of Saked CA Kinds CA Giterary Zine

Welcome to Issue 9 of It Takes All Kinds!

This issue marks a return to a quarterly publication schedule, with an aim to have issues in January (or early February for this issue), April, July, and October.

There’s a lot of excellent writing and photography in this issue. I hope you enjoy it. To read back issues and find submission guidelines for future issues, see www.motusaudax.com.

Skaja Front cover image: John Patrick Robbins January 2023 Back cover image: Karen Tardiff

Image by Michael Hough

A Personal Polemic By Kevin M. Hibshman

I resist the dictates of the feeble-minded who attempt to use religion as a bargaining chip.

I stay far from “believers” who subscribe to an individualized dogma specifically tailored to suit them.

Let them live in their nonsensical realm of lies and delusion. Trouble only begins when they stretch their scrawny necks out their second- story windows to mind MY business.

Fuck off you despots!

Haven't we seen enough of these power-hungry, mentally unstable tyrants?

Why don't we band together and get rid of them ONCE AND FOR ALL?

Racists and super creeps.

Zealots and denier freaks.

Followers of idiot speech.

Let's flush them all down the drain in the interest of humanity! We don't need to see anymore suffering at the hands of the lawless who hide behind badges.

How keep our children off the paths where these monsters roam, In the churches, in the schools, in the home?

Stop supporting stupid people interested in exploiting your hard-earned cash.

How awake IS “woke”?

Is it simply more useless rhetoric coming off as a bad joke?

Must our extinction become a self-fulfilled prophecy?

Liars who desire to re-write history and alter the facts to protect a fallacy, an obsolete myth.

We must do better, folks!

We can no longer pretend that we haven't been warned.

Photo by Michael Hough

Let’s hear that again By Michael Hough

Wind and winter night

sing their own tight harmony as we huddle close.

Doors creak and our trees flex their naked limbs in a North wind off the lake.

...Bad night for sailors... Wave tops turn to icy spray here on our lee shore...

Warm under a throw

we read tales to each other as the dogs listen

hearing the inflexions and understanding tone of voice.

River Nimrodel! may she run forever clear... ...Let's hear that again

Images by Skaja Evens

It Takes More Than A Storm by John Patrick Robbins

All you can ever do is write to get through the bullshit in life.

From the assholes that judge you.

To the ones who stole your affections and tried to break you.

Don't ever let a bitter soul poison your own.

It happens all too easy in this life.

And once you break, the chances of becoming anything

more than an afterthought are slim to none.

Embrace the storm ahead, laugh within its wrath, be the madman instead of the lap dog they often groom you to be.

Anyone can settle to be half-ass. Be more than what you're handed.

And never hide in a shadow. When you can so easily carve a path through the mire.

Failure is only for the bitter hearts that never learned to try.

Every storm passes. And embrace the calm afterwards.

For only those who withstood can ever truly comprehend.

My only question is: are you still standing?

Image by Skaja Evens

Cover The Mirrors Sometimes she forgot to cover the

By Lynn White cage,

though never the mirrors All the mirrors were covered and then every night I would examine the mirrors in my grandmother’s house carefully

to check that it was me in there and not his feathered soul.

draped with coloured cloths like the budgie’s cage.

She was wotried Then

that a soul might wander I would check his cage to make and be sucked into the reflective sure

glass that he was still inside

and she thought with his soul intact

the souls of dreamers were very She told me not to worry vulnerable. that his cage was only covered I thought that the budgie must be to make it dark

covered so he would sleep.

But I didn’t believe her. even with the door closed, It made no sense

his soul might fly the cage if it was dark anyway. and So I always checked disappear into the mirror. the mirrors.

because at night

His Flaw By Ashley Karlsson

Is in his damaged soul.

The Platypus Is A Cunt By Koala man

Who still hasn't paid me for my

And the baggage is more than anyone can handle, including himself.

gas for taking him to Queensland. And he drank me last Fosters.

Gas isn't free and life is rough in I watch; an onlooker to a final act the bush. I cannot bear to witness. Stick to your own kind; charity is for that cunt Jesus. Truth is cruel as so is life. He loves me so he says. I think that makes him a poofter by default.

I Don’t Like People (Shocker!) By Scott Simmons

I’ve walked straight into people and I didn’t feel remotely obligated to say sorry.

However, when I bumped into a mannequin at a mall.

i noticed all the holes By Linda M. Crate

one day i woke up,

decided i’d had enough headaches and disrespect through the years;

all you wanted was for our threadbare friendship to remain intact but i couldn’t seea reason for it because we were not close any longer—

all we had to speak of was

our shared past,

but when i started looking closer at the fabric

i noticed all the holes;

and how i was the only one that watered the garden of our friendship

so i decided enough was enough—

you told me once that you didn’t miss people,

so don’t start missing me now.

And gave it my deepest apologies

I think it’s because I relate much more to a lifeless husk

Than any human I’ve ever met.

No wonder I became a writer.

my time with the wolves By Scott Ferry

began when my son was born when the fear of all fires forced me into caves

of my own burning

my wife lures me out

saying you are still not here my husband where are you? and in order to return

ineed to admit that iam covered

in blood and silence

that i have been unable

to swallow the gristle and tendon

of the daylit war

and when i admit that i forgot how to laugh i begin to weep and weep

and she holds my pinkbody as i crawl out of the dark throat into a surrender—

nothing breathing everything breathing

Image by Skaja Evens

Proofters Ahoi By Koala man

I set me Foster cans around the perimeter.

I kept my fire low and remained silent in the bush.

I found an Elton John cd around me camp.

I damn near was infiltrated. Good thing I hadn't dropped the soap around the billabong. I don't want to go waltzing sideways.

Piss off Matilda, you bloody poof.

Sketch Artist By Koala man

Coloring in charcoal because I am no poof.

Art is not just for the ladies. It's why I only sketch my enormous didgeridoo.

The vibration is exquisite as a cold Fosters in the crack of the arse of the morning Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!

Self-Referential Blowjob By Scott Simmons

There’s always a song about making songs. Films about making movies.

And Poems about writing poems.

So, did I write this shit to be profound? Or to make an inspiring statement?

Fuck no, I’m lazy.

I just did something you fucktards would read. And pretend to relate with.

So I can sell more shit.

Words on this page by Jerome Berglund

Rainbow

thru the gale and blowing snow a shriek unplaced

Mississippi sends buoyant cremains back up — geese nibble, relaxed

unacknowledged recurring ghost trope

standard fare, tortured characters

hypostress the pregnancy in pauses trigger warning

still sweltering in the dark peel off plaid shirt: heat rash

Tin Heart

jet plastic bag on tree across street from a flag billowing in unison

appreciate orange cone — would prefer though if you’d fix that giant pothole

ultraviolet light on the crime scene — things rather not see

transparency unwelcome ideal when insides are blackened and veins blue

on warm days with windows raised high better hear chirping

Moons of Pluto

upturned squirrel flowers in mouth looks like

driving to school returning home from work ..always pointed at sun!

each shovel-full from path against the wind flies back in my face

also need spend money to not make money — dead plants by post

prize coconut balanced on blue cheese... Jenga tower pulls

deep endgame

Image by Skaja Evens

i want to write a novel about fish in sewers By Scott Ferry

and ice skating on salt want to dig until the excuses

scare off the sex want to shun the congregation

want to choose the mysterious limp chop the weather with nude verbs spray lust on the shiny god

i swim but that is normal i do not carry this body

it follows me through atmosphere

i joke when i am frightened i see a burning tower

in my dreams i am upside down and laugh retroesophageal i misplace the function of speaking under this heavy light imispronounce fish when swimming under the city

i find all the scales in a church

shiny skins lost in the psalms eyes as if floating

but what have i found when i keep having to confess? that’s not luxury that’s bad television

iscrape all my armor into a bag

limp into the church leave it there among

the fires

Rumination By Scott Simmons

Was it stupid for us to ever try dating? To put it politely it was clinically retarded.

So, do I miss your sorry ass? Yes, I do quite literally.

Seriously I wish I still had those nudes. But the sexy stuff isn’t really what I missed.

It was simply hearing your voice every night.

Image by Michael Hough

Tomorrow find the way By Michael Hough

A lonesome wrangler

rides out on the rimrock trail to think some things through... ..listen to the big sky night and tomorrow find the way.

A good horse don't think so much, she just wants some feed ; and a good long drink...

..At the hid water hole, them

flies quit when the sun goes down

Fingerless Painting By John Patrick Robbins

I think most readers are void of any hope, as writers are just boring in general. Kissing ass and stapling books.

Hope is a great drug and will kill you as fast as heroin. I have neither hope nor any form of happiness. But I do have pages to pen and drugs to consume and some

people to make cry.

I can't change the course of a one-way ticket bearing straight toward hell.

Either accept it as my truth or whisper bullshit underneath your breath.

I cut deep; keep that in mind. And that's the difference between real and fake.

Death is my promise; what is created in between is a reward of hard work and lack of anything better to screw.

No, that wasn't a typo; now, move on to safer ventures, children.

The killing fields of amadman's mind are no place for you to play.

Image by Onnie Pendergraft

Image by Michael Hough

Today a Winter wind By Michael Hough

In my dream I could

understand your thoughts and hear the pulse of your heart.

So, I dreamed you touched my face as if not so much time had passed.

Quiet for a bit

I see you by morning light from the East window

just before you came awake smiling in an easy dream.

Today a winter wind filled my tracks with sand and snow as I look behind.

i want a set of instructions By Scott Ferry

from god but none of what is written lasts i find some answers as crying turns to laughter and back

as health turns to illness and back as rain and wind

and dry heat syphon each other out of the frame

and even then it is how i love which matters

whether the anger and loss can

be warmed by forgiveness Troubles

whether my gripping fingers By Ashley Karlsson rip the paper or fold it wipe off the blood Ne are at a dilemma, as place it again into g

this hollow

they’ll never forget me By Linda M. Crate You are a tragic story I

cannot bear to read.

they wanted me to be aurora,

but i have always been maleficent; So I am closing the iwas always magic and wit, ter here.

and wings to carry me through the

Skies;

they didn’t trust my magic nor my wings but i didn’t trust their intentions—

just wanted me to find a philip,

but i have had my fair share of stephens

Instead; _NotI, Captain.

and iam tired of iron and losing my wings— a

they wanted me to be sweet and contrite,

never putting up a fuss and to be perfectly

ladylike; but i think a lady should define

herself and so i decided to become a legend— they’ ll always forget aurora, they’!l never forget me.

Skaja Evens is a writer and artist living in SE Virginia. She edits It Takes All Kinds, a litzine published by Motus Audax Press. Publications include The Rye Whiskey Review, The Crossroads Lit Magazine, Blue Pepper, Medusa’s Kitchen, and Synchronized Chaos. She can be found listening to music, considering the impossible, and enjoying her cats’ antics.

Sir John Patrick Robbins is the Pushcart Prize darling and runner up for America’s Next Top Model For The Blind. He is currently on tour in Narnia. He is a hairdresser in Long Island and is making plans to relocate to Oslo, Norway to dedicate his life to preaching the word of Satan. He likes pussy and unprotected sex. He once drank water thinking it was vodka. It sucked ass.

Scott Simmons is a writer/humorist from Houston Texas and is also the editor of The Dope Fiend Daily. His work has been featured in The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Death Nail, The Anti Heroin Chic, Duane’s Poe tree and The Black Shamrock.

Karen Tardiff has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. Her works have appeared in several anthologies and journals, both online and in print. She founded the Aransas County Poetry Society. She is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing. Find her at

karenthepoet.com.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places, and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy, and reality. Nominations include Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes.

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

Kevin M. Hibshman has had his poetry, prose, reviews, and collages published around the world. He has edited his own poetry journal, FEARLESS, for the past thirty years. He has authored sixteen chapbooks, including Incessant Shining (2011, Alternating Current Press). His latest books: Just Another Small Town Story and The Mirror Masks Nothing, a co-authored book with John Patrick Robbins published by Whiskey City Press, are now available on AMAZON.

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works have been published widely both online and in print. She has twelve published poetry chapbooks, the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For

Jerome Berglund has many haiku, senryu and tanka exhibited and forthcoming online and in print, most recently in the Asahi Shimbun, Bear Creek Haiku, Bamboo Hut, Bottle Rockets, Cold Moon Journal, Daily Haiga, Failed Haiku, Frogpond, Haiku Dialogue, Haiku Seed, It Takes All Kinds, Japan Society, Poetry Pea, Scarlet Dragonfly, Triya, Under the Basho, Wales Haiku Journal, and the Zen Space.

Onnie Pendergraft: A flawed human, practicing presence, trying to embody the essence of kindness; who writes haikus, and sometimes blogs about her life, nutrition, mental health, and yoga. Instagram: embracewellnesswithonnie

Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal as an RN in the Seattle area. His most recent book, The Long Blade of Days Ahead, is now available from Impspired Press. More of his work can be found @ ferrypoetry.com.

Michael Hough is a retired musician and professional photographer, with decades of experience in both careers. He toured as amember of the Mustards Retreat folk group for 44 years. He lives in Northern lower Michigan, USA continuing to write poetry across several genres, songs, and short fiction. He has been a writer since high school and college.

Ashley Karlsson is a poet from Oxnard California currently living in North Carolina. Her work has been published in The Rye Whiskey Review and the Dope Fiend Daily she is currently working on her first book to be released by Whiskey City Press.

Koala Man escaped Area 51 and now resides in the bush in Australia. He is a fifteen time Emu award winning poet. He has published 15000 chapbooks, more than most cunts in Canada or the US. He is working on building the tree house of lucky Sheila's dreams. He avoids poofters at all costs.

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