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Black Hats & White Nights
Friday, March 20, 2009 IV.3.3. So here's who we get to share a ride with this week. "Addition to Exodus" "Homeward journey" "Eros III" "Eros IV" Me "i watch as the hills are leveled" Brigit Pegeen Kelly "Song" Barbara Moore "Bukowski" Marvin Bell "A Lesson from the Corps" Me "a fog over the Capitol" Pat Mora "Mango Juice" Dan Flore "the ocean's name" "observation at Sun Chins" "the conscious scalpels" Wendy Cope "On Finding an Old Photograph" "Tich Miller" "At 3 a.m." Me "those whip-thin guys" Greg Nagan from "The Illiad" (for readers with a short attention span) Dan Cuddy "Rhino Virus Poem (Wear a Mask if You Enter)" Me "smile for me" Charles Bukowski "Bruckner" "smiling, shining, singing" Cliff Keller "Scuttle" Me "swing batter batter swing"  I start this week with poems from Korean poet, journalist, essayist and playwright, Ku Sang, from his book Wastelands of Fire published by Forest Books in 1989. Ku Sang was born in Seoul in 1919 but grew up in what is now North Korea. After studying in Japan, he returned to Korea to work as a journalist. He fled to South Korea during the Korean War and worked there for many years as a journalist for one of the major Korean newspapers. Persecuted by both North and South Korea during the course of his life, he was imprisoned in the 1950's in South Korea for essays on the Corruption of Power. Ku Sang died in 2004. The poems in Wastelands of Fire were translated by Anthony Teague. Addition to Exodus You know, in those days too they made a golden calf and worshipped it. Trust, sincerity of love, such basic necessities of existence, thrown aside like old sticks or worn-out boots, they became beasts, fighting one another, simply wearing human masks. The world, with Aaron's hoards in charge, became a place of submissiveness. But even then there were people trusting, waiting for Moses to come down from Sinai, simply, in solitude. Ah, Canaan, flowing with milk and honey! Ah, far off and how hard to reach. Homeward journey On board Gemini 6, the rendezvous completed, on the way back down, just as in the evening farmers return homeward riding an oxen and playing willow flutes, eating one mouthful less of steak (to reduce his weight) then pulling out the harmonica hidden in an arm pocket and making music, oomp-pa-pa, eager to be home with wife and kids, he sailed back down earthwards (I've used the first two poems in his "Eros" series some time ago. Here are the third and fourth poems in the series. Eros III I draw in empty space. That face, that voice, that smile, those thighs, but that love cannot be drawn. Things drawn in the heart may not be given form. Eros IV With the same hand that caressed her naked body I stroke my grey beard. Passion faded into pale silver... That loving, riding the bucket, has been drawn up to the heavens. Henceforth, all those times and places are one with Eternity.  I'm shocked by what I see sometimes when I forget to not pay attention to what's going on in the hills around my city. Brings out the little eco-nerd in me. i watch as the hills are leveled i watch as the hills are leveled, the earth ripped and torn, trees pulled from the ground and burned, deer and skunk and raccoon and all the birds and other woodland creatures driven to lands that cannot sustain them all that remains covered in black-tar asphalt that blocks rain from its underground reservoirs, runs it off instead to desalinate the bays and estuaries that give home and life to denizens of the salty marsh lagunas - all the balances unbalanced by the excess of our clumsy hands i see and i am left only with sadness too deep for any words i can find  Brigit Pegeen Kelly was born in Palo Alto, California, in 1951. Her first collection of poems, To The Place of Trumpets, was selected by James Merrill for the Yale Series of Younger Poets. Song, which followed in 1995, was the Lamont Poetry Selection of the Academy of American Poets. Her third collection, The Orchard, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, the Los Angeles Times Book Award in Poetry, and the National Book Circle Critics Award in Poetry. She has taught at the University of California at Irvine, Purdue University, and Warren Wilson College, as well as numerous writers' conferences in the United States and Ireland. In 2002 the University of Illinois awarded her both humanities and campus-wide awards for excellence in teaching. She is currently a professor of English at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. The next poem is the title poem from her book Song. Song Listen: there was a goat's head hanging by ropes in a tree. All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it Felt a hurt in their ears and thought they were hearing The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat's head Swayed back and forth , and from far off it shone faintly The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away Beside which the goat's headless body lay. Some boys Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined. The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything. The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks. The head called the body. The body to the head. they missed each other. The missing grew large between them. Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills. Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder, Sang long and low until the morning light came up over The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped... The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after The night's bush of stars, because the goat's silky hair Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit. The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train's horn Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats. She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming Made it so. But one night the girl didn't hear the train's horn, And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain Stripping he branches of fruit. She knew that someone Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat's body By the high tracks, the files already filling their soft bottles At the goat's torn neck. Then somebody found the head Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take These things away so that the girl would not see them. They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat. The hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing, but a joke... But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they Had imagined, the silly sacrifice, but they finished the job, Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark. What they didn't know was that the goat's head was already Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn't know Was that the goat's head would go on singing, just for them, Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen, Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last a song, The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother's call. Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song, It is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.  This week we have a new friend of "Here and Now," Barbara Moore, making her first appearance. She, like me, is a big fan of Charles Bukowski and it was her poem on Facebook that caused me to contact her. Barbara, born in Danville Virginia in 1948, describes herself as an almost native New Yorker. She earned a B.A. from Hofstra University., majoring in English, and an M.S.W. from Fordham. She has been a research assistant at Reader's Digest as well as a substance abuse counselor at Long Island College Hospital. Now writing full-time, Barbara is awaiting publication in a Goldfish Press anthology. Here's Barbara’s poem. Bukowski I see Bukowski everywhere Pissing against the wall In the alleyway Pissing off the vegetable vendor Lifting fresh parsley to his nose With dirty finger-nailed hands Inhaling deeply; never buying Weaving his way down the avenue Cursing the bicycle riders Whistling at the one-legged woman In the sexy red dress Sprawled on the sidewalk Beside an orange cat On a rhinestone leash I see him in the post office In mock-like slow motion Saluting the clock at noon Leaving a customer open-mouthed Transaction incomplete Hurrying to the lukewarm beer Stashed in his third-hand car I see Bukowski at the bar Sometimes Jane is with him But mostly he's alone Observing his reflection In the mirrored glass Looking for a fight Or a temporary friend I see him at the track White-knuckling his losses Anesthetizing his sorrow With baby sips of beer As he finds the words And the lines flow And a poem is born.  Marvin Bell is a 65 year old veteran of service in the United States Army. He is now a professor at the University of Iowa and Poet Laureate of the State of Iowa. His poem is from the anthology, Poets Against the War, published by Thunder Mouth Press in 2003. Poems in the book were selected from the "Poets Against the War" website, which included several of my poems. None of them are in the book. In my own mind, I emphasize the "the" in Poets Against the War, being not against all war as a matter of the pratical business of survival in a world of aggressive evil and ambition, but specifically against one of the two wars our men and women are currently fighting. I'm pleased that the one I'm against is winding down, while, at the same time, concerned that the one in Afghanistan I consider just and necessary may be lost due to lack of attention and support by the previous American administration, distracted as they were by the other war, the foolish war, they began on their own. But whatever the political consideration, it is good to be reminded by poets like Bell of the awful, awful things we do to each other and ourselves in every war, whether just or unjust, necessary or the blunder of foolish leaders. It all bleeds the same. A Lesson from the Corps When you find the body, it has cauliflower ears. It stinks of dead worms, the blood crumbles between your fingers. When you find the body, the sleeves of the combat fatigues are in shreds. Its face is puce, its torso black and blue, its guts purple, but the teeth still gleam, and the bones will shine when cleaned. Your saliva congeals, you taste dried paste. Later you may feel shame for noticing the colors or hating the smell. You were schooled to do this. To yank the dog tag of with a snap. You were trained not to answer back to the silence. There is a hiss as you compel the metal tag between the teeth. This day may become a whiteout, a glare, a deficit in memory. A place too barren even for a shriek. A picture that didn't develop, just a clear negative. For nothing recorded the thump of the bullet as it hit, nor the webbing wet inside his helmet liner, nor the echoing within the helmet itself. But you may think you remember the shudder you didn't see when he died. You may imagine the last word, the mouth before the lingering stare. The machinery of his broken chest may appear in dreams. You may see the eyes, and hear the last expulsion of air. He is the vault now for your questions to God. Only the dead can tell you the distance from here to there.  I wrote this while on an overnight visit to Austin last week. fog over the Capitol from my hotel balcony i can see the haze settling in over downtown, the Capitol dome already lost to it's gray cloud fog over the Capitol, what a metaphor for this time that is - the Legislature is in session, a threat to the wealth and security of the state that comes up every two years - reading the morning paper, it is tempting to think of how much better we'd be if they went into session only every four or six years instead of the constitution's current requirement for biannual meetings i knew a lot of these people during my professional career and it always puzzled me how intelligent, competent, well-meaning people could turn into a blithering mob the minute they walked through the doors of the Capitol's legislative chambers, like victims of some kind of mind-scramble-death-ray that zapped them as they passed the Austin city limit sign D is here on business with these same woolyknobs, and i just tagged along for the ride and a chance to have dinner with Chris last night and maybe a drive around the city today, revisiting old haunts from when i lived here traffic on I-35 down below my balcony is roaring past, a good thing, since most often traffic this time of morning is at a dead stop, 40,000 UT students and about the same number of state bureaucrats all headed downtown, the center of all things that are as seen by the ants in the ant pile and the usual other visitors, lobbyist, for sure, with the lege in session you can hardly swing a stick in a circle without hitting a dozen lobbyist and assorted other pleaders of some very special, just ask, they'll tell you, interest, and the regular old tourist come to watch the circus under the golden dome, and kids from all over the state getting their, god help us, civics lessons, here in the sweaty fist of our hit and run governance and others, like the thousands of high school kids in town today for some kind of future business professionals type event, most of them lodging, from the sound of it last night, right down the hall from me here on the fourteenth floor the city is full of people trying to do good things, most without a clue how to do it, and more succeed than you would think likely, despite their own best efforts and the efforts of everyone around them  The next poem is by El Paso native Pat Mora from her book Borders published by Arte Publico Press of the University of Houston in 1986 and winner of the Southwest Book Award. Born in 1942, Mora received a BA from Texas Western College in 1963 and an MA from the University of Texas, El Paso in 1967. In addition to writing poetry, nonfiction, and children's books, She taught at the University of New Mexico where she held the position of Distinguished Visiting Professor. Mora currently resides in Santa Fe, New Mexico and Cincinnati, Ohio. Mango Juice Eating mangoes on a stick is laughing as gold juice slides down your chin melting manners, as mangoes slip through your lips sweet but biting is hitting pinatas blindfolded and spinning away from the blues and grays is tossing fragile cascarones on your lover's hair, confetti teasing him to remove his tie coat and shoes his mouth open and laughing as you glide more mango in, cool rich flesh of Mejico music teasing you to strew streamers on trees and cactus teasing the wind to stream through your hair blooming with confetti and butterflies your toes warm in the sand  Next, I have three poems from our friend Dan Flore. Dan lives in Pennsylvania where he leads poetry groups for people with mental illness. He is presently working on a poetry book to hopefully get published. the ocean's name I remember the sun dancing in an ocean I can't recall what we named that swishing magical tide with currents that only washed to shore when birds with mighty talons would mate I remember you naked on the milky way like sandbar and me by the coastline feeding you apricots with a song I clothed you in the cosmic rain we hid in a sand igloo wish I could remember that oceans name all I can call it is the waters of memory observation at Sun Chins callused hands red working man's knit hat deep lost virgin brown eyes from long ago rough muddy voice says "I ain't haulin' all that shit to Spatston" on her way out of the restaurant she fluffs her hair in the mirror and for that one moment she sees herself in a flowing gown the conscious scalpels the conscious scalpels doctors that cut viciously in the street believing their moisture is glue to stick themselves with washable options places to cleanse their embattled drama once winter love charisma exudes from their motion but it itches their fast treading sun glare on skin the knives get broken by the pouring hail the doctors drift into asylums of wonder their winter love turns into fall than finally a burst of paths, purples and mornings without nights there on a wooden road everything grows  Born in Erith, Kent, in 1945, Wendy Cope is a new poet for me. After completing her degree at St. Hilda's College, Cope spent fifteen years as a primary-school teacher. In 1981, she became Arts and Reviews editor for the Inner London Education Authority magazine, Contact. Five years later she became a freelance writer and was a television critic for The Spectator magazine until 1990. The next three short poems are from her first book of poems, Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis, published by faber and faber in 1986. On Finding an Old Photograph Yalding, 1912. My father in an apple orchard, sunlight patching his stylish bags; three women dressed in soft, white blouses, skirts that brush the grass; a child with curly hair. If they were strangers it would calm me - half-drugged by the atmosphere - but it does not move - eases a burden made of all his sadness and the things I didn't give him. There he is, happy, and I am unborn. Tich Miller Tich Miller wore glasses with elastoplast-pink frames and had one foot three sizes larger than the other. When they picked teams for outdoor games she and I were always the last two left standing, by the wire-mesh fence. We avoided one another's eyes, stooping, perhaps, to re-tie a shoelace, or affecting interest in the flight of some fortunate bird, and pretended not to hear the urgent conference: "Have Tubby!" "No, no, have Tich!" Usually they chose me, the lesser dud, and she lolloped, unselected, to the back of the other team. At eleven we went to different schools. In time i learned to get my own back, sneering at hockey-players who couldn't spell. Tich died when she was twelve. At 3 a.m. the room contains no sound except the ticking of the clock which has begun to panic like an insect, trapped in an enormous box. Books lie open on the carpet. Somewhere else you're sleeping and beside you there's a woman who is crying quietly so you won't wake.  I'm not sure where this poem came from, maybe i was thinking of my older brother, passed on about ten years now. Or maybe I was just thinking how i'm always a beat behind in most situations, especially the kind described here. those whip-thin guys i've always admired those whip-thin guys who run their life on instinct who when disrespected lays the offender out on the floor, lights a cigarette, walks to the bar and orders another beer while i'm still lost in internal dialogue... "what did that guy say?" 'did that guy just call me a punk-ass motherfucker?" "he did, he did just call me a punk-ass motherfucker!" "why would he do that?" "i'm a nice guy!" "i never did anything to him!" "well, i don't care, i can't let anyone call me a punk-ass motherfucker!" "i'm gonna have to take him down!" "where'd he go?" of course by this time, he's probably move on to his next stop, laughing with his friends, probably forgot he called anyone a punk-ass motherfucker, and everyone else in the bar, disappointed that there wasn't gonna be no fighting after all, has turned back to their beer and i'm standing in the middle of the room by myself prepared to fight a shadow already out the door one of those whip-thin instinct guys would have swung first and thought about it later and you can see from the scars that sometimes they've swung first when they should have thought about it maybe just a little bit longer  Here's some fun I ran across at Half-Price Books, The 5-Minute Iliad and Other Instant Classics - Great Books for the Short Attention Span by Greg Nagan. Nagan, a writer for Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion was cofounder of both the Chicago theater group, igLoo, and the award-winning Studio 108 and creator of the Web site JustMorons.com. He lives in New York, but claims to remain nostalgic for Central Time. Here are a few lines from the opening of Nagan's Illiad, including his introduction to the poet Homer and his works. Homer (no relation) was a blind poet who lived in Greece around the ninth or eighth century B.C., and, as a result of the curious Greek dating system, was apparently born about eighty years after he died. It is believed the Illiad and Odyssey , his two surviving works, were both originally oral rather than written works, which goes a long way toward explaining how a blind guy could have written them thousands of years before the introduction of Braille. The Illiad is a vital piece of literature for all readers, because all the greatest writers of Western Civilization have been alluding to it for eons ("alluding to" being Greek for "stealing from"). This is an abridged translation, meaning I have skipped all those parts of the epic that might have been troublesome to translate and have made up the rest. Also, it does not rhyme and has no meter. I assure the reader that in all other regards this is almost a faithful presentation of the Iliad. Ancient Greek civilization flowered around 500 B.C., at which point it became classic . Its eventual decline was the result of ouzo and philosophy, which might have been survived separately, but taken together proved too much. (from Nagan's Iliad Rage - Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles! If you don't know it I can hum a few bars. Murderous, doomed, he cost the Achaeans countless losses (or the Argives, or the Greeks, same difference), hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls that they opened an Achilles wing. And gave a discount. Begin, Muse, when the two got n each other's faces, Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles. What god drove them to fight with such fury? Apollo the son of Zeus and Leto. Why? Who knows. The gods have reasons, and see things unseen by us, and also, they can be pissy. And so Apollo, god of the sun, Golden-faced Apollo, did drive a wedge between them. Agamemnon and Achilles, general and warrior, friend and friend. And so the warrior Achilles, great Achilles, was moved to anger and would not lead his men to fight beside Agamemnon unless Agamemnon said he was sorry, and begged forgiveness, and didn't just say it, burt really meant it. But that lord of men, that Agamemnon, was proud, and would not say he was sorry, because he wasn't, and why should he apologize anyway? Wasn't he general? Didn't anyone know how hard it was to be general? Didn't anyone care about his feelings? And so while the Greeks, or Achaeans, or Argives, or some combination thereof, but not necessarily limited thereto, laid siege to Troy, or Ilium, that impenetrable city, whose walls rose from the plain like something really tall and flat rising out of something really broad and flat, as they laid siege, Achilles and his men hung back, got drunk, and played quarters. and without them Agamemnon's force was weak, and Troy beheld this, and Hector, noble Hector, valiant Hector, son of Priam, saw this too, and thought, "Woo-hoo!" Out came the Trojans! Led by mighty Hector out of their walled city, out against Agamemnon, and they started to kick some fanny. How many Greeks fell at that time. How many stout heroes did the valiant Trojan arms dispatch? Lots.  Been poking around Facebook this past week and came up with two poems, the Bukowski poem by Barbara Moore and this next one by our friend, Dan Cuddy. Living as I do in the universal center of Cedar Fever, this poem seems a very familiar state 0f affairs to me. Rhino Virus Poem (Wear A Mask If You Enter) the rhino virus seems unsuitable for a poem but the coughs, sneezes, wheezes certainly make caricatures of people and rhino means nose schnozz and a poet will try to joke through God's little curse what redeeming social quality such a virus or any virus no always good under the Divine sun or the pagan moon or the Christian Science or other religious apologies for biologies bersek okay so I am Job sniffling hacking with a sledgehammer cough I want to off this monstrous group of mucus-bound molecules atomized in the air like so much fog and attaching with fish hooks to vulnerable lungs oh how I would like to praise creation but I'm sneezing all over it what a poem!!! even the rhythm is an irregular breath oh Charles Olson did you ever have a cold?  i was having lunch the other day, feeling like I'd been dropped into the middle of a tornado. smile for me it's the lunch side of Sunday brunch & the place is packed a mixed crowd of church folk in their Sunday best & the just- crawled- out-of-bed in shorts & flip-flops bed-head hair flat on one side sticking out on the other like a porcupine in heat, & the golfers, from the Quarry clip-clop clip-clop-clip in their golf shoes & the grandmas & pregnant moms with last year's babies in high chairs dads in khakis & hard starched checkered shirts thinking how simple life is at work & that baby again looking at me from across the room talking talking talking hyper-alert, smiling a big toothless smile for me this swirl of sound & color is like i'm alone unmoving in the center of a whirlpool of sensation all moving sound & color streaming like paint flung in a circle except the baby talking talking talking smiling a big toothless smile for me  Here are two poems by Charles Bukowski from what matters most is how well you walk through the fire., one of the many collections put out after his death from the thousands of unpublished poems he left behind. I include these this week as a special welcome to first time friend of "Here and Now" and fellow Bukowski fan, Barbara Moore, whose homage to the man is included earlier in this issue. Bruckner listening to Bruckner now, I relate very much to him. he just misses by so little, I ache for his dead guts. if we all could only move it up one notch when necessary, but we can't. I remember my fight in the rain that Satuday night in the alley with Harry Tabor. his eyes were rolling in that great dumb head, one more punch and he was mine - I missed. or the beautiful woman who visited me on night, who sat on my couch and told me that she was "yours, a gift..." but I poured whiskey, pranced about bragged about myself and finally after returning from the kitchen I found her gone. so many near misses. so many other near misses. oh, Bruckner, I know! I am listening to Bruckner now and I ache for his dead guts and for my living soul. we all need something we can do well, you know, like scuba diving or opening the morning mail. smiling, shining, singing my daughter looked like a young Katharine Hepburn at the grammar school Christmas presentation. she stood there with them smiling, shining, singing, in the long dress I had bought for her. she looks like Katharine Hepburn, I told her mother who sat on my left. she looks like Katharine Hepburn, I told my girlfriend who sat on my right. my daughter's grandmother was another seat away; I didn't tell her anything. I never did like Katharine Hepburn's acting, but I liked the way she looked, class, you know, somebody you could talk to in bed for an hour or two before going to sleep. I can see that my daughter is going to be a beautiful woman. someday when I'm old she'll probably bring the bedpan with a kindly smile. and she'll probably marry truck driver with a heavy tread who bowls every Thursday night with the boys. well, all that doesn't matter. what matters is now. her grandmother is a hawk of a woman. her mother is a psychotic liberal and lover of life. her father is an asshole. my daughter looked like a young Katharine Hepburn. after the Christmas presentation we went to McDonald's and ate, and fed the sparrows. Christmas was a week away. we were less concerned about that than the nine-tenths of the town. that's class, we both have class. to ignore Christmas takes a special wisdom but Happy New Year to you all.  Before we shut down for the week, here's a poem by Cliff Keller, our songwriter-poet friend from California. Scuttle Your salvo of flares is too late for his ship, Andrea Dorea shifts, hear the glasses shatter. Dinner jacket, oiled hair, tan scheming his slow descent to the bottom, icy cocktail in hand offered to the tilting blond at the bar. All you've learned to loathe and love you gathered like olives on papa's blanket. Madonna suffered the stones to serve her martyr  When you set yourself out to write a poem a day, you have accept that there will be bad days as well as good, and sometimes the best you can do really sucks. And you have to accept those that suck just as you accept the better ones. They are all part of the stories you are telling about yourself through your writing. But you do get to hope you'll do better the next day. swing batter batter swing i slept last night to the sound of thunder and rain feeling kinship with all the humans in my line who on dark & stormy nights slept peacefully in their caves to the concerto grosso accompaniment of elementals wind rain thunder lightening throwing shadows such as Plato saw in his philosophies all this while i sleep in a most primitive comfort safe and snug while nature's most powerful forces clash outside my door ....... blah blah blah doubleblah what a c r a p p y c r a p p y c r a p p y c r a p p y poem this is a duty-poem a good idea gone way the f-word (see how hesitant i am today - afraid of truth and true language) over the cliff fit only as Caesar might say for the nearest bullshitorium i will post this because it is my poem today or at least the closest semblance to one fervently hoping as i do that i will find my balls before i have to write another one tomorrow  So off we go, thinking about all the big questions that make up a day in our modern life, hoping for some big answers next week. As we hope, remember all the material presented in this blog remains the property of its creators. The blog itself was produced by and is the property of me...allen itz. |
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