The Chronic Malcontent

A zine for constructive complaining

How wonderful to be happy
With restlessness -
To feel that surge of power
And unbounded joy
Like a child, shot out of school
By last day fever
Exceeding human limits
And breaking new ground every second.
To feel that internal vibration
And see the incredible external result
Through earthly cares and
Everyday matters
Like some biological Klieg light;
Focusing attention on you,
The creator of some unimaginable thing -

The unreal become real.

Copyright 2004 Sue Klaus

From "Looking for the Twenty-First
Century Relationship 1993
SNOWBLIND - Denise Walker

In a land of cold grew a passion,
Core of fire at the heart of the storm;
Fiery youth, causing age to pass:  

She grew young again.

In that blistering cold, venturing forth         
Because the numbness of it outstripped
The numbness inside, we were -

They were snowblind:              

Laughing eyes, touching hands                         
Holding back time
and the return to responsibility,


will this infatuation born of winter
Melt as snow does?

In stolen seconds she fell fast
Stolen from the teeth of chaos
Deposited on the shore of a forbidden eyeland

Too fast?  The law of all or none,
All at once or not at all
All the law she knows.

Till, like vapor trails of night fliers
Came sunrise, herald of beginnings:
Beginnings the best, delicious unknowns.

She woke to rumors, legends, stories of him
Phantom of unconsciousness,
Too many long nights alone

Tangled and burning with nowhere to turn
An infection of dreams
From which she cannot wake,

Shading her days with a haze of longing;
Nights burn with desire.  At the core of it,
Still, the illicit display of molten youth.

She is the fire, usually hidden.
You could not know.

And now in circles she turns,
Burning endlessly, her path a dance
On trails of mist; all changes wrought
A distance falling, calling out for bold

Secret, her beam of absolute fixation
Fix on the magic, will it to live
Like film exposure star trails,
Caught for all time.

Burning close now, burning both ends
The midnight wick; passion's fire,
The torch that splits the night.

Days become only time to be spent waiting.
And in the night, in the dark
She keeps seeing your eyes

And wondering
Your Flowers, Your Garden

Your flowers, your garden,
Wealth of colors, bright each day -
Sweet tomatoes, ruddy rhubarb,
Purple beans and strawberries.

Your toolbox, your workshop,
What on earth is a repairman?
Somethings broken? Let's go fix it
Jars of bolts, of nails and gaskets

Your children, their antics,
Their decisions, your headaches -
Do not fear, for we all love you
Vale of tears, revolts, and all.

For John Seniw - 1907-2003

from your daughter, the writer.
A Compact One-act Play

He roared

"Where is my kippered

She smiled, sweetly,
and as if she were
saying "I love you,
dear," said,

"Three cans should be
enough for anybody."