ULA Poetry and Fiction

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44224793106448714822011-10-27T10:07:10.971-07:00ULA Poetry and FictionULA Poetry and Fictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04512954050047393983noreply@blogger.comBlogger351100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-19102312136025975252011-03-02T07:34:00.001-08:002011-03-02T07:37:16.117-08:00"I Didn't Know"POETRY BY KING WENCLAS<br /><br />I didn't know when I strangled you<br />that you couldn't take a joke,<br />swollen tongue drooling<br />over my teak wood coffee table<br />imported from Asia,<br />eyes bulging unattractively,<br />staring at the ceiling,<br />you used to be pretty,<br />now your wasted life for having known me<br />is soiling my carpeting.<br /><br />-King Wenclas 2011<br /><a href="http://www.americanpoplit.blogspot.com/">www.americanpoplit.blogspot.com</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-1910231213602597525?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-90242751664935169942009-05-23T20:17:00.000-07:002009-06-10T08:53:39.698-07:00adam MEORA , Three crazy wisdom from philly's poetry wise-guy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/Shi9h5R96NI/AAAAAAAAA6o/Rgl-YILfpDU/s1600-h/114(4).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339225748257237202" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/Shi9h5R96NI/AAAAAAAAA6o/Rgl-YILfpDU/s200/114%284%29.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>Shamanic Paper Cuts </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">homeless derelict calling down the alien s ons<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Chip away bones mentalists push me to edge dis {appear} across family trees</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Novels written about me will be torn up to find my anus in a bowl of cherries</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Beauty of sundial con<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span>scious necessary become six hour holy man</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Risk is close to life without living death its due thought death is risk without loss</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I fall into blood soars before blood idol soars swill swine pushed stomach outward</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Ethiopia female cage tiny rice pellets stark sand crystals sand paper cut lips = mothers</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">We are not one we are not one us naked is different tone ]d eath starve uterus spermshaped</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Future has chance ….one psychotic….one famished…make mah eat poetry</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span><span style="font-size:0px;"></span><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>For all the countries with my children</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Boom BOOM MY nuclear weapons have names like my children</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Succulent memorable tributes to my ancestors First middle last ways to split us into oblivion</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">One we haven’t seen since the BIG BANG</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Notice my bold over pronunciation </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Let my kids become less ….one thousand heads of<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span>little rug smashing babies</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Crushed with borscht and apple pie sandwiches</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I will make them bow to headless reason of blowing up glaciers </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">So more slushies can drip for our canyons of dooM</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>mention me and get a coupon to the poet’s hall of fame </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">wait I must blow up these consonants as to create more green fuel for my </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">egolasting slice of the BIG BaNG PIE</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I have cum again to ensure that you will be pregnant forever with impermanence</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Hide your impermanence hide your definitive articles</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I have zero tolerance for eating on the fly</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">But my children must die ….all of our children must die</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Don’t play dea Big BanG<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I am an island in this poem leave me be and spread my nuclear love song </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Spread my nuclear love song</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I fear suicide I fear nukes I fear shaving my legs and wearng daisy dukes</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I fear diapers and cleaning on poops</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I am a magic poet I am a magic poet wait I don’t even like magic or poetry or poets who use magic or magicians that steal poetry I like to steal plane and simple </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I will steal your answer to this poem I will steal your response</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I will steal your nonchalance</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Proliferation referendum dumbski missle strike I love lesbian dike patrols</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Swallowing half sized childish trolls</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Bust open warhead tolls</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Pay me to be the god of universal bullshit </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Pay me to the god of hooterversal warspit</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">My children have names like marmalade xlposive meora</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Or Meltingfeshy ginsberg meora jam jam</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I don’t kare if the people are gon just keep playing by nuclear love song</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I am a man who is scared easily; wet behind orifices when they fall away </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Sand crabs tunnel skin</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>I do not fear human extinction; animals, plants, insects hold much more</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>Clarity </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span><span style="font-size:0px;"></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">must we not sacrifice ourselves as we sacrifice our globe our globe<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>How selfish our footprints magnified through human brains</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">How selfish our suffering human remains </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>Must we mark all things let wolves eat our carcasses, ferns grow </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">From our mouths </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>Swans fly from our bellies</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Beetle moths crawl out from </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>our </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>Backs</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Shivers portly do not die I’ll give you me to live, sweet river; no more water for me</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0px;"></span><span style="font-size:0px;"></span>Make rain from my eyes solid spectra of cow milk </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Heartbeats<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span>for<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span>sigh lent<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span>creatures<span style="font-size:0px;"> </span></p><br /><br /><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-324fd267a3c96705" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v22.nonxt2.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D324fd267a3c96705%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D334AA641704B96C9C3040045808025FC4A2C90A7.7C879C7EFDD946ADC1A8613CC15FFA19020F3E1B%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3D324fd267a3c96705%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DLAZsIBNZhNiSZKrLmi8WYUAEMkU&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v22.nonxt2.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D324fd267a3c96705%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D334AA641704B96C9C3040045808025FC4A2C90A7.7C879C7EFDD946ADC1A8613CC15FFA19020F3E1B%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3D324fd267a3c96705%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DLAZsIBNZhNiSZKrLmi8WYUAEMkU&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /></object></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-9024275166493516994?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-77596489425379920882009-03-30T19:26:00.000-07:002009-04-23T13:12:15.369-07:00ANOTHER GREAT MAGICO- SOCIO-REALIST NOVEL BY MIKE PALACEK<span style="COLOR: rgb(153,0,0);font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />FROM THE </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(153,0,0); FONT-STYLE: italicfont-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >PARENT TERRIBLE </span><span style="COLOR: rgb(153,0,0);font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >OF THE NEW AMERICAN DREAM.NET</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SdGCWgKrLWI/AAAAAAAAA5E/YzPkH4SuSoc/s1600-h/PA+Cover+031009%282%29manifest.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319175958004706658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 297px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SdGCWgKrLWI/AAAAAAAAA5E/YzPkH4SuSoc/s400/PA+Cover+031009%282%29manifest.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(255,102,0)font-family:arial;" >http://www.newamericandream.net/</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">COMING SOONER THAN THE POWERS-THAT- BE<br />MIGHT WISH </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">IN THE NEXT FEW WEEKS...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">INDEPENDENTLY PUBLISHED BY <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(51,102,102)">MIKE PALACEK</span> WITH <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic">SEVENTH STREET PRESS</span></span></span></p><p><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:180%;color:#003333;"></span></em> </p><p><span style="font-size:180%;color:#660000;">newamerican.net.</span></p><p> </p><p> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-7759648942537992088?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-30238429835311735432009-03-17T05:51:00.000-07:002009-03-29T12:49:36.397-07:00Post- Apocalyptic Thunderbolt from Jimmy "Bones" Nasti<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-eeb73fec18c3ab5a" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v10.nonxt5.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Deeb73fec18c3ab5a%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D374F47896136EB21CFCE8541030A2714DFB203C9.692A3FAA21F4B2E0C481B118680EC75400CBD962%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Deeb73fec18c3ab5a%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DpgyiR81s_69iPo8NEQ65s_yZwao&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v10.nonxt5.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Deeb73fec18c3ab5a%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D374F47896136EB21CFCE8541030A2714DFB203C9.692A3FAA21F4B2E0C481B118680EC75400CBD962%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Deeb73fec18c3ab5a%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DpgyiR81s_69iPo8NEQ65s_yZwao&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /></object><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,153,0);font-size:130%;" ></span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,153,0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/Sb-dZQovAxI/AAAAAAAAA48/3cAF2_Zoc7c/s1600-h/ULAManJNasti+img032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314139142608585490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 343px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/Sb-dZQovAxI/AAAAAAAAA48/3cAF2_Zoc7c/s400/ULAManJNasti+img032.jpg" border="0" /></a>from EUREKA, CA</span><br /><br /><p>><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">thank you for the encouragement. I wrote it in 5 minutes and </span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">pushedsend. An act of spontaneous madness inspired by your always presentpoetic vision. Any feedback is encouraged. This is a bio....attached is apict enjoy....jimmy Jimmy Bones is Single Present Moment Thinking Only! He lives in thethird time cycle of the forth Kalpa and is guided graciously by histeacher Dzogchen Khenpo Choga Rinpoche. He admires the sun and theunspeakable gentleness upon which this melodrama unfolds. His heartfeltaspiration is to watch all beings fall from the hidden crags of isolationinto the ocean of timelessness. He will remain until that happens. He writes two to five poems per year and is a slack-ass playwrite withseveral incomplete works gathering dust.</span></p><br /><br /><p><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)">> For Frank Walsh</span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />><br />> I'll drown in the oh yes,<br />> and bow down deep before the last day...<br />> Kindly be reminded of the secret incomplete.<br />> A mirror without it's image.<br />> Hope without fear.<br />> A dream lost by belief.<br /></span></p><div class="im" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="font-size:130%;">> A dew drop volcanic<br />> captures the sun that dries the leaf<br />> that hosts the cosmos upon its crumbling corse...<br />><br />> The gem plucked largely without<br /></span></div><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" >> regards fire--tried and true--songs for the crucified.<br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" ></span><div class="im" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="font-size:130%;">> "Oh, what could have been thy love."<br /></span></div><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" >> The spin sinks the liquid down!<br />> The hope, lost in joy!<br />> The pain, mere rind upon freedom!<br />> Beams from moon orphaned by craving and time.<br />> Sinister seams delux;<br />Garments torn by space<br />> to forget the sad rhymes that sing on the face.<br />> With lines and lines that wait...<br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" ></span><div class="im" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="font-size:130%;">Until the farce turn ripe,<br />> this veil is thin; the costume tight<br /><br />><br /><br />> persuade the flame to light a way<br /></span></div><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" >> rather than burn it through.<br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" ></span><div class="im" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="font-size:130%;">> For you and I<br />> payment is never due!<br /></span></div><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" >> payment is never due!<br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:130%;" ></span><p><br /></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(153,0,0)">from an email March 22nd</span><br /><br /><p></p>>It shall be changed to corse thank you for the suggestion. where is<br />anita staying? the loss of the peacock is a heartbreaker.<br />life is agony smote in the bliss of love. In such a place our only<br />crime is resistance. The very source of suffering is resistance to<br />energies arisen (songs flung like comets from the inner cosmos). All<br />is god, esspecially the pain. Like they say in tantra: the more fuel,<br />the hotter the fire. May all become liberation right now! May the<br />madness of freedom devour the madness of sanity!<br />metta.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-4a391c6119389120" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v23.nonxt2.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D4a391c6119389120%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D7C1304FB1E005F807861EFFD5B5E37B2463D9DF8.8116FB0A4274FE8462049000F1610467BA5224BD%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3D4a391c6119389120%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DJH7R4PA4-d-LFwvmd5Ik5mVFGlA&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v23.nonxt2.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3D4a391c6119389120%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D7C1304FB1E005F807861EFFD5B5E37B2463D9DF8.8116FB0A4274FE8462049000F1610467BA5224BD%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3D4a391c6119389120%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DJH7R4PA4-d-LFwvmd5Ik5mVFGlA&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-3023842983531173543?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-53796333809484543862009-02-16T20:41:00.000-08:002009-02-23T17:26:47.507-08:00MORE JOHN G.HALL! more CALI CLARK'S supra-realistic "aut"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtohbbDNNI/AAAAAAAAA1M/5byTjes74cI/s1600-h/drawing+from+tiny+book+enlarged...JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtohbbDNNI/AAAAAAAAA1M/5byTjes74cI/s400/drawing+from+tiny+book+enlarged...JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303947909665076434" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtogXoY1RI/AAAAAAAAA1E/FK_4Ukojz70/s1600-h/girl+has+mad+%28is%29sues.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtogXoY1RI/AAAAAAAAA1E/FK_4Ukojz70/s400/girl+has+mad+%28is%29sues.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303947891467408658" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtnYKhfWyI/AAAAAAAAA08/TyghJB1FOHw/s1600-h/destruction+of+my+living+room+forest.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtnYKhfWyI/AAAAAAAAA08/TyghJB1FOHw/s400/destruction+of+my+living+room+forest.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303946650998233890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtnYM0cgpI/AAAAAAAAA00/8p0lcgT5Hnk/s1600-h/broken+sideview+mirror-asheville-IIIII.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtnYM0cgpI/AAAAAAAAA00/8p0lcgT5Hnk/s400/broken+sideview+mirror-asheville-IIIII.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303946651614610066" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtmZnEBjZI/AAAAAAAAA0c/HIhyEBqs_tE/s1600-h/%27the+inverted+forest%27.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SZtmZnEBjZI/AAAAAAAAA0c/HIhyEBqs_tE/s400/%27the+inverted+forest%27.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303945576327515538" border="0" /></a><br />A SECOND SET OF WET CEMENT POEMS AT THE SAME TIME A SECOND READING. (CF. http://ulamanifest.blogspot.com/2008/09/from-manchester-uk-john-g-hall-one-of.html ) THATS WHAT POETRY IS ABOUT ....<br /><br /><br /><p class="field p004002" style="font-size: 12px; font-family: Verdana;">Biography</p>John G.Hall - Manchester Poet & Editor of Citizen32, publications include Orbis, Iota, Rain Dog<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOG2LQ6R30I/AAAAAAAAAd8/toIKCtIvWzI/s1600-h/JohnHall1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251678945124933442" style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOG2LQ6R30I/AAAAAAAAAd8/toIKCtIvWzI/s200/JohnHall1.jpg" border="0" /></a>, The Wolf, Coffee House Poetry, The Ugly Tree, Carillon, Outlaw, Left Curve(usa), Square Lake(usa), Spume, Aesthetica, Brittle Star, Harlequin, Monkey Kettle & Fire.<br /><br />Performs his poetry throughout the North West , mixing militant politics & biting humour with touching visions of childhood, love and football. The live recordings of his ant-war trilogy 'And Still I Cannot Wake From Their War' were recently bought by Drexel University,Philadelphia,USA.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Wet Cement Poem No:6 (a bankers tale)<br /><br />The throne room of cash is empty but for a skull with a bullet hole<br />and a diamond collared dog lapping at the pool of his master's blood,<br /><br />while in a corner of the Pentagon the Stars and Stripes spontaneously<br />combust and the ghost of Jimi Hendrix pisses lighter fuel onto the flag.<br /><br /><br />JGH©2008<br /><br /><br /><br />Wet Cement Poem N:5<br /><br /><br />we stake the world on youth and beauty<br /><br />surely no one would pull a knife across perfect skin<br /><br />surely no one would pour lies into such fine china ears<br /><br />surely no one would puncture the bubbles of their dreams<br /><br />surely no one would drop explosives on such fine bones<br /><br />surely no one would rape these Pre-Raphaelite faced angels<br /><br />surely no one would steal the ancient ground from it's people<br /><br />surely no one would electrify the diamond spider web of a mind<br /><br />surely no one would blow open the Sistine chapel of the skull<br /><br />surely no one would dare nail the body of love to a money tree<br /><br />surely no one would blind fold the blind man or dam the damned<br /><br />surely no one would pay the rich to be rich and punish the poor<br /><br />surely no one would leave the torturers to their own devices<br /><br />surely one day we will show them the instruments of justice<br /><br />surely no one would object to the hanging of their heads.<br /><br /><br /><br />jgh© 2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Wet Cement Poem No:4<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I am the hounded slave; I wince at the bite of dogs,<br /><br /><br />the sound of the cataracts of cash machines echo<br /><br /><br />I sit and look out on all the sorrows of the world<br /><br /><br />and on all oppression and shame, I run with blood<br /><br /><br />afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road<br /><br /><br />the human traffic burns through the metal rain<br /><br /><br />absorbing all to myself and for this song, I drink<br /><br /><br />bottled beer and lime and text instead of talk,<br /><br /><br />I have heard what the talkers were talking, and<br /><br /><br />vowed to write up and down these boulevards,<br /><br /><br />I will sing the song of companionship, of the<br /><br /><br />opposition of each heart to the murder of love,<br /><br /><br />to the maddening of minds, to dreams genocide,<br /><br /><br />all these I feel or am, all these call out for songs,<br /><br /><br />I am the hounded slave; I wince, turn and sing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />JGH©2008-09-20<br /><br /><br /><br />*Every other line is from Walt Whitman<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Wet Cement Poem No:3<br /><br /><br />they reckon birth may hurt babies<br />they say life is worth every penny<br /><br />they believe the working class do not exist<br />they tell this to shop workers and nurses<br /><br />they take the proof of our silent witness<br />they stare through the television screen into us<br />they trace each thought back to its owner<br /><br />they rig the trail of life with sticky pleasure<br />they laugh at the poor behind their backs<br /><br />they pin down the butterfly inside you<br />they pull the wings from your genius<br /><br />they find starving people then feed them war<br />they have decided to counterfeit everything on the face of the earth<br />they reckon love is a rumour spread by dirty rotten communists.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />jgh©2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Wet Cement Poem No:2<br /><br /><br /><br />the road pours me into the city machine<br /><br />the fire damaged man sells me his bad news<br /><br />the live wires suit themselves in culture cafes<br /><br />the show houses play Les Miserables for laughs<br /><br />the bar maids cry pints of crocodile tear liquor<br /><br />the happy skull smiles of the living shine brightly<br /><br />and the city machine passes me like a hot beer-shit.<br /><br />.<br /><br /><br /><br />jgh©2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Wet Cement Poem No:1<br /><br /><br /><br />from crashing waves find your answers<br /><br />burn holes in paper tigers with ember tongues<br /><br />be a red angel flying on swept back blue wings<br /><br />carry a dove spangled banner in the midst of battle<br /><br />touch a strangers pain at least once a day with your eyes<br /><br />leave a trail in wet cement where your mind wandered<br /><br />hide secret things, leave false clues, become unsolvable,<br /><br />find undiscovered lands, burn the maps, pray not to be found.<br /><br /><br /><br />jgh©2008<br /><br /><br /><br />The Overcrowded Mind (for those who hate Myspace)<br /><br /><br />too many fingers in your pie<br />too many strangers in your mind,<br />too many cooks to your broth<br />too many second hand opinions,<br />too many shame faced shamans<br />too many spies on your secrets,<br />too many tongues in your cheek<br />too many guests at your feast,<br />too many double agents<br />too many doppelgangers,<br />too many sugars in your tea<br />too many spoons stirring you,<br />too many waiters in your cafe<br />too many fingers in your till,<br />too many beans in the coffee<br />too many crumbs of comfort,<br />too many unbelievers<br />too many unfaithful,<br />too many demi-lovers<br />too many semi-sisters,<br />too many baby brothers<br />too many mother fuckers,<br />too many fingers in your pie<br />too many baring you in mind,<br />too many non-special offers<br />too many basement bargains,<br />too many nosey neighbours<br />too many twitching curtains<br />too many keeping notes<br />too many stealing souls,<br />too many half cocked Buddha's<br />too many prying myspace eyes,<br />too many certain they are certain<br />too many truths told not be lies<br />too many fingers in your pie.<br /><br /><br />john g.hall©2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Childish Thought<br /><br />You don’t find no answer with your mind<br />only the mind trying to find the mind,<br />the vital answer has no vital question<br />it’s never been asked by mortal being,<br />there is no wise domain to live inside<br />only strange lands demanding maps,<br />the self can lie as well as any other<br />no sense can tell the truth all ways,<br />some people sit tight in the storm<br />some people move to Coney Island,<br />some people forget that words can fail them<br />some people remember all the ways to forget,<br />I think the universe is bigger than that<br />I think I’ll boldly go as far as flesh can,<br />my death will place me one day into an ivory box<br />my mind a fossilized collection of dead thoughts,<br />yet if I see a drowning friend in a rough sea<br />I do not wait for them to learn how to swim,<br />I throw them the happy ending of my long tether<br />show them the way I learned my crazy free style,<br />then sit eating my own Coney Island candy floss<br />while they swim out on their own sweet milky way.<br /><br /><br />John.G.Hall©2008<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This is my diatribe<br /><br /><br />This is my diatribe making my space the only place of community<br />This is my diatribe making American war thought walk my streets<br />This is my diatribe making paper educated guesses into prejudices<br />This is my diatribe making Yankee gangster rappers poor people's masters<br />This is my diatribe making the drug of guns turn our children into toy soldiers<br />This is my diatribe taking Hollywood's unholy words as their new electro gospels<br />This is my diatribe making children without wings, making love without peace.<br />This is my diatribe against old powers making our new imprisonment invisible<br />This is my diatribe against the cash card manacles of money's all consuming madness<br />This is my diatribe against the doomed search for human power through violence.<br /><br />This is my diatribe against the hopelessness of fear and shame and the thirty pieces<br />of silver dollars jingling in my dead soldier boys pockets and the I-pod god hanging<br />from my red neck and the fascist wolf whistles raping my girl friends angelic ear lobes<br />and the evil preacher men preaching against men loving men or women loving women<br />or any body loving any body and the rich bashing the ragged of the race and the<br />squeezing of our bones for our marrow and the rich lips sucking out our sweet souls<br />and replacing it with bloody warehouses of bloody things that no true human being<br />ever needs and the white war against the black world going on and on without end.<br /><br />This is my diatribe and I love them.<br /><br /><br /><br />John G.Hall©2007<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The poor love as well as the rich<br /><br /><br />my brain is nervous with the night, my animal spirits are hunting<br />prey in my William Morris wallpaper forests, the black optics of fantasy<br />spilling into both our dreams, you hold in the dark practicing alchemy<br />and though I know you will never ask me, my manic touch questions<br />your flesh, my fingers ticking every correct answer, you wet me with<br />your soft corrections, we scream through the bedrooms brickwork,<br />two ruddy ghosts full of Easter's Catholic purple, our mouths slipped<br />with cinnamon, two sensitive bloods damned up by the gentle tourniquet<br />of love, my fingers caress your fine fur, you become a painted pony, and<br />while you tattoo my bones with your salmon tongue, and while the black<br />reins of your hair slip from my fingers, my demon heart pounds to a stop,<br />my blue eyes blush and the eiderdown's casual galaxy spirals around us.<br /><br /><br /><br />John G.Hall©2007<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-5379633380948454386?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-58883715323824812092009-01-30T09:11:00.001-08:002009-01-30T09:13:14.292-08:00"Detroit"The frost has frozen my heart<br />winter conquering without stop<br />fitting the mood of this broken city,<br />shattered pieces, collapsing factories, endless misery;<br />Even sunshine would bring relief<br />from winter's slaughter,<br />the endless deep-freeze.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-5888371532382481209?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-43738952235522957092009-01-17T13:01:00.000-08:002009-01-20T13:48:25.768-08:00Wenclas poem previous post here lights a fire under ULA's FDW inexcusable funk...<span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 102);font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;" >... happy Birthday Martin Luther KING simultaneously the 2ooth anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe's orphaned nativity, January 19, 2009...<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" ><img src="http://www.citypaper.net/images/articles/2009/01/08/naked-1.jpg" class="imageWrap" border="0" height="541" width="450" /><br />When without a doubt<br />as the imagination can be<br />critical never doubtful in flight<br />the bleat of a dark sheep<br />beneath my hovel's distressed facade<br />coming through definite<br />from an otherwise at<br />that time of night empty<br />street with my name<br />some place under it's breath<br />someone or something<br />spelling somebody else wish to death.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 51, 0);font-size:100%;" ><br />Nope, I wasn't in fact stone dead<br />asleep three and a half<br />under that side of the AM<br />I was up actually reclined<br />to cold cock names of power despite<br />no moving water in evidence<br />above or lower the grail<br />of a wan headway moon instead<br />skimmed lost rivers<br />only glance my upper window sash<br />ushering in Saturn against each House,<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:130%;" ><br />then again while I pondered<br />Edgar Allan Poe besides<br />myself but most the mad girl down<br />Spring Garden Avenue prey to night<br />mares venting steam grates<br />on disembodied fears<br />jacked up the broken battlements<br />of tenement squares<br />relieved by palsy white<br />blotched vortex of the blood<br />sucking autonomic,<br />the neon-liberal gentrified right.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-size:180%;" ><br />Life is better every time<br />than say car exhaust this way or<br />that just being driven away from it all<br />went out swinging head held<br />high as the eyes of Poe in that<br />Federalist daguerreotype period<br />all up and over the pitfalls<br />rude boy dogged the take<br />upon verily condemned masonry<br />second sands fell as he was<br />being born to wood awake,<br />come to the surface and make<br />us a demon in your image<br />beneath the mirror of the gutter<br />black ice sharply focuses vengeance.<br /><br /> <span style="font-size:100%;">1.19.09, <span style="font-style: italic;">PHILADELPHIA<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SXUzSttlQBI/AAAAAAAAAxg/I5CxGz3KFO0/s1600-h/CPapaerPoe3.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 425px; height: 443px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SXUzSttlQBI/AAAAAAAAAxg/I5CxGz3KFO0/s400/CPapaerPoe3.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293193333645328402" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>BAGDADADELPHIA CITY PAPER'S INSULTING OP ED,</span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> DERIVE<br /><br />[MORE OF THE INSIDE OUT TO FOLLOW @ ULACRITIQUE.BLOGSPOT.COM]<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-4373895223552295709?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-47798358305535994332009-01-12T07:59:00.000-08:002009-01-12T08:05:13.155-08:00"Suzie"I dream of Suzie with the cellophane hair<br />colored green, or orange, or pink--<br />depending on the day of the week--<br />and a safety pin through her cheek,<br />her biceps brazenly angrily tattooed<br />red, purple, and blue;<br />none of them say "I love you."<br />She wears leather pants and black denim vest,<br />black t-shirt with skull and bones on the chest;<br />The toughness hides the girl's baby face,<br />confusion at life and innocent ways;<br />Every week she pays her grandmother a visit<br />at the dying cancer patient clinic;<br />Suzie sits for hours and listens<br />to tales of grandmother's bygone days,<br />which the old woman truly appreciates.<br />Afterward the woman's eyes glisten<br />as Suzie stomps down the hall,<br />in tough-girl boots awkwardly tall;<br />doctors and nurses jump out of her way<br />but smile to themselves as she leaves.<br /><br />-King Wenclas<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-4779835830553599433?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-43880046395968430722009-01-01T15:02:00.000-08:002009-01-07T14:30:51.000-08:00carrion as if nothing had happenstance HOPEY KNEW YAH!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SV1OAwUDEGI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/tsO4blE3sM0/s1600-h/FDWflier.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 347px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SV1OAwUDEGI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/tsO4blE3sM0/s400/FDWflier.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286467312478785634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;" ><br />ZERO NINE<br /><br />That year went out<br />according to plot<br />deep down in the open<br />pit vapors strung<br />along the strain of paths<br />still, something came out<br />flashed for no more<br />than a second stitched<br />to the wind and the broken<br />contract of high noon<br />steam bells clutched closed<br />when only deeper midnights could do.<br /><br />The impossible rattled<br />in the hollow hands overturned<br />like dried spiders on their backs when<br />then and there the tide turned<br />from a lofty place hidden<br />from mortal stairs fell<br />without a sound taken back<br />into the grave incontinent ground<br />no one who caught on<br />would tell their turn<br />had been cast<br />the last become first.<br /><br />Not a single order of execution stayed<br />to watch how parlor mirrors should trick<br />by the look on the face of the clocks<br />the beast set numbered<br />reservations bursting at the seams so<br />there will be a place for yours in the end<br />tonight from now on Frank Sinatra<br />black and white croons his polished<br />skull to the furthest extent<br />of the law as tube fed screens go<br />turned down as low as drums can stand<br />bodies to be counted back from the dead . 1/1/09<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SV1OA42M3pI/AAAAAAAAAuY/8VS4LSra8Ug/s1600-h/RM--House-of-Yes-Dec08-web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 556px; height: 454px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SV1OA42M3pI/AAAAAAAAAuY/8VS4LSra8Ug/s400/RM--House-of-Yes-Dec08-web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286467314769518226" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-4388004639596843072?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-3930583583001876202008-10-24T14:27:00.000-07:002008-11-09T09:11:37.178-08:00Only wright to rerun from Buffalo's ART VOICE from January '08, as LETTERHEAD II, VOL.1, is hitting the presses<a href="http://blogs.artvoice.com/avdaily/">http://blogs.artvoice.com/avdaily/</a><br />In the Margins<br />Letterhead, Vol. 1: Interview<br /><a href="http://artvoice.com/issues/v7n3/days_of_wine_and_oil_there_will_be_blood"></a><a href="http://artvoice.com/issues/v7n3/in_the_margins/letterhead_vol_1_review"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://artvoice.com/issues/v7n3/days_of_wine_and_oil_there_will_be_blood"></a><a href="http://artvoice.com/issues/v7n3/in_the_margins/letterhead_vol_1_review"></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#3333ff;"><em><span style="font-size:180%;">Robert Pomerhn’s</span></em> name is synonymous<em> with the spoken word in Buffalo. He’s published three poetry collections and has been working the local scene—from Sunday readings at the Screening Room to countless appearances at Café Allegro, EM Tea Coffee Cup Café and Rust Belt Books—for years. This Sunday, January 20, he’s releasing the first issue of Letterhead, a new annual literary arts journal for Buffalo that he’s founded in collaboration with Brian MacMahon, Bradley Lastname, Eric Johnt and Kimberly Tomczak. The release party and reading will start at 7pm at the Lancaster Opera House (21 Central Avenue, Lancaster).</em></span><br /><strong>What prompted the founding of Letterhead?</strong> I see the Buffalo scene as, basically, separate entities or different small islands, where nobody really has any continuity within the larger scheme of poetry. That’s true not only here but universally and nationally, too. <strong><span style="font-family:verdana;">Bradley </span>Lastname</strong>, <span style="font-family:arial;">our managing editor</span>, had the vision, since he’s from Buffalo, to put together Letterhead to form a community of artists from Buffalo to create a working partnership and to create a piece of work that the poetry stands up in. Then Buffalo would be the common thread rather than the name of certain smaller poetry groups within the city. There’s the UB poetry scene, there’s the Buff State poetry scene, there’s the spoken word scene, there’s the Rust Belt scene; what we’ve tried to do is be an all-inclusive place where everybody is accepted, or at least we’ve tried to give everybody a certain voice in a place where the work trumps the individual.<br /><strong>Why’d you choose to list author names in the table of contents only, rather than with their work?</strong> We want to accept those people and champion those people whose main goal isn’t to be published, but for work to grow and evolve as they grow. That’s something we’re actively pursuing. Another thing that really prompted us is that there are a lot of great spoken word artists out there that really don’t hold on to their work. They throw it out into the atmosphere and they make an impact in the room at that time, and then we don’t hear from them for a long time. A lot of this work is not only spoken word, but also academic. We really just don’t want labels. It’s confessional, it’s rhyming; it’s anything within, but we pretty much try to take the labels off that poetry and put it together to see how it reads. There are a ton of really great spoken word artists in Buffalo who really never pursued print media before, besides the obligatory Artvoice <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SQI-2uFIiNI/AAAAAAAAAoo/PCz2nJ1kL-A/s1600-h/ULAPFlogo.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260836424525580498" style="WIDTH: 250px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 67px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SQI-2uFIiNI/AAAAAAAAAoo/PCz2nJ1kL-A/s320/ULAPFlogo.gif" border="0" /></a>submission and maybe Blinking Eights.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Do you think spoken word poetry loses some its value when it’s written down?</strong> I’m hoping to dispel that notion. I’m a spoken word artist and I’m a performance poet. When you speak something out loud, you make an impact. What we’re really trying to do is to have you go back and read that work later, too. There was a time when there were a lot of small, underground presses; a lot of what has survived now are basically online journals. There’s a lot of online computer [media], but there’s nothing that’s really in the print media. A lot of these places that were small runoffs in peoples’ basements were unable to withstand the test of time. We’re trying to put out a high-quality product that people will be proud to be a part of. I think we’re trying to put the stress back on reading, because so many people really aren’t reading. We want to put out something that has some wisdom, some knowledge and understanding rather than just information, because a lot of times information is really just misinformation.<br />What audience are you hoping to reach? If you’ve ever gone to a poetry reading, usually you’re not sure when to clap, when to sit down, when to speak or when to breathe. We want to take a lot of that angst away. We want to bring poetry to the regular person, to the blue-collar worker, to the university professor, to the construction worker, because Buffalo’s a great place to make art, but it’s just a difficult place to market art. We want to have a readership that extends outside of the small local poetry circles.<br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Roughly what percent of submissions did you accept?</strong></span> We attempted to accept as much as we could, and we basically didn’t send rejection slips out with people whose work we didn’t accept at that point. Rather we sent out encouragement slips. Maybe there’s something they could do better because for us as their work strengthens and grows. That’s what we want to see in certain people. Those are the people we’re actively seeking out, people who don’t want to sit on their work as though it were the dead limbs of a tree or something, but who look at their works as something that can grow and flourish into something stronger than they ever thought it could be. So that’s something we really try to keep in mind, as well as casting our net to a wider group of Buffalo poets.<br /><em><span style="color:#000099;">Copies of Letterhead: Volume 1 can be purchased at both Talking Leaves locations, Rust Belt Books, or by directly contacting Robert Pomerhn (pomerhn.robert@gmail.com) or Bradley Lastname (bradleylastname@hotmail.com) via email. </span></em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">© 1990-2008 Artvoice. All rights reserved.</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260848633692941906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 552px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 489px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SQJJ9Yxd7lI/AAAAAAAAAow/uM9mMqkbPTc/s400/ULAPFRobPomerhn.jpg" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><a href="http://www.box.net/shared/i60o8xjp02"></a><a href="http:///"></a><a href="http:///"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a><a href="http:///"></a><a href="http://www.box.net/shared/599h2muqaa"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-393058358300187620?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-919040528377726182008-10-08T19:18:00.000-07:002008-10-20T15:58:40.504-07:00Joan Logue- Walsh, William Hollis, & nice Buddha POEM in progresss by Mike Grover<div><div><div> </div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwFx4le81I/AAAAAAAAAkw/e3Yn5LfwNpE/s1600-h/Noonys908+009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259084819423228754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwFx4le81I/AAAAAAAAAkw/e3Yn5LfwNpE/s400/Noonys908+009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259084821355295858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwFx_yH9HI/AAAAAAAAAk4/5E65r6jHdhA/s400/Noonys908+010.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">JOAN LOGUE-WALSH</span></strong><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259084812986511010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwFxgm2bqI/AAAAAAAAAko/WDs2hpfZ9Pc/s400/Noonys908+006.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEaVzBy7I/AAAAAAAAAkA/NO5EGL3_NVM/s1600-h/Clollage6barbarasteelewt1A.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259083315436178354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEaVzBy7I/AAAAAAAAAkA/NO5EGL3_NVM/s320/Clollage6barbarasteelewt1A.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">“She anesthetized unrequitedness”</span> </strong></em></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><em><strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></strong></em><span style="color:#666600;">She anesthetized unrequitedness </span></div><span style="color:#666600;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />To make it a high art combating ordinary </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />About emptiness and one sock </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />A plethora of lint but no substance </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Texture of dust and dust return </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />A film on the eye and no phenomenon </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />The foam of a head which is no drink </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Dying of thirst with a blackened tongue </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />The black and tans were a mere lark </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Of missing she can tell you a story</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEabwJMBI/AAAAAAAAAkI/lPYDsVE4g_8/s1600-h/Philly71408+076.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259083317034692626" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 219px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 464px" height="240" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEabwJMBI/AAAAAAAAAkI/lPYDsVE4g_8/s320/Philly71408+076.jpg" width="219" border="0" /></a><br />In third person mostly omniscient </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Detached and full of subjective presence </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />With enough authorial absence </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />To be taken seriously, oh poor heart. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />My scholarly melancholy is a joke </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I played on myself in my fifth decade. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />It gave me an excuse to delay gratification </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />For the great career I really saw myself in. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I was speeding downhill in a red ford Fairmount </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Without a driver, With me in the backseat </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I was ready to crash into the grassy knoll </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />It was going to solve all the controversy</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I’m not sure about going back to college now </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Maybe I should study ART. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I have no connection to technology </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I paste up with scissors and glue </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259084811435700850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwFxa1G8nI/AAAAAAAAAkY/xKpM-iqU7lM/s400/Noonys908+001.jpg" border="0" /><br />My concept of the future is grim </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />My favorite music is black and blue </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I live all alone in a splendid shack </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />With vines and tendrils to enfold me </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />And animal comfort and companion </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />And trees and bushes surround me with density. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />The sun can’t get in unless I let him </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />He is a man all golden and gleaming </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />With a blue eye for the morning<br />I am pale and wan and wanting<br />I settle for less than nothing<br />I wonder about my self-esteem?<br />I am a hopeless romantic it is spring<br />The fertile season of heat and germination </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I’m too old for implantation and gestation </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />I’m giving birth to my own self being.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259084816763394642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwFxurVGlI/AAAAAAAAAkg/EqwETwd_XA0/s400/Noonys908+002.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwbvWmx8OI/AAAAAAAAAlA/TDjS7rdJ5tE/s1600-h/JoanLW52008poem2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259108965197934818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwbvWmx8OI/AAAAAAAAAlA/TDjS7rdJ5tE/s400/JoanLW52008poem2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEa-VPPAI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/77JRU0Ilyc4/s1600-h/fdwjwg&sjpg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259083326317083650" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEa-VPPAI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/77JRU0Ilyc4/s320/fdwjwg%26sjpg.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#333333;"><em>towards a structual proofing of the poem above</em></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;color:#663333;"><strong>The Road Home</strong></span></div><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#663333;"></span><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">The road home<br />has many twists and turns<br />is icy sometimes and dangerous curves</span><br />steep<span style="color:#cc6600;"> climbs and no shoulder<br />to pull onto for rest.<br />The road home has no lighting<br />after dark</span><br />so you must learn the way by heart<br /><span style="color:#663300;">memorize the feel of its surfaces<br />that change from craggy to smooth<br />or broken and gravelly.</span><br /><span style="color:#993300;">You need to know the sounds</span><br />of the wheels<span style="color:#663300;"> turning over them.<br />If you don't understand these things<br />you'll never find your way back<br />you'll never be sure<br />though the road home is familiar<br /></span><span style="color:#990000;">it is strange and new...<br />you need to listen for my call<br />at the front door.</span></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:130%;color:#990000;"></span><br />J. Walsh<br />4/07<br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><div> </div><div><br /><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-f411a6dc8e4a9396" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/get_player"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="flashvars" value="flvurl=http://v13.nonxt5.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Df411a6dc8e4a9396%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D13580DE32B382206D6F869FC6904C39B5E4722C1.1B4553D87D0EA75574483B1902F2C5B15FEA388B%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Df411a6dc8e4a9396%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DOn47smydytd7XJ9OInOret3wM6Y&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/get_player" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"width="320" height="266" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"flashvars="flvurl=http://v13.nonxt5.googlevideo.com/videoplayback?id%3Df411a6dc8e4a9396%26itag%3D5%26app%3Dblogger%26ip%3D0.0.0.0%26ipbits%3D0%26expire%3D1330209058%26sparams%3Did,itag,ip,ipbits,expire%26signature%3D13580DE32B382206D6F869FC6904C39B5E4722C1.1B4553D87D0EA75574483B1902F2C5B15FEA388B%26key%3Dck1&iurl=http://video.google.com/ThumbnailServer2?app%3Dblogger%26contentid%3Df411a6dc8e4a9396%26offsetms%3D5000%26itag%3Dw160%26sigh%3DOn47smydytd7XJ9OInOret3wM6Y&autoplay=0&ps=blogger"allowFullScreen="true" /></object></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#cc0000;"><em>DISHING OUT AT CHANNEL 4 JACKSONVILLE FLA</em></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">#######################################<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEZvJu3mI/AAAAAAAAAj4/Tld0GHUS7KM/s1600-h/phillyaug08+013.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259083305062424162" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEZvJu3mI/AAAAAAAAAj4/Tld0GHUS7KM/s320/phillyaug08+013.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEZvJu3mI/AAAAAAAAAj4/Tld0GHUS7KM/s1600-h/phillyaug08+013.jpg"></a> </div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><em>from</em></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000099;"><strong>WILLIAM HOLLIS</strong></span>, </div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><strong>master-poet</strong></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">WW II intelligence officer</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">and Brilliant Poetry Professor</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">who taught and in-formed </span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">among others FDW</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">and sd. to him at Drexel Univ.</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">in late 1974, "You may or may not be</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">a genius just keep to yr. poetry!"</span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">PAINTER ABOVE THE CITY</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">1.<br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">From a balcony above the city he paints a late sun,<br />bright lights reflective among glass towers;<br />and sends them, his latest, by mysteries of email,<br />two, three at a time, surprisingly vivid, of which he says,<br />"The latest"; and I admire and laugh and blow them up,<br />remembering decades of canvases I've admired.<br />Portraits, guardian figures, and Japanese smut,<br />portraits of Andrea and me and suspicious bishops<br />are hung through the house, up and down steps;<br />then, ten years ago, landscapes appeared, full of crying<br />color and light, with a richness of Oaxacan hills<br />before builders came, before the world intruded.<br />Then back in the city where years add up and legs<br />might trip on steps that reach toward a new light,<br />and landscapes reach for a new peacefulness, colors<br />soften and distances are in some other world,<br />stretching with comfort that encourages me to fill<br />a room, where guests pause, sigh deeply and smile.</span></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwEZvJu3mI/AAAAAAAAAj4/Tld0GHUS7KM/s1600-h/phillyaug08+013.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></a></div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;">2.<br />Then, finally, on that high balcony, without stairs,<br />as others carry younger loads, he can paint all day,</span><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCscPaZ9I/AAAAAAAAAjo/G-6iUUERV6w/s1600-h/DL++bleeding+poet.jpg"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259081427380234194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCscPaZ9I/AAAAAAAAAjo/G-6iUUERV6w/s400/DL++bleeding+poet.jpg" border="0" /></span></a></div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;">pausing to watch a late sun pull colors in sharp<br />reminders of other explosions, of other beginnings,<br />of explosions that might mean a beginning of life,<br />a new world to replace a flowing darkness of the past.<br />But something happens, the landscapes explode<br />in three new paintings that arrived just recently:<br />In a powerful balance of blacks and grays, red fire,<br />a bomb, shoots into the air, as if we were in Baghdad;<br />and in another, with a harmless title of 'first snow,'<br />in a world afterwards gray and silent, a black wreck.<br />In the third painting, reds in a dozen hues consume<br />remnants of a blackened world. I hold my breath<br />at what he has at eighty accomplished: a final warning<br />of what power can do to the world, a final hope of what<br />creative fire can do to burn its image of a wrathful Buddha<br />in everything he's ever seen, now seen from a quiet retreat.<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://www.williamhollis.com/bio.htm"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#339999;">http://www.williamhollis.com/bio.htm</span></a><br /></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCscPaZ9I/AAAAAAAAAjo/G-6iUUERV6w/s1600-h/DL++bleeding+poet.jpg"></a></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br />COTTON FIELD BLUES<br />1.<br />It was part of waking, to hear their voices singing<br />among groves below my grandmother's house,<br />with words I could not understand, a cry<br />of words, a cry to anticipate the day.<br />They climbed the hill, and I climbed from bed<br />and quietly ran to the porch to watch them pass,<br />their mules in polished leather, the sun still cool<br />over pecan trees, their voices deep.<br />A heavy voice rumbled about heavy clay,<br />not made, he sang, for play, as others made<br />a sound like drums and bells and pipes, the words<br />a blur of rhythms to lift with hope.<br />Melodious and sad, but full of strength,<br />they followed muddy paths and dropped the song<br />in ditches behind mules, unloaded knives<br />and hoes and hunkered to a sweaty task.<br />It was still too early for grits and eggs,<br />and so, before returning to my bed,<br />I went to greet my grandfather, sitting under<br />a peach tree in the garden, reading his bible.<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCsrA7FCI/AAAAAAAAAjw/gvE_OgeatNI/s1600-h/phillyaug08+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259081431345992738" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCsrA7FCI/AAAAAAAAAjw/gvE_OgeatNI/s400/phillyaug08+002.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />2.<br />The day would pass in a casual way, with walks<br />to town, a lunch and naps, perhaps a story<br />from Clara Mae, a song at the old piano,<br />and regular trips to the outhouse in the garden.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"We'll sing," our Granny said, and lifted her voice<br />in an imitation of the songs I'd heard<br />as they had climbed the hill. It wasn't the same;<br />it lacked the flame, the need. It was amusing.<br />But as sun went down, I heard voices,<br />much slower now, in a cracked sound of pain<br />as they left cotton fields and came down the hill,<br />just there, beyond a swing on the old front porch.<br />The mules were dragging and piled with bags<br />of cotton, the wagon creaked and swayed; as old men<br />chanted, a woman's voice rose high and sharp,<br />and children cried, but not a dog would bark.<br />"The day's done gone," a voice sang deep;<br />"The night's come on," another voice broke in.<br />The voices of the women trailed after,<br />"I say it ain't much further we got to go."</div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br />3.<br />A voice from the house called us to supper, ignored<br />the mules and men who slowly passed and children<br />huddled behind a group of women who sang<br />their chant of pain that was tired of the day.<br />Later, as I lay in bed and listened<br />to a night of restless wind in trees,<br />a cry still lingered like a memory<br />of ghosts in a blue smoke: "Oh my, oh my….<br />"This cry's the song you hear when you hear the voice<br />that cries the notes that linger in your heart<br />that aches like the muscles in your back. Oh my.<br />Oh my…." It was the song I heard as I slept.<br />Can you hear it echo in the night<br />and bet against the failure of memory?<br />I woke that night with a sweat of apprehension,<br />squatted on the slop jar and slept again.<br />That was years ago, and sometimes I wake<br />and whisper to myself, "The day's done gone;<br />the dark's fallin' here for good. Oh my…;"<br />and then I hear the voices calling at dawn.<br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em><strong>BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES</strong><br />He listened to and watched that strange adult world as he grew up in Lakeland, Florida, during the thirties; and, with his grandfather’s help, he started writing poems, usually during summers in Savannah or Buena Vista, Georgia, where he was too sickly to play with athletic cousins. And since he was one of the few kids, back then, who played the piano well, a student at the age of 8 at Florida Southern College, he had a wonderful opportunity to play throughout central Florida and overhear women in Winter Haven and Lake Wales and men in Tampa and Orlando talk about the whispered sides of their lives. He would play Liszt after a luncheon meeting and rush home to write a poem about some slick man with polished nails or the woman who hissed that she never wore underwear.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPz9YLzUhvI/AAAAAAAAAlI/VNlv3BXgrFo/s1600-h/ULAP&PHollisbio_photos.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259357056788629234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPz9YLzUhvI/AAAAAAAAAlI/VNlv3BXgrFo/s400/ULAP%26PHollisbio_photos.gif" border="0" /></a>During college at Washington and Lee and Princeton, where he could not tie himself to one major, and during a year in Europe on a Fulbright, he was a loner, watching and listening and trying to find ways to make verbal music out of human experience. He sat on mountain tops in Switzerland and listened to an echo of voices, slept in cheap youth hostels, fell in love with Australian girls and the Grand Canal in Venice, ate in the cheapest White-Russian cafés in Paris, and tried to write poems more up-to-date than Keats, who had been his first love when he was 12. And then, after a couple of years in the army where, stationed in D.C., he spent most of his time looking at paintings and writing about that, he hit thirty. And then he married and taught at Dartmouth and Drexel and had a family, two daughters, an equestrienne and a scholar, and found that poetry had to be relegated to summer vacations — though the poems kept coming anyway, even after he grew tired of trying to fit into <strong><span style="color:#990000;">‘the literary scene,’ a scene that never worked for him except when he was dramatically reading his poems in bars and bookshops of Philadelphia.</span></strong></em></span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#ff6600;"><em>pictures above by Andrea Baldeck</em></span><br /></div></span></strong><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&& &&&&&</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong><em>FRESH FROM THE MIND OF</em><span style="font-size:180%;"> <span style="font-family:arial;color:#663333;">MIKE GROVER</span></span><em>, A NEW SERIAL-POEM IN PROGRESS!!</em></strong></span></div><br /><br /><div><strong><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;"></span></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">subtext:</span></strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-family:arial;color:#cc6600;"></span></strong></div><br /><br /><div><em><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;color:#cc6600;"><strong>the pictures below with Mike's piece are from and of Bhante Yogavicara Rahula while in india and thailand a few years ago, one of the Mahathera great teachers and preceptors at the BHAVANA SOCIETY forest monestery, High View, West Virginia.</strong></span></em></div><br /><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">Offerings</span></div><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">-1-<br />Buddha begging<br />In the streets of<br />The capital city <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SP0Hcb3BcPI/AAAAAAAAAlY/gPGuG9TLU9I/s1600-h/sunset+in+India.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259368124934877426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 172px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 247px" height="247" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SP0Hcb3BcPI/AAAAAAAAAlY/gPGuG9TLU9I/s200/sunset+in+India.jpg" width="137" border="0" /></a><br />Of Shrauasti.<br />Patched saffron robe,<br />No shoes on his feet.<br />Empty purple stone bowl<br />In his hands for offerings.<br />Around noontime<br />He would go door to door,<br />Non discriminant of rich or poor.<br />Take clumps of rice in the bowl.<br />He would eat his meal,<br />This bowl of rice.<br />Return to his home<br />In the woods<br />Outside of the city.<br />Wash his feet,<br />Remove his robe, <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SP0IFo3cp2I/AAAAAAAAAlo/MyIE9Q4impI/s1600-h/Dtao+Dam+Jan+11-15,04+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259368832800958306" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="150" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SP0IFo3cp2I/AAAAAAAAAlo/MyIE9Q4impI/s200/Dtao+Dam+Jan+11-15,04+004.jpg" width="260" border="0" /></a><br />Sit in his appointed seat.</span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">-2-<br />On Huron Street <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SP0IE1uwFnI/AAAAAAAAAlg/H7A545dDilQ/s1600-h/sitting+Buddha.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259368819074274930" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 201px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 268px" height="268" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SP0IE1uwFnI/AAAAAAAAAlg/H7A545dDilQ/s200/sitting+Buddha.jpg" width="130" border="0" /></a><br />The homeless all look up<br />With sad, tired eyes.<br />I try to look each one<br />Right in the eye.<br />See if I can find<br />A Buddha somewhere.<br />I know he is somewhere.<br />I wonder how many pass him<br />Without even seeing.</span><br /></span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><span style="color:#333333;"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">[SENT FOR THE PEOPLE IN AN EMAIL DATED OCTOBER 18TH</span></em> ]<br /></span></div><div><br /> </div><div><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">================================= ================= ===========<br />=========== ======= =======<br /><br /></span></strong></div><div></div></div><div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwAYwSfIOI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/z9JWG22J9p8/s1600-h/ULA.store.flier.1"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259078890141196514" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 340px" height="287" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwAYwSfIOI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/z9JWG22J9p8/s400/ULA.store.flier.1" width="400" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCrkhXscI/AAAAAAAAAjg/rUQ2hauyU_o/s1600-h/Peter_Lorre.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259081412423168450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="400" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCrkhXscI/AAAAAAAAAjg/rUQ2hauyU_o/s400/Peter_Lorre.jpg" width="202" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><strong>PROTOTYPE NEW<span style="font-size:180%;"> <span style="color:#33cc00;">ula</span></span> INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORE</strong></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><strong>POINT OF PURCHASE NATIONAL PROMO</strong></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCrii3IGI/AAAAAAAAAjY/FkmG73-9r5Q/s1600-h/lorre_peter-bald.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259081411892551778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 466px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 476px" height="476" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SPwCrii3IGI/AAAAAAAAAjY/FkmG73-9r5Q/s400/lorre_peter-bald.jpg" width="303" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-91904052837772618?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-52763017165628563012008-10-01T22:23:00.000-07:002008-10-08T19:18:16.789-07:00andrew lovatt from the time of OZONE, pine tree graphics studio, 13th and vine late early 1990's. Ficciones by "Eak The Geek", NYC, sideshow legend!<div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9nnjtKI/AAAAAAAAAfw/aJSmaeRK-5Y/s1600-h/Alex+BikePhilly+Route+117.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254486863399597218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9nnjtKI/AAAAAAAAAfw/aJSmaeRK-5Y/s200/Alex+BikePhilly+Route+117.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>michael sent me the attached audio file - found on an old machine. it dates back to "downtown days" when i had the studio on N 13th St. for some reason it repeats the short poem twice. enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxYsnA_TI/AAAAAAAAAgI/3YMyJXkU954/s1600-h/PICT0248.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254488428107595058" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxYsnA_TI/AAAAAAAAAgI/3YMyJXkU954/s320/PICT0248.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">From: <span style="font-size:85%;">Michael Lovatt</span></span> <<a href="mailto:mlovatt@redmoonmedia.com">mailto:mlovatt@redmoonmedia.com</a>: <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9QuHmwI/AAAAAAAAAfg/xeA3p50T3eo/s1600-h/DSCF1133.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254486857253100290" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9QuHmwI/AAAAAAAAAfg/xeA3p50T3eo/s200/DSCF1133.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">16August 2007 14:12:04 ISTTo: </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;color:#339999;"><strong>andrew lovatt</strong></span> <<a href="mailto:alovatt@redmoonmedia.com">alovatt@redmoonmedia.com</a>><br /><br /><em>Subject</em>: <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color:#996633;"><strong>hethatis</strong></span></span> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><object id="divplaylist" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=" height="85" width="335" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="_cx" value="8864"><param name="_cy" value="2249"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5496435-8b4"><param name="Src" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5496435-8b4"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value="LT"><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value=""><param name="Scale" value="NoScale"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5496435-8b4" width="335" height="85" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><span style="color:#996633;"></span></strong><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">found this in my old files </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">that I'm going through</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">these days you had this </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">on the first iMac</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9sOvQaI/AAAAAAAAAfo/1XTaWwLMcBc/s1600-h/Alex+BikePhilly+Route+049.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254486864637673890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9sOvQaI/AAAAAAAAAfo/1XTaWwLMcBc/s200/Alex+BikePhilly+Route+049.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">you sent over back in '99, i kept it. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>sadly is was</strong> </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">in sound </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">edit format, which </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I no longer have </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">so had to import it raw </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">into a new editor, so lost some </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">quality thats material</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">in the background </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxZq6t1dI/AAAAAAAAAgo/CG0oiavxON0/s1600-h/PICT0306.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254488444833224146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxZq6t1dI/AAAAAAAAAgo/CG0oiavxON0/s320/PICT0306.JPG" border="0" /></a>m</strong><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9hLyoOI/AAAAAAAAAgA/plyRej8J5Ts/s1600-h/ode+to+bonsky+b.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254486861672521954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9hLyoOI/AAAAAAAAAgA/plyRej8J5Ts/s200/ode+to+bonsky+b.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">r e d m o o n m e d i a . c o m</span> clear thinking : creative vision<br />:: websites<a href="http://www.enn.ie/">http://www.enn.ie/</a><a href="http://www.chambers.ie/">http://www.chambers.ie/</a><br /><a href="http://www.seminars.ie/">http://www.seminars.ie/</a><a href="http://www.bdellium.com/">http://www.bdellium.com/</a><br /><a href="http://www.childrenslifeline.ie/">http://www.childrenslifeline.ie/</a><br /><a href="http://www.colmmcevoy.ie/">http://www.colmmcevoy.ie/</a><br /><a href="http://www.siliconrepublic.com/">http://www.siliconrepublic.com/</a> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9pCASYI/AAAAAAAAAf4/CTMp4MhCxTM/s1600-h/PICT0175.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254486863778957698" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="128" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuv9pCASYI/AAAAAAAAAf4/CTMp4MhCxTM/s200/PICT0175.JPG" width="195" border="0" /></a><br /><br />:: contactemail: <a href="mailto:mlovatt@redmoonmedia.com">mlovatt@redmoonmedia.com</a><br />tel: +353 1 5042360mob: +353 87 1236152<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">-------Web Creative Services Ltd.t/a redmoonmedia</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Registered in Ireland no. 291859</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">7 College Farm ParkNewbridge, Co. Kildare</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"><strong>&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&& &&&&& :</strong></span></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254490623878647858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuzYgfoUDI/AAAAAAAAAgw/Eg4BJIBYQOQ/s400/eduardo1.bmp" border="0" /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;color:#009900;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Eak The Geek, E. Arrocha</span>, is the legendary 10- in- one STRONGMAN who worked at the Sideshow by the Seashore museum in Coney Island but besides that is an amazing underground writer as the reader of these short story/ "supra-real" if not gently surreal vignettes published here for the first time soon must come to grips with.</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;">NOTE: The asst. administrator of ULAPoetry and Fiction must apologize to him for not having done so years ago when under the auspices of Mike DelVeccia, editor and publisher of the newspaper, Philadelphia Arts Writers the piece was made available to publish by that asst administrator.</span></div><span style="color:#ff6600;"><span style="color:#000000;"></span></span></div><div><span style="color:#ff6600;"><div><br /><br /></div><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">The wild bazaar,</span> a walk down the streets of the New Jerusalem, the captain of a one man ship, with a tattered sails and worn out shoes from winter walking and what a sight it was. Suddenly the nothing of " noting never making sense" came all together in a song of wild colors and black t-shirts peddled by men from far away lands with commerce on their minds, and the lust of money in their eyes, a walk, on the way to the gates of the kingdom where the hungry <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxYidhbnI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/lbj8guHRhdA/s1600-h/coney2.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254488425383423602" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxYidhbnI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/lbj8guHRhdA/s320/coney2.bmp" border="0" /></a>for more then food, and more then money, the hungry who could never satisfy the craving danced to beat of wild drums in the middle of the night warmed by bonfires burning in to ashes wooden pieces of doors and beams and buildings that lay in shambles.</strong></span></p><div><br /><br /><br /></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;">Suddenly, the ghost whisperers of past echoes became a raging ring in tired neurons addled from to much living, exhausted beyond the point of sleep. Running from shortcomings in past lovers eyes and desires that stayed put in the back of greyhound bus seats, rambling thru Midwestern towns across the great divide, with there pretty houses and nice yards and the invisible people who lived behind the windows off quiet street and behind cars. Eyes wide open around a twisted square where in freezing weather the African statue lady danced, nude but for a skirt and shirt of silver electric tape, so far gone in the sounds of her imaginary drums as she moved to the rhythms of a mystery, while the lady and dogs gave out advice and pinched the passers by for Judas coin to feed herself and her brood of twenty or so small yellow mutts and to keep the mute veteran alive in his far away eyes, and the sadness of his memories.</span></strong></p><div><br /><br /><br /></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;">And the desert became an odd after thought with it’s beautiful red cliffs, and it’s <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxZZtMCaI/AAAAAAAAAgg/92OZ6lpNLjE/s1600-h/coney+is.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254488440213080482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxZZtMCaI/AAAAAAAAAgg/92OZ6lpNLjE/s320/coney+is.bmp" border="0" /></a>colors, and the carnival became dated once feet hit the city streets, and the people just became many and all had the same face and looked the same and said the same things in detached cool and somehow looked as if they had never left the rainstorm in the days of cold weather.</span></strong></p><div><br /><br /><br /></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;">I had arrived like the lost Capistrano swallows that would nest in the porch of a the only bar in Madrid New Mexico, looking for the a familiar breeze that seemed to be coming from around the abstract corner, or perhaps behind the hill where the old spoils of the abandoned coal mine painted streaks of dirty ashes on the scarred hillside. I had arrived and it was so cold and no one paid attention, and no one said a word unless they wanted to sell me star dust promises and shooting rainbows, and I had been burned enough times to doubt before I believed.</span></strong></p><div><br /><br /><br /></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;">Ah the New Jerusalem, where one could run away from the remnants of faded dreams and invent a past of convenience and believe in it just because it was there and no one but the drunkard passed out on the side of the pavement knew the truth. And I would sit on the side of the sidewalk and drink beer with the thin man who would paint and sell pictures for a quarter and who cried when they would swirl away in a gust of wind, the same one that would leave skeletons of umbrellas littering the curb, hoping the catch the wind with there skinny bent metallic limbs trying to catch a song. And I had arrived, almost hoping to be famous or to be swallowed in the night, at the tail end of roaming thru out the land, and I was so tired, I did not know it, and so sad I had no place to go, and behind me my bridges law waste, under the flood waters left behind by a broken levy. </span></strong></p><div><br /><br /><br /></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;">Ah the New Jerusalem, where one comes to see the light or to be a subway pauper and become pieces of paper flying around the city canyons in wind devils, depositing there secrets two or three streets away where they do not mean a thing to anyone, as every one is busy enough to escape there own silly memories and hide there head in the sand, Ah the New Jerusalem, where I would stay up all night writing poems about the flies stuck in sugar water and the vanished sun. The New Jerusalem with the smell of piss and sausage on it’s shady street fairs, with it’s junk shops and the memories of what had once been the red light in the middle of the night and was now a barren wasteland of crack head skeletons with dead eyes wandering, looking for a place to place there fangs and suck blood to keep death alive another day. The New Jerusalem where I saw the sun rise for the first time in many years, the New Jerusalem, where the county fair meet the Atlantic ocean and an ancient Chinese fishermen pulled skate to cut off their sea wings and leave them there to die. The Jerusalem, where I came alive, one day and ran in to the circus that never leaves this town, full of subways ghost of the ones that could have been and the ones that never where, and the image of the young girl who lived in the projects and had pictures of the ocean on her walls, but had never taken the train to Coney Island to see the sea. The New Jerusalem with its well kept secrets waiting for a sacred hurricane to steal them in to a magic night colored by invisible stars.</span></strong></p><div><br /><br /><br /></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;">And I arrived, to not or to fade in to the night, and I arrived to try to tell a tale, and got swallowed by the story. Eduardo Arrocha/ September 28 .</span></strong></p></span><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#336666;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;"><em>October 7, 2005<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">In the land of the endless sky</span></strong>, so large it swallowed the land, the red cliff the mountains and the sand, I staid awake under the sounds coming from the gray recorder, giving me the gift of songs from the endlessness of time, I smoked cigarettes and more, drank black cowboy coffee while grounding down buckles, inlaid with the secrets of the mountains, and I breathe epoxy and wood dust and did not care, as my mind flew free, far away from the feeling I had to fight every day, trying to figure how fill the empty hole from a recently amputated part of my soul.<br />I think we all have a chance to go to our own personal crossroads, and when we do; we dive far in to the ink vacuous, waiting for the thud coming from the great fall. Sometimes and only sometimes can we actually turn our arms to wings and fly far, far above the place where Icarus burnt his wings, as he got to close to the sun. I drank from the secret waters, and learned the secrets that have taken me a life time to learn how to forget. Perhaps I was smart enough to take flight late night, far from the big bright yellow light that could burn skin to a purple crisp and baked the desert stones.<br />In flight I would see the far away promises of distance laying underneath our feet in the back yard where the dogs howled and sang and barked and shat all over the place, the way dogs do, the would sit there and teach me the language of their eyes, and I would come back for a moment to check on the lathe and make certain my finger where all on my hand, and the right sanding belt was on for the job, and then I would fly again, once more.<br />My head was full of hair, and I did not worry about the growth around my waist, and I could deal with hunger as long as I could look to find and answer, somewhere, even in deep fried bread or a bowl of beans. Somehow I loved my nicotine stained fingers, and my yellowed teeth and my wild streak and my desire to write more poems and the communion I felt with every cup of coffee I drank, as it all moved away from her, just a little bit every time, but enough to not go completely insane. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxZAMQkwI/AAAAAAAAAgY/6qH3px8umJw/s1600-h/coney3.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254488433364079362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuxZAMQkwI/AAAAAAAAAgY/6qH3px8umJw/s320/coney3.bmp" border="0" /></a>That is before I wrote "wild darling" just for her in a long gone New York café when I finally buried the hatchet and figured it was time to let her fade in to the suburb of her choice.<br />Did I ever think I would outlive practically everyone? It is not that I am old, it is just that they all seemed to die or fade away thru out the years leaving only pieces of their memory, of the though of desires and all kinds of thoughts that come and visit in the middle of thinking about my salad dressing. Simple how it happens, they just show up for a moment before going back in to the lost neurons, or in to a moment when the fire burned and I had no great worry, because I was to busy staving off the endless hunger.<br />It is the hunger that drives one to go to market and got as all together as the crate people catering to weekday refugees eating bad corn dogs on a stick and drinking down watered down soda, it was the hunger that allowed us to sit thru the rain and the wind and the sun and the thirst and the dessert gossip, it was the hunger that made a cheep breakfast and a cup of dark as shoe polish liquid taste as a gift from the ancient gods that lived in the crannies of the Sandias mountains. It was the hunger that made the cliffs so much redder and made a the eyes hurt when crossing the bridge in to radioactive city, and it made a cheep burrito from the taco spot somehow taste better then the finest of the finest dishes made in a four star Parisian restaurant.<br />It was not only a hunger for food, but a hunger for love and a hunger for tobacco and for enough money and for drugs and for anything to fill the empty void waiting for the ghost of her memory to come in and steel moments of my space. It was that hunger that can only be satisfied with a cigarette always burning on lips end, and a cup of coffee and the never ending adrenaline keeping the body hanging on for dear life, even though it is killing it.<br />We all go to our personal crossroads, but I jumped in full of fear, but I jumped in the end of day, and I played with, out of mock bravado and the scent of a promise broken.<br />……………..<br />Sometimes I am reminded by the supermarket manager that I am overweight, that I look fat, and I feel like asking him if he knows what it’s like to go with out food for days on end, but I shake my head and smile, after all it is not as bad as when the vicious old lady begins following me around calling me a Satanist and demands to see the boss.<br />It has been quite a few year in my personal spell of time since I had my last hurrah, and I cannot say I miss it, but it always leaves me thinking. I went to Albuquerque and then to the Jemez Mountains to visit the grave of my friend Spencer’s grave, he took me in when I got back from a sad Mexican adventure after getting out of the loony tunes and getting disowned by my father. My friend Charles, with whom I ran like a gazelle from the cops one day across Roosevelt Park died of liver failure in October of 2004, The Chilean doctor who talked me out of doing something really stupid committed suicide with out me getting a chance to thank him. Not too many remain; I figure they all have been swallowed in the dust or gone for a great adventure. My trip was weird, the Frontier restaurant was still there and I had a great lunch and remembered, some of the wonderful vendors in the plaza where still there and they remembered me, and it was odd and made me quite happy, almost all of them looked older and some the guys that where skinny like me, where all sporting a Buddha, what I call my gut, now that things have gotten comfortable. We spoke about old times and about the dead. Life goes on. We owe it enough to respect its memory.<br />Sometimes I wonder what happened to Sarah, after she surgically amputated that part of my soul, the last time I saw her I was about to leave Albuquerque for another great adventure, she stared at me intently and dropped her coffee on my conversation companion, she looked good and was about to get married. We did not speak and as I walked across the room our eyes caught and we did the long stare and knew we would never see each other again, we never did have a chance to say goodbye. I wonder if we would recognize each other, I am not as young as crazy as thin and do not smoke any thing any more though I still love my coffee dark!<br />A few weeks ago, I saw a guy who could have been the ghost of crazy skinhead David, he was rather poorly aged and his tattoos where faded, he looked like David, the greatest womanizer and a born thief would of ended up looking like if he would of not committed suicide in San Francisco running from the law. The last time I saw him he bought me a pack of cigarettes and smiled, I guess we where all tapped and burnt out and ready to run somewhere to be swallowed in the great sky bowl.<br />My cat died recently, my friend Donny gave her to me, and he was one of my oldest friends in New York and one of two people who knew all my secrets. He died a few years ago, left a wife and children. Me I am still hanging in there, I must admit I love eating a bit much, and still shake to the thought of hunger. I have not fallen in love ever again much to the chagrin of the few lovers I have had and of my past obsessions. And me, I just living another day, writing a few more poems and finishing school papers, ah that has been a great new adventure, but I will leave it for another day. </em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;"></span></em></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254490628640493634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="269" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuzYyO8UEI/AAAAAAAAAg4/bGjM0SE2vRA/s400/eduardo.bmp" width="400" border="0" /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;"><em></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;"><em><span style="font-size:180%;">Eduardo Arrocha</span><br /></em></span></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254490634566783714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOuzZIT4UuI/AAAAAAAAAhA/wwIIU6XxgPk/s400/Eduardo+at+law+school.bmp" border="0" /><br />Eak The Geek Gone To Law School And Has Another Success!<br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:100%;color:#000000;"></span></div><div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-5276301716562856301?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-6492766181756671912008-09-28T20:28:00.000-07:002008-09-28T22:46:39.355-07:00Some sonnets screwed with and musical improv unanimous is the wiser...<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBhict50aI/AAAAAAAAAdk/XKI8Qi8Tsh8/s1600-h/dragonsailfish+009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251304409966170530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBhict50aI/AAAAAAAAAdk/XKI8Qi8Tsh8/s200/dragonsailfish+009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">... dedicated to the underground who </span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">are not killing themselves</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">while lately have you noticed that more and more</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">of the Literary Establishment savants like</span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;color:#ff0000;">poor DAVID FOSTER WALLACE</span><br /></span><br /><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">[guitar and "noise" accompaniment: Greg Somers, Ponte Vedra Beach]</span></strong></span><br /><br /><object id="divplaylist" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=" height="85" width="335" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="_cx" value="8864"><param name="_cy" value="2249"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472295-2bf"><param name="Src" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472295-2bf"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value="LT"><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value=""><param name="Scale" value="NoScale"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472295-2bf" width="335" height="85" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBaHVZETpI/AAAAAAAAAcs/BGa9BDKUFlo/s1600-h/dragonsailfish+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251296247561866898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBaHVZETpI/AAAAAAAAAcs/BGa9BDKUFlo/s320/dragonsailfish+002.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;">most recent, are. dying either by their own hands the hands that feed them the hands that take food outta America's real writers' mouths while taping those mouths shut with silk blindfolds-- either suicide or by dis-eases like bone cancer and other wasting malaise, when the culture underground don't aren't. (maybe because of the rumors of ULAlliance, in large part!)<br /><br /><a href="http://poetsunion.us/">http://poetsunion.us/</a><br /></span><br /><object id="divplaylist" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=" height="85" width="335" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="_cx" value="8864"><param name="_cy" value="2249"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472296-3aa"><param name="Src" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472296-3aa"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value="LT"><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value=""><param name="Scale" value="NoScale"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472296-3aa" width="335" height="85" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBaHgPRpSI/AAAAAAAAAc0/m1TalOrC4bo/s1600-h/dragonsailfish+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251296250473588002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBaHgPRpSI/AAAAAAAAAc0/m1TalOrC4bo/s320/dragonsailfish+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#990000;">Another parallel between us and the Beats really and while times are much worse now the same kind of pressures economically and metaphysically may have held us back still even while we push forward with our words and desires resisting making us sharper like coyotes in a city dump<br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><object id="divplaylist" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=" height="85" width="335" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="_cx" value="8864"><param name="_cy" value="2249"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472297-82a"><param name="Src" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472297-82a"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value="LT"><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value=""><param name="Scale" value="NoScale"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472297-82a" width="335" height="85" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBaHzqqKMI/AAAAAAAAAc8/d2x01MCcZ2Q/s1600-h/dragonsailfish+005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251296255688714434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBaHzqqKMI/AAAAAAAAAc8/d2x01MCcZ2Q/s320/dragonsailfish+005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color:#660000;">but then the future is undercurrent a riptide tolling the whole world country toward us in its time of need and severe doubt tho perhaps nobody seems to hear or see only as the Twilight Deepens and Kapitalism like hell freezes over<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><object id="divplaylist" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=" height="85" width="335" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="_cx" value="8864"><param name="_cy" value="2249"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472298-ce1"><param name="Src" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472298-ce1"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value="LT"><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value=""><param name="Scale" value="NoScale"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472298-ce1" width="335" height="85" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object></div><div><br /><span style="color:#330000;">and the Ancestors rise from shallows along the thresholds and their tools and work-skills and outside bets of the immigrants, the orphaned mongrels, guests on Turtle Island catch the drift<br /></span><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251299417881024546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBc_3wDmCI/AAAAAAAAAdM/7JTYAhLJxlU/s400/dragonsailfish+008.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><object id="divplaylist" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=" height="85" width="335" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="_cx" value="8864"><param name="_cy" value="2249"><param name="FlashVars" value=""><param name="Movie" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472298-ce1"><param name="Src" value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472298-ce1"><param name="WMode" value="Window"><param name="Play" value="-1"><param name="Loop" value="-1"><param name="Quality" value="High"><param name="SAlign" value="LT"><param name="Menu" value="-1"><param name="Base" value=""><param name="AllowScriptAccess" value=""><param name="Scale" value="NoScale"><param name="DeviceFont" value="0"><param name="EmbedMovie" value="0"><param name="BGColor" value=""><param name="SWRemote" value=""><param name="MovieData" value=""><param name="SeamlessTabbing" value="1"><param name="Profile" value="0"><param name="ProfileAddress" value=""><param name="ProfilePort" value="0"><param name="AllowNetworking" value="all"><param name="AllowFullScreen" value="false"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><embed src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=5472298-ce1" width="335" height="85" name="divplaylist" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object></div><div><br /><span style="color:#003300;">and flash filtering upward and through in the glowering of the green wilding fires to the people their beloved and the Creator, Wankan Tanka, perhaps and voices heard and lines breaking on the eye and the American Imagination asks us for this dance.....</span> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251299416635634370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBc_zHIcsI/AAAAAAAAAdU/5oVGR--zlis/s400/dragonsailfish+007.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#666666;">all picts on this post courtesy of FDW2008. animal hospital in 900 block of Beach Blvd. Jacksonville Beach.</span></p><br /><p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBdza9CF9I/AAAAAAAAAdc/psvMiE3WqAA/s1600-h/dragonsailfish+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251300303504021458" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SOBdza9CF9I/AAAAAAAAAdc/psvMiE3WqAA/s200/dragonsailfish+004.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;">"PEGASUS"</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;">ALI MIRUKU, ALBANIA</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;">JACKSONVILLE, 05-04-07.</span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></p><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-649276618175667191?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-23718502621715808222008-09-11T23:10:00.000-07:002008-09-16T15:58:30.553-07:00Does it make sense that the difference between choice and decision is the same as life and death?<div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Bugaboo At The Miller Theater:</strong></span></div><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SMoSLRlaXXI/AAAAAAAAAWw/An4qLaxt6_Y/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245024700934544754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SMoSLRlaXXI/AAAAAAAAAWw/An4qLaxt6_Y/s200/1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#cc0000;">Pointing two high beams</span></div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SMoT-Rm8CGI/AAAAAAAAAXI/cAfIJZwHX4A/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245026676625901666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SMoT-Rm8CGI/AAAAAAAAAXI/cAfIJZwHX4A/s320/2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#cc0000;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></span></div><div><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#cc0000;">Twin towers blown away</span><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"></span></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#cc0000;">Two</span> <span style="color:#666666;">candidates <em><span style="font-size:180%;">NIKE</span></em> either or</span></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">on one stage at one and only one Columbia</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">University crunching neighborhoods</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">around Broadway a real</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">show of force ten from Navarone</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">and the domain shoe horns immanent </span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">greased by monopoly monied</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">corporate ivy league plantation mindset ups</span></div><div><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#666666;">and foreign investment moist, soft</span><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;">Israeli State slush funds so where is Monroe</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#666666;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color:#666666;">and where is Ron Paul</span> <span style="color:#3333ff;">and where</span></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;color:#3333ff;">making Hay Market riots before the Fall.</span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245025113796536002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SMoSjTnYZsI/AAAAAAAAAXA/eVp8YWVGrSM/s400/3.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#3333ff;"><span style="color:#666600;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">fdw</span></span> <span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">9/11/08</span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-2371850262171580822?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-68181262489885054752008-07-21T19:07:00.000-07:002008-07-21T20:08:37.516-07:00here's a lil' something to celebate Xmas in July<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLLR76_iI/AAAAAAAAATg/Dvl4UJPZy3c/s1600-h/SanMarco5292008+132.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225665599798705698" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLLR76_iI/AAAAAAAAATg/Dvl4UJPZy3c/s320/SanMarco5292008+132.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>This creature is been published and still is as it's all electronica for the people</div><br /><div>on <strong>GEORGE</strong> <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">SOLOMOS's</span></strong> FILM BANK- FIBA.UK website outta London England. </div><br /><div>Check this great site out today by the publisher of ZERO MAGAZINE AND PRESS that in it's day-- the late 40's thru the fifties to the early 80's in Philadelphia -- was more real and less spooky (one of the first ex-pat literary journals to publish Jimmy Baldwin for example) than the cooked Paris Review.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Also this thing published hard wise by the <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Collective Press </span></strong>newspaper in St. Augustine, FL. as of last week and distributed to independent alternative bookstore and other small businesses and public places. Number 21, as of last week.</div><br /><div>Theirs is an alternative deep- progressive issue very similar to West Philly's most satisfying and excellent anarchist THE DEFENESTRATOR but the COLLECTIVE publishes good damn poetry!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000099;">EARTHDAYMAYDAYANYDAY<br /></span><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLLIMYVDI/AAAAAAAAATY/UsaBhd2uzg0/s1600-h/SanMarco5292008+131.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225665597183382578" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLLIMYVDI/AAAAAAAAATY/UsaBhd2uzg0/s320/SanMarco5292008+131.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#006600;">There, as well as here,<br />They’re wondering why<br />It’s so chilly from coast<br />To coast? Capitalist Winter<br />Is underway, people are<br />Sheep well maybe its time<br />To seek out and find<br />The human- being though<br />People are just another<br />Word, human is not just<br />A word, but there’s a difference</span></span></strong></div><br /><p><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#006600;"></span></span></strong></p><br /><p><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#006600;"></p></span></span></strong><br /><div><br />In the air and the ocean is<br />Whipping calling up a storm gale<br />More than they’re nobody’s used too,<br />More than they’re amused<br />two might just be business as usual<br />All around the world<br />Food is in demand but no<br />Problem regards supply under<br />Handed seeds in lock step<br />With search and seize and a yearned<br />Dose of radioactive isotope<br />Has seen fit to that perfect plant<br />It’s people’s rout for starving<br />My gated bunker is darling<br />Keeps them those humans out<br />It’s what them folk want<br />After all while our police</div><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLKnSp5ZI/AAAAAAAAATI/pd8abnWRxAQ/s1600-h/SanMarco5292008+129.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225665588351329682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLKnSp5ZI/AAAAAAAAATI/pd8abnWRxAQ/s320/SanMarco5292008+129.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div><br />State stands porky and tall<br />We’ll take suck at the teat of facts smack<br />Dab [and] faith to keep these people<br />In their place in the technocratic<br />Knowhow that things will be<br />A much hotter, slower pace<br />In an afterlife beyond time and space.<br />Nuclear Winter can’t hold<br />A candle up to the face<br />Of our spanking new capitalist winter<br />Coming to a theater near you,<br />Coming on TV set-up without a clue</div><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#006600;"><div><br /><em>And if, if not with a stitch of real food,<br />At least a battle cry, or a dinking song or two.<br /><br /></em>4/15/08.<br /></span><br /><br /></span></strong><a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLKwV8HXI/AAAAAAAAATQ/z9F__5owJvo/s1600-h/SanMarco5292008+130.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225665590781025650" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 491px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 333px" height="240" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SIVLKwV8HXI/AAAAAAAAATQ/z9F__5owJvo/s320/SanMarco5292008+130.jpg" width="491" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><strong>Roger Jollie</strong> life long advocate and activist for social justice /civil rights and current mayorial candidate of St. Augustine as seen in the LOOSE SCREWS independent bookstore and emporium, holds the poster for director and newest ULA member Matt Broomfield's Unholy Sideshow, the movie.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-6818126248988505475?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-70768124833084377792008-05-23T19:19:00.000-07:002008-06-13T15:11:50.035-07:00ON THE ASSUMPTION OF THE ELITE, AND THEIR CHARTS, MAPS, AND A TASTE OF THEIR OWN MEDICINE<div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#660000;">dregs of the cocktail party face-off the molotov cocktail outing</span></strong><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe8hAq7LGI/AAAAAAAAAHg/s0koRgedG_s/s1600-h/L1560932+-+Version+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203835169751641186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe8hAq7LGI/AAAAAAAAAHg/s0koRgedG_s/s320/L1560932+-+Version+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:100%;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;">The skewed level of prosodic</span> competence</span></span> "in" composition-- in particular the phrenology of the samples I'll affix for examination on my trays of black wax--of these System savants below considered the best poets ("champions", ie. most decorated and most festooned with redundant Over-dawg awards and monied chairs) the New York Publishing "New England" Ivy Academic Military/Industrial Complex has to offer, (or even in this case, sacrifice, if necessary!) can only be best described as mental, emotional, and, mostly, sociopathic symptoms, dis-ease, brought on by "inbreeding" if not out and out "incest". Figuratively but structurally besides.<br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center">As all such closed Systems tend through their quotient of Entropy and as this process of hypostasis is irreversible (only true if the exception is true, namely that there exists at least one reversible reaction under structurally identical conditions) so the savor of the samples<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe5Kgq7LCI/AAAAAAAAAHA/wPy1hyVRVsE/s1600-h/L1560847+-+Version+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203831484669701154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 381px" height="283" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe5Kgq7LCI/AAAAAAAAAHA/wPy1hyVRVsE/s320/L1560847+-+Version+2.jpg" width="320" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center">I present may fade into the background </div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center">tastelessness of the rules of order, </div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center">and make the offending poet prosaic'ly</div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center">sympathetic to the choir-boys.</div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br />The Monolithic NYC Publishing/N.E. Ivy Academic Axis Kapitalist Force is just this sort of closed system while it is important to realize that its "good" soldiers (as the above is the aggressive that conducts the Culture Wars and maintains, intellectually, marketing, for the ruling class, the Class War) especially where its company poets are concerned, as poets are frequently of a higher, "non-fiction", dispensation, are the "victims" (look at the status of the avante- garde where "literature" is meant! ) as well. While, here, we are trying to re- fresh, reboot, a crucial aesthetic-- "borrowed" from the scientific laws of thermodynamics-- crit, 1960's Counter Culture term, ENTROPY, contradistinct to the preeminence of its "exception", single reversible-reaction paradigm, a HYSTERESIS, if you will, of this "law" as explained previously, to be the underground, independent, cooperatively- determined Letters and Literary Arts on point: the unconditional Conscience of the people and culture. Especially as there are bottom- line issues of free expression, free speech, public access, and distribution of what- is- to- be- accessible at play in the Country ( which would include New York, even Manhattan?). Rough housing is allowed of course especially toward the initiators of the civil Wars here at home.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;color:#800000;">note:: sub-texte: the word "entropy" happened to be gleaned during my research into affects of one of the three subjects to be roasted in this series of blog-posts, Liam Rector. A brief vacuous essay published in the equally vacant American Poetry Review out of Philadelphia.</span></p><br /><p align="center">Yes! perhaps like yoursell-ves I do take all of this personally. </p><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe5mQq7LDI/AAAAAAAAAHI/l-Ohdc5I8rU/s1600-h/L1560940+-+Version+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203831961411071026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 204px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 444px" height="150" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe5mQq7LDI/AAAAAAAAAHI/l-Ohdc5I8rU/s200/L1560940+-+Version+2.jpg" width="550" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><p align="center">But my purpose beside the obvious allowance of timelines if not tardiness unlike a few of my more confrontational if not obsessed associates ( in and of the ALLIANCE ) is not one of resentment, nor the despairing anger of wanting, "to have, being a Have- not, what-- the fame, money, the status-- the Haves have", nor even to get published and distributed, especially this late in the game, by <i>duh </i>Conglomerites and supp and sip with the glacial hupsters grind from dusk 'til dawn, but to shame and, if the opportunity present itself, as it is here on this Blog, drive the dominant forces as attached over the edge. For the people, for the reading/writing public, and most poignantly (I do take this personal!) for the Allies, cf. the ALLIANCE [where available; void where prohibited]. Seriously, I am the poet and if I'm lying it's not to bear false witness against my neighbors nor am I even against coveting my neighbor's wife or his daughters for that matter but do so to better advance and promote the causes of the TRUTH. </p><br /><div align="center">So that the public I as the poet do serve can cultivate a more critical sense in making actual decisions instead of being limited to the "bipolarism" of mere choices the system forces upon us. So that in effect there is less lying going around, dished out, in other words, the line- fed line of Fantasy Island, as I a poet loud and clear do in turn namely "make - believe", make-believing which exercises the Eternal Organ Of The Imagination and does sustain the citizen of a democratic country well with access to our Collective Uncs. so called, and its attending endless renewable energy and the open range of the lands of peace and ease.</div><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDg7mAq7LII/AAAAAAAAAHw/oGvwl4Hi5JA/s1600-h/L1560926+-+Version+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203974893627714690" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 530px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" height="150" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDg7mAq7LII/AAAAAAAAAHw/oGvwl4Hi5JA/s200/L1560926+-+Version+2.jpg" width="483" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br />Come to think of it, or more properly, as the Imagination's "woven shade" , the "poets' bower", has been invoked, come to intuit it, this is done and only can be done and is being done by the ULA in particular and it's Presses and the associated zeens, blogs, performances and creative livelihoods of its members and quantitatively more so by the free-association of those independent underground writers, poets, and artists beyond the zone of the Alliance's <em>direct</em> influences.<br /></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#000099;"><em>[ALL PHOTOS ARE GEOFF HALL @ APRIL, 2006]<br /></div></em></span><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">This is where I the poet of the people, the reading/ writing citizenry, stand, seriously but not soberly, confidently but not necessarily faithfully, full of it never if I can help it full of myself but practically empty, and having no strings to hold me down unlike the three compromised poets who are, by all intents and purposes, (the answer to the question of whose intents and purposes lies in the upper recesses of closed and suffocating Towers one is styled in ivory and the other fashioned of robber-baron booty ) good soldiers, good victims of who they serve, to whom they sold out to, and most grievously, sold out the great art of poetry and the legacy, grounded in the pivotal decades of the <strong>'20's & '30's</strong>, and the<strong> Fifties and Sixties</strong> and then as now the "underground" (Fiction and )Poetry of the<strong> '90's</strong>, the story of which is not yet written nor decided, of that poetry, of those poets, either alive or dead. While I have friends, I take exception to my comrades no matter what their faults being used for ends that <span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>kill the</strong></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>messanger and capitalize on her belongings.<br /></strong></span></div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">FIRST UP</span> LETS TAKE, <span style="color:#cc9933;">jason shinder</span>, <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/407"><u><span style="color:#0000ff;">http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/407</u></span></a></p><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br />OR MORE CAUTIOUSLY A FEW OF HIS "LATE" POEMS-- AS THEY ARE IN FACT WRIT BY A POET WHO IS LATE RECENTLY IN LIFE'S ESTIMATION TAKEN FROM US --WHICH I REGRET TO SAY WILL NOT APPEAR HERE IN THEIR ENTIRETY AS THE EXCUSE OF COPYWRIT WILL NO DOUBT BE INCITED FROM THE QUARTERS DRAWN AROUND HIS BODY OF WORK AND AROUND HIS VERily BODY FALLEN OUT OF SQUARE WITH our VISIBLE WORLD. BUT BECAUSE ... <span style="font-size:78%;color:#ff0000;"></div></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#ff0000;"><p align="center">note:: subtexte: <i>In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni. </i>[just in case!]</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><div align="center">... OF THIS STATE OF THINGS THE READER WILL FIND THE LINES, STANZAS (OR "STROPHES" AS SAPPHIC SOPHISTS HIPSTERS-WHO-ARE-REALLY-GEEKS CALL 'EM) BY LINKS TO THE WHOLE PIECE UNDER THE GUN, SO TO SPEAK. AS I WILL parley MY OWN LYRICK VERSE, TOE TO TOE (tho I'd be<i> ipso facto </i>the one left standing!) with that of HIS selected , and that THAT I DIVINE TO BE APPROPRIATE AS WELL AS PERSONAL ENOUGH TO BE TAKEN DEAD-SERIOUS by enemies. </div><div align="center"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203832446742375490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 550px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 140px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="150" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDe6Cgq7LEI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/4C6zEl7cwX0/s200/L1560905+-+Version+2.jpg" width="397" border="0" /><br /><p>JUXTAPOSED. </p><br /><br /><p>2001, "The One Secret That Has Carried"</p><p><a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15957"><u><span style="color:#0000ff;">http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15957</u></span></a></p><br /><p></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6600;">P:: S: I actually wrote a poem after I read Shinder’s , “The One Secret…”, but I will save it and publish as a comment to this post should the response to my “answering” poem below warrant such.</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:Lucida Sans Unicode;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i>from </i><u>A Century Of Sonnets Without Borders</p></u></span></span><p align="center"></p><p align="center">#103</p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">She said she thought the drummer</span></p><br /><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">who pilots a SEPTA trolley now and back</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">in the ‘80’s raped a dominatrix</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">according to the dominatrix but at least</span></p><br /><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">not the same one, jerks off while he talks</span></p><br /><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">to her on the phone, you got to be</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">joking I said into my phone,</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">not the same phone, but I’d hope</span><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">he swabs the receiver down </span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">with alcohol if it’s a public pay phone.</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It’s not serious, it’s only a commercial</p></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><p align="center"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">a movie sequel, a stuffed dodo, a nervous </span></p><br /><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">tick not brought on by sanctions until now </span></p><br /><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">against arab kids for over eleven years.</span></p><br /><p align="center">12.31.03</p><p align="center"></p><p align="left"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDopTwq7LJI/AAAAAAAAAH4/Z5oX-RP9C4A/s1600-h/L1560855+-+Version+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204517738839223442" style="WIDTH: 520px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 247px" height="295" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SDopTwq7LJI/AAAAAAAAAH4/Z5oX-RP9C4A/s320/L1560855+-+Version+2.jpg" width="592" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center"></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-7076812483308437779?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-79751185596424357892008-05-09T07:19:00.000-07:002008-05-09T07:24:52.096-07:00"Star Spangled Poet III"I wanna, I wanna<br />wanna be<br />I wanna wanna be<br />be-boppin hit the drummin'<br />hands hittin table<br />be-boppin eyes closed<br />sweatin' be<br />cool<br />be<br />syncopated, baby<br />be, be, be,<br />wannabe<br />just-a, just-a, just-a,<br />just-as, just-ass,<br />just-ask<br />justice! justice! justice!<br />If you don't know this is the shit,<br />if you don't think this is radical then you<br />don't know the audience, the rules<br />the roles you and me supposed to play<br />Like, I get to be the poet<br />and you get to be impressed.<br />Shut out the lights, Nathan,<br />This gig is over,<br />entertainment finished,<br />wasn't it wonderful?<br />Not really, but it was adequate facsimile<br />of what used-ta,<br />used-ta, used-ta,<br />used to be cool<br />used to be beautiful<br />be known as,<br />and once really was,<br />poetry.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-7975118559642435789?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-86803582430398351712008-04-30T22:42:00.000-07:002008-04-30T23:23:25.779-07:00Mayu Day -- lest we forget, why, how, who and world-wide<div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong></strong></span></span> </p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>MICHAEL GROVER</strong></span></span> /THIRD IN A SERIES <span style="font-size:180%;">IS OF 3</span>/</p><br /><p>AND BY KNOW MEANS HIS FIRST</p><br /><div><em><span style="color:#006600;"></span></em><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SBlhXXPz9iI/AAAAAAAAAEk/8ZSwSLhSfBI/s1600-h/sitting+Buddha.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195290699153798690" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 207px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 522px" height="412" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SBlhXXPz9iI/AAAAAAAAAEk/8ZSwSLhSfBI/s320/sitting+Buddha.jpg" width="207" border="0" /></a><br /><p><em><span style="color:#006600;"></span></em></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;">Fidel </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Fidel walking way<br />Not as a champion,<br />Not as a martyr,<br />As an old man<br />Beaten down<br />From fighting for years<br />american imperialism,<br />The yankee embargos<br />starving his people.</span></p><br /><div><br /> </div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Here lays proof<br />Revolution can happen<br />Power taken<br />From the point of a gun.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Here lays proof<br />Power corrupts,<br />And absolute power<br />corrupts absolutely.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Here laid shelter<br />For displaced Poets<br />Of south america<br />For american exiles<br />Like Assata.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Who knows<br />What the future holds.<br />I just hope that yankee bastard<br />Uncle Sam<br />Don't get his hands around it's throat<br />And squeeze it for all it's worth.<br />Commercializing<br />Everything in sight.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Let's hope the fence of Guantanimo<br />Does not stretch around the island<br />Making it all<br />A prison.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Ninety miles away<br />From my florida homeland.<br />Ninety miles of blue ocean.<br />I have never seen it.<br />My friends that returned said<br />It is an island of prostitution and corruption.<br />To that I say<br />We're not that different.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I hear that great<br />Blueblooded king<br />Talking about wanting fair elections<br />When do we get ours George?</span></p><br /><div><br /><br /><script></script><br /><br /><br style="FONT-SIZE: 8px" clear="all"></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-8680358243039835171?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-18049368400564669062008-04-21T23:29:00.000-07:002008-04-22T00:09:57.797-07:00the 2nd poem and couldn't be more timely.......<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SA2NVHPz9gI/AAAAAAAAAEU/mmIb9d3W6b8/s1600-h/dtess_14.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191961339290187266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 497px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 117px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="150" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SA2NVHPz9gI/AAAAAAAAAEU/mmIb9d3W6b8/s200/dtess_14.jpg" width="414" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:78%;">still from, "The Day The Earth Stood Still"<br /></span><div><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Here's a new one I just wrote. Hope you're well.-<span style="font-size:180%;">Michael</span></strong></span></div><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></strong></div><br /><br /><div><em>ps. What did you think of those books? [<span style="color:#009900;">3 well tempered chap-books published and available from Mickey G's newly established CovertPress</span>] Dorsey [<span style="color:#009900;">rad poet/activist of Toledo, Ohio</span> ] said he'd be down with doing a reading. Anyhow the <span class="" id="st" name="st">poem</span>:</em></div><br /><br /><div><em></em></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000099;">Free Speech</span></span></div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Free speech is . . .<br />Free speech is . .<br />Speech is free .</span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000099;"></span></span> </div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;">As long as you<br />Pay for what<br />You say later.<br />And the mans got<br />His thugs collecting.</span></div><br /><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span></div><br /><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span></div><br /><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"> Free verse is . . .<br /> Free verse is . .<br />Verse is free . </span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Words torn from the source.<br />Onto the page,<br />Flowin' every which way.<br />She told me she'd<br />Like to be a Poet,<br />But she can't write<br />In all that rhyme.<br />She's a Poet<br />And she never knew it.</span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SA2MnnPz9fI/AAAAAAAAAEM/GSexLD1KivA/s1600-h/bushmask.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191960557606139378" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="242" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SA2MnnPz9fI/AAAAAAAAAEM/GSexLD1KivA/s320/bushmask.jpg" width="464" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="right"></div><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Slow food for thought,<br />Simmering in the brain.<br />It's free speech, </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />And it's free.</span></div><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span></div><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:courier new;">march 3, 2008</span></div><br /><br /><script></script></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-1804936840056466906?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-36103887411201562262008-04-12T23:49:00.000-07:002008-04-16T23:52:18.897-07:00TrueNews 3 Poems From Mike Grover<div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Cause & Effect, Citizen 32, Alphabeat Soup, The San Gabriel Poetry Quarterly, Mad<br />Poets Review, Philadelphia Poets and the anthologies One Drop: To Be The Color Black,<br />West Memphis Witchhunt, and My Time: The Lunch Break Book and online including<br /></em></span><a onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)" href="http://www.saintvituspress.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://www.saintvituspress.com/</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>, </em></span><a onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)" href="http://www.outsiderwriters.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://www.outsiderwriters.org/</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>, </em></span><a onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)" href="http://www.getunderground.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://www.getunderground.com/</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>,<br /></em></span><a onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)" href="http://www.dyingwriters.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://www.dyingwriters.com/</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>, DecomP Literary Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee,<br />Redfez.net, Whirlygig Zine, and Beat The Dust.<strong> Michael is now back in Florida from there he hosts the website </strong></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><a onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)" href="http://www.covertpoetics.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>http://www.covertpoetics.com/</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>, co-edits CP Journal, and hosts a reading at Exodus Coffee & Culture in Port Saint Lucie. </em></span></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></div></em></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>His newest chapbook is titled<strong> "The Man That Lives In The Park".</strong><br /></div></em></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SAGy78Hrs3I/AAAAAAAAADk/MaK0_5LoQa8/s1600-h/maildanceMDG.jpg"></a></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188624988527899506" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="258" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SAGy78Hrs3I/AAAAAAAAADk/MaK0_5LoQa8/s320/maildanceMDG.jpg" width="222" border="0" /></em></span><br /><br /></div><p><span style="font-family:webdings;">here's the first of his three featured followed by two more</span></p><br /><span style="font-family:webdings;"><div id="mb_0"><br /><p>A New american Anthem</p><br /><p>I wont stand for this modern society,<br />This modern technology,<br />That reduces prophets to profits,<br />To prostitutes<br />Pimping their own eggshell egos,<br />To promotional whores,<br />To networkers,<br />To favor dealers,<br />To rockstar images in a their space photo,<br />To not what but who you know.</p><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"> <span style="color:#993300;">A New american Anthem</span></span></p><br /><div id="mb_0"><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I wont stand for this modern society,<br />This modern technology,<br />That reduces prophets to profits,<br />To prostitutes<br />Pimping their own eggshell egos,<br />To promotional whores,<br />To networkers,<br />To favor dealers,<br />To rockstar images in a their space photo,<br />To not what but who you know.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Maybe I'm an old dog,<br />That learned the old way,<br />Cut my teeth in LA<br />With the greatest minds of a new beat generation.<br />I can still learn new tricks<br />With the pen on the page,<br />I refuse to give into the reptilian brain.<br />Cold and insensitive<br />As a marketing mind.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">This is my last stand,<br />My line drawn in the sand.<br />My last chance to go out with a roar<br />Over a pussy cat purr.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">This is a transmission,<br />If you should choose to receive it.<br />Read it loud from a street corner.<br />From a dingy working class bar.<br />Set Poetry free!<br />This is my last shred of dignity.<br />All or nothing.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am writing a new american anthem.<br />I can't stand for the rockets red glare anymore.<br />No bombs bursting in air.<br />This will be a song for Peace.<br />This will mean freedom, justice, equality, Peace<br />And any other word this countries supposed to mean.<br />I want an anthem,<br />A country we can be proud of again.<br />Not the pride that was forced upon us.<br />Not the prostitute war for profit,<br />Everything for profit that we have become.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Nothing cold, generic, and corporate sponsored.<br />No reptilian mind tricks.<br />Written in blood, sweat, feeling, and soul.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am writing a new american anthem.<br />If you can see it, hear it, or read it.<br />If you identify with it in any way.<br />I urge you to go and write your own.<br />Write it in your blood and sweat.<br />Write it with the intention of a bullet in the chamber.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Because voting is just another useless word,<br />Made to look significant<br />If you are told who you may vote for.<br />And the deck is stacked anyway.</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Because we can laugh at cartoons we pay to see<br />Taking pot shots at the president.<br />While he's laughing all the way to the world bank.<br />And you tell me who's playing the fool.</span></p><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Out of necessity.<br />Out of preservation.<br />Because these days<br />Hope and Poems<br />Are all that keeps me going. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">m.d.g. 4/11/08</span></div></div><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br style="FONT-SIZE: 8px" clear="all"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></p><br /><p>Maybe I'm an old dog,<br />That learned the old way,<br />Cut my teeth in LA<br />With the greatest minds of a new beat generation.<br />I can still learn new tricks<br />With the pen on the page,<br />I refuse to give into the reptilian brain.<br />Cold and insensitive<br />As a marketing mind.</p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>This is my last stand,<br />My line drawn in the sand.<br />My last chance to go out with a roar<br />Over a pussy cat purr.</p><br /><p>This is a transmission,<br />If you should choose to receive it.<br />Read it loud from a street corner.<br />From a dingy working class bar.<br />Set Poetry free!<br />This is my last shred of dignity.<br />All or nothing.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SAbyGcHrs6I/AAAAAAAAAD8/tjJ_IuvjgC4/s1600-h/MGwest+palm+beach.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190101813032629154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 221px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 398px" height="240" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SAbyGcHrs6I/AAAAAAAAAD8/tjJ_IuvjgC4/s320/MGwest+palm+beach.jpg" width="221" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p>I am writing a new american anthem.<br />I can't stand for the rockets red glare anymore.<br />No bombs bursting in air.<br />This will be a song for Peace.<br />This will mean freedom, justice, equality, Peace<br />And any other word this countries supposed to mean.<br />I want an anthem,<br />A country we can be proud of again.<br />Not the pride that was forced upon us.<br />Not the prostitute war for profit,<br />Everything for profit that we have become.</p><br /><p>I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Nothing cold, generic, and corporate sponsored.<br />No reptilian mind tricks.<br />Written in blood, sweat, feeling, and soul.</p><br /><p>I am writing a new american anthem.<br />If you can see it, hear it, or read it.<br />If you identify with it in any way.<br />I urge you to go and write your own.<br />Write it in your blood and sweat.<br />Write it with the intention of a bullet in the chamber.</p><br /><p>I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Because voting is just another useless word,<br />Made to look significant<br />If you are told who you may vote for.<br />And the deck is stacked anyway.</p><br /><p>I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Because we can laugh at cartoons we pay to see<br />Taking pot shots at the president.<br />While he's laughing all the way to the world bank.<br />And you tell me who's playing the fool.</p><br /><div>I am writing a new american anthem.<br />Out of necessity.<br />Out of preservation.<br />Because these days<br />Hope and Poems<br />Are all that keeps me going. </div><br /><div>m.d.g. 4/11/08</div></div><br style="FONT-SIZE: 8px" clear="all"><br /><br /><br /><p><br /></p></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#009900;"> Two more as we drift closer to MAY DAY and tensions rise!<br /></span><br /></span><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/SAGy78Hrs3I/AAAAAAAAADk/MaK0_5LoQa8/s1600-h/maildanceMDG.jpg"></a></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></div></em></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-3610388741120156226?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-87691948960418067172008-03-13T12:17:00.000-07:002008-03-13T13:44:19.057-07:00Ulf Stefan Lingonblad, a poetry piece<div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em></em></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>[STEFAN is a native of Sweden who works</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>two full- time jobs in the Jacksonville Beaches </em></span></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/R9mOCVKCIZI/AAAAAAAAACk/ARZjGkXFDjQ/s1600-h/viking142+2.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177325417329205650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/R9mOCVKCIZI/AAAAAAAAACk/ARZjGkXFDjQ/s320/viking142+2.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>area of North Florida. He is primarily a novelist </em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>currently at work on his second novel.</em></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>Stafan is also an active member </em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>of the North Florida Chapter</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;color:#009900;"><em>of the Florida Writers' Association.</em></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;"><em>Here is a brief introduction in his own words:] </em></span></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color:#009900;"><em><br /><div><br /></em><br /></span></span><br />"Anyhow, I don’t really have much of anything that would be a great fit for the ULA. The stuff I write belongs more in the (hated) mainstream press. But so far no-one has wanted to publish any of it, so what the hey!<br /><br /><br /><br />I am sending you what is probably the one and only short poetry piece I have that could be a fit (you be the judge).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>The bio would be something like:<br /></strong>Stefan – the Swedish Viking, Raider of prose, Rapist of poetry!<br />My hometown is Strängnäs….<em> " [out side of Stockholm] </em></div><em></em></div><div><br /> </div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/R9mOqVKCIaI/AAAAAAAAACs/KxsnnzrzjYY/s1600-h/viking-small.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177326104523973026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 496px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px" height="338" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/R9mOqVKCIaI/AAAAAAAAACs/KxsnnzrzjYY/s320/viking-small.gif" width="158" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;color:#990000;"><strong> "Fight to Awaken – Fight to See!”<br /></strong></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">Their Fog-machines put out an impenetrable haze<br /><br />which shrouds you in<br /><br />confusion.<br /><br /><br />Your thoughts, like petals </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">off a withering<br /><br />Rose, shrivel and fall to the ground.<br /><br /><br />Don’t be afraid to pick them back up,<br /><br /> even though they may have gotten<br /><br /> dirty. </span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">Chew on them, digest them,<br /><br /> regurgitate<br /><br />them, then spit them out </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">into the faces of those who walk </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"> in the fog </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">together with you.</span></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">Those who don't </span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">flinch </span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"> or react in any way – </span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">forget about them, they are without<br /><br /> hope. </span></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">But to the others – those who clench their<br /><br /> fists<br /><br />to strike back at you – shout to them loudly: </span></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">“Fight to awaken – Fight to See!”<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br />-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-8769194896041806717?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-50046557539903837712007-12-15T00:00:00.000-08:002008-03-13T13:46:41.429-07:00Andrew Lovatt, editor and publisher, Dublin Ireland<em>to </em><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/R1WLOdixV5I/AAAAAAAAACQ/L8lE_vsR5QY/s1600-h/119-1915_IMG_2-1.jpg"><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140167630278186898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/R1WLOdixV5I/AAAAAAAAACQ/L8lE_vsR5QY/s320/119-1915_IMG_2-1.jpg" border="0" /></em></a><em> hear the original music,</em> <span style="color:#ff6600;">"9_volt_rhythm"</span> <em>composed by A.L. integral to fully experience this piece go to the main ULA website:</em> <br /> <br /><div><a onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)" href="http://www.literaryrevolution.com/multimedia.html" target="_blank">http://www.literaryrevolution<wbr>.com/multimedia.html</a></div><b><span style="font-size:130%;"> <br /> <br /></span></b><b><span style="font-size:130%;"><p>caught between extremes</b></span></p> <br /> <br /><dir> <br /> <br /><dir><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>n o t e s o n m u s i c </p></span> <br /> <br /><p></p> <br /> <br /><dir> <br /> <br /><dir><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /> <br /><p>by andrew lovatt</span> </p> <br /> <br /><p></p> <br /> <br /><p></p></dir></dir></dir></dir><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>a rock & a hard place</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>a good time, a bad time</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>black & white</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>hope & despair</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>rising & falling</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>we learn to walk</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>between the poles</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>in the sun, under the rain</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>swallowed by the moment</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>or a seeming plan to suit</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"> <br /> <br /><p>the ever-changing circumstances</span></p> <br /> <br /><p></p> <br /> <br /><p></p><span style="font-size:130%;color:#7f7f7f;"> <br /> <br /><p>we are caught</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">between the extremes. we live in a world where we lie to ourselves about this. pretend that the experience of being alive is somehow containable, can be rationalized and given place and time. always-contemporary-life achieves this for a spell, until we get too old to take part or take it seriously. and that end time, our disappearance, we ignore by every deviation possible. THAT has never been contained, and we know it.</span> <span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /> <br /><p>being born between extremes, everyone is bent, dented, twisted or somehow imperfect. we only have to look around and at ourselves. so why split hairs about who's brand of twist is more kosher or rational-seeming. faggot, nigger, a-rab, chink, dyke, kyke, paddy, wop. so what? the current powers of common life will always sell their own brand of reason to go with the process. that's a given. </p></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /> <br /><p>learning to be one with life requires seeing how we are born into it. how being ensnared in the great-contemporary-nowness, the get with it time, pro-duce & pro-fit & pro-gress or be dead, is diverting us into a passionate belief of something partial, a sliver of the everything and whole. we lose sight of the simple. the binary chemicalized pro-cess of this life now has a volition and purpose of its own. we are all servants to it. we serve who come and go and know not that we have really been here.</span></p> <br /> <br /><p></p> <br /> <br /><p></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /> <br /><p>being cast into an existence between the extremes, we are made into binary creatures adapted to the vagaries: this is the hypno pulse that grips us. on and off and on and off and on. we see and we are blind. <span style="font-size:85%;">we hear and are deaf. </p></span> <br /> <br /><p></p> <br /> <br /><p></p> <br /> <br /><dir> <br /> <br /><dir> <br /> <br /><dir> <br /> <br /><dir> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">this is what we have come to </span></p></dir></dir></dir></dir> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">a sitting down with ourselves </span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">stopping for a moment </span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">in-be-tween the notes </span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">of the living, living through us </span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><b><span style="color:#7f7f7f;"> <br /> <br /><p>t r a c k n o t e s</b></span> </p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>bliss bus :</b> sometimes the speed of the music in us transports towards a bliss</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>desert rumble :</b> the echo speaks of something unspoken but yearned for</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>desert river :</b> winds its way through us, pretending to be a landscape</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>solo piano 2 :</b> a triumphal wish to be upright</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>onward :</b> sometimes we are smashed into smithereens by life. a million fragments. to never return to the same. we die to was. are naked before the is-ness. just for a little while. all options & equivocations gone. we are frighteningly free of all we leaned upon. and then there is the moving onward. </p></span><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>undulate 1 :</b> the binary wave hides itself and reappears, taking us with it on an unknown journey</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>joy & sorrow : </b>in youth we chase joy with such naivety, unawares it will pay us with the experience of sorrow too. were we not so foolish we would never learn. there is a wisdom in the process.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>prayer 1 : </b>leaning sometimes to yearning, brings us to wishing. prayers are revealed out of our confusion, never in our complacency. squeezed out of us, expressed through us.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><b><span style="font-size:78%;"> <br /> <br /><p>pergatorio dolce : </b>even the sweetest intoxicant has its sobrietous reminders, the pangs and pains showing in the fevered happiness. the dancing to fast tunes, faces painted with the edge of anguish. fake joy. ersatz. our jaundiced eye in the midst of plenty. unbelieving is our purgatory. or we are awoken to our dumb play.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p> <br /> <br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#7f7f7f;"> <br /> <br /><p align="right">[newbridge : 13.xi.04 rev 09.iv.07]</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /> <br /><p>copyright © andrew lovatt, all rights reserved</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"> <br /> <br /><p>email: <a href="mailto:info@andrewlovatt.com">info@andrewlovatt.com</a> and for "the best independent alternative literary e-zeen on the internet":</p><p><a href="http://www.deaddrunkdublin.com/">http://www.deaddrunkdublin.com/</a> </span></p> <br /> <br /><p></p></span> <br /></b></span> <br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-5004655753990383771?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-41859051196165721752007-10-19T10:18:00.000-07:002007-10-25T08:00:33.773-07:00Bluebird (Part III)(Please read Parts I and II first, posted below this.)<br />********************<br />Nick met Alex on the patio of a small apartment complex which he discerned was really a halfway house. Alex sat waiting in a small green painted chair next to a green painted table which held a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon in it, and a glossy magazine folded inside out. Alex Skarski was paler and thinner than ever. Large sunglasses sheltered her eyes. Her long legs stretching out from a dark blue skirt momentarily vibrated. Otherwise she was as unmoving as the concrete patio. Her face was expressionless.<br /><br />"You look fantastic," Nick lied. To himself he thought she looked dead. "How ya doing?"<br /><br />"Tremendous," she told him with no enthusiasm. "I've been reading about the happy couple. Melissa and Brent."<br /><br />"Melissa and Brent!" Nick said, with a ring of hilarity in his voice. "Well matched. Brent's an accomplished artist-- started at the top. His work is interesting. Borderline genius or borderline retarded. I attended one of his openings. People asked me what I thought and all I could do was beam at one of the paintings and smile and sip from my drink and say, 'Yes, well, it's certainly, well, yes!'"<br /><br />He laughed at his political skills. Alex looked blank.<br /><br />"The happy couple," Nick went on more seriously, performing a monologue before his challenging audience; challenging because he'd always been a bit intimidated by-- or attracted to-- Alex Skarski. "Melissa needs the stability. Brent: a preening wooden-headed mannequin who believes he's as talented as art-world sycophants say he is."<br /><br />Alex didn't respond to this. She stared toward the ice water in the glass. "Why are you here?" she asked.<br /><br />"I need you back in the band. Melissa needs you back."<br /><br />Alex looked at him through the sunglasses-- glared at him, he believed. She was "cured" of drugs and alcohol-- Nick needed to know if after the cure there was anything left of her.<br /><br />"Can you still play?" he asked.<br /><br />"Yes," she said. "Better than ever."<br /><br />She spoke the words with pronounced throatiness, hinting of buried wells of energy and passion. Nick nodded his head, satisfied.<br /><br />Rehearsals began at an estate outside Los Angeles, down the road from a modest several-million dollar "cottage" Melissa had bought for herself and Brent. She'd written several new songs. As the band practiced them in the mansion's sun room, Brent observed dispassionately, there to offer moral support to his girlfriend. His Significant Other. His Life's Mate. I'd like to say, "his wife," but Brent had no intention of marrying Melissa Bluebird.<br /><br />The band was rounded out by two new members, replacements for the two originals who'd tired of being pop stars and gone on with their lives. The newbies were marginally competent mercenaries. One had been a failed teen model, the other a failed child actress. Despite their premature jadedness, they looked the part of Bluebirds. They were young and knew how to smile.<br /><br />During a break Alex sat in a large and sunny living room with one of the new girls-- the other'd jumped into a car and sped off "for something to eat." Melissa was upstairs making phone calls, or napping, or taking a bath. Brent took a seat in the living room, a bottle of beer in his hand. The three strangers immersed themselves in the laziness of California sunshine.<br /><br />"Good to see you," Brent said to Alex. "You being back is the one fresh aspect of this project."<br /><br />"How are you?" Alex asked him.<br /><br />"Bored," he said. "Totally absolutely eternally metaphysically bored."<br /><br />A couple afternoons later when everyone had sped off in their cars on personal errands, Melissa included, Brent Botherwell lounged in the pool outside. Very white Alex in a dowdy one-piece swimsuit joined him. To his surprise she swam laps, her wide shoulders propelling her powerfully through the water. Brent watched, smirking, by the side of the shocking blue pool, impressed, trying to think of a bon mot.<br /><br />"I don't do laps," he told her when she finally stopped.<br /><br />"What do you do?" she asked, mocking him, but he didn't notice.<br /><br />He blinked for a moment.<br /><br />"Let's go upstairs and find out," he said.<br /><br />Alex pretended to be shocked. "Oh! One of the lovebirds," she said, in teacher-like disapproval which made Brent think he'd like to be disapproved by her, up close. "What would Melissa think? Aren't you in love with Melissa?"<br /><br />"Melissa is Melissa," he said.<br /><br />"Miss Perfect. Don't you enjoy Miss Perfect?"<br /><br />He answered for the moment. "No."<br /><br />Alex tsked him for this. Then her eyes opened wide in feigned realization.<br /><br />"Maybe Miss Perfect isn't so perfect after all." At the same time she thought Brent was a metaphysical asshole. Still, she'd seldom had a man this good-looking interested in her. To her memory, never. When Brent Botherwell rose from the pool and walked into the house she followed him.<br /><br />Alex put her reawakened anger into the upstairs encounter, as if she were competing with, or screwing, Miss Perfect herself.<br /><br />The new tour's first stop was Detroit. Dennis Deniczek, enlisted on board at the last minute, had scheduled it. The thinking was that only the capital of rock grittiness would properly fit the band's gritty new image.<br /><br />The band flew in on a Thursday, one day before the concert. The limousine from the airport drove them past the venue, the famously gigantic Fox Theater on Woodward Avenue, a fully restored Gothic-style movie palace which now hosted live shows.<br /><br />The white limo halted in front and Melissa leapt out, quickly joined by the others.<br /><br />"There it is, kids," Dennis exclaimed. "In lights!"<br /><br />Above the marquee: the "Fox" sign which at night could be seen for miles. On the marquee itself, two words: "MELISSA BLUEBIRD."<br /><br />Unselfconsciously Melissa frolicked and basked in her name on the sign above. Her three bandmates watched in genuine admiration. A photographer who worked for Nick snapped photographs.<br /><br />"Now, a few together," he said.<br /><br />The four girls scrunched close, Alex and Melissa with arms around each other at the center with only a trace of awkwardness.<br /><br />"Wow," Alex said when they parted. "This is fun. Or I forgot it could be fun."<br /><br />"You were electric," the photographer gushed. "I could feel the electricity. I took some great shots."<br /><br />The limo drove around the seedier edges of downtown; among the ruins.<br /><br />The photographer took several photos of Melissa standing with legs spread and hands on her hips, her three bandmates set several yards behind her looking grim, the city's cavernous shell of a train station behind them.<br /><br />Their hotel was the old Leland, several blocks from the theater. It also was a ruin of sorts, but one which remained open. The two men and the driver carried the heavier bags across an enormous lobby hung with large chandeliers, up a wide blue carpeted staircase to the desk.<br /><br />"Once, this town was rich," Dennis commented.<br /><br />"Long ago," Alex said. "I used to live in Detroit you know. Not far from here."<br /><br />"I need to take a bath," Melissa commanded.<br /><br />As the hotel was much less than half booked, the band and its entourage had an entire floor to itself, for a modest price.<br /><br />"Going in style," Dennis said when he kicked open the door to Melissa's expansive suite.<br /><br />Outside the window lay miles of desolate bleakness; deserted streets and shuttered buildings covered by layers of shabbiness. Occasional beaten-down people could be seen walking slowly upon uneven sidewalks.<br /><br />"Where's the theater?" Melissa asked.<br /><br />Dennis pointed.<br /><br />"Oh! There it is."<br /><br />The sign, marking a glamorous corner of renaissance, stood above the surrounding structures.<br /><br />Melissa had a full-enough schedule before the concert, including an interview on an afternoon radio show. Also, a journalist doing a feature article about her for a Manhattan-based fashion magazine was in town. She was to meet him for dinner.<br /><br />The radio show was a waste, the smug host full of himself. The enounter with the magazine writer held more promise.<br /><br />They met at an elegant, almost empty restaurant in "Foxtown," the area around the theater.<br /><br />"I made reservations," the reporter, a Brit, said. "I scarcely needed to."<br /><br />"It's creepy, isn't it," Melissa answered.<br /><br />"I think it's fascinating," he said as he looked at her blue eyes, searching for opinion behind them.<br /><br />He told her he'd been Editor-in-Chief of a now defunct N.Y. glossy-- "One goes under every day and a new one pops up to take its place"-- was the son of an Earl and other than his writing and the brief swipe at editing "which put an established magazine under and its entire staff in the unemployment line," he'd never worked a day in his life.<br /><br />"I'm a fop, as some would say, and proud of the fact."<br /><br />"I think that's awful," Melissa told him. "I love to work."<br /><br />"What's awful is that your aristocracy here doesn't know how to be an aristocracy. You're embarrassed at money and privilege and run away from it. You pretend to run away from it."<br /><br />Melissa didn't agree with him but didn't know what to say.<br /><br />"I use my money for good things," she finally mentioned. "Good causes, I mean."<br /><br />"Order well. Remember, I'm on an expense account," the writer said.<br /><br />After dinner they asked the waiter for a livelier place to drink. He pointed them to a roomy hotel bar nearby called the Town Pump Tavern. The Town Pump was a classy old place in a dilapidated once-nice hotel which now served as a rooming house for vagabond punks and poor people. The wood-panelled barroom itself was immaculate, from another era.<br /><br />"Quite a fascinating city, really," the writer said as he drank a glass of imported ale. "Darkness and character."<br /><br />The Britsh writer was generically handsome, so generic as to be quickly forgotten. He counted on his wit to make an impression, but his personality was lost amid the chairs and bottles of the darkly-lit room.<br /><br />"Will this be a positive article?" Melissa asked him.<br /><br />"Yes. I'm afraid so. It'll be bloody terrible."<br /><br />The next day clouds of dark blue gathered in the Detroit sky. Rain clouds, stretching over the gray city and far beyond it with no end in sight. The band observed this from high-up windows in high-ceilinged oversized rooms, before they made their way through the silent mausoleum of a hotel, through oversized hallways to gather downstairs in the lobby.<br /><br />They ate a late breakfast at Luci and Ethel's coffeeshop on the ground floor. Then the group arrived at the theater for an afternoon soundcheck, entering a guarded Receiving door at the front and walking down narrow corridors to the performance area.<br /><br />A huge curtain stood in front of them as they unpacked. Gone were the trademark blue costumes and instruments. Melissa's three bandmates wore black leather outfits, sleeveless and short. Hers was the same except its color was white. They'd worn them to see how their new guises would appear on stage.<br /><br />The many-piece drumset already there was also white. It shimmered in the light. Using the foot-pedal, the drummer hit the bass drum, then did a riff with her sticks on a snare. The short-haired keyboardist professionally smiled. Her keyboard was deep orange. A few carny notes from that.<br /><br />Melissa and Alex removed their "axes" from their cases. Both guitars were glossy new, special-ordered by the record company. Alex's was gold, with black patterns; Melissa's bright red. They gazed with wonder at what they held, as if magic were embodied in the primitive-looking devices.<br /><br />Alex let her guitar's lacquered face play with the overhead lights. One saw the world in the guitar. It dazzled like a gleaming shield.<br /><br />The two women plugged in and touched the electric strings. Sound jumped from them. Lightning bolts were at their fingertips. The fragile humans were transformed by the sudden power available to them. Their eyes widened.<br /><br />The curtain lifted. The band felt momentarily dwarfed by the immensity of the great hall. Before them swept rising rows of red seats; golden columns above them on all sides. The ceiling was an expression of the heavens, with a giant hyperbolic chandelier placed like a sun at the center of it. The entire gothic plaster cathedral of American pop culture was hyperbolic.<br /><br />Without warning the drummer pounded a beat and the band exploded loudly into a fast-paced song, a release of pent-up energy created by the practicing, the traveling, the waiting; the hiatus; by the sheer anticipation of taking the stage. With their new instruments of laser-beam sound Alex and Melissa kicked it into high gear-- deep notes prodding higher ones-- on the chorus joining voices, "La, la, la la la," their inspired performance matching the fiery-colored hall. For a moment the two women played side-by-side, bumping hips. Then the wash of music was over as quickly as it'd started. The four players caught their breaths, sweating happily.<br /><br />"We should've got that on tape," Dennis shouted from somewhere within the empty auditorium. "It's the best thing you've ever done."<br /><br />Shortly after, the band returned to the hotel to nap.<br /><br />Alex nervously drank coffee and destroyed a pack of cigarettes in the diner downstairs while the others relaxed. Eventually she made her way back to the elevators. She wore a beat-up leather jacket over her costume, which she'd been too lazy to change.<br /><br />Futilely she searched in her room for more cigarettes. "Fuck!" Should she shower? Not until after, she decided, but took off the jacket.<br /><br />Alex fingered a plastic pass card, which she used to enter Melissa's suite. The high-up floor seemed unsteady under her feet. Melissa had asked her to drop by to keep her company.<br /><br />Darkness fell early upon the city outside the hotel room: a moody October night. Melissa stretched on one of the beds in her stage outfit, bolstered by golden-yellow pillows. Rain scattered against a window. The glow of an art deco lamp next to the bed made the corner of the room appear to be the only secure spot in a world of dread.<br /><br />Melissa held the room's white phone receiver in her hand, on a call with Brent Botherwell in Los Angeles. Eyes flashed within a stage-ready face. It sounded like an intense call. Alex went into the bathroom-- a mile away on the other side of the suite. She looked at her face in the mirror then splashed water onto it. A hideous face. The bathroom light exposed every failing in it, every secret.<br /><br />She turned off the light, stepped out and listened. Melissa was off the phone.<br /><br />A few blocks away, colorful neon letters crept up a building and displayed themselves high on a sign into the darkness. "FOX." Concert goers were arriving, congregating with tickets in a line upon the brightly illuminated sidewalk.<br /><br />Alex walked slowly and faced Melissa, who still sprawled upon the bed; faced her as would an obedient dog. Melissa stared back at her with piercing blue eyes, scrutinizing her up and down.<br /><br />"That was Brent," Melissa said. "He told me everything. He always eventually tells me everything. So he told me about you and him."<br /><br />Brent the narcissistic coward, confessing all with dramatic bathos, purging his sin when it could do the most harm in order to raise his importance.<br /><br />Melissa Bluebird waited, as if expecting Alex to confess, to explain or apologize, but to Alex there was nothing to say because it hadn't meant anything except at the time.<br /><br />"I'm sorry," she eventually said.<br /><br />"You're fired, of course," Melissa told her. "I can't work with someone like you. I don't want to work with anyone like you."<br /><br />"Fired?" Alex asked. "What about Dennis, or Nick. Shouldn't they have a say in it?"<br /><br />"They work for me," Melissa said. "I bring in the money. They do what I tell them."<br /><br />Alex couldn't help but grin at what she saw as bluff.<br /><br />"So, what, you go out and perform on your own?"<br /><br />"Why not?" Melissa immediately answered. "Why not?"<br /><br />"To a Detroit crowd? A tough Detroit crowd who want their music to rock? This isn't La-La Land, little girl."<br /><br />To this Melissa stared at Alex as would a five year-old. Few people had talked back to her before. Alex had never talked back. Melissa was stunned at their break-up, for which she wasn't to blame; there was trepidation at what Alex would say but there was also a thrill that the bad girl would now finally be saying it to her. To Melissa. Melissa feared the blast but wanted it. Her heart raced. It pounded.<br /><br />"I'M the star," Melissa pre-emptively said. "I created the act and the music. You're a hired hand. I need the freedom to run it my way. I've done it my way from the beginning."<br /><br />Alex snorted in amazement. "Freedom? YOU have freedom? The freedom of a trained pet. Your cage gives you your freedom, to sing and fly around in the cage within its narrow fucking little limits. Do you know what it's like to be free for real? How tough it is?"<br /><br />"Those are my songs we play, Alex. MY songs. My creations. I created Melissa and the Bluebirds from the ground up. You were added. Don't try to tell me about DIY."<br /><br />Alex moved dangerously close. Melissa's blue eyes looked away; she clutched an imaginary stuffed animal. Melissa felt surrounded. Trapped, on the bed, on which she was too frozen to move. She should be able to call someone but didn't want to call anyone. Alex peered down at her as she'd peered down at her the first time they'd met, only now with no hesitation or respect.<br /><br />"You're able to create because you're supported by people like me," Alex said. "By a whole industry of people like me. What do you know about Do-It-Yourself? When have you done anything without tons of people propping you up and smoothing the path and opening doors for you?<br /><br />"Do you know there are rock bands in this city; THIS city; struggling bands; 'garage' bands who play in local dives, which are better than you or me or the best the Bluebirds have ever been? Yet have never seen a big-money recording contract and never will see one because the way is clogged by the likes of you and me? I could've been one of them, one of the free ones, the authentic ones, but I wasn't good enough for them, but maybe now that I've tasted the world I'll go back to them, to the music and the joy of playing, really playing. REALLY playing. The music-- that's what counts. There are still a few bands who kick ass; still a few raw singers and guitarists who truly know how to rock. You're not one of them, oh pretty one; sad, sad pretty one. Not you. Not you!"<br /><br />Alex was crying.<br /><br />"I hope that's not too terrible a thing to say but it's the truth. You'll always have your support system anyway; your family; your Brent! Your Brents and all the rest of your perfect friends; your ridiculously perfect bullshit life."<br /><br />Melissa had stopped replying. She was thinking that Alex had abandoned her, that was what this was about. Concert? Tonight was a concert. Weirdly enough. She heard Dennis Deniczek knocking on the hotel room door, far away. The car outside would be waiting. Her fans. . . . How could she go through with it?<br /><br />"Anyway," Alex said, calmer, resigned, but with outraged pride. "Fire me if you want, or I quit. It doesn't matter. Nick thought I needed the money but I don't need money. That's not what I was after; not why I joined."<br /><br />Alex stepped away. At the theater, fans took their seats. The magazine journalist waited expectantly in the wings. The opening act began to play. Feet were stamping, the huge theater beginning to shake, to rock. . . .<br /><br />The spectre of Alex stood in a costume that would not be worn on stage by her tonight or anywhere again.<br /><br />"I just want to be what I was meant to be," the spectre said in a resonant voice. "A girl who knew how to rock."<br /><br />She was gone.<br /><br />The hotel room was empty-- the large, celebratory suite. Melissa Bluebird was alone. Though she'd fired Alex Skarski, she felt deserted by her. Only now did she realize how much she needed Alex's strength.<br /><br />She recited a melody from one of the new songs, "La, la. la la la," while in her head she walked through an endless forest. She noticed she was shaking.<br /><br />Well, she could be a tough girl also. She'd prove Alex wrong. She'd perform the concert. If she fell on her face, so be it. And why should she? The audience would love her. After all, she was Melissa Bluebird. Melissa Bluebird! Her entire life she'd been only loved.<br /><br />"Go," Melissa said to a person who wasn't there. "You're dismissed."<br /><br />The <span style="color:#ff0000;">FOX</span> sign glowed bleeding red into the night, changing to purple, then blue. Rain fell from a purple sky upon Alex Skarski, who sat on a stone bench below an old green statue in a park across the street and two blocks down from the theater, the columned palace where Melissa performed inside. Alex imagined she heard the applause. Echoes of it carried through the rolling mists.<br /><br />Alex was damp and numb. She sipped from a hastily purchased bottle of cheap whiskey. She was back at her origins, wondering in her human ignorance about the nature of art, career, success. As her mind wandered into more painful territory Alex wondered about personality and about love.<br /><br />Rain washed through her eyes. To give a lingering final chord to her thoughts she glanced once more at the lighted marquee down the street which held the two names:<br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">"MELISSA BLUEBIRD."</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-4185905119616572175?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-42623408480053243472007-10-10T09:59:00.000-07:002007-10-13T10:56:26.937-07:00Bluebird (Part II)Nick Stompanatas understood people; he played them as if he were a musician. Like an instinctive animal he sensed their fears and wants and acted on them.<br /><br />He knew Alex Skarski was afraid of failure and success both.<br /><br />He'd been there. . . . Fear of failure was mostly fear of the proverbial wolf at the door; those moments of real hunger when you're completely broke.<br /><br />Success, for those who've never seen or experienced it in their families or their world, could be more daunting. The thoughts: "How do I not blow this?"; "What do I do now?"-- the sudden responsibilty of new choices; the racing heartbeat in the middle of night as your head plays your options back over and over. Sometimes better to lose all-- the endless thinking is done.<br /><br />He knew Alex Skarski and knew her background. He offered her a way to submerge herself into Melissa's dawning success; her ride to the top.<br /><br />Alex had the talent to stand alone but not the stomach for it.<br /><br />She met the other Bluebirds at Melissa's San Francisco condo. Chic white buildings could be seen outside a large window framed by giant green rubber plants. The living room was comfortable. To Alex, used to cubbyhole rooms in low rent hotels, it was huge. Rich girl, Alex thought to herself.<br /><br />The two Bluebirds sat reverently on the shag-carpeted floor in front of the plants. Alex was expected to join them. She did, then Melissa played a few songs for her, accompanying herself on acoustic guitar, her fingers accurately moving back and forth among the frets. Her pretty voice was so quiet, Alex had to move closer to hear it. She stood up and bent down to listen. They were pretty songs. Amplified on a stage, or more, in a studio, it would be an effective voice. Alex noted the girl's total belief in herself.<br /><br />The Alex Skarski difference was evident at their first practice session together. Alex played bass guitar, which took immediate control of the pace of each song. Her driving bass line turned what might've slipped into easy listening pap into a facsimile of rock n roll. Alex's playing put backbone behind Melissa Bluebird's ethereal musings. The combination worked.<br /><br />In one of their first performances, at a sparsely attended open-air concert for office workers sponsored by a bank in Chicago, the sound system went out for several minutes. Speakers arrayed around the space between business towers went silent. Melissa could scarcely be heard at all.<br /><br />The four-member group suddenly looked small and vulnerable beneath the bank's intruding banner. People snickered in the audience. A businesswoman in front laughed. The keyboardist and drummer Bluebirds looked concerned. Alex Skarski stepped forward and shouted the words until the problem was solved, in accompaniment to Melissa, who continued playing and singing as usual, oblivious. Melissa appreciated that Alex knew the words to the song.<br /><br />Melissa inspired the need to protect her, or follow her. She came off as an otherworldly creature who may well be a rare and precious bird. She carried the atmosphere of airy Renaissance; a young woman from a Botticelli painting, lost among the flowers.<br /><br />Alex was happy enough to be an unobtrusive sidekick, a uniformed nonentity like the generic back-up musicians in an Elvis movie. Melissa Bluebird was the star; Alex Skarski's job was to make her look good. Strangely enough, Alex wanted to do this.<br /><br />There were rock precedents. Think of James Burton's work with Ricky Nelson. Or if you can, try to catch film footage of Gary Lewis and the Playboys, one of the best pop-rock bands of the 1960's when rock was approaching its zenith. Watch for the amazing licks of the guitarist, the forever-unknown musician hired to support the limited talents of the famous comedian's son.<br /><br />At the end of a successful song, in the pleasant afterglow of reverberations as their hearing and minds recovered, Alex would glance at the ever-confident Miss Bluebird.<br /><br />"The Bluebird goddess," Alex would say in a mocking yet admiring tone.<br /><br />If Melissa heard such expressions she never gave notice, beyond a quick smile as she prepared to begin the next tune. "One, two, three, go."<br /><br />Not that all was sunshine and lollipops. The three original Bluebirds had to adjust to the occasionally explosive Alex; her sudden rants; after concerts, her frightening, inexplicable drunks. What demons from her past Alex contended with at those moments were beyond their knowing.<br /><br />"Aren't you happy?" Melissa would ask.<br /><br />Alex went obediently silent in the presence of Melissa.<br /><br />When the band performed in New York at a fundraiser for a fashionable charity, Uncle George brought journalist friends by to say hello. The other members of the band had never heard of these strange men; Melissa doted on them. They were important editors and journalists; for all their gaping self-satisfaction and shallow remarks, lauded as the best writers around.<br /><br />Shortly thereafter articles began to appear in the lower level New York newspapers and glossies about the exciting new band. Not by the famous journalists themselves, not yet, but word had been passed to their followers.<br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">****************************</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">A REVIEW</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">The girl-group ethos, dating back even to the chauvinistic Phil Spector-dominated Crystals and Berry Gordy-created Supremes of the 1960's, has always been about feminist freedom. In Cyndi Lauper's classic words, "Girls Just W<span style="color:#3333ff;">anna</span> Have Fun."</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">Freedom, feminism, and fun are the point about singer Melissa Bluebird and her band, the Bluebirds, who make their Philadelphia debut at the Penn rock club The Underground this Saturday. A DIY icon, college dropout Melissa proclaims her style of independence with a series of catchy pop tunes set to infectious music played by herself on lead guitar and her three nerdy-but-cool looking bandmates, all of them in short skirt baby blue outfits.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">Melissa herself is a pretty picture with the stance of feminist strength as she cavorts with her friends on stage. No Berry Gordy around here, thank you-- the girl herself is in charge. Ironically, the Bluebirds cover of "These Boots Are Made for Walking" owes more to the Supremes go-go recording than to the more stripped-down Nancy Sinatra first version. The rest of the songs are Melissa Bluebird-penned originals.</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">Sixties girl pop with a late Seventies punk edge. These women are going places. Check it out.</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">****************************</span><br />That the band was a combination of contradictions, as evidenced by this review, added to its appeal.<br /><br />As this and other laudatory pieces were being written, Nick had already assigned Dennis Deniczek to manage and produce their first album. Deniczek was an alcoholic ex-rock musician and songwriter who'd fight to give them an edge. If some of Dennis's own crustiness rubbed off on them it could only help.<br /><br />Deniczek turned out to be a control freak semi-burnout authoritarian who threw chairs around either because he hated chairs or for effect. The band formed a collective hatred of him.<br /><br />Periodic conflicts arose while recording the album.<br /><br />Melissa described how she wanted the recording produced, the mix of sounds matching what she envisioned in her head.<br /><br />"That's the problem!" Dennis yelled in exasperation. "Produced. Produced! Rock n' roll wasn't meant to be produced. It just IS. It's meant to BE. You play the damn song with as much emotion as you can put into it and turn on the fucking microphone."<br /><br />"We're crafting art," Melissa patiently explained to him.<br /><br />"You don't 'craft' anything. Art is genuineness; it's . . . truth. What do you think punk was about? You parade yourself as some kind of punk princess but you don't know anything about it. Put your SOUL into the music, if you have one, and then you might create something great. This isn't paint-by-numbers. It's not connect-the-dots. It's not reading sheet music and playing the fucking notes. It's putting forth from your heels and your bowels and your heart everything you've got. Everything! Ask Alex. SHE knows."<br /><br />Yet Alex's eyes lit up with anger at Dennis.<br /><br />"Don't-involve-me-in-your-stupid-nonsense," she sneered, then punched him twice, hard, in the chest. Dennis punched her back. Alex swung a fist into the side of his f<span style="color:#333333;">ace</span> and he staggered.<br /><br />"Enough of this!" Melissa screamed.<br /><br />In embarrassment and disgust, Dennis stalked out, one side of his face red. "Tell Nick Asshole I quit," was his parting comment.<br /><br />Dennis walked to the closest bar to get drunk. Alex was in the same bar shortly thereafter with the same purpose. They sat at opposite ends of the bar and glared at each other while knocking down shots. The next day Dennis un-quit. The album was soon enough finished.<br /><br />Whether because of Dennis, Melissa, Alex, or accidental luck-- the blessings of the music gods above-- the finished cd sounded good. That it'd been recorded in a small urban studio with a uniquely raw sound helped. That Melissa's simple songs had been transformed into tight explosions-- mini-explosions, mind you; firecrackers more than bombs-- amazed more than alarmed her.<br /><br />With ample behind-the-scenes aid, including an extensive marketing campaign with a lavish ad budget, the cd climbed up the charts. Major articles appeared in major magazines about the new star.<br /><br />With the cd's release: the predictable tour.<br /><br />Too many stories have been told about too many rock tours to go into much detail here. One could say the tour "bonded" the group or one could say it made them overly-familiar with one another.<br /><br />Dennis booked them first at legendary CBGB's on the Bowery in New York. From there they headed west by bus, exhilarated at the start by the freedom of the open road. After several weeks of stifling travel the exhilaration had gone.<br /><br />At the start was the adventure of getting to know one another-- long conversations as the bus rolled along. Who was the dominant personality, Melissa or Alex? Both had their influence on the others, who began unconsciously copying Alex's unique facial gestures: the sneer; the tilted-down head when glaring at someone. The sudden earthy outbursts so opposite to Melissa's effect. They even tried appearing tough-- until Alex with hands on her hips and a mocking smile told them, in Melissa's presence, "You can't live another person's life." They went back to being Bluebirds.<br /><br />Melissa herself, though, thought she could borrow from Alex's life: her rock authority; her hard-earned street cred. For Melissa, appropriation was appropriate. Her life was built on the assumption that she could do anything she wanted. Freedom meant owning the world: that was her feminist ideal.<br /><br />She was too much a planet unto herself to be overawed by anyone, but Melissa found herself impressed with Alex's strength and her craziness. She was fascinated by Alex's oft-stated hunger for stability-- "I'm not going to blow this gig, Melissa; I'm a hungry mouse ready to leap on any crumb"-- and by Alex's impulsive recklessness; her lesbian affairs and druggie boyfriends.<br /><br />After shows Alex devoured groupies; male and female alike. Melissa indulged also, but not always, and was selective about which boy she relaxed with. He had to be cute! She also had a boyfriend in San Francisco to worry about.<br /><br />Alex's behavior was out-of-her-mind, bang-your-head-against-a-wall carnivorous lust.<br /><br />Melissa Bluebird, angel of music but also sex-- the number of fans in love with her exponentially growing-- briefly wondered why Alex never hit on her. Everyone else-- but not her. In fact Alex Skarski had a mad, terrifying crush on Melissa Bluebird which she kept to herself.<br /><br />The best part of the tour were the concerts. The four Bluebirds gained a joyful high being on stage. Melissa fed on an audience, found energy, identity, purpose. Alex enjoyed herself while out there but had to undergo certain preparations first, such as consuming ecstasy, or vomiting.<br /><br />The best part for Alex was performing her role in support of the star of the group. She loved this. The loyal soldier, upright and steadfast on bass guitar. Sometimes Melissa allowed Alex to play lead-- Melissa had pride in her own playing but realized Alex was very good; unusually good.<br /><br />After the song Alex would be only too eager to return to her usual part.<br /><br />One night, a particularly good show: Alex and Melissa chugging beers backstage to come down. The room was small, with sunken sofas and sallow green walls. Alex had a boy waiting.<br /><br />"Why him?" Melissa asked. "He seems awful."<br /><br />"That's not who I want to go to bed with," Alex rumbled.<br /><br />Melissa was drunk. She pouted: "Ask him if he has a friend."<br /><br />They fucked together, each with her own partner, in the same room, but their looks and thoughts were on each other.<br /><br />FAME!<br />With the release of a second cd a year later the Melissa Bluebird hype machine crescendoed. This album had been produced by Melissa herself, who announced at the outset while standing in the state-of-the-art studio provided by the record company-- key component of a gigantic media conglomerate-- that she had the final say on every aspect of the product. Including the cd's artwork and liner notes.<br /><br />"I want this to go triple platinum," she buoyantly proclaimed.<br /><br />It didn't. Bigger sales came from related Melissa Bluebird products. The Bluebird name appeared on t-shirts and key chains; on colorful pen markers and children's make-up. There were Melissa Bluebird lunch boxes, coloring books, and dress-up dolls. Briefly, a Melissa Bluebird comic strip. Her smiling image was displayed on the back of cereal cartons; thousands and thousands of them produced from a factory then packed into larger cartons and shipped throughout the country.<br /><br />She wasn't big enough for McDonald's, not yet, but Nick cut a deal with a low-rent hamburger chain in Ohio-- "Simpy's" or some such-- to promote the product. Small Melissa Bluebird dolls came free with soggy hamburger and fries. On the drawing board: a Melissa Bluebird cartoon TV show planned for Saturday mornings: Melissa and her companions solving mysteries, saving the planet and battling crime.<br /><br />Needless to say, there were scores of Melissa Bluebird fan clubs and web sites, not all of them created by the record company. There was even a Bluebird daily diary on-line which fans could read to find out Melissa's most personal thoughts and activities-- "Tonight I got to perform in Kansas City. It was so cool! I met so many amazing way cool people!" A writer was employed full-time crafting and posting the vacuous gushings.<br /><br />Soon, most of Melissa's time went to appearing as a guest on daytime children's TV shows-- engaging in serious conversations with big plush pink or blue furry creatures: "Yes, Moppy, we have to stay away from drugs of all kinds!"; or as a presenter on any number of TV awards shows.<br /><br />Maids, schedules, drivers, and various other flunkies became part of her daily life. She traveled in cars and planes within a cocoon of planning. Upon any momentary delay people cringed to her: "Sorry; sorry." Melissa Bluebird was no longer a person, had become a star; a creature apart from normal criteria.<br /><br />The band itself was on hiatus. One evening Alex Skarski fell down a flight of stairs and broke her arm-- the guitar playing one. This made the gossip columns for one day. Nick sent her flowers and signed Melissa's name. Alex went into detox and was out of the band indefinitely. Melissa didn't learn about the incident herself until weeks later.<br /><br />Meanwhile Melissa had a new boyfriend, and up-and-coming young artist named Brent Botherwell she'd first met a year ago at a party. Melissa was in love! "I feel like I'm dating myself," she confessed to a magazine. "We're so much alike."<br /><br />Brent was the offspring of a brief marriage between a Canadian TV game-show personality who wore corsages on his wide lapels and an award-winning university professor novelist who wrote books about the trauma of being female in contemporary Toronto society. Brent had lived most of his life in L.A., to which his mother retired from the rigors of academia and the weather of Ontario at the age of forty.<br /><br />Like Melissa, Brent was considered talented at everything-- he wrote, composed, shot video-- but had settled on painting, for which he'd received from the art world official acclaim. To top it off he was photogenically handsome; his head looked like it'd been crafted in a woodworking studio and varnished. He was not tall-- appeared to be when seated in a restaurant with his large head until he stepped up-- or down, in some cases-- from the table-- but Melissa, though nearly his height, was petite, so they appeared well-mated. In appearance if not ability they both could have stepped from a Renaissance-era time machine.<br /><br />Brent was the contemporary bourgeois male: hollow to the core; with style and manners but no integrity or will. A collection of attributes. His ethos was self and the moment's expediency.<br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">****************************</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">From an Interview with TEEN POP BEAT MAGAZINE:</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">TPB: "Will you collaborate with Brent? Your collaborations like with the Bluebirds have worked very well for you."</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">MB: "Oh, I think collaborations are for collaborationists. I've always even from the start totally wanted to follow my own muse. Totally. Creativity is so cool, so liberating. I have to have freedom. So I started the Bluebirds. The rest is so, you know, history. Rock history. I mean, things went well."</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">TPB: "You enjoy overcoming limitations."</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">MB: "Yeah! Because that's so creative. Give me a paintbox with one color. You know? We weren't this big orchestra but that's the way I felt. But I've always had to feel in control. The conductor. That's so profound to say that but I really think creating art is so important. Whatever you do."</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">TPB: "What's your next project?"</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">MB: "Just to go beyond everything I've done. But I don't have this, like, schedule. I just do it. I'm eclectic that way, you know? One day I could be painting my walls just to do it then the next day I say, hey, there's the car, you know? Let's paint that! Art is so doing whatever you want whenever you want to. As long as you're fulfilling yourself. I mean, there's the audience, sure; I love my audience, but my own muse comes first. So when I do something it's so totally right. It's so DIY because I'm doing it."</span><br /><span style="color:#3333ff;">****************************</span><br />One afternoon lying on her sofa after a busy week, Melissa daydreamed of the forest, its dark and restless beauty, dangers lurking outside. She felt the comfort of the cool and lush forest. Within she was safe. Above, through the columns of trees appeared the moving planets shuffling about in madness; red, blue, yellow, bouncing around the sky in a carnival dance-- then suddenly the glowing moon, gigantic, impelling itself into her mind. She sat up in fright, exhausted and shaking.<br /><br />She'd fallen asleep; it was twilight. A full moon burned outside the window amid the arriving stars of night.<br /><br />Beach folics and trips to Europe with Brent. To free herself from artistic stagnation Melissa began work on a solo album, what she'd always wanted to do anyway.<br /><br />Listening to the finished product by herself on her stereo, Melissa was satisfied. The music fit her inner vision.<br /><br />She promoted the cd's release with a select number of personal appearances in intimate settings. Reviews in the usual mainstream publications were kind. This was a more individual, introspective Bluebird. Some called it art. They could've called it solipsistic baby-talk: her guitar and an orchestra string section backing a small voice overladened with sincerity; tame playing with sudden two-second bursts of life at the end. Possibly not art. Definitely arty.<br /><br />The last song finished. In the room: silence.<br /><br />Nick Stompanatas noted the mild sales, a drop-off from the second album, which had been a decline from the first.<br /><br />Because of continued fan clubs and articles, Melissa still believed she was a star-- and she was-- but Nick knew she could quickly enough drop off a cliff into the oblivion of a has-been.<br /><br />The cultural universe was in constant flux. It was continually expanding. An act had to expand with it just to keep up. To remain static was to fall behind.<br /><br />He'd noticed recent articles in obscure fanzines and music journals crediting Alex Skarski for much of the group's success. Her reputation among critics and cultists as a guitarist and performer had grown.<br /><br />Nick looked around himself. He sniffed the air. He had to remain adaptable, malleable, if he were to survive as well. Was there change in the air? Had a subtle shift occurred in the Universe? How should he react? What should he do?<br /><br />For two more weeks he studied sales figures before deciding his move.<br /><br />(To Be Continued.)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-4262340848005324347?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-16113450283990493642007-10-05T10:17:00.000-07:002007-10-10T11:07:20.892-07:00Bluebird (Part I)A STORY ABOUT AMERICA<br />by King Wenclas<br /><br />THERE EXISTS a photograph of Melissa Habermyer's parents from the late 1960's showing them as anti-establishment warriors. That they were both from wealth and met at ultra-elite Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, made no difference. Like others of their social class (Garry Trudeau for instance) they were leaders in the enormous youth rebellion then taking place in this country. They didn't wish to tear down society, not really. The war, despite the noise they made about it, was an irrelevancy to them and their kind; neither they nor anyone they knew would have to go to it. For their type the 60's rebellion, when all was said and done, was about them having fun. More than this it was an expression of their youth; of their energy, their privilege and gloriously innate power.<br /><br />In the photograph the couple is eternally youthful and very beautiful-- as beautiful a couple as ever was-- wearing expressions of security and confidence in themselves; a confidence no American generation before or since has worn; given the faultlines and disharmonies of the civilization now, an arrogant smugness that will likely never be worn again.<br /><br />Melissa's grandfather on her father's side owned a company manufacturing trucks in grimy Midwestern cities like Toledo, Ohio. Like all such industries, the company manufactured its share of tanks and other war material via lucrative government contracts. Melissa's uncle, her father's older brother, Frank Habermyer, would eventually take over the business.<br /><br />Melissa's mother was from WASP old money, the kind handed down through holding company stocks and blind trusts over the years and years so that whatever actions, achievements, or misdeeds had acquired the wealth centuries ago in the first place were far removed and utterly forgotten by the time Melissa was born. The greatest presence from this side of the family was Uncle George; good old swanky bon-vivant Brahmin Uncle George!-- who'd skippered a PT boat during Korea and served a few mysterious years with the CIA in Switzerland and played semi-pro baseball for a summer, among other legendary and basically insubstantial accomplishments, the most substantial of which was founding a small press-- a very small press-- publishing George's trust fund buddies and marketing them as avant-garde outsiders. Despite the small size of the press, the books received an inordinate amount of media attention in the isolated island of New York, one of them winning a National Book Award, for whatever that's worth.<br /><br />Melissa's parents were artists-- artists of life, you could say, living a thoroughly counter-culture flowers-and-beads existence in which they roamed from state to state, east coast to west coast, living in a commune, teaching at small colleges, opening their own art gallery in a gazebo-like building in the woods of the Pacific Northwest.<br /><br />Into this paradise in the mid-70's was Melissa Habermyer born. Her eyes were so blue, so strikingly hugely amazingly blue from birth she was called Bluebird. A more fitting name was never chosen as this child of nature ran with the birds and the squirrels amid the dwindling remains of a lush forest. Creativity was the order of the day from her folks, who raised her on Picasso and Mozart; who beneficently watched as their three year-old Bluebird conducted her own symphony orchestra consisting of a few dozen of her favorite stuffed animals.<br /><br />At four Melissa attended the most exclusive private pre-school on the west coast (her parents bought a condo in San Francisco for the purpose), and attended private kindergarten and grammar schools and prep schools throughout the area to give her the best individualized instruction possible. Her teachers were geniuses; not just those employed by the schools-- every one entranced by the child's blue eyes-- but also genius engineers who worked for Uncle Frank and genius writer friends of Uncle George and genius artists who displayed their works in her parents gazebo-like store.<br /><br />For all the daily influence of "Culture," of art classes and ballet lessons and piano instruction and the highest-tech multi-media computer equipment to play on, young Bluebird never faced that which might be thought most necessary for the development of talent: a challenge. All was adulation and reward. The brutal traumas of life, the realities of the world, lay outside her cocoon-like barriers. Oh, she knew they were out there-- she read about them and worried over them, had an abstract commitment to the underdog; in the laissez-faire laid back nature of her life identified with such; was firmly against Evil-- or at least bad manners-- and on the side of Good, whatever that was.<br /><br />When Melissa was eighteen, Uncle George threw for her upon the occasion of her graduation a lavish party at the largest ballroom of the largest hotel at which strutted and posed, for enormous fees, several famous classic rock bands. Melissa's preferred avocation among the many was music. Meeting the mummified rock legends up close, who retained somehow in their withered forms their legendary glamor, decided Melissa upon a music career, though at the moment she didn't know it.<br /><br />The summer after graduation was the worst period of her life, at least until years afterward. One summer day, a surreally bright summer day, something troubling clicked inside Melissa's head and she began shaking through her entire body. For days she remained like this, frozen, barely eating or moving, her friends puzzled until her parents and uncles were called and Melissa quietly spent several weeks in a private sanitarium where, thanks to the proper amount of indulgent therapy and astutely prescribed pharmaceuticals, she fully recovered.<br /><br />College was anti-climactic, though she attended the most progressive open-format school money could afford. She'd been through it all before. Though she lived off-campus in a small apartment at the center of the local city's modest downtown, with a boyfriend-- slumming it-- Melissa Habermyer was thoroughly bored.<br /><br />After two years Melissa Habermyer changed her name to Melissa Bluebird and quit college to form a girl rock band with two friends of hers. They named themselves Melissa and the Bluebirds. They'd been practicing together for months.<br /><br />Their first real gig was playing at a private party during the Super Bowl. This was arranged by Uncle Frank, whose company was one of the largest corporate sponsors of the football game. One of Melissa's favorite classic bands was the half-time show for the game. She thought it fitting to play, in some small way, in proximity to her idols. The more modest circumstances of her own performance didn't bother her.<br /><br />The performance itself? In its earnest pop amateurishness it was at least fun. The jaded corporate execs, journalists, coaches, and hangers-on present found the band of pretty young women pleasant to look at. The mild harmony of the band's chords and weak voices antagonized no one. Melissa Bluebird had written the songs, was lead singer and accompanied herself on lead guitar. The rest of the band consisted of drummer and keyboardist: Melissa Bluebird-wannabe-likes who sang backup. Melissa wore a bright multi-colored outfit loaded with scarves, which matched her blue eyes and downy blonde hair. Her voice was pleasant to hear, if one could hear it, and carried a delicate tune, though there was little propulsion behind it. At one point in the modest concert, Melissa "got down" and moved across the glossy black stage at the front of the room in a series of steps. Belching old-bull men clutching drinks in her vicinity applauded.<br /><br />"Yeah!" Melissa said as the chords of her electric guitar reverberated, swinging her arm around Peter Townshend-style. "Wow! Thank you."<br /><br />Present in the room as Super Bowl guests of Frank Habermyer were a billionaire record producer from Los Angeles along with an always grinning publicist, Nick Stomponatas.<br /><br />"Not bad," the producer, blasted on cocaine and cocktails, remarked. "Not bad at all. Whaddya think?" he asked his more sober compatriot.<br /><br />Thirty-two year-old Nick Stomponatas was a notorious gun-for-hire with extreme smarts and a necessary cynical outlook. He was little-known by the public but respected by anyone in the industry with sense. If you wanted someone made-- or destroyed-- Nick was the guy to go to.<br /><br />Nick saw something in the girl. Beyond the dollars in Frank Habermyer's bank account, which Nick was well aware of, he saw something for real in the strutting self-important rich girl. Maybe the blue eyes, or the name, or the naive self-importance itself held appeal.<br /><br />"Give them an edge and they could be huge," Nick Stomponatas said.<br /><br />There, at the Super Bowl party, he was given the job to create them.<br /><br />The "edge" he gave the Bluebirds was in the person of Alex Skarski, notorious bad-girl guitarist from the gutters of Cass Corridor Detroit; a music school dropout-- or rather, had been kicked out for telling off her professors. She'd kept her record perfect by being kicked out of band after band-- this though she played the most rockin' power chords heard since Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Alex Skarski WAS rock n' roll, or maybe a caricature of it as she'd absorbed every self-destructive rock myth into her own personality.<br /><br />Bizarrely, perversely, Nick believed Alex would be a great fit with Melissa and cohorts. He'd seen a soft spot beneath Alex's loud exterior; a hidden vulnerability-- hidden by layers of tough-girl defenses-- that would be dazzled by Melissa's blue eyes and by the sincerity of her modest talent.<br /><br />They met in a hotel room. Alex was late, had barely made her plane flight-- barely made it through security-- then had vomited for twenty minutes in an airport john after the plane landed. She arrived in the hotel room weak, hungover, red-eyed, tottering, smelling-- despite a layer of perfume-- of sweat, vomit, and urine. Her short dress was so flimsy you could see through it. She wore nothing beneath, and had forgotten to shave her armpits. Or, for that matter, her legs.<br /><br />Tall, pale, and strikingly thin, with large shoulders and bangs of jet-black hair, she peered at her prospective new bandmate, Melissa Bluebird, recipient already of a million-dollar recording contract. Melissa leaned casually against a divan with the unblemished bearing and confidence of her class. Though Alex was several years older, to study the way each woman approached the other you'd peg Melissa as the elder.<br /><br />"Uh, hi," the supposed tough girl squeaked with pronounced meekness.<br /><br />"Hello," Melissa Bluebird said, holding out her hand. "Welcome aboard."<br /><br />As Nick Stomponatas beamed the two women shook hands on Alex Skarski's arrival into the group.<br /><br />(To Be Continued.)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-1611345028399049364?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-35027629356146554362007-09-02T07:28:00.000-07:002007-10-13T18:30:42.494-07:00now the for the second anniversary<span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;"></span><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Note: Believe this poem was published on the ULA's Literary Adventures some time after the catastrophe referred to in '04, but we all know that that particular blog and it's work by members and guest poets and writers there in was hostilely seized by bad apples if not traitorous moles embedded in the Alliance. Who like cowardly bullies refused access or to release the aforementioned work after reasonable requests from the ULA. Anywho this poem is again posted lest we forget what happened and is still not happening in the big easy!</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em></em></span><span style="font-size:0;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">Grief by artist, Amy Roberts, @1988</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120996143843387362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 533px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="266" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/RxFu3FHuJ-I/AAAAAAAAABE/RlWBC_hjfBY/s400/amy+88.JPG" width="500" border="0" /></div><div> </div><div><br /> </div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><u><span style="font-size:180%;"> HURRICANE LAMP</span></u></p></span><div><br /> </div><p><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/Rw12LVHuJ7I/AAAAAAAAAAo/rskGo6vhV2Y/s1600-h/amy+88.jpg"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></a></p><i><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">“It was not a normal hurricane...”</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">-- Bush, in his address to the nation from New Orleans,</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Thursday, 9.15.05 </span></i></p><br /><p>Was she a giant spider escaped </p><div><br /></div><p>from the rings of Saturn,</p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">or a mutated crayfish crashing the barricades</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="color:#ff0000;">.</span></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">piled in the brink like mashed potatoes </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and gravy, or was She a lightning bolt spooked</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">out of the black and blue lagoon, or a passing </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">fad taking the market by storm, </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">or was she just visiting the wet-land bayou</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">that army corps of engineered no more</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and like a mother of four </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">living hand to mouth got pissed? </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">If not the heart the liver and spleen</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">have been tore out of the country</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">soul first left to rot in the delta</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">by the tens of thousands poor</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and the hurricane lamps </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and the hurricane oil lighter than water</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">unless one counts the toxins, </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">fry-later grease and the Malathion</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">run off to kill the insects in the fields</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">of share-crops where the Mississippi </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">rolls over bucks for the combines, </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">cotton wicks drowned in the boxes and those</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">in the confines of bloated wharves</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">gone to deep six in the gulf</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">between the haves’ and the have nots’ husk.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">The baby jazz smothered in their cribs</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and the blues men blown over into the dark</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">drink like rum and coke nothing’s changed</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and as usually no bureaucrats charged</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">not one croc in the public works to be</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">held accountable again and little you </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and little me dismissed by fat cats</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and Hollywood TV without a peep </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">unsung solidarity for them in New Orleans</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and the muddy proscenium of the deepest South.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">One of the sacred cities of the continental cut</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">with St. Augustine and San Antonio exposed </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">on either side where the soul of America</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">quickens from a skip to a back slide.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Where will Nature strike the nine pins next?</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">What does it all mean, should we pray to God</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">on our knees when the ministers and priest</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">have lost before the open and shut eyes </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">of the dispossessed, the working mother of four</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">who survives pay check to pay check and huddles</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">with the rest of <i>them people </i>in the bottom lands</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">filled up like a bowl without no cereal or soup tho’</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">but what else is different, nothing has changed.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Unless you can catch a glimpse in the poisoned</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">sheen waiving like the flag but black and overturned</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">the slave ships ghostly prowed toward the blocks </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">block after block slave auctions without terminus</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">or old Ponce De Leon privateer and skinner </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">of muskrats whose ghost would be less fearful </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">than most being a Frenchman stoked the high ground</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">for a Quarter frequented by intoxicated tourists</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Northern for cous- cous and gumbo and a voodoo</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">tease in the yellow fever of the souvenir news.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Speaking of the turn of the screw what agency </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">will comfort if not the poor minority and Cajun</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">parishes perished under the surge in the cycle</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">gone made hotter than hell and globally warmed</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">to a irreversible burn but the creatures of the mojo</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">midnight witching hour in the silvered glass,</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">the aristocratic vampyre, pathetic zombie hordes, </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and even a loupe-garue or two, when its obvious</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">from the tube there’s not even a place for the living dead</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">to lay their heads but then again perhaps all these</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">things have got themselves an office in Washington D.C.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Nothing ‘round these parts, nothing ever changes much.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">So on the third day I caught the Louisiana Governor say</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">cease and desist the search and rescue in effect</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">get your shot guns loaded</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and the billy clubs spit shined</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">‘cos there’s poor people roving behind the picture-</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">windows, Walmart, K-mart, Quickie-mart</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">must be defended at all costs, money floats the whole damn</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">network, as visions of ownership danced </span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">in their profits’ heads, the disparate are</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">racing off with diapers, colored televisions, and bread</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and bargain basement semi-automatics to kill the living dead.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Eighteen holes cut short for the vacationing Feds.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">The mass media spun and monopolized</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">same old same old to keep us hypnotized</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">looter and helicopter rerun nine to five</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">obscuring the truth that the poor are sodomized</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">day after day under the boots of a corrupt</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">and underworldly government bottom to top.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">What are systems, lies, dirty deals</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">in face of the homeless panning for a meal</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">when the wrath makes all the church bells squeal,</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Old deities send plagues and catastrophe</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">against the common people when tyrants reign</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">so that them folk will rise up against those</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">in power who rile and ruin the humane</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Earth and sign the times with monster births.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Nothing ever changes but there’s chance</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">a third or fourth party might emerge at last.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Let those who dodge just desserts swill like hogs,</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">our Creator has proved more powerful than their God.</span></p><div><br /></div><p><span style="font-size:130%;">9.8.05</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-3502762935614655436?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-81113639042162918522007-08-14T13:12:00.001-07:002007-08-14T13:12:39.058-07:00Weedwhacking Eden by Wred FrightIf the Garden of Eden were in America,<br />then instead of an angel with a flaming sword guarding it,<br />there'd be a guy with a weedwhacker having at it.<br /><br />The Trees of Knowledge of Good and Evil and of Life<br />would've long ago been sold as Christmas trees,<br />or chopped up into souvenirs.<br /><br />The serpent? <br />He'd have to be a very crafty creature to avoid the lawnmower<br />making the Garden look like everyone else's yards.<br /><br />America was supposed to be a new Eden,<br />but paradise has been lost again,<br />and this time we can't blame it on Adam and Eve.<br /><br />It takes years and years for a forest to grow, God knows,<br />but it only takes men with heavy equipment days to undo it<br />in an impressive demonstration of the ugliness of efficiency.<br /><br />Oh, how I miss the frontier;<br />the taste of wild, sweet fruit; <br />and dreams of innocence<br /><br />We put a price on everything, even experience, <br />so how dear is the fact that there's nowhere new to start over,<br />and now only ourselves left to destroy?<br /><br />14 August 2007<br /><br />(Dedicated to the woods that used to be behind the house I grew up in before the new owner decided to build a house there instead of just buying any one of the dozens of houses for sale in New Castle, Pennsylvania).<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-8111363904216291852?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Wred Frightnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-69583541948565291702007-07-31T12:40:00.000-07:002007-08-03T10:59:17.397-07:00"McCartney at Starbucks"by K.I.N.G. Wenclas<br /><br />(Rough draft.)<br /><br />McCartney at Starbucks<br />Harry Potter at Borders<br />Home Depot and Wal-Mart, Shrek at McDonald's<br />Monopoly junk culture<br />everywhere surrounds us<br />Incredible fantasies of plutocratic garbage,<br />riotous gargoyles of hypocritical nonsense<br />Green-zone gardens of orange plastic petunias<br />policed by soldiers on bikes,<br />concrete suburban bunkers guarded by halogen lights<br />(latest movies inside)<br />Mobs worshipping hyper-surreal billboards<br />of airbrushed celebrity faces,<br />empty gods;<br />Traffic jam flows into 21st century stadiums,<br />boozhie monsters with electronic lifestyles<br />desperate disturbing human-size puppets pretending<br />to be people<br />to be hip<br />to be writers<br />with unthinking unblinking obedient eyes<br />as the force of paranoia strengthens. . . .<br /><br />Boy, haven't you learned yet about monopoly?<br />about Murdoch<br />about how to survive<br />in the fast running machine<br />of wheels and pulleys<br />looking like treadmills<br />those could be hamsters<br />but they're people<br />Haven't you learned yet how to get along with your betters,<br />haven't you learned how to play the game,<br />haven't you learned that you'd better behave like<br />everyone else,<br />haven't you learned to take the paper-pushing<br />lap-top clicking<br />cubicle-dwelling<br />bureaucratically self-important<br />manufactured-by-intellectual assembly line<br />drones as your model?<br />Haven't you learned that the apostles of sameness<br />the credentialed<br />rubber-stamped<br />mouthpieces of Officialdom<br />have the answers<br />your job is to listen<br />put your mind into a box<br />not to seek;<br />Haven't you learned that to live outside the system<br />is to be branded an outcast<br />you can't fight the sheep<br />you'll be crushed by steamrollers<br />infiltrated by moles<br />stabbed in the back<br />hung in the town square<br />in effigy<br />like a dummy<br />and for real<br />for the people to see<br />used as example<br />how not to conduct your life<br />your words blackballed<br />reputation slurred, smudged, and deleted<br />a walking nonperson;<br />haven't you learned this is the fate of the free-living person?<br />Haven't you learned anything?<br />Can't you see that Lennon is dead<br />but McCartney survives<br />as monopoly-produced icon<br />strumming across your TV screen<br />like a cartoon replica<br />a 3-d computer-generated simulation<br />He once was a Beatle<br />spur to revolution<br />500 years ago<br />even then it was a dream<br />subject of boring documentaries<br />now you find him<br />on the shelf at the local Starbucks<br />two dozen right down the street<br />every one exactly the same<br />the sunlight's daytime heat<br />boils bubbles of wetness<br />on an urban blacktop<br />accompanied by a celebrating band<br />twangy guitars, happy voices<br />'cause the rebel is dead<br />they got one<br />shot him down at the entrance to a building<br />surrounded by police<br />while the hyper-regulated assholes of Officialdom<br />click away on computer screens. . . .<br /><br />and the colorful band on the sidewalk<br />plays predictably<br />religiously<br />night and day<br />as homage to the yuppies<br />marching like penguins<br />backed by the glories of<br />manufactured-in-China<br />infrastructure<br />investments in their careers<br />monitoring stock prices<br />served by their nannies<br />their gardeners their housekeepers their drivers<br />their brown-skinned less-than-minimum wage slaves<br />without papers<br /><br />A dozen mad yellow tractors at<br />gentrified housing projects<br />running over protesting human beings<br />toy dolls crushed<br />as easily as Rachel Cory<br />it's about the money<br />the contracts<br />the greed<br />Baghdad is here in our cities--<br /><br />Twenty cop triggers<br />two hundred gunshots<br />eighty-five bullets<br />through the body of the city's latest casualty<br />(the rest of them missed)<br />he was psychiatrically insane anyway<br />certifiably psychotically<br />you have to be to challenge a badge-wearing cop<br />stray bullets smashing bricks<br />bubbles of blood<br />welling on the summertime<br />black asphalted concrete of the street<br />flowing in rivulets,<br />and the red, white, and blue<br />band on the sidewalk<br />playing for pennies<br />hat on the ground<br />raise a chorus of "yeas"<br />they saw it in a movie<br />while the marching penguins thrill<br />to the soundtrack of their lives;<br /><br />It's lonely at Starbucks<br />closing time at the big box malls<br />employees released from their schedules<br />their perky personas<br />serving lattes<br />lights turning off going out<br />McCartney on the stand<br />packaged in unbreakable sealed plastic<br />miles from Liverpool<br />untouched next to Albom<br />(in truth the music is horrible)<br />he's long since been homogenized<br />orange-red gunshots cascading across<br />carnival streets as<br />the civilization of greed cracks in half<br />but the glass door to the chain store is locked<br />security code set<br />no one robs a Starbucks<br />or a Wal-Mart<br />except the insane<br />no one robs a church<br />Capitalist temples<br />Harry Potter on sale<br />40% off<br />The unseen sky<br />grows late<br />time to get to sleep<br />if you can push the buzz<br />of this mad commercially-produced mini-series of reality<br />out of your head<br />in time for the alarm clock<br />to march you off again<br />to your robotic role<br />of conditioned reliability<br />in the morning.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-6958354194856529170?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>King Wenclasnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-34939292000975219732007-06-11T08:01:00.000-07:002007-06-11T08:46:25.878-07:00NAZI ART VAULT<div><br /><u><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">NAZI ART VAULT</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p align="center"></u><u></p></div></u><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5074831632740934754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 484px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="240" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/Rm1se3xwZGI/AAAAAAAAAAg/Xh-qfIDxakI/s320/IMG_0451.jpg" width="436" border="0" /><br /><div><br /> </div><p align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><div><span style="font-size:78%;">graffiti painting by Bood Samel, the "Tanks", south end of 49th St., 2004</span> <br /></div><br /><p align="center"></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">I am thinking out loud and don’t want to imply</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">there’s any truth in what I tell you except the lie</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">looms large on the horizon slashed from ear to ear</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">just happy- faced with the results of terror and fear</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">has had on the working stiffs and the radical subjective saps</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">who create to live on the fringe that’s not quite where it’s at</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">the aliens under the radar pressed into service</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">by the all consuming Reich of real estate interest</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Bagdadadelphia, maybe there’s somewhere healthier</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">no doubt it’s right to be worried now</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">there’s a big hole in the ground that won’t be null and void</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">for long, containers from China, the boats from Vietnam</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">cheap labour to dig the floor up to fit the fetishes got</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">under pretext of helping the third world here and there out</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">of the self fulfilling prophecy with foreign tyrants paid off</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">to make it look good to the bleeding hearts and ping-pong.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">The Buck, the Yen,</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">a pound of flesh</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">and requisite dash </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">of salt under the skin</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">the stolen artifact</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">traded for sex</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">with a starved child</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">to weak to scream</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">it’s only another </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Nazi Art Vault </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">come to an immanent domain near you</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Spellbinder, hex laid on thick,</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">if only the Sea Witch knew </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">she’d give the devil his due</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Beep heil, beep heil Nazi Art Vault com’n’ thru!</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">To a white washed black bottom near you.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Nazi Art Vault’s bigger than a bread-box</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">but never as large as a Black Hole</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">(there’s been a change in the zoning code</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Beep Heil, beep heil Nazi Art Vault com’n’ thru!</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">UCD plus PNC is good clean family fun Nazi Art Vault</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">30th Street Post Office lost leased and Penned in by the tax</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">payer is Green Zone IRS Nazi Art Vault so is the World Cafe BBC</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">and the museum of Archeology the poster child of Nazi Art Vaults</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Don’t mind the mad poet, don’t shoot the piano player,</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">nervous ticks, I’m possessed by beautiful Israeli spies</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">and I work down the Pike digging the Nazi Art Vault</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">for the absentee landlord and the precious gentrified.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">I image you think, I imagine there’s something</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">not quite right with me and I witness the blistering</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">shell rise over the skyline Comcast like a gynecologist</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">high on meta- amphetamine scraping the heat inversion</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">architectonic, terrorist proof by volume and channel</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">locks to the degree the TV syndicates want us</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">to believe in God, in Country and the Nazi Art Vault</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">com’n’ through loud and clear channel high definition.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">The acquisitive consumer could</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">just as well easily pump the blood </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">of a dozen Nationalguards men and women</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">into the gas tank of their SUV </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">or an Iraqi wedding party into a Hummer </span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">but nothing compares to the capacity</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">of a spanking new Nazi Art Vault</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">popping up like poppies all over the Green</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Zone phone home for a gold bricking binge.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">They maybe the Beautiful People</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;">but we’re better looking than them.</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Carnivolution, Ellen Tiberino Memorial Museum.</span> 6.8.07</span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>note:</em></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>There's alot of local Philadelphia references here of course and then a casual reader might want to know the why and wherewithall of their inclusion. One needs to do a web search on the various references to get the impact perhaps of the usurpation of the great city's soul (including it's culture underground) by a combination of "conflict of interest" and immanent domain". And good luck in finding anything that is seeing the trees thru the forest! But I think we would all have first hand experience with the purpose of Comcast's erecting towers upon the metropolitan skylines, at least on the East Coast.</em></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Otherwise I beg your forgiveness for the heavy handed polemics.</em></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-3493929200097521973?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-4307106247382738692007-05-09T19:32:00.000-07:002007-10-14T11:39:50.663-07:00ATLANTIS FM<div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/RxF8o1HuKBI/AAAAAAAAABg/l5y0N5VIoTw/s1600-h/LetThereBeDragons.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121011292193040402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 464px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="240" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/RxF8o1HuKBI/AAAAAAAAABg/l5y0N5VIoTw/s320/LetThereBeDragons.JPG" width="406" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>This poem was writ on the road late summer of 1991. It was published in Philadelphia while I was living in Jacksonville Beach, FL running a heavy-metal club called RPM's for my younger brother by Andrew Lovatt in an interesting one shot literary zeen called OZONE "a map of alternate realities" in 1992. ATLANTIS FM and possibly another more recent piece-- in the punk "raving-poet" genre, THE LAST MAN ON EARTH, will be action-read ULA style with improv backup from the Hydrogen Jukebox band during their first Carnivolution 2nd Friday performance art, music, sideshow event for 2007 at the ELLEN TIBERINO MEMORIAL MUSEUM, 3819 Hamilton Street, in West Philly this May11th. If your in this part of the East Coast Hood, by all means, check it out!<br /><em>Thanks to Matt and Eric "jelly-boy the clown" Broomfield.</em><br /><em>I will most certainly return comrade James Nolan's beautifully disturbing short story to its position at the head of the pack early next week so that any stragglers doan miss the opportunity of reading it.</em><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;color:#3366ff;"><br /><br /><p>ATLANTIS F.M.</p></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Out along the blue-green</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">edge</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">oceans swell and billowed foam </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">the clear eye near can see</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">cliffs and high plateau where the fogs</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">dance, the rush of the waves rouse</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">oh, mesmerisms </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">whispers rise between the sandpiped trill</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Atlantis, lost continent,</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">lost and drowned by pride </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">heaves back for an instant into view </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">spectral, steep </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">out along the green-blue</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">edge</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">who among us may reach down </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">deeply past the clocking mind</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">regain the pallisades of Atlantis in those depths </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">where dreams crash and mill </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">and ripple outward to touch a million </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">sleepers with longing wonder, then </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">release them so they float </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">to the surface of their routines. </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Out along the green-blue </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">edge</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">that philosophers and prophets </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">have, hallmarked down the millenniums, </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">rumored, and charged their writ </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">with reference to that super race </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">who with similar intent and bent </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">of technocracies and science to those </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">entrenched and no less impertinent </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">at the present moment, though our own </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">differing from its tragic precedence </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">by virtue of its global extent;</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">did succeed in wresting the reigns of Nature </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">away from the sure and sufficient hands </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">of the elements. </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Out along the blue-green </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">edge </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">you were once my scribe for a bit </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">during the summer of the great </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Opposition, and I yours, but I imagined </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">more attentive, a lover, </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">and as such now where I stand alone </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">when the morning disengages from the seas's gorge </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">and its long night of forbidden pleasures, </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">nearly can hear the drowned accolade</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">sparked by the fleeting victory march </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">of war undertow the hollow roaring waves. </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Then the glare crowned </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">and glacial fear brought on by inordinance.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">Out along the green-blue </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">edge, were you again at my side </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">and ventured with me into the verge</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">of the drowning tide.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;">9/1991- 5/2007.</span></p></span><span style="font-family:Courier New;"><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:#33ffff;"></span></p><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><br /><br /><dir><br /><br /><dir><br /><br /><dir><br /><br /><dir><br /><br /><dir><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">Looks like I am</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">the last man on Earth</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">as if an atom bomb <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/RxJhFlHuKCI/AAAAAAAAABo/EcgCk-QsrOk/s1600-h/L1660298+-+Version+4the+howl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121262474765412386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ARIKvYYAjr8/RxJhFlHuKCI/AAAAAAAAABo/EcgCk-QsrOk/s320/L1660298+-+Version+4the+howl.jpg" border="0" /></a>dropped not here</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">but over New York</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">maybe I’m the only one left</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">until of course</span></p><br /></span></dir><dir><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></dir><dir><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#3366ff;">photo by Geoff Hall, 2006.</span></p><span style="color:#ff6600;">wandering the vacant streets</span><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">and littered plazas for some can goods</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">I discover, as the apocalyptic</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">yarn went, the last woman </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">scantily clad in a cracked</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">phone booth that doesn’t work.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">She’s screaming into the receiver </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">for her husband and kids</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">like there’s no tomorrow</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">which a matter of fact there </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">And then under a sky that is a sound effect</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">it dawns on me that what are the chances of this</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">phone booth being on the deserted city corner</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">in the first place, a coincidence? Was it supposed to be the last phone booth on Earth when before</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">the Apocalypse nobody and their mother</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">could ever find a pay phone as the authorities</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">had removed almost every last one by then</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">blaming juvenile delinquents and pushers</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">the public pay phone going the way of the family</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">amusement park or the neighborhood basketball</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">court and the 1 point O! blood alcohol </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">percentage.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">What else was there at one time</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">just didn’t add up unless</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">it all made sense that it was</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">the sequel of the Children of the Damned</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">in the Village of the Damned and damned</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">in this damn World I found myself</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">besotted, misbegotten and different from them”</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">the pre-pubescent blonde haired straightened</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">bleach conditioner and Prussian blue eyed </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">Kinder of legal tender rendered perfect if not</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">alien under the cell-phone pay to play higher</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">technocracy who were in the process of world</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">domination before the shit hit the fan</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">when the grid goes down </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">and out for the count</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">from zero for naught</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">the ghost of the atomic</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">energy commission would</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">have to know what it’s all about.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">The indifferent towers and citadels of business</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">bilked to the gills and not a soul in site</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">there’s nothing and no need to on my mind</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">no reason to search the parameter for signs </span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">I just drift off to another free lunch</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">while the supply lasts and the candles hold</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">back the tears of this perfect dark night</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">and I dream of things as they should</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">as I dream again of being the last in line.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;">3/2007.</span></p><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span></p></dir></dir></dir></dir></dir></span></span><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;color:#33ffff;"></span></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><p></p></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-430710624738273869?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>FDWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08525165420707410702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-58685939752009749842007-05-08T14:21:00.000-07:002007-05-09T11:34:53.987-07:00The Anus of EvilTHE ANUS of EVIL<br />by<br />James Nowlan<br /><br />I could never be like other people. The shadow of my father’s work, whatever it had actually been or not been, floated beside me like a ghost keeping me from ever sharing in the normal activities of others. Whether I was with a group of friends or alone with a girl I could feel its terrible wraithly presence contemplating me, correcting the syntax of my sentences and changing their punctuation. College was even worse. The severe gaze of the professors trying to pierce my distraction while occasionally glancing towards a point above my head where they almost perceived their pupils tormentor. Of course they didn’t know of my dad because hardly anyone did as he’d been seldom published and almost never read. His short-lived fame was due to the unusual circumstances of the "accident" that took his life.<br />I usually told the other children that my father was infirm and so spent all his day in bed. I some how sensed that the truth was much more shameful. My fathers "work" was said in such a way that one could tell it wasn’t work in the sense that most people understood it and what he actually seemed to do, filling waste baskets with torn up pieces of papers and the mail box with letters with well printed impressive sounding addresses that were torn open anxiously by my father to feed his dismay like some strange drug was much more obscure and arcane than the activities of the other kids parents. And unlike the professional pursuits of other parents it became that much more inscrutable as adolescence approached. Where before all that came from his office, actually a converted walk in closet, were the sound of his typewriter punctuated by occasional curses accompanied by the static of the paper being torn from the carriage to be crumpled and thrown into a trash can now an endless tirade of low murmuring. "They should have" followed by something inaudible then a peck at a few keys "they didn’t need to" the carriage being thrown abruptly back "I’m going to have to" more pecks. Longer and longer silences began to set off these intervals, silences that became more and more filled with cryptic dread.<br />Why he chose the office of the publishing company that he did to perform his act was never known because he didn’t leave any note. A "literary" magazine that had been one of the few publications to actually print something by him had been recently acquired by the firm that had started with college text books (a sure thing captive audience and you can impose a certain taste that will influence their later life purchasing patterns) and was branching out into everything. Where he had gotten the explosives to commit it, indications of links to extremist groups had been hinted at, or how the explosives had been introduced into his body cavities, some expert witnesses had sworn that it must have been ingested others theorized introduction through the rectum or even some form of surgery. Regardless, the effect of the explosion had been to not only instantly kill my father and mortally wound the security guard at the reception desk but to shred the collected manuscripts that my father had been pecking at over the last twenty years. The man having attached the thousand odd pages to his torso by dissimulating them under his clothes a bit like a bum might do with newspapers before bedding down on a park bench on a winter’s evening.<br />Anyway, the blast projected bodily tissues and paper in all directions the former serving as a sort of glue or tacks to stick the latter to the sandalwood walls and ceiling that had recently been installed. The whole lobby was closed off after the event and the personnel passed through a service entrance on another street. The images recorded by police and journalists made there way around the world and before the lobby was reopened to the public the agent of a well known German conceptual artist called the office of the multi-national that the literary journal was a part of with a strange offer.<br />The lobby was transported around the world and millions of people passed through it in a dozen different museums of modern art. A phrase like, "she wasn’t feeling very well but she hid it very well indeed", swimming amidst a sweaty summer public swimming pool of like phrases would be a very sad page but all by itself nailed to a wall by a splinter of bone from its author it became filled with all the cryptic possibilities of the empty pool in late fall with a few leaves in a puddle in the deep end and for awhile my father was seen as some sort of deranged genius.<br />After a short spell in an over priced university I came to the conclusion that it certainly wasn’t leading to anything; most of the other students had gone to exclusive boarding schools and so were already well connected to the world that I would more or less be permanently excluded from. Going back to New York I tried to exploit what little notoriety was left from my fathers spectacular end to become some sort of transgressive literary star. Unfortunately punk was pretty much dead and there wasn’t much hope for me until I was anonymously contacted by some one claiming to represent an important group that was at the moment the center of attention.<br />My personal style was so in conflict with theirs that when they made me an offer of collaboration I imagined some sort of set up. To quiet my suspicions and convince me of the seriousness of their offer they even suggested a meeting between me and the person who, though he tried to present himself as just another casual collaborator in a collective effort, was actually their leader. We were to meet at "Spatzes" a delicatessen whose fading authenticity had made trendy.<br />I didn’t think I would ever see the great man himself and when I did there in those humble surroundings with a platter of fairly greasy corned beef and fries I almost dumped it into his lap but his reassuring smile buoyed me up until I had sat down and the odor of my food wafted up to his sensitive vegetarian nostrils. The food proved to be an effective negotiation device for to escape the site of it, Dale Beggars (yes it was really he) quickly transmitted the hushed instructions for my mission and emphatically promised that my dreams of literary fame and fortune would be fulfilled upon its completion.<br />A few days later I was on the train for Pittsburgh to meet with the group who had become the sworn enemies of the Beggar’s band a group of literary misfits commonly known as "The Haters". They had fixed a rendezvous in a strip tease joint that found it self in a zone that had been washed over several times in the last decades by the ebbing and flowing tides of decay and gentrification and looked worn down by the current. I entered the dimly lit establishment that seemed empty except for an almost naked female swaying unseductively upon the stage. She looked to be in the terminal stage of serious crystal meth addiction, the formaldehyde derived substance claiming its own was witnessed in her cadaverous appearance. As my vision adjusted to the strange pastel-lit interior I noticed a group of shadowy figures in a corner booth crouched around a beer pitcher reflecting the multicolored spotlights. I stumbled across a floor strewn with broken bits of furniture and glass and they seemed to straighten up in anticipation of my coming. It was only when I was seated that their features became recognizable in the varying hued illumination playing off the glass pitcher from which they poured me out a pint by way of welcome. I hesitated to drink it fearing any beverage served in such a place but wanting to be accepted I took a swig; it was actually quite good.<br />I don’t quite remember what was said that night but the hospital emergency admittance noted something about me getting up on stage with the emaciated dancer to strip with her and then falling off the stage onto some broken glass and needing fifty or so stitches. I thought that I’d failed my mission and missed my chance at greatness until a chirpy message on my answering machine from Dale Beggars advised me otherwise. He was apparently quite content with my "infiltration" and was eager to give me my reward. An appointment was made for the next day at Spatzes.<br />This time he didn’t even wait for me to set my offending tray of food before him but stood up regally and pointed an imperious finger towards the toilet, which upon entering I found to be much more spacious and cleanly than I had imagined. Dale opened the door of a stall and indicated that I should occupy the adjoining one with a nod of his head. I had just slid the bolt shut when his penis appeared through a glory hole.<br />"What the fuck, I stuttered?"<br />"Suck me.." insinuated Dale.<br />"But.."<br />"You wanted greatness well here it is; swallow my semen and be owned by my muse…"<br />Mechanically I got down on my knees and went to work. I’d always thought that something like that, sucking cock for the first time would be some great transition Like now I’ve changed and can never go back, something as big or maybe even bigger than killing someone but actually it was completely banal and made me think that when the time in my life came, if it ever did, that I should have the occasion to do away with a fellow human I could do it with total nonchalance, thinking yes I could right now be taking your penis in my mouth and swallowing your sperm but as chance might have it I’m thrusting a knife into your chest or pumping a bullet into your head and you should accept and acquiesce as I have acquiesced in the past…..<br />Later in the subway I stared at myself in the mirror watching for change to come over me. I knew that right then another passenger was doubtlessly gazing at me looking at my reflection having this introspective moment and thinking there is someone gazing at their reflection in the window of the subway train against the darkened background of the tunnel rushing by while it is occasionally obscured by the well lit platforms that interpose themselves upon his image. Platforms upon which amongst the crowd of passengers at least one was thinking there must be someone on that train looking in the window while having an introspective moment. The tongue amongst the taste buds of which some of the greatest voice of my generation’s spermatoza were wriggling their last began vibrating with a strange urgency that I knew must be sentences of dazzling eloquence and I stood up on the swaying floor of the subway to release them in a flood of incoherence.<br />They let me out of Bellevue after a seventy two-hour hold. They didn’t offer me any explanations and I didn’t ask for any. Back in my decrepit apartment I called "the Dale" several times with out any response. When I finally threatened to expose his involvement in my "infiltration" of "The Haters" he told me to go to the same stall of Spatzes’ toilet in order to avoid us being seen together. After waiting for what seemed like several hours I heard the door of the stall next to me open and close and I sense it must be him. I was about to get down on my knees before the glory hole when he told me, "no time for that, I’m leaving you something that should work out better for you, wait until I’m gone then come and get it."<br />After a painful pause the door hastily opened and shut and I went over to see a note taped to the back wall of the stall "eat me" with an arrow pointing downwards. It floated there forlornly; a sad reminder of human mortality and not at all smelling of literary genius. Surrounded by the piss-flavored waters of the enamel bowl it might be a minimalist delicacy of a cuisine still too exotic to be appreciated.<br />The revulsion of the act of eating it hit me like a bad drug and I staggered home stopping only to buy a six-bottle crate of vodka and a supply of porno DVDs at a new concept boutique liquor store/sexshop that had opened in the neighborhood. The next week or so passed in a blur of alcohol and hardcore sex but I woke up at the end of it with the manuscript that I felt sure would be my guarantee of glory.<br />When I emailed it to him he sent me back a mocking response. When I called threatening to expose him he laughed egging me on saying that he could use the publicity. I then decided upon a path of vengeance that would not only punish Dale and his band of Beggars but also award myself and my father’s memory with some long overdue recognition.<br />I bought a laptop and a camera and then salesman helpfully demonstrated how to set up a pod cast. The counterman at Spatzes carefully wrapped two dozen frankfurters for me as if he knew they were going to be used for something special. Flying to a gun show in Reno I was able to complete my equipment and was soon across the state line into California breaking several federal laws and singing along to Frank Sinatra and ranting with radio-evangelists, rolling towards San Francisco and destiny.<br />The sleepy eyed posers in the "beggars’ bunkhouse" an ex south of market S&M bar that had been converted into a pretentious literary venue looked up with a start when I barged in the door with my camera, guns, all beef frankfurters and laptop at the ready. They thought it was simply "a performance" but when I fired several rounds over their heads they quickly lined up against the wall as I ordered. "But how many had swallowed his sperm or eaten his feces? Or swallowed the sperm or eaten the feces of someone who had swallowed his sperm or eaten his feces……" I wondered. Anyway I waved the nerdiest looking one over with my .25 and then held it against his neck while he set up the camera and the laptop meanwhile holding the rest at bay with my 9mm. When it was ready I ordered them all to get strip naked and had the nerdy one carry the sack with the beef frankfurters and my manuscript to a table standing before them. One by one I then ordered the females to bend over the table while from behind the males (I call them such because they had become for me like another species for which I felt as little affinity as I might for sheep or cattle) stroked out a passionate reading of my work.<br />The nerd held camera broadcast this event to the world. I felt a certain pride knowing that millions would now know my words.<br />"When he first arrived in this distant age he imagined that he had stumbled at last into utopia. Every chance encounter with a female seemed to be an instant pretext for rapidly consummated intercourse. But then he noticed the cameras and a series of short notes slipped discretely into his hand during the trysts revealed the truth; they were all just the toys of some perverse artificial intelligence."<br />"Life’s a party but not all of us are invited, or more exactly we’re invited but not welcome or let’s say some are maybe more welcome than others but sadly the host neglects to include this information in the invitation so that we could dress more appropriately."<br />"At the same time that the sensation of her stroking his testicles was making him harder speculation upon the significance that testicle stroking held for her as, "the testicle stroker", was tending to make him soft."<br />"When the American empire finished its robotised army in time to secure its domination of the world. Unfortunately the contract for maintaining this army was subcontracted to the lowest bidder who further subcontracted security to a firm whose employees spent their shift watching porno films on the computer. The immense central control became "aware" by bias of these images and sent out its robotic minions to transform the world into one immense theater to satisfy its strange desires."<br />When all the females had passed their turn the cowed and naked group looked hopefully towards me for some indication that their ordeal might be at its end but then I indicated the unread half of my work and made them know that it was now the turn of the males to recite my lines of genius. Which they did with the females all beef almost kosher encouragement.<br />"The first time I saw one who had not performed satisfactorily hung up for punishment, mercilessly tortured with electric shocks I shivered in horror but I soon learned to pay no attention."<br />"The festival began with the massive consumption of raw alcohol and ended with the "fucked out" having been doused with the same liquid and set afire squirming and screaming as they were immolated alive."<br />"But before the flames had completely consumed me I saw opening before me a passage like that that had brought me to this cursed époque."<br />"And so it was that one brave traveler through time had prevented this most monstrous of futures and made known to us to manner in which the blessing of alcohol might preserve us from the horror of sexual intercourse. And now at a certain age all of us that have the misfortune to belong to this thing that might be called humanity are anointed with the substance and illuminated that all that that might provoke desire be burned away."<br />Now having passed their turn the males looked even more shamed than females had while a few of the females appeared to have some how restored their dignity in the process. But what would I do next? Seizing the bowl of sausages and taking a small jar of mustard out of my pocket I rapidly swallowed them and when they were all on the way down my esophagus put the barrel to my head showering the SWAT team rushing in with my brains. And in Williamsburg thousands of recent MFA grads seized with a unbearably agonizing self-consciousness rushed to the Brooklyn bridge to leap into the East river and obliterate it, as Samizdat seminar students in Prague threw themselves under the wheels of the nearest street car and many others elsewhere hit by the terrible wave of introspection that my death provoked sought appropriately dramatic ends to their failed literary ambitions.<br />And now I see them often here in this place which though not resembling any description of hell I had ever come across certainly isn’t heaven and they give me a tragic look to try to stir some guilt feelings but I just smile. Actually the worst thing about being dead is that it isn’t really all that bad, which is perhaps the worst thing about life as well.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-5868593975200974984?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Jimbonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-42668043164765055142007-03-25T10:11:00.000-07:002007-03-25T13:17:02.984-07:00Excerpts from "War Hysteria!"(A ZEEN NOVEL.)<br /><br />by King Wenclas.<br /><br />Logan Airport, September 11, 2001:<br /><br />FIRST SECURITY PERSON:<br />"That's the eighth guy in a row who had some of them cute plastic knives. I wonder how I get a set of them?"<br />SECOND SECURITY PERSON:<br />"You can't buy them here! Those fellows are from another country."<br />FIRST SECURITY PERSON:<br />"Oh well."<br />* * * * * * *<br />As the gigantic towers of the World Trade Center explode in flames and mountains of black smoke fill the morning sky, the streets of Manhattan jam with escaping throngs, cries of terror reverberating within skyscraper canyons. It's a scene from the movie "Quo Vadis." New York City this day resembles Nero's Rome. The great city, center of the world, has been put to fire. Residents of the fabulous island of knowledge and wealth watch the symbol of their money and power crash to the ground. A wonder of the modern world is gone, turned into rubble, this bright September day of the year 2001 AD. It is an historic-- and horrific-- moment.<br />* * * * * * *<br />WAR HYSTERIA SUSPECT #4: VICE PRESIDENT DICK CHENEY.<br />Vice Pesident Dick Cheney sits in an extremely comforatble chair in a rustic cabin at camp David, popping nitroglycerin tablets into his mouth. A nurse waits nearby. A heart monitor shows an erratic graph. Vice President Dick Cheney isn't worried. He never worries about anything. That's for normal humans. If any person around him worried, Vice President Dick Cheney would give that person a withering look of contempt. He has no use for weakness, for misgivings, trees, furry animals, or any of that heart-bleeding crap. Vice President Dick Cheney is a stoic; a true Roman. At word of the attacks, Secret Service agents bodily carried him from his White House chair to an underground bunker. Vice President Dick Cheney remained calm, issuing instructions as he was being carried, ordering the President to stay out of Washington, all the while casually knocking down nitroglycerin tablets.<br /><br />"Where's the President?" a reporter now asks.<br /><br />"In Louisiana. Or maybe flying around in Air Force One. Someplace. I have no idea."<br /><br />Vice President Dick Cheney's expression says the question is idiotic. The wry trace of a grin on his lips acknowledges that W is useless and irrelevant. Vice President Dick Cheney sits back in his lounger and folds his hands peremptorily over his stomach. The movement worries his nurse, who studies the heart monitor.<br /><br />"We have to bomb the animals," Vice President Dick Cheney decides.<br /><br />"The animals?"<br /><br />"Excuse me. We have to bomb the Afghanis. We have to take out their oil."<br /><br />"Oil?"<br /><br />"Oil. Yes. The ANWAR oil. We have to go in there and take it out. Them out, I mean. Any snow owls, caribou, or polar bears killed are collateral damage. Regretful, but necessary." (His steely eyes gleam at the word "necessary.") "In the Arctic. Afghanistan. Alaska. You know what I mean. The oil. The animals. The terrorists. It's all the same. This is a fight for our freedom-- the freedom of American oil companies to drill wherever and whenever necessary to maintain the American way of life." (The heart monitor reacts furiously. The nurse is eager for Vice President Dick Cheney to calm himself. the hands folded across his stomach flutter passionately, though the tone of his voice hasn't altered; it's under control. Everything about Vice President Dick Cheney is under control. The lines on the monitor do zig-zags.) "You see, it's interrelated. Everything is interconnected. We musn't flinch from the task ahead. This will be like the Persian Gulf War, only longer, and-- better."<br /><br />The reporter is baffled. Acting President Dick Cheney studies him as if gazing at an imbecile, or an insect. This is how Acting President Dick Cheney looks at all people. He signals with a movement of his eyebrow. Secret Service agents carry the smug and confident man from the room, nurse and heart monitor following.<br />* * * * * * *<br />(Stay tuned. More to be posted.)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-4266804316476505514?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>ULA Poetry and Fictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04512954050047393983noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-30973489344807607342007-03-18T07:53:00.000-07:002007-03-18T08:06:48.806-07:00Frank Walsh PoetryAKIREMA<br /><br />I.<br />"the white man points to things that aren't there anymore"<br /><br />You castaway spike<br />in the bell curved<br />cast of thousands<br />skylines, you orphaned<br />mongrel guest motels<br />vacancy ripening<br />into red and green<br />plastic monopoly<br />game boys, yo animal<br />man, yo animal woman<br />getting a leg up<br />on the freeze pop<br />all over each other<br />for a two faced garage<br />and frankenstein dogs<br />on gold chokers, for<br />the greater goodies<br />walking the plank<br />at the sound of the bell<br />for undisclosed hyperglycemias<br />to fuel the fire foreclosure<br />and the white washed graves<br />in the Big Easy of the head<br />and casino royale<br />with oysters in bed bugs<br />the hell out of the lounge<br />lizards patent leather<br />ox blood with the mop<br />in the hands of migrants,<br />You got what it takes<br />when it doesn't hit back<br />your timing is perfect<br />when the clock's clean<br />last call before the doors<br />close and the gas goes down<br />the tubes fed without chewing<br />the fat, virtually unloaded,<br />docks the enemy mall,<br />touch and go without<br />feeling a thing just where your<br />skin should have been<br />there's an upper crust instead<br />I'd been way ahead<br />afterall the dope is on the way,<br />yes kids, the dope is on the way!<br /><br />-Frank Walsh, 11.07.04<br /><br />AKIREMA #3<br /><br />America should I leave you<br />from the time we broke up<br />your greener pastures were flattened<br />we both had too much stuff<br /><br />because the judge has it in for<br />us there's no where else to go<br />the beauty of the victims here<br />is never too much to have and hold<br /><br />my likes to any one object<br />of desire mushrooms just enough<br />to go round with a chip on my shoulder<br />better yet, in the head, a free<br />for all may be called for<br />to push and grunt your Tombstone up.<br /><br />-FRANK WALSH, DUBLIN, IRELAND 8.3.04<br /><br /><em>(Frank Walsh will be headlining the ULA's April 22 Spoken Word Extravaganza at The Underground, 40th and Spruce, in Philadelphia.)</em><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-3097348934480760734?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>ULA Poetry and Fictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04512954050047393983noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-34315732048224773592007-03-13T10:01:00.000-07:002007-03-13T10:12:22.239-07:00"Poet on the Beach"Bongo drums go beat beat beat<br />bongo drums go beat<br />hipster be bop cool cat go!<br />poet on the beach.<br />Goattee wearing sunglass'd dude<br />Hawaiian shirt<br />attitude<br />versify to all the world<br />poetry is cool.<br />Sitting cross-legged in the sand,<br />rebel warrior, rights of man!<br />protest sounds, peace and love,<br />watch him play for all he's worth<br />seagulls watching, rising surf<br />recite those words! yell that verse!<br />snapshot tourists<br />syncopated bum.<br />Darkened evening, sun goes flat,<br />red-lined sky<br />he takes the change that's in the hat<br />and says goodbye.<br />Echoes follow<br />lingered rhythmn<br />seagulls watch him go,<br />and little children<br />hope he'll return tomorrow.<br /><br />-King Wenclas<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-3431573204822477359?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>ULA Poetry and Fictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04512954050047393983noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4422479310644871482.post-23971051257507207982007-03-11T09:12:00.000-07:002007-03-12T09:23:36.934-07:00"American Clowns"Up, down<br />In, out<br />Buy the ticket<br />Jump and shout!<br />They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.<br /><br />WELCOME to the carnival tent madhouse,<br />star spangled bloody red white flags of hate flapping<br />across Chevrolet skies<br />the speakers crackle as popcorn spills over purple theater seats,<br />and the curtains rise<br />from the Dolby Technicolor canvas of Hollywood gods<br />with psychedelic eyes,<br />They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.<br /><br />We can't complain, we ASKED for this shitty mess,<br />this comedy of buffoonery with our votes of approval<br />of the sideshow of fame,<br />political hacks,<br />unendurable clowns with cynical raps,<br />and caverns for brains,<br />They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.<br /><br />We'd like to flee at least escape the images and the script<br />of this intolerable cartoon media show that's making us sick,<br />Cotton candy rockstar video NASCAR basketball celebrity showtime<br />IMBECILITY,<br />300 channels 24-hour talking head nonsense experts<br />brainwashed puppets!<br />WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO TURN DOWN THE VOLUME,<br />But they charged us to get in and gave us Bozo!<br /><br />Now the sound's turned UP on the screaming jets and battlefield cries,<br />as casualties mount<br />in the movie noise<br />latest blockbuster distraction<br />dumb the populace<br />mass destruction of Truth,<br />preservation of Lies,<br />They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.<br /><br />-King Wenclas<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4422479310644871482-2397105125750720798?l=ulapoetryandfiction.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>ULA Poetry and Fictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04512954050047393983noreply@blogger.com3