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the

b’kbitchin’ kitsch

Volume 6, Issue 7July 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.

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 CoverTurtleBrooke NewmanOil on canvas

On the Back CoverSkittish Little BuggerJake ZurawskiInk and marker on paper

In This Issue4 – Surprise Endings, Chris Rozik

5 – A Calm Day, Adam Andreasen

6-8 – Waiting for Reagan, Sy Roth

10 – No biggie, Sissy Buckles

11 – Man Lighting Cigarette, Allen Forrest

table of contents.

Kena Sucksdorff - pg. 21

12-13 – The Neighbors, Elizabeth Desio

14 – Flight of the Untethered Balloon, Christie-Luke Jones

15 – Dr. Scare, Jihane Mossalim

16-17 – The Iguana Green City, Mike Andrelczyk

18 – Untitled, Hridi

20 – every run is a bad, Jonathan Dick

24 – Opus of the Opening Wound, Heath Brougher

25 – An Artist’s Brain, Stephanie Jones

26-27 – The Montivagant, Dr. Mel Waldman

28 – I Fracture, Josh Medsker

29 – Elephant Lines, Adam Andreasen

30-32 – Switch, Doug Hawley

34-36 – What a Lovely Evening in August, Ryan Morris

37 – Between the churches, David Groulx

38 – Donors and Index

40-41 – July 2015 Calendar

Allen Forrest - pg. 11

21 – Guardians, Kena Sucksdorff

22 – An Ode to the Coffee Studio, an urban watering hole, Travis Nordrum

23 – Catachreses, M. Protacio-De Guzman

Adam Andreasen - pg. 5

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chris rozik.

Surprise EndingsBy: Chris Rozik

Sickle cell slideshows of your bloodline splash the screen.Cardiac cone echoes map out your sputters and stops slowly.If you’re dying no one knows,We just keep seeing X-rays and replays of how we went wrong on loving each other.Rewind the tape and go back to scene one.A naive smile lathered in love.A waking dream covered in mud.A dirty diving child’s hand waiting for slap backs and sorry’s.I’m sorry I lost that love.But you’ve made it very hard to find.It’s now some hidden Easter egg that no one finds without clues.

There’s always conflict in these films but I’m having a hard time telling who the bad guy is.No one is dressed in black.No one is shooting through this place and taking all the money.All of us are hostages in the robbery,Hoping to get out alive.Anyone can be a hero here but no one wants to get hurt.

By the time the credits are about to roll, I think I may have missed the point.I can’t finish this movie next week.It’s on times ticking television.By the time the next commercial is over, all we’ll have left is a review.3 stars.A good try, but nothing short of uninspired.

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adam andreasen.

A Calm DayAdam AndreasenInk and colored pencil on paper

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sy roth.

Waiting for ReaganBy: Sy Roth

Warren of worn boxes —Sweaty hovels that preyed on its denizensStenographic occupants of BabelOne stacked above the other.

A multistoried, brown-brick buildingDressed in Ormolushadows in hiding around corners.

Queen Bees guard the darkened edges of long, mosaic-tiled halls.In a cubbyhole on the first floor,We existed.

Marco Polo desirescarried me to the corners,Camel rides into its bowels.

There a door marked –Superintendent--A Berlin Wall covered in graffiti in the dimnessLost among the pipes and flushing toilets.

Ear pressed to the door,Some-ones shuffledBehind the multi-layered, paint-hardened wallWaiting for Reagan.

Lives crawled along with odoriferous blending of foodAnd pissIn the misty dark cornersOf the naked lightbulb dit-tatting in the recessesWhere dusty bicycles and three-wheeled carriagesLay helter-skelter in the building’s boneyard.

They whispered from beyond the doorPsst,Susurrations lost in timeSecrets fallen into the creaks of the old buildingAnd the babbling gobbledygook fashioned above.

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sy roth (con’t).

The building shook with their palaver,Shook the dust from its creaky exterior.Clouds of sooty retorts in the retelling of storiesOf older timesOf fewer leaky faucets and unbroken windows;And of the milky neighborhood where old-world shtetls stood,And milky children played stickball in the streetsWrapped in all their languages —Tower of Babel voices echoed now in the canyons of the old building,Stoopball paradise nestled in a black forest of watchful eyes.The thwack of the Spaulding against the stoopPink rubber ball suspended in airDrop it, they yellAnd the Chinese players bounce their ballsAgainst the side of the building.

In the bowels, the turmoil of an ebon chamberWhere ghosts live;Above, shrill voicesFreedom seekersWarm in the tranquility of their sameness.

Twisted little beehive —Drones silent in the night.When it stretches awakeAss-scratching to the toiletsA rising chorus of vices and Weisses and Graziano KOsRaise a cacophony of “Lunch, you vanz”!“Dinner, you skootch”!

It all reverberates in the hollows.

Phones brrrring messages to the invisible superintendent —Fix my cracks and mend my broken pipes.He shuffles from behind his door,Tool box cradled in his handUp to the world above

continues on next page...

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sy roth (con’t).

Where the harridans watch him make his wayThrough their catacombsTo their wet apartmentsTheir cracked windowsAnd their silent stares.

They stand guard, arms crossed over ample bosomsAnd watch him closely as he wrenched their pipes, andSoldered their broken joints and caulked their panes. They sighed when he left.

From the door, a curly head peeps.I waved a hand attached to my hip at the curly headHello,He responded in kind.

We played that afternoon in the basement;Later led him up the stairs to my hallway,Our voices echoed narrowly in the stairwell.A voice scrooped,Filling the corridor with a basso caterwauling.

With it our sameness disappeared.He fled to the bowelsBehind his paint-encrusted door,The one marked—Superintendent--And I to our apartment where mother asked,“Lunch tatella?”Message peeled off for another time;A secret imprintedIn unfolded ciphers.

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sissy buckles.

No biggieBy: Sissy Buckles

Flashback to an eleven years old girl cornered scared and alone in my garage by one of the workers hired to build a backyard pool stalking towards me with a tall savage lust glinting dark eyes that I’d never even seen in a man before, I’ve fought off two almost date-rapes, groped on the bus, slapped pushed and man-handled, pinned down on my bed imprisoned by impossibly long hair, my small frame flung across the room no more than a child’s rejected rag doll crumpling next to the antique wood vanity which incidentally fractured a rib. Also shamed in the name of feminism because Oh, the horror! I like to wear stockings white petticoats, read James Risen and play the ukulele, hell can’t help I came up with my dad’s Sun Records he used to drive hard eight hundred miles balling the jack with his buddies from our hometown Polk County Iowa to Shreveport Louisiana Hayride just to see Carl Perkin’s blue suede shoes that’s what we all were doing back then, first hanging at the Skeleton Club downtown Market Street tried to fit in with the punks next Pink Panther bar and Bodies figuring out we really were SoCal Rockabillies who I could always count on and Runaround Jen wisecracking we wouldn’t live past forty, mid-century come and gone and Jimi Hendrix had already taught my babysitter about Experience. SoCal, you kidding me? I grew up with the Mongols marching in one ear PTA hollering out the other and surfers riding the crest somewhere in between man those were the days we salvaged everything, cars/ records/furniture/ books and shoot you could score crinolines, purses, and 1930s dresses in perfect condition like music store manager Iona wore in ‘Pretty in Pink’ at the Goodwill shop for five bucks we knew when they put out the fresh stuff, and Doone said I needed to grow a pair be tougher stop wearing my heart on my sleeve quit acting all sugar spice everything nice or people take advantage, one of those larger than life kind of people and when she was around mean girls never dared mess with me, and yeah still looking for a good man to love I’ll even make him a sandwich. So is it any wonder that now I only fly my colors deep down a back-country lair whose dirt I dug and scraped out clod by messy handful salvaged with Ophelia’s flowers organic compost and extoling the virtue of earth worms, put out a green bin for plastic recyclables hang a Surf’s Up sign and call it home, my own gatekeeper, recklessly fearless, and always enduringly inviolable.

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allen forrest.

Man Lighting Cigarette from the series City LifeAllen ForrestInk on paper

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elizabeth desio.

The Neighbors By: Elizabeth Desio

Here they come again with their pack of Newports,uniform of black hoodies and beer guts. They’ve got dye jobsthat probably glow in the dark, they’re always carrying trash, dominos boxes. They cheer for me when I light up a blunt in the morning,ask me to come visit them at the bars on Bourbon street where they work.But it’s Monday and the parades are starting to slow down, I’m so hungover with beads that I see stars when I turn my head.The neighbors are still smoking their Newports, as if to say that’s life, put on a pair of sunglasses and some hard leather shoes.

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elizabeth desio (con’t).

New Orleans is an open container, a giant porch surrounded by palms, even the fences wear beads, and you could bury someonein the potholes on this street. I’ve been beer battered for three days now, and the country’s arteries are closing along with mine. An ice storm has sealed me out of Virginia, frozen it for meto have later. I am already starting to look like the neighbors. Belly distended, hair dreading itself.

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christie-luke jones.

Flight of the Untethered BalloonBy: Christie-Luke Jones

Awake from slumber, son of Terra.Pull back the shades and gaze upon the vast, artless oceans,Where form and faith and fear and folly,Lay slain by inky nothingness.

Phosphorescent bastards of a benign Aztec god,Weigh heavy on idle pupils.Lifeless imitations of a distant Heimat.

Intrepid explorer, cartographer of the stars,Basking in the glory of silent applause.

How insignificant you seem,On that sprawling midnight canvas,How muted your refrain in the sweeping symphony of the void.

Go back to sleep, last-born of Gaia.For the dawn chorus will never come.

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jihane mossalim.

Dr. ScareJihane MossalimAcrylic on canvas

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mike andrelcyzk.

The Iguana Green CityBy: Mike Andrelczyk

Every day there is a fire in the Iguana Green CityA small portion of the city burns away every day

Like the drugstore, Rico’s Garage, the tireyard, the pink and yellow retirement home

And the vacant lot with the trees that caught fire last week and it spreadTo the corner store before they could put it out

There are lots of stray Chihuahuas in the Iguana Green City,They like to pee on the husky trunks of the palm trees that are nodding off

And even at 7 am the traffic is bad on Hawthorne Street and Reality Avenue

Nobody really goes to that grocery store anymore since the murders

And the black cats of the I.G.C.,They especially like the dumpster by the Korean restaurant And also the one in the alley that runs between the liquor store and

The vacant lot with the trees thatCaught

Fire last week & it

Spread to the Corner store before They could put it out

Not much really makes any sense anymore, since the grocery storeAnd 7 a.m. if you are going to work then nothing makes sense at all

At 7 am if you are just walking around the block just because you feel like itThat’s a little better

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mike andrelcyzk (con’t).

Sometimes everyone seems to take the freewayOut of the IguanaGreen City All the way to Freighter BayWhere it is good to sit by the water

Behind them looms the phosphorescent pale green glow of the I-Guana Green C-Ity

The copy store, the dollar store and the garage by the donut shop allBurned down last yearFinito’s on Lima went up in flames back in ‘09

It seems like everyday

There is a fire

In the Iguana Green City

Last week there was a bad one

In the vacant lot With the trees

& it

Spread to the Corner store beforeThey could put it out

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hridi.

UntitledBy: Hridi

A ray of new light in the new worldNot for photosynthesisNot for inspirationBut because a new born desires itAs its victory declaration —Victory in its struggleTo come outTo be the one to surviveIn a war which was to determine who’s to liveWith the one besideIn the bloody womb...In which it wonAnd understood for the first timeIt could liveBecause it could killIt could liveBecause it knew howAnd that remains the first lesson the new world taught it.

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jonathan dick.

every run is a badBy: Jonathan Dick

every walk is a good, awewas a flower with his own boy, in his brainfacing his parents as they paced, away like stucco in the rain, they crossed themselves hoping for the blankness, expectingthe soothe, he faced them cowardlylike a sign being born, but his parentslooked past his ouches because they thought they couldfix his dreams; happinessis a trauma found in the thumbnail, of awethere was none.

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jihane mossalim.

GuardiansKena SucksdorffPainting

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travis nordrum.

An Ode to the Coffee Studio, an urban watering holeBy: Travis Nordrum

I’ve come to believe that nothing really ever changes. I don’t mean that things don’t actually change; we see change in our lives every day: hairs gray, skin wrinkles, and things begin to droop. No I mean ideas, mental architectures don’t change, even across species I imagine. This coffee shop I sit in is in many ways, an urban watering hole.

The traffic is unending for 12 hours a day, and if you didn’t need to have helping hands at the ready to serve the steady flow of thirsty or tired (or thirsty AND tired) people pouring through the doors like the aromatic coffees they pour into cups, then I believe we would see creatures in here during all hours of the day.

Different groups or lone individuals wander in from their busy day of foraging for daily consumption, before, after, during; A coffee break is as much a part of some people’s day as visiting the watering hole is to a gazelle or lion wondering the landscape.

You see different strategies for visitation. Some sneak in, almost unnoticed, quickly and quietly get what they need and retreat to the safety of their personal bubble. Others scout the area, perusing the aisles looking for conversations to invite themselves to. There are those who feel at home there. Well known by the local fauna, these creatures sit comfortably out in the open, basking in the sun without fear. And still some sit calmly in the back and watch the action from a distance, enjoying the company of their own thoughts and the caffeine stimulation.

It seems that we humans haven’t escaped too far from our fauna friends. We trickle in and out of coffee shops nationwide. In groups or alone, we find ourselves drawn to the watering hole just as any so-called beast. Yes, a truly magnificent place to witness a melting pot of human behaviors, the coffee shop is indeed the modern day urban watering hole.

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m. protacio-de guzman.

CatachresesBy: M. Protacio-De Guzman

The dissonanceOf watching my feelingsPull me apart at the seamsDelivers me to a new reality:

Eyes deaf, mouth blind,Ears numb, skin mute,

Stumbling across the minefieldOf emotions I used to treadWith ease: love is a place

I don’t have a map for.

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heath brougher.

Opus of the Opening Wound By: Heath Brougher

A million bones crushed.This body removed, attenuated.

The minus-body, scars for tattoos,miles down the alleyway and still

the glass shards pierce. Smashedbottle streetsand no glistening jaggedness to be caught

by the eyes, glimpsed by the pupils, readjustingto the regular light. Stale as city winds across the hair

ripple like claws dragged over the skin,over the Winter. A slight ebbing of the malady,yet still brittleboned and nearly pulseless.

“Keep them alive but sick,” said the doctor.“Alive but sick is where the money is.”

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mike jewett.

An Artist’s BrainStephanie JonesInstallation

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dr. mel waldman.

The MontivagantBy: Dr. Mel Waldman

Quiet,in the still life of the oval night,

&motionless,

the man sits at the window&

looks out at the vastness of the swirling darkness

&drifts into memory

inside the voidthe vanishing

&in his mind,

he wanders over rolling hills & majestic mountains

meandersaround coruscating visions

ofancient landscapes

acrossthe panorama

ofthe omnipresent past

&into Old Brooklyn

inthe very hot summer of longing

onthe burning sand of Coney Island

returningwith the bittersweet taste of nostalgia

tolisten to the music

melancholyoozing sadness & enigma

inthe rhapsody of the sea

tolisten to the music of yesterday

beneaththe sultry sun of August

while the waves come forththe rolling waves come forth

&there is light

gloriously flowingthere is still light

but now,with the burgeoning dawn,

afteran unending voyage

&the lingering smell

ofthe seething salty Atlantic Ocean

waftingthrough the air

overwet sand & hot flesh

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dr. mel waldman (con’t).

the montivagant sits at the windowmotionless & blind

&listens to the snow fall,

&terribly aware

inthe winter of despair,

he listens to the heavy snow rush to earth&

even now, there is still light,

a coruscating light that opens up the perennial darkness

whilethe snow falls

the snow fallsthe snow falls

&covers him,

covers his suddenly cold inner landscape,covers him

in the deep snow

the deep snowthe deep snow

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josh medsker.

I FractureBy: Josh Medsker

I fracture.Each sound a shardand light seeps in from everywhere. I start to throb and slo w down becauseeach step hurts. Even thinking hurts. Hand over eyes and POW! likea string shotout from the crownof my head, like it wasgoing to and coming fromthe sun. I curl undermy blanket and try to get as sm all as I can.

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adam andreasen.

Elephant LinesAdam AndreasenInk on paper

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doug hawley.

SwitchBy: Doug Hawley

“Duke, this is Janine. This call must be coming out of the blue. I know that we have not been in touch for twenty years since I left town. You must have been shocked, considering what we meant to each other, but I had to leave town because I was being stalked and was very afraid. I hope that you can forgive me for the sudden departure.”

“Janine, of course I forgive you. That must have been horrible for you. I hope that you are OK now.”

“I thought it was the end of my problems when I put the stalker behind me, but my marriage is not going too well. I’ll probably end up divorced – there are trust and fidelity problems. Enough of my situation, how are you doing?”

“Pretty good. Married a long time, doing OK financially. No kids. Fairly healthy. We hike a lot, do yoga and so on. If you ignore my face, I probably look about the same as the last time you saw me.”

“We should see each other again. Right now would be a bad time while the divorce thing hangs over me. I’m living right down the road from you in Salem now.”

After Duke hung up, Sally asked, “Who called?”

“That was Janine, that unstable girl that I knew way back when.”

“What did she want?”

“She called to explain why she disappeared years ago. Apparently she was being stalked.”

A few months went past and Sally took off for her business trip to Northern California. Duke called Janine. “Hi, you mentioned us getting together again. Would now be a good time?”

“I think so. I’m officially separated now, so I can’t see any harm. Could you come down this evening?”

Duke wondered if he could get in any trouble. He had nothing scheduled in the afternoon, and he could always tell Sally he went out to eat or work in the yard if he missed a phone call.

Later in Salem, Duke and Janine went out to dinner. She explained her emotional upheaval with the upcoming divorce. They talked about the

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doug hawley (con’t).

continues on next page...

good times, when they went on picnics with carnal delights for dessert. Duke tried to rub up against her, but she said even though she was separated, she was not divorced.

After Duke returned to Portland, he could not get the memories of Janine out of his mind. By comparison, his life with Sally was stale. The same TV shows, the same food, the same vacation every year. Even though he was content, he could no longer imagine another twenty years like the last twenty years.

After Sally returned, he could no longer visit Janine without raising her suspicions. He had to be content with sneaking phone calls. Janine was always friendly, but steered conversation away from any kind of commitment, and claimed that her situation was still unresolved. Duke insisted on knowing when she would be officially free.

A couple of months later, Janine called to tell Duke that she was unhitched. He immediately told Sally that it was over. “Sally, you don’t want me while I love another. I’m sure that someone as attractive and clever as you will have no problem finding someone to give you the love that I can’t give you any longer. I know that I’m in the wrong and I’ll make any financial settlement you need within reason.”

Sally frowned. “It sounds like nothing I can say could get you to stay, so clear out, take everything and leave. My lawyer will be in touch with your lawyer.”

Good to his word, Duke was quite generous to Sally.

Down in Salem Duke told Janine, “I’m free, you’re free, we can get married and make up for all of those years we could have been together.”

“Duke I’m afraid you misunderstood. First, when I talked about infidelity and trust, I’ve got to tell you, I was the one that couldn’t be trusted and was fooling around. In fact, my boyfriend Evan and I already have plans to be married. As for what we talked about, I was just trying to be kind because I felt a little guilty about how I treated you all these years ago. Even then you were just one of the guys I was seeing. I’m so sorry, but you are a small part of my past. Evan is my future.”

A broken hearted, depressed Duke returned to Portland where he rented a small apartment with the little money he had left after his

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doug hawley (con’t).

settlement with Sally. He soon learned that a financially impaired, unimposing forty-five year old had very little luck on the dating market. In desperation, he tried to make up with Sally, promising to rub her back, rub her front, crawl, whatever it took to get her back. She said: “Not after the way that you humiliated me. Anyway, I’ve found someone who really appreciates me, and there may be a wedding pretty soon.”

Unknown to Duke, Janine had called their house a week before she talked to him. That time Sally answered. “Is Duke there?” Janine asked.

“No, this is his wife Sally, what is this about?”

“This is Janine. He may have mentioned me. I’m just trying to reach some people I knew when I left Portland to explain why I left.”

“He’s mentioned you. Sometimes I get the feeling that you were the big deal in his life rather than me.”

“That may be what he thought, but it wasn’t that big a deal for me. When I was seeing him, I was already married to my first husband Jack. Jack was the typical bad boy, very exciting, but bad husband material as I found out after I made the mistake of marrying him. No money, no future, bad temper. I thought that I’d try Duke out for a better future, but after awhile, I got tired of the two of them and cleared out. Duke fell for me completely, but he was plain boring. By that time Jack had gotten suspicious and I was scared.”

After a long pause, Sally said, “Based on what you tell me, you could do me a big favor. You’re right about how boring he is. I’ve been seeing a guy while Duke is at work. Duke is too thick to suspect anything. I could ask for a divorce, but if I looked like the bad guy, I might lose my friends and be hurt financially. If he asks for a divorce, I’m golden. Would you consider leading him on a little, if possible without outright lies, to see if he would ask me for a divorce? Maybe I could do something for you in return.”

After another long pause, Janine responded, “Do you think that you will get enough in your divorce to pay for a decent honeymoon for my boyfriend Evan and I.”

“Most definitely.”

“Ok, then, I’ll call back later and talk to Duke to get the ball rolling.”

Poor dense, dumb, deprived, defeated Duke.

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“Dancing Girls in Colourful Rays” Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

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What a Lovely Evening in AugustBy: Ryan Morris

Peter checked his watch as he walked down the fifteen unleveled steps of his Shaw row house. He was on time. Perfectly on time. The air hung in his lungs. “It was thick, thick, thick,” he thought. As he breathed, he tried to match his steps with inhalation. It was a compulsion with seemingly no origin. Just something he did. It caused him to hold his breath for just long enough to feel lightheaded. What a delight to lose sensation! If only for a moment.

Friday night. Summer. Blood in his teeth from flossing. A few drinks later he sat alone in the faux art deco bar he’d found her at last time. He watched her sitting with another man. Not necessarily a new man. It was all at once strange to Peter. He’d never seen her with him before and he got another drink to celebrate the pain of his observation.

Tonight it would be Gin for Peter. Gin. Water. Ice. Light and refreshing. A great tonic for the shakes. The fumbling ingénue of a waitress continually bothered Peter as he entered notes, updates and revisions into his journal. “It’s very important,” he reminded himself, “to be exact. To develop perfect focus. To be certain. Unflinching in your observations. Certainty begets accuracy. Accuracy begets success.”

At a table immediately adjacent to Peter, another couple sat in silence. They longed for conversation, for life, for anything that would justify the decisions they’d made bringing them to this city, this restaurant, this plate of risotto and scallops. Divorce is not an option, Peter wanted to remind them. Death, for most people, is the only solution to this dilemma. “What a very sad and broken world we have,” Peter whispered to them. Peter wasn’t sure if they’d heard him. But they hadn’t.

In an hour and twenty-two minutes, Peter had counted with certain accuracy, the new man dropped her off at the front door of her apartment complex. The Majestic. It sat blazoned with spotlights at the top of a hill. At the bottom of that hill was the White House. There was no view from her apartment as her salary couldn’t merit such a luxury. Peter would know, he’d done his homework.

Peter was a safe distance away as the other man kissed her goodnight. It was as saccharine a moment as is being described, as one imagines when reading those words. Peter turned from her and looked instead into a parked car. The same parked car he would use for camouflage

ryan morris.

35

should she glance his way. Peter saw a man look back at him from inside of the car. He moved his head as to change his perspective. To get a better view of the man. The man inside of the car mirrored his movements, ape-like and full of wonderment.

“Who are you?” Peter smiled at the man who did not smile back. The man’s greasy yellowed hair looked as if it might not have been washed that day. Or perhaps it was meant to look that way, slicked back with scrambling intensity and very little grace.

While smiling Peter had once again aggravated his sensitive gums. Blood crept back onto his taste buds. “What an unfortunate affliction,” Peter thought. An unfortunate affliction indeed.

She did not go into the apartment building after the man kissed her without passion. Without remorse for his lifeless lips. Without realizing that she too, was human. That she too, had thoughts that existed beyond him. That she too, cared about little more in this world than her own desires, her own sensational fulfilment, her own survival.

By Peter’s arithmetic, and Peter’s arithmetic was rarely wrong, he would be inside of her within the hour. Bumping and sliding with the passion eschewed by the other man. He hadn’t a grasp on where she was going but that was okay.

Would she have gone inside, Peter would have followed her to her door. He would have introduced himself and she would have recognized him. She would have known him but not remembered from where. Then she would know. She would know what Peter knew, that they had met! They were, in fact, more acquainted with one another than either could have realized. He had seen her on the metro. She had seen him! He would tell her. “And not just the once,” he would say. On commutes. On her way to meet friends. Before dates. After dates. In restaurants. “From life,” he would reassure her, “you know me from your life. From those in-between moments in your days. It’s okay now, everything’s okay now.” He would then learn her name and her desires and everything she’d been hiding from him for so long.

Alas, she hadn’t gone inside. But that was okay! Things would work out perfectly, Peter knew. He’d planned and calculated for every eventuality.

ryan morris (con’t).

continues on next page...

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ryan morris (con’t).

He’d thought about little else at work, at home, with his family, amongst all of those friends who knew him so well.

“Where was she going?” he thought grinning. “What a little sneak!”

The air hung much heavier as Peter followed her down the hill. He could smell her trepidation in the air. It was the fuel of his perseverance.

Things happen so quickly though. And not all can be planned for. And Peter couldn’t have seen that silly little divot in the sidewalk and he couldn’t have planned for the rubber sole of his boot to get caught in that divot and he couldn’t have known to calculate the time it would take to catch himself as he fell.

What a silly way to go, Peter didn’t have the chance to think. Peter couldn’t have known his head would hit the sidewalk with such force. That his skull would shatter in such a way as to pierce that little part of his brain that allowed for conscious thought and that other that allowed for motor function.

Peter could no longer taste the blood from his inflamed gums. How thankful he would be for this should he have woken up. What could have caused that anyway? He flossed every day and really made dental hygiene a priority in his daily routine. “It’s polite to others,” he used to think. “No one likes to be around someone with such bad breath. It’s just offensive.”

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david groulx.

Between the churchesBy: David Groulx

Jamaican immigrants come into my neighbourhood every SundayNeatly dressed to go to churchTwo blocks away bikers roll up to their Church, the biker’s churchI live in between them and go to neitherI am neither Jamaican nor a biker

There is a bar around the cornerI will be there sipping beer and ringingthe bells of purgatory

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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

artistsAndreasen, Adam 5, 29Andrelczyk, Mike 16-17Brougher, Heath 24Buckles, Sissy 10Desio, Elizabeth 12-13Dick, Jonathan 20Forrest, Allen 11

donors, index.

Groulx, David 37Hawley, Doug 30-32Hridi 18Jones, Christie-Luke 14Jones, Stephanie 25Medsker, Josh 28Morris, Ryan 34-36Mossalim, Jihane 15

Newman, Brooke coverNordrum, Travis 22Protacio-De Guzman, M. 23Roth, Sy 6-8Rozik, Chris 4Sucksdorff, Kena 21Waldman, Dr. Mel 26-27Zurawski, Jacob 42

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Skittish Little BuggerJake ZurawskiInk and marker on paper