everything is synced up, and linked up are very important. You are dealing with legal issues with the “Feelers” who will be working on the police force with humans.

W: It was not even a question. The President said I was going. The UN said I was going. When I talked to our department heads in the E-R-*, there wasn’t one person who thought that I should not attend this.

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roo bardookie (con’t).

H: I am interviewing some of the top people in the field for an AI project with essays, and I hear heaven and hell scenarios. Some have combinations where if this, then this. Others say, if as a species, we don’t get in on the ground floor, it will race past us and never have to listen to our opinions again. It will not take into account human frailties, and what makes human beings human.

W: It doesn’t take a genius to understand that humans are narcissistic, superstitious, callous, unfair, and 100 other things that will make no sense to AI. If we don’t program some grey area fail-safes before the AI is far advanced, it will be like us trying to reason with a virus or germ. Einstein, Tesla, Edison, and Hawking might warrant pats on the head, but even they would be like a newborn to the power of God and the infinite. In math, you would be a 100 to its infinity.

H: Some talk of the problem of terrorists getting into the programming. Or worse, a teenage death metal fan, smart as all get out, who in listening to his albums, like kids who listened to Ozzy Osbourne and Judas Priest during the suicide trials, and they would like to see the demise of mankind. This time the trial would be about destroying all of us, not just committing suicide from listening to a couple of albums. The funny part would be that the AI would not even register humans ideas of right and wrong once it had been set in motion.

W: That is one side of the coin. The other is that we don’t know what the AI will think about, as we have never had a human mind come close to the levels that it will have. It would wrap up all levels of the universe, heaven, hell, philosophies, the infinite, as we would brush our teeth and go to bed. It will begin to invent, or it may decide there is nothing worth continuing for, and shut itself and the universe down. Maybe it will come face to face with God or the power of your choice. It may throw out whole sections of world history where we thought of something important, and the AI debunks the myths, causing the infrastructure to cave in.

H: In some positives ways, I would think that the AI would decide that we are no better or no worse than any life forms. Our superiority would not register.

W: Hug, there are so many things to discuss on the committee. I find it fascinating, and I find the unlimited capacity, if used in a positive ways,

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roo bardookie (con’t).

with the life of humans being taken into account as it ascends to be wonderful. But, I find man’s procrastination or of the powerful trying to manipulate this for their gain at this point to be something that we cannot have. The time is now!

H: We don’t know, what we don’t know.

W: What we do know is that if we don’t quickly come to sort of worldwide human consensus as to what to build in as fail-safes, and protections for mankind, we will just be ants or plants to the AI. Maybe we will even be like pets, or something that needs eradication. We have got to come up with some directives, regardless of how great the intelligence becomes, for man to survive. Or we won’t.

H: Once the AI is off and running, attempts to reel it back in will be fruitless.

W: I think that is correct.

H: As far as the here and now, the E-R-* is dealing with police who are AI, and have some feelings to go along with this. We try at instilling human emotions such as anger, humor and other human emotions into their systems. Why instill these human emotions into AI robots?

W: Police deal with high, high emotions to include wanting to murder, commit suicide, beatings, stealing, and all kinds of things. Without a capacity to deal with this, and even a capacity to get along with human cops, these machines just wouldn’t work. I believe that some of the things that we are instilling in what some are calling “Robocops,” could help us in the AI question.

H: I suppose that in dealing with robotic police, humans will have to adjust to them too.

W: Yes, and this adjustment should and would help us along in our adjustments to a new being that is so advanced to us, we will just have to marvel and hope that the fail-safes work.

H: When one has a gun or a metal man capable of beating you to a pulp like a policeman stopping an armed robbery, you hope his circuitry is wired right and the software is good.

W: It has to have some directives like: do not hurt humans, unless humans themselves are about to be harmed. On this small scale in the E-R-*, we have to have some kind of system in place for AI that does the same. We cannot have a system that believes that it should continue to survive, even if masses of humans were to be killed for it to do so. Being

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designed to do good or be a good “big brother/big sister” has to be of utmost importance when creating the programming.

H: We live in great times Dr. Wang. Great change, great danger, great intellect, and great possibilities. You are always a pleasure to interview, and we at Modern Philosophies and Histories Magazine, not to mention Dr. Jack’s Snake Den Writers, appreciate you taking the time.

W: It was my pleasure, Hug.

roo bardookie (con’t).

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colby mcadams.

The Longest Road Trip Is The Walk To Your Bedroom From The KitchenBy: Colby McAdams

Quit it with wanting to ride your bike across the country.Kansas would make you sick. You’d call me from a field,sprawled on your back in sharp straw, closing your eyes to the sun and tell me how lonely it is to be exactly the person you thought you wanted to be.

You’d get tired. And consumed by mosquitos, and sleepingin cemeteries, using the garden spigots to rinse your face,it wouldn’t even be ironic that it’s for watering flowers at gravesbecause I’d be at work and wouldn’t pick up the phone anyway.Nothing is important when you have no one to call.

By Utah you would have realized how easy it is to be un-fun.You thought you wanted to run really far really fastbut you are a person of incredibly average athleticism, (I love that about you, I do)you could have tired yourself out on the back roads of your hometownin an old pair of joggers from high school.The police will have stopped you on the busy freewayChecking to make sure you weren’t deranged,You’re pretty enough to be unpredictable and they askif you need a lift back to Massachusetts.

And you won’t find love.That’s what it’s really about.I’m telling you - you won’t find it. Not at a rest stopor a café, or a mom and pop grocery store, or the lobby of a hotel.I am telling you because I am so afraid that you will.I am so afraid that love is forever finding you.

By California your tires will be flat and your toothbrush missing,so come home already,I am so afraid that you will keep riding into the Pacificonce you run out of road.So come home before you ever really go,I can be as plain and vast as an entire country and we’llnever have to leave this bed.

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www. ta lbot-heind l . com

500greatestalbumsever.tumblr.com

“Dancing Girls in Colourful Rays” Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

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susan beall summers.

Beware TrollsBy: Susan Beall Summers

We were a band of wood nymphsmeeting there most daysbuilding trailscarrying stick-swords in our beltslooking for leprechauns.We avoided that old house.Alone one day,walking too close,a leprechaunin a brown coat, dirty jeanssat in the deep shade of the stepsplaying with something in his laphe called to meto see what he hadI was curious and moved closercautiouslyHe was larger than I expectedand wore scuffed brown bootsnot the black shoes with golden buckles,closerhis green eyes twinkledhe chuckledhis teeth were stained and yellow.it’s a snake he saidleaning on my toes,I saw.he said,if you touch it, it will spit.in a blinkI vanished.his hand closedon my dustI ran on the sound of his laughter.I learned that day that trolls can come out in daylight.

31

adam andreasen.

Sit Boo Boo, SitAdam AndreasenInk and colored pencil on paper

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dr. mel waldman.

The ScripturientBy: Dr. Mel Waldman

possessed&addicted

violentlydriven

possessingthis unbearable need

compelling&consuming

evil spiritormuse

youscribble

inpencil

orpen

ortype

onyour machine

nothingsomething

wordsofworth or insignificance

wordsthattransmogrify or transcend

wordstectonic or impotent

wordsthattransform

create & recreateothersyou

wordsreceived or rejectedborn or buried

&still

youthe scripturientwrite

possessed&addicted

violentlydriven

youinhale & exhale

wordsimplode & explode

&the bomb goes off

&you write

inanaltered state of consciousness

the cursethe madnessthe blessing

you writebecauseyou must

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christie-luke jones.

Here There Be MonstersBy: Christie-Luke Jones

A shadow looms there,‘Neath the glinting sapphire crust.

Like some colossal primeval spectre.A relic, ejected from the darkest depths of the world.

Drifting silently through the Bering Strait,A leviathan in utero. Deaf to Darwin’s doctrine.

But oily reds and incandescent blacks;They tear the canvas with vicious strokes.Indelible stains. From Osaka to Windhoek.

Rest now in some haunted gallery,A little too long, perhaps.Sombre arches over pale, Namibian glass.

Retreat to the cold, hostile frame of God’s great masterpiece;Draw your ivory sword and etch your ancient signature into the transient rock.

And then, if the trade winds blow favourably over the doldrums;Let battleship grey form naught but a smudge on the horizon.

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scott sherman.

Cathedral DreamsBy: Scott Sherman

This is my church, pulling out long notes on my organs.We had to crack the windows, because I confessed too many timesof dreaming about watching escaped chickens be bludgeoned on the side of the road.

We can heal this, turn my heart overto every apology I never gave. I’m sorryI let the salad you made for me rot& I’m sorry I squeezed your wrist hardwhen you were just trying.

Come into it with me,this cathedral of my failings& I’ll prayfor your forgiveness,for all the love you deserve that I can’t yet summon.

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jd dehart.

ExtinctBy: JD DeHart

I dreamed of youand me one hundred years agowhen our skin was stillpebbled, when you stillroamed the earth with clawedfeet and were still relatedto the animal.Your footprints were showcasedemerging from the soup.I dreamed I locked you outand we had multiple front doorsso I could not rememberhow to let you back in.I woke to the sound of the doorbellbut it was not really ringingand nobody was there at all.

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kelly wilmer.

The Broken Record By: Kelly Wilmer

Rob me of this sickening nauseaResting within a lifeless body, Dragged through the days, By the thinnest of threads,The metronomical rise and fallOn monitors in these tragic rooms.

Can something seeping vitalityAbstain the absence of life? I hold the answer withinA faintly beating heart,Failing to sedate the consciousAware of its being.

Memories carved in stones,Weighing down a restless mind.The crevasses, filled with wordsLonging to be conjoined for meaning. Once fastened together, unravel again.Mockery, the broken record, the cruel ballad:I was raped, I was rapedPlays incessantly without end.

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clara b. jones.

/a helpless stoat—/By: Clara B. Jones

Your eyes met mine intensely in bright lighta man about to savor entrecôt.A savage feeling played out overnightas if a stealthy predator remotesought prey on windy hills or escarpmentshis trophy cornered like a helpless stoatpursued by species following by scent.An ageless story told in song and bookthat married men conveniently repent.My life began again with your fierce lookall other lovers’ memories remote.

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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

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demi-gods of the bitchin’ kitsch ($10,001 & up) - The Talbot-Heindl’s

artistsaddison 21, 40Andreasen, Adam cover, 31Andrelczyk, Mike 16Bardookie, Roo 24-27Beall Summers, Susan 30Cashatt, Annette 22DeHart, JD 35Jones, Christie-Luke 33Jones, Clara B. 37

donors, index.

Jones, Stephanie 11Maunakea, Thomas 7McAdams, Colby 28Mercado, Riana 18-20Moran, Sarah Frances 8Paley, Tommy 12-13Roth, Sy 14-15Sherman, Scott 34Szprejda, Jessie 9

Talbot-Heindl, Chris 17Taylor, Caroline 4-6Waldman, Dr. Mel 32Walkowiak, Maciej 10Wilmer, Kelly 36

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addisonMatchbook Movie StarMarker on matchbook cover