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Autumn Tears - Garden Of Crystalline Dreams Love Poems For Dying Children Act II 1997 .rar

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Autumn Tears - Garden Of Crystalline Dreams Love Poems For Dying Children Act II 1997 .rar

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1997 - Love Poems for Dying Children Act II - Garden of Crystalline Dreams

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1997 - Love Poems for Dying Children Act II - Garden of Crystalline Dreams

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Autumn Tears - Love Poems for Dying Children Act 3

2009-09-23 - extension: zip - size: 58 MB

Autumn Tears - Love Poems for Dying Children Act 3

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Janet Kuypers poem "And I'm Wondering" Chicago 08/05/07beach
Janet Kuypers read this poem live at her feature at Beach Poets (with Cathleen Schandelmeier as the (More) Janet Kuypers read this poem live at her feature at Beach Poets (with Cathleen Schandelmeier as the host) August 5, 2007 at Loyola Beach in Chicago. A Listing of all of the poems that were read at this feature follows, and for more material from Janet Kuypers, see http://www.janetkuypers.com for audio and writing. the poem: Under The Sea I'd like to be Under the sea To see the fish go swim, I'd like to squish A jelly fish And then let go of him. I'd like to grab A soft-shelled crab And take him for a walk I'd like to hurdle Over a turtle And teach dolphins to talk. I'd like to see A manatee And then go play by him, I'd like to do All of these things If only I could swim! — the poem: last before extinction Now he has so many opportunities. He has nothing to lose. Why not come out of the wilderness, attack everything it sees. Kill something. Suck the blood out, make him feel alive for once more. Let them try to restrain him. He has nothing to lose. And for now it can fly to the highest redwood, look out over the world. Despise the world, the world that made him be alone, leaving him alone. Who will carry his name? Who will care for him when he is old? Who can he read bed time stories to? Now it can feel death creeping upon him, closer and closer. He wants to scream. He calls upon nature; the tides rise, earthquakes shatter homes. He does not feel vindicated. He has lost. And for now she can swim to the deepest darkest cave in the Pacific, hide from the solitude, swim lower and lower; can she find where all of the other animals of dying species hide, can she find them. There must be others. They can understand, they can live together, at the bottom of the earth. Could they show their pain for their species, share what is left of their love, create a new race? Soon they will be no more and we will be taking their bones, reassembling them, studying their form, rebuilding their lives, revering them more than we ever did in life. This is what it all becomes. This is what it all boils down to. Study the bones. Study the mistakes. Study the bones. — the poem: Slate and Marrow I No one could understand, it was like every morning I couldn't find a reason to wake up. The world felt cold, like slate, like the marble tiles in the front hallway of my parent's house, that floor was always cold, oh, how I'd like to feel the cold against my feet now. But there I was, in some eleven by twelve apartment, room, running from my past, my present. Every morning I would wake up, and I would wake up from that night again - when he came uninvited, or did I invite him? The haze of the drunken nights from then on, wearing the dress, knowing the faceless faces couldn't care less, as long as they could have their way with me later that night. What would my parents think of me now? I'm no longer their little girl. I could feel myself getting older by the minute, I could feel my skin wrinkling, my joints getting stiff. I could feel my bones, the marrow drying up, my bones crumbling away. And every morning I still put on my clothes, got my work together, headed out the door. Could I ever get out of this cycle? And it was if I had never realized that all this time I was looking for a purpose. And it was you. II When I strolled up to the street singer, I stopped because I saw your face. Why on earth did you think you could tell me your secrets when we only met fifteen minutes before? And just being in your presence made me break down, made me hate everything, made me love everything, made me want change. I'd hit you in rage, I'd lean on you, my slate, and you let me. And it was as if the marrow was back. I could just lay in bed at night and feel the blood running through my body, I could feel the oxygen as I inhaled hitting my bloodstream. I could even feel the marrow, all the cells in my body moving faster and faster. My skin would tingle. I suddenly had power - I could make blood move to any part of my body, I could make a pain go away, I could turn myself into stone, not so I was cold and unfeeling, but so I was strong, immovable. And I did it for me, but don't you dare think for a minute that I didn't do it for you. — the poem: i'm thinking about myself too much all of my life it has all been about you what do you need what do you want how can i help you what can i do for you and now for once i start to live and now you tell me that i'm thinking about myself too much and i think back to all the time i've spent with you and all the care i've given you and now you tell me that i'm thinking about myself too much and i've cooked for you and i've cleaned for you and i've made sure everything in your world made sense and now you tell me that i'm thinking about myself too much and all i can think is that you're only angry because i'm thinking about me at all — the poem: Children, Churches, and Daddies And the little girl said to me, "I thought only daddies drank beer." And I found myself trying to make excuses for the can in my hand. I remember being in the church, a guest at a wedding of two people I didn't know. My date pointed out two little boys walking to their seats in front of us. In little suits and cowboy boots, this is what is central Illinois. And my date said he was sure those boys would grow up to be gay. And the worst part was their father was the coach of the high school football team. I think I laughed, but I hesitated. I remember being in the church, it was Christmas Eve, my date's family went up for communion, and all I could think was that singing the hymns was hard enough, I don't know the words, what am I doing here, what am I supposed to do? And I stayed seated, and everyone else slowly walked to the front of the church. Little soldiers in a little line, the little children in their little dresses walking behind their mommies and daddies. And the little girl said, "I thought only daddies drank beer." And I found myself trying to make excuses. — the poem: you once so confidently I found you at the pool hall with your excuses for friends taking a drag from your filtered cigarette I don't even think you inhaled I hurled my anger at you the flames from my eyes struck you but your sculpted hair wasn't even singed and you remained as cool as you imagined yourself to be and as I turned away and stormed toward the swinging door the deafening silence was broken by a feeble cough I looked back and saw you and immobile emotionless statue with beads of sweat running down your forehead as I cocked my head I closed my eyes and the flames I once hurled were extinguished as quickly as the cigarette you once so confidently smoked — the poem: To The River I lead myself to the river to cleanse myself to strip myself of all evils I touch the water with my hand I watch the gentle rippling waves contort my image and change me I wade into the pureness my toes my heels my ankles immersed in the water it pushes against my skin it tingles my nerves the sand at the bottom slides around my toes the coldness of the water numbs me I stand paralyzed to the feeling immobilized by the sensation my tolerance grows and I continue to wade my calves my shins my knees they feel like ice they are changed by the water changed by the feeling I need the river I cannot wait any longer and I dive my hair ripples with the waves as my hands part the water as I swim downward further and further to cleanse myself as the light slowly disappears and I am flooded with new sensations and new emotions but as I rise once again to the surface as I emerge from the river I emerge from the cleansing and the air once again contaminates me with the evils of life — the poem: I Just Waited As I laid in the grass as the breeze rolled past my face you slept like a baby and I just waited I don't know what I was waiting for a change that wouldn't happen a smile of appreciation a warm kiss in the cool afternoon breeze a change that wouldn't happen I could tell you I love you but I'd be lying to the both of us. I could tell you I need you but you wouldn't listen. Sometimes I need to sleep while someone watches over me. I could just walk away and let you sleep yet I can't help but hope that soon you'll arise from your slumber and actually notice that I'm still there. And be happy that I'm still there. — the poem: precinct fourteen it was a long night for us, starting out at your apartment with your roommate's coworkers coming over and making margaritas until two in the morning, but of course we then decided that the best thing to do would be to go out and so off to the blue note we went, found some interesting people to talk to, closed the bar, i think that was the first time i ever did that, closed a late- night bar, i mean, and at four-thirty you drove me home down milwaukee ave and i know it angles, and you can see the traffic light for oncoming traffic as easily as you can see your own light, but i'm sure the light was green, and not red like the cops said, when they pulled you over. you could have been in big trouble that night, no insurance, no city registration sticker, a michigan driver's license when you'd lived in illinois for over a year now, a cracked windshield, running a red light, probably intoxicated. so they brought us to the station at five a.m., and all they did was write you a ticket, and they gave me a business card, said if we had any problems to give them a call. you drove me home, and the cops met us there, too, hitting on me again, and although we both agreed that the night was a lot of fun, even with the involvement of the fourteenth precinct, i still believe that damn light wasn't even red. — the poem: philosopher at the blue note he seemed so interested in philosophy, which seemed strange, sitting at a bar at about one-thirty in the morning, it didn't seem the time or place for philosophy. but i asked questions anyway, so do you believe in a god, and if so do you believe in a mono- or polytheistic religion? and he answered by saying that everyone has a god, whether it be their soul or an icon they pray to every night before they go to bed. and that it doesn't matter what form the god takes for a person, because the moral values are similar in most every religion, what matters is that we have a god of one sort or another. that most people don't pay attention to their spirituality, who they are or what they really want. no, they don't, i thought, and was amazed that this drunk man was able to formulate cohesive thoughts at two-thirty in the morning. but then, of course, he had to mention something about sexuality, and then i realized that it was all one long, drawn- out come on, then he asked me for my phone number and i gave him a fake one, and then he tried to kiss me, and i pushed him away and he ended up running out of the bar. so much for phil- osophy, i thought, and i went home once again, alone with my morals, or values, or whatever the hell you want to call them, wondering if there is anyone out there like me. — the poem: Freedom just past the Fence After working for the Army for years on repairing jet engines I ended up being stationed in Pennsylvania one summer repairing air conditioners and refrigerators. I'd only do a little work and then have nothing to do for a day or two. But the thing I remember is that at the time Cubans were defecting to the United States by boat. They'd sail to Florida, most of then dehydrated and all of them malnourished. The U.S. government didn't want them spreading diseases in our country, so when the Cubans would appear off the coast of Miami, the military would be waiting to make sure they were healthy. Well, all I knew was that they got all these Cubans into trucks we called 'cattle cars' with only a few benches and trucked them up to Pennsylvania, where I was, and the military gave them some shots to make sure they weren't dying. So these people, after escaping their country in a shoddy wooden boat were taken by the U.S. military, herded into a boxed-in truck and shipped up the country so they could be given shots and detained. These Cubans, who came here wanting freedom, now had to wait in a fenced-in area until they were tested and given food. And it was my job to make sure that their fridge and air conditioner was working. So I sat there for a day or two at a time, drinking cans of beer, and looking out my window. I had a view of the razor wire fence and all I remember was seeing all of these Cubans leaning on the chain-link fence, wondering if this was what it was like to be free, holding on to the metal, looking out to what they were sure was freedom. — the poem: Writing Your Name I sat there in the shade I took a stick I wrote your name in the ground preacher says the number one sin is lust then I am condemned to Hell for I want you and I don't care what preacher says for if the elements wash away your name tonight I will be back tomorrow to write it again. — the poem: The Beach At Night it is getting dark the day is slowly transforming itself into night the beautiful, colorful sunburst of colors sinks into the waters of the ocean the slow, steady lapping of the waves accompanies you the soft, cold sand is pressed against your feet look around this is the beach at night — the poem: All Men Have Secrets all men have secrets and here is mine. Strength is my weakness and now my shoulders don't stay in place. You ask me to open my eyes but they are. At least I think they are. Why don't you take me in your arms? Why don't you seduce me? Tear me in half. Rip me apart. Just don't cast me aside. I don't want to be strong. Be strong for me, so that I can adjust my chin and not have to worry about whether or not my eyes are open. — the poem: moonlight moonlight is a hypnotist putting people in a trance whenever you look at it it takes over your soul no one can stop it but no one wants to — the poem: too far When he met me he told me I looked like Kim Basinger long blonde locks but as time wore on I knew I wasn't her and I could never be her and I was never good enough thin enough pretty enough I got a perm straightened my teeth bought a wonder bra but it wasn't doing the trick I bought slimfast used the stair stepper ate rice cakes and wheat germ but I wasn't thin enough I only dropped twenty pounds so I went to the spa got my skin peeled soaked myself in mud wrapped myself in cellophane bought the amino acid facial creams but I knew they didn't really work so I went to the doctor got my nose slimmed my tummy stapled my thighs sucked thought about getting a rib or two removed like Cher but I figured they've got to be there for something and hey, that's just going too far — the poem: dive The water has always called to me. I had to go, I know you don't understand, but it was the end for me. You stand on the edge of the cliff, waiting, hoping, but I'm gone. I left. I was gone before I dove into the murky water. The pain that was inside me is now in the water. The tides are now stronger. They will pull the next one in with even more power. It may be you. The birds are chirping in the trees. A car will soon drive by on the road not far from your path. Life will go on, even without me. My spirit was here, in the water, before I left. I had to go. Try to understand. — the poem: And I'm Wondering I'm wondering if there's something chemical that brings people together, something that brings people to their knees, somethings that sucks them in And I'm wondering if you're sensing what I'm sensing, is it just me, am I making this up in my head, or when I glance up and catch your eyes, well, are you actually staring at me And I'm wondering if it could work out this time, if we'd have one of those relationships that no one ever doubts, especially us, because we know we'll always be in love And I'm wondering if you'd find my neurotic pet-peeves charming like how I hate it when someone touches my belly because I'm so self conscious And I'm wondering why you had to tell me when we happened to be sitting next to each other that the fact that our legs were almost touching was making your heart race And I'm wondering why I felt the need to take your cigarette and inhale, exhale while the filter was still warm from your lips, there just seconds before And I'm wondering if a year or two from now, after we've been going out and should have gotten to the point where we are bored with each other and sink into a comfortable rut if you saw me making macaroni and cheese in the kitchen using margarine and water because I'm out of milk and I've got my hair pulled back and strands are falling into my eyes and I'm wearing an oversized button-down denim shirt and nothing else, well, what I'm wondering is if you would see me like this and still think I was sexy When I glance up and catch your eyes from across the room, when I see your eyes dart away, when I feel this chemical reaction, well, what I'm wondering is, can you feel it too (Less)

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Janet Kuypers, poem (part) "In The Air" live 07/17/07 #1
Janet Kuypers performs this piece, along with poems and prose during the July 17 2007 performance (More) Janet Kuypers performs this piece, along with poems and prose during the July 17 2007 performance art show "Living in a Big World", live 07/17/07 at the Cafe (5115 North Lincoln Avenue, in Chicago, Illinois). The show contained poems and music from assorted musicins from Wisconsin, Ohio, Tennessee, New Mexico, and even Canada, as well as original sampled music, include the writings listed toward the bottom of this show explanation. But in this show, Janet Kuypers, because shw was exemplifying living in a big world (the title of the show), she drew a large chair, painted it onto a white canvas (which actually was a bunch of pieces of 8.5" x 11" paper stuck together) and attached it to a wooden base, so she could literally sit in a drawing of a large chair (it was 60" wide, actually). The visual display of the artwork projected onto a large paper screen for this show (which once again was actually a bunch of pieces of 8.5" x 11" paper stuck together)was a drawn TV, and inside the TV a bunch of Janet Kuypers photographs from around the world was shown in this "drawn" TV. Artwork included in the projected "television" display included: The Reischtag in Berlin Germany, Tiananmen Square in Beijing China, a building in Agrigento in Cicily Italy, Air Force One with President George H. W. Bush at Pease Air Force Base in Omaha, Nebraska, a downed airplane in Joliet, Illinois, an airplane in Naples Florida, the Arbeit Macht Frei gate at the Dachau Concentration Camp in Dachau Germany, Arches National Park in Utah, Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington Virginia, Bad Gastein Austria, as bamboo frest in Oahu Hawaii, a building in Bruxelles.Belgium, castles in Rome, the Chicago skyline from Lake Michigan with superimposed landmarks like an Egyptian pyramid and a building from India and the Eiffel Tower and Big Ben and Russian churches and a mountain from the Alps, the Colloseum in Rome, a mermaid statue in Copenhagen Denmark, the White Cliffs of Dover in England, the Eiffel Tower in Paris France, el Yunque tropical rain forest in Puerto Rico, Tallinn Estonia, Gettysburg Pennsylvania, a gondola in Venice Italy, the Great Wall of China, the Senate Square Cathedral in Helsinki Finland, highrises in Shanghai China, the Hollywood sign in California, hot strings in Wyoming, a destroyed house after Katrina in New Orleans Louisiana, a King Tut like human Egyptian statue in Paris France, the Last Vegas skyline, the Louvre, Luxembourg, Michael Stipe of R.E.M. in Urbana Illinois, a painted building in Montreal Canada, a lefe-side replica of the Parthenon in Nashville Tennessee, a glove statue in front of a church in Omaha Nebraska, a pagoda near Beijing China, salvages wall art work in Pompeii, the Pyramid of Cestius in Rome, St. Petersburg Russia, San Francisco, the Seasttle Space Needle in Washington, Siberia from the sky, a video still of shydiving near the Rockies in Longmont Colorado, the space shuttle in Cape Canaveral, the Statue of Liberty in New Jersey/New York, a stop sign in Mexico (that says "alto"), Stockholm Sweden, Olympic Natl. Park Temperate Rain Forest in Washington, the Temple of Vesta in Rome, the Vatican, and Zurich Switzerland. These are the writing included in the live show: the poem: Paranoia we sit here at dinner. I try to breathe. My hands rest on my thighs. I must watch to be sure, everything must be right: the silverware, small fork, large fork, plate, knife, large spoon, small spoon. Water glass. Wine glass. I know no one else sees them: the fish, the red fish, in the curtains along the wall. You have to watch them. My eyes always glance there. They are evil fish. They sit in the curtains, they wait, and then they come out. And the yogurt, the yogurt is the only thing that can save me from them. throw the yogurt, take a spoon, use your hands. Anything. And we sat there before dinner, and he ate his yogurt with his first spoon before I could stop him. How could you do this? How can you save yourself now? Will I have to save you again, do you even understand the danger — the prose: Man Who Talks Loud... Say Nothing I try to learn about the world, try to understand the world. While first traveling, I did a MidWest tour of poetry, then was in a Chicago poetry show at the National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I sell my performance art audio on iTunes & Naster, I try to share myself with the world, but I wonder if I'm actually getting through to anyone. I heard a Native American man, whose parents were from two different tribes (meaning that he could never truly have an allegiance with just one tribe), say that after he traveled extensively, he tried to tell his story to the people of either tribe, and no one wanted to even listen to him. They called him Ex-eh-ba-che, which means "man who talks loud... say nothing." Ex-eh-ba-che. "Man who talks loud... say nothing." Oh, what am I saying, I've been around the world, but I've never talked to a Native American. That was actually from a movie I saw, I don't even know if "Ex-eh-ba-che" is a real word or means anything. But... If I want to see something about the world around me, maybe I should turn on the tee vee, I mean, if news channels can have reporters in war zones, there's got to be something worth watching. Maybe I'll just get out the remote and turn on the tee vee, then press the play button and see what's out there in the world. — the poem: Fighting I Can Do I know these are normal things for me to be going through I know that I have been raped and beaten I know they've tried to kill me and lucky me, I survived I think I can survive everything they throw at me But as time wears on little pieces of this statue are chipped away everybody wants something, right? well, they've been taking from me and taking and taking and taking and my defenses are getting weaker and I don't know how much more fighting I can do — the poem: I Want you know what I want? i want a big house with filtered central air and i want a big lawn so i can recreate nature and i want a big fence so i'll know what's mine and i want the evergreens trimmed into neat little balls, because it has to look neat. plant everything in a row. and i want to spray chemicals on my lawn to keep the dandelions away and i want a plastic lobster bib over my fancy dress at the fancy restaurant and don't forget the hundred dollar champagne and i want a big fat car, and i want someone else to drive it and i want the two kids, one boy, one girl and i want a nanny to take care of them for me i want to be famous i want everyone to love me i want it i want it all — the prose: Adjusting Your Beliefs We lived in Pennsylvania for 6 months, and while I continued my work with cc&d magazine, I got a P.O. box in the town Intercourse Pennsylvania. And actually, it was an amish town, and we would go to the store there to stock up on spices, and the amish people who worked there were all short - Now, I know I'm tall, but when I say they were short I should also say that their heads looked child-like... that the people working there looked like they had a mild form, or early stages of, downs syndrome. We could only guess by looking at the faces of these people that the Amish had too severe a history of inbreeding, and no one new came into their community. And recently I was in Champaign to plant a tree, and we stopped at a mall and there was this hydro massage store in the mall - it was this temporary place that had booths set up for individuals to lay down in, and many jets of water pulsated into plastic sheets over the person's body, it was a massage thing that people could pay for. Now, I had seen things like this before, but I was told I should try this, you know, just splurge, so I was in this thing that looked like a tanning bed for your body with your head sticking out at the end, and John talked to a few girls there, because he noticed how they looked liked they were dressed in near Amish, or Mennonite, clothing. And he found out that these girls were in their late teens, and they came in from out of town on a bus trip; yes, they were Amish, but yes, this was a trip sponsored by their Amish community, and one of the girls said she was on this trip to hopefully find a husband. And it seems that they were doing this, they were allowing this much technology into the outskirts of their lives, to find someone else to have children with. Ah, the choices we make. The sacrifices we make to help our lives, or the things we are willing to destroy when faced with insurmountable decisions. — the poem: A Retired Policeman Talks About Suicides He's Seen As a cop, I remember one lady, we found her in her bathtub, she cut her throat. That's odd, for women, normally they take pills, they don't like to disfigure themselves. But she knew what she was doing, cutting her throat in a full bath. Less messy that way. Autopsy said she was full of barbiturates. She was a nurse, that explained how she knew how to do it, but then we found out that she was pregnant, too. And to top it off, her brother was a priest. — the prose: Technology and Communication (which is prose that has a bit of the poem "Communication '05" in it) Oh, I'm sorry. I was listening to my iPod. Oh, wait, let me see, maybe I can hook this up to play the music for you. You know, I was thinking about it - advancements in technology have been a wonderful thing, and many say it's brought the world closer together, have kept people more connected. And on some levels I can totally agree with that - I mean, I read submissions from email, saving paper and ink and postage, I keep magazines on line so people around the world can read good writing, I've even had musicians from Wisconsin, Ohio and Tennessee find my readings and set music to my words. But in the same respect, I sit all day at the same desk, staring at the web sites for the domain names I run, instead of actually meeting and working with people. I mean, at one point, the people i emailed the most lived in the same city as me, and were only a local call away. in fact, one of my friends lived a block-and-a-half away from me, on the same street as me, but i still emailed her as much as i'd call her, even though i could just walk over to her house and have an actual conversation with her. And even the phone, with cell phones you can carry a phone with you wherever you go, so you'll never be lonely, but it seems to give teenagers another reason to talk endlessly on the phone... And I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to attack someone at a bar, who is there with friends, who gets a walkie-talkie-style call from someone, and they take turns screaming their heads off to get little phrases to someone who couldn't even be there with them. I mean, the iPhone just came out, combining a cell phone with an iPod, as well as email and Internet web browsing. But some bits of technology allow you to tune the world out, like the iPod here. When people see these headphones on someone, they know that you've apparently found something bigger and better than them for their lives right now... But even without technology, when I go for walks every morning, I wear the iPod, but I also wear sunglasses, even if it's overcast, so no one knows if I am studying every person I pass. With a lot of the technology we have now, we can learn about the rest of the world - or we can tune out the rest of the world and ignore any news that doesn't fit in with what we want to believe. — the poem: The Carpet Factory, The Shoes i heard a story today about a little boy one of many who was enslaved by his country in child labor in this case he was working for a carpet factory he managed to escape he told his story to the world he was a hero at ten but the people from the factory held a grudge and today i heard that the little boy was shot and killed on the street he was twelve and then people complain to me when i buy shoes that are made in china now i have to think did somebody have to die for these will somebody have to die for these — the prose: Differences in China: children & trains Children in different parts of the world... I saw in China once a little boy outside, a toddler, drop his pants at the street side at a market and just start pissing on the sidewalk. And as I saw this, I saw that all the people there weren't even bothered by this... Someone explained to me that while they're little, toddler boys in China can go to the bathroom like that outside - but if he goes number 2, the mother has to pick up his feces (you know, like they were taking care of a dog). But on the trains in China, they had a television screen in every car, with clips from what seemed like "America's Funniest Home Videos." Well, I couldn't understand a thing anyone was saying in China on this show on the train, but you couldn't help but watch, and you couldn't help but laugh. It was a great means of bringing levity when you're on a public train, like when you're on your way to work every morning on the el. — the poem: Private Lives 2005 sitting on the el train i saw a middle-eastern man sitting across from me holding a large Zip-Loc bag of some sort of food paste, i couldn't tell, it looked like some sort of curry-filled food paste and the man looked unhappy, and after a few minutes i saw him open up the Zip-Loc bag, throw up into it, then close the bag again so, he was carrying his vomit with him on the el at least he had a bag he could seal it up with — the prose: Passport To Outer Space And a lot of us have experiences around the city, and I've tried to see the world, not just this continent, but 15 European countries, Russia, China... I've searched for these stories around the world, I've gotten my passport stamped like mad... but my sister told me about Don Stump, a friend of my dad's who ran a restaurant, well, his father-in-law apparently bought and had the rights to the space in outer space (you know, like all of the space beyond out atmosphere between planets and stars and comets and asteroids and stuff...). My sister even said that his father-in-law stamped the passports of the astronauts that went into outer space, since they were crossing the areas he owned. But Don Stump was pushed away from their house once, because at least two men from the FBI were there... Apparently Don's father-in-law was minting coins, it wasn't money that was valid anywhere, but it's illegal for U.S. residents to try to make any sort of profit this way, the way they might have potentially done. Now, Don and his wife and parents have passed away, so.... I guess there's no way I can pay them for having my passport stamped for going to outer space. But when you're up high in the Earth's atmosphere, a lot of places look the same. I mean, Siberia, with snow peaks and mountain lines along the eastern coast, looks like the Rockies in America in the winter. It's only when you get closer to the ground do you see the real differences. — parts of the poem: In The Air Chicago looks grand from the sky with this huge expanse of lake next to it, like civilization crept up as far as it could but finally had to stop. The power of nature stopping the power of mankind... Daylight, and the snow on the ground in the winter time looks dirty, too many cars have splashed mud on it as they drove by. And in the winter the sky always matches the shade of grey of the snow: fitting for the city of the Blues. Maybe the snow is already that color, that perfect shade of grey, when it falls from the sky in this city. When I'm in the air, I like to look out the window. Clouds look like cotton balls when you're above them, and when you're landing cars look like little ants, on a mission, bringing food back to their hill. And the streets look like veins, capillaries in some massive, monstrous body. And the farmlands look like little squares of colors. I wonder why each plot of land is a different color, what's growing there that makes them different. Or maybe it's that some of them are turning shades of red and brown because they are dying. And it always seems on a plane that you're stuck sitting next to someone that is either too wide for their seat, or is a businessman with his newspaper stretched out and his lap top computer on his little fold out table. Once, when I was on a flight back from D. C., a flight attendant walked by, stack of magazines in her hand, Time, Newsweek, Businessweek, and I stopped her, asking what magazines she had. And she replied, "Oh, these magazines are for men." This is a true story. And I asked her again what she had. I had already read Time, so I took Newsweek. — the poem: On An Airplane With A Frequent Flyer "I was once on a flight to Hawaii and I was waiting in line for the lavatory. There was always a line for a flight this long, you know, it seemed the washrooms were always on demand on a flight this long. So I finally got into the washroom, you know, and I looked into the toilet, and someone, well, lost the battle against a very healthy digestive system and left the "spoils" in the toilet, stuck. Maybe it didn't want to go down into the sewage tank where all the other waste from this long trip went to. Can you imagine all the stuff this airplane had to carry across the ocean? Well, anyway, so I saw this stuck in the toilet, and I went to the washroom, and when I was done i flushed and it still wouldn't budge, and so I opened the door and walked out into the aisle of the plane again. And there was this long line of people waiting to use this cramped little washroom, and I just wanted to tell them all, 'you know, I didn't do that.' And then it occurred to me that everyone, when they leave the bathroom on that plane, will think the exact same thing." — and the prose: Around the World, & sweet home Chicago And you know, I talk about travel around the world, but where we come from shows who we are. I mean, once I was on the other side of the world, at the Summer Palace, and an older man came over to me, knowing little english, and said, "My daughter and I wanted to know where you were from." So... not knowing how much geography they knew, I said, "I'm from the United States, in Illinois, in Chicago." And that's when this old man from the other side of the world said, "oh... my kind of town." And I started laughing, knowing the song, and then he said, "Frank Sinatra sang that." and I laughed more, then realizing that although I try to learn about the world, but my soul still hold on to my Chicago roots, other editors even comment on my style of writing being affected by being from the MidWest, being from Chicago... being from here affects my style and my art, oftentimes as much as my family history. I talk about learning stories from around the world, but I think we can also learn from stories right here, and as we live in this big world, it helps us to not feel small, but to grow larger than life. — For more information on this writing and other writings from Janet Kuypers, go to http://www.janetkuypers.com for more information and details. (Less)

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