Some Old and Some New   Saturday, April 07, 2007




So there it is,a new high tech venue (very high) for publishing your poetry. Some length restrictins may apply.

And here we are, with "Here and Now" number II.4.1.





Painting by Mack Stewart


We start this week with some class, old Will Shakespeare himself. I think I might have heard an adapted version of this poem on country music ratio in 1957 in in Cowboy Tex Billy Bob Joe's song, "You May Be Ugly, But You Still Be Mine."

There I go, blowing the class act right off the top. Anyway, here's our Shakespeare for the week.


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips. red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grown on her head.
I have seen roses demasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yea, by heaven, I think my love is rare
As any she belied with false compare.








From Shakespeare straight to Bukowski, why the hell not.


.188

it dissolves, it all dissolves: those we thought
were great, so exceptional - they dissolve;
even the cat
walking across the rug vanishes in a
puff of smoke;
nations break apart at the seams
and overnight become
tenth-rate powers;
the .330 hitter can no longer
see the ball, he dips to .188,
sits apart on the bench,
wonders about
the remainder of his life;
the heavyweight champ is knocked senseless by
a 40-to-one underdog;
it dissolves, it all dissolves -
lovers leave and
old cars break down
on the freeway at rush hour;
I look at a photo of myself
and think,
who's that
awkward
foolish
old man?
it dissolves - the nights of hurricane and
hunger
have turned
placid;
I search for a partial set of my teeth
on the bookcase
shelf;
and I can't even think of
a last line
for this poem;
sometimes
before his death
a man can see
his
ghost.








Here's a excellent piece from Steve Williams, a poet new to me. The poem is from his chapbook Skin Stretched Around the Hollow. Steve lives in Portland, Oregon and is co-administrator of the Wild Poetry Forum, an on-line poetry workshop I visit frequently.


Tete-a-tete

Only she knows the name of that place
below the throat, above my chest:
skin stretched over speech, swallow,
breath. Velvet case of cantos
beneath, beard and wrinkles. Place
of creases, angles, altered trajectories,
pulsing pipes.

Her lips inherit that place, speak
oral history, language renewed
by vows unrecorded. Nameless
notes are composed here, penned
on staves of quiet cantatas,
diary entries - unwritten







May Sarton was an American poet and novelist born in Belgium. She died at the age of 80 in 1995, shortly after publication of her last book Coming Into Eighty She spent most of her last years living alone in a house by the sea in Maine.

This poem is from her last book.


December Moon

Before going to bed
After a fall of snow
I look out on the field
Shining there in the moonlight
So calm, untouched and white
Snow silence fills my head
After I leave the window.

Hours later near dawn
When I look down again
The whole landscape has changed
The perfect surface gone
Crisscrossed and written on
Where the wild creatures ranged
While the moon rose and shone.

Why did my dog not bark?
Why did I hear no sound
There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?

How much can come, how much can go
When the December moon is bright,
What worlds of play we'll never know
sleeping away the cold white night
After a fall of snow.







I had a pretty good writing week, so, unlike last week, I've got some new stuff of my own to post. Here's the first one.


almost, again

sometimes
I think
I'm really close
to the nut of it all
but it's a hard-shelled
truth
not easy to crack
and slick
like oil on ice
always slipping away
and I'm left
with the sour taste
of almost, again,
again
almost to the nut of it
all, still
circling
in the orbit
of almost
knowing
the nut of it all
and my time is running
out
and more and more
I think
the nut of it all
is not for me
to know








William Dickey was not among the most famous and popular of the poets of the1950s generation, but he was a beloved teacher for many years at San Francisco State University. He died in 1994 from AIDS-related illness.

This poem is from his last book, The Education of Desire


On The White Road

On the white road
in dust of summer
someone's arriving

apricots bend
from the wall garden
welcoming summer

someone's arriving
clothed only in light
his hands empty
his eyes full of islands
stoked by blue ocean
in the summer air

violent and singing
on the empty road
someone's arriving

the white light
cherishing his step
and his naked stare.








Regular contributor Alice Folkart is back with this wake up moment.


Blast

I wake up
because cat
wants me to,
seeing everything
his way:
black and white.

I raise the shade,
stretch,
yawn,
screwing my eyes
up tight.
Thinking of coffee.
What to do
today.

Deep breath
and open eyes -
a blast of
screaming red and yellow
lantana
outside my window
technicolors
my world.








Lawrence Ferlinghetti, one of the last of his generation of San Francisco beat poets, sees the last of many things all around.


Rough Song of Animals Dying

In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of the reality of existance
inside the ultimate computer
which is the universe
in which the Arrow of Time
flies both ways
through bent space
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of all the animals dying
all animals everywhere
dying & dying
the wild animals the longhaired animals
winged animals feathered animals
clawed & scaled & furry animals
rutting & dying & dying

In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of creatures everywhere dying out
in shrinking rain forests
in piney woods & high sierras
on shrinking prairies & tumbleweed mesas
captured beaten strapped starved & stunned
cornered & traded
species not meant to be nomadic
wandering rootless as man
In dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of all the animals crying out
in their hidden places
in the still silent places left to them
slinking away & crawling about
through the last wild places
through the dense underbrush
the last Great Thickets
beyond the mountains
crisscrossed with switch backs
beyond the marshes
beyond the plains & fences
(the West won with barbed-wire machines)
in the high country
in the low country
crisscrossed with highways
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of how they feed & rut & run & hide
In a dream within a dream I saw
how the seals are beaten on the ice-fields
the soft white furry seals with eggshell skulls
the Great Green turtles beaten & eaten
exotic birds netted & caged & tethered
rare wild beasts & strange reptiles & weird woozoos
hunted down for zoos
by bearded black-marketeers
who afterwards ride around Singapore
in German limousines
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of the earth heating up & drying out
in the famous Greenhouse Effect
under its canopy of carbon dioxide
breathed out by a billion infernal combustion engines
mixed with the sweet smell of burning flesh
In dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of animals calling to each other
in codes we never understand
The seal and steer cry out
in the same voice
as they are clubbed
in Chicago stockyards & Newfoundland snow fields
It is the same cry
The wounds never heal
in the commonweal of animals
We steal their lives
to feed our own
and with their lives
our dreams are sown
In a dream within a dream I dreamt a dream
of the daily scrimmage for existence
in the wind-up model of the universe
the spinning meat-wheel world
in which I was a fish who eats his tail
in which I was a claw upon a beach
in which I was a snake upon a tree
in which I ws a serpent's egg
a ying-yang yolk of good and evil
about to consume itself







Here's another piece of mine, written this week.


blink

listen
to the wind
it whispers
but it does not tell

**

gather
sand
castles
in repose

**

the sea
roars
at shell-white
beaches
takes tiny
bites
and spits them
back
with every
wave

**

moonlight
on green
meadows
seeps
to roots
below

**

the hawk
flies
but not for
pleasure
despite the grace
of its ascent

**

without
the sun
there would be
no shadows
to tell us
there is a sun-bright
day








Wiltshire returns with thoughts about poetry that draw huzzahs and hurrahs from many parts of the room, including this one.


Contemplating Poetry

A friend
well, an acquaintance....
okay,
someone whose name
I know
suggests Poetry (yes, with
a capital P) is due
for something new -
oh say can you
see?
Quite often no (you know?) so
he

wonders if a dose of
clarity
would make for less
disparity and dreams
of simple meaning
capable
of gleaning (or is it
more the feeling that
tends to leave
us reeling?)

I'm not really certain
we want to look
behind the curtain
or hear the true
life story (many
seem quite gory).
Though

I ask you....
does my Daddy
need
to be a Jew
(and a German too)
for me to
bleed
for or write
a sermon
on the holocaust?

And what cost
simple clarity,
that rarity?
In modern poetry
I doubt it would
bring parity.

As Frost knew long
ago, the downhill
race has not been
slow
(we've quickly
gone confessional, led
by the professionals)

And now we feel
some inhibition,
about toying with such
tradition.

In obscurity we find purity
and no one can dispute
the rules
when the words
do not compute
(just shrug and say
how cool)

No, better let
the big P muddle
along in its same
puddle. Imagine
the wrath of Plath
(Bishop aside) if
we turn the tide!
Still

I have to hail
the thought
of well-wrought
poems that play
(get bought)
at Yale
yet reach
and teach
in Peoria, too.

How about you?








These poems are from the book Voices of Light: Spiritual and Visionary poems by Women Around the World From Ancient Sumeria to Now, edited by Aliki Barnstone


Izumi Shikibu (Lady Izumi) born near the end of the second millennium was a mid Heian period Japanese poet. Known for her scandalous affairs, her emotional poetry was a favorite in the imperial court.


From darkness
I go onto the road
of darkness.
Moon, shine on me from far
over the mountain edge.

*

Someone else
looked at the sky
with the same rapture
when the moon
crossed the dawn.

*

When you broke from me
I thought I let the thread
of my life break,
yet now, for you,
I don't want to die

*

Orange leaves are gone,
ripped away by cold night
and winter rain.
If only yesterday we'd gone
to see the mountains!

*

If you love me,
come. The road
I live on
is not forbidden
by impetuous gods.

*

On this winter night
my eyes are closed
with ice.
I wore out the darkness
until lazy dawn

*

Here in this world
I won't live
one minute more,
where pain is rank
like black bamboo.


(Translated by Willis Barnstone)


Chu Shu-Chen was a 12th century Chinese poet whose parents destroyed her poems upon her death. Only a few survived, mostly in the hands of her friends. This is one of the surviving poems, giving a hint of our loss.


Sorrow

The white moon gleams through scudding
clouds in the cold sky of the Ninth
Month. The frost weighs down the
Leaves and the branches bend low
Over the freezing water.
All alone I sit by my
Window. The crushing burden
Of the passing days never
Grows lighter for an instant.
I write poems, change and correct them,
and finally throw them away.
Gold chrysanthemums wither
Along the balcony. Hard
Cries of migrating storks fall
Heavily from the icy sky.
All alone by my window
Hidden in my empty room,
All alone, I burn incense,
And dream in the smoke, all alone.


(Translated by Kenneth Rexroth)


Mirabai was a female Hindu mystic poet who lived from the late 15th to the mid 16th centuries.


The night is painted red

The night is painted red
and I am ready,
dressed to get undressed.
This is my night
with the king.
The sheets are fresh.
My eyes have their dark coloring.
I am jasmine with its night aroma.
I'm so happy I go out
tossing gems to the hungry.
He has put on his beautiful
dark face.
I am happy
because now my wedding night
is eternity.
What hurt me is gone.
Don't worry, friend. I'm
lucky.
The Braj prince is mine
with his habit
of mountain holding and flute playing.
I don't have to go through
birth after birth.
He's taken me.


(Translated by Willis Barnstone and Usha Nilsson)







Here's a sexy little poem by a "Here and Now" first-timer who writes under the pen name Lilith. She says she is 27 years old and currently living in the United Kingdom. As to her real life, she says "when I'm not spending too much time on the internet or in dubious drinking establishments I earn a crust (just about) as a freelance graphic designer." She adds that she is "completely in love" with her black cat Don Juan. Lucky cat, some would say.


The Pillow Monument

A rapacious twist into the other body,
the counterweight
together we make the balance.
A final grunt, then a shift off
excuses made

then I, full up with your flowers,
fat on the kind of silky string
that comes with only the best packaged blooms,
the sort you like to give away to other lovers,
I roll back
luxuriate in past bedtime stories
physical enactments of tales
and
scrolling through the blue movie theatre of my mind
that charges a nominal admission for all afternoon

I slink down in to the shabby velvet of my seat and part the rose again.








Don't you ever wonder about those weird subject headings on your spam. Here's the third poem I wrote this week.


her cuzzart an chatom

what the hell
does that mean

an Apache war chant
maybe

or ancient Sumarian curse

Norse toast
to Odin
and the dominion of giants
or maybe a plea
to tiny Irish folk

Greek

is this something
Socrates might have
said to his students,
I think
therefore
someone else
has to pay for the
pizza

it's not Spanish
and it's not Russian
both of which I studied
or German where
I lived for a year
and drank a lot of beer
and listened to a lot
of beer garden German
and it's not
any of their linguistic
cousins because I would
recognize them in a minute,
especially with another beer

and it's probably not French
since it's pronounceable
as written
so I just don't know

I know it's not Nigerian
because I've had lots
of email from them
and it's nothing they've
ever said

I mean,
for crying out loud

her cuzzart an chatom

that's what it says,
right there on the email
subject line and I'm afraid
to open because I don't know
what it means, I don't know
what it is

a coded message
from terrorists,
worse,
a trick by Homeland Security
to catch me at something
but I don't know what
and send me to Cuba
for seventeen years
and I don't even like
camping out on the beach

her cuzzart an chatom

I'm so confused
and just don't know
what I'm supposed to do








In this poem, longtime New Yorker Poetry Editor Howard Moss talks about dry times. Those of us from Texas and the American Southwest, know such drought and the helplessness of parched and cracked earth he alludes to.


The Night Express

That moment we neared the reservoir
Dry wit dried up aware that water
Was no longer there for the taking. Hazel
And birch, those secret, solitary drinkers,
Were suddenly duplicated everywhere,
Even the ground consuming its portion.
The word on every lip was "parched."
Could the desert be a stone's throw away,
As so many people had guessed? In her bath,
The old lady down the road was appalled
To find herself knee-deep in rust,
This after years of limpid clearness,
Soap beautifully wrapped and scented -
It was better than a sojourn at a thousand spas.
The sodas of the spring, the dew
Knew they were doomed not to be, feather-
Bedders of a union that had seen its day.
And so moisture, morning mist, and streaks
Of rain became so valuable collectors
Held out cans especially designed
To catch every drop of cold sweat
Of the night express as it went roaring by.








From the book Making Callaloo - 25 Years of Black Literature, this piece by Kevin Young, a young poet born in Nebraska and educated at Brown and Harvard Universities. He now teaches writing at Emory University.


Cassius Clay by Basquiat

   1982, acrylic & oil paintstick on canvas


I'm pretty!
I shook up

the world! Clay shouts
to the announcer

after trouncing
Sonny Liston -

the next day he
will turn Ali.

Butterfly,
bee - none stung

or swole carpet-red
as the paint B covered

this canvas, drawing
blood - not even Cassius

called out his name
Refusing to recognize

Allah - like Terrell
or fool Floyd Patterson -

will get you a new haircut,
whether you want one

or not. How
he hounds

Liston, waving
his prize belt -

a noose for Sonny's ex-
con neck. Petty crook.

Ali just bout serves
time to himself

- title stripped
like paint

- Army taking away
his right to fight

when he won't fight
them Viet Cong

who've done him
nothing wrong.

Houston, we gots
a problem - will not

bow or stand
when his no-longer

name the Draft
Board calls, Lords

over Liston
- Get up, you bum!

- who will fall to phantom
punch 1st rd, forget

to get up. (Died,
Liston did, five

years later, in Vegas
the needle in

his arm, the neon.)
Ali, now he could hit you

into next year -
but apart from the flogging,
his flaunting, were the taunts
challenger heard ringing

Uncle Tom! Come on
Come on White America!

even above the ten count
& crowd - his undented smile -

that smarts still.








Now here's Alice Folkart again, trying something new, a little prose piece.


Through the Roof


Why did she do that herself? Maybe we were poor just then. Not too poor to go to the movies or eat dinner, but too poor to pay someone to re-shingle the roof. Or, maybe, she just wanted to see if she could. She was like that.

I must not have been there that day, because seeing my mother up on the roof would have scared me, I would have run off to a friend's house to play so I wouldn't have to see her all mashed and dead in the ivy.

My father probably took the picture from the apartment over the garage. He wasn't about to climb up on any roof, but he would make sure there were pictures. He was in the movie business.

Her butt's to the camera, she's stooped on a steep, shingled down-slope. A clumsy ladder leans against the house and bundles of shingles, a big, black bucket of tar, rags, hammers and saws are scattered on the flattish roof of the kitchen.

Must have been hot. She's in shorts. Mt. Lee, with its HOLLYWOOD sign rises in the distance nearly obscured by summer smog, and the feathery top of a Washingtonia palm, probably a block away, pokes up over the roof ridge like the Afro hair of a Zamboangan native sneaking up on her.

On this side, our house is separated from the Zurvel's by an oil-stained concrete driveway edged with tall oleander bushes. Those little white dots against the dark leaves are the flowers. Poisonous. You could kill yourself by picking even one and not washing your hands before eating a peanut butter sandwich.

I never did.








This is, I think, my fifth of the week.


at just dark


birds unfurl
from trees
black flag
swirling
flailing
cloud of dark
rising

**

end of shift
nurses
green scrubs
soft shoes
circle
at Starbucks
complain
in secret voices
of doctors
and patients
and extended
hours


**

car lights
lined
on the Loop
one after another
three abreast
in both directions
on this side
those who work
in the east
and live in the west
and on the other
side
the reverse
such is
the state
of our affairs

**

"_ood fo_d"

"ch_ap"

blinking
neon sign
incomplete
message
casting
green shadows
on the cracked sidewalk
in front of the diner
at 5th and Grand
three old men
at the counter
for a meal
fit to meet
their meager
pensions
every night
here
then as morning
breaks
breakfast
too
and
sometimes
when they're riding high
lunch
don't care
about the broken
sign
quit seeing the sign
years ago

regulars

**

whores
don't walk the streets
in this neighborhood
but a little later
when it's not so early
they'll all be at the bar
and in the back booth
over at San Miguel's
across from the barber shop
just a phone call
and a cab ride away
mostly young
mostly pretty
the black tar
of too-many tricks
just a small spot
inside
not yet spread
to their
eyes

**

hard clunk
of a heavy switch
thrown
in San Pedro
Park
tennis court
island
shines
against
dark tide
advancing

**

Millie Sands
afraid
of the dark
hurries
to give Bixbie
his walk
before shadows
converge
yanks
hard his leash
as he stops to check
his mail
at Robinsons' oak

**

ambulance
passes on Callahan
fast
siren screeching
like five o'clock
whistle
common
sound this time
of day as
commuters
on the Loop
maneuver for
advantage
still
sets the dogs
to yowling








And now a couple more of her "first family" stories from Cyra S. Dumitru.


Cain and Abel's Sister

I have grown beyond anger,
searching for threads that lead me
past grief and loss to some belonging.

I am nameless; my brothers are famous.
Cain spoke of remembering life in the garden.
It has been for me to remember him and Abel,

the anguish of my parents.
I found Cain beside Abel, holding his cold hand.
Death lingering like a new mist.

When I saw the rock bright with blood
I feared stepping closer.
Cain always spoke loudest with his hands.

Words piled up in him like rocks in a river.
Outrage would finally break through.
Regret, its swirling currents, followed later.

Abel was full of song and laughter.
He loved how summer sank deep into his skin,
the soft bleating of newborn sheep.

Cain hungered fro such easy joy, yet held himself apart,
more comfortable with shadows than light
when we gathered round the fire

to talk, argue, stir the great clay pot.
I would join him sometimes and eat quietly.
He'd smile at me with distant eyes.

I have thought about this as the world has unfolded -
for some of us, life is a broken wheel
and the pieces so scattered

the path can never be made smooth.
Cain and I decided together to bury Abel.
We couldn't let our parents see him,

his face smashed beyond knowing.
We found a place near the best grazing meadows
and fruit trees blooming.

Our hands dug with help of a broken rock.
Our digging took us well past sunset.
In the gentle light of moon

we gave Abel the rich ground
buried him as one might plant a giant flower bulb,
carefully patting the earth above him.

At dawn we returned to the cave
our hands dark from dirt.
Cain fell to his knees before telling,

led them to the grave site.
Mother silent until seeing the fruit trees.
Then she began shrieking, hurling fallen apples.

Father finally roused, stilled her arms, gathered
her to him. I did not notice Cain walk away.
He simple vanished into warming air.

He was not there to help me bury our parents.
By then, I was a mother, just beginning
to grasp how grief burrows into bone.

As I mend my children's coverings
I glance into shadows
see again his restless eyes.

Perhaps you do not need to know my name,
you can choose one for me or keep me faceless.
I am everyone who witnesses, remembers,

who loves regardless of the terrible.
I am she whose hands need to carry
a bowl of warm soup into uneasy darkness.


Lamenting the Death of Eve

A strange silence woke me just before dawn.
I went to collect water in hollowed gourds
watching as sky brimmed

with changing light,
I kept listening for you -
your voice singing

every morning from the same hilltop.
As the quiet continued unsung
some impulse led me here

to find you
encircled by white stones
on Grandfather's grave.

As I held you
I traced deep curve of muscles
in old arms

that still smelled of firewood
and smoke, arms that once held me
and spoke about strength.

I am leaving this morning,
a panther preys upon my sheep.
I will track it, taste its blood

wear its skin unless it shreds mine first.
Tucked among my arrows
is the small stone

you held in your hand
when I found you,
a greeting

to the warmth of a new sun.
I hear you singing as I too step
alone into unknown light.






Painting by Blas Hernandez Jr. and Rita Ramos


Audre Lorde finds it hard to sleep in the middle of life, even at 1 AM


The Electric Slide Boogie

New Year's Day 1:16 AM
and my body is weary beyond
time to withdraw and rest
ample room allowed me in everyone's head
but community calls
right over the threshold
drums beating through the walls
children playing their truck dramas
under the collapsible coat rack
in the narrow hallway outside my room

The TV lounge next door is wide open
it is midnight in Idaho
and the throb   easy   subtle   spin
of the electric slide boogie
step-stepping
around the corner of the parlor
past the sweet clink
of dining room glasses
and the edged aroma of slightly overdone
dutch-apple pie
all laced together
with the rich dark laughter
of Gloria
and her higher-octave sisters

How hard it is to sleep
in the middle of life.

(January 3, 1992)








Another one I wrote this week.


the horror

they've changed
everything

this place
where
for ten years
I've written my
poems

they've prettified

they've gentrified

the crappy
chairs are gone
and the wobbly tables
and the dingy walls
with holes where paintings
were hung then taken down

gone

now
my god
it's like some kind
of dark paneled
fancy-dan
fern bar

I'm loud
down
and gritty
rude
crude
lewd
and naked
angel
tattooed

my god,
how can I write
in this environment

the horror

oh,
the
horror








Now, Jack Kerouac, from his book Mexico City Blues, writes on Charley Parker's death.


239th Chorus

Charley Parker Looked like Buddha
Charley Parker, who recently died
Laughing at a juggler on the TV
after weeks of strain and sickness,
was called the Perfect Musician.
And his expression on his face
was as clam, beautiful, and profound
As the image of the Buddha
Represented in the East, the lidded eyes,
The expression that says "All is Well"
- This was what Charley Parker
Said when he played, All is Well.
You had the feeling of early-in-the-morning
Like a hermit's joy, or like
                    the perfect cry
Of some wild gang at a jam session
"Wail, Wop" - Charley burst
His lungs to reach the speed
Of what the speedsters wanted
And what they wanted
Was his Eternal Slowdown.
A great musician and a great
                  creator of forms
That ultimately find expression
In mores and what have you.








Finally, a poem for Dora upon her completion of 30 years of exemplary service (exemplary, it says so, right there on the proclamation from the Governor and the Legislature) to the children and youth of Texas.

Not much of a poem, but good advice.


advice to my wife upon her retirement

you were successful in your work
for all those years
because, like all successful people,
you were oriented toward outcome,
always keeping your eye on
where you needed to be
and what you needed to accomplish

now you start a different life,
a life that is first
for you,
with room for others
only as you choose
them

in this different life
it is process that should give
direction - most
important now
how you live your life,
not what you do with it

a puzzle's joy now
is in the solving
not in the solution

a garden's purpose now
in the planting
not in the reaping

in everything,
doing
not completing








Time sometimes runs away from me and I forget to notice that the calendar is some days or weeks ahead of. Today, it almost escaped me that next week is the second Friday of April, meaning it's Poetry Table night here at Casa Chiapas. We would like to have more people at the table and invite all in the San Antonio area to join us to read, listen, all of the above, none of the above, as you wish. It's the most relaxed poetry event in town, guaranteed. So come sit with us, 7:30, next Friday, April, 13th, at Casa Chiapas, 926 South Alamo (about half a block down from Rosarios).

That being the end of it for today, I offer my thanks and appreciation to all who contributed to this issue and to our reading pleasure. All material reproduced in this issue of "Here and Now" remains the sole property of its creators.

Adios.

1 Comments:
at 9:57 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

cuzzart is french in origin.pretty funny though.

sean cuzzart
scuzzart@yahoo.com
louisville,ky

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