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the

b’kbitchin’ kitsch

Volume 5, Issue 6June 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.

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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 CoverJammin’ JazzBy: Danielle DragonaAcrylic painting

On the Back CoverEverything Sarah Palin Says is NutsBy: Chris Talbot-HeindlInk on paper

Chris Talbot-Heindl - pg. 6

table of contents.

W. Jack Savage - pg. 10

In This Issue4 - The Newest Improvement in Failure: An Apocalyptic Comedy, Craig Kurtz

5 - Breakfast at Nine O’Clock, Kristina Pareen

6 - President Obama Tells Whoppers, Chris Talbot-Heindl

7 - Homing, Christopher Barnes

8-9 - Watching My Friend Peel an Orange, Michael Prihoda

10 - Something Behind You, W. Jack Savage

11 - A blind theme of sensual deliverance, Allison Grayhurst

12 - Dali’s Dante, Roo Bardookie

13 - The Missionary, Lauren Page

13 - Skeleton Key, Jens Jebsen

14 - Cocoa, Adreyo Sen

14 - Hephaestus (Vulcan), David Sermersheim

15 - Early Morning Light, Kirsten Pohlplatz

16 - Vice President Biden is a Sloppy Joe, Chris Talbot-Heindl

17 - Yesterday Night in My Dreams - Sushant Supriye

17 - Remembered My Mistake, Kushal Poddar

18 - Luverne, Minnesota, W. Jack Savage

18 - The Diary of the Worm, JD DeHart

19 - I am the Rain, Tendai R. Mwanaka

19 - Get More, Gary Beck

20 - Donors and Index

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craig kurtz.

The Newest Improvement in FailureAn Apocalyptic ComedyBy: Craig Kurtz

The dearly assembled congregated a circlewith incense amist and joined hands in a tryst;incanting the spells of an ancient raindancethey chewed off their limbs in a foul brotherhood.It was the newest improvement in failure, that act.

The pyramids and coliseums were burntas offerings to the unfathomable fogthat mells with the spheres in sulphurous heavens as the leperous doomed assumed jurisdiction.It was the newest improvement in failure, that scene.

The castles all crumbled and the dungeons did flourishas poisons and pistols turned blood into ghosts;the sheriff’s department in absentia was triedby harlots and vagrants appeasing cruel idols.It was the newest improvement in failure, that play.

The eunuchs all feasted while the sultans all fasteddue to decrees erected by Bolsheviks;dumbshows and puppets imitated mankindwhile pontiffs and prophets filed patents on torture.It was the newest improvement in failure, that schtick.

Vassals and serfs supported steam engineswhich promised to mechanize the crushing of grapes;satyrs and centaurs impounded the free press whilelocal economists rolled dice on split atoms.It was the newest improvement in failure, that bit.

Sirens and naiads ensorcelled black pirateswho ransacked the skeleton of Cleopatra;experts and scholars vilified effigiesbut vandals and robbers blackmailed shrunken heads.It was the newest improvement in failure; satire.

Adam and Eve had one last trick up their sleeveautomating childbirth with garlic and cloves;in jungles and sewers centipedes multiplieduntil an eclipse of the sun unleashed mutancy.It was the latest innovation in folly; applause.

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kristina parren.

Breakfast at Nine O’ ClockBy: Kristina Parren

Bacon, eggs, and coffee—two sugars—apricot jam spread thick on rye, congealing hues of Wednesday morning’s jaundiced eyes. Lipids lather plastic spoons spooning fractionsof tactile presence divided by time. The fool asks for apple pie.

Veronica was apple pie, bobby sock Americana,daughter of a whisper and the neighborhood watch,ginger tendrils grasping sticks in mud, fingers taut.They found her by the fool’s wood shanty,brittle hearts now calcified;they broke pieces into teeth, notfor her, but them to speak.

Speak your peace, Nine O’clock, on lacerated tongueyou promise mercy: bacon, eggs, and coffee—two sugars.Veronica, the Oklahoma darling, daughterof Cruel and Unusual, who tripped and struck her head,was never one for birthday cake. The fool asks for apple pie.

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chris talbot-heindl.

President Obama Tells WhoppersChris Talbot-HeindlInk on paper

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christopher barnes.

HomingBy: Christopher BarnesQuotes by: Rupert Darwall

The caravan quest’s first lap started in July.

“The U.N.’s climate-change body Is unreformable and its latest report Should be its last”

Susi coughed up to Starlight Café, palm-greasing the chore boy.

“The first instalment of the intergovernmental panel”

Having purse-pinched, Keane and she,Since the leg-up to full hours, were all go.

“Summaries for policymakers”

Flashflooding fetched breath with a lightning shock.

“This is a glaring discrepancy”

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michael prihoda.

Watching my Friend Peel an OrangeBy: Michael Prihoda

He’s peeling an orange and I’m watching him and there’s a subtle hint of this action/observation interplay floating about the room yet he’s methodical, stripping the orange with sure fingers playing a natural game.

The lacerated orange releases its pungency and I’m suddenly aware of how nothing can be captured outside of its existence. The bane of unremembered odors, unrecalled textures. Nothing reclaimable except through reference, the little referential sparks that dredge up the past, remind us of experience.

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michael prihoda (con’t).

My friend peels his orange, not speaking. I’m not speaking either, thinking, or trying to think, which happens to be a whole other kind of exercise, a very amateur one. Sometimes focus elopes and maybe sitting with a fork in my hand at supper it’ll come back but maybe not for days. It scares me how often my brain feels soupy, resembling mushy muffins. I am unfocused as I watch him peel his orange. I know I’m somewhere else yet I’m here in the room as he peels the orange and admitting the incorporeal structure of my being is not something I plan to do or bring up as a cheap anecdote at the next dinner party I attend but it is there nonetheless. Restless and present.

I wait for him to speak but engaged as he is, this is an exercise in futility, a war I hardly expect to win.

I see his fingers working the peel off in rubbery strips, each an organic, shredded tire you can expect at any roadside. Despite how many pieces of tire I’ve seen on all the roads I’ve traveled I’ve never been privy to the moment of breakdown when the tire actually blows, when the rubber actually shreds into hunks and strips to flap tiredly onto faceless asphalt.

I’m conscious of the greasy, sticky film oranges leave on fingers when they are peeled. I wonder how his mouth will deal with the copious amounts of white pith oranges scorn an eater with.

I notice he’s been dropping the strips of orange peel onto the carpet. I almost object but don’t. His eyes concentrate on the task. This is more than I’ve seen from competitive Rubix Cubers and Olympic gymnasts.

Watching my friend peel his orange I forget about the weather. I constantly deal in terms of cloud cover, a trait he complains about each morning while shoveling cereal into his mouth.

I’ve learned to translate through the crunchy spoonfuls.

He’s never eaten an orange for breakfast. I wonder at the oddity of this truth.

The peel gone, he pulls a section off and pops it into his mouth. When he does this seven more times he will have eaten the whole orange and I will have watched him eat it and we will both be different people for what we’ve done and we will separate when this episode ends and though he will probably forget this by tomorrow I might remember until the day after and for a few self-indulgent seconds I consider myself superior for the promise of this memory’s longevity in my brain compared to his but then I humble myself and realize this memory isn’t worth remembering while his efficiency at forgetting this passage might well be a mark of superiority and through telling myself to forget this, quicker than my friend if possible, I will remember it at least two days hence and so have devoted brain space to uselessness yet again.

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w. jack savage.

Something Behind YouW. Jack SavagePainting

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allison grayhurst.

A blind theme of sensual deliveranceBy: Allison Grayhurst

Opaque but controversialacts of spiritual courage visceral cantankerousIt is equally important how something is given as to how, or if, it is received discarded avoidedThe summer dung is used up.Flailing or foraging, we all get used up,turn old and baffled by the complex amount of disappointment – not just by oneby everyone.

Then it is murkyand mortality-unbelievable that things will change into childhood’s ideal.A choice emerges, to accept withoutbitterness, just do the thingsthat make you happy - child’s play.

For you - that is all it should have to give.For others?A shrug to feign indifferenceFor othersshould not be able to give or take inner satisfaction.Connection.Cull the fables

Here it is, the butter slabon the tablepepper spots on the floorand marmalade in doses.

www. ta lbot-heind l . com

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roo bardookie.

Dali’s DanteBy: Roo BardookieBased on Dali’s Dante’s Reassurance

He of manly stature, monied and strong, powerful enough to wet their mind and womanly appetite.

She walked openly, in smile, gait, with an invitation for the man. The power, the money attractive enough to her to make a fool of herself.

He smelled her perfume, while the wind did tricks with her hair and thin garment.

But, he was an older man. So he knew about the tricks women play. This was this, and not that. The same loving embrace, could turn to a neck wringing. The same lovely soup, would have poison in it as she got to know your soul.

For the embrace, the simple cock into the pocket of her, opened the Pandora’s box of the woman. The fiendish little nightmares would spill from her and onto you sir. He knew.

Once the game had been played, the devil in her found out, you could never get it back to that box, or that underground fire lake where devils and women play.

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lauren page, jens jebsen.

The MissionaryBy: Lauren Page

All was utterly ruined,like a run in a brand new pair of panty hoseon a fancy woman.With diamonds in her ears.

Through the dust-encrusted window,we passed a truck.Fishtailing off the mountain.

The bus ran along a red dirt roadthat matched the rust-colored skirts of the womenwho stopped and stared, baskets on their heads.

And I thought about reaching out,as he watched the two muttsbarking from the roof of a desolate, white house.

But the bus threw us over a pothole,and his long hair was saturated with grease.My fingers insteadtwirled the white gold band encasing my thumb.

Skeleton KeyBy: Jens Jebsen

I stick my hand through the hole in the iceAs the sea burns out from underneathIt laps against my naked fleshAnd cuts me on its teethI hold it there just ‘cause it hurtsAnd I cower under the weightI pray in shades of monotone greyTo escape my bitter fateBut there is no more needTo try and be meFor the stuff in my flask Is the skeleton keyAnd there are no more deeds That I have to set freeFor the pills that I take Are a common courtesyI watchNighttime apparitions Pass on back to their lairsThey are born of Great angst And sad truths And vile daresBut no lonesome godEver answered my pleasSo the scars on my wristsAre the skeleton keys.

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adreyo sen, david sermersheim.

Hephaestus(Vulcan)By: David Sermersheim

I have forgedlight of distantstars into galaxiesscattering diamonds trailingmeteor dreams sweepingempty nights cleanof flame burstinginto a millionshards of white-hot carbon poured down runnels tohell from wherevoices clamor forair and slag burns fissures into stygian voids of inference pulled into the vortex of doubt shimmering in particles of light suspended from whence we came to where we shall return

CocoaBy: Adreyo Sen

Behind the tear-green walls of an orphanage,cocoa takes on an almost mythic quality.

It is served at bedtime, but already,it marks a new day’s beginning.

The orphans are prone to travel in their sleep.

Everyone gets a cup of cocoa.Even the girl who wets her bed.Even the boy who only has unkind things to say.Even the girl who should be in collegeand whose piano is made of air.

Good friends drink their cocoa together.Their sips begin to synchronize.Their cocoa drinking is a communionblessed by a strange and mysterious silence.

In the orphanage, your best friend is your secret twin.She knows all your secrets before you confide them.They are her own secrets.

The nuns don’t drink hot chocolate.They haven’t grown back into childhood yet.With Sister Mary, you cannot dawdle over your cocoa and leisurely chatter,even though it’s Sister Mary who combines harsh wordswith gentle fingers when you’ve scraped your knee rather badly.With Sister Conchita, you can dawdle all you want.She’s generally on the phone to her boyfriend.

And with the cups emptied of the last recalcitrant dropand washed and put away,it’s time for bed which is merely a cautious way of sayingthat the girls are ready to dive back into their stories,right at the point where they left them.

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kirsten pohlplatz.

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

Early Morning LightBy: Kirsten Pohlplatz

When you choose to wander aloneamong the lonely boatsbobbing against the boardwalkand only the seagullsdrifting along cold shoresin the early morning light I wish you would take mealong.

You want to leave me unmarked, see me flawlessin the bliss of unknowing,protected from your pain and preventing mine, shroudedin an imagined light I cannot hold. And you are not alone, though you feel it to be true.

You need someone to bring you your coat, and hold your hand in silence.Though the waves will calmAnd the golden sun will rise you must leave this place soon. Take me with you. I will not intrude.

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chris talbot-heindl.

Vice President Biden is a Sloppy JoeChris Talbot-HeindlInk on paper

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sushant supriye, kushal poddar.

Remembered My MistakeBy: Kushal Poddar

No one noticed They swapped the Op edsWith the obituaries,Imagined readingYesterdays reviewedTomorrow. And whenOur cat fell asleepOn an obscure nameThey thought a president,Not an unnamed manWho passed the streetBy our house, moreAnd more bent everyday,More anon, moreGiven to the nature,Remembered by mistake.

Yesterday Night in my DreamsBy: Sushant Supriye

Yesterday nightin my dreams

Gandhari refused to blindfold herself

Eklavya refused to offer his thumb to Dronacharya

Sita refused to go through ordeal by fire

Draupadi did not allow others to put her at stake in gambling

Puru refused to give his youth to Yayati

Several mistakes ofhistory and mythologywere correctedyesterday nightin my dreams

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w. jack savage, jd dehart.

Luverne, MinnesotaW. Jack SavagePainting

The Diary of the WormBy: JD DeHart

Smile like a smear, slatheredacross the face he thinks slithers,jelly mold teenage complexion.He is the not the worm, though,not like all the kids jeer, even ifhe keeps a diary that says he is,the big pink writing on the wallsays he is, but everyone tells lies.The others used to twist his arms,trying to pop them off, seems like,trying to force him into the rottenleaves, but he showed them with wingsand fire, rising above the soiledearth and gaping mouths.

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tendai r. mwanaka, gary beck.

Get MoreBy: Gary Beck

Consumer lustnever satedwith acquisitionis always temptedby something bigger,glossier,more envied,never realizingsterile objectsonly defineempty dwellings.

I Am the RuinBy: Tendai R. Mwanaka

The desert island, you are my lonesome existence.Internal seas ranged around glistening beaches.Listening intently to the heartbeat within me —Soft bellows of an ever including despair.

So many words; So many feelings — Subtracted! The visitors, The strangers —Their promising gestures!

We hollow ourselves out to have and hold them.They arrive every spring, Nestle down in the summer,Scurry away every winter.Terrified by my ever-recurring penniless terrors.

I can feel the sound of their feet pattering away —So much hurry; So little time taken,So little love given.Leaving behind their shadows to rend me apart.

Such an avalanche — So much dilapidation, This ghastly emptiness! Look..., look! I am the ruin,But I had loved too.

The sad echo-canting sound of my howling voice.And far the ocean’s deep, their thin angry silence.Tearing my once shinning golden coastlands.Leaving me the sole-inheritor of this wasteland.

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artistsBardookie, Roo 12Barnes, Christopher 7Beck, Gary 19DeHart, JD 18Dragona, Danielle coverGrayhurst, Allison 11

donors, index.

Jebsen, Jens 13Kurtz, Craig 4Mwanaka, Tendai R. 19Page, Lauren 13Parren, Kristina 5Poddar, Kushal 17Pohlplatz, Kirsten 15

Prihoda, Michael 8-9Savage, W. Jack 10, 18Sen, Adreyo 14Sermersheim, David 14Supriye, Sushant 17Talbot-Heindl, Chris 6, 16

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